"And the parsons of Westminster Abbey, who is the landlords of the houses, does nothink to put 'em down," said the coal-whipper.
"Not a bit," echoed the young woman, with a laugh. "We had capital fun in the house where I lived—dog-fighting, badger-baiting, and drinking all day long. The police never visits the Almonry—"
"In course not, 'cos it's the property of the parsons. They wouldn't be so rude."
This coarse jest was received with a shout of laughter; and the health of the Dean and Chapter of Westminster was drunk amidst uproarious applause, by the thieves and loose women assembled in the Dark-House parlour.[75]
"Well, go on, my dear," said the coal-whipper, when order was somewhat restored.
"I never was in a sentimental humour before to-night—not for many, many years," resumed the young woman; "and I don't know what's making me talk as I am now."
"'Cos you haven't had enough gin, my dear," interrupted a coarse-looking fellow, winking to his companions.
Scarcely was the laughter promoted by this sally beginning to subside, when a short, thick-set, middle-aged man, enveloped in a huge great-coat, with most capacious pockets at the sides, entered the parlour, took his seat near the door, and called for a glass of hot gin-and-water.
CHAPTER LXVI.
THE RESULT OF MARKHAM'S ENTERPRISE.
THE reader at all acquainted with German literature may probably remember some of those old tales of demonology and witchcraft, in which assemblies of jovial revellers are frequently dismayed and overawed by the sudden entrance of some mysterious stranger—perhaps a knight in black armour, with his vizor closed, or a monk with his cowl drawn over his countenance. If the recollection of such an episode in the sphere of romance recur to the reader's mind, he will have no difficulty in comprehending us when we state that the presence of the short, thick-set, middle-aged stranger caused an immediate damp to fall upon the spirits of the company in the Dark-House parlour.