Kitabı oku: «The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, January 1844», sayfa 4
STANZAS
SUGGESTED BY GLIDDON'S LECTURES ON THE ANTIQUITIES OF EGYPT
MISS H. J. WOODMAN
Sublime hath been thy conquest o’er the past,
Stemming Oblivion’s torrent by thy might,
Reading symbolic records long o’ercast
By the deep shadows of unbroken night;
Tracing with reverent finger names of kings
That long had slumbered with forgotten things.
The mists that deeply veiled historic rays,
Thou art dispelling with resistless hand;
And dynasties that flourished ere the days
When Abraham forsook the promised land,
No longer noteless, nameless, boldly claim
Their lofty tablet in the arch of fame.
Thy curious finger with a magic key
Unlocked the store of ages, and the light,
Flooding the pass of time, sublime and free,
Decks ruined temples in its vesture bright:
These are the relics of thy grandeur flown,
Land of the Pharaohs and their prostrate throne.
Ere the white stranger’s land had trodden been
By foot of pilgrim, Egypt sat supreme,
Queen of the nations, and her realm within
Wealth, learning, power convened—a full, deep stream!
The bulwarks of her throne were safely reared
In hearts by which her greatness was revered.
And now, with Science for his trusty guide,
The stranger comes to read her mystic lore,
Tread her deserted cities, stand beside
Her sculptured temples, eloquent once more;
Not with man’s voice, but with the nobler speech
Of days beyond our spirit’s utmost reach.
And those proud monuments of youthful time,
The pyramids, whose lofty sides have borne
The storms of centuries in that fierce clime,
And seeming still to smile in speechless scorn,
When bow the everlasting hills with age,
Then shall they vanish from the world’s bright page.
A mournful ruin to thy utmost bound,
A type of glory long since passed away,
The statue voiceless whence the thrilling sound
Of gushing music hailed the rising day;
Thus art thou now, oh Egypt! but the flame
Of new-born Science gilds thine ancient name.
And from the dust shalt thou arise once more,
Not by thine own degenerate sons upreared,
But strangers who have sought thy verdant shore
Shall hail thy fallen greatness, still revered;
Until among the kingdoms of the earth
Thou shalt appear renewed—a second birth!
THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE
Harry Harson
CHAPTER NINETEENTH
Notwithstanding his having made what most persons would have considered a hearty meal at Harry Harson’s, Mr. Kornicker had nevertheless such perfect reliance on his own peculiar gastronomic abilities, that he did not in the least shrink from again testing them. Leaving Michael Rust’s presence with an alacrity which bordered upon haste, he descended into the refectory with somewhat of a jaunty air, humming a tune, and keeping time to it by an occasional flourish of the fingers. Having seated himself, his first act was to shut his eyes, thrust his feet at full length under the table; plunge both hands to the very bottom of his breeches-pockets, where they grasped spasmodically two cents and a small key, and laugh silently for more than a minute, occasionally breaking in upon his merriment to gossip to himself in the most profound and mysterious manner.
‘A queer dog! a very queer dog! d–d queer, old Michael is! Well, that’s his business, not mine.’
As soon as this idea had fully impressed itself upon him, he sat up, became grave, and looked about in search of the waiter. In doing so, he encountered the eyes of a short fat man at a table near him, who at the first glance seemed to be reading a newspaper, but at the second, seemed to be reconnoitering him over it. Mr. Kornicker observing this, not only returned his glance, but added a wink to it by way of interest. The man thereupon laid down his paper, and nodded.
Mr. Kornicker nodded in reply; and said he hoped he was well, and that his wife and small children were equally fortunate.
The face of the stranger was a round, jolly face, with two little eyes that twinkled and glistened between their fat lids, as if they were very devils for fun; and his whole appearance was cozy and comfortable. His chin was double; his stomach round and plump, with an air of respectability; and he occasionally passed his hand over it, as if to say: ‘Ah ha! beat that who can!’ But notwithstanding his merry look, at this last remark his face grew long; and with a melancholy shake of his head, he pointed to his hat which hung on a peg above him, and was swathed in a broad band of crape, terminating in two stiff skirts projecting from it like a rudder, and giving it the appearance of a corpulent butterfly in mourning, at roost on the wall.
‘Ah!’ said Mr. Kornicker, looking at the hat, ‘that’s it?’
‘Yes,’ replied the stranger, with a deep sigh, ‘that’s it.’
‘Father?’ inquired Mr. Kornicker, nodding significantly toward the hat.
‘No—wife,’ replied the other.
‘Dead?’ inquired Mr. Kornicker.
‘Dead as a hammer.’
‘Was it long or short? consumption or fits?’ asked Mr. Kornicker, drawing up his feet and turning so as to face the stranger, by way of evincing the interest which he felt in his melancholy situation.
The man shook his head, and was so affected that he was troubled with a temporary cold in his head; which, having alleviated by the aid of his handkerchief, he said: ‘Poor woman! She undertook to present me with a fine boy, last week, and it proved too much for her. It exhausted her animal natur’, and she decamped on a sudden. She was a very fine woman—a very fine woman. I always said she was.’
‘And the child?’ inquired Kornicker; ‘I hope it’s well.’
‘Quite well, I thank you. It went along with her. They are both better off; saints in heaven, both of ’em; out of this wale of tears.’
Mr. Kornicker told him to cheer up. He said that every man had a crook in his lot. Some men had big crooks, and some men had little crooks; and although this crook made rather a bad elbow in his lot, that perhaps all the rest was square and straight, and he could build on it to advantage, especially if it was twenty-five feet by a hundred, which was the ordinary width and length of ‘lots in general.’
Having delivered himself of this rather confused allegory, Mr. Kornicker, by way of farther consolation, drew out his snuff-box, and stretching out as far as was possible without falling from his chair, tendered it to the stranger, who in return leaning so far forward as slightly to raise his person from the chair, gently inserted his fingers in the box, and helped himself to a pinch, at the same time remarking, that it ‘was a great comfort, in his trying situation, to find friends who sympathized with his misfortunes. That he had found it so; and that Mr. Kornicker was a man whose feelings did credit to human natur’.’
Kornicker disclaimed being any thing above the ordinary run of men, or that his feelings were more than every other man possessed, or ought to possess. But the stranger was vehement in his assertions to the contrary; so much so, that he rose from his seat, and drawing a chair to the opposite side of Kornicker’s table, proposed that they should breakfast together.
Kornicker shook his head:
‘It’s against the agreement,’ said he; ‘it can’t be done.’
‘But it can, Sir—it shall, Sir! A man of your sympathies is not to be met with every day, and must be breakfasted with, whether he will or not—agreement or no agreement. Don’t agreement me!’ said the stranger, lifting up his chair and setting it down opposite Kornicker, with great emphasis. ‘What’s the natur’ of this agreement?’
Mr. Kornicker assumed a very grave and legal expression of countenance, and without replying, asked:
‘What’s your name?’
‘Ezra Scrake.’
‘I, Edward Kornicker, forbid you, Ezra Scrake, from breakfasting with me, telling you that it is contrary to a certain agreement, referred to but not set forth; and I now repeat the request, that you forthwith retire to another table, and that I be permitted to take my meal by myself.’ He threw himself back in his chair, and looked Mr. Scrake full in the face.
‘And I, Ezra Scrake, say that I won’t leave this table, and that I will breakfast with a fellow whose benevolence might warm the witals of a tiger.’
‘Very well, Sir,’ said Kornicker, relaxing from his former severe expression; ‘I’ve done my duty. Old Rust can’t blame me. The breach of contract is not on my part. I’m acting under compulsion. Just recollect that I desired you to leave me, in case it gets me into hot water, and that you refused; that’s all. Now old fellow, what’ll you take? Only recollect, that each man rides his own pony.’
The stranger nodded, and said that of course he would ‘foot his own bill.’
These preliminaries being settled, the boy, who had been standing at their elbow in a state of ecstatic delight at the proceedings of Mr. Kornicker, with whom he had become familiar, and whom he regarded as a gentleman of great legal acumen, and in all other respects as rather a ‘tall boy,’ was desired by the stranger to hand him the bill of fare, and not to keep him waiting all day. Having been gratified in this respect, Mr. Scrake commenced at the top and deliberately whispered his way to the bottom of the list.
‘Beef-steak; shall I say for two?’ asked he, looking up at Kornicker.
‘Yes, but always under protest, as to our breakfasting together,’ said Mr. Kornicker, winking at him. ‘Don’t forget that.’
‘Of course. Now, my son, what trimmings have you got?’ said he to the boy.
‘’Taters.’
‘Are they kidneys, blue-noses, or fox?—and will they bu’st open white and mealy?’
‘They’m prime,’ replied the boy.
‘Bring one for me; or, stop—are they extra?’
‘We throws them in with the steak, gratis.’
‘Then bring a dishful, with coffee, bread, and whatever else adds to the breakfast, without adding to the bill.’
The boy, having no other interest in the establishment than that of securing his own wages and meals, was highly delighted at this considerate order of Mr. Scrake, and forthwith disappeared to obey it.
In the meanwhile Mr. Scrake, after having deliberately re-perused the bill of fare, and not observing any thing else which could be got for nothing, laid it down, and looking at Mr. Kornicker, who was gazing abstractedly at the table-cloth, said that he hoped he (Mr. Scrake) was not going to be impertinent; and as Mr. Kornicker made no other reply than that of looking at him, as if he considered it a matter of some doubt whether he was or was not, he elucidated the meaning of his remark, by inquiring who Michael Rust was.
‘The old gentlemen that caters for me,’ replied Kornicker, carelessly.
‘And does he make you eat alone?’
‘If I dine double, he’ll stop the prog, that’s all.’
‘A sing’lar bargain—quite sing’lar; very sing’lar, in fact. Does he keep a tight eye over you?’
Mr. Kornicker did not exactly know what kind of an eye a tight eye was, but he replied: ‘Sometimes he does, sometimes he don’t. He’s nigh enough to do it. His office is overhead.’
‘Lawyer, I suppose?—must be,’ said Mr. Scrake, drumming carelessly on the table.
‘You’re out, old fellow. I’m with him, and should know something of him; and he isn’t.’
‘Ah!’ said the stranger, leaning back and yawning, and then sharpening his knife on the fork. ‘What is he then?’
Mr. Kornicker raised his finger gently to his nose, winked so violently at Mr. Scrake that he caused that gentleman to stop short in his performance to look at him; after which he shut both eyes, and gave vent to a violent inward convulsion of laughter.
‘What is he?’ repeated Kornicker, in a tone of high surprise; then sinking his voice, and leaning over the table, he whispered confidentially in Mr. Scrake’s ear: ‘He’s hell.’
‘No! he isn’t though, is he?’ said Mr. Scrake, dropping his knife and fork, and sinking back in his chair.
‘Yes he is,’ repeated Mr. Kornicker; ‘and if you was a certain gentleman that I know, you’d find it out. He will some day, I rather think.’
‘Are you that individual?’ inquired Mr. Scrake, with an air of deep interest.
‘No, I ain’t, but I suspect some one else is. But come,’ said he, ‘there’s the breakfast, so let’s be at it, and drop all other discussion.’
This remark found an answering echo in the stomach of Mr. Scrake, who resumed the sharpening of his knife, as the breakfast entered the room, and did not desist until the steak was on the table, when he immediately assaulted it.
‘Shall I help you? What part will you take?’
‘Any part,’ replied Kornicker, carelessly.
‘Well, it’s sing’lar; I never could carve. I’ll help you as I would help myself,’ said Mr. Scrake, in his ignorance depositing on Mr. Kornicker’s plate an exceedingly tough piece of dry meat, and upon his own a cut which was remarkably tender and juicy.
‘Do you always help yourself as you have helped me?’ said Mr. Kornicker, snuffing with great deliberation, and eyeing his portion with no very contented eye.
‘Always, always.’
‘Then you do yourself d–d great injustice.’
‘Ha! ha! good—very good; sheer ignorance on my part, upon my soul. But you were telling me about this man, this Rust,’ said Mr. Scrake, mashing his potatoes, and entombing a lump of butter in the heart of a small pyramid of them. ‘You said he was hell, or the devil, or something of that sort. What then? Eh?’
Kornicker, though not at all pleased with the ignorance of his companion, in the particular branch in which it had just displayed itself, was not of a sulky disposition, and was easily won into a communicative mood, particularly as Mr. Scrake begged him, with tears in his eyes, to tell him which was the best part of a beef-steak, so that he might avoid in future the mortification of being guilty of a similar error.
As the coffee went down, and the beef-steak followed, Mr. Scrake seemed to relax, and to forget that his hat hung over his head, commemorative of the recent retirement of Mrs. Scrake from this ‘wale of tears,’ and became quite jocular on the subject of the fair sex, congratulating Kornicker upon his looks; calling him a lucky dog, and telling him that if he were him, he’d ‘make up to some charming young woman with a fortune, and be off with her.’ He then went into a detail of his own juvenile indiscretions, relating many incidents of his life; some of which were amusing, some ridiculous, some tragic, some pathetic, and not a few quite indecent. It was wonderful what a devil that fat-cheeked, little-eyed, round-stomached fellow had been. Who could resist the influence of such a man? Not poor Kornicker; it gradually had its effect upon him, for he in turn grew communicative; talked freely of Rust, and of every man, woman and child of his acquaintance. He grew merry over the rare doings which had taken place in Rust’s den. He then descanted upon the peculiarities of the old man; his fierce fits of passion, his cold, shrewd, caustic manners, his coming in, and his going out; how long he was absent; how profoundly secret he kept himself, his doings, his whereabouts, and his mode of life. ‘And,’ said he, in conclusion, ‘I know nothing of him. He’s a queer dog, a wonderfully queer one. It would take a long time to fathom him, I can tell you. I’ve been with him for a long time; and am his confidential adviser, his lawyer, and all that sort of thing; and yet I’ve never done but two things for him.’
‘You don’t say so!’ exclaimed Mr. Scrake, laying down his knife and fork; and looking at him with his mouth open; ‘and pray what were those things?’
‘I sued one man,’ (being a lawyer you know,) said he, nodding in an explanatory way at Mr. Scrake, ‘and carried a letter to another.’
‘Ah! and who were those fortunate individuals?’
‘Poh! I suppose there’s no secret about it. The man sued, was one Enoch Grosket. The other was one Henry Harson; a jolly old boy he was too. I breakfasted with him; a prime fellow; keeps a d–d ugly cur, though.’
‘Enoch Grosket, Henry Harson!’ said the stranger, musing; ‘I’ve heard of them, I think. Who are they?’
‘It is more than I can tell,’ replied Kornicker. ‘That’s the mystery of my situation. I know nothing about any thing I’m doing, or of him, or his acquaintances.’
‘Why, you must know what you sued the man for,’ said Mr. Scrake, earnestly; ‘you must know that, surely.’
‘Yes, but it’s a height of knowledge which don’t carry much information with it,’ replied Mr. Kornicker. ‘I sued him on a promissory note. What he made it for, or how Rust got it, or any thing more about him, or it, or Harson, or Rust, I know as little as you.’
The stranger drew himself up, and looking at him gravely, said in a serious and even stern tone: ‘Do you mean to say that you are entirely ignorant of every thing respecting this Rust; his family, his business, his acquaintances, his associates, his habits, his plans and operations?’—in short, that you know nothing more than you have mentioned to me?’
The other nodded.
‘Waiter, my bill,’ said he in a peremptory tone.
The boy brought him a slip of paper, on which was written the amount.
He paid it without a word; walked across the room, took down his hat, put it on his head, and turning to Kornicker, said in a tone of solemn earnestness: ‘Young man, you’re in a bad way, a very bad way. Had I known with what people you were in the habit of associating before I sat down at that table, Ezra Scrake’s legs and yours would never have been under the same mahogany. A man in the employ of another and know nothing of him! It’s enormous! He might be a murderer, a thief; a man-slaughterer; a Burker, an arsoner, or any thing that is bad. Young man, in spite of the injury you’ve done me, I pity you; nay, I forgive you.’
Mr. Kornicker, was merely waiting for an opportunity to suggest to him that his company had not only been unsought, but actually forced upon him, and even under his solemn protest. But before he could do so, Mr. Scrake was in the street; whereupon, on ascertaining that he was out of the hearing of Mr. Kornicker, he muttered to himself: ‘It was no go. Waited for him two hours; then spent an hour in pumping a dry well. Enoch Grosket, has sent me on a fool’s errand. Michael Rust knows too much to trust that addle-headed fool.’
Having given vent to these observations, he deliberately buttoned up his coat, and walked off.
CHAPTER TWENTIETH
In a dark room into which even in the day-time the light struggled in such scanty streams that a kind of twilight was the nearest approach that it ever made to broad day, but which was now only lighted by a single candle, that flared and dripped in the currents of air, as they eddied and whirled about, seeking an escape, sat Tim Craig, and his comrade Bill Jones, the men with Rust’s interview with whom the reader is already acquainted. They were sitting cheek by jowl on two wooden benches in front of a fire, which they from time to time nourished with sticks from a heap of wood on the hearth. The fire however would not burn, but kept smouldering and smoking, now and then springing up into a fitful blaze, which threw a spectral air over the room, peopling its dim recesses with all sorts of fantastic forms, and then expired, leaving it more gloomy than ever. The appearance of the men, their subdued, whispering voices and startled looks, showed that at that particular time they were not altogether in a frame of mind to resist the gloomy influence of the place. The dark, lonely room, with its large shadowy corners and gaping seams, through which the wind sighed and wailed, and the pattering of the rain as it swept heavily against the side of the house and on the roof, all tended to add to the melancholy and sombre tone of their feelings. Bill drew his bench to the fire, looked suspiciously about him, and then, as if half ashamed of having done so, said:
‘It’s a h-ll of a night! I don’t know how it is, but I’m not in trim to-night. Blow me, if the sight of that old fellow don’t make one’s blood cold. I can’t get warm; and this bloody fire keeps sputtering and smoking, as if to spite one.’
Tim Craig, to whom this remark was addressed, turned and looked him steadily in the face, without speaking; and then his eyes wandered about the room, as if he were fearful of being watched or overheard, in what he was going to say.
‘Bill,’ said he in a low voice, his thin lips quivering; but whether from anger or any other emotion, was a matter of much doubt; ‘d–d if I know which way to leap! Enoch pulls one way and Rust another. Either of them could send us to kingdom come. Ugh! how cold it is! Something comes over me to-night—I can’t tell what. I don’t half like the job. Bill,’ continued he after a pause, drawing nearer his comrade and lowering his voice, ‘I’m haunted to-night. You know that fellow, the man up town, the cartman–’ He hesitated, and leaned his mouth close to the ear of the other, while in the dim light his face seemed ghastly; ‘the—the man, last year–’
Jones looked at him significantly; and then drew his finger across his throat. ‘Do you mean that fellow?’
‘Yes,’ replied Craig in a husky tone, and scarcely able to articulate, for the choking in his throat. ‘He’s been here to-night. Three times I’ve caught him looking over my shoulder! God! There he is again! Light! light! light!’ shouted he, springing up; ‘make the fire burn, I say—make it burn! Heap on wood! heap it on! Do anything—but keep him off!’
‘Why, Tim, you seem to be took bad,’ exclaimed his companion, at the same time getting on his knees, and setting assiduously to work to blow the fire. ‘Come, this is worse than ever. We’ve got to work to-night; and it wont do to go into your fantastics.’
He paused in his remarks to apply his breath to the fire, and with such success, that in a few minutes a bright blaze was dancing up the chimney, lighting the whole room, and dispelling at once that shadowy appearance which its great size and dilapidated state had tended to give it.
‘There now, that’s as comfortable a fire as you can want; and arter all, what you was just talking of was all fancy,’ said he, resuming his seat. ‘Dead men stay where you put ’em.’
Craig had been pacing furiously up and down the room, as if to out-walk some demon that would keep at his side; but he stopped short, and going up to his comrade, placed his hand on his shoulder and said: ‘Bill Jones, that’s a lie! Whoever says so, lies! Dead men don’t stay where you put ’em. I’ve had that man walking with me for hours together. I’ve had him at the same table with me, when I ate; I’ve had him in bed with me—ay, all night long; and to-night he’s been here with his face almost touching mine. Blast him! if I could but get him by the throat, I’d throttle him!’
‘Come, come, Tom, none of this,’ said Jones, with more gentleness than his appearance indicated. ‘I’m sorry for you; you must feel bad enough, or you wouldn’t go on so. I’ve know’d you since we were boys together; and I know it’s not a little matter that works you up, like you are now. Come, sit down.’ He led him to a seat, and kneeling at his feet, took his hand in both of his. ‘Don’t give in so, my old feller. Don’t you know, when we were boys, how we all looked up to you; and although I could have doubled you up, with my big limbs, yet you always had the mastery over me. Ha! ha! Tim, don’t you remember the old schoolmaster, too? Hallo! what now?’
Craig leaned his head upon Jones’ shoulder and sobbed aloud. Don’t talk of those days, Bill; it’ll drive me mad. Oh! if I was a boy again! But no, no; I’m a fool,’ exclaimed he, springing up, apparently swallowing his emotion at one fierce gulp, and in an instant becoming as hardened as ever. ‘Am I crazy, to-night, or what ails me, that I’ve become as white-livered as a girl? Where’s the grog? Give us a sup; and we’ll see what’s to be done.’
‘There, now you talk right,’ said Jones, putting his hand in his coat-pocket and drawing out a small bottle, cased in leather; ‘that’ll wake you up; and now to business. You hav’n’t told me what’s to be did, and who you’ll go with, Grosket, or Rust.’
‘Rust,’ said Craig, abruptly; ‘he’s our man. He can bleed; Enoch can’t. He never fails in what he wants to do; Enoch does; but they are both devils incarnate. I’d rather fight against ten other men than either of them; but rather against Enoch than Mike Rust.’
‘Well, what is it? He told you all about it. I couldn’t hear what he said.’
‘He’s been on the prowl for two days: God knows what he’s arter; but he wants us to break in a house and steal a girl.’
‘The profligate willain!’ exclaimed Mr. Jones, with an air of great horror; ‘I’ll tell his father of him!’
‘It’s only a child.’
‘Oh! that alters the case,’ said Mr. Jones, ‘Then I’ll tell his wife. Well?’
‘We are to go to the house, get the girl at all hazards, rob the house if we choose, and bring her here. What he wants of her, who she is, is more than I know. ‘You are to get her, and ask no questions,’ that’s what he said.’
‘Who’s in the house?’
‘Only an old man and a woman.’
‘The man?—is he used up, or what?’
‘He’s a bull-dog,’ was the laconic reply.
‘We’ll want them then,’ said Jones, pointing to a closet which was partly open, showing several pairs of pistols on a shelf.
‘I suppose so. Bring ’em out, and look at the locks; not the flintlocks—it’s a wet night; get the others. We must have no trifling.’
Jones made no other reply than to take out a pair of pistols, which he carried to the light, and examined their locks.
‘Are they loaded?’ inquired Craig.
Jones nodded: ‘Two bullets in each! Suppose they twig us?—are we to fight or run?’
‘‘You had better die than fail.’ He said that,’ replied Craig, in a low tone; ‘and when I saw his look I thought so too. D—n him! I’m afraid of him. It’ll be no baby-work if they discover us.’
The other robber made no reply, but continued to examine the pistols, carefully rubbing the barrels, to remove any trace of rust, and working the hammers backward and forward; after which he put two fresh caps on the cones. ‘All right! I’m ready as soon as it’s time. When do you go?’
‘Not till an hour after midnight. That’s the time when folks sleep soundest. You could cut a man’s throat then without waking him. Don’t let the fire get down,’ said he, turning an apprehensive eye toward the fire-place. ‘It’s cold, and we’ve three hours to be here yet.’
Jones, with the same good-natured alacrity which he had before displayed, threw several sticks on the fire, and then turning to his comrade, said:
‘Suppose we rattle the dice till midnight?’
Craig shook his head.
‘What say you to the paste-board?’
‘No cards for me,’ replied the other, seating himself and leaning his cheeks between his hands, with his elbows on his knees, and his eyes fastened on the fire. ‘I want to be on the move. God! How I wish it was time! This cursed room is enough to suffocate one. Curse me, but it smells of coffins and dead men, and is as cold as a church-vault. It goes to a fellow’s very bones.’
There was something so unusual in the mood of his comrade, that Jones at last started up and said:
‘Blast me, Tim, but you must stop this. You’re making me as wild and frightened as yourself. Talk of your beaks, and courts, and prisons, and bullets, and pistols, as much as you like; but d—n it, leave your dead men, and coffins, and vaults, and all them ‘ere to themselves, will you! Curse me, if you ain’t enough to make a sneak of any man. So just stop, will you? If you can’t talk of something better, don’t talk at all.’
Craig took him at his word; and drawing his bench closer to the fire, maintained his position, without moving or speaking for more than an hour.
Jones, in the mean while, for want of employment, again examined the pistols; drew out the loads, and reloaded them; then going to the closet, he brought out two very dangerous-looking knives, and after trying the points on his finger, proceeded to oil them. This over, he betook himself to whistling, at the same time, keeping time to his music by drumming his heel heavily on the floor. This, however, could not last forever; and finally, wrapping a heavy coat around his shoulders, he stretched himself at full length in front of the fire, and was soon sound asleep.
Not so his companion. In silence, without stirring, and scarcely breathing, yet wide awake, with ears alive to every sound, and distorting every sigh of the wind into the voice of a human being, he sat with white lips and a shaking hand until the faint chime of a clock, which reached him even above the noise of the storm, told him that the hour was come.
‘Wake up!’ said he, touching Jones with his foot. ‘It’s time to be off.’
Jones, with instinctive quickness, obeyed the call by springing to his feet, apparently as wide awake as if he had not closed his eyes during the night.
‘All right!’ said he, looking hastily about the room. ‘Hey! but what’s all this noise?’
‘It’s a horrible night; all hell seems abroad,’ said Craig. ‘But come; get ready, and let’s be off.’
‘Will we want any of them?’ asked Jones, pointing to an upper shelf in the closet, on which was lying a number of uncouth-looking instruments, the nature of which was best known to themselves.
‘Take the small crow; we may want that, but nothing more.’
‘The bag, too?’ inquired Bill.
‘No; it’s a girl we’ve to steal; d—n it, I wish it wasn’t!’
While he was speaking, he had thrust his arms into a shaggy great-coat, and was tying a thick woollen wrapper over his mouth, so that the last remark was nearly lost in it. He then put on an oil-skin cap, not unlike what is called by sailors a ‘sou’-wester,’ and stood watching the proceedings of his comrade, which were by no means as expeditious as his own; for that gentleman proceeded very leisurely to encase his feet in a pair of thick woollen stockings, and a pair of shoes more capable of resisting the wet than those which he then wore. After this, he put an oil-cloth jacket over his other one, and surmounted the whole by a coat similar to that worn by Craig.
‘One would suppose you was a baby, from your tenderness to yourself,’ said Craig, impatiently. ‘You ain’t sugar, are you? Do you expect the rain to melt you?’
‘I’m a sweet fellow, I know that,’ replied the other, carefully buttoning his coat to the chin. ‘I may be sugar for all I know, shouldn’t be surprised if I was. I’ve been told so afore this; let me tell you that, my old feller. You ain’t in kidney to-night. Take another pull at little Job,’ said he, handing him the bottle, ‘and we’ll be off.’
