“Ah!” said he, “I see the reason now of your having told me to carry the society-box up-stairs.”
“I fear that would have been nothing to your loss,” replied I, “if we hadn’t been as sharp as we have been. All’s right.”
Mr Brown’s fears were appeased, and we then marched our gentlemen up to the Office, in which procession, so honoured by the presence of Hugh Thomson, I enjoyed one of my triumphs. Lang was sought for during weeks, but could not be found; and here I have to recount one of my wonders. One dark evening when I was acting the night-hawk out near the Gibbet Toll, I had gone considerably beyond that mark, and was returning. Dalkeith is a kind of harbour of refuge for the Edinburgh thieves when the city becomes too hot for them, and I had some hopes of an adventure on this road, otherwise I would not have been there at that hour, for it was late. The road to Portobello is also a hopeful place at times; but on that night I had some reasons, known only to myself, (and it was not often surmised where I was at any time,) for preferring the southern opening. Well, sauntering along I met a young fellow, but it was so dark that, at the distance of two or three yards, you could scarcely recognise anybody. I had a question ready, however, that suited all comers.
“Am I right for the city?” said I.
“Right in,” was the reply.
And seeing the man wanted to be off, I darted a look at the side of his face. It was Lang’s; and I suspected he had recognised me before I did him, for he was off in an instant on the way to Dalkeith, and I must take to my heels in pursuit, or lose him. I immediately gave chase, and a noble one it was, though the night was as dark as pitch, and every step was through liquid mud.
Lang was a good runner, and had, I fancy, confidence that he would escape, and that which he had to escape from might very well grease the heels of even a lazy fellow. He ran for freedom, that dear treasure of even a thief’s soul; and I ran to deprive him of it, a feeling as dear to a detective. The race became hot and hotter, and I could see only the dark outline of the flying desperado, and I heard the sound of his rapid steps as the voice of hope. By the side of the road one or two people stood, and seemed to wonder at the chase, but no one ventured to interfere. We had run a mile and a half with no abatement of the speed of either, so that we were about equal, and if this continued we might run to Dalkeith; but this issue was rendered improbable by the fact, quite well known to me, that a pursued criminal, with a clever officer after him, may almost always be caught by loss of breath. The impulse under which he flies is far more trying to the nerves than that which impels the officer to follow, and hence it is that criminals are so often what is called “run down.” The same remark is applicable to a chase of animals. Fear eats up the energies, the lungs play violently, and exhaustion is the consequence. And so it was here. I gained as time sped, and at length I heard the grateful sound of the blowing lungs. He felt his weakness, and the old bravado getting up, he stopt all of a sudden, and waited for me.
“Why, man,” said I, “you have just to walk back again; so what’s the use?”
“No use,” he replied, doggedly; “only if you hadn’t caught me I would have been well on to Dalkeith.”
Plunging my hands into his coat-pocket, I pulled out a bundle of picklocks.