The Newgate Jig Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Ann Featherstone
Certainly, he had given me the
trouble of mending my torn breeches and sponging away the foul clay which
stuck to them, and if I did, when we next traversed the wasteland, contemplate
the cutting and wonder if he had slid to the bottom of that terrible gulf and
his body was lying there under a heap of bricks, I was not inclined to enquire
further. In fact, if I had the inclination to worry, it was about myself and my
dogs and our future, for my every moment of leisure these days was spent in
sending out cards and letters to likely places (halls and pleasures gardens and
the like), and scanning the columns of the Era, just to keep track of my
competitors. There is one man, Mr John Matthews, who I regard as a keen rival,
and he is often favourably reported, with his excellent hound, 'Devilshoof'.
Matthews is a busy man, also, and has more strings to his fiddle than I, being
also an exhibition swordsman. What work he does not get with the dog in the
circus or theatre, he can make up for with his sabre on a military show. He is
a clever man, and no mistake. I wish I had his many skills.
Keeping
body and soul together in these uncertain times and trying to put a little by,
that was my constant worry. I was forever inventing new tricks for Brutus and
Nero, little novelties which were easy to learn, but would amuse and keep
spectators returning and asking for Chapman's Sagacious Canines. It was a
wearying time. My boys were quick scholars and diligent at their work and right
as ninepence after only an hour in the back-yard, but I was more often worn out
after a day's performing and ready for a cup of tea and a few pages of a
rollicking story before I answered the sweet siren-call of my mattress.
One evening, not many
weeks after the business with the boy, Mrs Gifford, our housekeeper at the
Aquarium, caught me as I was homeward-bound and waved a letter at me. I had
just finished my last show, had quickly rounded up my dogs and was on the
stairs, already contemplating supper in my own room with a nice little fire,
when I heard her footsteps behind me, and her 'Mr Chapman! A moment, please!' I
generally avoid her if I can, and would certainly rather stare at a blank wall
than meet her eye. But a glance at the folded note she held out made me as
close as snatch it from her. 'To Chapman, Aquarium, URGENT!!! By Hand.
URGENT!!!' quickly announced to me that its author was Trim, and within was the
simple instruction, 'Meet Cheshire Cheese. 11 sharp. Urgent. T.' It was unusual
for Trim to issue such a summons in such a way, but I was not about to reveal
that to Mrs Gifford. I held it close to my chest, read it once, twice, three
times, before I folded it carefully and put it in my pocket. I needn't have
bothered being so careful.
'I hope I wasn't the
bearer of bad news, Mr Chapman,' said Mrs Gifford, clinging to my back like a shadow
as I hurried down the stairs. I would have wagered a week's chink then that she
had already looked at the note, and when she forgot herself and said, 'The
Cheshire Cheese is not a respectable tavern, you know. And tonight there is an
auction in the yard, so it will be crowded,' of course no further proof was
needed. (She had, as Trim once remarked, the gall of the French.) She
continued, 'You should take care, Mr Chapman. It's a place that attracts the
light-fingered sort, so don't you go losing your handkerchief or those handsome
dogs of yours.'
Gifford was standing on
the next to bottom step of the big staircase at the Aquarium, with a bunch of
keys in her hand, and wearing that high-nosed look as though there was a bad
smell, and I was the cause of it. My dogs, waiting on either side of me, were
as still as headstones, though Nero gave a low growl, little more than a rumble
in his throat. But it didn't tell. She wasn't moved at all, though her mouth
drew itself into a thin line. 'You want to watch that dog, Mr Chapman,' said
she. 'It might turn nasty, and you wouldn't want the police taking it away
trouble of mending my torn breeches and sponging away the foul clay which
stuck to them, and if I did, when we next traversed the wasteland, contemplate
the cutting and wonder if he had slid to the bottom of that terrible gulf and
his body was lying there under a heap of bricks, I was not inclined to enquire
further. In fact, if I had the inclination to worry, it was about myself and my
dogs and our future, for my every moment of leisure these days was spent in
sending out cards and letters to likely places (halls and pleasures gardens and
the like), and scanning the columns of the Era, just to keep track of my
competitors. There is one man, Mr John Matthews, who I regard as a keen rival,
and he is often favourably reported, with his excellent hound, 'Devilshoof'.
Matthews is a busy man, also, and has more strings to his fiddle than I, being
also an exhibition swordsman. What work he does not get with the dog in the
circus or theatre, he can make up for with his sabre on a military show. He is
a clever man, and no mistake. I wish I had his many skills.
Keeping
body and soul together in these uncertain times and trying to put a little by,
that was my constant worry. I was forever inventing new tricks for Brutus and
Nero, little novelties which were easy to learn, but would amuse and keep
spectators returning and asking for Chapman's Sagacious Canines. It was a
wearying time. My boys were quick scholars and diligent at their work and right
as ninepence after only an hour in the back-yard, but I was more often worn out
after a day's performing and ready for a cup of tea and a few pages of a
rollicking story before I answered the sweet siren-call of my mattress.
One evening, not many
weeks after the business with the boy, Mrs Gifford, our housekeeper at the
Aquarium, caught me as I was homeward-bound and waved a letter at me. I had
just finished my last show, had quickly rounded up my dogs and was on the
stairs, already contemplating supper in my own room with a nice little fire,
when I heard her footsteps behind me, and her 'Mr Chapman! A moment, please!' I
generally avoid her if I can, and would certainly rather stare at a blank wall
than meet her eye. But a glance at the folded note she held out made me as
close as snatch it from her. 'To Chapman, Aquarium, URGENT!!! By Hand.
URGENT!!!' quickly announced to me that its author was Trim, and within was the
simple instruction, 'Meet Cheshire Cheese. 11 sharp. Urgent. T.' It was unusual
for Trim to issue such a summons in such a way, but I was not about to reveal
that to Mrs Gifford. I held it close to my chest, read it once, twice, three
times, before I folded it carefully and put it in my pocket. I needn't have
bothered being so careful.
'I hope I wasn't the
bearer of bad news, Mr Chapman,' said Mrs Gifford, clinging to my back like a shadow
as I hurried down the stairs. I would have wagered a week's chink then that she
had already looked at the note, and when she forgot herself and said, 'The
Cheshire Cheese is not a respectable tavern, you know. And tonight there is an
auction in the yard, so it will be crowded,' of course no further proof was
needed. (She had, as Trim once remarked, the gall of the French.) She
continued, 'You should take care, Mr Chapman. It's a place that attracts the
light-fingered sort, so don't you go losing your handkerchief or those handsome
dogs of yours.'
Gifford was standing on
the next to bottom step of the big staircase at the Aquarium, with a bunch of
keys in her hand, and wearing that high-nosed look as though there was a bad
smell, and I was the cause of it. My dogs, waiting on either side of me, were
as still as headstones, though Nero gave a low growl, little more than a rumble
in his throat. But it didn't tell. She wasn't moved at all, though her mouth
drew itself into a thin line. 'You want to watch that dog, Mr Chapman,' said
she. 'It might turn nasty, and you wouldn't want the police taking it away