The thieves, loafers, and women gathered around the fire in a half circle, and Purty Bill heaped logs very liberally, while Slap-Up Peter chanted in a hoarse voice the song, an extract of which I give below, as near as I remember it with my recollections of the scene, the choking smoke, the blazing fire, and the band of outcasts and outlaws in the den in Whitechapel:
'Twas down in Whitechapel that once I used to dwell,
And of all the coves that knocked about, I was the greatest swell,
My highlows were the cheese, with breeches to the knees,
Oh, my toggery was quite correct—my coat was Irish frieze,
My togs from Bond street came, it's a nobby slap-up street,
In a fashionable locality—the swells the girls there meet;
Nicol's my man for shirts, with his I cut a shine,
His shop's in far famed Regent street, he's a pal-o'-mine.
Rum too-rul-um, Happy-go-Bill,
Inyuns and greens who'll buy,
Rum too-rul-um, Happy-go-Bill,
Inyuns and greens who'll buy.
"That's a fine melojous voice of yours," said Purty Bill to the singer.
"He's used to it," said one of the women.
Here's Spuds at Thrums a pound, they're prime 'uns as I've found,
Oh, I've Reds and Dukes and Flukes and Blues, I sells in going my round.
My greens are superfine, full blown and hearty are mine,
Oh, come make a deal with me, my dear; don't wait, you'll find 'em prime.
My inyuns now are new, you'll find what I says is true,
In fact, the Queen, since these she's seen has cartloads just a few;
My carrots are long and red, you'll find they're well bred,
My vegetables are the cheese, bunch for you—penny-a-head.
Rum too-rul-um, &c.
"Now give us the last werse with all the 'armony," said Teddy the Kinchin, in a piping voice.
"I vill, vith moosh plesh-yar, as the Frenchman said," returned Slap-Up Peter.
Jerry, my moke's a bird, of him perhaps you've heard,
He knows his way about, he does, to match him's quite absurd;
Just see him cock his eye when grub time's getting nigh,
He likes his feed, he does indeed, he lives on cabbage-pie.
Now any girl that's kind, and a husband wants to find,
I'm ready made and so's my trade, that's if I'm to her mind;
So down to Whitechapel we'll trudge again to dwell,
And of all the coves that knock about I'll be the greatest swell.
Rum too-rul-um, &c.
"That's wot I call a topper of a song. It's so werry sentimental that it makes a gal peep. The lines are werry touchin'," said a young gal of sixteen or seventeen years of age, who was not badly dressed nor bad-looking, and who went by the name of "Bilking Bet." She was a favorite, and several of them called upon her to sing. She had just the same mock modesty, this young woman with the brassy face, as if she had been a fashionable lady at the West End, with a jointure and a coach and six.
"Wot's that young gal's name, Bill," said the detective to the boss of the thieves.