CHAPTER CLXXXVI.
THE NEW CUT.
At nine o’clock on the same evening, Mr. Greenwood, muffled in a cloak, alighted from a hackney-cab in the Waterloo Road at the corner of the New Cut.
That wide thoroughfare which connects the Waterloo and Blackfriars’ Roads, is one of the most busy and bustling, after its own fashion, in all London.
Nowhere are the shops of a more miscellaneous nature: nowhere are the pathways so thronged with the stalls and baskets of itinerant venders.
The ingenuity of those petty provision-dealers adapts the spoilt articles of the regular fishmongers and butchers to serviceable purposes in the free market of the New Cut. The fish is cut in slices and fried in an oil or butter whose rancid taste obviates the putrid flavour and smell of the comestible; and the refuse scraps from the butchers-shops are chopped up to form a species of sausage-balls called “faggots.” Then the grease, in which the racy slices of fish and savoury compounds of lights and liver have been alike cooked, serves to fry large rounds of bread, which, when thus prepared, are denominated “sop in the pan.” Of course these culinary refinements are prepared by the venders in their own cellars or garrets hard by; but when conveyed to the miscellaneous market in the New Cut, the luxuries impart a greasy and sickening odour to the air.
It is perfectly wonderful to behold the various methods in which the poor creatures in that thoroughfare endeavour to obtain an honest livelihood; and although their proceedings elicit a smile—still, God pity them! they had better ply their strange trades thus than rob or beg!
There may be seen, for instance, a ragged urchin holding a bundle of onions in his hand, and shouting at the top of his shrill voice, “Here’s a ha’porth!”—and, no matter how finely dressed the passer-by, he is sure to thrust the onions under his or her very nose, still vociferating, “Here’s a ha’porth!” Poor boy! he thinks every one must want onions!
The immediate vicinity of the Victoria Theatre is infested with women who offer play-bills for sale, and who seem to fancy it impossible that the passers-by can be going elsewhere than to the play.
Here an orange-girl accosts a gentleman with two or three of the fruit in her hand, but with a significant look which gives the assurance that her real trade is of a less innocent nature:—there a poor woman with an array of children before her offers lucifer matches, but silently appeals for alms.
A little farther on is a long barrow covered with toys; and a tall man without a nose, shouts at intervals, “Only a penny each! only a penny each!” Some of these gim-cracks excite astonishment by their extreme cheapness; but they are chiefly made by the convicts in Holland, and are exported in large quantities to England.
In the middle of the road a man with stentorian voice offers “A hundred songs for a penny;” and, enumerating the list, he is sure to announce the “Return of the Hadmiral” amongst the rest.
Nearly opposite the Victoria Theatre there is an extensive cook’s-shop; and around the window stands a hungry crowd feasting their eyes on the massive joints which are intended to feast the stomach.
In front of the butchers’ shops the serving-men keep up a perpetual vociferation of “Buy! buy!”—a sort of running fire that denotes the earnestness with which competition is carried on amongst rivals in that delectable trade.
Perhaps a new baker’s shop is opened in the New Cut; and then a large placard at the window announces that “a glass of gin will be given to every purchaser of a quartern loaf.” The buyers do not pause to reflect that the price of the cordial is deducted from the weight of the bread.
The pawnbrokers’ shops seem to drive a most bustling trade in the New Cut; and the fronts of their establishments present a more extensive and miscellaneous assortment of second-hand garments, blankets, handkerchiefs, and sheets, than is to be seen elsewhere.
The influx and efflux of people at the public-houses and gin-shops constitute not the least remarkable feature of that neighbourhood, where everything is dirty and squalid, yet where every one appears able to purchase intoxicating liquor!
On the southern side of the New Cut there are a great many second-hand furniture shops, the sheds wherein the articles are principally exposed being built against the houses in a fashion which gives the whole, when viewed by the glaring of the gas-lights, the appearance of a bazaar or fair.
The New Cut is always crowded; but the multitude is not entirely in motion. Knots of men congregate here, and groups of women there—the posts at the corners of the alleys and courts, or the doors of the gin-shops, being the most favourite points of such assembly.
The edges of the path-ways are not completely devoted to provision dealers. Penny peep-shows, emblazoned with a coloured drawing representing the last horrible murder,—itinerant quacks with “certain remedies for the toothach,”—stalls covered with odd numbers of cheap periodical publications,—old women seated on stools, behind little trays containing combs, papers of needles, reels of cotton, pack-thread, stay-laces, bobbin, and such-like articles,—men with cutlery to sell, and who flourish in their hands small knives with innumerable blades sticking out like the quills on a porcupine,—these are also prominent features in that strange market.
In some conspicuous place most likely stands a caravan, surmounted by a picture representing a colossal giant and a giantess to match, with an assurance in large letters that the originals may be seen inside:—then, as the eye wanders from the enormous canvass to the caravan itself, and compares their sizes, the mind is left in a pleasing state of surprise how even one of the Brobdignag marvels—let alone two—could possibly stow itself away in that diminutive box.
Branching off from the New Cut, on either side, are numerous narrow streets,—or rather lanes, of a very equivocal reputation; their chief characteristics being houses of ill-fame, gin-shops, beer-shops, marine-store dealers, pawnbrokers, and barbers’ establishments.
There are two facts connected with low neighbourhoods which cannot fail to attract the attention of even the most superficial observers in their wanderings amidst the mazes of the modern Babylon. The first is that the corner shops of nearly all the narrow and dirty streets are occupied by general dealers or people in the chandlery-line; and the second is that all the barbers’ establishments are ornamented with a blind or placard conveying an assurance that each is “the original shaving shop.” Here, again, the mind enjoys the excitement of uncertainty, as in the matter of the caravan and the giants; for it is impossible to arrive at any satisfactory decision whether the aforesaid placard means you to infer that the shop to which it belongs was the first ever opened in the world for tonsorial purposes, or only the first that shed the light of its civilisation upon that especial neighbourhood. We may also observe that some of the proprietors of those establishments are not altogether unacquainted with the mysteries of puffing; inasmuch as we frequently read upon their shop-fronts the truly exhilarating and inspiring words, “Hair-dresser to the Queen.”
Such are the New Cut and its tributary lanes.
And it was now along the New Cut that Mr. Greenwood, enveloped in his cloak, was pursuing his way.
He scarcely noticed the turmoil, bustle, and business of that strange thoroughfare; for he was too much absorbed in his own meditations.
The truth was, that his affairs—once so gloriously prosperous—were now rendered desperate by various reverses; and he was about to seek a desperate means of retrieving them.
The reader cannot have failed to observe that the characters of George Montague Greenwood and Richard Markham stand out from our picture of London Life in strong contrast with each other; and it is not the less remarkable that while the former was rising rapidly to wealth, rank, and eminence, the latter was undergoing persecutions and sinking into comparative poverty. Now—at the epoch which we are describing—the tables seem to have turned; for while George Montague Greenwood is about
to seek a desperate remedy for his desperate affairs, Richard Markham is leading a gallant army over the fertile plains of Castelcicala.
The former, then, may be deemed the personification of vice, the latter the representative of virtue.
They had chosen separate paths:—the sequel will fully demonstrate which of the two characters had selected the right one.
In the meantime we will continue our narrative.
Mr. Greenwood pursued his way, and, having crossed over to the southern side of the New Cut, repaired to a small row of private houses of which this famous thoroughfare can boast at the extremity joining the Blackfriars’ Road.
There he stopped for a moment beneath a lamp to consult a memorandum in his pocket-book; and, having thereby refreshed his memory in respect to the address of which he was in search, he proceeded to knock at the door of a house close by.
A dirty servant-girl opened it just as far as a chain inside would permit; and protruding her smutty face, said, with strange abruptness, “Well, what is it?”
“Does Mr. Pennywhiffe live here?” demanded Greenwood.
“No—he don’t; and, if he did, you wouldn’t come in—’cos I know it’s all your gammon,” returned that most uninteresting specimen of the female-domestic race.
“Why not?” exclaimed Greenwood, indignantly. “Whom do you take me for?”
“For what you are,” replied the girl.
“And what am I, then?”
“Why—a execution, to be sure.”
And, with these words, the girl banged the door in Mr. Greenwood’s face.
“I must have taken down the wrong number in my memorandum,” thought the Member of Parliament, as he turned away from the house, which was evidently in a state of siege. “This is very provoking!”
He then knocked at the door of the next house.
A woman with a child in her arms answered the summons; and, without waiting for any question, said abruptly, “You had better walk in.”
Greenwood entered accordingly, supposing that the woman had overheard his inquiry next door, and that he had now found the abode of the person whom he sought.
The woman led the way into a back room, almost completely denuded of furniture, smelling awfully of tobacco-smoke, and very feebly lighted with a single candle that wanted snuffing.
In the midst of a dense cloud of that vapour, a man without a coat was sitting on a trunk; but the moment Greenwood entered, this individual threw down his clay-pipe, and advancing towards the visitor, exclaimed in a ferocious voice, “So you’re going your rounds at this hour, are you? Well—I’m as far off from having the tin as I have been all along; and as I am going away to-morrow, I don’t mind if I give you a good drubbing to teach you how to pester a gentleman with shabby bits of paper in future.”
Thus speaking, the ferocious individual advanced towards Greenwood, squaring away like clock-work.
“Really, sir—you must labour under some mistake,” exclaimed the Member of Parliament. “I have never called here before in my life.”
“Then who the devil are you?” demanded the pugilistic phenomenon.
“That is quite another question,” said Greenwood. “I——”
“Do you mean to tell me, then,” exclaimed the man, “that you ain’t the Water Rates?”
“No—I am not,” answered Greenwood, unable to suppress a smile. “I thought that a Mr. Pennywhiffe lived here.”
“Then he don’t—that’s all,” was the rejoinder. “Blowed if I don’t believe it’s a plant, after all. Come—ain’t you a bum? no lies, now!”
Greenwood turned indignantly away from the room, and left the house, muttering to himself, “This is most extraordinary! Every one appears to be in difficulties in this street.”
He was not, however, disheartened: it was highly necessary for him to see the person of whom he was in search; and he accordingly knocked at another door.
“Tell him I’ll send round the money to-morrow,” shouted a masculine voice inside. “I know it’s the collector, because he’s rapping at every house.”
Greenwood did not wait for the door to be opened: he knew very well that Mr. Pennywhiffe could not live there.
The fourth house at which he knocked was the right one.
A decent-looking servant girl replied in the affirmative to his inquiry; and he was forthwith conducted to a well-furnished room on the first floor, where he found Mr. Pennywhiffe seated at a table covered with papers.
This individual was about fifty years of age. In person he was short, thin, and by no means prepossessing in countenance. His eyes were deeply set, grey, and restless; and his forehead was contracted into a thousand wrinkles. He was dressed in a suit of black, and wore a white neck-cloth—no doubt to enhance the respectability of his appearance. This was, however, a difficult task; for had he figured in the dock of a criminal tribunal, the jury would have had no trouble in coming to a verdict, a more hang-dog countenance being seldom seen, even in a city where the face is so often the mirror of the mind.
“Ah! Mr. Greenwood,” exclaimed Mr. Pennywhiffe, rising to welcome his visitor; “this is an unexpected honour. What can I do for you? Pray, be seated; and speak plainly. There’s no listeners here.”
“I require your aid in a most important business,” answered Greenwood, taking a chair, and throwing back his cloak. “To-morrow I must raise twenty or twenty-five thousand pounds, for three or four months—upon bills—good bills, Mr. Pennywhiffe.”
“To be deposited?” asked that individual.
“To be deposited,” replied Greenwood.
“Shall you withdraw them in time?”
“Decidedly. I will convert the money I shall thereby raise into a hundred thousand,” exclaimed Greenwood.
“My commission will be heavy for such a business,” observed Pennywhiffe; “and that, you know, is ready money.”
“I am aware of it, and am come provided. Name the amount you require.”
“Will two hundred hurt you?” said Pennywhiffe. “Remember—the affair is a serious one.”
“You shall have two hundred pounds,” exclaimed the Member of Parliament, laying his pocket-book upon the table.
“That is what I call coming to the point.”
Mr. Pennywhiffe rose from his seat, and opening an iron safe, took thence a memorandum-book and a small tin box.
Returning to his seat, he handed the memorandum-book to Greenwood, saying, “There is my list of noblemen, wealthy gentlemen, and great mercantile firms, whose names are familiar to me. Choose which you will have; and make notes of the various sums the bills are to be drawn for. Let them be for the most part uneven ones, with fractions: it looks so much better.”
While Greenwood was employed in examining the memorandum-book, which contained upwards of five hundred names of peers, and great landowners, in addition to those of the chief commercial firms of London, Birmingham, Liverpool, Manchester, Leeds, Sheffield, Glasgow, and other places,—besides several belonging to Paris, Lyons, Bordeaux, Havre, and Lille; Brussels, Amsterdam, Rotterdam, and Hamburgh; New York, the West Indian Islands, and Montreal; Calcutta, Bombay, and Madras;—while Mr. Greenwood, we say, was examining this strange register, and copying several of the best names of noblemen, gentlemen, and merchants, upon a slip of paper, Mr Pennywhiffe opened his tin-case.
The contents thereof were numerous paid checks, and bills of exchange, respectively bearing the signatures of the persons or firms whose names were entered in the memorandum-book.
How Mr. Pennywhiffe became possessed of such important documents,—which, seeing that they had all been duly honoured at maturity, ought to have remained in the hands of those who took them up,—was a mystery which he kept to himself. Whether he had collected them by degrees, or had obtained them in a heap by robbery, or any ot
her means, he never condescended to acquaint his clients.
“I have chosen eleven names,” said Greenwood, “and have appended to them the various sums for which I require the bills to be drawn. The aggregate is twenty-three thousand two hundred and seventeen pounds, nine shillings, and sevenpence half-penny.”
“A good total, that,” observed Mr. Pennywhiffe,—“an excellent total—sounds uncommon well. Nothing could be better. Am I to provide the stamps?”
“If you please. I will pay you extra for them.”
Mr. Pennywhiffe once more had recourse to his iron safe, and returned to his seat with a small paste-board box, long and narrow, and containing a vast number of bill-stamps adapted to sums of all amounts. As the usual formula of such documents was printed (though in various ways, they having been procured at different stationers’ shops) the process of filling them up was by no means a tedious one.
But now the ingenuity of Mr. Pennywhiffe mainly exhibited itself. Each bill was filled up with a different ink and a different pen; and so skilful a caligrapher was he, that the most astute judge of writing could not possibly have perceived that they were all written by the same hand. Then, by the aid of red ink, a few flourishes, and little circles containing initial letters or figures as if each document corresponded with some particular entry in some particular ledger or bill-book, the papers speedily assumed a very business-like appearance.
And now the most difficult and delicate part of the entire process was to commence—the signatures. But Mr. Pennywhiffe went to work with the air of one who fully understood what he was about; and with the originals before him as a copy, he perfected acceptance after acceptance in so masterly a manner, that Greenwood, when he compared the fictitious signatures with the genuine, was astounded at the caligraphic proficiency of that man whose dangerous agency he was now rendering available to his purposes.
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 52
