Page:Once a Week Volume 8.djvu/190

182 tell you, because I am sure there must be some mistake. I have told my missus so over and over again, but she is an obstinate woman, and I must own the case looks very black against you.’

‘Against me?’ asked my uncle. ‘What looks black? Come, speak out, man.’

‘Well, perhaps that’s best,’ said the host. ‘So, to be plain, the last time you slept here we missed the sheets from your bed after you were gone, and my missus believes that you stole them.’

“Uncle Zachary thought for a moment, and then broke into a hearty laugh. The host, regarding him for a little while, laughed too, and said:

‘I knew there was a joke somewhere, and that you wasn’t a thief! I said you didn’t look one, and that it wasn’t feasible, after paying your bill, as freely as you did, like a gentleman.’

‘I’m much obliged to you for your good opinion,’ replied my uncle, ‘and we’ll drink to our continued friendship in a bottle of your best—after our dinner off those ducks, let the old lady say what she will. Now show me to the room where I slept on my last visit, bring your wife with you, and I will make confession.’

“The party soon assembled in the bed-room, and my uncle, sitting at the foot of the bed, said:

‘Landlady, did you ever have the rheumatism? Yes? Then you know what pain it is and what brings it on. I caught mine from sleeping in a damp bed, and, since that time I always take care to examine the sheets, and so I did yours. To my surprise I found they were positively damp.’

‘That lazy Susan!’ exclaimed the host, ‘she’s left us now.’

‘So much the better,’ continued my uncle. ‘As a punishment for your neglect, I put the sheets up the chimney, and I have no doubt if you look there you will find them.’

“It proved to be as my uncle said, there the sheets were, and the hostess confessed she had learned a lesson she should not forget.

“Uncle Zachary dined off the ducks.”

Now, Mr. Editor, the next story I heard with my own ears; it was told by a gentleman who knew the parties, and who was related to one of them. I believe part of what I am about to say has been in print, but not the entire story as I am about to tell it, and as I heard it behind my screen.

In one of the northern counties lived, about fifty years from this time, a roaring set of farmers, corn dealers, and wool buyers, and the worst of the set was a man we will call Robinson. There was no mischief that Robinson had not indulged in, and so had his father before him. They bought wool and corn, and farmed a few acres, employing some five or six men; one of whom, Job Cox, was as bad as his masters, and a great favourite with them. Robinson had a pony that for speed and endurance was unequalled in England, and he had frequently made the journey to London (over 120 miles) in two days, without distressing the gallant little animal or himself. Robinson was lightly built, but powerful, as some of those sinewy men are, and his strength was backed by courage. There is a terrible story told of him and some of his companions, almost too terrible to recal, but it may have its use in showing to what depths unrestrained vice can descend. Robinson and a friend had wagered a considerable sum on a game of whist at which they were engaged, and during the progress of the play, Robinson’s partner was taken seriously ill, and died in the course of a few days. On the day appointed for the man’s funeral, the clergyman was found to be absent, and consequently the corse was left upon tressels in the aisle of the church. During the evening of the same day, Robinson and his companions had met, and over their drink the dead man and the game of whist became the subjects of conversation, and ultimately of dispute, as the opponents of Robinson claimed payment of the wager, although at the time of playing the score was largely in favour of the others. Robinson refused to pay, and declared with fearful oaths, that he was willing to play out the game in the church and with the dead man for his partner. As the men continued to drink, this dreadful proposal was again urged, until the reprobates proceeded to put it into execution. And there, around that table, so often covered with the most sacred of emblems, were placed three living things and one dead man deciding their wager, Robinson taking “dummy!”

What follows will not appear surprising with so desperate a man. Robinson had made a visit to London to execute a long conceived project to enrich himself at the expense of one of the gambling houses. The banker usually had a large sum in notes and gold before him, in wooden bowls. Over the table were lamps (gas was not then in use), covered by a large green shade which concentrated the light upon the table, leaving the rest of the room in comparative gloom. On the occasion of Robinson’s visit, he was accompanied by two associates, who at a preconcerted signal dashed out the lamps, whilst Robinson seized the bank and instantly fled. At the corner of the street his gallant pony was in waiting, and as his pursuers reached the street, Robinson was mounted and away. It was about two o’clock in the morning when this daring robbery was committed, 120 miles away from Robinson’s house, and as the clock struck six in the evening Robinson rode into his homestead, where his father and Job Cox were anxiously expecting him.

“I have done the trick,” he said, “but not so cleverly as I intended. The hell-keepers saw me and have followed, no doubt. The only thing, however, they could swear to, would be the pony.”

“Then kill her,” said Job Cox.

“There will not be time to bury her,” said Robinson.

“Yes there will,” said his father.

Close at hand was a wheat-stack in the course of erection, a loaded waggon stood ready for the morning’s work, and all jumped at once to the old man’s meaning. The gallant beast was raised by some means on to the embryo stack, then destroyed and hidden beneath the contents of the laden waggon. Robinson himself made his way to the Fens, and soon after midnight, the clatter of horses’ feet was heard in the farmyard, and constables sniffed and quested about; but they never hit upon the right scent until long after old Robinson, his son, and Job Cox had left the country.