James Greenwood: The True History of a Little Ragamuffin

“He told you to go into Bishopsgate for the shoes, didn’t you say?” asked he. “Did he mention any shop in particular?”

“No, sir.”

He went to the door and called in a private-clothes man.

“Take off one of your boots, my lad,” said he. “Jones,” (this to the constable,) “take this boot and this half-sovereign and buy a pair of light shoes the same size—light thin-sole shoes, with a single tie in front. Go to the first shop, and be quick about it. As you go past Martingale’s livery yard, tell them to send some light fastgoing trap round here in half an hour.”

I couldn’t make it all out. What was the light-going trap for? Why had the inspector sent for the shoes? If I was not going back to Keate Street any more I didn’t want the shoes; it seemed like throwing a good half-sovereign into the gutter.

“You’ve no ’casion to send for the shoes, sir,” I ventured to remark, “I don’t want ’em; my boots are werry good as yet.”

The inspector whispered to Mr. Tibbit, who left the room; and then he beckoned me towards him in a very kind and confidential manner.

“You are a sensible lad,” said he; “another little step the other way and it would have been all over with you. Thank your lucky stars you stepped this way. It will be the making of you. If you’ll only help us to finish this little bit of business neatly I give you my word that you shall be set up respectably for life. You want to get out of your present life and be made respectable, don’t you?”

“That’s what made me run away, sir,” I replied; “but I don’t see how I can do more’n I’ve done.”

“But I do,” observed the inspector, affably; “I see how you can help us exactly how we want helping. You can do so by making as much haste back to Keate Street, when the man comes back with your shoes as you possibly can.”

“Back to Keate Street! back to Long George!”

“Back to Long George, just as though nothing had happened; it is impossible for him to know that anything has happened, you know.”

“But what for, sir? What must I go back for?” I inquired, growing more and more alarmed at the depth to which the foot I had put into it, as the saying is, was sinking.

“Because we want this burglary to come off just as it would if you hadn’t found the pluck and sense to blow on it,” answered the inspector, positively winking at me in his excess of professional enthusiasm. “You ain’t a fool. You are wide awake enough to see what I want, and how I should like to have it brought about, I’m sure.”

“There’s no danger in it, you know; not the least in the world,” continued Mr. Inspector, seeing that I did understand what he wanted, but dreaded to entertain it. “Why, my dear fellow, where can the danger be? If you had gone with the burglars in the regular way, there might have been danger; no doubt, there would have been a pretty good amount of it; but now you don’t go to break the law, but to assist it, and don’t you be afraid but that the law will protect you. Take my word that from this time until the job’s over you won’t be lost sight of by the police for so long as a single minute.”

The inspector made this latter remark with peculiar emphasis, so as I suppose that I might quite understand that if I meditated playing the law a trick I should pretty soon find myself in the wrong box.

“But,” said I, “if I go back, what will Mrs. Hopkins say?”

“What odds what she says? All you’ve got to answer is that you have altered your mind, and don’t mean to run away; say that and no more, and stick to it. She’ll understand. She’s got her teeth into him, and she’ll hold on like a badger, no fear of that”

The latter part of this observation was spoken rather to himself than me by the inspector, as he once more dashed down a note in his memorandum-book. Just at that moment in came the policeman with the new shoes.

“Just try ’em on; ah! they’ll do: now be off; or he’ll begin to wonder what keeps you. Stop a moment, though,” and he laid his hand on my shoulder, “just one word with you,—may I trust you?”

He fixed his twinkling gray eyes on mine as he asked.

“Yes, sir; if you think it’s all right and it’ll be the better for me, and you’ll look arter me, you may trust me. I’ll do just what you’ve telled me.”

“Then that’s enough. All you’ve got to do is to go back, and if the woman asks you, tell her you’ve altered your mind. One word more. Unless I’m much mistaken you’ll find yourself being put through a small window-hole by and by. Don’t be afraid—when they put you through, you’ll find me there inside and waiting for you. It’ll be in the dark, no doubt, but you’ll know it’s me by my pulling your hair so—now be off.”

It would be quite useless my attempting to describe my sensations as I left the police-station and hurried back to Keate Street. I could think on nothing distinctly; through all, however, I preserved a dogged resolution to keep my word with the inspector, who had given me his promise—and the promise of an inspector of police was no slight matter—that I should be set up respectably for life if I did so. I was not at that time aware of the extent of the tremendous risk I was running, or it is very likely that I should have treated the Whitechapel police with no more respect than I had treated those of Ilford.

When I got back to Keate Street, Long George was gone out, and his housekeeper opened the door to me. I had thought that she would have evinced considerable surprise at seeing me return; but, after looking at me very hard she exclaimed lightly, very lightly indeed as it occurred to me when I afterwards thought about it:

“Back again, then, Jim?”

“Yes ’m; I’ve altered my mind.”

“That’s right,” said she, quite cheerfully; “I was looking for you to come back again.”

“Didn’t you want me, to go away then, mum? What made you say you wanted me to if you didn’t?”

“Of course I wanted you to come back if you saw fit to alter your mind,” replied she, laughing in an odd sort of way that made me feel extremely uncomfortable.

A few minutes afterwards she suddenly asked me:

“What was the name of that place at Fulham I told you of last night, Jim?”

“Prescot House,” I answered, readily. I had repeated it too frequently that morning not to have it at the tip of my tongue when called for.

“Yes. And the names of the two men who join George in the job?”

“Twiner and Johnny Armitage.”

“That’s the ticket,” she observed once more, laughing her odd laugh; “ you’re the chap to let into a secret, no fear of your forgetting it;—or losing it either, eh, Jim?”

I could make her no answer, but stooped down and hid my face by busying over my new shoes. “Ha! ha! it’s a nice world, isn’t it, Jim?”

“Yes ’m,” I answered, and then sneaked up into my bedroom in a terrible state of mind.

Whatever she knew or suspected, I got no further hint of it throughout the remainder of the day; indeed, about four o’clock in the afternoon she dressed herself and went out, leaving me alone to mind the house until Long George came home, which happened somewhere about seven o’clock. For a moment he seemed annoyed to find that his housekeeper had gone out, but his good humour speedily returned, and he chatted as pleasantly with me over the tea as ever I had known him to. I would very much rather he had not done so; I should have liked him to snap and sneer at me as he most commonly did, it would have made me feel much more comfortable.

After tea said he:—

“Do you know Fulham Bridge, Jim?”

I told him that I did not.