his brother officers are closely interested in attending to what he
says, and observing its effect. Presently they begin to strike in,
one or two together, when an opportunity offers, and the
conversation becomes general. But these brother officers only come
in to the assistance of each other – not to the contradiction – and
a more amicable brotherhood there could not be. From the swell
mob, we diverge to the kindred topics of cracksmen, fences, publichouse
dancers, area-sneaks, designing young people who go out
‘gonophing,’ and other ‘schools.’ It is observable throughout
these revelations, that Inspector Stalker, the Scotchman, is always
exact and statistical, and that when any question of figures
arises, everybody as by one consent pauses, and looks to him.
When we have exhausted the various schools of Art – during which
discussion the whole body have remained profoundly attentive,
except when some unusual noise at the Theatre over the way has
induced some gentleman to glance inquiringly towards the window in
that direction, behind his next neighbour’s back – we burrow for
information on such points as the following. Whether there really
are any highway robberies in London, or whether some circumstances
not convenient to be mentioned by the aggrieved party, usually
precede the robberies complained of, under that head, which quite
change their character? Certainly the latter, almost always.
Whether in the case of robberies in houses, where servants are
necessarily exposed to doubt, innocence under suspicion ever
becomes so like guilt in appearance, that a good officer need be
cautious how he judges it? Undoubtedly. Nothing is so common or
deceptive as such appearances at first. Whether in a place of
public amusement, a thief knows an officer, and an officer knows a
thief – supposing them, beforehand, strangers to each other –
because each recognises in the other, under all disguise, an
inattention to what is going on, and a purpose that is not the
purpose of being entertained? Yes. That’s the way exactly.
Whether it is reasonable or ridiculous to trust to the alleged
experiences of thieves as narrated by themselves, in prisons, or
penitentiaries, or anywhere? In general, nothing more absurd.
Lying is their habit and their trade; and they would rather lie –
even if they hadn’t an interest in it, and didn’t want to make
themselves agreeable – than tell the truth.
From these topics, we glide into a review of the most celebrated
and horrible of the great crimes that have been committed within
the last fifteen or twenty years. The men engaged in the discovery
of almost all of them, and in the pursuit or apprehension of the
murderers, are here, down to the very last instance. One of our
guests gave chase to and boarded the emigrant ship, in which the
murderess last hanged in London was supposed to have embarked. We
learn from him that his errand was not announced to the passengers,
who may have no idea of it to this hour. That he went below, with
the captain, lamp in hand – it being dark, and the whole steerage
abed and sea-sick – and engaged the Mrs. Manning who WAS on board,
in a conversation about her luggage, until she was, with no small
pains, induced to raise her head, and turn her face towards the
light. Satisfied that she was not the object of his search, he
quietly re-embarked in the Government steamer along-side, and
steamed home again with the intelligence.
When we have exhausted these subjects, too, which occupy a
considerable time in the discussion, two or three leave their
chairs, whisper Sergeant Witchem, and resume their seat. Sergeant
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Witchem, leaning forward a little, and placing a hand on each of
his legs, then modestly speaks as follows:
‘My brother-officers wish me to relate a little account of my
taking Tally-ho Thompson. A man oughtn’t to tell what he has done
himself; but still, as nobody was with me, and, consequently, as
nobody but myself can tell it, I’ll do it in the best way I can, if
it should meet your approval.’
We assure Sergeant Witchem that he will oblige us very much, and we