"I didn't do anything else," replied the Hound—"I met you here, at Lovejoy's, about dusk. You were a tee-total stranger to me. You says, says you, that you'd like to do a good turn to Harry Royalton, and at the same time fix this white nigger and his sister—you know who I mean?"
"Randolph and Esther—"
"Well, we closed our bargain. You gave me a note to Randolph and one to his sister. I hunted 'em out and delivered your notes, and here I am."
Bloodhound smiled one of his most frightful smiles, and consoled himself with a glass of brandy.
"Where did you find these persons?" asked Blue Kerchief.
"At a tip-top boardin' house up town, accordin' to your directions. I fust saw the boy and delivered your note, and arter he was gone I saw the gal and did the same. Now, old boss, do you think they'll come?"
"You saw the contents of those notes?"
"I did. I saw you write 'em and read 'em afore you sealed 'em up. The one to Randolph requested him to be at a sartin place on the Five Points about twelve o'clock. An' the one to Esther requested her to be at the Temple about the same hour. Now do you think they'll come?"
"You have seen Godlike and Royalton?" said the unknown, speaking thickly through the neckerchief which enveloped his mouth.
"Godlike will be at the Temple as the clock strikes twelve, and Harry and me will be at Five Points, at the identical spot—you know—at the very same identical hour."
"That is sufficient. Here is the sum I promised you," and the stranger laid two broad gold pieces on the table: "we must now part. Should I ever need you, we will meet again. Good night."
And the stranger rose, and left the refectory, Bloodhound turning his head over his shoulder as he watched his retreating figure with dumb amazement.
"Cool! I call it cool!" he soliloquised; "Waiter, see here; another glass of brandy. Yet this is good gold; has the right ring, hey? Judas Iscariot! Somehow or 'nother, everything I touch turns to gold. Wonder what the chap in the blue handkercher has agin the white nigger and his sister? Who keers? At twelve to-night Godlike will have the gal, and Harry and I will have the nigger. Ju-das Iscariot!" Here let us leave the Bloodhound for awhile, to his solemn meditations and his glass of brandy.
CHAPTER II.
THE CANAL STREET SHIRT STORE.
"Do you call them stitches? S-a-y? How d'ye expect a man to git a livin' if he's robbed in that way? Do you call that a shirt—s-a-y?"
"Indeed I did my best—"
"Did your best? I should like to know what you take me for? D'ye think I'm a fool? Did not I give you the stuff for five shirts, and fust of all, I exacted a pledge of five dollars from you, to be forfeited if you spoilt the stuff—"
"And you know I was to receive two shillings for each shirt. I'll thank you to pay me my money, and restore my five dollars and let me go—"
"Not a copper. This shirt is spoilt. And if those you have in your arms are no better, why they are spoilt too—"
"They're made as well as the one you hold—no better."
"Then I can't sell 'em for old rags. Just give 'em to me, and clear out—"
"At least give me back my five dollars—"
"Not a copper. Had you finished these shirts in the right style, they'd a-sold for fifteen dollars. As it is, the money is forfeited—I mean the five dollars which you left with me as a pledge. I can't employ you any more. Just give me the other four shirts, and clear out."
The storekeeper and the poor girl were separated by a counter, on which was placed a showy case. She was dressed in a faded calico gown, and a shawl as worn and faded, hung about her shoulders. She wore a straw bonnet, although it was a night in mid-winter; and beneath her poverty-stricken dress, her shoes were visible: old and worn into shreds they scarcely clung to her feet. Her entire appearance indicated extreme poverty.
The storekeeper, who stood beneath the gas-light, was a well preserved and portly man of forty years, or more, with a bald head, a wide mouth and a snub nose. Rings glistered on his fat fingers. His black velvet vest was crossed by a gold chain. His spotless shirt bosom was decorated by a flashy breastpin. He spoke sharp and quick, and with a proper sense of his dignity as the Proprietor of the "only universal shirt store, No. ——, Canal St., New York."
Between him and the girl was a glass case, in which were displayed shirts of the most elegant patterns and elaborate workmanship. Behind him were shelves, lined with boxes, also filled with shirts, whose prices were labeled on the outside of each box. At his right-hand, was the shop-window—a small room in itself—flaring with gas, and crowded with shirts of all imaginable shapes—shirts with high collars, Byron collars, and shirts without any collars at all;—shirts with plaits large, small and infinitesimal—shirts with ruffles, shirts with stripes and shirts with spots;—in fact, looking into the window, you would have imagined that Mr. Screw Grabb was a very Apostle of clean linen, with a mission to clothe a benighted world, with shirts; and that his Temple, "the Only Universal Shirt Store," was the most important place on the face of the globe. There, too, appeared eloquent appeals to passers-by. These were printed on cards, in immense capitals—"Shirts for the Million! The Great Shirt Emporium! Who would be without a shirt, when Screw Grab sells them for only $1? This IS the ONLY Shirt Store,"—and so on to the end of the chapter.
The conversation which we have recorded, took place in this store, soon after 'gas-light' on the evening of Dec. 23d, 1844, between Mr. Screw Grabb and the Poor Girl, who stood before him, holding a small bundle in her arms.
"You surely do not mean to retain my money?" said the girl—and she laid one hand against the counter, and attentively surveyed the face of Mr. Grabb—"You find fault with my work—"
"Never saw wuss stitchin' in my life," said Grabb.
"But that is no reason why you should refuse to return the money which I placed in your hands. Consider, Sir, you will distress me very much. I really cannot afford to lose that five dollars—indeed—"
She turned toward him a face which, impressed as it was with a look of extreme distress, was also invested with the light of a clear, calm, almost holy beauty. It was the face of a girl of sixteen, whom thought and anxiety had ripened into grave and serious womanhood. Her brown hair was gathered neatly under her faded straw bonnet, displaying a forehead which bore traces of a corroding care; there was light and life in her large eyes, light and life without much of hope; there was youth on her cheeks and lips; youth fresh and virgin, and unstained by the touch of sin.
"Will you give me them four shirts—s-a-y?" was the answer of Grabb—"them as you has in your bundle there?"
The girl for a moment seemed buried in reflection. May be the thought of a dreary winter night and a desolate home was busy at her heart. When she raised her head she fixed her eyes full upon the face of Mr. Grabb, and said distinctly:
"I will not give you these shirts until you return my money."
"What's that you say? You won't give 'em back—won't you?" and Mr. Grabb darted around the counter, yardstick in hand. "We'll see—we'll see. Now just hand 'em over!"
He placed himself between her and the door, and raised the yardstick over her head.
The girl retreated step by step, Mr. Grabb advancing as she retreated, with the yardstick in his fat hand.
"Give 'em up—" he seized her arm, and attempted to tear the bundle from her grasp. "Give 'em up you——" he applied an epithet which