“That’s not him, for I seed his picture in the _Police News_ last week.
It’s a new one, or else his assistant!”
Meantime I was being served, and it seemed that the little man suddenly
awakened to the dignity of his calling before my sensational order. He
began handling a wilderness of rope ends and discoursing upon them with
the air of an expert as he rose to the great occasion.
“A nice twisted cordage you’ll be wanting, and if you’ll leave the
choice to me, nobody shall be none the worse. I’ve been in rope since
I was seventeen. Now, Manila hemp won’t do--too stiff and woody, too
lacking in suppleness. That’s what you want: suppleness. The sisal
hemps, from South America, are very pretty things, and the New Zealand
hemp is hard to beat; but there’s another still more beautiful cordage.
Only it’s very rarely used because it comes rather expensive. Still,
when a fellow-creature’s life’s at stake, I suppose you won’t count
the cost. Besides, the Government pays, don’t it? That’s a Jubbulpore
hemp--best of all--or bowstring hemp, as I’m told they use in the
harems of the East, though what for I couldn’t say. I’ve got a very
nice piece--ten foot long and supple as silk--just try it--and any
strain up to two hundred pound. Hand-spun, of course--a lovely thing,
though I say so. But it’s a terrible thought. Jute’s cheaper, only I
won’t guarantee it; I won’t indeed. You want a reliable article, if
only for your own reputation. And one more thing; I suppose there’s no
objection to my using this as an advertisement? People in these parts
is all so fond of horrors; and as it’s Government I ought to be allowed
the lion and unicorn perhaps?”
I bought the Jubbulpore hemp as the man advised. It cost thirty
shillings, and the vendor wrestled between pleasure at the success of
his extortion and horror at the future of his rope. But I told him he
must neither advertise the circumstance, nor dare to assume the lion
and unicorn on the strength of it. This discouraged him, and he lost
heart and took a gloomy view of the matter.
“A hawful tride, if I may say so without offence,” he ventured. “Would
it be the Peckham Rye murderer as you’re buying this rope for, or that
poor soul who lost his temper with his wife’s mother down Forest Hill
wye?”
“Neither,” I answered. “It is a man called Honeybun.”
“Honeybun! Ah! A ugly, crool nime! What’s he done?”
“Made a fool of himself.”
“Lord! if we was hung for that, there wouldn’t be much more talk of
over-population--eh? Well, well, I s’pose he’ll be as ’appy with you
and that bit of Jubbulpore as we can hope for him. A iron nerve it must
want. Yet Mr. Ketch was quite the Christian at ’ome, I b’lieve. Not
your first case, of course?”