They were laid with greasy napkins, iron plates, chipped tea cups filled with salt, two small stone jars filled with mustard, and knives and forks chained to the table.
A number of candles in the shades nailed to the wall, lighted the room. These being never snuffed were appropriately invested with thieves, which streamed in large flakes upon the floor, the seats, and the backs of the guests.
In this place professional thieves and ruffians of every description were accustomed to congregate, and here numberless robberies were concocted. It was the resort of lawless men, who waged ceaseless war against society.
Here they were accustomed to boast of their exploits as if robbery was a thing to be proud of. The place was a foul den, a very plague-spot—which, however, it seemed out of the power of anybody to remove.
The police knew perfectly well that it was the resort of thieves, but for some reason or another it seemed to be beyond the reach of the law. There are hundreds of similar places in London.
One fireplace was black and empty, but the other blazed with an enormous fire—the temple of a blear-eyed salamander-like old woman, upon whom were fixed, in one long look of hunger and anxiety, the eyes of a vast assemblage of men and women who were seated at two tables, clad in disguises at once loathsome and appalling.
“He’s not a bad sort,” said a black-bearded man to Miss Stanbridge, “him as keeps this ’ere establishment—he’ll do a bloke a good turn at times.”
“Yes, so I’ve heard,” she answered.
The man went on:—
“He’s one of your rough and ready customers, but he’s none of your smile-in-the-face-and-cut-your-throat blokes, for all his ugly mug and swivel eye.”