12 was our friend the carpenter--he had then examined the premises; and had seen that they were easily accessible by the back drawing-room window, which looked out on the wash-house roof--finally, he had ascertained that the two watchmen appointed to guard the town, performed that duty by going to bed regularly at eleven o'clock, and leaving the town to guard itself; the whole affair was perfectly easy--too easy in fact for anybody but a young beginner.
'Now, Benjamin,' said Chummy Dick, in conclusion--'mind this: no wiolence! Take your swag quiet, and you takes it safe. Wiolence is sometimes as bad as knockin' up a whole street--wiolence is the downy cracksman's last kick-out when he's caught in a fix. Fust and foremost, you've got your mask,' (here he pulled out a shabby domino mask,) wery good; nobody can't swear to you in that. Then, you've got your barker,' (he produced a pistol,) 'just to keep 'em quiet with the look of it, and if that won't do, there's your gag and bit o' rope' (he drew them forth,) 'for their mouths and 'ands. Never pull your trigger, till you see another man ready to pull his. Then you must make your row; and then you make it to some purpose. The nobs in our business--remember this, young Grimes!--always takes the swag easy; and when they can't take it easy, they takes it as easy as they can. That's visdom--the visdom of life!'
'Why thee bean't a-going, man?' asked Benjamin in astonishment, as the philosophical housebreaker abruptly moved towards the door.
'Me and you must'nt be seen together, tomorrer,' said Chummy Dick, in a whisper. 'You let me alone: I've got business to do tonight--never mind wot! At eleven tomorrer night, you be at the cross roads that meets on the top of the common. Look out sharp; and you'll see me.'
'But if so be it do keep moonshiny,' suggested Grimes.
'On second thoughts, Benjamin,' said the housebreaker, after a moment's reflection, 'we'll risk all the moonshine as ever shone--High Street, Tidbury, ain't Bow Street, London!--we may risk it safe. Moon, or no moon, young Grimes! tomorrer night's our night!'
By this time he had walked out of the house. They separated at the door. The radiant moonlight falling lovely on all things, fell lovely even on them. How pure it was! how doubly pure, to shine on Benjamin Grimes and Chummy Dick, and not be soiled by the contact!
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VI During the whole remainder of Annie's birthday, Mr Wray sat at home, anxiously expecting the promised communication from the mysterious new pupil whose elocution wanted so much setting to rights. Though he never came, and never wrote, old Reuben still persisted in expecting him forthwith; and still waited for him as patiently the next morning, as he had waited the day before.
Annie sat in the room with her grandfather, occupied in making lace. She had learnt this art, so as to render herself, if possible, of some little use in contributing to the general support; and, sometimes, her manufacture actually poured a few extra shillings into the scantily filled family coffer. Her lace was not at all the sort of thing that your fine people would care to look at twice--it was just simple and pretty, like herself; and only sold (when it did sell, and that alas! was not often!) among ladies whose purses were very little better furnished than her own.
'Julius Caesar' was downstairs, in the back kitchen, making the all-important box--or, as the landlady irritably phrased it, 'making a mess about the house'. She was not partial to sawdust and shavings, and almost lost her temper when the glue pot invaded the kitchen fire. But work away, honest carpenter! work away, and never mind her! Get the mask of Shakespeare out of the old box, and into the new, before night comes; and you will have done the best day's work you ever completed in your life!
Annie and her grandfather had a great deal of talk about the Shakespeare cast, while they were sitting together in the drawing-room. If I were to report all old Reuben's rhapsodies and quotations during that period, I might fill the whole remaining space accorded to me in this little book. It was only once that the conversation varied at all. Annie just asked, by way of changing the subject a little, how a plaster cast was taken from the mould; and Mr Wray instantly went off at a tangent, in the midst of a new quotation, to tell her. He was still describing, for the second time, how the plaster and water were to be mixed, how the mixture was to be left to 'set', and how the mould was to be pulled off it, when the landlady, looking very hot and important, bustled into the room, exclaiming:--
'Mr Wray, sir! Mr Wray! Here's Squire Colebatch, of Cropley Court, coming upstairs to see you!' She then added, in a whisper: 'He's very hot-tempered and odd, sir, but the best gentleman in the world--'
'That will do, ma'am! that will do!' interrupted a hearty voice, outside the door. 'I can introduce myself; an old playwriter and an old play-actor don't want much introduction, I fancy! How are you, Mr Wray? I've come to make your acquaintance: how do you do, sir!'
Before the Squire came in, Mr Wray's first idea was that the young gentleman pupil had arrived at last--but when the Squire appeared, he discovered that he was mistaken. Mr Colebatch was an old gentleman with a very rosy face, with bright black eyes that twinkled incessantly, and with perfectly white hair, growing straight up from his head in a complete forest of venerable bristles. Moreover, his elocution wanted no improvement at all; and his 'delivery' proclaimed itself at once, as the delivery of a gentleman--a very eccentric one, but a gentleman still.
'Now, Mr Wray,' said the Squire, sitting down, and throwing open his greatcoat, with the air of an old friend; 'I've a habit of speaking to the point, because I hate ceremony and botheration. My name's Matthew Colebatch; I live at Cropley Court, just outside the town; and I come to see you, because I've had an argument about your character with the Reverend Daubeny Daker, the Rector here!'
Astonishment bereft Mr Wray of all power of speech, while he listened to this introductory address.
'I'll tell you how it was, sir,' continued the Squire. 'In the first place, Daubeny Daker's a canting sneak--a sort of fellow who goes into poor people's cottages, asking what they've got for dinner, and when they tell him, he takes the cover off the saucepan and sniffs at it, to make sure that they've spoken the truth. That's what he calls doing his duty to the poor, and what I call being a canting sneak! Well, Daubeny Daker saw your advertisement in Dunball's shop window. I must tell you, by-the-by, that he calls theatres the devil's houses, and actors the devil's missionaries; I heard him say that in a sermon, and have never been into his church since! Well, sir, he read your advertisement; and when he came to that part about improving clergymen at three-and-sixpence an hour (it would be damned cheap to improve Daubeny Daker at that price!) he falls into one of his nasty, cold-blooded, sneering rages, goes into the shop, and insists on having the thing taken down, as an insult offered by a vagabond actor to the clerical character--don't lose your temper, Mr Wray, don't, for God's sake--I trounced him about it handsomely, I can promise you! And now, what do you think that fat jackass Dunball did, when he heard what the parson said? Took your card down!--took it out of the window directly, as if Daubeny Daker was King of Tidbury, and it was death to disobey him!'
'My character, sir!' interposed Mr Wray.