keys of musical instruments – opened every door he touched, as if
he were perfectly confident that there was stolen property behind
it – instantly insinuated himself, to prevent its being shut.
Sharpeye opened several doors of traps that were set for Jack, but
Jack did not happen to be in any of them. They were all such
miserable places that really, Jack, if I were you, I would give
them a wider berth. In every trap, somebody was sitting over a
fire, waiting for Jack. Now, it was a crouching old woman, like
the picture of the Norwood Gipsy in the old sixpenny dream-books;
now, it was a crimp of the male sex, in a checked shirt and without
a coat, reading a newspaper; now, it was a man crimp and a woman
crimp, who always introduced themselves as united in holy
matrimony; now, it was Jack’s delight, his (un)lovely Nan; but they
were all waiting for Jack, and were all frightfully disappointed to
see us.
‘Who have you got up-stairs here?’ says Sharpeye, generally. (In
the Move-on tone.)
‘Nobody, surr; sure not a blessed sowl!’ (Irish feminine reply.)
‘What do you mean by nobody? Didn’t I hear a woman’s step go upstairs
when my hand was on the latch?’
‘Ah! sure thin you’re right, surr, I forgot her! ‘Tis on’y Betsy
White, surr. Ah! you know Betsy, surr. Come down, Betsy darlin’,
and say the gintlemin.’
Generally, Betsy looks over the banisters (the steep staircase is
in the room) with a forcible expression in her protesting face, of
an intention to compensate herself for the present trial by
grinding Jack finer than usual when he does come. Generally,
Sharpeye turns to Mr. Superintendent, and says, as if the subjects
of his remarks were wax-work:
‘One of the worst, sir, this house is. This woman has been
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Dickens, Charles – The Uncommercial Traveller
indicted three times. This man’s a regular bad one likewise. His
real name is Pegg. Gives himself out as Waterhouse.’
‘Never had sitch a name as Pegg near me back, thin, since I was in
this house, bee the good Lard!’ says the woman.
Generally, the man says nothing at all, but becomes exceedingly
round-shouldered, and pretends to read his paper with rapt
attention. Generally, Sharpeye directs our observation with a
look, to the prints and pictures that are invariably numerous on
the walls. Always, Trampfoot and Quickear are taking notice on the
doorstep. In default of Sharpeye being acquainted with the exact
individuality of any gentleman encountered, one of these two is
sure to proclaim from the outer air, like a gruff spectre, that
Jackson is not Jackson, but knows himself to be Fogle; or that
Canlon is Walker’s brother, against whom there was not sufficient
evidence; or that the man who says he never was at sea since he was
a boy, came ashore from a voyage last Thursday, or sails tomorrow
morning. ‘And that is a bad class of man, you see,’ says Mr.
Superintendent, when he got out into the dark again, ‘and very
difficult to deal with, who, when he has made this place too hot to
hold him, enters himself for a voyage as steward or cook, and is
out of knowledge for months, and then turns up again worse than
ever.’
When we had gone into many such houses, and had come out (always
leaving everybody relapsing into waiting for Jack), we started off
to a singing-house where Jack was expected to muster strong.
The vocalisation was taking place in a long low room up-stairs; at
one end, an orchestra of two performers, and a small platform;
across the room, a series of open pews for Jack, with an aisle down
the middle; at the other end a larger pew than the rest, entitled
SNUG, and reserved for mates and similar good company. About the
room, some amazing coffee-coloured pictures varnished an inch deep,
and some stuffed creatures in cases; dotted among the audience, in
Sung and out of Snug, the ‘Professionals;’ among them, the
celebrated comic favourite Mr. Banjo Bones, looking very hideous
with his blackened face and limp sugar-loaf hat; beside him,
sipping rum-and-water, Mrs. Banjo Bones, in her natural colours – a