Charles Dickens - Barnaby Rudge — A Tale Of The Riots Of Eighty

In the midst of all his merriment, and admiration of his captain, Hugh was made sensible by these and other tokens, of the presence of an air of mystery, akin to that which had so much impressed him out of doors. It was impossible to discard a sense that something serious was going on, and that under the noisy revel of the publichouse, there lurked unseen and dangerous matter. Little affected by this, however, he was perfectly satisfied with his quarters and would have remained there till morning, but that his conductor rose soon after midnight, to go home; Mr Tappertit following his example, left him no excuse to stay. So they all three left the house together: roaring a No-Popery song until the fields resounded with the dismal noise.

Cheer up, captain!” cried Hugh, when they had roared themselves out of breath. “Another stave!”

Mr Tappertit, nothing loath, began again; and so the three went staggering on, arm-in-arm, shouting like madmen, and defying the watch with great valour. Indeed this did not require any unusual bravery or boldness, as the watchmen of that time, being selected for the office on account of excessive age and extraordinary infirmity, had a custom of shutting themselves up tight in their boxes on the first symptoms of disturbance, and remaining there until they disappeared. In these proceedings, Mr Dennis, who had a gruff voice and lungs of considerable power, distinguished himself very much, and acquired great credit with his two companions.

“What a queer fellow you are!” said Mr Tappertit. “You're so precious sly and close. Why don't you ever tell what trade you're of?”

“Answer the captain instantly,” cried Hugh, beating his hat down on his head; “why don't you ever tell what trade you're of?”

“I'm of as gen-teel a calling, brother, as any man in England—as light a business as any gentleman could desire.”

“Was you “prenticed to it?” asked Mr Tappertit.

“No. Natural genius,” said Mr Dennis. “No “prenticing. It come by natur”. Muster Gashford knows my calling. Look at that hand of mine—many and many a job that hand has done, with a neatness and dex-terity, never known afore. When I look at that hand,” said Mr Dennis, shaking it in the air, “and remember the helegant bits of work it has turned off, I feel quite molloncholy to think it should ever grow old and feeble. But sich is life!”

He heaved a deep sigh as he indulged in these reflections, and putting his fingers with an absent air on Hugh's throat, and particularly under his left ear, as if he were studying the anatomical development of that part of his frame, shook his head in a despondent manner and actually shed tears.

“You're a kind of artist, I suppose—eh!” said Mr Tappertit.

“Yes,” rejoined Dennis; “yes—I may call myself a artist—a fancy workman—art improves natur'—that's my motto.”

“And what do you call this?” said Mr Tappertit taking his stick out of his hand.

“That's my portrait atop,” Dennis replied; “d'ye think it's like?”

“Why—it's a little too handsome,” said Mr Tappertit. “Who did it? You?”

“I!” repeated Dennis, gazing fondly on his image. “I wish I had the talent. That was carved by a friend of mine, as is now no more. The very day afore he died, he cut that with his pocketknife from memory! “I'll die game,” says my friend, “and my last moments shall be dewoted to making Dennis's picter.” That's it.”

“That was a queer fancy, wasn't it?” said Mr Tappertit.

“It WAS a queer fancy,” rejoined the other, breathing on his fictitious nose, and polishing it with the cuff of his coat, “but he was a queer subject altogether—a kind of gipsy—one of the finest, stand-up men, you ever see. Ah! He told me some things that would startle you a bit, did that friend of mine, on the morning when he died.”

“You were with him at the time, were you?” said Mr Tappertit.

“Yes,” he answered with a curious look, “I was there. Oh! yes certainly, I was there. He wouldn't have gone off half as comfortable without me. I had been with three or four of his family under the same circumstances. They were all fine fellows.”

“They must have been fond of you,” remarked Mr Tappertit, looking at him sideways.

“I don't know that they was exactly fond of me,” said Dennis, with a little hesitation, “but they all had me near “em when they departed. I come in for their wardrobes too. This very handkecher that you see round my neck, belonged to him that I've been speaking of—him as did that likeness.”

Mr Tappertit glanced at the article referred to, and appeared to think that the deceased's ideas of dress were of a peculiar and by no means an expensive kind. He made no remark upon the point, however, and suffered his mysterious companion to proceed without interruption.

“These smalls,” said Dennis, rubbing his legs; “these very smalls— they belonged to a friend of mine that's left off sich incumbrances for ever: this coat too—I've often walked behind this coat, in the street, and wondered whether it would ever come to me: this pair of shoes have danced a hornpipe for another man, afore my eyes, full half-a-dozen times at least: and as to my hat,” he said, taking it off, and whirling it round upon his fist—'Lord! I've seen this hat go up Holborn on the box of a hackney-coach—ah, many and many a day!”

“You don't mean to say their old wearers are ALL dead, I hope?” said Mr Tappertit, falling a little distance from him as he spoke.

“Every one of “em,” replied Dennis. “Every man Jack!”

There was something so very ghastly in this circumstance, and it appeared to account, in such a very strange and dismal manner, for his faded dress—which, in this new aspect, seemed discoloured by the earth from graves—that Mr Tappertit abruptly found he was going another way, and, stopping short, bade him good night with the utmost heartiness. As they happened to be near the Old Bailey, and Mr Dennis knew there were turnkeys in the lodge with whom he could pass the night, and discuss professional subjects of common interest among them before a rousing fire, and over a social glass, he separated from his companions without any great regret, and warmly shaking hands with Hugh, and making an early appointment for their meeting at The Boot, left them to pursue their road.

“That's a strange sort of man,” said Mr Tappertit, watching the hackney-coachman's hat as it went bobbing down the street. “I don't know what to make of him. Why can't he have his smalls made to order, or wear live clothes at any rate?”

“He's a lucky man, captain,” cried Hugh. “I should like to have such friends as his.”

“I hope he don't get “em to make their wills, and then knock “em on the head,” said Mr Tappertit, musing. “But come. The United B. “s expect me. On!—What's the matter?”

“I quite forgot,” said Hugh, who had started at the striking of a neighbouring clock. “I have somebody to see to-night—I must turn back directly. The drinking and singing put it out of my head. It's well I remembered it!”

Mr Tappertit looked at him as though he were about to give utterance to some very majestic sentiments in reference to this act of desertion, but as it was clear, from Hugh's hasty manner, that the engagement was one of a pressing nature, he graciously forbore, and gave him his permission to depart immediately, which Hugh acknowledged with a roar of laughter.

“Good night, captain!” he cried. “I am yours to the death, remember!”

“Farewell!” said Mr Tappertit, waving his hand. “Be bold and vigilant!”

“No Popery, captain!” roared Hugh.

“England in blood first!” cried his desperate leader. Whereat Hugh cheered and laughed, and ran off like a greyhound.