Chapter I: Part 1

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

Fourth Series

CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.

NO. 727. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 1, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]

COSTERS AND THEIR DONKEYS.

In walking through any part of the metropolis--be it in the City, the West End, or any part of the suburbs north or south--you will, especially if early in the day, see men with wheeled trucks drawn by donkeys, and laden with fish, vegetables, or other articles for sale to the inhabitants. Rough as they are in appearance, and poor as may be their commercial outset, these are a useful class of persons; and looking to the vastness of the population crowded within a wide but yet limited space, one has a difficulty in knowing how the ordinary life of many individuals could get on without them. A small town could manage pretty well with a few shops. But in the metropolis, in which there are now from three to four millions of people, the shop-system does not fulfil the general wants; and supernumeraries with trucks to hawk their wares among customers, have sprung up as a convenience and necessity. The name given to these humble street-traders is Costers or Costermongers. Their professional designation is of old date, and is traced to Costard, a large variety of apple. Costermongers were therefore originally street-sellers of apples. The apple might be termed their cognisance.

Henry Mayhew, in that laboriously constructed and vastly amusing work of his, _London Labour and London Poor_, issued some six-and-twenty years ago, describes the costermongers as numbering upwards of thirty thousand. It might be inferred that in the progress of time, the number would have increased; but such, we believe, is not the case. Social arrangements have considerably altered. Owing to police regulations, there is a greater difficulty in finding standing-room in the street for barrows. By improved market arrangements and means of transport, small shopkeepers in humble neighbourhoods have become rivals to the costers. As regards means of transport for traders of all sorts, there has been immense progress within the last few years, on account of the abolition of taxes on spring-carts, and latterly the abolition of taxes on horses. We might say that for these reasons alone there are in all large towns ten times more spring-carts and vans for distribution of goods from shops than there were a very few years ago. Of course, all this has limited the traffic of itinerant vendors, and prevented any great increase in their number. Under such drawbacks, however, there are probably still as many as thirty thousand costermongers in and about the metropolis. The young and more rudimental of the class do not get the length of possessing donkeys. They begin with hand-trucks, which they industriously tug away at, until by an improvement in circumstances they can purchase, and start a donkey. Having attained the distinction of driving instead of personally hauling, they have enviedly reached the aristocracy of the profession. They are full-blown costers, and can set up their face in all popular assemblages of the fraternity. A costermonger driving his donkey and habitually taking orders for carrots or turnips as he passes the doors of anticipated customers, is in his way a great man. At all events he presents a spectacle of honest labour, and is immensely more to be respected than the pompous 'swell' who sponges on relations, who is somewhat of a torturation, and who never from the day of his birth did a good hand's turn.

Mayhew, who deserves to be called the historian of London street-dealers of all descriptions, gives a far from pleasing picture of the social condition and habits of the costermongers. With all their industry, they are spoken of as for the most part leading a dismally reckless kind of life--spending their spare hours at 'penny gaffs,' a low species of dancing saloons, and so on. What he mentions is just what might be expected in a loose, uneducated, and generally neglected population of a great city. If you allow people to grow up very much like the lower animals, what are you to expect in the way of delicacy? You may be thankful that with the innumerable disadvantages of their condition, and the temptations that surround them, they have the rough good sense to work for their livelihood, however vagabondising may be their enterprise.

The lapse of thirty years has made a considerable change for the better in the social economics of the costermongers. They have participated in, and been benefited by, those elevating influences which have been assiduously cultivated by city missionaries, by the press, and other agencies. Penny gaffs have almost disappeared. The licenses compulsorily required for singing, music, dancing, and dramatic rooms may be said to have killed them. The costers with advanced tastes and intelligence seek for more rational recreations than were customary in the past generation. Attached to home life, marriages amongst them are more numerous; they pay greater attention to their children; they read more and drink less; notably they are better dressed and kinder to their donkeys. On this last particular we would specially dwell. A consideration for the comforts of the animals dependent on our bounty marks an advance in civilisation. The character of a man may indeed be known from the manner in which he treats his horse, his dog, his ass, or any other creature of which he is the owner. Rude treatment to any of these dumb and defenceless beings who willingly minister to our profit or pleasure, indicates a low type of humanity. The London coster used to be careless about his donkey. As concerns its food, its style of harness, its stabling, and its hours of work, there was no particular attention. Such, generally speaking, is no longer the case. We might say that the rights and feelings of the animal are respected. So to speak, it is better dressed, and is more lively in its aspect. In its face there seems to be a spirit of contentment. The coster, its master, pats it, and addresses it in a far more encouraging and kindly way than was customary in our early days, or even so lately as twenty years ago.

All this is as it should be. Has it ever occurred to any one to inquire why the donkey should have so long been held in contempt and been cruelly tyrannised over? In the East, and in the south of Europe, the ass is esteemed as a useful beast of burden. Alpine regions inaccessible to wheel-carriages, would not be habitable without the services of this sure-footed and easily-kept animal. It is the only carrier, and may be seen patiently toiling with laden panniers on narrow pathways far up in the mountains. In our own country, as an aid in various laborious occupations, the donkey has never been properly appreciated, but on the contrary, it has met with such shameful usage as to stunt it in its growth and sorely to try its naturally gentle temper. Reasons could perhaps be assigned for this undeserved contumely. The poor donkey has no great claim to elegance of form. Its long ears are a reproach; no one being apparently aware that Nature has bountifully granted these long trumpet-shaped ears to enable it to hear at a great distance, and if necessary to escape from its enemies. Another reason is, that the donkey is too patient and meek to resent affronts. Its submissiveness is imputed to stupidity. If it could stand up for its rights, it would be more thought of. The lion, which is of no use whatever, and is nothing else than a ferocious wild beast, with a proud overbearing look, is highly honoured as an emblem of power and dignity. The ass is heraldically valueless. It could be adopted only as an emblem of untiring and uncomplaining labour, which would suit no coat armorial. In the improved treatment of the costermonger's donkey we begin to see brighter days for this hitherto down-trodden creature. The costers themselves being improved through different agencies, their animals feel the benefit of the general advance.

In the vast obscurities of London there is a neighbourhood known as Golden Lane and Whitecross Street, intimately associated with the progressive improvement of costers and their donkeys. A kind of oasis in the desert, this neighbourhood, which is now considerably improved in appearance, shines forth as an important central mission, to the merits of which we can but feebly do justice. We have often had occasion to remark how much good is unostentatiously done by one man, through mere force of character and persevering vigilance. The one man in this case has been Mr W. J. Orsman, who for a series of years has earnestly devoted himself to the amelioration of the condition, moral and social, of the poor street-dealers clustered in and around Golden Lane and Whitecross Street. He acts as honorary secretary to the Costermongers' Society; he edits a little periodical, known as the _Golden Lane Mission Magazine_; and he fosters and helps to maintain many small sub-societies, if we may so term them. Among these are a 'Share Barrow Club,' for lending barrows to men who possess neither donkey-carts nor hand-barrows; a Sick and Burial Club, to which the men pay fourpence a week each; a 'Coster's Friends' of Labour Club, through the aid of which the men can put out small sums at interest, or borrow small sums for limited periods; an 'Emily Loan Club' (named, we believe, after a daughter of the Earl of Shaftesbury), for the benefit of respectable female street-dealers; a Penny Savings-bank; a Maternity Fund; a Soup Kitchen; a Coal Fund; a Clothing Club; a Donkey Club (for purchasing donkeys by means of small instalments), besides others for educational, moral, and religious improvement.

The accounts given of the annual meetings of the costers and their friends are among the curiosities of current literature. Coming prominently forward at these assemblages we perceive the Earl of Shaftesbury, a nobleman who, animated by the kindliest motives, deems it no sacrifice to his high position to encourage by his presence and by his speeches the humble efforts made by the costers in the progress of well-doing. A few years since, at one of the annual meetings, which are held in May, the Earl of Shaftesbury took the chair. First, there was tea given to three hundred of the men; then was held a donkey-show, in which the excellent condition of the animals was fully evinced; and then came the event of the evening. The costermongers had bought a donkey of unusual size, strength, and beauty; they decked him profusely with ribbons, and brought him into the Hall. In the names of all the men, Mr Carter, a vestryman of St Luke's parish, who kindly interests himself in their welfare, presented the donkey to the Earl of Shaftesbury. The Earl, as is said, had already become, in a whimsical and pleasant sense, a costermonger, and now in virtue of his donkey was an accepted full member of the corps. Whether the Earl's Neddy appreciated the honour conferred on him, we do not know; but we may be quite sure that no hard usage was in store for him.

As may be generally known, attempts to encourage the improvement of donkeys have taken place through public shows and the offering of prizes. A Donkey and Mule show, held at the Crystal Palace in May 1874, was the means of giving to many persons their first idea of the real value of an exhibition which some had beforehand laughed at, as an absurdity. It was amply proved that the donkey can become a really beautiful animal when well treated; and it was equally made manifest that rough street-dealers can be as kind as their betters when encouraged to be so. An archbishop carried off a prize; several costermongers did the same; and a truly cosmopolitan feeling was exhibited when the prizes were distributed. The Earl of Shaftesbury, who presided on the occasion, humorously claimed to be a costermonger himself; for (to encourage others in a good work) he had enrolled his name in the Golden Lane branch of the Costermongers' Society. Many of the donkeys exhibited at the Crystal Palace had been employed in drawing carts and trucks laden with vegetables, fruit, fish, salt, sand, firewood, crockery-ware, and other commodities; and the excellent condition of some of them won prizes for their owners. Even a few of the donkey-drivers of Blackheath and Hampstead Heath shewed that the fraternity are not always so rough and unkind as they usually appear. It was asserted that donkeys which do not work on Sunday are generally more active and ready on Monday; so that the trader is but little a loser by this course in the long-run. The Earl of Shaftesbury remarked that: 'It would be seen from the show that these animals are designed by Providence to be of the greatest service to mankind; and that kindly treatment and respect--respect for the wants and feelings of the animals--will bring their own reward in willing service.' Several donkey-shows have since been held in and near the metropolis, conveying the same useful lesson.

In August of the present year, a Pony and Donkey show was held in London, in connection with the Golden Lane Mission and Society. The Earl of Shaftesbury and Lady Edith Ashley kindly and patiently examined the hard-working dumb companions of the costermongers, and exchanged pleasant words with the men. There was a tea for four hundred going on nearly at the same time. After this came a general 'march past,' and a distribution of money and books as prizes. The donkeys were all in admirable condition; while many of the ponies were plump and sleek. His lordship now called for Wilkins, a shrewd prosperous coster of Golden Lane, and bedecked with the insignia of authority as an officer of the Benefit Society. This coster and another made brief speeches; after which Colonel Henderson, Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, declared that the costers are generally deserving of high praise, and that the police have very little trouble with them--when once the laws relating to the public streets are well understood. After a few more speeches and addresses, the noble chairman said in pleasant humour that he had received a poem entitled _The Earl and the Ass_; that the donkey he had received a few years before at the hands of the costermongers was under the doctor's care; and that this fact alone prevented the animal from being present. Every donkey at the show was known by some name or other; and hence there were many such designations as Tommy, Old Tommy, Black Tommy, Jack, Prince, Paddy, Old Jack, Old Sam, Boko, Charlie, Mike, Ugly Tom, Quick; while the other sex in the race was represented by such feminine names as Jenny, Pretty Polly, Kitty, Pretty Jane, Maggie, and Betsy.

We do not know what was the poem to which the Earl of Shaftesbury alluded, but conclude that it was a poem which appeared in _Punch_ relative to the presentation of the donkey to his Lordship. To shew how a facetious periodical can rise above mere jesting, we transcribe the following verses:

Could there be a better gift? The patient beast
Who bears the stick, and will on thistles feast,
Yet in hard duty struggles to the end,
Is always grateful to a human friend,
But seldom finds such friends; is roughly fostered
By costermongers, sellers of the costard,
Sellers of other things from door to door,
And very useful traders for the poor--

He bears a cross, we know; and legends say
Has borne, in memory of a wondrous day,
When love wrought miracles, in stress and strife,
And sick were healed, and dead men raised to life.
Since when, 'twixt hard knocks, hard words, and hard fare,
He and his owners both their cross must bear.

The Earl, who loves his race, loves other races;
He has sought evil out in darksome places,
And bravely grappled with its many arms,
And tamed its strength, and paralysed its harms;
Brought aid to weakness, moved dead weights away,
That crushed the soul down, deep in mire and clay.
The greatest, by descending, may ascend:
The peer who is the costermongers' friend,
Dares on the platform stroke an ass's ears,
Rises above the level of his peers.

As an evidence that the endeavours to improve the London costermongers morally as well as physically, have not been thrown away, we may add the following anecdotes.

In 1872 a costermonger named Darby, plying his itinerant trade in the densely packed and comfortless region immediately eastward of the City of London, was one day driving his donkey-cart, laden with cheap fish from Billingsgate. The poor donkey accidentally put his foot into a plug-hole, fell, and broke his leg between the knee and the fetlock--pitching his master out of the cart, and seriously bruising him. His brother-costers advised Darby to kill the animal at once, as no one had ever heard of a donkey's broken leg being healed. But Darby would not listen to this. He took the donkey home, and made a temporary bed for him in the only sitting-room. The man and his wife tended the poor animal, which often groaned with pain. The wife was a washerwoman at the East London Hospital, but she did not grudge to the poor donkey a little of that time which was so valuable to her. A kind lady then undertook to take charge of the donkey until cured, at a place twelve or fourteen miles from London. With bandaging and careful treatment, aided by the benefit of pure fresh air, the leg became sound in eighteen months; and Darby had a good reply to make to those companions who had said to him: 'Kill it, old fellow; it will never be able to get up again. First loss is the best; nobody can set a donkey's leg. Kill it, old fellow, at once!' The kind-hearted costermonger became known as 'Darby, the donkey's friend.' A testimonial was presented to him by the Ladies' Committee of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals; and he is justly proud of it.

As we write, a paragraph appears in _The Times_, communicated by an observer. 'Having occasion to pass through Whitecross Street on Thursday evening, my attention was attracted to some fine turnips on a coster's barrow. Retaining my boyish fondness for a raw turnip, I at once selected one, and putting my hand into my pocket, paid, as I thought, two halfpence, the price charged. I had scarcely advanced a hundred yards, when a tap on my shoulder caused me to halt; and lo! the woman from whom I had made my last purchase accosted me. "What did you give me?" she said. I told her as above, when she opened her hand and displayed two bright shillings, which I had given her by mistake, and which she now returned. Thanking the woman for her honesty, I rectified the matter, reflecting on my way home that the labours of Lord Shaftesbury and his worthy coadjutors among the costermongers could not have been spent in vain; for the cleanliness, civility, and "honour bright" of these small traders are very evident to those who knew the locality ten years ago.'

Our task is ended. We have told all we know about the costermongers, and no doubt much that we have said is not new to many of our readers; but in the way we put it, good may be effected, as shewing the degree of social progress in an industrious and useful class in the metropolis. Donkeys can of course never attain to the beauty, the strength, and the value of the horse. We may admit their inferiority to ponies; but as docile, kept at little expense, and useful in various departments of labour, they have their appointed place in creation. They offer themselves as the poor man's friend and servant. In what numberless cases, as is exemplified by the London costers, might they be employed to meliorate a lot sometimes very hard to bear! We do not bespeak for them more consideration than they deserve. All we expect is that they shall not be treated as abject and worthless. Let us appreciate their unobtrusive willingness to serve to the best of their ability. They ask little, and let that little be conceded. We do not look for elegant turn-outs of donkeys, though we believe the example of a donkey-phaeton has been set by the Baroness Burdett-Coutts, who is never wanting where the welfare of the lower animals is concerned. From our own personal experience, we may tell of employing Donald, our pet donkey, to draw a light four-wheeled phaeton, holding two persons. In bright harness, enlivened with jingling bells, he proceeds on a drive of eight to ten miles with the speed of a quick-trotting pony, and with a cheerfulness which it does one good to look at.

W. C.

A CAST OF THE NET.

THE STORY OF A DETECTIVE OFFICER.

IN FOUR CHAPTERS.--CHAPTER I.

Any one who feels the slightest curiosity as to the date of my story, can tell pretty nearly when its events occurred, by various incidents mentioned in it, and which the public know quite as much about as I do; but I do not feel inclined, for certain reasons of my own, to identify the precise date or to name the exact spot at which I was employed in the business.

It was a case for the police--for the detective police--and I was the detective employed. Now you must understand that I was not at this time regarded as a regular detective; I was a sergeant in what we will call the 'A' division, and I did ordinary duty; but though I was not yet on the regular detective staff, somehow or another I was very often taken from my usual work and put on all sorts of jobs, sometimes fifty or a hundred miles in the country; and I was once paid a very high compliment by the chief magistrate--of course I mean at Bow Street. He said: 'Nickham, you're not a regular detective, are you?'

'No, your Worship,' I said; 'I am not.'

'Well, Nickham, you're worth a dozen of them; and I have made a special note of your conduct, and shall send it on to the Commissioner.'

The Commissioner was old Sir Richard Mayne then. And that's how I got to be a sergeant; but it was only because I was lucky in two or three cases which the chief magistrate happened to notice.

Well, I was one night at the section-house, for I wasn't on duty (I don't mean the station-house; the section-house is a place where our men lodge, perhaps fifteen or twenty together, or more); and I was sitting in the large room by myself; for it was a fine evening, and none of the men cared much about chess or draughts or things of that kind. I was reading the paper by myself, when the door opened and one of our people looked in. It was Inspector Maffery; and I was very much surprised to see him there, as our place was quite out of his district. Seeing I was by myself, he said: 'Oh!' in a tone which shewed he was pleased at it, and turning to some one outside, he said: 'Come in, sir; the party is here by himself.' With this, a tall, stout, gray-whiskered gentleman came in.

Inspector Maffery closed the door after him, and not only did that, but shot the bolt, and then coming to me at the table, says: 'Nickham, this is Mr Byrle, the celebrated engineer that you have heard of.'

Of course I had heard of him; in fact I once had a cousin who worked in his factory. So I bowed and made a civil remark.

Then Inspector Maffery went on to say: 'This, Mr Byrle, is Sergeant Nickham, one of our most active men, as I have told you, and who, I think, is just the man for you. This place is very safe; and as I have bolted the door, and the men below know I am here, there will be no interruption; and you can say anything you wish to Nickham as well here as anywhere.'

So they sat down; and with a very polite speech, for he was really a gentleman, Mr Byrle told me what he wanted.

He made a long story of it; I shall not; but the public have really no idea of putting facts well together, and presenting them without any excrescences, if I may say so. However, I listened patiently, and found out what was required. It seemed that his factory had been robbed on several nights, in spite of an extra watchman being put on; and only the completely finished and most expensive engine-fittings were taken; shewing that the thief, whoever he was, knew what things to take, where to find them, and where to dispose of them. The robberies were mortifying, because they proved, as all such things do, that the firm were employing a thief, and trusting some one who was deceiving them. The loss of these fittings often delayed other work seriously; and above all, it was considered that it demoralised all the factory (where best part of a thousand hands were employed), by shewing that the firm _could_ be robbed with impunity. So, although it was hardly the sort of business which a first-rate man was required to work; and though I say it myself, and though spite and envy in certain quarters kept me off the regular staff, there was not a better man in London than I was, and our people knew it; yet I listened very patiently, and asked such questions as occurred to me. For a civilian, Mr Byrle seemed pretty sharp at catching my drift; while as an old hand, and knowing what was best with the public, Inspector Maffery sat without saying a word, or one now and again at the most, leaving Mr Byrle to settle things for himself. I then roughly sketched out a scheme, which in a few words I laid before the gentleman.

'I understand your plan entirely, Mr Nickham,' said the old gentleman; 'and the sooner you begin, the better, for I feel we shall be successful. Mr Maffery assures me you can be relieved from your duty here at any time; so I trust there will be no delay. I have said money is not to stop you, and you will take this on account of expenses--when exhausted, let me know.' With that he handed me a bank-note, and I thanked him, and of course promised to do my best.

Then Inspector Maffery said: 'I will see to all the essentials, Nickham, so make your preparations as soon as you can.'

Now I liked Maffery very well, and he was certainly one of our best inspectors; but all this civility, taking trouble off my hands and so forth, merely told me that Mr Byrle was a most liberal party, and that Maffery believed he had got hold of a good thing. Mr Byrle shook hands with me, and they went away together, leaving me to think over the business.

I must confess I was a little disappointed--although I could see I was likely to be well paid for my work--in being set at such a very commonplace job as this. After I had traced Lady Brightley's jewels (the reader does not remember this, I daresay, as it was kept very quiet, but I got praised for my management of the case), I thought I should have been selected for the most important work; and when Inspector Maffery brought Mr Byrle in, I really hoped it was about the great Bank-paper robbery.

The reader is quite aware, I have no doubt, that Bank of England notes are printed on paper specially made for the purpose, and that no other paper has three rough edges, the only clean-cut edge being where the two notes have been separated--and this is one of the great tests of a genuine note. It will be recollected too, how a great quantity of this paper was stolen from the mills at Alverstoke, and the Bank was in a terrible state about it, because as for engraving and all that handicraft sort of work--why, bless me! there's men by the dozen in England and on the continent too--_I_ know some of them--who could print off a note with all the little touches on which the examiners rely, as perfectly imitated as if they had worked for the Bank for years. So when the gang got hold of the genuine _paper_, it was a serious matter. They took the principal thief, however, and got the paper back. A desperate service it was too, as B----, the chief man in the affair, was one of the most resolute and desperate roughs in London; and the officers that took him ran great risk, and deserved great praise.

Of course the public rejoicing was very great, because nobody had known when the bad notes might come into circulation; but we knew, some of us, that it was all a sham, that a lot of the paper was still missing, and that if the right man got hold of it, there would soon be thousands of forged notes--all fives probably--flying about. It was pretended that all the paper was got back, or that the Bank people thought so, on purpose to make the holders of the remainder think that the hunt was given up; but it was no such thing. Two or three of the best men in the force were to continue the search, and I had hoped I should be selected; but I was told I would not do, because I could not speak any foreign language, and it was thought the men might have to go abroad after the paper. For all that, when I saw Inspector Maffery come in with Mr Byrle, I thought, as I just said, that I was to be chosen. However, I had found out my mistake; and I was thinking over my instructions, when the door opened again. I did not look up at first, supposing it was one of our men; but a cough attracting my attention, I turned round. I saw a slight-built, rather under-sized young fellow, with something of a foreign cut about him, very good-looking though, and a most uncommonly piercing eye; and he at once said: 'I am Mr Byrle's clerk, and have been waiting for him, and he wishes to know where he is to see you?'

'To see _me_?' I said. 'Why--does he want to see me?'

'I think what Mr Byrle means is, that in case he wants to speak to you, where shall he find you?' replied the young fellow. 'You see I don't know much of the business myself; I only know he has engaged you as a detective.'

'And that's more than you ought to have known,' I said; 'however, Mr Byrle knows his own business best. Tell him that of course he can always hear of me under the name agreed upon, at the _Yarmouth Smack_, where I shall lodge.'

'Under what name, did you say?' asks the clerk.

'I didn't say any name, and I don't mean to say any name,' was my answer. 'If Mr Byrle wants any more information, he had better write.'

'Oh, very well,' says he, quite short and sharp, for I supposed he did not like my manner, and away he goes.

I sat and thought, or tried to think, but I could not get on so well as before; the visit of that young fellow had unaccountably upset me, and I could not settle down again. Then in came first one, then another, then two or three of our men, and so I got up and went out. I had hardly turned the corner, when I met Inspector Maffery, and it was pretty easy to see by his rosy cheeks and unsteady eye what _he_ had been up to.

'Off for a meditative stroll, I suppose, Mr Nickham?' he says. 'You are the boy for my money.'

'I'm glad to hear it, Inspector,' I said. 'But I don't think much of Mr Byrle's clerk, nor of Mr Byrle himself for his judgment in sending him to me.'

'Mr Byrle's clerk!' he says; and then repeats it: 'Mr Byrle's clerk!'

'Ah!' I said, 'Mr Byrle's clerk. He came with a message from Mr Byrle to know where he should meet me if he wanted to see me. I had already settled with him how I would call at his manager's private house with my report, whenever I had anything to say; and he ought to have been satisfied with that.'

'You are making some mistake here, Sergeant Nickham,' says Inspector Maffery. 'Mr Byrle had no clerk with him; and moreover than that, I've been with him myself till the last five minutes; till he got into the train in fact, and can swear he never spoke to anybody but myself from the time I left you.'

'Then there's a screw loose!' I said; 'there's a something wrong here, Inspector, and we have got to deal with some uncommonly deep files. They have scored the first notch in the game, that's clear; but perhaps we can turn the tables on them all the better for it.'

'If there's a man in the force as can do it, Sergeant Nickham, you are that man,' says Inspector Maffery; 'I'll trust it to you; for my head just now isn't up to the polishing off of such a business. But do what you like.'

'Can I have Peter Tilley for a week, Inspector?' I said.

'Have half a dozen for a month, if you like,' he answered: 'Mr Byrle is that much in earnest, Sergeant Nickham, and he is that rich and liberal, that he would buy up half a division rather than be beaten. So pick who you like, and keep them as long as you like. I will see you all right.'

'Very good, Inspector,' I said. 'Then I will have Peter to-morrow; and don't make any report of this little adventure, not even to Mr Byrle. I think I see the little game, and I will try to spoil it.'

If I had had any doubt as to the Inspector having had quite enough brandy-and-water with Mr Byrle (it was sure to be brandy-and-water, for Inspector Maffery never touched anything else; he said it was ordered for his liver)--I say if I had felt any doubt before, I should have had none after the way he wrung my hand and said: 'If there's a man in the force as can do credit to the force and bring 'em through in triumph, that man is Sergeant Nickham.' And so, with another squeeze of my hand, he walked away with a step so excessively solemn and stately, that it was only a little better--a very little--than staggering across the pavement, in the way of telling what was the matter with him; but Inspector Maffery was not a bad fellow, and never curried favour with those above him by worrying and spying on those below him, and so we liked the old boy.

Now this was a very awkward incident--I mean of course about the clerk--and shewed me that my work had already begun, and was likely to be a little more intricate than I had expected. How the stranger came to know so much as he evidently did, I did not trouble myself just then to consider: he _did_ know it; that was the fact I was concerned with. Why it was worth his while to take so much trouble about a small affair, I did not much care either, though this was more important, as it was evident some one had employed him, for I would swear he was no smith or fitter; and so it was clear there was a good many in the swim. I don't mean to use any slang if I can help it, but 'swim' is a regular word, you know, and we can't do without it.

My mind was at once made up; I was always very quick in making up my mind, and prided myself upon it. I am bound to admit I often got wrong through it, but perhaps no oftener than people who were slower; and I took care to make a good deal of the times when I _was_ right, and so that covered everything. Now, Peter Tilley, the officer I had asked for, was a man as much about my size and build and colour of hair and eyes, as if he had been my twin-brother; and indeed he was not much unlike me in his features. Any one who knew us would not mistake us for each other, but a casual acquaintance might do so. I was wearing then rather extensive moustaches and whiskers; they gave me quite a military cut; and they were not common in the force then, though any man wears them now that chooses. I at once determined to shave them off--for I never allowed personal considerations to interfere with business--and make Tilley wear a set of false articles as much like my own as possible; and this I knew would immensely increase his resemblance to me as I appeared that day, while I should of course look very unlike myself. Then I would send Tilley to the _Yarmouth Smack_--which was a public-house at which, under some disguise, I had agreed to lodge while on my search--and he could keep his eyes open for anything going on; but he was not to trouble himself much. It was uncommonly likely, I thought, that the spies--for I didn't doubt there was more than one--would make sure that Smith or Brown or Jones, or whatever Tilley called himself, the lodger at the _Yarmouth Smack_, was Sergeant Nickham, and so, as long as they kept him in sight, they had the trump-card, if I may be bold enough to say so, in their hands. And if I had not met Inspector Maffery when I did, when the clerk's visit was fresh upon me, and I was rather out of temper about it, I should probably never have thought of mentioning the matter, and the detective work would have begun on the wrong side.

Byrle & Co.'s factory was close to the Thames, and had a wharf in connection with it, and one waterside public-house would do as well for me as another. In fact, as the receiver was as likely to live on the opposite bank as on their own, I might actually gain by living at some place with the river between me and the factory, for a boat could easier cross the river in the dark than a cart could drive through the narrow streets and lanes without being noticed.

I told Tilley as much of my plan as was necessary; he was delighted to help me, for he fancied I was a rising man, and it was something of an honour to work with me. He was willing enough to wear the moustache too; indeed this was such a common and natural sort of disguise, that it was adopted quite as a matter of course. I did _not_ tell him that I wished him to be mistaken for me; I took care to choose the moustache and whisker; but it never occurred to him why that particular style was chosen; nor did I tell him, or Inspector Maffery or Mr Byrle, that I was going to shave. There's nothing like keeping your own counsel in these cases; and I resolved that if I had occasion to report anything to the inspector (for he was supposed to have the case in hand), I would actually wear a false moustache myself; but it was specially arranged that I should not go near any of the authorities until I thought it desirable, for Mr Byrle was of opinion that if the least suspicion got afloat with regard to myself, the men who were robbing him were quite fly to watching where I went. (I am afraid I have dropped into slang again; to be 'fly' to a thing, means that you are up to it, or down to it, as some prefer to say.) Well, this was Mr Byrle's opinion, and I am bound to say, after the visit of the sham clerk, it was mine too.

OUR IRON-CLADS.

In our ballad literature not a little is heard of 'the wooden walls of Old England.' History is so full of exploits by three-deckers and frigates, that one feels as if the general disuse of these engines of naval warfare would lead to national disaster. England, however, does not stand alone in exchanging wooden walls for iron-clads of an entirely new type. All the navies of the world have been thus transformed in the twenty years which have elapsed since our last great war. There are ships of war now afloat which could single-handed meet and defeat the whole fleet that followed Nelson and Collingwood at Trafalgar. These great changes have been brought about by the use of armour-plating, the growth of the guns, the improvement of marine engines, and the adoption of machinery to aid in the working and the fighting of the ship. We remember a few months ago hearing one of our admirals, a man of the old school, talking of naval war. 'In past times,' he said, 'war was all courage and chivalry. What is it now? Cunning and machinery!' And to some extent he was right. Cunning and machinery will play a great part in the naval battles of the future; but of course there must be courage, and iron courage too, behind them, or iron plates and monster guns will avail but little. In the new class of war-vessels, the massive plates are bolted on to iron frames; the only wood is the 'backing' of Indian teak behind and sometimes between them. Oak, so far as beams and planks are concerned, has disappeared from the navy. The 'hearts of oak' are left, however, it is to be hoped, in the brave fellows who happily still man our new navy.

Our Navy List tells us that we have something like eight hundred ships of war, including in round numbers sixty iron-clads. These figures given in this way of course require some explanation. In the list are included gun-boats, tenders, store-ships, tug-boats, old wooden ships which are really waiting to be broken up, training-ships, and wooden guard-ships stationed at various ports. Our fighting navy really consists of the iron-clads and the unarmoured cruisers built for high speed; to these we may add gun-boats of a recent type built to carry one very heavy gun. And with regard to the iron-clads it must be noted that even they are not all fitted to take a place in line of battle. Many of them are ships built from 1861 to 1864, having very thin armour, comparatively light guns, and we fear in many cases worn-out boilers. The _Warrior_, our first real iron-clad man-of-war (for we can hardly count as such the floating batteries), was launched in 1861. She was built on the lines of a fast sailing-ship, and has none of the heaviness of form which was unavoidably given to most of her successors. When she was launched, armour was still in the region of doubtful projects, and it was considered a remarkable success to give her four-and-a-half-inch plates on her central portion only, for the ends were wholly unprotected. The _Warrior_ too was an enormously long ship--no less than three hundred and eighty feet from stem to stern; but even this length was exceeded in the sister ships _Northumberland_ and _Minotaur_. These ships are neither strong in armour nor handy in manœuvring; they have of course their uses, but they cannot be compared with the later ships constructed when we had acquired some practical knowledge of what an iron-clad should be.

As soon as it was recognised that rapidity in manœuvring--in other words, power of turning easily and certainly--was a necessary quality of a good iron-clad, ships were built much broader in proportion to their length; and this facility of manœuvring was further increased by the general introduction of the twin-screw; that is, the placing of two screw propellers one on each side of the stern-post, each being independent of the other; so that one or both can be used to drive the ship; or one can be reversed while the other continues driving ahead; thus enabling the ship to turn as easily as a boat when the oarsman backs water with one hand and continues pulling with the other.

While the increase of armour kept pace with the growth of the guns, and rose gradually from four inches on the _Warrior_ to two feet on the _Inflexible_, a species of internal defence was gradually developed by the division of the ship into numerous compartments; so that if she were pierced below the water-line by the explosion of a torpedo or the blow of an enemy's ram, the water would only partially fill her, and she would still be able to keep afloat. All the later iron-clads have a double bottom, the space between the inner and outer bottom being divided into numerous cells. The body of the ship is divided by the water-tight bulkheads extending from side to side, and from the bottom to the upper deck. To these transverse bulkheads Mr Barnaby, the present chief constructor, has added in all the iron-clads which he has designed a longitudinal bulkhead extending from stem to stern, and dividing the ship into two halves in the direction of her length. Further, there are minor compartments formed by strong bulkheads, designed for the protection of the engines and boilers. In a large ship these compartments of various kinds are very numerous; the _Inflexible_ contains upwards of one hundred and twenty; great care, therefore, has to be taken in planning them, in order to insure that this isolation of the various parts of the ship may not interfere with the working of her guns, engines, and steering apparatus while she is in action.

Side by side with this development of defensive power, there went on an equally rapid development of machinery and mechanical appliances for the working of the ship. The first necessity of an iron-clad is powerful engines, to drive her at a speed of thirteen or fourteen knots an hour on an emergency, though of course in ordinary times a much lower rate of speed is considered sufficient, and the engines work at half their power, or are stopped entirely, while the ship proceeds on her way under sail. But the propulsion of the ship is only one of the numerous duties to be discharged by this new adoption of steam, a power which was only just really establishing itself in our navy when we went to war with Russia in 1854. An iron-clad does not carry anything like the crew that used to be put on board of an old three-decker. Eleven hundred men used to be the complement of a ship of one hundred and thirty-one guns; one-third of the number is more than the crew of some of our most formidable vessels of to-day. In former days guns could be handled and worked by men and even by boys, provided the number of hands were sufficient; and nowadays it is very different work running in and out guns weighing thirty-five, thirty-eight, and eighty-one tons, and dragging along and ramming down shot and shell weighing from six hundred pounds up to three-quarters of a ton, and cartridges each of which contains perhaps more than two barrels of gunpowder. This kind of fighting is work for giants, and so the giant Steam lends his strong hand to do it. Steam turns the turrets of the monitor, steam exerts its force through the medium of hydraulic machinery, checks the recoil of the heavy gun as it runs in, forces the mechanical sponge into its bore, works the shot-lift that brings up the ammunition, works the rammer that drives it home into the gun; finally runs the gun out and points it, the huge gun raising or lowering its muzzle, or turning to right or left, as the captain of its crew touches a valve-handle or presses down a little lever.

But steam is not applied to the guns only; it works the windlasses, winches, and capstans that raise the anchors, braces up the yards, and lifts stores and heavy weights in and out of the ship, or moves them from place to place. It furnishes power to the steering apparatus, works the pumps, keeps the ventilating fans going; and in ships that shew the electric light at night it drives the electrical apparatus. Engines are made to start engines in some of the newer iron-clads. Instead of moving heavy levers when he wishes to set the engines going, the engineer just touches a miniature engine, which moves the levers of the larger engines for him. And all these more important engines are multiplied and made to act either together or separately, so that in the event of one being disabled, others are left to do its work. We hear of ships of war being fitted with twenty or thirty engines, without counting sundry smaller ones. Those of the turret-ship _Temeraire_ are thus divided--two main engines for propelling the ship, with two starting engines; four feed engines, two circulating engines, two bilge engines, four fan engines, one capstan engine, one steering engine, two pumping engines connected with the hydraulic loading-gear, two turning engines for rotating the turn-tables or turrets, two engines to pump water in case of fire, four engines for hoisting out ashes, one engine for condensing air in working the Whitehead torpedo, and an engine for the electric light apparatus. Admiral Fellowes had such ships as these in his mind when, speaking before a committee of the Admiralty, he said: 'Men-of-war now are nothing more nor less than floating machines; there are the steam capstans, the steam steering-gear; every portion of your guns, slides, and carriages worked by steam; there are the double bottom and the inner bottom, and everything connected with the machinery; in fact the whole ship is now a floating machine, and is more or less under the control of the chief engineer.'

In all our great naval wars, our ships had only a single weapon, the gun, and this not a very heavy one, for the highest limit of naval ordnance was the sixty-eight pounder, which indeed was looked upon as a very terrible weapon. To the guns of nowadays, the old thirty-two and sixty-eight pounders are mere pop-guns. There is the huge eighty-one-ton gun, twenty-four feet long, and six feet thick at the breech, its huge shot of fifteen hundred pounds being capable of penetrating thirty inches of armour. There is the thirty-eight-ton gun, whose shot of six or seven hundred pounds weight has smashed a thirteen-inch plate at a thousand yards. Then there are guns of six-and-a-half, nine, twelve, eighteen, and twenty-five tons, with projectiles weighing from one to six hundred pounds, all of them capable of piercing armour, against which the old naval guns would be as useless as a schoolboy's squirt. But the gun does not stand alone. There are two other weapons, either of which is more terrible, and in certain cases more effective than the heaviest gun afloat. These are the ram and the torpedo, the latter of which has recently been described in these columns. Let us, however, have a look at the ram. In the old days, the ship herself had no attacking power. She fought with her guns; or else she was laid alongside of her enemy, and the crew with axe, pike, and cutlass clambered over the bulwarks and on to the hostile decks, which they cleared by hand-to-hand fighting. Probably no iron-clad will ever be laid alongside of another to board her. Were an iron-clad to go into action, all the openings in the deck would be closed, and every one, even the steersman, under cover. Many modern ships could continue a fight successfully with a hundred or a hundred and fifty boarders in possession of the upper deck; and their own turret guns, or the fire of friendly ships, would clear away the intruders if necessary. Thus, in the recent war between Paraguay and Brazil, during one of the river engagements, a Paraguayan ship ran alongside of a Brazilian turret-ship and sent a crowd of boarders on to her iron decks. They met with no opposition; the round turret in front of them continued its fire against a Paraguayan monitor; while another Brazilian monitor sent volley after volley of grape-shot sweeping across the decks of her consort. In a few minutes they were clear. The Paraguayan boarders had been killed, had jumped into the water, or had escaped to one of their own ships. This, we believe, is the only attempt on record at boarding an iron-clad; its failure shews how hopeless such an enterprise is against a ship the possession of whose deck does not give any control over her movements or those of her crew. It is therefore probable that it will be only in the most exceptional cases that iron-clads will approach each other with the object of boarding. If they do come to close quarters, it will be only to use the ram.