They reached the wall on Constitution Hill in safety, and in a few moments were beyond the enclosure of the royal domains.
CHAPTER LXI.
THE "BOOZING KEN" ONCE MORE.
MORNING dawned upon the great metropolis.
The landlord and landlady of the "Boozing-Ken" on Saffron Hill were busily employed, as we have seen them upon a former occasion, in dispensing glasses of "all sorts" to their numerous customers. The bar was surrounded by every thing the most revolting, the most hideous, and the most repulsive in human shape.
"Well, Joe," said the landlord to a man dressed like a butcher, and whose clothes emitted a greasy and carrion-like smell, "what news down at Cow Cross?"
"Nothink partikler," answered the man, who followed the pleasant and agreeable calling of a journeyman-knacker. "We have been precious full of work lately—and that's all I knows or cares about. Seventy-nine horses I see knocked down yesterday; and out of them, fifty-three was so awful diseased and glandered when they was brought in, that we was obleeged to kill 'em and cut 'em up with masks and gloves on. It was but three weeks ago that we lost our best man, Ben Biddle:—you recollects Ben Biddle?"
"I knowed him well," said the landlord. "He took his 'morning' here reglar for sixteen years, and never owed a penny."
"But do you know how he died?" demanded the knacker, staring the landlord significantly in the face.
"Can't say that I do."
"He died of a fearful disease which is getting more and more amongst human creeturs every day," continued the knacker:—"he died of the glanders!"
"The glanders!" ejaculated the landlady, with a shudder; and all the persons who were taking their "morning" at the bar crowded around the knacker to hear the particulars of Ben Biddle's death.
"You see," resumed the knacker, now putting on a very solemn and important air, "there is more diseased horses sold in Smithfield-Market than sound 'uns. The art of doctoring a dying horse so that he looks as lively and sound as possible to any one which ain't wery knowing in them matters, is come to sich a pitch, that I'm blowed if the wisest ain't taken in at times. We have horses come into our yard that was bought the same morning in Smithfield, and seemed slap-up animals; but in a few hours the effects of the stimulants given to 'em goes off, the plugs falls out of their noses, and there they are at the point of death. Why—if a horse has got four white feet, they'll paint three, or perhaps all on 'em black; and that part of the deception isn't never found out till they're flayed in our yard."
"But about poor Biddle?" said the landlord.
"Well, in comes a horse one day," continued the knacker; "and although we saw he was dead lame and altogether done up, we never suspected that he had the glanders. So Ben Biddle had the killing on him. He drives the pole-axe into the animal's skull; and he takes the wire and thrusts it into the brain as business-like as possible. While he was stooping over the beast, his hat falls off his head, and his handkerchief, which he always carried in his hat, fell just upon the horse's mouth. The brute snorted out a last groan at the wery moment that Ben picks up his handkerchief. So Ben puts the handkerchief again into his hat, and puts his hat upon his head; and away we all goes to the public-house to have a drop of half-and-half."
"Very right too," said the landlord who no doubt spoke feelingly.
"Well," proceeded the knacker, "Ben drinks his share, and presently he takes his handkerchief out of his hat quite permiscuous like, and wipes his face. In a few minutes he feels a strange pain in the eyes just as if some dust had got in;—but he did'nt think much on it, and so we all goes back to the yard. In a few hours Ben was taken so bad he was obliged to give up work; and by eight or nine o'clock we was forced to take him to Bartholomew's Hospital. He was seized with dreadful fits of womiting; and matter come out of his nose, eyes, and month. By the morning his face was all covered over with sores; holes appeared in his eyes, just for all the world as if they had got a most tremendous small-pox in 'em; and his nose fell off. By three o'clock in the arternoon he was a dead man; and I heerd say that he died in the most awful agonies."
"And that was the glanders?" said the landlady.
"Yes: he got 'em by wiping his face with the pocket-handkerchief that had fallen on the horse's nostrils."
"How shocking!" ejaculated several voices.
"And is the glanders increasing?" asked the landlord.
"The glanders is increasing," answered the knacker; "and I feel convinced that it will soon become a disease as reglar amongst human beings as the small-pox or measles; 'cos the authorities doesn't do their duty in preventing the sale of diseased animals."
"And how would you remedy the evil?"
"I would have the Lord Mayor and Corporation appoint a proper veterinary surgeon as Inspector in Smithfield Market—a man of great experience and knowledge, who won't let himself be humbugged or gammoned by any of those infernal thieves that gets a living—aye, and makes fortunes too, by selling diseased animals doctored up for the occasion."
"Yes—that's certainly a capital plan of your'n," said the landlord approvingly. "But what becomes of all the flesh of the horses that go to your yards?"
"You may divide the horses that's killed by the knacker into three sorts," answered the man: "that is—first, those horses that is quite healthy but that has met with accidents in their limbs; second, those that is perhaps the least thing diseased, or in the wery last stage through old age; and third, those that is altogether rotten. The flesh of the first is bought by men whose business it is to boil it carefully, and sell it to the sassage-makers: it makes the sassages firm, and is much better than beef. There isn't a sassage shop in London that don't use it. Then the tongues of these first-rate animals goes to the butchers, who salts and pickles 'em: and I'm blow'd if any one could tell 'em from the best ox-tongues."
"Well, I'll never eat sassages or tongues again!" cried the landlady.
"Oh! nonsense—it's all fancy!" exclaimed the knacker. "Half the tongues that is sold for ox-tongues is horses' tongues. A knowing hand may always tell 'em, 'cos they're rayther longer and thinner: for my part, I like 'em just as well—every bit."
"And the flesh of the second sort of horses?"
"That goes to supply the cat's-meat men in the swell neighbourhoods; and the third sort, that is altogether putrid and rotten, is taken up by the cat's-meat men in the poor neighbourhoods."
"And do you mean to say that there's a difference even in cat's-meat between the rich and the poor customers?" demanded the landlord.
"Do I mean to say so?" repeated the knacker, in a tone which showed that he was surprised at the question being asked: "why, of course I do! The poor may be pisoned—and very often is too—for what the rich cares a fig. I can tell you more too: some of the first class horses'-meat—the sound and good, remember—is made into what's called hung-beef; some is potted; some is sold to the boarding-schools round London, where they takes in young gen'lemen and ladies at a wery low rate; and some is disposed of—but, no—I don't dare tell you—"
"Yes—do tell us!" said the landlady, in a coaxing tone.
"Do—there's a good fellow," cried the landlord.
"Come, tell us," exclaimed a dozen voices.
"No—no—I can't—I should get myself into a scrape, perhaps," said the knacker, who was only putting a more keen edge upon the curiosity which he had excited, for he intended to yield all the time.
"We won't say a word," observed the landlady.
"And I'll stand a quartern of blue ruin," added the landlord,