 Section 6 of A BUNCH OF KEYS, WHERE THEY WERE FOUND AND WHAT THEY MIGHT HAVE UNLOCKED. A Christmas Book, edited by Tom Hood. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Playing by Wayne Cook. The Key of the Piano, Part II, by Thomas Archer. Once again in London I spent much time in seeking this man. Outside the doors of the fashionable clubs, in the parks, at the gardens of pleasure and the theatres, and among the audiences of concerts where I myself played, I looked in vain. At last, in three months' time, I learned that he had been in a distant part of England and was shortly expected back. Previous to his wedding in the High Life was Adeline, daughter of Sir Joseph. From France I had heard but once, except Soumina, who said that he was still an invalid looking forward to his coming spring to restore him to strength. His letter to me and closed one addressed to her who had so betrayed him. And as it was left open for me to read and I was requested to deliver it and to make known the answer to him, I knew its contents and what it must have cost him to write. It reminded her of all that she had said to inspire with hope his soul, of the night when she had so cruelly wounded him, of what had been said between them, and of the portrait and the lock of hair which he still wore near his heart. One hope he still cherished, that she had spoken those words in fear of the Sir Joseph and with a shame to reveal the love she bore him. That her but so explained those words and he would be happier even though he died before the spring. This letter I took to the house demanding to see its well-born mistress, un-first presently taken to where she sat writing at her little desk. It's a very balcony where they had so parted and where during the absence of the family the stonework had been mended. After reading the letter which I placed in her hand was a curling lip in something like a frown she turned upon me and said, Do you know the writer of this? I do, said I, and he is my dearest friend. Indeed, she said, looking at me still most deadly, is he really likely to die? He is, I replied, scarcely trusting myself to speak, so did her calm manner and rage me. I am very sorry to hear it, she said, then a little more gently. He should not have been so foolish, but I pity him greatly. Is there no answer for me to send him from you? I asked, still controlling myself. None, whatever. Neither in word nor writing. I have no answer to give and shall be compelled to bid you good morning. One word madam, I cried, and I will say good morning with pleasure. Can you give me the address of Lord George? Lord George, who? I know him by no other name. You know who it is that I mean. What do you want with it? I desire to wait on him, madam, and I can then inform him of my business. He will not fight you, if that is what you mean. I expect not, madam. He would fear to fight any man except in an advantage, but Franz Wilhelm is my brother, and I will avenge him wherever I may meet his murderer. For he will die, and either Lord George or I must die, too. You can easily use such a threat here now. You see, I am only a lady, and therefore I am not expected to fight. Pardon, madam, I had indeed forgotten. You have to me given no evidence of warmliness, and I therefore felt not bound to regard your sex. One word more. To you also this cruel deed will come home, for the France be living or dead. For I have vowed that I will seek out Lord George if he is to be found, and I will keep my word. So I left her, and not daring to write Franz any other message than that I had delivered his letter, and that the lady who spoke of him sorrowfully had given me no reply. I waited. Waited two months more to hear that Franz was weak, and as mean as thought, sinking daily. I had so greatly neglected my friends of the profession that I was much surprised to find when I got home one night, and all the greatons staying for me in my room. Still more surprised to hear the errand upon which he came. There was to be a grand assembly at the house of a gentleman just out of London, and of the band which he had been commissioned to secure, there wanted but one instrument, the one which I played. He himself would not be present, but it would be a personal favour notwithstanding. I had given up attending any concerts but those of the public, especially when no friends of mine were members of the band. But I asked him where was the house to which we were invited. Judge me as a surprise of hearing that it was the Sir Joseph's. In the moment I accepted the engagement, it was for the next night. Scented wood perhaps bring me face to face with a man I sought. My friend's card in my pocket was my letter of introduction to the conductor of the band. It was for me to take care that neither the servants nor the daughter of the house recognized me as a brother of Franz. It would have been impossible. I shaved my beard and colored my fair hair in moustache as black dye at the shop of a German barber well known to me. Then full of determination but anxious I went to the house and company with some others who met as the appointed place. There was again a large and brilliant party, many of them I remembered to have seen there before, and still the daughter stately moved about the room receiving the guests as she leaned on the arm of her white-haired father. Her face, badly beautiful ever, still bore the same dark, mocking, cruel look, but was even more of defiance, and it had grown older and sterner, as though a hidden care at her heart gnawed constantly. I could scarcely suppress myself as I saw the Lord George come in. The marks of an evil life still deeper in his eyes and on his wrinkled brow. As she moved about the rooms, he followed her with suspicious eyes and no longer stooped over her chair to make jokes. He spoke little, and when he addressed her, she seemed to me to sneer. There was no happiness in the prospect of their married life then, and should I kill him, she would little grieve. The evening passed on this music and dancing, and the rooms were crowded with richly-dressed ladies, sparkling with jewels, and this a few gentlemen who had yet come in, for they expected fresh arrivals as late as twelve o'clock, and those already there were mostly old city friends of the master of the house. Supper was to be served at one o'clock, and I had determined it takes a first opportunity after Supper, while the gentlemen were finishing their vines after the ladies had left the table, to insult Lord George before them all. His immediate strength I feared not, and if he challenged me, I chose the saber which I knew. Should he accept my challenge, he could have the pistol of which I knew but little. I had just concluded this myself this, then there was a lull in the room, one of those quiet moments, something of the mysterious which fall on our assemblies. Lord George was leaning versus Elba once a mantelpiece, and versus back to the fire. Sir Joseph was talking to a little group of bald-headed gentlemen in a corner, a lot of dames around the daughter, asking her to play to them. She hesitated, and I saw it, I noticed, that for a moment her face was disturbed, but presently Lord George went to the piano and opened it, and then went back to his station by the chimney. She sat down to the instrument, and even as she ran her fingers along the keys, a strange and startling change came over her. Her face became fixed, pale and corpse-like. Her eyes dilated, unsteady before her, immovable. Her breasts came and went, as though some sudden fear had seized her. And then she began to play. I have said that she was a mere drawing room pianist, and knew that at her best she could not touch the keys, for as a rapid and brilliant moment, Vitz now seemed easy to her. For a few bars of wild prelude, she struck subtly into that very harmony which Paul Franz had played on the night where she stood there beside him, and gave us even more effect. As the glorious music rolled forth, and the steam burst into brilliant and more varied cadence, the guests held their breath, and their talk died out in a burst of suppressed admiration and wonder. At the very commencement of the piece, a servant going out had left the door partly open, and as she played, thee who were nearest the passage, strained our ears to listen to a plenty of echo which to us appeared to come from some room below, and sounded a low accompaniment, as on a distant piano, to the instrument we heard beside us. Soon others in the room heard this, and began to murmur approval. But those who caught a glimpse of the pale, lifeless face, whose eyes never glanced right or left, began to move uneasily. At the end of every passage, the veiling but melodious symphony grew louder before it died away, and as the tone sunk lower, we all held our breath to listen. I especially, who felt I knew not what, was trembling violently, though my limbs seemed numb and I was rooted to the place where I stood, first my eyes fixed on a half-open door. Another minute or so, or two me it seemed, and a door open still wider, as a sharp sudden blast of chill air blew through the room. I could see some of the lady's shutter, so as I knew not why, and for a moment the light seemed to quiver, and a shower of sparks scattered from the grate around her hearth. All these things I saw, and yet seemed to have eyes, ears, heart, only for one thing. For Xer in the doorway itself stood a figure of my brother, Franz. For a moment I saw his eyes rested on me, and I was about to spring forward to read him, of any past, rapidly gliding, not walking across the room. Nobody seemed to see him, so as to the orchestra were listening to some music, and wondering as a strange significance. The guest were once more oppressed, but who shall say what sensation beneath which they cowed into silence? Another moment, and the figure stood besides the chair where it had so often stood before. I knew now that I alone of all that company saw it, and so as the skin of my flesh seemed to turn to a film of ice, I said to myself, Franz is dead. Lord George had been mending the fire, now he looked up, and his face worked and changed from purple to white, and back to purple again, as he too saw it. And for a moment, gasped in dismay. Stills of her harmony of the music went on, as a vile accompaniment grew louder and louder, till when it seemed to burst into a final chord, the lady had line, her arms relaxed, her eyes wildly gazing, turned as if at a sudden summons, and there's a great cry, covers her face with her hands. Lord George had taken one irresolute stride forward, with his hand raised as if to strike, but something as a figure before him stayed him half way. Evidently disbelieving his senses, he clasped his hand to his forehead, rushing forward, struck out wildly, but as he did so, he fell down, as to all that seemed insensible. The form of Franz was gone, as a violent crash of broken strings turned to discord the last bar of the music into room beneath. Full of wonder at the cause of the strange and sudden prostration which had come upon both the Lord George as a hybrid Adeline, as the guests ran hither and thither in a sort of bewilderment, with upon them a strange uneasiness as of those who have been near death unknowingly. Pale and seeming lifeless, Adeline was carried upstairs by the servants, and a doctor was already busy unfastening the collar and basing the temples of the Lord George. For me I went down to the supper room, for the table was laid which rich Viennes not to be eaten that night, for the guests were already departing hurriedly. I went for a moment to the piano which stood there and tried to open it, but it was still locked, and so I bowed down to my face upon it, and wept for my dead friend. Present days are came down to me others of the man who, having heard the strange accompaniment, spoke of it as a capital effect as though of an arrangement novel and ingenious. But cruisantly came a servant with a commission from somebody to open the piano, which, having done by means of a piece of wire, I saw as that the broken strings lay coiled together in a tangled mass, and that entwined with them lay a long, crisp curl of dark brown hair. Soon, the last carriage fields were heard cleansing the gravel, and the last guests I too departed, leaving as I sought, desolation if not death behind me. Even when I reached my lodging I found there for me a letter written by Mina, and bidding me come quickly for that Franz was sinking fast. It bore the date of two days before, and I knew in my innermost soul that to him the end had come before I could speak for well, or hold him to my breast. Still I prepared to go next morning, leaving my address again to behind me, in case of any inquiry being made. In that little, light, pleasant groom at the hotel, where Masoch's thoughts soon to Mina lived, lay my dead brother upon the low bed all hung with stirrupes of white. Laser so pale and sinned, but with such a life looked still in his face that I almost expected him to breathe again, or to take up as a little nose gave, which lay upon his heart, and offered me. For a long time I sat there undisturbed in such grief as does the soul of a man good. Better feelings and holier thoughts were stirring me within, and yet as I took up his right transparent hand and held it to my lips, I repeated to myself that Lord George, or I, must die. He had been sinking rapidly for two or three days before his death I heard, had sometimes been heard to talk in his sleep as if he was speaking to me and called me dear brother Emil, how my heart broke into tears, had kissed his foster mother and Mina, as though with the knowledge that the end must soon come. And near the last fell into a trench which seemed so like death that only the motion of his thin fingers on the coverlet he seemed to fancy he was playing gave token of life. In five days he was to be buried, and as he had fewer prayers to settle, his effects being left to a mother, the time hung sadly in Versailles. Mina, too, seemed to have become preoccupied, and every day went out at the same time and stayed for two hours, refusing to let me accompany her. But this I wanted not at, for I knew that she had a lover in Max, a Sulu tenant, and my most good friend, to whom, however, she would give but little hope of speedy marriage, as he himself had told me months before. Now when I spoke to her of him, she looked scarcely pleased, but glue me, then taking my hand, burst into a passion of tears, and said that all depended on one event of which she could not speak to me, whether she married Max or not. Her lover was a fine burly fellow, and the best swordsman in Ghent, for Fons and I had both learned from him the exercise of the sabre. But now, from being a free laughing companion, he had grown so dull and taciturn that I saw some mystery was there, and asked him its meaning, to which he answered only by pressing my hand and bidding me wait. It wanted yet two days to the morning, when poor France was to be carried to the grave, then late one evening, Madame Schwartz came to me as I was sitting, boozing over the fire in her little room, and said there was a fresh arrival at the hotel, a lady only and her maid servant, wondering what this me, this could have to do. I still saw that she was under some excitement, and then she asked me to come visit her, to see if I recognize a visitor, I knew what Sartre was in her mind. Taking me by the hand, she led me down a long corridor to an enter room, where she bid me stay by an inner door, where she went into the apartment on which it opened. Fun glance was enough. Standing before the fire, was a mirror reflected her pale haggard face, for it's a high, miss Adeline, so worn and a-vite, that she seemed to have been suddenly old stricken. So morning of the funeral was, in all sings, heavy and mournful. So rain fell, plashing this melancholy sound, upon Sandooly turned to us, on my brother's grave, as the winds sang dirge-like in the trees. Our little band of mourners standing round that coffin in the quiet burial place, too closer together, as though to say, who knows how soon another may be taken. Let us love each other, for who can tell which may be the next? Max, who had looked on deaths in more than one battlefield, wept most of though he held Mina on his black-craped arm, and I, who felt as if that grave was closing on me also, prayed in silence. But still I sought within myself, Lord George, or I must die. As I was soul-thinking, I felt a mother press my arm, when looking up, followed her glance to a large tomb, close by where we were standing, half concealed by the tree which overshadowed it, stood a woman, dressed all in black clothes, her hood covering her bowed down head. And as the solemn words reached her, I could see as she shook this a violence of leaping. Till we had taken our last look and gone away, she stood there. Then I turned, and saw her gives a sexton and diggers money, and they waited at a little distance, as she knelt beside the grave and had followed the reef of the mortals upon the coffin. In my heart I pitied her for all the ruin she had wrought, and wondering how it came that she was in Ghent alone, we went back to our home, where we learned that strange guests had come in that day. Madam Schwartz and Mina's are full of dizzy, and for a time Max and I settled on smoking, but, saying little, for heaviness was in my heart, and upon Max there was a gloom which I had never seen before with him. It had grown nearly dark, and we still sat smoking silently as the shadows deepened. Then Mina came in, and telling Max she wanted him, came up to me, and winting a kiss upon my forehead, made me to go out into the fresher air of the street. They went away together, she and Max, and I, going out, sold about the town on the quiet keys beside the canals, and in the Ghent old streets which were so familiar to me, but even rapid walking hither and thither would not still the uneasy feelings which had holed upon me, and I turned back again, sinking thither would sit for a time in the large cellar of our hotel, and there drinks of azaneth myself to rebalance, and perhaps listen to the conversation of some chance of acquaintance. Entering quickly I took my seat near a place where I saw two or three men already drinking at one of the tables. I had not looked at them closely when I sat down, but on turning to speak to Zaveta I heard one of them make some remark in English, and, with my heart leaping in my throat, saw the speaker of his Lord George. His then, and his two companions, was the strangers who had come that day to the hotel. I had conversed with Zaveta in German, and as if had no other visitors in the room, Zaspati was speaking loud and freely in English. What bother were you, George? said one of the strangers. Were little expected to have you again, and especially all such inerrant? Why didn't your gentleman come himself first instead of sending you as an ambassador? I came without his knowledge, replied Lord George, laughing with an effort that seemed to be painful. The fact is, we ought to be married in a couple of months, and I am afraid this mania of hers may put it off, which would be very awkward for me, you understand, unless the old man would pay in advance. One of his companions laughed, and the other only shrugged his shoulders, and as he rose from the table to light his cigar, I saw his lips curl with an expression of disgust. How did it happen? said he, and he again sat down. You have to tell us it was seed-bleed that he was visited by the apparation of a man who had killed himself a third. But did I understand that you saw it, too? It's a private matter, and I shouldn't inquire about it. You yourself volunteer the information. I know I did, said Lord George. If I hadn't told it to somebody, I should have gotten mad. The fact is, I don't know what came over us both. If it had been myself only, I should think it might have been deltrem, though I never suffered that way. Anyhow, she did see it, and of a whole room full of people, we were the only two. Don't let's talk about it. I've no doubted to be explained by some of the scientific people. Perhaps it was mutual sympathy, the same thought dwelt on by both of us at the same moment, and strongly affecting the brain to the point of optical delusion. That's my version of it. But the worst of it is, she takes the other view, and a pretty pass of superstition it brought her to. The worst of it is, that the man really is dead. Who was he, did you say? A musician, a fiddle, or something of that sort, but pretty well known here, I fancy. The way she should steal off without why or wherefore, and take only her maid with her to come to this hell after a dead man I can't imagine. She's mad, I think. And you know where to find her? Devil a bit, I mean deuce a bit upon my word, I mean to give up swearing and drink too, I can only get this affair settled. She's somewhere here I know, and I want to find her out before the old man comes to take her home, so that we may all go together. I suppose she'll be at some hotel, I begin to look after her tomorrow, and I shall let nobody know who I am. The landlady here knows, of course, but I shan't be likely to find any of the dead man's relations staying at the principal hotel, I fancy. Suppose he did? Well, I'd rather not. There's nobody here of his name in all events. My man's found that out. What was his name? Franz Wilhelm, I expect he belonged to a low lot, as these musician fellows do, and he himself was a sniveling beggar, trying as I found out afterwards to get up a regular love story between him and Adeline. Why the devil? He wasn't kicked out of the house, I don't know. You did that, didn't you? Well, I did kick him, certainly. I had risen upon my chair, my hands clenched, and my eyes on fire. And as a moment and I should have dashed my fist in his face, then a figure sprung out from a table which had been hidden by a screen. All the blood crushed back in a cold tone to my heart was there, rocking swiftly across the room to the table that the Englishman sat. I saw the form of Franz, not weak and emissary that he had appeared in his life, but better knit, firmer, and with a fine as eyes that bolded mischief. Before I could cry out or move, Lord George had oversat the table, and even as he stood there gazing wildly before him, the figure had advanced at a bound and suck him full in his face, a blow which caused a blood to gush from his lip at the same time crying, Liar and coward! Sis is no apparitions then, and half recovered he seized the chair and would have swung it upon his assailant, but sat his arm was held from behind in a grip of iron by a man in plain clothes, whom I recognized instantly as Max. Stop! said Max and German. This can be settled alone by the sword. Who the devil are you? Cry, Lord George, let me go, I say. Who is he and who is that? Will somebody ask for me, for I don't speak there in fun language? Franz Wilhelm was my brother, so not by birth and blood, and was as right goodly born as he, said the person who had suck him and appealed to the companion of his whom had been listening. If either of you are of the English gentleman, you will tell him that for it to me he answers but tonight he has said, and for my brother's death by him caused in manner most foul. I knew now who it was, and though my brain was reeling, saw that there was a difference between this person and my brother, I have already said how great resemblance of us of Mina to Franz, and now when some of the clothes he wore, and was the disguise of a man upon her face, she was a living image of him so lately dead. Mina, Mina, I whispered as I rushed to her side and caught her arm. This to me, this to me, I have vowed to avenge our brother and have waited long. You must be mad to think of it. What kind of girl like you do in a combat? There's a strong man. I will explain to these companions of this and takes a quarrel on myself. Emil, she said, this quickening breath, keep me not from this or I will hate you to my dying day. You shall keep your vow and avenge him by letting me keep mine. As to my knowledge of what is necessary to such a meeting as I seek, ask Max, who is a best swordsman at pistol-shotting Ghent, and who has taught me these many weeks till he cannot blame my skill. That is true, said Max Gruffly, but I have torn my heart with entreaties that she should not do this, have offered to fight him myself at any odds. She still knows no relenting, and we are here. Viva, standing val' the two companions of the Lord George, seemed to reason with him, for he was as a man insane and ungovernable, swearing that he would fight there and then, or that he would not fight at all. To fight here would be impossible, said Max, but we should have the guard upon us, which is what the gentleman would most desire. He uttered this a bitter snare, for he, like me, desired to take their fear upon himself, and yet dared not reveal that it was a woman who had sought it. I will fight him here, I said, with sudden hope, this the understandings that the combat shall last but three minutes, and all of you shall help him to escape if I fall. Softly, softly, said the gentleman who had spoken before, I must say that, for the follow of a peaceful art, the heir Wilhelm came from a family of damned deal more ready to fight than is my friend here, but he will meet the gentleman who gave this blow, if with him I have any influence. Who will be your second, sir? He said, bowing to me, none speaking in German. He is here, and Max, million, Faber, lieutenant of the Imperial Army, now staying in his hotel. Again, if it be the heir Faber of whom I have erred, and you are his pupil, George, you have better try pistols. He said vimsel-cly, with a grim smile. May I with you have a word apart? He said, beckoning Max aside. George, you will be good enough to leave this affair to me, if I am to act as your second. I will join you presently in your room. Lord George then went out, and I would have gone vismina, but he said in my ear, I am now at ease, for I know that Max will have sabers, and I mean not to kill a man, but for life he shall be as a mark and brand of the murder of our brother and a bully who was beaten by a woman. I should have killed him, said I, better have left him to me. She placed a prompt right hand upon my mouse as we reached your chamber door, and on my lips I felt that the skin had been hardened into horn, in the place where she grasped the saber. Good night, she said, kissing me, and see only Max before tomorrow. They were to meet at daybreak, on one of the keys lined as the outskirts of the city, but the canal forms a sort of little triangular island, reached by a wooden bridge and quiet at all times, but in the early morning quite lonely. His friend is doubtful of him, I truly believe, said Max, and may heaven grant that he shall be the coward that he thinks him, for then will he mean to be safe, and either of us can deal with him, as I would that we could now. I will be with Sue in the morning, I said, pressing his hand. It may not be then too late. I would not go to bed, but sat up in the sally until midnight, then the house was closed. Then I took my cigar case and vent out into the gray stable yard, and sat down on the bench, for any room versus a roof seemed too hot and stifling for me, and I had to wait the coming of the morning. The place in which I sat was under the black shadow of a wall, and whether I slept I know not, but I suddenly became aware of two men standing near and talking in a low voice. I could not see the faces of Issa, but presently one of them went and brought to Lantern. Then I saw that he was dressed in an English uniform of servant livery, and that the other was Lord George. You can't miss it, sir, he said, giving his master a piece of paper. Keep the man straight till you come to the canal, then follow the turnings, as marked here, and you will come to the stable. Well, he will be waiting for you with a fast horse and a chaise. I will bring the luggage on tomorrow. You have your passport. Quietly, and this only his stick and a cloak over his arm. Lord George went out from under the archway of the stables, and so directly the servant had disappeared. I followed. That he was about to escape to me was evident, and I would there and then have come upon him, but for the thought of me and his safety prevented me. He sped onwards, and I for some time kept him in view until he entered the lowest court of the city. Then in the tangled streets I lost him, and stood there as a loot, whether to pursue or to go back. I decided on the latter, and had already turned. Then I heard a great shout, which repeated, was born from the far side of the canal near which I stood, and was followed by a splash. Sinking it could be but some drunken boatman of the neighborhood, I kept on, and as the day was breaking, hastened to tell Max of the flight of the Lord George. But I knew from the hours that they must have left the hotel before I reached it, and so went forward to the place of meeting. There was Mina, who upstairs on the previous evening, but by daylight less like our dead brother. She was pale and firm, and pressed my hand as I went up to speak to her. Only when I had told them of what I had seen did she fall in a fit of weeping, which was interrupted by the times and the appearance of some workmen who were out thus early. We turned back again slowly, Max concealing the swords onto his cloak, and Mina leaning on my arm. And for a full of indignant surprises as the Englishman, who was to have been Lord George's second, had not appeared. Presently we saw a lot of people coming down the street towards the hotel, and belittling something in their midst, as this time the diligence was discharging as passengers at the hotel. And as the crowd came up and turned into the courtyard, there was a confused mingling of workmen, bargemen, market women, and travelers. And as a moment when the people fell back to make way for the officers of police, then we saw what was the burden they carried. The body of a man found that morning in the canal, with a knife wound in his waist, and his pocket's rifle-diversary thing saved his passport. My witch, said the officer, he is an English gentleman as the title of my lord. His servant had recognized the body as that of Lord George, and had caused it to be brought to the hotel. And now amongst the newly arrived was a white-haired old gentleman, who, when he heard the name of the murdered man, had fainted. Val to him presently came down his daughter, a pale, worn lady with a face full of sorrow, and dressed in deep mourning. These two went away together the next day. In twelve months Max and me never married, and after going to the wedding, I came back to England. But I play not now at private assemblies, and once a year I visit the grave where lies my brother Franz, and keep a planted with soft mosses, which shall help to keep his memory green. End of Section 6 Section 7 Of a bunch of keys where they were found, and what they might have unlocked, a Christmas book edited by Tom Hood. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Key of the Strong Room The Key of the Strong Room by W. S. Gilbert Chapter 1 How Johnny Pounce Went to the Bad Or rather, how the bad came to Johnny Pounce. For Johnny Pounce was a brisk energetic little man, with a strong sense of his own duty towards his neighbour, and a very hazy and indefinite notion of his neighbour's duty towards himself. And it has been generally observed that the folk who appear to go to the bad of their own volition are distinguished by precisely opposite characteristics, in as much as they are, as a rule, neither brisk nor energetic, except in the matter of language. And while they have formed the liveliest possible conception of what is due to themselves from others, appear to imagine that their obliging conduct and consenting to exist is an ample set off against any account which might otherwise have stood against them in their neighbour's books. He had been Johnny Pence for many years. There is in the lifetime of most Johnny's, an epoch at which the last syllables cut off from the affectionate diminutive, as being the species of undignified fringe, which, although proper and consistent when taken in conjunction with embroidered collars, frill trousers and caps of peculiar construction, resembling nothing so much as a concertina with a tassel and a spinal affection, is wholly inconsistent with the mature dignity of jackets and high low boots, to say nothing whatever of Whiskers than the Togo Verilis. But it was otherwise with Johnny Pence. There existed a legend in his family, that for some years after his christening he was addressed and referred to on all occasions, formal or otherwise, as John, with a view to the propitiation of a rich uncle, likewise so called, who was then and forever after until he died something in Demolera, and he was known to have entertained great objections to anything in the shape of a corruption of his own name, and he would, it was supposed, be proportionately gratified at his nephew's christening being maintained in its integrity. But the rich uncle died in solvent of sugar, when Johnny Pence was six years old, to the great indignation of the Pence family generally, and of those immediately interested in Johnny's welfare in particular, they had only one way of taking it out of the rich uncle's memory, and they availed themselves of it without delay. John became jack upon the spot, and the name, whenever it was used, was wrapped out with an emphatic disparity, which, although in no way referable to any misconduct on the part of its small proprietor, plunged that citizen into great consternation, whenever family necessity is required that he should be addressed by name. A sense of injury assailed him so deeply implanted however, that time will not do much towards uprooting it, and in the course of years a compromise was affected, and John became Johnny. This consummation was brought about by various causes, and among others, through the intercession of the small owner himself, as he considered the emmendation was not so susceptible of startling emphasis as the shorter corruption, and moreover would give him more time to collect and arrange under various heads those senses which were generally widely scattered whenever it was necessary to address him. A stern sense of the impropriety of disturbing the average, which declared that every John shall be both Johnny and Jack in the course of his existence may have had some influence in inducing Johnny's papa, who was then in temporary employment as a census clerk, to make the alteration. As Johnny grew up, he continued so small, if one may so express oneself, and evinced a disposition so pleasantly timid and so easily imposed upon, and interpreted by such a cheery, piping little voice, that the propriety, not to say the necessity, of continuing to identify him as Johnny Pence, was testically admitted as a matter of course upon all sides. So as Johnny Pence grew up, as Johnny Pence he fought the battle of life in a timidly courageous sort of way, like the comic soldier in the Battle of Waterloo, who was such a terrible coward until the necessity of engaging six or eight cuirassiers at once becomes apparent. Hitherto, that is to say up to the date of Johnny's going to the bad, the bad had left him pretty well to himself. Johnny was far from being a rich man, for he was an attorney's clerk, but he was almost as far removed or so he thought from being a very poor one. At the age of thirteen he entered the office of Messers Pintle and Sim, gentlemen, attorneys of Her Majesty's Court at Westminster, and solicitors of the High Court of Chancery, at a commencing salary of seven shillings a week. The salary was small, but then so was Johnny, and I was understood that the two should increase and grow up together, an arrangement which was fortunately broken through, for at fifteen Johnny became physically a constant quantity. The salary however was increased by small degrees, as the unobtrusive virtues of the recipient became unintentionally conspicuous, until at the age of fifty-five he found himself in a possession of one hundred and fifty pounds per annum, together with his employer's full and undivided confidence. Johnny had married, at the age of twenty-one, a pleasant, round-faced little body of about his own age. She was the daughter of the housekeeper that attached to Pintle and Sim's offices in Cary Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields, and by her he had a son, the son, young John for distinction, was a tall young fellow, who had been decently educated by his father and affectionately provided for by message Pintle and Sim, who had managed to procure for him a government appointment, a junior assistant clerkship in the office of the Board for the Dissemination of Popper Philosophy. Jack Pounce was looked up to as the great Pounce court card, being the representative of majesty in the Pounce councils, and in that capacity was played with great effect by Mrs. Pounce, whenever it became necessary, in contest with a fashionable lodge-letting neighbour, to assert the family of respectability. Not that the office of the Board for the Dissemination of Popper Philosophy was an aristocratic government office, or even an agreeable one, as far as the clerks were concerned. To be sure it was situated in Whitehall, and the hours were from eleven to five, which sounded well, but any aristocratic inferences drawn from these facts would be decidedly erroneous. It was to the Popper Philosophy office that all those shabby, not to say dirty, young men in caps and pipes, contrasting strongly with the graceful crowd of other, more fortunate government clerks, were making their way down Parliament Street at a quarter to eleven every morning. And it was at the door of the Popper Philosophy office that many unceremonious arrests were made by Shoei Caucasians, who looked quite gentlemanly by contrast with their dispirited and shabby prisoners. In fact, the Popper Philosophy office, from the president of the board and secretary down to the assistant messengers, lived in chronic hot water, which appeared to have had the effect of boiling them hard, so particularly impracticable were all officials connected with the establishment to each other and to the world at large. The president of the board was in hot water, because he was ostensibly responsible for the proceedings of the office. And as he was a ministerial officer, who in his ministerial capacity was also responsible for the good behaviour of five and twenty other departments, with the intricate working of which he was supposed to become intimate by a species of divine right immediately upon his taking office, he found his time fully occupied in cramming up explanations, wherewith to satisfy the awkward demands of members with a natural taste for figures. The secretary was in hot water because remorseless leader Writers invariably spotted him as the actual author of every official bungal and called about three times a month upon the country for his instant dismissal. The undersecretaries were in hot water because they found that the secretary, upon parliamentary emergencies, was so fully occupied in cramming the president that every detail of official business was referred to them for decision, matters upon which, as one was appointed by a liberal, and the other by a conservative government, they never entirely agreed, and the clerks were in hot water because they were deeply in debt, because they hated each other, looking as they did upon each other as the stepping stones to a yearly increment of £10 instead of £5, and because their prospects in life were limited to the remote possibility of their attaining one at a time, the princely salary of £300 after 40 years apprenticeship. And finally, the messengers were in hot water because the clerks owed them money, because they owed each other money, and because hot arguments as to the comparative official superiority of clerks and messengers arose upon every occasion upon which those functionaries came into collision. There was only one class of officials connected with the Popper Philosophy Department, which appeared to enjoy a comparative immunity from the general feeling of unhappiness and discontent which pervaded the office. These were the examiners, a dozen or so of gentlemen who were appointed, for no reason that clearly appeared at a salary of £300 rising, for no obvious cause, by large yearly instalments to £800. It was required of these gentlemen that they should smoke pipes, drink beer, make bets, come when they liked, go when they liked, do what they liked, and be saddled with no responsibility whatever. These twelve gentlemen were the stock mystery of the civil service. More questions were asked in the House about these functionaries than about any other minor topic of parliamentary discussion, and they were naturally proud of the interest they excited. Sometimes, to be sure, this interest grew to rather two unwieldy dimensions to be pleasant, and in such cases it would become the duty of one of them to manufacture a return calculated to show, beyond all dispute, that the whole work of the Popper Philosophy Office was in point of fact discharged by them, whereupon they would be much complimented in an indirect sort of way, and the subject led to drop for the time. On Christmas Eve, in the year of grace 1854, Johnny Pounce entertained a small circle of his more intimate friends. Johnny lived on the second floor in Great Queen Street, Lincolns and Fields, and on the second floor in question were assembled besides Johnny Pounce and his wife and his son John, Mr. and Mrs. Jemmy Feather, and Mr. Jemmy Feather Jr. Mr. Feather made a good thing of it as a clerk to Bolter QC. Jemmy Feather was a short, stoutish, middle-aged gentleman, with a highly respectable gold chain, a responsible-looking shirtpin, and a gold ring, which was a reference in itself. Mrs. Feather was a wheeze in little body, with over-lady-like manners, and a tendency to be ultra-genteal. Mr. Feather Jr. was 15 and in collars and straps. He was also in Bolter QC's chambers as a sort of under-clark and beer-fetched to Bolter's pupils. This fact was carefully concealed from Mrs. Feather, who had been deluded by her designing husband into the idea that Mr. Feather Jr. spent his day in an armchair, settling pleas and declarations all day long, and occasionally meeting in consultation such attorneys as his employer could not conveniently find time to see. This hypothetical and rosy view of the real facts of the case reconciled his mamata as entering the service of a Queen's Council in such large practice that his clerk drew about £300 a year in fees alone. Then there was Joe Rand, Mrs. Joe Rand and Miss Joe Rand, and Miss Joe Rand's young man in a pink fluffy face and a blue stock with gold flies. Joe Rand was deputy usher at the Central Criminal Court, who's a big, full-voiced man with a red face, black curly hair and a self-assertive manner. He had a way with him which seemed to say, I am Joe Rand, take me as you find me, or let me go, but don't find fault. Mrs. Joe Rand was a beautiful specimen of faded gentility. She was an old Bailey attorney's daughter, and a taste for exciting trials had led her in early youth to the CCC, where she saw Joe Rand fell in love with his big voice and married him. Miss Rand was a rather pretty girl, with flirty, aggravating ways which threatened to drive Miss Rand's young man, who was a toast master, into a state of utter desperation. John Pounce the Younger was present, but set apart in a moody, sulky way that created considerable astonishment. Her John was a strapping, good-looking young feather, with plenty to say for himself and always on occasions of festivity and good humor. With evening had been spent as most conventional Christmas Eve's are. There is a fearful ordeal to be gone through by all who wish to see Christmas Day in according to rule, as this ordeal is called forfeits. By way of atonement for an imaginary crime, you are required to perform an enigmatic and apparently impossible task. As there exist only about six of these seplicia, and as everybody has known them and their solution by heart from the age of four, and as the tasks, when known, are of the simplest possible description, it is difficult to see in what particular feature the amusement consists. In nearly all cases the penalty involves kisses, which have to be bestowed on young ladies present, which is an insulting view to take of what is usually looked upon as a favour, and places them moreover in an embarrassing position. As there was only one young lady present, Miss Round, she became as a matter of course the implement of torture to the aggravation of the pink young Toastmaster, who appeared to be doing the reverse of drinking everybody's health, and making no exception in favour of young John, between whom and Miss Round an excellent understanding seemed to exist. Sapper had been laid, devoured and removed, and a fragrant liquor looking like gravy soup, but being in point of fact rum punch had taken its place. Cheery little Johnny Pounce was ladling it out of a very large ladle into very small glasses, with a skill which argued an extensive practice, extending over a large number of consecutive Christmas Eves. Johnny Pounce was eminently loyal, and there were three toasts that invariably obtained at his meetings, the Queen, Church and State, and the Firm. Ladies and gentlemen, he said, in proposing the last toast, I call it still the Firm, though it's the Firm no longer except in name. Mr. Sim, as you have heard me say, left the business three years since, and he's now in Melbourne doing his 10,000 a year god bless him. It's my conviction, gentlemen, that if there were ever a better hearted gentleman than Pintle, that gentleman is Sim, and if there ever existed a nobler old gentleman than Sim, that old gentleman is Pintle. They were good to me when I was a boy no higher than I am now, gentlemen, and they've made a man of me, and they've given me my old wife there, here, here, my old wife there, who's looking just the same in my old eyes as she did 30 years ago, gentlemen. Go along, Johnny, do, for Mrs. Pounce. She's stuck to me through thick and thin, for I've had a hardish time of it, take one thing with another, and here I am thrown high and dry beyond the reach as I humbly believe of poverty, with my boy here, look up, young John, with my boy here, I serving the Queen, John my boy, fill up, I serving the Queen, god bless her, and doing more to make his old dad's heart happy by doing that for 90 pound a year than if he was managing a bank with 500 gentlemen. Gentlemen, this is all Pintle and Sim, and what I say is, here's the health of Pintle and Sim, and god bless him, the firm gentlemen. The toast was received with all enthusiasm. Why, young John, said Johnny, cheer up, lad, you're terrible downhearted tonight. What's it all about, John? said Jimmyfather. Give it a name, young John. I think Mr. John must be in love, said Miss Round. Nonsense, I'm all right, Father. Don't mind me, I'm a bit low tonight, but it's nothing to speak of. Now, Mr. John, said Miss Round, I insist upon your cheering up. It's a very bad compliment you're paying me. I declare you haven't spoken a word to me all the evening, and Miss Round assumed a becoming pout, which had worked great things in bringing the young toastmaster to the point. The effect of the usually successful pout was quite lost upon Mr. John, who fidgeted upon his chair in an unsatisfactory and discontented way, not so, however, upon the toastmaster, who, remembering the effect the pout in question had had upon him, regarded young John with feelings of the bitterest hate. He was, of course, unable to convey any verbal expressions of his sentiments on this point, so he contented himself with silently drinking innumerable ironical toasts, all of which professed to invoke blessings without number on the head of the miserable young man. A knock was heard at the door, and a drabby maid servant put her head in. Mr. Pounce, sir, if you please, sir, you're wanted. Hey, what, Maria, me, wanted? Why, who wants Johnny Pounce a half past twelve on Christmas morning? It's a gentleman, sir. It's from the firm. He's in the back room. God bless me at this time of night! Excuse me, old friends, for a moment. I'll be with you again directly. Here, young John, take my place, my boy, and give him a song. I'll be back directly. And Johnny Pounce left the room. Young John could not in strictness be complimented upon his conduct in the chair. The song which his father had suggested on leaving the room was loudly called for. Now, young John said round. The song, silence in court. Oh, do, Mr. John, coarsed the ladies. For my sake, I did miss round. Yes, for her sake, muttered the Toastmaster ironically. Look here, said John. I'm not in queue for singing, and that's along the short of it. Hang it all, can you see that? It could be seen, and very plainly, too. The poor fellow presented a depressing specimen of a convivial chairman. I believe it's usual to sing when called on, said the Toastmaster. At least that's the rule. Here, here, from Father. Now, gents, what do you say? The prisoner at the bar stands on his deliverance. Ha, ha, good that stands on his deliverance. So he does. This from round. Now, gents, you shall well and truly try. Hey, round, my boy. Certainly, said the usher. Well and truly try. Well said, Jimmy. Good. Well and truly try. And true deliverance make. Whether the result of this combination of forces, backed up as it was by the Majesty of the Law, would have had the desired effect as uncertain, for at that moment Johnny Pounce entered the room as pale as a ghost. We're very glad you're come, Mr. Pounce, said Mrs. Feather. Young Mr. John is quite refractory. He won't sing, do what we can. Why, dear me, Mr. Pounce, what on earth is the matter? There must be no more singing tonight. An awful thing has happened. Mr. Pintle fell down dead half an hour ago. And Johnny Pounce dropped into his chair and covered his face with his hands. Good God, Johnny, dead? Said Mrs. Pounce. Mr. Pintle dead? Yes, dead. And me drinking his health not ten minutes since. Old friends, you'll forgive me, I know, but I'm afraid we must break up. It's an awful thing. And you are drinking of his health, reflected the Toastmaster, with an air which suggested that he regretted the circumstance as having a tendency to lessen the general belief in the efficacy of toasts and, indirectly, in his professional importance. The company arose to go amid an awkward silence, which was broken by occasional and spasmodic efforts at commonplace consolation. The having to go away gave a heartless effect to the behaviour of the company. It seemed so like deserting a friend in the hour of need, but there was no help for it, and one by one, almost silently, the visitors took their departure. Said dreadful things, said Johnny. When he and his wife and son were left alone, disease of the heart, sudden, quite sudden, dropped down in his chair and me sent to to give up his papers. I must be off to the office. Oh, Johnny, Johnny, what are we to do? Poor Mr. Pintel, such a final gentleman in ten years more life you could have declared to. The picture of health he always was. Poor Mrs. Pintel. And Johnny Pints wrapped himself in a great coat and shawl and hurried through the driving snow across Lincoln's infields into Kerry Street. The visitors, before they were two, who had so unceremoniously disturbed Johnny's party, were waiting for him in a handsome at the office door. One of them was an errand lad whose faculties seemed to have been quite dispersed by the frightful occurrence which had just taken place, and which, in fact, he had almost witnessed. The other was a tall, dark gentlemanly man with a heavy black mustache and military bearing. He was John Redfern, the late Mr. Pintel's nephew and heir-at-law, and held a captain's commission and a cavalry regiment. The mission upon which he had come was to fetch the will which was known to be in the office, together with such other documents as might refer to the affairs of the dead man, and to seal all cupboards, doors, and safes. Oh, here you are, said Captain Redfern. What a juice of a time you've been. Now, we'll get the will and other papers, and then you must come down with them to Russell Square and deliver them into Mrs. Pintel's custody. Poor Johnny opened the office door with some difficulty for his hand shook violently, and his eyes were blinded with big tears. Although he winked and blinked hard at them, they wouldn't take the hint, but rolled down his face until their identity was lost in that of the melting snow on his will and comforter. Mr. Pintel's will, sir, is in this box. Shall I take it to Russell Square, sir, or unlock it here? Better open it now, said Captain Redfern. Mrs. Pintel is, of course, greatly distressed and would be unable to attend to it at present. Open it, will you? The box was opened, but no will was there, and the papers it contained referred only to mortgages affected on his real property. Poor Johnny stood utterly dismayed, as he had a perfect recollection of having seen Mr. Pintel place it there a few days before his death. There is no will here, sir, and yet he always told me to look here for it if ever he was carried off sudden. What's more, I see him put it in here himself, not three days ago. It was the day before yesterday when he kindly added a codicelle, which increased the sum he was good enough to leave to me, sir. I'm his confidential Clark, sir, and have been for fifteen years, and he'd have told me if— Well, but isn't there any other receptacle into which he may have placed it? Think now. Don't stand staring there, but bustle about and find it. Captain Redfern, I'm doing my best to think, but my head's not strong, and I've been terribly shook, sir. There are the drawers of his private table, this is the only place I can think of. The drawers of the desk were opened, one by one, and their contents overhauled. Memoranda, important letters that required his personal attention, stationery, and other matters of a similar nature were there, but no will. I'm quite lost, sir, said Johnny. It's the most extraordinary thing. He would never have destroyed it without telling me. Come along, you boy, said Captain Redfern to the office lad. You can go, he added to pounce. I keep you on at your salary another week. During which time you be always here in case you're wanted. At the end of the week you go. Take this as notice to quit. Stop, seal up the inner room. And sealed up the inner room was. Captain Redfern and the boy got into the handsome, and drove off to Russell Square. Old Johnny pounce, completely staggered by what had occurred, locked the outer door, and trudged back through the cold slush to Great Queen Street. His wife and son were still sitting up, talking over the events of the evening when Johnny entered. The mother had evidently been recapitulating the chances of Johnny pounce having been comfortably provided for. And young John listened sulkily, but with interest nevertheless. Well, Johnny, back again. Now you just drink this right off before you say another word. And she handed him a big tumbler of punch, which she had kept hot for him during his absence. No, no, my dear, no punch. It's the most extraordinary thing, but there's no will to be found. He must have destroyed it since the day before yesterday, and I've noticed to go this day week. Thus ends 45 years' faithful service. Oh, Johnny, sobbed his wife. Young John, my boy, said his father, there's no knowing how long I may be without employment, for I'm an old man, John, and it'll be poor work whatever it is. You're the head of the family now, young John, and it's your turn to show yourself equal to the position. You're the queen's servant, John, and a gentleman. John, my boy, we must look to you. Don't look to me, Father, for much, said young John. For I got the sack this morning. End of Section 7 Section 8 of a bunch of keys where they were found and what they might have unlocked. A Christmas book edited by Tom Hood. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Key of the Strongroom by W.S. Gilbert Chapter 2 How Johnny Pounce Spent a Considerable Time at the Bad This was a terrible blow to Johnny Pounce and his wife, who had a restless time of it that night. He knew very well that Mr. Pentle had made a will, and further that his, Johnny Pounce's name, was down in it for a thousand pounds, which was a sum sufficient to render him independent for life. If the will turned up, which appeared unlikely, all would be well. If not, the family prospects were particularly unsatisfactory. He was thrown out of employment, with no immediate prospect of obtaining anything half so good for he was getting on in years, and had saved but little money for he knew, or felt sure that he knew, that Pentle and some would never let him want. Moreover, his son, whom he had looked upon as the only prop and stay of the family respectability, had that day been ignominiously discharged from his clerkship. And the manner of his dismissal was this. He had a few days before, in resisting a piece of unnecessary petty tyranny on the part of a fellow clerk in temporary charge of his department, used stronger language than was absolutely necessary. This was reported to the secretary. Now the secretary had a double-action backhand way of dealing with complaints of the kind between hands, as he delighted to call them, of nearly equal rank, and the usual remedy was adopted on this occasion. Fox, the complainant, was rebuked for having used unnecessary tyranny, but it was shown that young John was doubly culpable, for he not only resisted the order, which he should have obeyed and then complained of, but he had also sworn a bad oath, and otherwise misconducted himself, being a hot-headed young fellow. To the annihilation of all order and discipline. So it was ordered that young John should forthwith publicly apologize to the miscreant Fox, which young John resolutely declined to do. So my Lord's deliberated on the state of the case, and the result of the deliberation was that young John was required to deliver over into my Lord's hands his resignation of the appointment he held under them. A more miserable young man than young John was on the afternoon of Christmas Eve probably never stepped out of a government office. He was absolutely penniless, and particularly deeply in debt, in a small vulgar way besides. He had borrowed five pounds from a loan office, and he was in debt to the amount of some pounds to the tavern keeper who supplied his dinner. His tailor and bootmaker had for months been a source of anxiety to him, sleeping and waking, and a miserable bit of kite flying, of which he expected to hear more on the first February, exercised a depressing influence over him, which appeared to increase in geometrical proportion as the day approached. As a set-off to these claims, he had his half-quarters check on the Paymaster General for about twelve pounds, and a letter from the Secretary accepting his resignation in my Lord's names. Young John had, however, quite made up his mind as to his future course. The Crimean War was then in full swing. The battles of the Alma and the Inkerman had both been fought in the course of the last three or four months, and the demand for young and active fellows to fill up the lists of the dead was unprecedented. There were recruiting sergeants at every street corner in Westminster, who talked with robust eloquence of the glories of the war, which they had not seen, and of the rollking character of life in the trenches, of which they had formed but vague in the perfect notions. Liberal bounty and a free kit were offered as a temptation, should the war itself be an insufficient attraction, of the starving with plenty within grasp, only under lock and key, of the freezing with new great coats and rugs and tens of thousands a mile away, only under seal, of the dying for want of medicines and bandages, with stores of drugs and bales of lint within pistol shot, only stored in ship holds, nothing was said. In point of fact, of these matters little or nothing was then known in England. Young John had made up his mind that morning that he would take the shilling of the first smart cavalry sergeant who hailed him, so he spent an hour or two in writing a letter to his father and mother, in closing his check on the Paymaster General Julie Signed, and in packing up a scanty wardrobe the greater part of which he determined to sell. He left his home before daybreak on Christmas morning, and bore away straight for a public house in Charles Street, Westminster, the headquarters of a party of cavalry recruiting sergeants. He soon found what he wanted. A non-commissioned officer of the 13th Light Dragoons was down upon him in a hail fell a well met sort of way, with an affectation of joviality intended to convey an idea of what a particularly jolly thing a soldier's life really was. Young John soon entered into conversation with the sergeant, and the sergeant, who was a liberal hearted dog, stood a pot of beer because it was Christmas day which they drank together. Young John asked few questions of the sergeant, but those that he did ask had referenced principally to the nature of the life in store for him. Well, said the sergeant, summarizing the whole thing, look here, eight in the morning rivelli, up you get. You can get up at eight, can't you? Johnny thought he could manage it at a pinch. That's lucky. Well, you have an hour to dress, then comes breakfast, coffee or chocolate, bread and butter, and eggs or whatnot. Then once a week more in stables, twice a week, adjutants parade one hour. Other days nothing, except when for guards or fatigue, which comes, say, once a month. One o'clock dinner, super fish, seldom both, and jint, put in very rare. Then nothing till six, six even in stables once a week, other days, rooting out loud half an hour. Then nothing till two, which in crack regiments is mostly half past eleven. At the two, roll call, and bed. That's the program. Young John made some allowance for the gallant fellow's enthusiasm. Extreme love of a profession often invests it with an attractive colouring. I joined eighteen months ago, the sergeant continued. I'm but a young soldier, as you see, but I rose. In six weeks I was made a corporal, with five shillings nine pints a day. In six more I was a troop sergeant, with eight shillings four pints. That's what I'm getting now. Eight shillings four pints ain't bad for eighteen months. You'd do it in half the time. Now look here, said John. Don't tell unnecessary lies. If the service was the worst on the face of the earth, I'd join it, because I've, what people would call, gone wrong, and I want to get away from this. I'm a strongish chap, and about the sort of man you fellows want, so hand over the shilling. My name's John Cole, age twenty-two, previous occupation Clark. The sergeant vowed he was the very man he wanted. He admired Plucky, said, and had cut himself away from a lucrative profession because he wanted to see what blood was like. Most of the men in crack cavalry regiments were young barristers of arts or medical doctors, with here and there a young nobleman or two, under an assumed name. These young men had cut from home because they're relentless parents, having set their face against the army as a profession, had refused to buy them commissions. That was his case. He was a barrister of arts once. Now he was a troop sergeant in Her Majesty's Thirteenth Light, and thank God, he said. All this was satisfactory, as far as it went, and young John Pounce was dearly enlisted under the name of John Cole by the friendly sergeant. The subsequent medical examination and attestation were properly and satisfactorily undergone, and Private John Cole of Her Majesty's Thirteenth Light Dragoons was drafted off to the regimental depot, and thence in about six weeks to the Crimea. A thoroughly sleepless night is a fearful thing to undergo. It is bad enough when that sleeplessness is the result of sharp pain or irritating fever, but when it comes of a distressed and disheartened mind, it is absolutely terrible. Poor old Johnny Pounce had a bad time of it that Christmas night. He tossed and rolled about and changed the side of his pillow, and then when it turned out that that energetic step was barren of good result, he got out of bed and walked up and down the room, then he got into bed again and counted 5,000. 5,000 found him rather more wakeful if possible than he was when he began, so he gave up counting to listen to the ticking of the old Dutch clock. But the old Dutch clock called so loudly for linkman-toddles, linkman-toddles, linkman-toddles, that he began to wish that functionery would appear and satisfy the clamourous old instrument. Toddles not turning up, the clock gave him up for a bad job. And in despair, at toddles want of faith, ticked out plaintively, come dyspepsia, come dyspepsia, come dyspepsia. This awful invocation was too much for poor Johnny, who got out of bed once more and finally stopped the dreadful machine. As morning broke, he fell into a restless tossing sleep, which only had the effect of giving him a racking headache. When he finally awoke, it was with a dull heavy sense of some fearful misfortune which had just happened to him. And when the events of the preceding night broke suddenly upon him, he buried his old head in the pillow and sobbed aloud. Matters were not mended by the discovery of the letter which young John had placed on the sitting room table. It hardly wanted this to complete the family misery. And all Johnny and his wife were absolutely thunderstruck by this fresh misfortune. The letter did not save where young John was going, nor did it give any clue to the step that he was about to take. It merely said that he was going away for a while, that if he could save any money, he would send it from time to time to a post office in the neighbourhood, that they were not to fret for him, as he would be sure to turn up sooner or later, that the check for £12 was for their use, that his dismissal was not attended by any disgraceful circumstances, and that he was their ever-loving son, John Pounce. All Johnny's indignation at this desertion was unbounded. So that's my son, is it? That's my fair-weather son, whom I've wrought up and educated and clothed and fed, and whom the fern made a gentleman of. What'll the fern think of this, after all their kindness? Mrs. Pounce mildly reminded her husband that the fern was in heaven. True, true, I forgot. If only he'd given us a hint as to where he was going. If he'd shaken his old dad's hand and kissed his old mother before he left, I could have forgiven him. But to desert his old parents, just as soon as he found out that they were penniless and could help him no longer, was that like a son of ours, Emma? Well, Johnny, for the matter of that, it may be that he was fearful of being an incumbrant. He's left us half-quarter salary for us, and I'm afraid the poor boy has gone forth into the world without a penny in his pocket. I'd make a better breakfast this morning for the knowledge beyond doubt that he'd had one, too. Perhaps he's hungry, Johnny. Hungry, Emma. Young John hungry. Hungry. And me, a pegging away into bread and meat, and his half-quarters check is staring me in the face, and him hungry. What a dreadful thing to think of old girl. Poor young John. They were not long in coming to the conclusion that he had enlisted. Johnny's duties called him to Cary Street, although it was Christmas day, but Mrs. Johnny made it her business to wonder about recruiting depots all day. Young John, however, carefully kept himself inside the public house and gave the friendly recruiting sergeant who is not quite so friendly now, that professional gentleman having cooled down amazingly since the morning. A hint that he might possibly be sought for, so Mrs. Pence's efforts were utterly fruitless. Johnny spent every day that ensuing week at the office. It was difficult at first to persuade oneself that that chair would never be filled by Mr. Pintel again, that the ruler, paperweight, gum bottle, pens, incansizzers left as he had left them day after day for fifty years had been arranged in their methodical order by him for the last time. The conveyance in Clark and the common law Clark were paid their salaries and dismissed by Captain Redfern, the aerit law, who was closeted all day long with old Johnny going over mortgage deeds and making himself intimate with all the affairs of the dead man. On the Saturday evening old Johnny was paid his last week's salary of three pounds and was informed that his services would for the future be dispensed with. Old Johnny spent many a weary day and trudged for many a weary mile through snow and slush after fresh employment. He was known and respected by many of Pintel's clients and also by solicitors who had been opposed to Pintel and soon, but he could get little from them. The fact that no will had been found, although it was admitted by Johnny that one had been made and deposited in his custody two days before Pintel's death, argued either gross carelessness or gross felony on the part of the confidential Clark and added to this, he was a feeble old man and quite past learning new duties. A few of his better friends subscribed small sums for the old man's maintenance and others gave his wife needlework so that for some weeks they were kept from absolute want. But these weekly subscriptions dwindled down one by one as the recollection of old Johnny and his distress became less vivid until at last they had nothing to depend on but a weekly five shillings, the subscription of a stauncher friend and the rest. In his extreme distress he made an appeal to Mrs. Pintel. He dressed himself as neatly as his reduced circumstances would allow and presented himself at her house in Russell Square. He had been there once before since Mr. Pintel's death to ask permission to follow his old employer to the grave, but he was curtly informed that Captain Redfern would require him in the office that day and that therefore he could not be present. This rebuff conveyed to him by a weak-eyed funky who called him my man had had the effect of preventing his applying to Mrs. Pintel for assistance hither too but emboldened by hunger and more especially by the thinning face of his once chubby little wife. He determined to put his pride in his pocket and encounter the weak-eyed one once more. The weak-eyed one was just in the transition state between a very old page and a very young footman. His precise functions in Mrs. Pintel's household were as indefinite as his age for his duties extended from cleaning the windows to driving at a pinch, the broom. He was engaged in the familiar but necessary duty of cleaning the knives when Johnny called and as Johnny inadvertently pulled the visitor's bell the weak-eyed one was under the necessity of exchanging the linen jacket of domestic life for the black coat and worsted epaulette of ceremony and of making other radical improvements in his personal appearance before he opened the door. This functionary had from a great many years apprenticeship at opening street doors taught himself to look upon societies divided into two great heads or groups, visitors and servants. And he who was not a visitor was, from the weak-eyed one's point of view, a servant. He considered that a man's social position was typified by the bell he rung and as there existed no intermediate bell for the numerous classes of collars who certainly could not aspire to the dignity of being considered visitors in the ordinary expectation of the term and who were equally far from being in the position of domestic servants he recognized no intermediate class between the honor drawing or your morning collar and the boy who brought the servant's beer. Avowedly a servant himself he was affable and in a weak-eyed way even cheerful to those who identified themselves with the humbler bell but he who without due excuse rang a bell which implied that he was a drawing room visitor became on the spot the object of the weak-eyed one's unutterable loathing and foul scorn. Wretched Johnny stood on the steps waiting for the opening of the door and improving the opportunity by blowing his frozen nose that he might not be compelled to the commission of that indecency before Mrs. Pintle. Eventually it opened and the weak-eyed one stood before him in all the respectable magnificence of expensive mourning. Well, what is it? Said that retainer as soon as he had taken Johnny's measure and assured himself of Johnny's want of title to the dignity to which he had aspired. Now what is it? Is a particularly aggravating form of address and one which is much affected by haughty menials Bank of England clerks ushers in courts of law and other insolent and overbearing underlings. Providence however who seldom inflicts a bane without providing an antidote has mercifully endowed the questioned one with the power of making the return inquiry. What is what? Which, being unanswerable, has the effect of invariably shutting up, humbling and morally squashing the miserable flunky whose misconduct brings it down upon him. Johnny however, being depressed in mind and feebled in body and entertaining altogether the poorest possible opinion of himself and his claims to an honourable reception and moreover not being aware of the magnificent revenge which lay within his grasp. Humbly replied that he should be glad to see Mrs. Pintle if convenient. What might you wish with Mrs. Pintle? asked the weak-eyed one. I am the late Mr. Pintle's confidential clerk. I wish to speak to her in that capacity. Oh, indeed sir, walk in! said the weak-eyed one. Not feeling altogether sure whether Johnny had not succeeded in establishing his title to the visitor's bell after all, notwithstanding the depressing seediness of Johnny's appearance. He perhaps thought that this melancholy state of things was the natural result of the absorbing nature of the confidences which had been reposed in Johnny by Mr. Pintle. The Queen's Council, who dimes now and then at the house, were seedy, so that, after all that, was no rule. So he showed Johnny into the library and shortly returned with the information that Mrs. Pintle was in the drawing room and would see him there. So Johnny walked up the softly carpeted staircase with much internal flutter and much external mopping and, moreover, with much clearing of husky throat. He found Mrs. Pintle dressed in the deepest black and reclining in a spineless way on a comfortable sofa. Mrs. Pintle was a lady of 50 or thereabouts. She was a lank limp lady with pale straw-coloured hair turning grey and that underdone pie crust looking way peculiar to straw-coloured hair in middle age. She was a perfect monument of black bombazine, crepe, bugles, and jet. And if the depth of her sorrow could be fathomed in any way by reference to the funereal character of her appearance, she must have been a wife to be proud of. The memorial erected and cancelled green to the late Mr. Pintle's memory, covered as it was with scriptural references which were no doubt anxiously overhauled by all visitors to that cheerful spot immediately on their reaching home. It was an admirable, conventional teamstone as teamstones go, but it was entirely eclipsed in efficacy by Mrs. Pintle herself who possessed peripatetic advantages which carried a mournful recollection of the deceased lawyer into the very bosom of her visiting acquaintance. The only question was as to the comparative duration of the two monuments. Every article of furniture which admitted of black drapery was smothered in it and the envelopes and notepapers were black, with a small white parallelogram in the centre. As you gazed upon this melancholy state of things, you were almost tempted to wonder how it was that the pie crust hair had not been placed in mourning also. Johnny was immensely impressed by this dismal spectacle and was much pleased at the contradiction it gave to the popular rumour that Mr. and Mrs. Pintle had not spent a particularly happy life together. He bowed with much reverence, an act which Mrs. Pintle acknowledged with the movement of the head which bore the same relationship to an ordinary nod that the old hundredth does to an Irish jig. You were my dear husband's clerk, I believe, she remarked, Johnny bowed. You can take a chair if you have anything to say. So Johnny sat down on the extreme edge of a very low pre-due chair which was the only available seat immediately at hand and twitched nervously at his old hat an operation which appeared likely to result in the immediate dissolution of that article of apparel. It is always an awkward thing that hat. There are only three classes of visitors who are permitted to know what to do with it when they take it into a house which is not their own. The friend of the family who comes to spend the evening leaves it with the man in the hall. The ordinary visitor places it on an unoccupied chair and the carpenter deposits it on the ground. But all others are required to hold it in their hands during an interview and yet if possible to keep it out of sight. Johnny's was a self-assertive hat which did not admit a easy concealment so he fidgeted it about until it actually appeared to be taking a prominent part in the conversation. Now then, said Mrs. Pintle, what do you want? I suppose it's nothing about the will. Nothing about the will, ma'am. I've not been in the way of hearing about it lately. Well then, what in goodness name do you want? Speak out, ma'am, and have done with it. Mrs. Pintle was one of that numerous class of mourners whose grief takes the form of irritability. Besides, she had jumped to the conclusion that Johnny's visit referred to the missing document and was disappointed. Ma'am, I've never done this before but it's help I've come for. I've been Mr. Pintle's Clark man and boy for five and forty years and now I'm in want, ma'am. I'm in absolute want. I've not come, said Johnny hurriedly, anxious that he should not be misunderstood. I've not come, ma'am, to mention that in the hopes that your kindness will immediately will immediately and he paused for a way of expressing it and then added triumphantly will immediately put me right. God forbid, but if you would kindly put me or my wife she's a young woman still in the way of earning a livelihood we don't care how humble it is or how hard the work we shall be deeply grateful. Is that all? asked Mrs. Pintle with a cold official air which did not promise well. I've no more to say, ma'am, added he except I've been living in a sort of way on charity mostly for the last six weeks. I've tried to get work and failed. I don't know how it is but I failed. I'm not young, ma'am, but I've got plenty of work left in me if I could only find somebody who wants it. That is all, I presume? That is all, ma'am. Then listen to me. My husband made a will. You know that? Poor Johnny knew it perfectly well. It had been the leading fact in his thoughts for weeks past and there's no chance of his forgetting it. So he bowed. Very good. You know that my husband made a will. He placed it under your care. He gave it to you on the 22nd December. He died at midnight on the 24th. No will was to be found on the night of the 24th and you have been unable or unwilling to reduce it since. I don't know which, nor do I care. You can draw your own conclusions. Now you can go. It burst upon Johnny all at once. A sort of suspicion appeared to attach itself to him that he knew more about the missing document than he cared to say. This was the solution of the difficulty he had experienced in getting employment from solicitors whom he had known and with whom he had been friendly in better days. Mrs. Pintle, he exclaimed, listen to me for one moment. Is it possible that I am suspected of having suppressed Mr. Pintle's will? It is a horrible thing to have to say in connection with oneself, but you seem to think that I know more than I have said. Good God, ma'am! Why, I am the greatest sufferer by it's not being found. I am a legatee for a thousand pounds. If it had turned up, my wife and I would have been independent by this time. As it is, my wife is dreadfully ill from once and I have not a penny in my pocket. Not a penny, not a penny! And old Johnny fairly gave way and sobbed like a child on the crown of the self-assertive old hat. Well, you oblige me by ringing that bell, said Mrs. Pintle. Johnny obeyed and the weak-eyed one responded to the summons. Give this person some bread and cheese in the kitchen and then show him out, said Mrs. Pintle. Johnny got up, brushed the obtrusive hat the wrong way with the trembling hand, and silently turned about and followed the retainer downstairs. When he reached the foot, he made for the street door. Didn't you hear, Mrs. Say, he was to have some food? That's the weak-eyed one. But Johnny made no reply. He tugged at the street door with the view of getting into the street as quickly as possible. It was a complicated street door with five or six small handles, and it was only to be opened by a combined tugging of two handles at once. The weak-eyed one sauntered up to him with his hands in his pockets and watched Johnny's efforts with much complacency. Go on, old cock, try again. Never give it up. Go in and win. These and other remarks of an encouraging description intended to spur Johnny on to fresh exertions had the effect of irritating the poor old gentleman beyond all bounds. Damn you! Open it, you dog! Will you? exclaimed Johnny with, for him, supernatural vehemence. And the weak-eyed one obeyed with an alacrity which one would scarcely have looked for in a man who a moment before was taking life in such a leisurely way. Johnny tottered down the steps, shaking and trembling, and the weak-eyed one contemplated him from the door. Poor devil! exclaimed he. Mad as flints, quite as mad! And Johnny doddered on bravely until he reached the corner of Guilford Street. He then began to feel that his strength was almost at an end, so he made an effort to turn around the corner in order to get out of sight of the insolent flunky, and that accomplished fell heavily to the ground. End of Section 8 Section 9 of a bunch of keys where they were found and what they might have unlocked, a Christmas book edited by Tom Hood. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Key of the Strong Room by W. S. Gilbert Chapter 3 How Johnny Pounce Came Back to the Good Again Cole, I shall want you at my quarters immediately after inspection. Very good, sir. The scene of this remarkable dialogue was the Crimea before Sebastopol. The speakers were our old friend Captain Redfern of Her Majesty's Lancers and Private John Cole of the same regiment and regimental servant to Captain Redfern, aforesaid. Young John had proved to be too heavy and too tall a man for the friendly recruiting sergeant's corps, so he had been posted to a crack Lancer regiment then serving in the Crimea. In this regiment, Captain Redfern held a commission and as he went out in command of recruits of whom Young John was one, he was under the necessity of selecting one of them to act as a regimental servant during the voyage. His choice fell upon Young John, who being extremely lazy and moreover utterly indifferent as to the future in store for him accepted the situation. Redfern and Young John got on exceedingly well together. John's superior education made him extremely useful to his master in many ways and as Redfern was a particularly open-handed man and not very exacting as a master, he and John became, in a distant sort of way, attached to each other. Redfern spent much of his spare time in pouring over deeds and other legal documents referring to the estate of which he had become possessed through Pentel's death and as John was formerly in the habit of assisting his father in Mr. Pentel's office, he had picked up sufficient technical knowledge to make himself useful as an interpreter whenever Redfern, whose legal ideas were crude in elementary, found himself at a standstill. Captain Redfern's regiment was posted on the heights above Belaclava but as he was attached temporarily to the staff of a general officer, his duties as aide to camp brought him continually onto the scene of action before Sebastopol. He had on this occasion been in attendance on his general at a divisional field day in which his own regiment took part and he availed himself of an opportunity of interchanging the few words already recorded with his regimental servant before the parade was dismissed. At the termination of the parade in question, Young John cleaned his horse in a kutrimo and then hurried off to Redfern's tent. He found his master in the acts of sealing a goodly packet which appeared to contain a bundle of papers. Big pardon, sir, said Young John's saluting. I believe you wanted me. Yes, said Redfern. I want you particularly. Come in and sit down on that chest. Young John obeyed. I believe, said Redfern. You're a man to be trusted. I hope so, sir, said Young John. I hope so too. Well, I'm going to trust you but in the first place I must enjoin you to utter secrecy as to what I'm about to say to you until the time arrives when you may speak. You may trust me, sir. You may indeed. I'll never read the word of it until you give me leave. Very good. Now listen. The attack is to be made tonight by the Second and Light Division. You will not be wanted, but I shall for the General's brigade forms part of the attacking column. It will all be the orders in half an hour. I don't know whether or not you believe in predestination nor do I care, but I do. And that is sufficient for my purpose. John Cole, I die tonight. I sincerely hope not, sir. Don't interrupt me. I die tonight. That, at least, is my firm impression. Now, this is what I want you to do. I want you to take charge of this packet which I now address to you. When I am dead, you will open it and act according to the instructions they are in contained. If it should happen that I survive, I shall require it of you again until I feel disposed to give it into your possession once more. Am I a trustee with this? Indeed, you may, sir. I'll take great care of it. But I sincerely trust it will not be in my keeping many hours. I hope not, my man, but we shall see. Now, if after the attack I do not return to quarters, get leave to look after me. Bring me in if you find me, and whatever you do, for God's sake, don't leave my body in the open air longer than you can help. Now you can go. I shall want Bessie at half past ten. Young John saluted and left the tent with the packet. That night, as Captain Redford was carrying a message from one of the attacking columns to the reserve, he was struck by a rifle ball, which entered his back and came out above his left arm. He died on the field within an hour of receiving the wound, and so his prophecy was verified. Young John carried out his master's instructions faithfully. Shortly after receiving intelligence of Redford's death, he opened the packet. After having first satisfied the committee of officers that sat upon the dead man's effects, that it was duly addressed to him and Captain Redford's handwriting. To his intense astonishment, he found that it was directed to Mrs. Pintle. He was not aware of the relationship that existed between Mr. Pintle and his late master. For although Captain Redford was well known by a repute to old Johnny long before Pintle's death, Young John had never heard of his existence until he joined the Lancers. A memorandum addressed to Young John accompanied the other enclosure. It was to the following effect. John Cole. When I am dead, take the enclosed packet to Mrs. Pintle, 74, Russell Square, London, as soon as you reach England. If there is any chance of your being killed before you leave the Crimea, entrust it to a comrade upon whom you can rely. If the attack tonight succeeds, it will probably not be necessary to do so. If you know no one else in whom you can place implicit confidence, give it to the Colonel. I hereby make you, Private John Cole, sea troop of Her Majesty's Lancers, the legatee of all my moveables in camp, with the exception of the gold watch I usually wear, which I leave to poor Annie Blake, her address is High Street, Little Petherington, and I hereby appoint you the executor of this my last will and testament. Herbert Redford, Captain H.M. Lancers. The Crimean War was at an end, and the troops were on their way home again. Thinned and shattered as they were, they yet suffice to afford evidence of the noble stuff they had left behind them on Cathcart's Hill and in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. As they marched through great towns in their tattered uniform, with bare skins and shackles half shot away, their faces bronzed and covered with ragged beard, and above all, with their colours shot off almost to the pole, carried by dirty ragged lads, who still somehow looked like gentlemen, lads who had already seen more misery and sickness in their young lives of 20 summers than the old spectator and the enthusiastic throng of civilians that gathered to welcome the old troops home again. As these sturdy warriors tramped through the English towns they had little expected to see again, women went into his starks, and strong men, after shouting themselves hoarse with a kind of mad welcome that let itself go free to take what form it would, threw themselves down upon the grass, and lay there prone and wet like women. For each man who saw a brother or a friend in those thinned and broken ranks saw one whom he had hardly reckoned on ever seeing again, and he who counted no personal friends or relations among those rows of shattered warriors saw thousands who had endeared themselves to him by their heroic pluck and battle, and, above even that, by their heroic and unmermering endurance of pain, privation, colds, disease and hunger. And it was no disgrace to the men of peace that they did so weep, for even the staunchest heroes in that battle-thinned band, men who had laughed at the Russian shell and laid wagers as to where it would fall, men of the thin red line who had fought at Balaklava and lit their cigars on the parapet of the redan, marched that summer into Hyde Park, and as the queen pinned the cross of valor over their sturdy hearts, choked themselves into tears that no physical anguish could have rung from them. Young John had risen in the service since the death of Redfern. He was now troop sergeant, and one of the smartest men in the squadron. His regiment was quartered at Henslow on the return, and he was attached to the troop stationed at the old barracks at Kensington. His first care on reaching London was to find his father and mother. He had from time to time sent small sums of money to them, but he had never heard from them in reply, and it was with the apprehension of learning the details of some sadness fortune that he knocked at the old house in Great Queen Street. The same drabby servant girl opened the door, but she did not recognise young John and the strapping, set-up soldier with a thick brown beard who stood before her. She knew nothing of Johnny Pence's whereabouts. He and Mrs. Pence had left Great Queen Street 18 months ago, owing much rent, and nobody in the house had heard of them since. She shouldn't wonder if they got into trouble. She had heard something about a will, and people said that they were no better than they ought to be. Oh, of course he could leave a message if he liked, but he might as well leave one for the Lord Mayor of London. Young John turned away with an aching heart. For the full sense of his ingratitude in leaving them at the critical moment burst upon him. He next called at Russell Square, with the object of placing Captain Redford's packet into Mrs. Pintle's hands, but Mrs. Pintle had long since left the house in Russell Square, for it was a much larger establishment than she in her reduced circumstances could afford to keep up. The footman who opened the door told him that when Mrs. Pintle left, she gave directions that all letters directed to her late residence should be forwarded to an address in Michael's place, Brompton, but that was ever so many months ago, and she might not be there now. However, he had better go there and ascertain her present address if she had moved. So Young John walked back to the Strand, and mounted a Brompton omnibus, which put him down at the address to which he had been directed. He found Mrs. Pintle in drawing room apartments in Michael's place. He obtained admission to her without difficulty, for the weak-eyed flunky had been dismissed with the rest of the household, as soon as Mrs. Pintle gave up all hope of finding her husband's will. She was reclining on a horse-hair sofa of decidedly serious presence, and was still in mourning, but this time it was for her nephew. She was surprised seeing a brown-faced, sturdy soldier enter the room, and her astonishment was not diminished when he announced himself as a soldier of the late Captain Redford's regiment. For Captain Redford and she had never been on particularly friendly terms, and since Mr. Pintle's death, they had come to open war. The mourning that she wore was not by any means a result of emotion at that officer's death, but sprang from a species of natural taste for tombs, and everything they pertained there onto. What is your business with me, soldier? She asked. Beg pardon, ma'am. Have I the honour of speaking to Mrs. Pintle? You have? I'm the bearer of this parcel from the late Captain Redford. He directed me to place it in your hands as soon as I returned to England. I only arrived four days ago, and I've availed myself of the first sleeve of absence I could get to bring it to you, and Young John touched his forehead and wheeled about to depart. Stop, she said. You must wait until I see what it is about. And she attempted to open the parcel, but her hands trembled so that she could not unfasten the knots, so Young John whipped out a pocket knife and solved the difficulty after the original Gordian receipt. The enclosure was contained in another wrapper, and upon the second wrapper being hastily torn asunder, there tumbled out of it a note to dress to Mrs. Pintle, together with the will of the late Josiah Pintle. Mrs. Pintle was one of those hard-faced ladies who have schooled their countenances to obey them implicitly. Mrs. Pintle's face was in a state of perfect discipline, and expressed no astonishment whatever. Not so, however, her voice. My God! My husband's will! Young John could scarcely believe the ears that conveyed Mrs. Pintle's exclamation to his brain, and felt much more disposed to trust to the eyes that told him that, judging from Mrs. Pintle's countenance, nothing extraordinary had happened. However, the same eyes subsequently contradicted themselves as he read the endorsement. Will of Josiah Pintle, a squire. Mr. Pintle's will, ma'am, he exclaimed. I had no idea of that. He didn't tell me what it was. Why, my father is down in that for a thousand pounds. And who is your father? Pounce, ma'am. Johnny, I mean John Pounce, ma'am. The late Mr. Pintle's confidential clerk. Then your name is Pounce. My real name is ma'am. I enlisted shortly after Mr. Pintle's death as John Cole, but my real name is Pounce. Mrs. Pintle, after satisfying herself that the will was genuine, proceeded to open the accompanying note. It was to the following effect, before Sebastopol, 1856. Amelia Pintle. Long before this reaches you, I shall be a dead man. We were never on friendly terms, and the words I'm about to write will not tend to mend matters. Whether they do, or whether they do not, is a question that will not in any way disturb the skeleton that by that time will be bleaching in this infernal country. You always considered me an extravagant and unconscious scoundrel, and I give you credit for your discernment. I don't attempt to exculpate myself, because I do not care enough for you, or for anybody in the world, to make it worth my while to do so. As I have already stated, by the time this is opened I shall be dead beyond all possibility of doubt. I live only for life, and posthumous honour or dishonour is a matter upon which I am most completely indifferent. As evidence of my sincerity, I not only enclose Josiah Pintle's will, but I also give an account of the manner in which it came into my possession. On the 24th of December, 1854, I dined with Mr. Pintle. On that occasion you were, you may remember, confined to your room by some sort of indisposition. After dinner, as Pintle and I sat over our wine, we topped over family matters, and among others, of the disposition of his property after death. He told me that he had that evening brought his will to Russell Square with the express view of reading it over to me, in whom you will remember he reposed contrary, I am bound to say, to your advice, much more confidence than I either desired or deserved. He opened the document and began to read it to me as I sat with my back towards him, for he had turned round to get the full benefit of the light of the chandelier. He read for perhaps a couple of minutes, and then stopped. I concluded that he was considering the advisability of not reading to me the ensuing paragraph which might perhaps refer to a trifling legacy which he intended to bestow upon me. After a pause, I asked him why he did not go on, and as he made no answer, I turned round to repeat my question, he was dead. I alarmed the household, but before they answered my summons, it occurred to me that, as I was his errant's law, and moreover deeply in debt, and further, as nobody but myself was aware of the fact that the will had been taken from the office, I might as well take possession of it and destroy it altogether. Accordingly, I took possession of it, and in due course, of the bulk of Mr. Pintle's property. On second thoughts I did not destroy the will, for as I was under orders for the Crimea, I thought it possible that I might be killed, and in the event of that melancholy occurrence, neither the will nor the property would be of any further use to me, whereas they might both prove of considerable value to yourself and the other legates, so they are quite at your service. Herbert Redfern, captain, H.M. Lancers. Mrs. Pintle folded the letter deliberately, restored it to its envelope, and placed the envelope in her pocket. I shall not want you, pounce, she said, if, as you say, and I see no reason to disbelieve it, your father is a legatee for a thousand pounds, he will, of course, receive it when the will is proved, that, however, will probably be, under the circumstances, a work of time. In the interim, as I have done your father the injustice of believing that he, that he did not act with perfect openness in the matter, I shall be happy to make him a small allowance. You had better sent him to me. If I can discover him, ma'am, I will, but he's left his old lodgings, and no one knows where he has gone to, then find him. You had better advertise, now you can go. Young John left Mrs. Pintle's house with a heart almost as heavy as when he entered it, for there appeared but little chance of his finding old Johnny and his wife, and, moreover, he had made the discovery that his late master, for his memory he entertained a sincere regard, was, in point of fact, an unmitigated scoundrel. He had the rest of the afternoon before him, and he spent the early part of it in sending advertisements to the principal daily papers. It was four o'clock before this was satisfactorily accomplished, and then he took a steamboat from Blackfriars, intending to go to Chelsea and then to Kensington. But the boat did not go higher than Westminster Bridge, so he landed there, and determined to take the omnibus at Charing Cross. As he walked down Parliament Street, he had to pass a scene of his former labour as the proper philosophy office, which appeared as far as he could see to be getting on uncommonly well without him. There was the same old overfed officekeeper at the door, there were the same two showy Caucasians waiting on the steps, and there were all the twelve examiners looking out of the twelve windows as of yore. There was the Lord President's carriage at the door, and there, no doubt, was the Lord President in the secretary's room, learning a practical reply to the eminently practical question, which would be asked in the house that night. Whether there was any truth in this statement, that it was the practice of the board for the dissemination of proper philosophy to educate and train young poppers to an extraordinary pitch of proper perfection, at an enormous public expense, with the express view of qualifying such poppers to impart instruction in the rudiments of proper philosophy, and that accomplished, to take away from their sphere of duty such proper philosophers as may seem to the board to be peculiarly well qualified to train and educate other young poppers, and reward them with assistant clerkships in the office for the dissemination of proper philosophy. As young John speculated on this possibility, it occurred to him that he would turn into the office and look up some of his old friends. He passed the Caucasians and the officekeeper unrecognised, and made his way up to the garret in which he had worked for the five years that preceded his dismissal. It was just as he had left it, for promotion in the proper philosophy office was a work of many years. As he entered the room, he was greeted with a stare of surprise, which was directed not so much at him, for he was unrecognised, as at the uniform he wore. Don't you know me, lads? He said, pounce, John pounce. John pounce! exclaimed the five clerks. Lord, you don't say so! And sufficiently hearty greetings ensued, for John had been a sort of favourite in his way. Inquiries as to what events had occurred since he left the office followed, and one more hearty than the rest saw in young John's return a reason for standing much beer. Where's Shab? asked the hearty clerk. Sent him here, somebody. And somebody went for Shab. Who's Shab? said Johnny. Shab? Oh, you know. No, he's since your time. Oh, he's a raman as Shab. He runs herons and fetches beer in post-letters and does hod jobs, Shab-ing his name. It's affectionate for Shabby Gentile, so-called because he looks like a member of parliament down on his luck. And the door opened and Shab introduced his head. Want me, gentlemen? Anything I can do? Here, Shab, old cock, a gallon of beer, and you so much as look at it, and I'll knock your empty old head off. Do you hear? This was a coarse speech, but it was not said unkindly. Shab was a general favourite, for he was always at hand when wanted, and never grumbled at his honourarium. He had seen better days, as the saying is, having originally been employed on odd jobs in the pauper philosophy office as a law stationer's clerk, but old age came upon him, and his hand trembled so that he became unfit for his work, so he became a hangar on to the office in which he had temporarily served, and picked up occasional coppers as a kind of outdoor message carrier. Why, you look kind of sorts. Had your dinner, Shab? asked a clerk. No, sir, no, not yet. Thought not, you look hungry. Here's a tenner for you. No, I haven't got it. Looks hungry, thought Young John. By Jove, he is hungry too. Here, my man, added he, allowed. Here's a shilling for you, and in God's name, get something to eat. A clerk from another room braced into the office. What's this I hear about Jack Pounce come back again? Said the newcomer. Jackal, Shab! Deceit glad to see you. Why, what are you doing in a uniform? The answer was interrupted by an extraordinary proceeding on the part of poor old Shab. Jack! Young John! Oh God! And poor old Johnny Pounce fell into his son's arms. So old, so feeble, so broken, had cheery little Johnny Pounce become since he went to the Bad. His rusty old suit of clothes was the cast-off of a waiter, just as he himself was the cast-off of society. He was living in a miserable attic in Tothel Fields, and his once buxom little wife was in the fever ward of the Westminster Hospital. There could not be much need to tell how it all ended. How his son told him of the discovery of the missing will, how old Johnny and he went to Mrs. Pounce's bedside, and broke the news to her, gently at first, and then all at once with a sort of spasmodic rush. How Mrs. Pintle did her best, in a faded kind of way, to atone for the unjust suspicions which she had cast upon the old man. How the sick woman recovered her strength by slow degrees, until she was able to leave the hospital for the old rooms in Great Queen Street. How the will was proved beyond dispute after a lapse of six months or so. How one thousand pounds were paid to old Johnny, without deduction, by Mrs. Pintle. And how a handsome annuity was purchased for him with the money. How young John was bought out of the service. And enshrined in a high desk in the office of Pintle and Sim's successors, having been article to the new firm by Mrs. Pintle herself, who further undertook to make him an allowance until he was admitted. Are matters that would take many pages to tell in detail, and matters moreover, which the reader will probably feel inclined to take for granted. And so it was that Johnny Pounce, having gone to the bed, and having spent a considerable time at the bed when he got there, eventually came back to the good again. End of Section 9, Recording by Squeaky