 Section 10 of Mysteries of London Volume 4. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Brian Keenan. Mysteries of London Volume 4 by George W. M. Reynolds. The examination of Mr. Frank Curtis. Captain Obelunder Busse surveyed his friend with a degree of admiration, amounting almost to envy, as the latter leapt nimbly into the box. But when the two commissioners inflicted upon the insolvent the simultaneous long stare which seemed to form a portion of the judicial proceedings, the gallant officer fixed upon those learned of functionaries a look of the most ferocious menace, muttering at the same time something about the punching of heads. As for Mr. Frank Curtis, he returned the stare of the commissioners in so deliberately impudent, and yet good humor to manner, that it was quite evident the physiognomical discrimination of the bench was at least for once completely set at naught. In plain terms, the commissioners did not know what the deuce to make of the young gentleman. I appear for the insolvent, sir, said one of the learned counsel, Mr. Cajabrief by name. And I attend for an opposing creditor, sir, observed Mr. Bollewile. The clerk of the court handed up the schedule to the commissioners, who occupied some minutes in looking over it, the document being somewhat a lengthy one. I see you've got upwards of a hundred and fifty creditors insolvent, said Mr. Commissioner Sneetsby, fixing his eyes severely upon the youthful candidate for the process of whitewashing. Beatrice and my friends a gentleman, every inch of him, cried Captain Oblunderbuss, and no judgment could think of petitioning the court with less than a hundred and fifty creditors. The whole court was struck with dismay, the bench being perfectly aghast at this interruption. While the captain stood as dauntless and menacing as if he seriously contemplated the challenging of commissioners, learned counsel, lawyers, and all, even the usher was so astounded by his conduct that he forgot to ball out his usual noisy cry for silence. Who is this person, inquired Mr. Commissioner Sneetsby, turning towards his brother-judge, as if the latter knew any better than himself. Person, be chaseless, don't call me a person, vociferated the gallant gentleman, stamping his marshal foot heavily upon the floor. Is it me name you'd be after finding out? If so, I'll handy me card, and you'll find that I'm Captain Oblunderbuss of Blunderbuss Park, Kanamara, Ireland, added the insolvent's bosom friend, rattling the hour in such an appalling manner that it seemed as if a wagon laden with iron bars was passing through the court. Turn him out, exclaimed Mr. Commissioner Sneetsby. Be chaseless, and it'll take ten of you to do that, ejaculated the captain, taking so firm and dauntless a stand that he appeared literally nailed to the ground. But we'll make a compromise if he plays, and that is, I'll hold my tongue. You had better, sir, said the Commissioner, then, perceiving that none of the officials seemed inclined to assail the impregnable front which the ferocious Irishman presented. He thought it prudent to pass over the interruption and continue the business before the court. Who attends to a pose, he accordingly demanded. Me, ejaculated a little dapper-looking, flashly-dressed person, elbowing his way through the crowd behind the barrister's seats, and getting his glossy beavers smashed flat as an opera hat in the desperate struggle. Indeed, what with the smell of onions from one man and tobacco from another, what with the squeezing and pushing and crushing, the treading on toes and the danger of having one's coat slit up the back or one's pocket picked. It is no easy nor pleasant matter to transform oneself into a human wedge to be applied to such a stubborn, compact mass as a multitude in a court of justice. At last, however, the little man succeeded in reaching the witness box, but not without being compelled to smart under the disagreeable conviction that the studied elegance of his toilette was entirely marred. His shirt-frill tumbled, his white waistcoat soiled through contact with a coal-heaver, and all the polish trodden off his boots. Adjusting himself as well as he could in the box, he made a profound bow to the bench, simpered in a familiar fashion towards his counsel, glanced complacently at the attorneys, and then turned a look of indignant contempt upon the insolvent, so that the little gentleman's transitions from excruciating politeness to extreme hoture were very interesting indeed. Your name is Kixie Fopperton, I believe, said Mr. Bilowell, the opposing creditor's own counsel, specially retained in feed for the purpose of getting Mr. Frank Curtis remanded during as lengthened a period as possible. That is my name, sir, was the answer, delivered with a bland smile and a half-bow. What are you, Mr. Fopperton? A tailor by trade, sir, for persons of Mr. Fopperton's calling never described themselves briefly as tailors, but always as tailors by trade. A tailor by trade, repeated Mr. Bilowell, and you carry on business? In Regent Street, sir, replied Mr. Fopperton, glancing towards the bench to notice what effect such a fashionable address had produced upon the commissioners. But one was dozing, and the other seemed to be looking at nothing, just as horses appear when they are standing idle. In Regent Street, repeated Mr. Bilowell, and I believe the insolvent called upon you and ordered clothes to a considerable amount? I have supplied him for the last three years, answered Mr. Fopperton, and never yet saw the color of his money. You never yet saw the color of his money, but he has seen the color of yours, though? I have discounted bills for him to the amount of a thousand pounds. Now, on what pretense, or rather under what circumstances, did the insolvent introduce himself to you? inquired Mr. Bilowell. He drove up to my door in a dashing gig, sir, answered Mr. Fopperton, leapt down, rushed in, and inquired if his friend the Archbishop of Canterbury had been waiting there for him. I assured him that his grace had not visited the shop, to my knowledge, in all his life. God bless me, exclaimed Mr. Curtis, I must have made a mistake, then. But don't you make the leather breeches which his grace wears when he goes out hunting? I replied that I never made leather breeches at all. Nor Galagascans, said Mr. Curtis. Nor Galagascans, sir, I said. Then blow me tight, says he, I have come to the wrong shop. My intimate and particular friend the Archbishop of York. I suggested Canterbury. Canterbury, I meant, exclaimed Mr. Curtis. His grace promised to introduce me to his own tailor. And here have I been promising introductions likewise to Lord Pumblebee, and the Marquis of Dublin, and a whole lot of my fashionable friends. There is a perfect rage all in a sudden to employ his grace's tailor. I was struck by all this fine-sounding talk, and handed Mr. Curtis my card. Eagad, said he, laughing, I have a precious good mind to have a lark, and pit you against his grace's tailor. My eyes, what fun it would be! And it ended by the insolvent actually putting you in competition with the imaginary tailor which he had conjured up, inquired Mr. Bulewell. Just so, sir, returned Mr. Fopperton. And though I heard some time afterwards that Mr. Curtis received a handsome income from his uncle, Sir Christopher Blunt, yet I never got a sixpence. Be chassis, Sir Christopher is a regular old screw, ejaculated Captain O'Blunderbus. A what? cried the commissioners, the one awaking from his nap, and the other from his obliviousness. It is after disturbing ye I have been again, demanded the gallant gentleman. Then be the holy pokerer, I ask your pardon, and I'll hold my pace. With these words, the captain put his arms akimbo, pursed up his mouth in a most extraordinary fashion, and stood as still as a post, and as demure as a Methodist parson, to the huge delight of the unwashed audience. It appears, said Mr. Bulewell, resuming his examination of the opposing creditor, that the insolvent obtained close to the amount of four hundred pounds, and cashed to the amount of a thousand. Mr. Fopperton bowed in assent. And you have every reason to believe that he only talked about the Archbishop's tailor and his noble acquaintances, in order to throw dust into your eyes? To make a fool of me, sir, cried Mr. Kixie Fopperton. To make a fool of you, repeated Mr. Bulewell. And an ass of me, sir, ejaculated the tailor with increasing warmth. And an ass of you, echoed the learned counsel. Yes, sir, and to make a stupid old owl of me, vociferated Mr. Fopperton. A stupid old owl of you, still repeated Mr. Bulewell, in the most matter-of-fact style possible. Then, perceiving that his client had exhausted alike his self-reproaching epithets and his breath, the learned counsel sat down. Thereupon up rose Mr. Kajabreef, who had been retained for the defense of the insolvent. And as he pulled his gown over his shoulders and prepared to cross-examine the opposing creditor, Captain Oblunderbuss turned partially round, and, forming an arch with his hand on one side of his mouth, said, in a pretty loud tone, however, Be traces, and if you don't make a mincemate of him, it's me south that'll skin him alive. The learned counsel nodded his head in a significant manner, as much as to say, Just wait a moment, and you shall see how I'll serve him. And the gallant captain appeared satisfied with the tacit promise thus conveyed. Now, Mr. Fopperton cried Mr. Kajabreef, who was considered to be particularly skillful in badgering and baiting an opposing creditor. You'll be so kind as to remember that you are upon your oath. And the learned counsel glanced towards the bench, as much as to intimate that the commissioners were keeping a sharp look out on him, the opposing creditor aforesaid, and would send him to Newgate without remorse at the least symptom of perjury that might transpire. Mr. Fopperton cast his eyes timidly in the same direction, and it was no doubt some satisfaction to him to observe that the sleepy commissioner was fast asleep, and that the other was just going off into a dose. Well, Mr. Fopperton exclaimed Mr. Kajabreef in a very loud and very overbearing tone. So you have come to oppose the insolvent's discharge, have you? Now, answer me this question. Have you ever been in that box yourself? Pointing at the same time in a resolute and determined manner towards the place occupied by Mr. Curtis. Am I bound to answer that question? Asked Mr. Fopperton, becoming considerably crestfallen all on a sudden, and appealing meekly to his own counsel. I'm afraid you must, returned Mr. Bullowell. Well then, sir, I have had the misfortune to pass through this court, said the fashionable tailor, his countenance growing excessively blank. You have been insolvent, exclaimed Mr. Kajabreef. Now, sir, how often have you petitioned the court and been discharged from your liabilities through the proceedings of this court? Really, sir, I stammered the West End tailor, becoming awfully red in the face. Shall I repeat the question, sir? Demanded the learned counsel, affecting a politeness that was even more galling than his severity had been. You had better answer, Mr. Fopperton, said Mr. Bullowell. I can't say, that is, not exactly. Oh, very well, then we shall see, cried Mr. Kajabreef, taking up a pen, dipping it deep into the ink, and making believe that he was about to take down the answers to be given to his questions, so as to catch the opposing creditor out perjuring himself, if possible. Will you swear, Mr. Fopperton, that you have not been insolvent seven times? Yes, sir, I will swear to that, returned the tailor with alacrity. You will swear? Well, will you swear that you have not been insolvent five times? Yes, sir, I will swear to that, too. You will swear to that, too. Now, mind what you're about, Mr. Fopperton, take care of what you say, cried Mr. Kajabreef, in a tone of awful menace. Will you swear that you have not been insolvent three times? No, sir, I—I can't swear to that, answered the tailor, looking very miserable. You can't swear to that. Now, can you deny it? No, sir, I cannot, said Mr. Fopperton. You cannot, repeated Mr. Kajabreef, casting a glance at Captain Oblunderbus, which seemed to say, I have him now. Then, again addressing himself to the opposing creditor, he exclaimed in a domineering, brow-beating manner. Take care what you are about, Mr. Fopperton, and now tell me whether you have not been bankrupt, as well as insolvent, several times. No, only once bankrupt, cried Mr. Fopperton impatiently. Well, once bankrupt, and enough, too, when coupled with three insolvencies, said the learned gentleman, in a tone which very significantly implied his belief that the opposing creditor was the greatest scoundrel in the universe. And pray, how much have you ever paid in the shape of dividends, sir? I can't really say at this moment I— Oh, you can't, can't you? cried Mr. Kajabreef. Then I'll see if I can refresh your memory. And, taking out of his pocket a letter from some friend or relation, he pretended to examine it with very great attention, as if it contained some damning testimony relative to Mr. Fopperton's dealings. Although, in reality, it had no more connection with him or his affairs than with the man in the moon. I think I recollect now, sir, said the West End tailor, getting frightened. I—I— Well, sir, can you answer my question? demanded Mr. Kajabreef, laying his forefinger on the letter in a marked and formal manner, just as if he were pointing to the very paragraph which furnished all requisite information respecting the tailor. I will repeat it again for you. How much have you ever paid, collectively and under all your numerous insolvencies and frequent bankruptcies, in the shape of dividend? Two pence, three farthings in the pound, sir, answered Mr. Fopperton in a low tone. Speak out, sir, vociferated the learned counsel, although he heard perfectly well what had been said. Two pence, three farthings in the pound, exclaimed the unfortunate snip, who already repented most bitterly that, by coming to oppose Mr. Frank Curtis, he had fallen into the hands of Mr. Kajabreef. Two pence, three farthings in the pound, repeated this learned gentleman, tossing up his head as if in unmitigated abhorrence at such awful villainy. And pray, sir, what was the aggregate of liabilities under all your innumerable insolvencies and your equally numberless bankruptcies? I never was bankrupt more than once, sir, mournfully and imploringly remonstrated the tailor, now worked up to a frightful pitch of nervousness and misery. Don't shirk my question, sir, exclaimed the barrister sternly. How much did all your liabilities? Thirty thousand pounds, sir, hastily cried Mr. Fopperton, anticipating the repetition of the query on the part of the learned gentleman. Beatrice said, he's a complete villain, said Captain Oblunderbus, in such a loud tone that both the commissioners woke up, whereupon the gallant officer affected to be seized with a sudden inclination to gaze up abstractly at the skylight, just for all the world as if he were quite innocent of any fresh interruption. Now, Mr. Fopperton exclaimed Mr. Kajabreef, seeing that the commissioners were all attention just at this moment, and taking a skillful advantage of the circumstance. Under your numerous insolvencies and frequent bankruptcies, don't interrupt me, sir. You have paid two pence, three farthings in a pound, on aggregate liabilities amounting to thirty thousand pounds. The court will be pleased to notice these facts. And yet, Mr. Fopperton, we find you discounting a thousand pounds worth of bills for my client, the insolvent. The court will again please to take a note of this fact. Of course, the commissioners could not help making, or at least affecting to make the memoranda suggested by the learned counsel. So, the sleepy one scrawled a zigzag line across his notebook, and the other hit off a rapid sketch of Captain O'Blunderbuss' face, Mr. Commissioner Sneasby being very proficient in that style of drawing. The two functionaries then laid down their pens, and looked as solemn and serious as if they had actually and positively taken the notes in the most business-like manner possible. Now, sir, continued Mr. Kajabreef, once more turning to the opposing creditor. Will you tell the court how much hard cash you gave the insolvent for his acceptance of one thousand pounds? Really, sir, the occurrence is so long ago. Hi, hi. Will you swear, man, that you gave him two hundred pounds? Demanded the learned counsel impatiently. Yes, sir, I will, was the instantaneous answer. Will you swear that you gave him four hundred? And Mr. Kajabreef dipped his pen into the ink with an air of awful determination. Why, no, I can't exactly, stambered the tailor, every instant becoming more and more nervous. Will you swear that you gave him three hundred and twenty pounds in hard cash for that bill? Demanded Mr. Kajabreef. That was just what I did pay in money, replied Mr. Foppeton, in a hesitating manner. That was just what you did pay. Now, tell the earnered commissioners what else you gave the insolvent for that bill. There was three hundred and twenty in cash, and four hundred and twenty in wines, pictures, and other objects of value. Come, that only gives us seven hundred and forty, cried the barrister. How do you make up the rest? A hundred pounds of discount, sir, and... A hundred pounds of discount. Well, what next? Sixty pounds commission, sir, and... Sixty pounds commission. You have still another hundred to account for, Mr. Foppeton, said the learned counsel sharply. Come, about that other hundred, and mind what you tell the commissioners. Well, sir, the hundred pounds was for bonus, answered the fashionable tailor. That will do, sir, you may stand down, said Mr. Kajabreef, looking significantly at the learned commissioners, with a view of impressing it on their minds that he had just succeeded in fully unmasking a most awful rogue. Mr. Bilwell now rose and made a very furious speech against the insolvent, so that a stranger unacquainted with the practice of English courts of justice would have fancied that the learned counsel had some bitter and deadly motive of personal hatred against the young gentleman. Whereas all that apparent venom, that seeming spite, that assumed virulence, and that fierce eloquence were purchased by Mr. Kixie Foppeton for a couple of guineas. The speech was cheap, yes, very cheap, when we take into consideration the negotiating pains that the learned gentleman took to get Frank Curtis remanded to prison for six months. So much perspiration, such frantic gesticulation, and such impassioned declamation were well worth the money. And if it did Mr. Bilwell good to earn his two guineas on such terms, it must have been equally satisfactory to Mr. Kixie Foppeton to obtain so good a two guineas worth. During the delivery of this oration, Captain Oblunderbuss could scarcely contain his fury, as insulting epithet after epithet poured from the lips of Mr. Bilwell, who was always more eloquent when conducting an opposition than when arguing a defense. The gallant Irishman literally foamed at the mouth. And it was only in the hope of Mr. Kajabreef's ability to mend the business that he succeeded in controlling his passion. At length Mr. Bilwell sat down, and the captain muttered in a pretty audible tone, blood unthunther, he sure repented this as long as he lives if my friend is sent back to the bench. Mr. Kajabreef rose to defend his client, Frank Curtis. And as the best means of making that young gentleman appear white was to represent the opposing creditor as particularly black, the learned council forthwith began to depict Mr. Kixie Foppeton's character in such sable dyes that the unfortunate tailor soon found himself held up to execration as a species of moral blackamore. In fact, the poor little man was stunned, astounded, paralyzed by the betupurative eloquence of Mr. Kajabreef. And as the learned council proceeded to denounce his numerous insolvencies and his frequent bankruptcies as proofs of unmitigated depravity, as he dwelt upon the features of the bill transaction and spoke with loathing of the discount, with disgust of the commission, and with perfect horror of the bonus, Mr. Foppeton began to say to himself, well, upon my word, I begin to fear that I am indeed a most unprincipled scoundrel, but the fact was never brought home to me so forcibly before. In the meantime, Captain O'Blunderbuss was in perfect ecstasies. He forgot all that Mr. Bollewel had said in listening to the counter-declamation of Mr. Kajabreef. And his delight was expressed in frequent ejaculatory outbursts such as, be traces, and there you have him, but which passed comparatively unnoticed amidst the thundering din of the learned council's torrent of words. As for Mr. Frank Curtis, he hid care little for the violent assault made upon him by Mr. Bollewel, but he was immensely pleased at the slaughtrous attack affected by Mr. Kajabreef on the dismayed and horrified tailor. The defense being concluded, the two learned commissioners consulted and when they had exchanged a few remarks, having no more reference to the case before them than to the affairs of the Chinese empire, Mr. Commissioner Sneasby proceeded to deliver the judgment of the court. Looking as awfully solemn as possible, he said, Insolvent, it is perfectly clear that you have run a career of extravagance and folly which must be summarily checked. While enjoying a handsome allowance from your worthy uncle, you contracted numerous debts in a most reckless manner and it is probable that Sir Christopher Blunt withdrew that allowance in consequence of your spent thrift habits. Insolvent, the court is of opinion that you cannot be allowed your freedom again until you shall have passed a certain time in confinement, both as a punishment for the past and as a warning for the future. The judgment of the court is, therefore, that you be remanded at the suit of your opposing creditor, Mr. Fopperton, for the space of five calendar months from the date of your vesting order. Then bad luck to you, you slappy-headed old scoundrels, forciferated Captain Oblunderbuss. Hello out there, cried the usher, unable to pass over such a flagrant breach of decorum as this, in spite of the awe with which the terrible Irishman inspired him. And, springing towards the captain, the official clutched him by the collar, while, to use the words of the newspaper reporter, the most tremendous sensation pervaded the court. But Gorman Oblunderbuss was not the man to be thus assailed with impunity. And, knocking down the usher with one hand, and Mr. Kixie Fopperton on the top of him with the other, he made a desperate rush from the tribunal, no opposition being offered to his exit. A few minutes afterwards, he was joined at the public house over the way by his friend Frank Curtis and the tip staff who had charge of the letter. And the three were these, following the example of the pious Mr. Joshua Sheepshanks, drank spirits and water until they were compelled to return to the king's bench in a hackney coach. The Lapse of Nineteen Years How easy is it to record upon paper the sweeping words Nineteen years had passed away since the occurrences just related. How easy is it, with a few moments manipulation of the pen, to leap over a period embracing almost the fifth part of a century? Nineteen years, a few short syllables, a drop of ink, a scrap of paper, and a minute's trouble. These are all that the novelist needs to enable him to pass by the deeds of Nineteen years. Oh, this very power compels us to look with suspicion upon the utility of our own avocations, to reflect how far removed from the natural is even the most natural of the works of fiction, and to feel the nothingness of all the efforts of the imagination when placed in contrast with the stern and stubborn facts of the real world. For though the novelist exercising a despotic power over the offspring of his fancy may dispose of years, eye even of centuries with a dash of his pen, yet of time, as the universe actually experiences its march, not one instant can he stay, not one instant accelerate. Great kings who have proclaimed themselves demigods and compelled the millions to abase themselves round their mighty thrones, at whose awful nod whole nations have trembled as if at the frown of Olympian jove, and whose impatient stamp on the marble pavement of their palaces has seemed to shake the earth to its very center. Proud and haughty monarchs such as these have been powerless in the hands of time as infants in the grasp of a giant. Though heads would fall at their command, yet not a hair of their own could they prevent from turning gray. Though at their beck whole provinces were depopulated, yet not a single moment could they add to their own lives. Time is a sovereign, more potent than all the imperial rulers that ever wore the Tyrian purple, stronger than the bravest warriors that ever led conquering armies over desolated lands, less easy to be moved to mercy than the fiercest tyrants that ever grasped earth receptors. To those who, being in misery, look forward to the certain happiness that already gleams upon them with orient flickerings from the distance, time is slow. Oh, so slow that his feet seem heavy as the Tyrian weights and his wings with lead. But to those who, being as yet happy, behold unmistakable auguries of approaching affliction, time is rapid. Oh, so rapid that his feet appear to glide glancingly along like those of a sportive boy in pursuit of a butterfly, and his wings are as light and buoyant as the fleetest of birds. The wicked man, stretched upon the bed of death, cries out, Oh, for leisure to repent! But time disregardeth his agonizing prayer and saith, Die! The invalid, wracked with excruciating pains and wearied of an existence which knows no relief from suffering, exclaims, Oh, that death would snatch me away! But time accordeth not the shrieking aspiration and saith, Live on! Passionless and without feeling though he be, time shows caprices in which the giddiest and most willful girl would be ashamed to indulge, sparing where he ought to slay, slaying where he ought to spare, insensible to all motives, incompetent to form designs, he appears to act with a method of contradictions and on a system of studied irregularities. Nineteen years had passed away since the occurrences related in the preceding chapters. Such is the sweeping assertion which we have now to make. Nineteen years, how much joy had been experienced, how much misery felt during that interval, what vast changes had taken place over the whole earth? In these islands that period was marked with the names of three sovereigns, George IV, William IV, Victoria. The debaucheries, vices, and profligacies of George lessened the value of monarchy even in the eyes of its stanchist supporters. The utter incompetency, weakness, and even downright silliness of William produced it to a still greater discount. And the accession of Victoria proclaimed the grand fact that monarchy is a farce, since a mere schoolgirl can be put up as the thrown puppet of the Punch and Judy show of royalty. During nineteen years then, did the value of monarchy experience a rapid and signal decline? And, though it still endures, it is hastening with whirlwind speed to total annihilation. Men are becoming too wise to maintain a throne which may either be filled by a voluptuary, a fool, or a doll. They see something radically and flagrantly bad in an institution which is fraught with such frightful contingencies. And they look forward to a convenient moment and a proper opportunity to effect by moral means and without violence a complete change. The throne is worm-eaten. Its velvet is in holes and covered with dust. And no earthly power can repair the wood nor patch up the cloth. It is old, rickety, and good for nothing. And the magisterial seat of a president elected by the nation at large must displace it. Monarchy falling will drag down the ancient aristocracy along with it. And the twenty-six millions of these realms all starting fair together on a principle of universal equality. Those who succeed in reaching the goals of virtue and talent will constitute and form a new aristocracy. Nineteen years had passed away since the occurrences related in the preceding chapters. And it was now the summer of 1846. The July sun gave forth a heat of intense sultryness and not a breath of air fan the stifling streets of the West End, nor agitated the green foliage of St. James' Park. Nevertheless, all that fashionable quarter of London, which lies within the immediate vicinity of the old palace that gives its name to the park just mentioned, was calling an animated appearance. For Queen Victoria was to hold a grand reception at noon that day. Paul Mall was thronged with well-dressed persons of both sexes. And the windows and balconies in that thoroughfare were crowded with elegantly attired ladies and gentlemen, who were either the occupants of the houses at the casements of which they were thus stationed, or had hired seats at the shops where the cupidity of the proprietors turned to advantage the curiosity of the public. It was evident then that the reception to be held in this day was of no ordinary character, and that some great or illustrious personage was expected to attend the royal levy. For amongst the thousands that thronged the streets, an immense anxiety to secure the best places prevailed, and in all quarters was the eager question asked, but is it certain that the prince will come this way? We must pause for a few minutes and notice a group occupying the balcony of the drawing-room windows at the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham. This group consisted of six persons, three gentlemen, and three ladies. The first of the three gentlemen was a fine, handsome, noble-looking man of about forty-five years of age, with accountants indicating feelings of the most lofty honour, great generosity, and a splendid intellect. This was the Earl of Ellingham. Near him stood an old and venerable gentleman whose years were verging fast to three score and ten, but whose small, restless, sparkling eyes beamed with the fires of genius, and whose compressed lips showed that although he had consented to become a spectator of the gay scene about to take place, his thoughts frequently wandered to subjects of a more serious kind and more congenial to his nature. This was Sir John Lacell, the most eminent physician of the age, and who had received the honour of knighthood in recompense for the great services which he had rendered to the art of medicine. The third gentleman was about twenty-five years of age. Tall, handsome, well-formed, and genteel in appearance, he seemed a fit and suitable companion for the lovely girl who leaned upon his arm, and of whom we shall speak more fully anon. The fine young man at present alluded to was called by the name of Charles Hatfield, but in the former portion of this work he was known, when a little boy, Peter as Charlie Watts. The first of the three ladies was about thirty-seven years of age, and her beauty in the finest, chastest, and most elevated Hebrew style was admirably preserved. The lapse of years had only matured her charms, and not impaired them. Time had touched not the pearly whiteness of her teeth, nor dimmed the brilliant luster of her large dark eyes. Her hair was still of the deepest and glossiest jet, even and luxuriant, as when we first described it in the fourth chapter of our narrative. For she of whom we are speaking now was Esther, Countess of Ellingham. Conversing with the noble Jewess, for she clung to the faith of her forefathers, was a lady whose style of beauty was of that magnificent and voluptuous kind which sets the beholder at naught in his calculations and conjectures relative to the age of the object of his admiration. For though forty-four years had passed through Lady Hetfield, she was still endowed with a loveliness that, though matured, seemed to have known only the lapse of summers, and never to have passed through the snowy storms of as many winters. And now we must speak more in detail of that charming girl to whom we alluded ere now, and who was leaning on the arm of Lady Hetfield's son. Ravishingly beautiful was this young creature of seventeen, with the aquiline countenance of her mother, and the Saxon complexion of her father. Yes, lovely indeed was Lady Frances Ellingham, the only issue of the alliance which took place between the Earl and Esther one year after the murder of Tamar, and consequently eighteen years previous to the period of which we are now writing. Much of the description which we gave of Esther in the opening of our tale would apply to the charms of her daughter, whose forehead was high, broad, and intelligent, whose mouth was small, and revealing in smile's teeth white as orient pearls, whose eyes were large and dark, and whose figure was tall, silk-like, and graceful. But Lady Frances Ellingham's hair, though dark, was several shades less jetty than that of her mother, and her complexion was delicately clear, with a slight tinge of rich carnation appearing beneath the dazzling purity of the skin. Such was the interesting group of six persons stationed in the balcony of the Earl of Ellingham's mansion. But while they are awaiting the presence of the illustrious individual who was expected to pass through Paul Mall to the Queen's Levy at St. James's Palace, we will place on record a few short facts that will render less obscure to our readers the interval of nineteen years over which we have thought fit to leap in our narrative. For a long, long time after the murder of Tamar, Tom Rain appeared inaccessible to consolation. But at last his naturally strong mind and vigorous intellect began to exercise their energies. The former to combat against the deep and depressing sense of affliction, and the latter to teach him the necessity of putting forth all his powers in the struggle, not only on account of the in-utility of repinings, but likewise for the sake of those who were interested in him. It was, however, chiefly on the occasion of Lord Ellingham's marriage with Esther de Medina that Rainford perceptibly rallied. For it did his generous heart good to behold the happiness of his half-brother. As time wore on, Tom Rain recovered much of his former cheerfulness. And after the lapse of three years from the date of Tamar's death he began to listen with attention, if not with interest, to the representations made to him by the Earl, urging him to the performance of a duty which it was now in his power to fulfill. Arthur reminded him of Georgiana Hatfield's generous conduct in obtaining the royal pardon. He assured Rainford that her ladyship no longer thought of him with patience and aversion, but would cheerfully bestow her hand on the father of her child. And the nobleman moreover advised the alliance on the ground that the boy would then dwell with both his parents. The death of Mr. de Medina, which happened about that time, delayed the negotiations thus commenced. But at the expiration of a year the proposal was revived and the necessary arrangements were speedily adjusted. In fine it was settled that Rainford by which he had hitherto been known and assumed that of Hatfield, that the boy should be thenceforth called in the same manner, but should be brought up in the belief that he was Rainford's nephew, and that after the marriage which was to be solemnized in the most private manner possible, the wedded pair should proceed to the continent, and there reside for some years. All these arrangements were duly carried out. Rainford, whom we shall henceforth call by his wife's name, became the husband of Lady Georgiana Hatfield. And, taking with them their child, who was represented to be their nephew, they forthwith repaired to Italy, where they dwelt for nearly fifteen years. Thus, on their return to London, only a few weeks before the date up to which we have now brought the incidents of our tale, all the stirring circumstances once associated with the name of Tom Rain were pretty well forgotten. And none save those few who were in the secret, suspected that the pleasant, gentlemanly, good-natured Mr. Hatfield was identical with the individual who nineteen years previously had filled all England with his fame. While we have been thus digressing, the sensation amongst the crowds in Palmaal has increased, for the carriages of several eminent or illustrious personages have passed along in their way to the Royal Levy. In the balcony at the Earl of Ellingham's drawing-room window, a degree of curiosity and excitement prevailed, which certainly could not have been aroused on the part of the intelligent individuals there assembled, by the mere display of gorgeous equipotches. Let us see whether the conversation passing in that balcony will throw any light upon the subject. Well, exclaimed Sir John LaCelle, almost in a petulant tone, I wonder how much longer your signature of attraction will be before he makes his appearance. Truly it was worthwhile for my friend Ellingham here to drag me away from my experiments in order to catch a glimpse of a foreign prince. Nay, doctor, interrupted the Earl, smiling. It was precisely because this illustrious prince is not a foreigner, but an Englishman by birth, and a true Briton in his noble heart, that I thought you would be pleased to join those who are desirous to behold a youthful hero whose name occupies so memorable a page in history. Well, well, said the physician, somewhat more mildly, I will have patience, and since you assure us that the object of all curiosity is indeed an Englishman, surely you can either doubt the fact, nor be ignorant of his great achievements, doctor, exclaimed the Earl. But if you wish to receive positive assurances as to his royal highness's English parentage, Lady Hatfield will satisfy you. Yes, truly, observed Georgiana. When we were staying in Italy, we not only became, as it were, eyewitnesses of the great revolution which was conducted to so signally prevent an issue by the young hero of whom you are speaking, but we subsequently had the honour of forming the acquaintance of his royal highness and that of his princess, who is as amiable as she is beautiful. And now that the prince has come to visit his native land once more, said Charles Hatfield, his eyes flashing the fires of that enthusiasm which filled his soul, the people assemble in crowds to do honour to their illustrious fellow-countrymen. Oh, how delicious must his feelings be when he reflects that as an obscure individual he once moved, unnoticed and unknown, amidst the mazes of this great city. And that by his own brilliant merits he has raised himself to that pinnacle of rank and glory which renders him the admiration of the myriads now assembled to welcome his presence. Well spoken, my dear Charles, exclaimed Lady Hatfield, look up and down the street. It is literally paved and walled with human faces. On the other side of this house, and opposite to, I recognize many ladies and peers of the highest rank. Yes, Charles, you are right. The feelings of the prince must indeed be joyous when he reflects that this vast congregation of all classes has gathered to do honour to the fellow-countrymen of whom they are so justly proud. History teams with examples of bold, bad and ambitious men usurping power and decorating themselves with lofty generals, addressing himself partly to Lady Hatfield, and partly to the beautiful Lady Frances Ellingham. But in the present instance we have a young Englishman of generous soul, enlightened opinions, and even rigorous rectitude of conduct, raising himself from nothing as it were and acquiring the proudest titular distinctions. For what a glorious elevation was it from plain Mr. Richard Markham to his Royal Highness Field Marshal the Prince of Montoni, Captain General of the Castle-Syclan Army, an heir apparent to the Grand Duke of Throne. Scarcely had Charles Hatfield enunciated these sounding titles in a tone which afforded full evidence of the enthusiasm that filled his soul as he thought of the splendid career of Richard Markham. When far-off shouts of welcome and of joy suddenly reached the ears of the group on the balcony. Then those sounds came nearer and nearer as the crowd took up the cries from the direction where they commenced and never was royalty saluted with a more cordial greeting than that which now welcomed the hero of Castle-Syclan. Long lived the Prince of Montoni, God save Richard Markham where the words sent up by thousands and thousands of voices to the blue arch of heaven. In a short time a handsome carriage drawn by four magnificent horses came in sight of the spectators in the balcony, and nothing could now exceed the enthusiasm of Charles Hatfield as he once more beheld the object of his heroic idolatry. That fine young Prince whom he had so often admired and envied when in the vast square of the Ducal Palace of Montoni his royal highness reviewed the garrison of the Castle-Syclan capital. The Prince, who was accompanied in his carriage by two aid de camp, wore the uniform of his high military rank. His breast was covered with orders and in his hand he carried his plumed hat which he had removed from his bow through respect to the generous British public from whom he now received so enthusiastic a welcome. His royal highness was in the prime and glory of his manhood. He was thirty years of age, his dark hair which he wore rather long and which curled naturally, and closed a forehead that appeared to be the seat of genius of the highest order, and his fine black eyes were bright with the fire of intelligence and the animation of complete happiness. His magnificent uniform set off his symmetrical and graceful figure to its fullest advantage, and he acknowledged with affability and modest condescension the demonstrations of joy and welcome which marked his progress. As his equipage passed opposite the mansion of the Earl of Ellingen his eyes were attracted to the balcony and, recognizing Lady Hatfield and the enthusiastic Charles he bowed to them in a manner which testified the pleasure he experienced again beholding those whose acquaintance he had formed in the ducal capital of Castelsicola. He is certainly a very fine young man, said Sir John LaCelle. I have seldom seen a countenance so expressive of vast mental resources. Then, after a short pause the worthy physician added I would give much for a cast of his head. The Earl was about to make some reply when his own name was suddenly shouted forth by a voice in the street and that name, taken up by tongue after tongue, was echoed by thousands of individuals who were delighted to associate the stanch friend of the industrious classes of England with their enthusiastic welcomeings of the Royal Champion of Constitutional Freedom in Italy. Long live the Marshall Prince of Montoni! Three cheers for the Earl of Ellingen were now the cries that made the very welkin ring and these shouts were prolonged for some time until the carriage of his Royal Highness turned into the courtyard of the St. James's Palace and the Earl on his side withdrew from the balcony. You sigh, Charles, said Lady Francis Ellingen in a low and somewhat anxious tone and speaking apart to him whom she believed to be Lady Hadfield's nephew. I was only thinking, dear Fanny, answered the young gentleman, that much and earnestly as I may strive to elevate myself it will never be my good fortune to have such opportunities as the Prince of Montoni found establishing his name and acquiring on immense reputation. Are you envious of him, Charles? inquired the beautiful maiden in a somewhat reproachful tone. I thought that you wrecked not for titles in high rank. No, not when they are hereditary hastily replied Charles Hadfield and this assurance I have often given you in secret because I should not like to make such an observation before your noble father whose title is hereditary. Yes, and I envy, too, the honours which a great man acquires by his own merits. Do you imagine that the English people would have assembled in vast crowds to hail and welcome one of their own royal dukes? No, indeed. And yet they seem as if they could not testify their joy in too lively a manner when the Prince of Montoni appears amongst them. While this little dialogue was taking place in one part of the spacious drawing-room at the Earl of Ellingham's mansion, the nobleman himself was conversing with Lady Hadfield in another, the entire group having withdrawn from the balcony, and Sir John LaSalle having quitted the apartments. Yes, said the Earl, in answer to a question put to him by Lady Hadfield, I have understood that the Prince proposes to stay some weeks in London. The Princess Isabella has not accompanied him, her royal parents, the Grand Duke Alberto and the Grand Duchess being loathed to part with her. The Prince has taken up his abode. At least so states the morning newspaper, at Markham Place, the house where he was born and where all his youth and a portion of his manhood were passed. Accordingly, as you desire, George Anna, I will call upon his royal highness tomorrow, and I will request him to accept of an entertainment at this mansion. How did it occur, inquired the Countess of Ellingham, that Thomas was not with us just now to behold the progress of the Prince to St. James's? You know, dear Esther, you know Lady Hadfield, that my husband loves privacy and seclusion and especially avoids appearing in crowded places. He fears to be recognized, she added, sinking her voice so as to be inaudible to Charles and Lady Frances, who were at the opposite end of the apartment. And he is perhaps right, although so many years have elapsed since those occurrences. To which we will not refer, interrupted Lord Ellingham hastily. How very seriously the young people have come to see her, she added, glancing towards Charles Hadfield and Lady Frances. Charles has imbibed certain romantic ideas and hopes of distinguishing himself in the world, observed George Anna. And I think it right to encourage such noble, such generous aspirations. But your charming daughter is evidently remonstrating with him upon some point. And yet the two cousins appear to be much attached to each other, she added, with rather an anxious look at the Earl, as if she were uncertain how he might receive observation, into which she threw a degree of significance. You have mentioned a circumstance which gives me much pleasure. Nay, not only myself, but likewise my dearest Esther," said the nobleman. We have already adopted it as the basis of many happy plans for the future. Yes, observed the Countess of Ellingham emphatically. An alliance between Charles and our beloved daughter would prove a source of felicity and satisfaction to us all. Arthur, a new too, a new too, dear Esther, remembered Lady Hatfield, in a tone indicative of deep emotions. I thank you for these assurances. All my earthly ambition, my sole hope, would be accomplished on the day that such a union took place. Alas, poor boy, it is distressing. Oh, it is distressing to be compelled to veil from him the real secret of his parentage. To hear him at times question me relative to his parents. And more. Yes, and it is cruel, too, to be forced to deceive him. To hear him call me his aunt. I who hem his mother. Georgiana. Dearest Georgiana, do not thus afflict yourself, murmured Esther, pressing Lady Hatfield's hand in a tender manner, and speaking in a tone of consolation and sweet sympathy. But almost at the same instant a piercing scream burst from Georgiana's lips, and she fell senseless into the arms of the Countess of Ellingham. While the Earl, turning mechanically and hastily round, beheld Charles standing close behind him, pale, astounded, petrified. For the young man had advanced unperceived, and his tread unheard on the thick soft carpet towards the group formed by Lady Hatfield, the nobleman, and the Countess. And his ears had caught these words. To hear him call me aunt. I who hem his mother. For a few instance he stood motionless, amazed and stupefied by what he had heard. But, suddenly recovering the power of movement and yielding to the ineffable sensations which were excited in his breast, he sprang forward, and catching his still insensible parent in his arms he cried, Oh, my dearest mother, my beloved, my adored mother, open your eyes, look upon me. His mother, exclaimed Lady Francis, overwhelmed with surprise, and unable, in the innocence of her virgin heart, to form even the slightest notion that might serve as a clue to what was still so deep a mystery to her. Yes, my dearest Fanny, said the earl, hastily drawing his daughter aside and speaking to her in a low and rapid tone. Charles is indeed the son, and not the nephew, of Mr. Hatfield and Lady Georgina. But reasons of an imperious necessity, reasons which you are too young to comprehend, and too discreet to inquire into. My dear father, I seek to know no more than it may please you to tell me, interrupted the young lady, with a decision as amiable as it was dutiful and reassuring, and my behaviour shall henceforth be as if I had not been accidentally made the spectatrice of this scene. You are my own beloved, darling daughter, exclaimed the earl enthusiastically, as he pressed his lips to the pure and chaste forehead of the charming countenance that was upturned so lovingly towards his own. By this time Lady Hatfield had been recovered through the kind attentions of Esther, and, awaking to consciousness, she clasped her son to her bosom, murmuring in a faint tone and broken voice. Now you have learnt my secret, Charles. A secret which—but another time. Another time you shall know all. Oh, Charles, I feel so much happiness and so much sorrow, strangely blended at this moment. Compose yourself, dearest, dearest parent, exclaimed the young man, his tears flowing freely. I now know that you are my mother, and I care to know nothing more. Never, never shall I question you concerning the past, the enjoyment of the present, and the hope which guilds the future. These are enough for me. My poor boy, murmured Lady Hatfield, straining into her breast, I feel as if an immense weight were taken from my mind. I seem to drink of a purer source of happiness than I have ever yet known. Oh, why did I ever hesitate to tell thee that thou wast my son? And again she pressed him closer and closer still to her bosom, covering his brow in cheeks with kisses, while tears flowed from the eyes of the Countess and of Lady Francis at the touching spectacle, and the Earl turned aside to conceal his emotions. End of Section 11. Recording by Brian Kenan. Section 12 of Mysteries of London, Volume 4. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Brian Kenan. Mysteries of London, Volume 4 by George W. M. Reynolds. Mr. Hatfield. In the meantime, Sir John LaSalle had repaired to the library in the Earl of Ellingham's mansion, and there he found, as he had anticipated, his friend Mr. Hatfield, late Tom Rain. This individual was now in his fiftieth year, and he was much changed by time as well as by art. He still possessed the fine teeth which caused the beholder to forget the somewhat coarse thickness of the lips. But the laugh that came from those lips, when he was in a happy mood, was more subdued and quiet than when the reader first made his acquaintance many years previously to the present date. Though never inclined to corpulency, he had nevertheless become thinner. Yet his form was still upright, muscular, and well-knit. In his calm moments, especially when he was alone, a slight shade of melancholy appeared upon his countenance, and he even sighed at times as he thought upon the past. These were the changes which the lapse of years had effected in regard to him, and the appliances of art rendered it still more difficult to recognize in the Mr. Hatfield of 1846, the rollicking Tom Rain of 1827. For his hair and whiskers were dyed a very dark hue, and his attire was a plain suit of black. Was he happy? Yes, to a certain extent, in spite of the shade of melancholy and the occasional size. His was a disposition originally so gay and joyous that it could not be completely subdued, only mellowed down. Years of rigorous integrity, boundless charity, never-failing philanthropy, and innumerable good deeds had established in his mind a confidence that the errors of his early life were fully expiated, and so complacently could he look upon the present that he no longer reproached himself for the past. This was the usual tenor of his mind. But as we have already hinted, there were now and then moody intervals in which thought became painful. These were, however, of no frequent occurrence, and thus on the whole we may assert that Mr. Hatfield was happy. The conduct of Lady Georgiana towards him, from the moment of their union, had been of an affectionate and touching nature. She studied to enact the part of the tender wife, the sincere friend, and the amiable woman, and she succeeded fully. Espousing him at first solely on account of their child, she soon began to like her husband, next to admire him, eventually to love him. She found him to be possessed of numerous good qualities, noble and generous feelings, and sentiments far more refined than she could possibly have anticipated. The terms on which he lived with her, therefore, aided in ensuring his happiness, and the fine principles as well as handsome appearance of their son, were a source of profound delight to them both. Mr. D. Medina had died possessed of great wealth, one half of which was bequeathed to Mr. Hatfield. This amount, joined to Lady Hatfield's fortune, rendered them very wealthy, and their riches were almost doubled by the demise of Sir Ralph Walsingham, Georgiana's uncle, who left them all his fine estates. Thus their income might be calculated at thirty thousand a year, and no inconsiderable portion of this splendid revenue was devoted to humane and charitable purposes. When Sir John LaSalle entered the library, as above stated, Mr. Hatfield hastened to welcome him with all the affectionate assiduity of a son receiving a visit from a kind and venerable parent. And the worthy physician evidently experienced a greater elasticity of feeling towards Mr. Hatfield than to any other friend whom he possessed on earth. The one could never forget that he owed his life to the science of the doctor. The other looked on Hatfield as a person whom he had actually restored to the world, and as a living proof of the triumph which had crowned long years of research in respect to a particular study. My dear friend said Sir John LaSalle when they were both seated. I have just witnessed a spectacle that I must candidly admit to have been very gratify. The English are a most generous-hearted people, and are quick also in the appreciation of sterling merit. The Earl's name was just now coupled with the shouts of applause that welcomed the Prince of Montoni. I'm rejoiced to hear these tidings, observed Mr. Hatfield. Indeed, it struck me as the sounds of the myriad voices reached my ears in the seclusion of this room, remote though it be from the apartment once you have just come. It struck me, I say, that I heard my brother's name mentioned. For nineteen years has Arthur now struggled in the interests of the middle and industry's classes. Session after session has he passed in review the miseries and the wrongs endured by the sons and daughters of Toil. And what has he experienced from the several administrations which have succeeded each other during that period? Though wigs and tories have held the reins of power in their turns, the treatment received by my brother has been uniformly the same. The most strenuous opposition to all his grant proposals has been offered. And when some trifling point has been conceded, it was as if a boon were conferred instead of an act of justice done. But although Arthur has thus failed in inducing the government to adopt large and comprehensive measures for the relief, benefit, and elevation of the industry's classes, he has at least succeeded in giving such an impetus to liberal sentiments out of doors, beyond the walls of the Senate House, that he has taught millions to think who never thought before upon their political condition. Though baffled in the legislative assembly, though thwarted by the old school of aristocracy and the supporters of those vile abuses which are summed up in the phrase the landed interest, though opposed with unmitigated hostility by the worshipers of the wisdom of our ancestors. Nevertheless, Arthur has returned undaunted to the charge. Never disheartened, never cast down, always courageous in the people's cause, he has fearlessly exposed the rottenness of our antiquated institutions, and mercilessly torn away the veil from our worn-out systems. The millions recognize and appreciate his conscientious, his unawaried strivings in their behalf, and they adore him as their champion. Unassuming, honest, and free from all selfishness as he is, it must nevertheless have been a proud moment for my brother when he heard his name associated ear now with that of the illustrious prince who achieved the liberation of Castlesicola beneath the walls of Montoni. The gratitude of the industrious classes is the most welcome reward that a well-intentioned and true patriot can possibly experience, observed Sir John Lacell. The earl certainly seemed pleased with the high but merited compliment thus paid to him, although not for one minute did he seek it when he appeared at the balcony. For I noticed that he rather endeavored to conceal himself behind the window curtain. But speaking of the prince, he is a very handsome young man. The Castlesicolons absolutely worship him, said Mr. Hatfield, and they look upon him as in every way fitted to succeed the Grand Duke Alberto, whenever death shall snatch away that great and enlightened sovereign from the throne. It was in the Castlesicolin capital that poor Jacob Smith breathed his last. Was it not? inquired the physician. Yes, in the suburbs of Montoni, answered Mr. Hatfield. As you are well aware, the poor youth never recovered the shock which he sustained on learning that he owed his being to that dreadful man, Benjamin Bones, and the horrible way in which that remorseless wretch died augmented the weight of the fearful blow caused by that discovery. Jacob scarcely ever rallied, scarcely ever held up his head afterwards. The only gleam of happiness which he knew was afforded by the good tidings that we received relative to the Bunces. And even that was insufficient to sustain his drooping spirit. He languished away. For six years he pined in sorrow, accessible to no consolation that travelling, change of scenery, or our attentions could impart. It was several years before the Great Revolution, which, conducted by Richard Markham, gave freedom to Castlesicola and raised up that hero to a princely rank. It was some years before this glorious era that Jacob Smith, for he always retained that name, breathed his last. We buried him in a picturesque cemetery on the banks of the River Fereti and across, according to the custom of that Catholic country, was placed to mark his last home. Poor fellow exclaimed the doctor. He was always sickly, and the discovery of his hideous parentage for so weak a constitution. And now let us turn to another subject. Have you received the letters which you expected concerning the various individuals? I know to whom you allude, interrupted Mr. Hatfield. And I have now before me, he added, glancing at several letters, the correspondence relating to those persons. Timothy Splint still remains the occupants of a fine farm in the backwoods of the United States. And the last nineteen years of his existence have proved the sincere penitence which he feels for the crimes of his earlier days. He possesses a competency, if not positive wealth. By his marriage with the daughter of a neighbouring settler, he has a numerous family, and he brings up his children in the ways of morality and virtue. Indeed, I am well aware that he has lived to bless the period when he went through the ordeal of the subterranean dungeon. You prophesied that he would, exclaimed Sir John LaCelle. Yes, those were the very words which you used when speaking of him to me nineteen years ago. I recollect them perfectly. For age has not impaired my memory, thank heaven. I now come to Joshua Peddler, resumed Mr. Hatfield. You will remember, my dear doctor, that this man and his wife Matilda were appointed to the charge of the Eddystone Lighthouse. There they remained for six or seven years. They were appointed to this effect a long time ago. Yes, and then you sent them out as emigrants to Canada, interrupted Sir John LaCelle, and they continued to do well. What say your last accounts concerning them? They are still happy, contented, and prosperous, answered Mr. Hatfield. Their shop at Quebec thrives admirably, and they have managed to put by several hundred pounds. Peddler says that the sweetest bread has been that which he has earned by his honest toils. I have reason to feel convinced, moreover, that he is kind and good towards his wife, and that his only regret is they're not having any children. And the Bunces are still living in St. Petersburg after having acquired a competency in the island of Sark, inquired the physician. Yes, they are still in the capital of Guernsey, was the response. Bunce tells me in his letter that his wife's health does not improve. In fact, she doubtless received a cruel shock when she heard of the death of Jacob Smith. For it had been her hope that he might someday take up his abode with her and her husband. A hope which she however nourished in secret. Bunce himself has never learned the real parentage of Jacob, I believe, said the physician. Indeed, I remember you told me the other day that his wife, always bearing in mind the injunctions you conveyed to her through Mrs. Harding, had retained in secret her former illicit connection with Benjamin Bones. Yes, it was useless to make a revelation which would only have troubled their domestic peace, said Mr. Hadfield. Harding devined the hope that the woman had formed relative to Jacob, and in his letters he communicated his ideas to me. But even if death had spared Jacob, he would not have quitted me. No, not though it were to dwell with his own mother. And Jeffries asked the physician, what of him? He is well pleased that he removed last summer from Hackney to Liverpool. The money he had saved during a period of eighteen years at his shop in the London suburb, enabled him to take a very handsome establishment in the great commercial town in the north. And he is carrying on a large and flourishing business. Thus in every instance save that of old death have you succeeded in reclaiming those wicked people whose reform can hand, said Sir John LaCelle. Tidmarsh died tranquilly in his bed in the island of Alderney, and the others still exist, worthy members of society. With these words the physician rose and took his leave. And almost immediately after he had quitted the library the Earl of Ellingham entered, closing the door behind him with the caution of one who has some important or mysterious communication to make. Arthur, you have evil tidings for me? exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, advancing towards his noble half-brother. Nay, they can scarcely be called evil, Thomas was the reply, and yet twid perhaps have been better. Speak, keep me not in suspense, interrupted the other. Charles, your son. Ah, he has discovered his parentage, cried Hatfield. Yes, I am sure that this is the circumstance which you came to communicate. And he walked twice up and down the room in an agitated manner. Then, suddenly turning towards his brother, he said, how did this occur, Arthur? The Earl related the incidents just as it had taken place, not forgetting the short but impressive dialogue which he had with his own daughter, Lady Francis, respecting the sudden and accidental revelation of the secret of Charles Hatfield's birth. After all, I am not sorry that this has so happened, observed the son's half-brother. Sooner or later the truth must have been confided to my son, my dear son. And since the secret may still be preserved in respect to the world and to those whom we would not wish to become acquainted with it. Sir John Lassell himself does not even suspect it, interrupted Arthur. It is known but to our immediate family, and George Anna's honor is as safe as ever it was. The breath of scandal cannot reach it. Thanks, my dear brother. A thousand thanks for this assurance, exclaimed Mr. Hatfield. And now let my son come hither to embrace me as his father. But, Arthur, he added, sinking his voice to a low and solemn tune. Let him not inquire into the motives which induced his parents to envelop his birth in mystery, and join him to forbear from any attempt to gratify his curiosity in that respect. I hope, indeed I believe that you have no painful ordeal literature to apprehend, replied the Earl of Allingham. And having thus spoken, he quitted the library. Two minutes elapsed, during which Mr. Hatfield once more paced the apartment in an agitated manner. For, knowing the fine spirit of his son, he trembled, lest it should be checked or even broken by the mortifying suspicion that he was illegitimate. A falsehood is abhorrent to me, he thought within himself, and yet, respecting his birth, I dare not avow the truth. I must not confess to my own son that his being resulted from an atrocious outrage perpetrated by myself. Nor must I permit him to suspect the honour of his mother. Silence on my part, I now perceive, would engender such suspicion in respect to her, and she must not lose one particle of the dignity of virtue in the eyes of her own offspring. Alas, painful position, and oh, with what foolish and short-sighted haste did I here now affirm that I was not sorry for the discovery which he had made. At this moment the door opened, and Charles sprang forward into his father's arms, which were extended to receive him. For some minutes they remained silent, each too profoundly the prey to ineffable emotions to give utterance to a syllable. I am proud, I am rejoiced to be able to call you by the sacred name Father, at length exclaimed Charles, speaking with the abrupt loosening of the tongue which was caused by a sudden impulse. But are you, are you well pleased that accident should have thus revealed to me? Charles, my dear boy, interrupted Mr. Hatfield, summoning all his firmness to his aid. You must be aware that weighty reasons, the weightiest reasons, could alone have induced your mother and myself to practice a deception towards you and the world in respect to the degree of relationship in which you really stood with regard to us. Is it sufficient for you to know at last that you are our son? Or do you demand of me an explanation wherefore you must still pass as our nephew? Oh, then Lord Ellingham spoke truly as he brought me hither just now, cried Charles, in a tone of vexation. Then, in another moment brightening up, he added feelingly, but by what right do I dare to question the conduct of parents who have ever treated me so kindly? No, my dear father, I seek not any explanation at your hands. I am content to obey your wishes in all things. Generous youth, exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, though you must pass as my nephew, Charles, yet in all respects shall you continue to be treated as my son. You were doubtless aware that I am rich, very rich, and all that your mother and myself possess is bequeathed to you. One word, father, only one word cried Charles. I have an ardent longing to ask a single question, and yet I dare not, no, I cannot tutor my lips to frame the words. Speak, said Mr. Hatfield, emphatically, I can almost divine the question you hesitate to put to me. Ah, my dear father, I would rather know the truth at once than remain in suspense. I pray to a thousand wild conjectures, the truth regarding one point, and only one, repeated the young man, in an earnest and imploring tone. And imagine not, he continued, speaking with increased warmth and rapidity, that I should ever look less lovingly or less respectfully upon my dear mother if set that suspicion at rest, my son, interrupted Mr. Hatfield in a solemn manner. Your mother has ever been an angel of innocence and purity. As God is my judge, she has never been guilty of weakness or frailty. No, never. Never, he added emphatically. And therefore no stigma is upon my birth? asked Charles, his heart palpitating, or rather fluttering violently as he awaited the response. None, replied his father, with an effort which was, however, unnoticed by the young man in the excitement of his own feelings. God be thanked, exclaimed he, ringing Mr. Hatfield's hand in gratitude for this assurance. And now I seek to learn no more. End of section 12 Recording by Brian Keenan Section 13 of Mysteries of London, Volume 4 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Brian Keenan Mysteries of London, Volume 4, by George W. M. Reynolds Two of the reader's old friends. Bucklersbury, a tortuous street, leading from Cheepside to Wallbrook, a bounds and dining rooms where for 15 pence the city man can procure a meal somewhat on the cheap and nasty principle. There is 10 pence for a plate of meat cut off a joint, two pence a pint of porter, a penny potatoes, a penny bread, and a penny the waiter. The moment a person enters one of these establishments and seats himself at a table, a waiter with a dirty apron to his waist and a ditto napkin over his arm rushes up and gabbles through the bill of fare just in the same rapid and unintelligible manner as an oath is administered to a juryman or a witness in a court of justice. It was while the preceding scenes were taking place at the west end of London that two gentlemen lounged a dining room in Buckler's Berry and took their places, facing each other, had one of the numerous little tables that were spread with dirty cloths and strewn in a random fashion with knives, forks, salt-sellers, pepper-boxes, and vinegar-cruits, all in preparation for the afternoon's process of feeding. Scarcely had the two gentlemen thus brought themselves to an anchor when the waiter darted up to them as if the necessity of speed were a matter of life or death and, heedless whether the visitors were attending to him or not, the domestic functionary hurried over the list of delicacies at that moment in readiness in the kitchen. Roast beef, piled beef, roast leg of pork, piled leg of pork and peas pudding, filet of veal and am, beef steak pie, piled leg of mutton and capersarse, greens, cauliflower and taters. Give your orders, gentlemen! But were the rapidity of the waiter's utterance properly represented in print, his repetition of the bill of fare would more properly stand thus. Roast beef, piled beef, roast leg of pork, piled leg of pork and peas pudding, filet of veal and am, beef steak pie, piled leg of mutton and capersarse, greens, cauliflower and taters. Give your orders, gentlemen! Well, what shall we have, old fellow? said the younger gentleman of the two to his companion. P. Jasis, and it's after boiled leg of pork and peas pudding that I am, my friend, was the emphatic reply, delivered with a ferocious look at the waiter, as much as to let that individual know that he had better not have any of his nonsense, although nothing was farther from the poor devil's thoughts at the moment. Very good, sir, cried the waiter. Piled pork and peas pudding, he shouted out for the behoof of the young lady within the bar, at the remote end of the room. And the same for me, said the Irishman's companion. Same for a gentle man, followed the waiter, again addressing himself to the young lady just alluded to. Ale or stout, gentle men! Porter, a pite, exclaimed the ferocious hibernian. Pale ale, for me, intimated his friend. Pied a porter, and pied pale ale for a gentle man, vociferated the waiter. Vegetables, bread, he next demanded. No bread, greens, ejaculated the Irishman. Bread and potatoes, for me, said his companion. One bread, one greens, one taters, for a gentle man, cried the waiter, thus conveying his last instructions to the young lady who officiated at the bar. And the said young lady sent each fresh order down a pipe communicating with the kitchen. Her own voice being as affected, and her manner as lackadaisical as the waiter was natural, rapid, and bustling. But before the various luxuries thus commanded were hoisted from the kitchen to the bar, by means of the movable dumb-waiter that worked up and down between the two places just mentioned, we must pause to inform our readers, if indeed they have not already suspected the fact, that the two visitors to the dining establishment in Bucklarsbury were our old friends Captain Oblunderbuss and Mr. Francis Curtis. The gallant Irishman had now numbered sixty-four years, and although the lapse of time had rendered his head completely bald, and turned his whiskers and mustachios to a bright silver, the ferocity of his aspect remained unaltered, and his fiery disposition was unsubdued. He was still the terrible Captain Oblunderbuss, ready to exchange shots with anyone and on all occasions, and more devoted to protein than ever. His form was as erect as when in the prime of life, and his military coat, all frogged and braided, was buttoned over an ample chest that no stoop had contracted. The Captain had grown somewhat stouter than when we took leave of him nineteen years previously to our present date, but his physical strength seemed to have remained unimpaired. Frank Curtis was now forty-three. He also had filled out as the phrase is, but his countenance in fattening had lost nothing of its ignoble expression of self-sufficiency and impudent conceit, and his manner was as flippant as ever. Neither had he laid aside any portion of his mendacious habits, but had rather added there too by varying the style of his boastings and the nature of his lies. He continued to dress in a flashy way, delighting in a hat of strange appearance, and in a waistcoat concentrating in a yard of stuff all the colors which have existence and name upon earth. We must, however, admit for the truth cannot be blinked in this respect, that there was a certain air of seediness about both the Captain and Mr. Frank Curtis, which neither the bullying insolence of the former nor the impertinent self-sufficiency of the latter could altogether throw into the shade. It was evident that they had lost the confidence of their tailors and hatters and even of their washerwomen, for their garments might have been less threadbare and their wristbands a trifle cleaner. We say wristbands because those were the only portions of their shirts which met the eye. The Captain's frog coat and Mr. Curtis's breasted waistcoat being each buttoned up to its owner's throat. Waiter post-sufferated the gallant officer when about a minute and a half had elapsed from the time that the orders had been given for the repast. Yes, sir, coming, sir, cried the functionary thus addressed, as he hurried away in quite another direction. Beatrice's ejaculated the Captain, thumping his fist so vigorously down upon the table that the pepper-box danced the polka with the mustard-pot, and the knives and forks performed a party-quatter. Has that boiled pork and pays pudding after coming to-day at all, at all? Just coming, sir, said the waiter, under no excitement whatever, though in an immense bustle, for waiters always remain cool and imperturbable when most in a hurry. If I don't come in seven seconds, you villain, thunder the Captain, I'll skin you alive. Very good, sir, said the waiter, as he hastened to attend upon some newcomers. The beauty of the French eating-houses is that the moment you order things, they appear on the table by magic, observed Frank Curtis, in a tone loud enough to let everyone present know that he had been in France. When I was in Paris, on that secret mission from the English government, you know, Captain, Beatrice's, and I remember quite well, exclaimed the gallant officer, it was at the same time that I went to offer my sword and services to the Emperor of the Turhurks, my main? Just so, said Frank. Well, as I was going to tell you, two bile-pork, two peas-pudding, for gentle men, cried the waiter at this juncture, as he set the plates upon the table, one bread, one greens, one taters, for gentle men, the Captain and Mr. Curtis fell to work upon the delicacies thus placed before them, and after an interval of silence, during which the boiled pork and etc. has disappeared with rapid rapidity, the latter leaning across the table, said in a low whisper, it was a deuce-lucky thing that I met my friend's styles just now, for if he hadn't lent me the sovereign, we might have gone without dinner, as well as without breakfast. Beatrice said, that's true enough, Frank, returned the gallant officer, likewise, in Satopache. Where did he appoint to mate Mr. Stiles again this afternoon? At a nice quiet little public that the capital spirits, answered Mr. Curtis. Ah, the true poutine, the rail-creature, said the Captain. Well, that's a blessing at all events. And be chaseless, I hope your friend Mr. Stiles will be after putting us up to do something, as he suggested, for be the powerers. Frank, it's hard work looking about for the sinews of war. Stiles is a splendid fellow, Captain, replied Mr. Curtis, smacking his lips after his last glass of pale ale, or pale ale, as the waiter denominated it. Why, God bless you, it was him who got up the London and Paris Balloon Conveyance Company with parachute branches to Dover and Calais. And how came it to fail, demanded the gallant officer. Simply because it was never meant to succeed, answered Frank, in a matter of fact way. The object was to make money by showing the balloons and parachutes that were to be used in the business. As long as curiosity was kept alive, Stiles cleared upwards of five guineas a day by the admissions at a shilling ahead. Ah, he's a clever fellow, a deuced clever fellow, I can tell you. But it's pretty near time we went to meet him, for, though he hasn't anything particular to do at present, he always pretends to be in a hurry, and never waits one minute over the hour for an appointment. That's the way he has got himself the character of a man of punctuality and business habits. Waiter! Coming, sir, cried the functionary, thus adjured. Then, rushing up to the table, he said interrogatively, Cheese, gentlemen? No. What's to pay? demanded Curtis. The waiter enumerated the items in a rapid manner and mentioned the amount, which was forthwith discharged by Frank, who ostentatiously threw down a sovereign as if he had plenty more of the same kind of coin in his pocket. On receiving his change, he gave the waiter six pence, a specimen of liberality which induced that discriminating personage to disregard all the other demands made at the moment upon his services, until he had duly escorted the two gentlemen to the door. Upon quitting the dining rooms, Captain Oblunderbus and Mr. Frank Curtis proceeded arm in arm into Cheepside. And, on catching a glimpse of the clock of Boe Church, the latter gentlemen said, We are in lots of time. It's only half past two and we are to meet styles at three at a public and fleet street. So we didn't gallop along as if a troop of sheriff's officers were at our heels. P. Chase, do you remember what fine fun we had with the snaking scoundrels up in Baker Street? cried the gallant officer. Why, it must be upwards of twenty years ago, or nineteen at the latest. Yes. And do you remember what larks we had in the bench, too, during the time when the commissioners remanded me for? said Curtis. Be the holy pokerer. And I've forgotten nothing of all that same, ejaculated the Captain. But it was a sad blow to you, my friend, when Sir Christopher died without leaving any single sixpence. I can't bear to think of it, Captain, although a dozen years or more have passed since then. But who do you think I saw the other day, riding in her carriage, just as if she had been a lady all her life? And you mean Sir Christopher's wife that was? exclaimed the gallant officer. Had she got the fine stout livery servant standing up behind as usual? Yes. And young Blunt was inside, added Curtis. He's as like the stout footman as ever a lad was to a middle-aged man in this world. The same pudding face, sandy hair, stupid-looking eyes. Now be the powerers. I think you're too hard upon the footman, Frank, interrupted the Captain. I don't say, for instance, that he's so handsome as you, my dear friend, or yet so well-made as me, Frank. Very far from it, Captain, cried Mr. Curtis. I don't think that we're the worst-looking chaps in Sheepside at this moment. That's exactly what Stiles said to us this morning. I want a couple of gentile fellows like you, says he, to join me in something that I have in hand. We're the very boys to co-operate with him, Frank, exclaimed the Captain. And what's more, you and me can play into each other's hands. It isn't for nothing that we've been friends for the last twenty years. In which time we've seen many ups and downs, Captain, observed Frank, had many a good dinner, and gone many a time without one, spent many a guinea, and seen many a day when we didn't know where the devil to get a shilling. Be the powerers, and had many a rare lark into the bargain, said Captain Oblunderbuss. I can't remember our getting into the station house the night after your dear wife left you to join the old gentleman that fell in love with her, and who was kind enough to take her off my hands, children and all, exclaimed Frank, laughing heartily. Ah, that was a glorious business, that was. I mean, old, shipply, relieving me of my dear spouse, and the five responsibilities. And didn't I conduct the bargain for you? demanded the Captain. Didn't I make him pony down a thousand pounds to prevent an action of crim con? Be the poutine of old Ireland. I did that same business as Nathan Klein as ever such a thing was settled in this world. True enough, Captain, said Frank. But as just on the stroke of three, I declare, he exclaimed, glancing up at St. Brides, which they were now passing. How we must have dawdled along. I wish you wouldn't loiter to stare at the gals, so, Captain, he added, laughing. Be chaseless, and it's yourself, Frank, that ogles all the lasses that we made, cried the Captain, throwing back an insinuation that was intended as a friendly compliment. But which is the place, me boy? Here, said Curtis, turning into a public house in Fleet Street, just as the clock struck three. End of Section 13, recording by Brian Keenan. Section 14 of Mysteries of London, Volume 4 This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Steven Seidel. Mysteries of London, Volume 4 by George W. M. Reynolds. A Man of Business. Mr. Bubbleton Stiles was a gentleman of about 50 years of age, short, thin, dapper, and active, with a high, bald forehead and small, restless, twinging eyes, he seemed a perfect man of business, an impression that was enhanced by a certain sly knowingness which he had assumed years before and which was now habitual to him. He was uneducated and ignorant, but he had studied the manner in which well-instructed persons spoke, he compared their language with his own, and he had actually weeded his style of speech of the solicisms and grammatical errors that originally characterized it. He had not, however, been able to improve himself in spelling with equal facility, and therefore he took care never to write a letter. He always had some plausible excuse for throwing this duty in business matters upon some other person more competent than himself. Astute and cunning he forbore from touching on topics which he did not understand, but if the conversation did turn in spite of his endeavors and his commentary on subjects whereof he was ignorant he so artfully managed his observations that even those who knew him well were far from suspecting that he was otherwise than profoundly acquainted with a matter under discussion. Everybody thought him a very shrewd fellow and he had a habit of looking so knowing and critical when anyone was speaking that his opinion, when subsequently backed and deemed an authority. The reader may therefore perceive that Mr. Bubbleton's styles was a thoroughman of the world. He took care never to commit himself. In small money transactions he was always regular and correct. He therefore escaped the imputation of meanness and actually acquired, at a cheap rate, the denomination of an honorable character. The consequence was that he failed, which was very often indeed in large transactions he was considered merely as a spirited but unsuccessful speculator, never as a dishonest person. He had an office in the city, but were any of his friends to ask what his styles the answer would be a vague generality such as, oh, he is a cityman you know, engaged in business and all that. A reply leaving the inquirer just as wise as he was before. And yet, at his office there were all the symptoms and evidence of business. A letter box at the door, a clerk engaged in writing at the desk, a pile of letters here, and a heap of account books there, samples of many kinds of goods on the mantel and shelves, mysterious looking bales and hampers on the floor, files covered with dingy papers like invoices and bills of lading and the words, bills for acceptance, labeled over a slit in the board work that enclosed the desk. Thus the place had a very business-like aspect and yet no one could define what was the precise nature of the business carried on there. But we have traveled to Mr. Bubbleton's style's offices in Crosby Hall chambers, whereas Mr. Bubbleton's styles himself is just now in a tavern parlor in Fleet Street. The clock had just begun to strike three as Captain O. Blunderbus and Mr. Frank Curtis entered the public house, and by the time they reached the aforesaid parlor it was six seconds past three. There sat Mr. Bubbleton's styles with his silver watch in his hand and gazing at the Dutch clock over the mantelpiece as if he were anxiously comparing the two dials and found himself much put out because there happened to be a slight difference between them. If I thought it was my watch that was wrong, he said aloud, apparently an amusing manner, but really because he caught a glimpse of the entrance of Curtis and Blunderbus at the moment and he never lost an opportunity of impressing even his best friends with an idea of equality. If I thought it was my watch that was wrong I would trample it to pieces beneath my heel. No, don't do that, old fellow! exclaimed Frank, advancing toward him. Much better, give it to me! I would not do anything so prejudicial to a friend as present him with a watch that went irregularly. Returned Mr. Styles in a solemn tone. But the fault is not with my watch, I am convinced. My watch lies with that rascally old clock. However you are only six seconds after your time. I should have allowed you the full minute and then I should have waited no longer. Come, sit down, Curtis. Captain O'Blunderbus, sit down. I have just one hour to devote to you. As the clock strikes for I must be off. What will you take? Bolting for me, if you please, said the gallant officer. For me, observed Frank. And wine and water for me added Mr. Bubbleton Styles. I never take spirits until after supper. The various beverages required were immediately ordered and supplied and the three gentlemen proceeded to business, the parlor at the tavern or rather public-house being occupied only by themselves at the moment. Well, old fellows, and Mr. Frank Curtis addressing himself to Mr. O'Blunderbus, what good thing can you put us up to? A speculation that will enrich us all three, replied the gentleman this appeal to. I do not mind telling you that I have been rather unfortunate lately in one or two enterprises and I want something to set me square again. I have a few bills coming due in a couple or three months and I would not have them dishonored on any account. No mean milk-scores, no peddling affairs. I always avoid them. Still, I must make a bold stroke for the sake of my larger transactions and I presume that neither of you are averse to earning a little money easily and speedily. Ah, and be jesus, that's the most welcome thing you could be after saying to me, my ferned, exclaimed the captain, surveying the speculator with deep admiration. Now, continued Mr. Stiles, I have been thinking that we three can work the oracle well together and I propose, what! demanded Mr. Curtis anxiously. Hold your tongue and have patience, Frank, ejaculated the gallant officer. It shall be your turn to speak pristently. Well, sir, and what is it then that you're after proposing? A railway, returned Mr. Bubbleton Stiles. Devil, a better idea could you have formed, cried the captain enthusiastically. Glorious, exclaimed Curtis, in an equally impassioned tone of approval. Don't be excited, take things calmly in a business-like way, said Mr. Bubbleton Stiles. It is now twenty minutes past three. We have forty minutes more to converse upon the subject. Much may be done in that time. Here, continued the speculator, the skeleton map of England from Miss Pocket and spreading it on the table, you see this line drawn almost longitudinally from one end of Great Britain to the other? Well, that is my projected railway. You perceive we start from Beechie Head and Sussex, right on as straight as we can go to Cape Wrath on the northern coast of Scotland. Of course, we avoid as much as possible placing any portion of our line in competition with railways already existing, but we shall have branches to all the principal cities and manufacturing towns and single lines wherever they may be asked for. Capital, be jesus, exclaimed the hibernian officer, unable to restrain the exuberance of his delight at this magnificent scheme. And by what title do you mean to call this pretty little bandling of yours, Mr. Stiles? The grand British longitudinal railway answered the speculator in measured and emphatic manner. The captain was so elated by the grandeur and vast comprehensiveness of this denomination that he rang the bell with furious excitement and ordered the waiter to replenish the glasses. Now, continued Mr. Bubbleton's styles, having expounded my views it is necessary to take into consideration the mode of procedure. Of course, I am the promoter of the scheme, and tomorrow I shall register it. This will only cost five pounds and then the thing is secured to us, provisionally registered pursuant to seven and eight Victoria, Cap 110, and so forth. Capital, eight million pounds in four hundred thousand shares of twenty pounds each deposit two pounds to shillings per share. Frank must be secretary, and you, captain, consulting engineer. Is it an engineer you'd be after making me in my old age?" cried the Gallant Officer. For be the powers! I forgot more than I ever knew of that same. Oh, the place will be quite a sine cure. Good pay and nothing to do, said Mr. Stiles. We shall have a regular engineer as a matter of course. But it will look businesslike to speak in their prospectus of having secured the valuable services of that eminent military engineer, Captain O. Blunderbuss of Blunderbuss Park, Ireland, who, having surveyed the whole of the proposed line in concert with the company's civil engineer, has reported most favorably of the scheme and has offered suggestions which will produce a saving to the company of nearly half a million in the progress of the works. This is the way to manage business, gentlemen, added Mr. Stiles, glancing in a satisfied manner at his two companions, one after another. Then, looking at his watch, he exclaimed, oh, just ten minutes more to stay and I must be off. Now, we have settled that I am to be the promoter, you, Curtis, are to be secretary, and you, Captain, consulting engineer. This evening I will draw up the prospectus. We must have oh, about thirty good names for the provisional committee and by tomorrow afternoon the document will be printed and ready. You will not have time to call on the people to ask them to let you put down their names, said Frank Curtis, conceiving at the moment that his friend was going on a trifle too fast. Nonsense, my dear fellow, exclaimed Mr. Bubbleton Stiles. I know that I can take the liberty of using the names of at least half my intended provisional committeemen, and the others will not think of contradicting the prospectus when they see that we have got Mr. Podgson as chairman. What? Podgson? cried Mr. Curtis, almost wild with joy and surprise. You don't mean to say that you've got Podgson? Not yet, answered the speculator, with his characteristic coolness, but I shall have him by this time tomorrow. I thought you had not spoken of your scheme to a soul before you met me and the captain this morning. Neither had I, and Podgson is totally unaware at this moment that such a project is in existence, interrupted Mr. Stiles calmly and deliberately. But I know how to deal with him. I have read his character from a distance, and although I have never yet exchanged a word with him in my life, depend upon it. I shall hook him as our chairman before I am twenty-four hours older. Three minutes more, cried the speculator. Then, as if to make the most of the hundred and eighty seconds it is disposal, Mr. Stiles closed the present interview in the following business-like and highly gratifying manner. You are both as shabby as you well can be, and you must obtain new clothes as soon as possible. Here is a ten-pound note for each of you. Moreover, you must get respectable lodgings at once, and you can give a reference to me. Tomorrow, at three o'clock punctually, there will be chops and sherry and readiness at my office, and I shall expect you both. Not a moment before three, remember, because you will be interrupting me, and if you are a moment after, I shall decline any farther transactions with you. So, good-bye, I have not time to shake hands. Thus speaking, Mr. Stiles rushed from the room, it being four o'clock to an instant, and it is perhaps as well to observe that this perfect man of business had only made an appointment with his friends at the public house in Fleet Street because he had another gentleman to meet in the neighborhood at six minutes past four. End of section fourteen.