as they came in and out, say softly to the landlord, “Who’s that?
What does HE do here?” “Bless your soul,” says the landlord, “he’s
Page 81
Dickens, Charles – Reprinted Pieces
only a” – ha, ha, ha! – “he’s only a green young fellow from the
country, as is looking for a butcher’s sitiwation. Don’t mind
HIM!” So, in course of time, they were so convinced of my being
green, and got to be so accustomed to me, that I was as free of the
parlour as any of ’em, and I have seen as much as Seventy Pounds’
Worth of fine lawn sold there, in one night, that was stolen from a
warehouse in Friday Street. After the sale the buyers always stood
treat – hot supper, or dinner, or what not – and they’d say on
those occasions, “Come on, Butcher! Put your best leg foremost,
young ‘un, and walk into it!” Which I used to do – and hear, at
table, all manner of particulars that it was very important for us
Detectives to know.
‘This went on for ten weeks. I lived in the public-house all the
time, and never was out of the Butcher’s dress – except in bed. At
last, when I had followed seven of the thieves, and set ’em to
rights – that’s an expression of ours, don’t you see, by which I
mean to say that I traced ’em, and found out where the robberies
were done, and all about ’em – Straw, and Fendall, and I, gave one
another the office, and at a time agreed upon, a descent was made
upon the public-house, and the apprehensions effected. One of the
first things the officers did, was to collar me – for the parties
to the robbery weren’t to suppose yet, that I was anything but a
Butcher – on which the landlord cries out, “Don’t take HIM,” he
says, “whatever you do! He’s only a poor young chap from the
country, and butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth!” However, they –
ha, ha, ha! – they took me, and pretended to search my bedroom,
where nothing was found but an old fiddle belonging to the
landlord, that had got there somehow or another. But, it entirely
changed the landlord’s opinion, for when it was produced, he says,
“My fiddle! The Butcher’s a purloiner! I give him into custody
for the robbery of a musical instrument!”
‘The man that had stolen the goods in Friday Street was not taken
yet. He had told me, in confidence, that he had his suspicions
there was something wrong (on account of the City Police having
captured one of the party), and that he was going to make himself
scarce. I asked him, “Where do you mean to go, Mr. Shepherdson?”
“Why, Butcher,” says he, “the Setting Moon, in the Commercial Road,
is a snug house, and I shall bang out there for a time. I shall
call myself Simpson, which appears to me to be a modest sort of a
name. Perhaps you’ll give us a look in, Butcher?” “Well,” says I,
“I think I WILL give you a call” – which I fully intended, don’t
you see, because, of course, he was to be taken! I went over to
the Setting Moon next day, with a brother officer, and asked at the
bar for Simpson. They pointed out his room, up-stairs. As we were
going up, he looks down over the banister, and calls out, “Halloa,
Butcher! is that you?” “Yes, it’s me. How do you find yourself?”
“Bobbish,” he says; “but who’s that with you?” “It’s only a young
man, that’s a friend of mine,” I says. “Come along, then,” says
he; “any friend of the Butcher’s is as welcome as the Butcher!”
So, I made my friend acquainted with him, and we took him into
custody.
‘You have no idea, sir, what a sight it was, in Court, when they
first knew that I wasn’t a Butcher, after all! I wasn’t produced
at the first examination, when there was a remand; but I was at the
second. And when I stepped into the box, in full police uniform,
and the whole party saw how they had been done, actually a groan of