"Ah! you mean—hanged?" said Barnabas.
"As ever vas, sir, capital punishment. And I goes round reg'lar jest to keep an eye on my capital coves. Lord! I vatches over 'em all—like a feyther. Theer's some volks as collects books, an' some volks as collects picters an' old coins, but I collects capital coves,—names and faces. The faces I keeps 'ere," and he tapped his placid forehead, "the names I keeps 'ere," and he tapped the little book. "It's my trade d' ye see, and though there's better trades, still there's trades as is vorse, an' that's summat, ain't it?"
"And what might your trade be?" inquired Barnabas, as they walked on together along the narrow alley.
"Veil, sir, I'm vot they calls a bashaw of the pigs—but I'm more than that."
"Pray," said Barnabas, "what do you mean?" For answer the man smiled, and half drew from his pocket a short staff surmounted by a crown.
"Ah!" said Barnabas, "a Bow Street Runner?"
"And my name is Shrig, sir, Jasper Shrig. You'll have heard it afore, o'course."
"No!" said Barnabas. Mr. Shrig seemed placidly surprised, and vented a gentle sigh.
"It's pretty vell known, in London, sir, though it ain't a pretty name, I'll allow. Ye-es, I've 'eard prettier, but then it's better than a good many, and that's sum-mat, ain't it? And then, as I said afore, it's pretty vell known."
"How so?"
"Vell, sir, there be some as 'as a leanin' to one branch o' the profession, and some to another,—now mine's murders."
"Murders?" said Barnabas, staring.
"Vith a werry big M., sir. V'y, Lord love you, there's been more murderers took and topped through me than any o' the other traps in London, it's a nat'ral gift vith me. Ye see, I collects 'em—afore the fact, as ye might say. I can smell 'em out, feel 'em out, taste 'em out, it's jest a nat'ral gift."
"But—how? What do you mean?"
"I means as I'll be valking along a street, say, looking at every face as I pass. Vell, all at once I'll spot a cove or covess vith vot I calls a capital mug, I'll follow that cove or covess, and by 'ook or by crook I'll find out that there cove or covess's name, and—down it goes in my little book, d' ye see?" and he tapped the little book.
"But surely," said Barnabas, "surely they don't all prove to be murderers?"
"Vell no, sir—that's hardly to be expected,—ye see, some on 'em wanishes away, an' some goes an' dies, but they mostly turns out true capitals—if I only vaits for 'em long enough, and—up they goes."
"And are you always on the lookout for such faces?"
"Yes, sir,—v'en I ain't busy on some case. A man must 'ave some little relaxation, and that's mine. Lord love you, sir, scarcely a day goes by that I don't spot one or two. I calls 'em my children, an' a werry large, an' a werry mixed lot they are too! Rich an' poor, men an' women,—rolling in their coaches an' crawling along the kennel. Aha! if you could look into my little reader an' see the names o' some o' my most promisin' children they'd as-tonish you. I've been to 'ave a look at a couple of 'em this mornin'. Aha! it would a-maze you if you could look into my little reader."
"I should like to," said Barnabas, eyeing the small, shabby book with a new interest. But Mr. Shrig only blinked his wide, innocent eyes, and slipping the book into his pocket, led the way round a sudden corner into another alley narrower than the last, and, if possible, dirtier.
"Where are we going?" Barnabas demanded, for Mr. Shrig, though always placid, had suddenly taken on an air that was almost alert, his bright, roving eye wandered more than ever, and he appeared to be hearkening to distant sounds. "Where are we going?" repeated Barnabas.
"Gray's Inn is 'andiest, sir, and I must ask you to step out a bit, they're a rough crowd as lives 'ereabouts,—scamps an' hunters, didlers an' cly-fakers, so I must ask you to step out a bit, this is a bad country for me."
"Bad for you? Why?"
"On account o' windictiveness, sir!"
"Of what?"
"Windictiveness, sir—windictiveness in every shape an' form, but brick-ends mostly—vith a occasional chimbley-pot."
"I'm afraid I don't understand," Barnabas began.
"Veil then," explained Mr. Shrig as they strode along, "I vere the means o' four coves bein' topped d' ye see, 'ighvay robbery vith wiolence,—'bout a month ago, used to live round 'ere, they did, an' their famblies an' friends is windictive against me accordingly, an' werry nat'ral too, for 'uman natur' is only 'uman natur', ain't it? Werry good then. Now their windictiveness,—or as you might say, 'uman natur',—generally takes the shape of chimbley-pots and brick-ends, though I 'ave met windictiveness in the form o' b'iling vater and flat-irons, not to mention saucepans an' sich, afore now, and vunce a arm-cheer, all of vich is apt to vorry you a bit until you gets used to it. Then there's knives—knives is allus awk'ard, and bludgeons ain't to be sneezed at, neither. But, Lord! every perfession and trade 'as its drawbacks, an' there's a sight o' comfort in that, ain't there?"
All this time the eyes of Mr. Shrig were roving here, wandering there, now apparently glancing up at the strip of sky between the dingy house tops, now down at the cobbles beneath their feet; also Barnabas noticed that his step, all at once, grew slower and more deliberate, as one who hesitates, uncertain as to whether he shall go on, or turn back. It was after one of those swift, upward glances, that Mr. Shrig stopped all at once, seized Barnabas by the middle and dragged him into an adjacent doorway, as something crashed down and splintered within a yard of them.
"What now—what is it?" cried Barnabas.
"Win-dictiveness!" sighed Mr. Shrig, shaking his head at the missile, "a piece o' coping-stone, thirty pound if a ounce—Lord! Keep flat agin the door sir, same as me, they may try another—I don't think so—still they may, so keep close ag'in the door. A partic'lar narrer shave I calls it!" nodded Mr. Shrig; "shook ye a bit sir?"
"Yes," said Barnabas, wiping his brow.
"Ah well, it shook me—and I'm used to windictiveness. A brick now," he mused, his eyes wandering again, "a brick I could ha' took kinder, bricks an' sich I'm prepared for, but coping-stones—Lord love me!"
"But a brick would have killed you just the same—"
"Killed me? A brick? Oh no, sir!"
"But, if it had hit you on the head—"
"On the 'at sir, the 'at—or as you might say—the castor—this, sir," said Mr. Shrig; and glancing furtively up and down the gloomy alley he took off the broad-brimmed hat; "just run your ogles over this 'ere castor o' mine, an' you'll understand, perhaps."
"It's very heavy," said Barnabas, as he took the hat.
"Ah, it is a bit 'eavyish, sir. Peep inside of it."
"Why," exclaimed Barnabas, "it's lined with—"
