brandy first.” “I don’t care if I’ve another,” said I. “We’ll
have two more, Missis,” said the friends, “and confound you,
Constable, you’ll give your man a drop, won’t you?” I was
agreeable to that, so we had it all round, and then my man and I
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took Tally-ho Thompson safe to the railroad, and I carried him to
London that night. He was afterwards acquitted, on account of a
defect in the evidence; and I understand he always praises me up to
the skies, and says I’m one of the best of men.’
This story coming to a termination amidst general applause,
Inspector Wield, after a little grave smoking, fixes his eye on his
host, and thus delivers himself:
‘It wasn’t a bad plant that of mine, on Fikey, the man accused of
forging the Sou’-Western Railway debentures – it was only t’other
day – because the reason why? I’ll tell you.
‘I had information that Fikey and his brother kept a factory over
yonder there,’ – indicating any region on the Surrey side of the
river – ‘where he bought second-hand carriages; so after I’d tried
in vain to get hold of him by other means, I wrote him a letter in
an assumed name, saying that I’d got a horse and shay to dispose
of, and would drive down next day that he might view the lot, and
make an offer – very reasonable it was, I said – a reg’lar bargain.
Straw and me then went off to a friend of mine that’s in the livery
and job business, and hired a turn-out for the day, a precious
smart turn-out it was – quite a slap-up thing! Down we drove,
accordingly, with a friend (who’s not in the Force himself); and
leaving my friend in the shay near a public-house, to take care of
the horse, we went to the factory, which was some little way off.
In the factory, there was a number of strong fellows at work, and
after reckoning ’em up, it was clear to me that it wouldn’t do to
try it on there. They were too many for us. We must get our man
out of doors. “Mr. Fikey at home?” “No, he ain’t.” “Expected
home soon?” “Why, no, not soon.” “Ah! Is his brother here?”
“I’M his brother.” “Oh! well, this is an ill-conwenience, this is.
I wrote him a letter yesterday, saying I’d got a little turn-out to
dispose of, and I’ve took the trouble to bring the turn-out down a’
purpose, and now he ain’t in the way.” “No, he ain’t in the way.
You couldn’t make it convenient to call again, could you?” “Why,
no, I couldn’t. I want to sell; that’s the fact; and I can’t put
it off. Could you find him anywheres?” At first he said No, he
couldn’t, and then he wasn’t sure about it, and then he’d go and
try. So at last he went up-stairs, where there was a sort of loft,
and presently down comes my man himself in his shirt-sleeves.
‘”Well,” he says, “this seems to be rayther a pressing matter of
yours.” “Yes,” I says, “it IS rayther a pressing matter, and
you’ll find it a bargain – dirt cheap.” “I ain’t in partickler
want of a bargain just now,” he says, “but where is it?” “Why,” I
says, “the turn-out’s just outside. Come and look at it.” He
hasn’t any suspicions, and away we go. And the first thing that
happens is, that the horse runs away with my friend (who knows no
more of driving than a child) when he takes a little trot along the
road to show his paces. You never saw such a game in your life!
‘When the bolt is over, and the turn-out has come to a standstill
again, Fikey walks round and round it as grave as a judge – me too.
“There, sir!” I says. “There’s a neat thing!” “It ain’t a bad
style of thing,” he says. “I believe you,” says I. “And there’s a
horse!” – for I saw him looking at it. “Rising eight!” I says,
rubbing his fore-legs. (Bless you, there ain’t a man in the world