Superintendent I saw, as anybody might, a tall, well-looking, well-set-up man of a soldierly bearing, with a cavalry air, a good chest, and a resolute but not by any means ungentle face. He carried in his hand a plain black walking-stick of hard wood; and whenever and wherever, at any after-time of the night, he struck it on the pavement with a ringing sound, it instantly produced a whistle out of the darkness, and a policeman. To this remarkable stick, I refer an air of mystery and magic which pervaded the whole of my perquisition among the traps that were set for Jack.
We began by diving into the obscurest streets and lanes of the port. Suddenly pausing in a flow of cheerful discourse, before a dead wall, apparently some ten miles long, Mr. Superintendent struck upon the ground, and the wall opened and shot out, with military salute of hand to temple, two policemen—not in the least surprised themselves, not in the least surprising Mr. Superintendent.
′All right, Sharpeye?′
′All right, sir.′
′All right, Trampfoot?′
′All right, sir.′
′Is Quickear there?′
′Here am I, sir.′
′Come with us.′
′Yes, sir.′
So, Sharpeye went before, and Mr. Superintendent and I went next, and Trampfoot and Quickear marched as rear-guard. Sharp-eye, I soon had occasion to remark, had a skilful and quite professional way of opening doors—touched latches delicately, as if they were keys of musical instruments—opened every door he touched, as if he were perfectly confident that there was stolen property behind it— instantly insinuated himself, to prevent its being shut.
Sharpeye opened several doors of traps that were set for Jack, but Jack did not happen to be in any of them. They were all such miserable places that really, Jack, if I were you, I would give them a wider berth. In every trap, somebody was sitting over a fire, waiting for Jack. Now, it was a crouching old woman, like the picture of the Norwood Gipsy in the old sixpenny dream-books; now, it was a crimp of the male sex, in a checked shirt and without a coat, reading a newspaper; now, it was a man crimp and a woman crimp, who always introduced themselves as united in holy matrimony; now, it was Jack′s delight, his (un)lovely Nan; but they were all waiting for Jack, and were all frightfully disappointed to see us.
′Who have you got up-stairs here?′ says Sharpeye, generally. (In the Move-on tone.)
′Nobody, surr; sure not a blessed sowl!′ (Irish feminine reply.)
′What do you mean by nobody? Didn′t I hear a woman′s step go up- stairs when my hand was on the latch?′
′Ah! sure thin you′re right, surr, I forgot her! ′Tis on′y Betsy White, surr. Ah! you know Betsy, surr. Come down, Betsy darlin′, and say the gintlemin.′
Generally, Betsy looks over the banisters (the steep staircase is in the room) with a forcible expression in her protesting face, of an intention to compensate herself for the present trial by grinding Jack finer than usual when he does come. Generally, Sharpeye turns to Mr. Superintendent, and says, as if the subjects of his remarks were wax-work:
′One of the worst, sir, this house is. This woman has been indicted three times. This man′s a regular bad one likewise. His real name is Pegg. Gives himself out as Waterhouse.′
′Never had sitch a name as Pegg near me back, thin, since I was in this house, bee the good Lard!′ says the woman.
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