little heightened.
It was a Friday night, and Friday night was considered not a good
night for Jack. At any rate, Jack did not show in very great force
even here, though the house was one to which he much resorts, and
where a good deal of money is taken. There was British Jack, a
little maudlin and sleepy, lolling over his empty glass, as if he
were trying to read his fortune at the bottom; there was Loafing
Jack of the Stars and Stripes, rather an unpromising customer, with
his long nose, lank cheek, high cheek-bones, and nothing soft about
him but his cabbage-leaf hat; there was Spanish Jack, with curls of
black hair, rings in his ears, and a knife not far from his hand,
if you got into trouble with him; there were Maltese Jack, and Jack
of Sweden, and Jack the Finn, looming through the smoke of their
pipes, and turning faces that looked as if they were carved out of
dark wood, towards the young lady dancing the hornpipe: who found
the platform so exceedingly small for it, that I had a nervous
expectation of seeing her, in the backward steps, disappear through
the window. Still, if all hands had been got together, they would
not have more than half-filled the room. Observe, however, said
Mr. Licensed Victualler, the host, that it was Friday night, and,
besides, it was getting on for twelve, and Jack had gone aboard. A
sharp and watchful man, Mr. Licensed Victualler, the host, with
tight lips and a complete edition of Cocker’s arithmetic in each
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Dickens, Charles – The Uncommercial Traveller
eye. Attended to his business himself, he said. Always on the
spot. When he heard of talent, trusted nobody’s account of it, but
went off by rail to see it. If true talent, engaged it. Pounds a
week for talent – four pound – five pound. Banjo Bones was
undoubted talent. Hear this instrument that was going to play – it
was real talent! In truth it was very good; a kind of pianoaccordion,
played by a young girl of a delicate prettiness of face,
figure, and dress, that made the audience look coarser. She sang
to the instrument, too; first, a song about village bells, and how
they chimed; then a song about how I went to sea; winding up with
an imitation of the bagpipes, which Mercantile Jack seemed to
understand much the best. A good girl, said Mr. Licensed
Victualler. Kept herself select. Sat in Snug, not listening to
the blandishments of Mates. Lived with mother. Father dead. Once
a merchant well to do, but over-speculated himself. On delicate
inquiry as to salary paid for item of talent under consideration,
Mr. Victualler’s pounds dropped suddenly to shillings – still it
was a very comfortable thing for a young person like that, you
know; she only went on six times a night, and was only required to
be there from six at night to twelve. What was more conclusive
was, Mr. Victualler’s assurance that he ‘never allowed any
language, and never suffered any disturbance.’ Sharpeye confirmed
the statement, and the order that prevailed was the best proof of
it that could have been cited. So, I came to the conclusion that
poor Mercantile Jack might do (as I am afraid he does) much worse
than trust himself to Mr. Victualler, and pass his evenings here.
But we had not yet looked, Mr. Superintendent – said Trampfoot,
receiving us in the street again with military salute – for Dark
Jack. True, Trampfoot. Ring the wonderful stick, rub the
wonderful lantern, and cause the spirits of the stick and lantern
to convey us to the Darkies.
There was no disappointment in the matter of Dark Jack; HE was
producible. The Genii set us down in the little first floor of a
little public-house, and there, in a stiflingly close atmosphere,
were Dark Jack, and Dark Jack’s delight, his WHITE unlovely Nan,
sitting against the wall all round the room. More than that: Dark
Jack’s delight was the least unlovely Nan, both morally and
physically, that I saw that night.
As a fiddle and tambourine band were sitting among the company,