ONE OF THE FANCY.
A poor harmless translator of old shoes was placed at the bar by a city officer, upon a charge of having stolen, or otherwise improperly obtained, a cheque for 300l. from one Jonathan Freshfield, Esquire, "one of the Fancy."
This Jonathan Freshfield, Esq., was a diminutive, forked-radish sort of a young man, very fashionably attired, or, as he would say, kiddily togg'd; and, though it was scarcely noon, he was rather queer in the attic; that is to say, not exactly sober.
He stated his case in this manner:—"Here—I wish this fellow to say how he got hold o' my cheque for three hundred—that's all, you know; let him come that, and I shall be satisfied. Rum go—had it last night, missed it this morning—d——d rum go! Here—here it is, see; payable at Hankey's—all right—grabbed him myself. Went to Hankey's two hours 'fore Bank opened—waited two hours—sat upon little stool—wouldn't be done, you know. In he comes with it—grabs him! There he was—looked like a fool. 'Hallo!' says I, 'how did you come by it?' Mum. Hadn't a word, you know. Only let him come it now, all about it, and I'm satisfied. Don't like to be done—a rum go, but can't stand it—that's all."
The city officer said he had been sent for to Hankey's to take the prisoner into custody; and having done so he carried him before the Lord Mayor; but as it appeared the offence, if there was any, had been committed in the county, his Lordship had referred the matter to Bow-street.
The magistrate asked to see the cheque, as the Esquire called it. The officer produced it, and it proved not to be a cheque, but an acknowledgment from Messrs. Hankey and Co. that they had received 300l. from Jonathan Freshfield, Esq., for which they would account to him on demand.
"Pray, have you an account at Hankey's, Mr. Freshfield?" asked the magistrate.
Mr. Freshfield replied, "Who, I? not a bit of it. I'm from the country, you know. D—n town!—Had enough of it almost. Diddled in this manner!—it's a sick'ner. Got it again though—only want to know how that fellow, the long one there, came by it. Put the blunt at Hankey's, to be safe—'cause wouldn't be done, and then lost the cheque!—that's a rum go—isn't it, your worship?"
The magistrate asked the prisoner how he came by it.
He said he lodged at Mister Burn's, the fighting man's, in Windmill-street, and two gentlemen there, whom he did not know, gave him the cheque to get cashed.
His worship directed an officer to go to Burn's house and inquire about it.
In about half an hour he returned with Mister Burn in company.
"Burn, do you know anything of this business?" asked the magistrate.—"Who was it gave this paper to the man at the bar?"
"Who gave it to him, your worship?" said Mister Burn, "Why, I did." "You did!—and pray how did you come by it?"—"Why, I won it, your worship—won it by shaking in the hat;" replied Mister Burn, squeezing the sides of his hat together, and giving it a hearty shake to show his worship the trick of it.
The magistrate looked at Mr. Freshfield; Mr. Freshfield looked at Mister Burn; Mister Burn looked boldly round at everybody as if nothing was the matter, and at last, Mr. Freshfield ejaculated—"Well, that's a rum go, however! D—n me, never thought of that, you know. Don't believe it, though. Coming it strong, eh! Burn? May be, though—won't be sure."
After soliloquising some time in this style, he began a long history of his having gone from Spring's to Burn's, and Burn's to Spring's, and betting upon the "match for Monday;" and taking the long odds at one place and giving them at another, till the magistrate and everybody else was quite weary of it. So his worship discharged the prisoner; recommended Mister Burn not to addict himself to "shaking in the hat," directed the city officer to return Mr. Freshfield his 300l. "cheque," and advised Mr. Freshfield to put it into his pocket, and return to his native woods as soon as possible.