Dusty Diamonds Cut and Polished: A Tale of City Arab Life and Adventure by - (best self help books to read txt) 📖

Frog himself, who chanced to come round the corner at the moment and saw the policeman, as he imagined, maltreating his wife.

Ned was a man who, while he claimed and exercised the right to treat his own wife as he pleased, was exceedingly jealous of the interference of others with his privileges. He advanced, therefore, at once, and planted his practised knuckles on the policeman’s forehead with such power that the unfortunate limb of the law rolled over in one direction and his helmet in another.

As every one knows, the police sometimes suffer severely at the hands of roughs, and on this occasion that truth was verified, but the policeman who had been knocked down by this prize-fighter was by no means a feeble member of the force. Recovering from his astonishment in a moment, he sprang up and grappled with Ned Frog in such a manner as to convince that worthy he had “his work cut out for him.” The tussle that ensued was tremendous, and Mrs Frog retired into a doorway to enjoy it in safety. But it was brief. Before either wrestler could claim the victory, a brother constable came up, and Ned was secured and borne away to a not unfamiliar cell before he could enjoy even one pipe of the “baccy” which he had purchased.

Thus it came to pass, that when a certain comrade expected to find Ned Frog at a certain mansion in the West-end, prepared with a set of peculiar tools for a certain purpose, Ned was in the enjoyment of board and lodging at Her Majesty’s expense.

The comrade, however, not being aware of Ned’s incarceration, and believing, no doubt, that there was honour among thieves, was true to his day and hour. He had been engaged down somewhere in the country on business, and came up by express train for this particular job; hence his ignorance as to his partner’s fate.

But this burglar was not a man to be easily balked in his purpose.

“Ned must be ill, or got a haccident o’ some sort,” he said to a very little but sharp boy who was to assist in the job. “Howsever, you an’ me’ll go at it alone, Sniveller.”

“Wery good, Bunky,” replied Sniveller, “’ow is it to be? By the winder, through the door, down the chimbly, up the spout—or wot?”

“The larder windy, my boy.”

“Sorry for that,” said Sniveller.

“Why?”

“’Cause it is so ’ard to go past the nice things an’ smell ’em all without darin’ to touch ’em till I lets you in. Couldn’t you let me ’ave a feed first?”

“Unpossible,” said the burglar.

“Wery good,” returned the boy, with a sigh of resignation.

Now, while these two were whispering to each other in a box of an adjoining tavern, three police-constables were making themselves at home in the premises of Sir Richard Brandon. One of these was Number 666.

It is not quite certain, even to this day, how and where these men were stationed, for their proceedings—though not deeds of evil—were done in the dark, at least in darkness which was rendered visible only now and then by bull’s-eye lanterns. The only thing that was absolutely clear to the butler, Mr Thomas Balls, was, that the mansion was given over entirely to the triumvirate to be dealt with as they thought fit.

Of course they did not know when the burglars would come, nor the particular point of the mansion where the assault would be delivered; therefore Number 666 laid his plans like a wise general, posted his troops where there was most likelihood of their being required, and kept himself in reserve for contingencies.

About that “wee short hour” of which the poet Burns writes, a small boy was lifted by a large man to the sill of the small window which lighted Sir Richard Brandon’s pantry. To the surprise of the small boy, he found the window unfastened.

“They’ve bin an’ forgot it!” he whispered.

“Git in,” was the curt reply.

Sniveller got in, dropped to his extreme length from the sill, let go his hold, and came down lightly on the floor—not so lightly, however, but that a wooden stool placed there was overturned, and, falling against a blue plate, broke it with a crash.

Sniveller became as one petrified, and remained so for a considerable time, till he imagined all danger from sleepers having been awakened was over. He also thought of thieving cats, and thanked them mentally. He likewise became aware of the near presence of pastry. The smell was delicious, but a sense of duty restrained him.

Number 666 smiled to himself to think how well his trap had acted, but the smile was lost in darkness.

Meanwhile, the chief operator, Bunky, went round to the back door. Sniveller, who had been taught the geography of the mansion from a well-executed plan, proceeded to the same door inside. Giles could have patted his little head as he carefully drew back the bolts and turned the key. Another moment, and Bunky, on his stocking soles, stood within the mansion.

Yet another moment, and Bunky was enjoying an embrace that squeezed most of the wind out of his body, strong though he was, for Number 666 was apt to forget his excessive power when duty constrained him to act with promptitude.

“Now, then, show a light,” said Giles, quietly.

Two bull’s-eyes flashed out their rich beams at the word, and lit up a tableau of three, in attitudes faintly resembling those of the Laocoon, without the serpents.

“Fetch the bracelets,” said Giles.

At these words the bull’s-eyes converged, and Sniveller, bolting through the open door, vanished—he was never heard of more!

Then followed two sharp clicks, succeeded by a sigh of relief as Number 666 relaxed his arms.

“You needn’t rouse the household unless you feel inclined, my man,” said Giles to Bunky in a low voice.

Bunky did not feel inclined. He thought it better, on the whole, to let the sleeping dogs lie, and wisely submitted to inevitable fate. He was marched off to jail, while one of the constables remained behind to see the house made safe, and acquaint Sir Richard of his deliverance from the threatened danger.

Referring to this matter on the following day in the servants’ hall, Thomas Balls filled a foaming tankard of ginger-beer—for, strange to say, he was an abstainer, though a butler—and proposed, in a highly eulogistic speech, the health and prosperity of that admirable body of men, the Metropolitan Police, with which toast he begged to couple the name of Number 666!