knows less of horses than I do, but I’d heard my friend at the
Livery Stables say he was eight year old, so I says, as knowing as
possible, “Rising eight.”) “Rising eight, is he?” says he.
“Rising eight,” says I. “Well,” he says, “what do you want for
it?” “Why, the first and last figure for the whole concern is
five-and-twenty pound!” “That’s very cheap!” he says, looking at
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me. “Ain’t it?” I says. “I told you it was a bargain! Now,
without any higgling and haggling about it, what I want is to sell,
and that’s my price. Further, I’ll make it easy to you, and take
half the money down, and you can do a bit of stiff (1) for the
balance.”
” Well,” he says again, “that’s very cheap.” “I believe you,” says
I; “get in and try it, and you’ll buy it. Come! take a trial!”
‘Ecod, he gets in, and we get in, and we drive along the road, to
show him to one of the railway clerks that was hid in the publichouse
window to identify him. But the clerk was bothered, and
didn’t know whether it was him, or wasn’t – because the reason why?
I’ll tell you, – on account of his having shaved his whiskers.
“It’s a clever little horse,” he says, “and trots well; and the
shay runs light.” “Not a doubt about it,” I says. “And now, Mr.
Fikey, I may as well make it all right, without wasting any more of
your time. The fact is, I’m Inspector Wield, and you’re my
prisoner.” “You don’t mean that?” he says. “I do, indeed.” “Then
burn my body,” says Fikey, “if this ain’t TOO bad!”
‘Perhaps you never saw a man so knocked over with surprise. “I
hope you’ll let me have my coat?” he says. “By all means.” “Well,
then, let’s drive to the factory.” “Why, not exactly that, I
think,” said I; “I’ve been there, once before, to-day. Suppose we
send for it.” He saw it was no go, so he sent for it, and put it
on, and we drove him up to London, comfortable.’
This reminiscence is in the height of its success, when a general
proposal is made to the fresh-complexioned, smooth-faced officer,
with the strange air of simplicity, to tell the ‘Butcher’s Story.’
The fresh-complexioned, smooth-faced officer, with the strange air
of simplicity, began with a rustic smile, and in a soft, wheedling
tone of voice, to relate the Butcher’s Story, thus:
‘It’s just about six years ago, now, since information was given at
Scotland Yard of there being extensive robberies of lawns and silks
going on, at some wholesale houses in the City. Directions were
given for the business being looked into; and Straw, and Fendall,
and me, we were all in it.’
‘When you received your instructions,’ said we, ‘you went away, and
held a sort of Cabinet Council together!’
The smooth-faced officer coaxingly replied, ‘Ye-es. Just so. We
turned it over among ourselves a good deal. It appeared, when we
went into it, that the goods were sold by the receivers
extraordinarily cheap – much cheaper than they could have been if
they had been honestly come by. The receivers were in the trade,
and kept capital shops – establishments of the first respectability
– one of ’em at the West End, one down in Westminster. After a lot
of watching and inquiry, and this and that among ourselves, we
found that the job was managed, and the purchases of the stolen
goods made, at a little public-house near Smithfield, down by Saint
Bartholomew’s; where the Warehouse Porters, who were the thieves,
took ’em for that purpose, don’t you see? and made appointments to
meet the people that went between themselves and the receivers.
This public-house was principally used by journeymen butchers from
the country, out of place, and in want of situations; so, what did
we do, but – ha, ha, ha! – we agreed that I should be dressed up
like a butcher myself, and go and live there!’
Never, surely, was a faculty of observation better brought to bear
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