Attended to his business himself, he said. Always on the spot. When he heard of talent, trusted nobody′s account of it, but went off by rail to see it. If true talent, engaged it. Pounds a week for talent—four pound—five pound. Banjo Bones was undoubted talent. Hear this instrument that was going to play—it was real talent! In truth it was very good; a kind of piano-accordion, played by a young girl of a delicate prettiness of face, figure, and dress, that made the audience look coarser. She sang to the instrument, too; first, a song about village bells, and how they chimed; then a song about how I went to sea; winding up with an imitation of the bagpipes, which Mercantile Jack seemed to understand much the best. A good girl, said Mr. Licensed Victualler. Kept herself select. Sat in Snug, not listening to the blandishments of Mates. Lived with mother. Father dead. Once a merchant well to do, but over-speculated himself. On delicate inquiry as to salary paid for item of talent under consideration, Mr. Victualler′s pounds dropped suddenly to shillings—still it was a very comfortable thing for a young person like that, you know; she only went on six times a night, and was only required to be there from six at night to twelve. What was more conclusive was, Mr. Victualler′s assurance that he ′never allowed any language, and never suffered any disturbance.′ Sharpeye confirmed the statement, and the order that prevailed was the best proof of it that could have been cited. So, I came to the conclusion that poor Mercantile Jack might do (as I am afraid he does) much worse than trust himself to Mr. Victualler, and pass his evenings here.
But we had not yet looked, Mr. Superintendent—said Trampfoot, receiving us in the street again with military salute—for Dark Jack. True, Trampfoot. Ring the wonderful stick, rub the wonderful lantern, and cause the spirits of the stick and lantern to convey us to the Darkies.
There was no disappointment in the matter of Dark Jack; HE was producible. The Genii set us down in the little first floor of a little public-house, and there, in a stiflingly close atmosphere, were Dark Jack, and Dark Jack′s delight, his WHITE unlovely Nan, sitting against the wall all round the room. More than that: Dark Jack′s delight was the least unlovely Nan, both morally and physically, that I saw that night.
As a fiddle and tambourine band were sitting among the company, Quickear suggested why not strike up? ′Ah, la′ads!′ said a negro sitting by the door, ′gib the jebblem a darnse. Tak′ yah pardlers, jebblem, for ′um QUAD-rill.′
This was the landlord, in a Greek cap, and a dress half Greek and half English. As master of the ceremonies, he called all the figures, and occasionally addressed himself parenthetically—after this manner. When he was very loud, I use capitals.
′Now den! Hoy! ONE. Right and left. (Put a steam on, gib ′um powder.) LA-dies′ chail. BAL-loon say. Lemonade! TWO. AD- warnse and go back (gib ′ell a breakdown, shake it out o′ yerselbs, keep a movil). SWING-corners, BAL-loon say, and Lemonade! (Hoy!) THREE. GENT come for′ard with a lady and go back, hoppersite come for′ard and do what yer can. (Aeiohoy!) BAL-loon say, and leetle lemonade. (Dat hair nigger by ′um fireplace ′hind a′ time, shake it out o′ yerselbs, gib ′ell a breakdown.) Now den! Hoy! FOUR! Lemonade.
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