McLevy (21 page)

“Where got you the leg of mutton, Bill?” inquired I, as I stood before him, and stopped his quick pace, intended to be much quicker the moment he saw me.

“The leg of mutton?” replied he, taken aback.

“Yes,” said I, “just the leg of mutton. It is so seldom you have a thing of that kind about you that I feel curious to know.”

“You might as well ask that gentleman where he got his umbrella or his coat,” was the cool reply.

“Not just the same,” said I; “but I do not choose to point out the difference. Where got you it?”

“Bought it to be sure, and that’s enough for you.”

“Quite enough,” said I, “if you did buy it, and I confess you have a good taste. A better leg I haven’t seen for a long time. An ‘old leg’ too, and just kept
long enough to be tender. Who’s your butcher?”

“What’s that to you?”

“Perhaps I might fancy one the same,” said I; for I felt inclined to play a little as the idea of the mustard began to tickle my brain and make me merry. “I might even fancy
that one and offer a premium upon it.”

“What premium?” he said, perhaps not knowing very well what to say.

“Perhaps sixty days and ‘skeely’ without a drop of mustard.”

The word operated like a charm on my sooty epicure, but he didn’t seem to understand it any way, looking into my face inquisitively, and no doubt remembering the conversation about the
blister without being able to connect the two things, for doubtless his mother had told him nothing of his sore throat and of the remedy.

“Come,” said I, “there are just two ways. You take me to the butcher’s shop or I take you to mine.”

Bill was too sensible a fellow not to see, even without the quickening of the blister, that it was all up with him, and so accordingly, carrying his leg of mutton, he accompanied me very quietly
to the Office, where I deposited him and his burden. I now examined the leg with the view of endeavouring to ascertain whether it might be identified, for I was here in the position I was in that
morning I had so much difficulty about my booty in the Cock and Trumpet. But I soon discovered what I thought might serve my purpose, and, telling the lieutenant to take care not to allow the leg
to be handled, I took my way to the Fountain Close, where I found my proud lady of Ballynagh sitting at her ease, no doubt expecting her son in by and by, or at least before supper, which supper he
would doubtless bring in himself, she providing the mustard.

“I’m just here again,” said I, as I opened the door and went in.

“Ay, always shoving in your nose where you’ve no more right to be than in heaven, where you’II never have any right at all,” replied she. “‘What wid me
now?”

“I just want to know, Mrs Riddel, what you did with the ounce of mustard you bought two nights ago at Mr M’Dougal’s?”

“The musthard?” she exclaimed, at the top of her voice.

“Just the ‘raal Durham.”’

“The raal Durham! and what should I do wid it but make a blisther for Bill’s throat, as I towld ye before, and tell ye agin?”

“And yet here is the most of it in this cup, ready made for supper,” said I, as I took from the old cupboard the article and held it before her.

“And was I to use it all at wunst for a blisther, d’ye think, ye mighty docthor M’Lavy?” said she, with something of her usual greatness; “and isn’t his
throat sore and won’t he naid the rest ov it this very night?”

“Then what will become of this fine piece of salt beef?” said I, as I pulled out of the same recess the article which appeared so strange in a small hovel, with two chairs and a
table, and scarcely a bit of furniture besides. “You must reserve a little for it?”

“And who gave ye the power to spake about my mate, and ask whether I ate musthard to it or not? Isn’t it me own?”

“That’s just what I want to know,” said I, as I took out my handkerchief to roll it up in.

“And who knows that better than the woman who bought it, and salted it, ay, and put saltpatre upon it, and hung it, and boiled it?”

“And told me that the mustard was for her son’s throat,” said I.

“Ay, and the thruth, too, every word ov it.”

“Well, I’m going to take the beef to the Police Office, where Bill is,” said I; “I will leave you the mustard.”

“If you are going to be a thaif, take it altogether,” cried, “and may the devil blister your throat before you try to ate what belongs to a poor widdow! And you’ve
ta’en up the boy agin, have yez?”

“Yes”.

“For stailing his own mate?”

“And if you are not quiet,” said I, “I will return and take up you for helping him to eat it.”

“And that would just make the right ind ov it, you murtherin’ spoiler ov widdows and orphans.”

And now that she had begun to abuse me I might get more of her “good words” than I wanted, so I left her, hearing, as I went down stairs, as many of the malisons as would have
served, if they had been blessings, for the contents of all the rifled larders.

I had nearly got to the Office when a cook from Inverleith Terrace came and reported the theft of a leg of mutton. I was now pretty certain I had not overstepped my duty in apprehending Bill,
but the difficulty remained as to the identification.

“Would you know your leg if you saw it?” inquired I.

“As easily as I would know my own, if it were cut off,” she replied, with a grim smile.

“Is that it, then?” said I, as I showed her the article.

“The very leg,” said she. “There’s. the wether mark and the snip off the tail, to show me which I was to use first, and tomorrow is the great dinner day.”

“I was trusting to the string,” said I, as I held within my hand the piece by which the leg had been hung on the hook.

“And so you might,” replied she, “for it is a piece of an old window cord which was lying on the dresser, and the rest of it is still in the kitchen.”

“Is that it?”

“The very bit; I tied it with my own hands. But how in the name of all that’s wonderful, has the leg found its way here before me?”

“Never you mind that,” said I. “You will be able to swear to the article?”

“Ay; but what am I to do for the dinner?”

“Why,” said I,” you could scarcely serve up to your master and his guests a leg of mutton that had been stolen by a sweep, and been in the Police Office. Our ‘old
legs’ don’t get into high company when they leave our society.”

For the leg Bill was supplied with the “raal Durham” in the shape of twelve months’ imprisonment.

The Pleasure-Party

❖

N
o kind of literature can be more detrimental to morals than that of which we have had some melancholy examples from the London press, where the
colours that belong to romance are thrown over pictures of crime otherwise revolting. Nor is much required for this kind of writing,—a touch of fate calling for sympathy, or a dash of
cleverness extorting admiration, will suffice. Shave the fellow’s head, and put a canvas jacket on him, and you have your hero as he ought to be. See M’Pherson with the fiddle out of
his hands, and think of his beating the rump of a poor widow’s cow which he had stolen, and was to feed on half raw, like a savage, as he was, and what comes of Burns’ immortal song?
Catch nature painting up those things with any other colours than those of blood and mud. And yet I have been a little weak sometimes in this way myself, when I have found boldness joined to
dexterity. One needs an effort to get quit of rather natural feelings in contemplating some four youths, male and female, well endowed in person and intellect, and with so much of that extraneous
elegance derived from the tailor and a well-practised imitation of the great, set down to plan an invasion of a foreign country, strange to them in language and manners, and with no other weapons
for spoil than their boldness and their wits. A little attention enables us to disabuse ourselves, by pointing out that the boldness is impudence, and the invention deceit, and we come pleasantly
back to the huckaback—the rig and furrow, and the shaved head.

In September 1856, I was in Princes Street on a general survey. It was a fine day for the time of the year, and the street was crowded with that mixed set of people, preponderating so much
towards the grand and gay, for which that famous promenade has of late years become remarkable. Yes, there has been a change going on, and I have marked it:—a far more expensive style of
dressing in the middle classes—a more perfect imitation of the gait and manners of the higher, so that I defy you to tell a shopkeeper’s son or daughter from a lord’s—more
of the grandees, too, and ten foreigners for one formerly seen—the only indelible mark remaining being that of the female “unfortunates”, destined to be for ever distinguished,
and something about my old friends which they cannot conceal from a practised eye. Between St David Street and St Andrew Street, my attention was claimed by two ladies and a gentleman, who appeared
to me to be English. They were what we call “tops”,—that is, you could hardly suppose it possible for one to be more obliged to the secretion of the silk-worm, or the ingenuity of
the tailor or milliner. It was far more easy for me to mark them than to give you reasons why they had an interest for me. What though I were to say that they appeared a degree too curious about
the dresses of the lady-promenaders, and verified too much the common saying, which really has no reference to pocket-fanciers, that if you look in at a window, you will presently find people at
your back?

At any rate, I thought I had some claims upon them, not that they were “old legs”, as we call the regulars, for, as I have hinted, they were entirely new to me, but that it appeared
they thought they had claims upon others,—the natural claims, you know, that are born with us. A new-born infant will hang at any breast, or even fix to a glass nipple, and these people only
retain their infantine nature. So I told Riley to show deference, and keep off before them, always within eyeshot, while I kept up my interesting observation. I soon noticed that they were hopeful,
with all that fidgettiness which belongs to flattering expectation. They wanted something, and would doubtless have been glad to see an old lady or gentleman faint; but there were none in that way,
and no runaway horse would strike against a lamp-post, and throw its rider on the pavement. Neither did those clots of people at the windows seem worthy of their attention, yet they flitted about
them, parted to meet again, and were as active as butterflies whirling in the air, and sucking no honey. With all this idle play, they kept up their cheerfulness, indulging in jokes, laughter, and
other high jinks, so that I was doubtful whether they were less happy than I.

With the same fluttering levity, indulged in amidst what appeared to me might have been considered heavy expectations, they all three went tripping gaily up St Andrew Street, at the top of the
northern division of which they met a very little dapper dandy, not over five feet and an inch or two. A more exquisite miniature for the cabinet of a fine lady I have never seen
before,—dressed, brushed, combed, studded, ringed, and anointed; and so nimble, that if Gulliver had put him into his coat-pocket, it wouldn’t have been without danger to his silver
snuff-box. He seemed to be the friend of the taller belle, and, as I afterwards learned, bore the historical name of Beaumont, while she travelled by the name of Miss Mary Grant; the other, Evans,
was devoted to the lesser lady, Miss Mary Smith. The little man must have been more successful than they, if I could judge from a united laugh which followed a stealthy glimpse of something which
he showed cautiously, and which I naturally took for a purse. They seemed to have much in hand—one pointing one way—another, another—then a few minutes’ deliberation, not
without signs of impatience, as if they thought they were losing time. At length Beaumont, who, though small, seemed to be the leader, pointed north, drawing out the while a watch, and they
appeared decided, all setting off along St Andrew Square. I immediately concluded they were for Scotland Street station, for I knew the northern train went about the time, and there is there often
a conveniently crowded platform.

My conjecture was right. The party made direct for Scotland Street, and I signalled for Riley, who had kept his distance, without losing his vision. We followed, keeping apart, and enjoyed as we
went the frolics of the party, who, coming from the heart of civilisation, probably considered themselves among some savage people, who could not help admiring—and would not be difficult to
rob. As for the police of Scotland, they need not be much considered, and they at least had not heard of so humble an individual as I. So new to the town were they, that one of them, taking me by
surprise, came running back, and asked me the way to the station. It was Miss Mary Grant.

“Very easy, ma’am—down to the end of the street, turn the railing on the left, and go round till you come to Scotland Street on a line with this.”

“Thank you, sir, and much obliged.”

Your
obligation
may be increased by and by, said I to myself, as I saw her hopping on to join the party—not the first time I’ve been asked the way to the net.

Miss Mary had understood my directions very well, for they never hesitated or stopped till they got to the top of the stair leading to the station-house. Being so utterly unknown to our English
friends, there was no necessity for my usual caution; and accordingly, the moment they disappeared, Riley and I went forward to the parapet overlooking the stair and platform, and placing our
elbows upon it, we put ourselves in the position of lounging onlookers. Our point of observation was excellent. We could see the entire platform, and everything that was going on there. A crowd of
people were there, among whom a number of likely ladies, with pockets far better filled than those of mere promenaders in Princes Street. A kindred feeling might suggest to our “party of
pleasure”, that people can’t travel now-a-days without a considerable sum of money with them, and therefore wherever there was a pocket there would also be money. And then the habit of
purse-carrying, which brings all the money together—the notes in one end, and the silver or gold in the other—is a preparation just made for thieves, a convenience for which, with
little time to spare, they cannot be too grateful. My friends seemed to be delighted with the bustling assemblage, but then it was to last only for a few minutes, when the train would be down, and
the platform left in solitude. So they behoved to make hay while the sun shone, and they knew it. The first observation I made was to the effect that they took no tickets—just as I suspected.
My second, that they began play at once, though with care, and in that shy way preliminarily to the required boldness when the hurry-scurry would begin with the coming of the train. It rather
seemed that they only
marked
victims in the meantime—keeping separate—threading the crowd with alacrity and hope, picking up suitabilities by rapid glances.