A DANGEROUS SITUATION--A FORGOTTEN PRISONER.
I had been to Paris in the summer of 18-- for a little holiday, and
was returning in the evening after some races had taken place near
that city. I had not attended them, and was, in fact, not aware that
they were being held; but I soon discovered the fact from finding
myself in the midst of the motley Crowds which always throng railway
stations on such occasions, only on this particular day they were a
little worse than usual. The race meeting had brought together the
roughs of all nations, and especially from England. As it seemed
to me, my fellow-countrymen always took the lead in this kind of
competition.
I was endeavouring to get to the booking-office amongst the rest of
the crowd, and there was far more pushing and struggling than was at
all necessary for that purpose. Presently a burly ruffian, with a low
East End face of the slum pattern and complexion, rolled out a volley
of oaths at me. He asked where the ---- I was pushing and what game I
was up to, as though I were a professional pickpocket like himself.
He had the advantage of me in being surrounded by a gang of the most
loathsome blackguards you could imagine, while I was without a friend.
I spoke, therefore, very civilly, and said the crowd was pushing
behind and forcing me forward. The brute was annoyed at my coolness,
and irritated all the more.
Hitherto his language had not been strong enough to frighten me, so he
improved its strength by some tremendous epithets, considerably above
proof. I think he must have enjoyed the exclusive copyright, for I
never knew his superlatives imitated. He finished the harangue by
saying that he would knock my head off if I said another word.
To this I replied, with a look stronger than all his language, "No,
you won't."
My look must have been strong, because the countenances of the
bystanders were subdued.
"Why won't I, muster?" he asked.
"For two reasons," I said: "first, because you won't try; and
secondly, because you could not if you did."
He was somewhat tamed, and then I lifted my hat, so that he could see
my close-cropped hair, which was as short as his own, only not for the
same reason. "You don't seem to know who I am," I added, hoping he
would now take me for a member of the prize-ring. But my appearance
did not frighten him. I had nothing but my short-cropped hair to rely
on; so in self-defence I had to devise another stratagem. To frighten
him one must look the ruffian in the face, or look the ruffian that
he was. He continued to abuse me as we passed on our way to the
booking-office window, and I have no doubt he and his gang were
determined to rob me. One thing was common between us--we had no
regard for one another. I now assumed as bold a manner as I could and
a rough East End accent. "Look-ee 'ere," said I: "I know you don't
keer for me no more 'an I keers for you. I ain't afraid o' no man, and
I'll tell you what it is: it's your ignorance of who I am that makes
you bold. I know you ain't a bad un with the maulers. Let's have no
more nonsense about it here. I'll fight you on Monday week, say, for
a hundred a side in the Butts, and we'll post the money at Peter
Crawley's next Saturday. What d'ye say to that?"
Peter Crawley, whom I have already mentioned as inviting me to
breakfast, was like a thunderclap to him. I must be somebody if I knew
Peter Crawley, and now he doubtless bethought him of my short hair.
I must confess if the fellow had taken me at my word I should have
been in as great a funk as he was, but he did not. My challenge was
declined.
* * * * *
A curious incident happened once in the rural district of Saffron
Walden. It is a borough no doubt, but it always seemed to me to be too
small for any grown-up thing, and its name sounded more like a little
flower-bed than anything else. On the occasion of which I speak there
was great excitement in the place because they had got a prisoner--an
event which baffled the experience of the oldest inhabitant.
The Recorder was an elderly barrister, full of pomp and dignity; and,
like many of his brother Recorders, had very seldom a prisoner to
try. You may therefore imagine with what stupendous importance he was
invested when he found that the rural magistrates had committed a
little boy for trial for stealing a _ball of twine_. Think of the
grand jury filing in to be "charged" by this judicial dignitary.
Imagine his charge, his well-chosen sentences in anticipation of
the one to come at the end of the sitting. Think of his eloquent
disquisition on the law of larceny! It was all there!
After the usual proclamation against vice and immorality had been
read, and after the grand jury had duly found a true bill, the next
thing was to find the prisoner and bring him up for trial.
We may not be sentimental, or I might have cried, "God save the
child!" as the usher said, "God save the Queen!" But "Suffer little
children to come unto Me" would not have applied to our jails in
those miserable and inhuman times. Mercy and sympathy were out of the
question when you had law and order to maintain, as well as all the
functionaries who had to contribute to their preservation.
"Put up the prisoner!" said the Recorder in solemn and commanding
tones.
Down into the jaws of the cavern below the dock descended the jailer
of six feet two--the only big thing about the place. He was a
resolute-looking man in full uniform, and I can almost feel the
breathless silence that pervaded the court during his absence.
Time passed and no one appeared. When a sufficient interval had
elapsed for the stalwart jailer to have eaten his prisoner, had he
been so minded, the Recorder, looking up from behind the _Times_,
which he appeared to be reading, asked in a very stern voice why the
prisoner was not "put up."
They did not put up the boy, but the jailer, with a blood-forsaken
face, put himself up through the hole, like a policeman coming through
a trap-door in a pantomime.
"I beg your honour's pardon, my lord, but they have forgot to bring
him."
"Forgot to bring him! What do you mean? Where is he?"
"They've left him at Chelmsford, your honour."
It seemed there was no jail at Saffron Walden, because, to the honour
of the borough be it said, they had no one to put into it; and this
small child had been committed for safe custody to Chelmsford to wait
his trial at sessions, and had been there so long that he was actually
forgotten when the day of trial came. I never heard anything more of
him; but hope his small offence was forgotten as well as himself.