Two or three hawkers—a couple of juvenile thieves—and some young girls, confirmed prostitutes, made up the amount of the precious company into whose presence Mutton-Face Sal had conducted Old Death.
Those who were acquainted with him saluted him respectfully; for he was a great man—a very great man—amongst persons of a particular class.
"Who is that horrible old wretch?" asked the labourer's daughter, in a whisper to Jane Cummins.
"The richest fence in London," returned the other in the same low tone of voice.
"And what's a fence, Miss?"
"A fence, you fool, is a buyer of stolen goods, as the beaks call it. That old covey is rolling in riches—shabby and mean as you see him. He has been at it, they tell me, upwards of thirty years, and has never got his-self lumbered yet. But the best of it is, no one knows where his stores are: no one even knows where he lives. He has certain houses of call; but the cunningest Bow Street Officer can't find out his abode."
"What do you mean by lumbered?" asked the girl, whose name was Matilda.
"Put into quod, to be sure. But how green you are. We must teach you what's what, I see that. Here—help me to put on my gown—it's mended now. Thank'ee. Now come with me to the window, and I'll tell you what a happy kind of life I lead—and how you may do the same if you like."
But even as she uttered these words, Jane Cummins heaved a sigh—although she strove hard to subdue it.
The girl walked aside with her; and they continued their conversation in whispers at the window.