had for ever done with station-houses, police courts, prison vans, and
the like, of which I had grown heartily tired. I had bought a couple
of fowls, with etceteras, for our Christmas dinner; and I am not at
all ashamed to say that I stoned the plums, chopped the suet, cut up
the peel, and did a lot more towards getting the pudding ready; Winny
of course finishing everything, polishing off my rough work, so to
speak. Everything of this kind being done, my time hung a little heavy
on my hands. It was only one clear day from Christmas, so the shops
would be gay and busy, and I should have enjoyed a stroll through the
streets; but in the morning a cold drizzle had set in, which made the
pavements greasy and everything around sloppy, forbidding all chance
of a saunter. Luckily, the omnibus which passed Winifred’s shop also
passed our door, so she could ride every yard of the way.
I made up my mind to do the best I could with the newspaper, and a nap
in my easy-chair—this had already grown into a habit—and was turning
away from the window, when I saw a shabby-looking man run up the three
steps which led to our front door. I am a pretty good judge of a man by
his looks, and I at once decided that this was not only a shabby man,
but that he was in the law; he seemed the sort of man who would be ‘put
in possession;’ and I was not far wrong. The man knocked. I heard him
ask for me; then the servant—not mine, I had none, but the servant of
the house—said a gentleman wanted to see me. I already knew what kind
of gentleman this was, and had a vague prophetic feeling that he was
coming on no very pleasant errand; however, I told the girl to show him
in.
He entered, and at once said; ‘Mr Holdrey. I know you, of course; and
I daresay you know me. At anyrate, I am a clerk in Mr Browle’s office,
and I have come from him.’
I recognised the man now. I knew him and his master well enough. Dicky
Browle, we used to call the lawyer. He had a good deal of business, but
all of the lowest kind, and was, in fact, so mixed up with the worst
of the class who got into ‘trouble,’ that I often wondered how it was
that he escaped getting into trouble himself, for many was the felony
he had been the means of ‘squaring’ or compounding. One or two of these
cases I knew of to an absolute certainty; but the knowledge never came
to me at a time or in a manner so that I could use it. As just said, I
expected him to get into trouble some day, and thought, on hearing the
messenger, that the day had come.
‘Well,’ I answered shortly, ‘what do you want of me?’
‘Mr Browle wishes you to go up to the Central Criminal at once, if
you please, Mr Holdrey,’ returned the man. ‘You know Sam Braceby, I
believe—Long-necked Sam, they call him—he is in trouble, and wants you
as a witness.’
Know Long-necked Sam! I should think I did! There were few old officers
in the force who did not know him.
‘What is he in trouble about? and what does he want me for?’ I
naturally asked. ‘I have heard nothing of this.’
‘No. The governor did not know that you could say anything until this
morning,’ replied the clerk. ‘Sam is up for burglary. He has been in
trouble so often, that a very little will send him for life.’
He went on to say that Sam declared that I, and no one else, could save
him; and so, almost before I had made up my mind on the subject, I
found I had pulled on my coat and was in a ’bus with the clerk.
He apologised for not calling a cab by saying that it ‘was dead low
water with Sam,’ and the governor did not care about laying out more
money than could be helped. This, however, did not explain why I was
wanted; and the inside of a ’bus not being a good place for talking
secrets, we said little more until we got down at the corner of the Old
Bailey, and then there was too much hurry to think of talking.
Sam’s trial had begun; the facts were so simple that it was not likely
to last long. A robbery had been committed, somewhat early in the
night—eleven or twelve o’clock—at a house in Camberwell. Two of the
residents in the next house saw a man leap from a back window into
the garden, and gave the alarm. This man the witnesses believed to be
Sam. They had even described the burglar as having a remarkably long
neck; and the accused being notoriously a bad character, the event was
likely to be against him. Mr Browle hurried to me the moment I entered
the court—leaving the then witness to go without cross-examination—and
thanked me for coming. ‘We hardly hoped it, you know,’ continued the
legal gentleman, ‘as you had not been subpœnaed, and I know you do
not think much of Braceby. But the man is innocent this time; he is,
indeed, Mr Holdrey.’
I naturally asked about my expenses and so forth—I did this as a matter
of business—before I entered on what I was expected to prove.
‘Don’t hesitate over that, there’s a good fellow,’ said Browle. ‘Sam
will pay you; you know he will, for he is honest enough in private
life, even if he is not so professionally. I don’t think you are the
man to sacrifice a poor wretch for the sake of your fees; but if you
insist—why, I will guarantee them myself, and it is no business of mine
to do that, as you know.’
I was fairly surprised at this, and liked the old fellow for being so
much in earnest. I felt that I could not let him outdo me, and said so.
Two minutes told me what I was expected to say, and the case for the
prosecution being closed, I was at once called on. I was the only
witness for the defence. Long-necked Sam was not likely to call any
of his friends as to character, and indeed all his ‘pals’ were shy of
showing themselves in the Old Bailey when the trials were on and the
police about. Braceby had recollected on the very morning of the trial,
that the day on which the burglary took place was the St Leger day, and
that I had met him late in the evening and expressed my wonder that he
was not down at the races. Had he not been able to fix the day by this
incident, it would have gone hard with him; but I was able to prove
beyond all sort of doubt that I was in his company, fully five miles
from the scene of the burglary, at the very moment the robber, whoever
he was, was leaving the house. So it was impossible that Sam could have
been the burglar, and the case virtually broke down at once.
The prosecuting counsel and, for the matter of that, the judge also, or
I fancied so, looked anything but pleased at my interference, and some
of my old comrades rallied me a little on my new friends—but that was
all in good temper.
Sam met me outside the court, and rough as he was, the tears stood in
his eyes as he thanked me. ‘I won’t ask you to have a glass with me,
Mr Holdrey,’ he said, ‘because I know I am not in your line. I daresay
you will live to see me in the dock again and to hear of my getting a
lifer. But if, afore that comes on, I can do anything to show you what
I think of you to-day, I will do it; and if I send that pretty daughter
of yours a present—and I have watched her bright face many a day, when
she did not know I was looking at her—if I send her a present, it shall
be something as I have come by honestly, and that she needn’t be afraid
of taking from my hands.’
Having got rid of him, I went home, all the more disposed to enjoy my
daughter’s conversation—and she had always plenty to tell me of her
little adventures during the day—and all the more inclined to enjoy my
unread newspaper, from the long and disagreeable business I had gone
through.
Winny came in soon after me; her place had closed a little earlier,
being so near Christmas. I was glad I had got home first, as she might
have been anxious about me and my going off so suddenly. I told her my
adventures; and when I said it was almost a pity that I had been able
to clear such a bad lot as Sam undoubtedly was, and had always been, as
he would be sure to do some harm soon, she put her hand over my mouth,
to prevent my saying anything so wicked. The poor creature had one
more chance, she said, and perhaps he would make good use of it—there
was hope for everybody. I knew, better perhaps than she did, how much
hope there was for Sam; but Winny was always soft-hearted, and took the
most favourable view of everything. I gave way to her; and somehow, she
seemed to be more affectionate than ever that night, and I felt pleased
at the idea of a quiet evening with her. Then she got her needlework,
and I my pipe, while the beating of the rain against the window—for
the wind had risen at nightfall—made everything seem brighter and
cosier than before. I had scarcely taken a single whiff, when I heard
a vehicle stop opposite the house, then a double knock followed. ‘Some
one for the landlord,’ I thought. But no; it was for me, and for the
second time that day I told the servant to show a strange gentleman in.
This arrival was a very different-looking man from the shabby clerk
from Browle the lawyer, but his errand was much the same in effect.
It was to take me out; indeed, a cab had been brought so that no time
should be lost, and the stranger was directed to take me to the private
house of Mr Thurles—Mr Thurles of Cornhill, the man explained.
I knew who Mr Thurles was—knew where he lived, and knew his house of
business as well as I knew St Paul’s; but I had never spoken to him;
and what he wanted me for, I could not guess. And what was stranger,
the messenger knew little more than I did. He was valet, or butler, or
something; but all he had been told was to ask Mr Holdrey to accompany
him, and to say, if any objection should be made, that money was no
object. He believed it was about a robbery—that was all he knew.
This sounded stranger still; and I turned to my daughter to say
something about it, when I was horrified at her pale, almost ghastly
looks. All the bloom had gone from her face, and she held one hand on
her breast as if to stop her heart from beating too violently.
‘Why, Winny, what are you frightened at?’ I exclaimed. ‘There is no
harm in my being sent for by Mr Thurles, who is a highly respectable
gentleman. You should not let yourself be excited.’
‘O father!’ she said, ‘it was so unexpected, so sudden—I thought—I do
not know what I thought.’ She faltered as she spoke, and the tears were
in her eyes.
This was so different from her usual cheerful manner, that I would not
go out until she had recovered herself. Perhaps I should not have gone
then, but that a young friend of her own happened to call in, and so I
was more satisfied to leave her.
My companion scarcely spoke during the ride; and when we arrived at the
square where Mr Thurles lived, I was at once shown up into the library,
where the gentleman was waiting for me. I never saw a harsher or
sterner looking man than the merchant. He was, I supposed, about sixty
years old, with thin iron-gray hair, gray bushy whiskers, and large
heavy eyebrows, which, when he frowned, gave an expression to his face
which was anything but pleasant.
He came to business directly, and spoke in just the tone one would have
expected from such a man. ‘You are, or were, Sergeant Holdrey, of the
— division, I believe?’
I replied that he was right.
‘I have sent for you,’ he went on, ‘because our house was interested in
a case managed by you, and I then made up my mind that if ever I wanted
a detective, you should be the man.’
I began to say something about my feeling flattered by being thus
distinguished; but he continued, without taking notice of it.
‘You will be paid well; and the quicker you are, the better I shall pay
you. I am inclined to think that you will not find your work specially
difficult. I believe I know who is wanted, but I must have better
information. My counting-house has been robbed, the safe opened with
false keys, and ransacked.’
‘It has been kept very quiet,’ I said, as he paused; ‘for I have never
heard a word of it. I hope you did not lose much?’
‘It has been kept quiet,’ answered Mr Thurles; ‘no one out of my
establishment knows of it, and very few of our own people have more
than a dim idea of the right story. We did not lose much; only the
outer safe was opened. The thieves had not the keys of the inner one,
which contained a large amount in money; but perhaps they did not want
to open that.’
‘Not want to’—— I began, in some astonishment, for such an idea was
enough to astonish anybody, when he again snapped me up sharply.
‘If you will listen to me, and not interrupt,’ was his pleasant remark,
‘you may understand your instructions the sooner. The person who stole,
or caused to be stolen, what really was taken, wanted only a couple of
bills, accepted by Waterman & Co.—Do you know the firm?’
‘No; I can’t say I do. I know most of the City houses, but I never came
across them.’
‘And you are not likely to do so,’ he returned; ‘for there is no such
firm in existence. The bills were forgeries. They were never intended
to get into my hands, and no doubt would have been taken up by the
drawer. But the holders were pressed for money, and gave them to
another firm not much better off, who handed them to us. I did not
believe that a large house, as I heard Waterman & Co. were, would have
anything to do with such small matters; and some other things, trivial
enough in themselves, adding to my suspicions, I caused inquiries to
be made, with the result I expected—that is, of finding they were
forgeries. The next thing was to trace them; and as I was already
pretty certain of the forger, I should easily have done that, when the
office was entered, the safe unlocked, not forced, so it must have been
done by some one who had access to the keys. These bills were stolen,
so all proof is lost. But if I cannot trace the forger, I may the
burglar, and that is what I want you for—and for this I will pay five
hundred pounds.’
He went on to explain that he was not upon good terms with his wife.
But I could have told _him_ all about that; every one in the City knew
that he had married a widow of great wealth, who had an only son,
and that he had almost broken the poor woman’s heart by his coldness
and neglect. There had been no open outbreak or scandal, but they
were separated; the son, who was now some four or five and twenty
years old, being a sort of link between the pair, by remaining in his
step-father’s counting-house.
All this, with a very different colouring, the merchant told me now.
I could have saved him the trouble, but you should always let such
persons have as much talking as they like. When he had finished
this part, he told me something which surprised me. He had reason
to believe, he said, that this step-son, Godfrey Harleston, was the
person who forged these bills and who robbed the office. There were
marks on the counting-house window frames and sills which showed that
the burglar had entered and left by that way; indeed, it would have
been almost impossible for any one to leave by the front of the house
without attracting attention. All this was clear enough; but then
he went on to say that he would cheerfully spend a thousand pounds,
besides the reward, to bring the crime home to his step-son, who, he
explained, was a thoroughly bad character, and had been a thorn in his
side for a long time.
‘If he is as bad as you are, old gentleman,’ I thought to myself, ‘he
must be a bad one indeed.’
I took a great dislike to Mr Thurles for showing such bitter animosity
to the young fellow; but I could see that the chief aim of the
merchant was to wound his mother through him; and although, after
seven-and-twenty years in the police, it took more than a little to
upset me, I could hardly stand this. However, some one else would have
the job if I did not, so I agreed to undertake the business.
I was to do what I liked, spend what I pleased, and have whatever
help I wanted; but I do not care much about help. In some things, of
course, you must have people with you; but, as a rule, a single man can
do all there is to be done, and when he works, he is sure to be always
working on the same line, which is more than you can be certain of when
there are two or three of you in it. Nor did I see that laying out much
money would help us. I told him so; and before I left him, had given
him a sketch of what I thought would be a good beginning.
He rang for a bottle of port and some cigars. After a time, I went home
in capital temper with myself, and talked my last cigar out with Winny,
who was sitting up for me, and still, I thought, looking anything but
her usual self.
MUSICAL SAND.
Most persons have heard of stones which on being struck give out
musical notes, and many may have seen the arrangement of such stones
known as the Rock Harmonicon, which is capable of discoursing eloquent
music. But the existence of musical or sonorous sand is not so well
known, although such sand appears to occur in localities widely
distributed over the earth’s surface. A paper giving some interesting
particulars respecting this phenomenon was communicated to the
meeting of the American Association for the Advancement of Science at
Philadelphia in 1884, by Professor Bolton of Hartford, Connecticut, and
Dr Alexis Julien of New York. The authors begin their paper by stating
that at the Minneapolis meeting of the Association they had given some
account of the so-called ‘Singing Beach’ at Manchester-by-the-Sea,
Massachusetts, and of the occurrence of sonorous sand at Eigg, in the
Hebrides, and other localities. During the twelve months that had
elapsed, they had continued their researches; and by means of extensive
correspondence, they had established the fact, that sonorous sand,
instead of being a rarity, is of very common occurrence. Circulars
were sent to all keepers of life-saving stations throughout the United
States; and from the replies received to date, a list of seventy-four
localities in America had been obtained.
Through the Smithsonian Institution, specimens of sonorous sand
had been received from the island of Bornholm, Denmark; Colberg,
Prussia; and Kanai, Hawaii Islands. Experiments had been conducted
both at Manchester-by-the-Sea and at Far Rockaway, Long Island, to
determine accurately the properties of sonorous sand, with the object
of explaining the cause of its singular characteristics. It was
found that the loudest sound of which a given sand is capable was
most conveniently produced by confining a quart or more in a bag and
strongly striking together the contents. Sounds thus produced were
heard distinctly at both the Manchester and Rockaway beaches at a
distance of one hundred and fifty to two hundred feet, the distance
varying according to the strength and direction of the wind and the
interference of the surf-noise. At Rockaway, a careful experiment
was made in fields removed from the beach. The sound produced by
striking the bag was heard at a distance of four hundred and fifty
feet, measured by a tape-line. The sound has a hoot-like tone, easily
recognised.
The character of the sounds obtained by friction on the beach is
decidedly musical, and the experimenters were able to indicate the
exact notes on a musical staff. The shrillness and lowness of note
depend chiefly on the quantity of sand disturbed. By plunging both
hands into the sand and bringing them together quickly, a tone is heard
of which the dominant note is B below the treble stave [Illustration:
note on staff]. By stroking the sand nearer the surface and with less
force, very high notes were heard confused. They ranged from E, fourth
space treble clef, to B above the stave. By rubbing firmly and briskly
a double handful of the sand, several notes on a rising scale were
heard. The ear received an impression something like that formed by
sliding a finger up a violin string at the same time that the bow is
drawn. These results were obtained at Manchester. The Rockaway beach
gave somewhat different tones—the B below the leger-line was not heard
at all; but the note F, first space treble, B, C, and G above the
stave, were heard at different times according to the manner of the
friction. The notes were determined by comparison with those made on a
violin, concert pitch.
The evanescent character of the acoustic quality of the sand is
strongly marked. Sand which has been recently wet requires thorough
drying before it resumes its acoustic powers; consequently, sandy
beaches do not always possess the sonorous power in equal measure, and
the seeker sometimes fails to discover musical sand in the locality
reputed. Meteorological conditions decidedly affect the sonorousness.
Musical sand is easily deprived of its acoustic qualities. Besides
wetting it, friction between the dry hands also accomplishes the
result. The quickest way of ‘killing’ the sand—except by water—is to
shake a small quantity in a tin box. When first agitated, a peculiar
sound is heard, which entirely ceases after twenty to twenty-five slow
up-and-down movements of the box. Attempts to restore to ‘killed’ sand
its sonorous properties have met with indifferent success. Sonorous
and mute sand occur in the beach closely adjoining, but they cannot be
distinguished by the eye; friction alone determines the difference. In
sand of strongly marked acoustic properties, a tingling sensation is
perceived in the finger and also in the toe, even through the boots.
Careful search in literature shows that allusions to sonorous sand are
scattered sparingly through writings of a thousand years. An obscure
allusion to the phenomenon occurs in one of the stories of the _Arabian
Nights_. Old Chinese chronicles mention sonorous sand as occurring in
the desert of Lob-nor. Marco Polo narrates superstitions concerning
it. The Emperor Baber refers to a locality in Afghanistan; and many
travellers in the East describe hills of moving sand whence issue
mysterious noises. The famous Jebel Nakous, situated on the east coast
of the Gulf of Suez, has been visited by at least six European and
American travellers, including Ehrenberg, who was there in 1823. By
comparing their descriptions, it has been discovered that they describe
not one locality, but two, or possibly three, in the same region. The
dry sand rests on a steep incline, and when agitated, slides down the
slope with a gradually increasing noise, variously described, but the
loudest tones of which are universally compared to distant thunder. In
1850, Hugh Miller discovered musical sand at Eigg, in the Hebrides. In
1882, Professor Bolton visited the same locality and began a monograph.
Microscopical examination of the samples of musical sand showed that
the great majority were remarkable for a certain degree in uniformity
of size—usually about 0.3, 0.4, 0.5 millimetres in diameter, general
round form, polished superficies, and freedom from fine dust or minute
fragments; consequently, they often present a characteristic oolitic
or roe-like appearance, light colour, and mobile condition. At certain
localities, the sonorous sand has been found to present the decided
features of a quicksand; and a general connection between these two
facts is suspected to prevail wherever the conformation of coasts and
oceanic currents permit the concentration of the sonorous sand below
the high-tide mark.
The information on this curious subject collected by the two
American savants may perhaps set some of our readers to search for
‘singing beaches’ on these islands. The phenomenon is well worthy of
investigation, and no light seems as yet to have been thrown on its
cause, nor any progress made towards the solution of the mystery of the
difference between mute and musical sand.
NOSES.
A popular lecturer in one of his discourses had occasion to speak on
noses, and he himself, ‘defective only in his Roman nose,’ declared,
had he the choice of noses, his face should be ornamented by a ‘regular
weather-cutter.’ The desire was commendable and worthy attention,
for strangers are instinctively judged by their noses. The nose
indeed proclaims the man, and is the outward and visible symbol of
inward mental calibre and intellectual character. Men of note almost
invariably possess decided and prominent ‘leading articles;’ whilst
an insufficient nasal accompaniment not unfrequently denotes inanity,
lack of moral vigour, and at once negatives qualities which would
otherwise give respect and credit. Of course there are extremes and
exceptions; but generally, it is, that the more prolonged the proboscis
the more striking is the countenance, and the more original the force
of character.
An extreme case is recorded of a Lancashire man, whose prodigious
feature became a centre of attraction in the busiest thoroughfares of
Manchester, whilst he was on a visit there. Becoming at length either
tired or confused by the inquisitive attention and wonderment of a
crowd of admirers, he seized his nose with both hands and gave it a
sudden impatient twist, as though removing an obstruction from the
footway, and said sharply: ‘There—be quick, and get past as soon as you
can.’