“Zounds, Bess!” cried the tallest of them, “what cull’s this? Is this a bowsing ken for every cove to shove his trunk in?”
“What ho, my kiddy,” cried Job, “don’t be glimflashy: why you’d cry beef on a blater; the cove is a bob cull, and a pal of my own; and, moreover, is as pretty a Tyburn blossom as ever was brought up to ride a horse foaled by an acorn.”
Upon this commendatory introduction I was forthwith surrounded, and one of the four proposed that I should be immediately “elected.”
This motion, which was probably no gratifying ceremony, Job negatived with a dictatorial air, and reminded his comrades that however they might find it convenient to lower themselves occasionally, yet that they were gentlemen sharpers, and not vulgar cracksmen and cly-fakers, and that, therefore, they ought to welcome me with the good breeding appropriate to their station.
Upon this hint, which was received with mingled laughter and deference, for Job seemed to be a man of might among these Philistines, the tallest of the set, who bore the euphonious appellation of Spider-shanks, politely asked me if I would “blow a cloud with him?” and, upon my assent—for I thought such an occupation would be the best excuse for silence—he presented me with a pipe of tobacco, to which dame Brimstone applied a light, and I soon lent my best endeavours to darken still further the atmosphere around us.
Mr. Job Jonson then began artfully to turn the conversation away from me to the elder confederates of his crew; these were all spoken of under certain singular appellations which might well baffle impertinent curiosity. The name of one was “the Gimblet,” another “Crack Crib,” a third, the “Magician,” a fourth, “Cherry coloured Jowl.” The tallest of the present company was called (as I before said) “Spider-shanks,” and the shortest “Fib Fakescrew;” Job himself was honoured by the venerabile nomen of “Guinea Pig.” At last Job explained the cause of my appearance; viz. his wish to pacify Dawson’s conscience by dressing up one of the pals, whom the sinner could not recognize, as an “autem bawler,” and so obtaining him the benefit of the clergy without endangering the gang by his confession. This detail was received with great good humour, and Job, watching his opportunity, soon after rose, and, turning to me, said,
“Toddle, my bob cull. We must track up the dancers and tout the sinner.”
I wanted no other hint to leave my present situation.
“The ruffian cly thee, Guinea Pig, for stashing the lush,” said Spider-shanks, helping himself out of the bowl, which was nearly empty.
“Stash the lush!” cried Mrs. Brimstone, “aye, and toddle off to Ruggins. Why, you would not be boosing till lightman’s in a square crib like mine, as if you were in a flash panny.”