apiece, and a pipe.
‘Well, sir, we put our pipes aboard, and we drank our half-andhalf,
and sat a-talking, very sociably, when the young man says,
“You must excuse me stopping very long,” he says, “because I’m
forced to go home in good time. I must be at work all night.” “At
work all night?” says I. “You ain’t a baker?” “No,” he says,
laughing, “I ain’t a baker.” “I thought not,” says I, “you haven’t
the looks of a baker.” “No,” says he, “I’m a glove-cleaner.”
‘I never was more astonished in my life, than when I heard them
words come out of his lips. “You’re a glove-cleaner, are you?”
says I. “Yes,” he says, “I am.” “Then, perhaps,” says I, taking
the gloves out of my pocket, “you can tell me who cleaned this pair
of gloves? It’s a rum story,” I says. “I was dining over at
Lambeth, the other day, at a free-and-easy – quite promiscuous –
with a public company – when some gentleman, he left these gloves
behind him! Another gentleman and me, you see, we laid a wager of
a sovereign, that I wouldn’t find out who they belonged to. I’ve
spent as much as seven shillings already, in trying to discover;
but, if you could help me, I’d stand another seven and welcome.
You see there’s TR and a cross, inside.” “I see,” he says. “Bless
you, I know these gloves very well! I’ve seen dozens of pairs
belonging to the same party.” “No?” says I. “Yes,” says he.
“Then you know who cleaned ’em?” says I. “Rather so,” says he.
“My father cleaned ’em.”
‘”Where does your father live?” says I. “Just round the corner,”
says the young man, “near Exeter Street, here. He’ll tell you who
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they belong to, directly.” “Would you come round with me now?”
says I. “Certainly,” says he, “but you needn’t tell my father that
you found me at the play, you know, because he mightn’t like it.”
“All right!” We went round to the place, and there we found an old
man in a white apron, with two or three daughters, all rubbing and
cleaning away at lots of gloves, in a front parlour. “Oh, Father!”
says the young man, “here’s a person been and made a bet about the
ownership of a pair of gloves, and I’ve told him you can settle
it.” “Good evening, sir,” says I to the old gentleman. “Here’s
the gloves your son speaks of. Letters TR, you see, and a cross.”
“Oh yes,” he says, “I know these gloves very well; I’ve cleaned
dozens of pairs of ’em. They belong to Mr. Trinkle, the great
upholsterer in Cheapside.” “Did you get ’em from Mr. Trinkle,
direct,” says I, “if you’ll excuse my asking the question?” “No,”
says he; “Mr. Trinkle always sends ’em to Mr. Phibbs’s, the
haberdasher’s, opposite his shop, and the haberdasher sends ’em to
me.” “Perhaps YOU wouldn’t object to a drain?” says I. “Not in
the least!” says he. So I took the old gentleman out, and had a
little more talk with him and his son, over a glass, and we parted
excellent friends.
‘This was late on a Saturday night. First thing on the Monday
morning, I went to the haberdasher’s shop, opposite Mr. Trinkle’s,
the great upholsterer’s in Cheapside. “Mr. Phibbs in the way?”
“My name is Phibbs.” “Oh! I believe you sent this pair of gloves
to be cleaned?” “Yes, I did, for young Mr. Trinkle over the way.
There he is in the shop!” “Oh! that’s him in the shop, is it? Him
in the green coat?” “The same individual.” “Well, Mr. Phibbs,
this is an unpleasant affair; but the fact is, I am Inspector Wield
of the Detective Police, and I found these gloves under the pillow
of the young woman that was murdered the other day, over in the
Waterloo Road!” “Good Heaven!” says he. “He’s a most respectable
young man, and if his father was to hear of it, it would be the
ruin of him!” “I’m very sorry for it,” says I, “but I must take
him into custody.” “Good Heaven!” says Mr. Phibbs, again; “can