“W’y, I see y’ve got the framework there.”
Not all the quick-tongued cabbies are professionals. At one time it was a fad of young “bloods” in London to drive cabs, apparently for the purpose of enriching their slang vocabulary by exchanging remarks with “regulars” whom they could provoke into freedom of speech. Sometimes decently born and fairly educated young men from the rural districts, who have handled horses at home and know no one in London whom they would be ashamed to face from a driver’s seat, try cab-driving as a business. They can hire a horse and cab for five shillings a day; London fares are small and some days they are few, but many men “tip” the drivers, especially those who say smart things that appear to be impromptu, so amateur cabbies sometimes make much more than a living.
London’s fire-fighting service interests an American by its differences from our own. The fire-plugs do not resemble old-fashioned cannon, turned upside down, as ours do; they are so unnoticeable that their whereabouts must be indicated by lamp-post signs like this:—“Fire-plug four feet to the right and three feet to the rear.” Instead of using whistles, the London engines have a string of sleigh-bells on one of the horses, and by way of further warning the men on the engine keep up a constant shout of “Hoy! Hoy! Hoy!” The engines do not respond as quickly to an alarm as ours; it generally takes them two minutes to get under way, though the firemen are a “fit” looking lot. I was told they were selected entirely from ex-sailors of the naval service. To assist the engines’ crews there are many auxiliaries, who sleep and almost live in small red houses on wheels; these portable houses are numerous in the more thickly populated portions of the city, where fires are most likely to occur and extra firemen be needed.
At convenient corners are kept, also on wheels, the portable fire-escapes:—mere shafts or chutes of canvas on wooden framework. In case of fire in the upper part of an inhabited building, the top of the escape is pushed to a window, and the inmates are expected to save themselves by going head first down the inclined chute, clinging to the framework of the sides to keep from descending too rapidly. Of course in a city of lofty apartment houses and “sky-scraper” office buildings such a contrivance would be almost useless, but in London a house of more than three stories is a rarity. “Running to fires” is as popular with some Londoners as it was in New York before fire alarms reached the dozen-a-day mark. The Duke of Sutherland enjoyed attending fires; he would have his private carriage follow the engines, and frequently he was accompanied by the Prince of Wales.
Scotland Yard, mentioned in every English detective story, is an interesting place to visit; it is the London equivalent of our Police Department’s “Central Office.” I was shown a “Rogues’ Gallery” there which was quite as large and appalling as our own. In photographing a criminal the London police make assurance doubly sure by placing a mirror to catch his profile, which is taken, with his front face, by a single snap. To be still more thorough they have the sitters spread his hands on his chest, for hands, being hard to disguise, are useful tell-tales. Thumb impressions complete a record which the criminal regards with far more discomfort than his evil deeds ever give him.
Petticoat Lane is not a section of the police department, though the officials wish it might be, for as it is a recognized “stand” of hucksters, the thieves flock there to sell their ill-gotten wares, so one may see “Fagins” and “Artful Dodgers” in plenty. Their best customers are men of their own kind—thieves with enough business sense to know where certain kinds of stolen property can be resold to advantage. Jewelry is the principal stock-in-trade, and it is carried in small boxes, resembling cigar-boxes, hung from the neck. When the coast is clear of policemen, the thieves lift the lid long enough for a peep at the contents. I was piloted through “the lane” by a special officer from Scotland Yard and in an underground passage we came upon a score or more of the light-fingered gentry. Unfortunately the officer was recognized, word was passed down the line, everything that might have aroused suspicion was secreted and the entire crowd gazed at us with an affected innocence which was transparent enough to be laughable.
The legitimate trades in Petticoat Lane are more interesting to an American, for they have some business ways which are amusing—even startling. An orange-dealer will drop his fruit in hot water once in a while; this makes it swell to almost twice its natural size and look smooth and glossy. The next wagon to the orange man may be full of second-hand clothing; the dealer will not allow a would-be purchaser to “try on” a coat or vest, for fear he may run away with it, but he will put the garment on his own wife for inspection; the result is often a picture funny enough to print. Theatrical people often go there for costumes for “character” parts; apparently some kinds of English clothing last forever, for in Petticoat Lane may be seen fabrics and fashions and trimmings that look antiquated enough to have come over with William the Conqueror. Some of the hucksters’ carts are decorated with suggestive signs, such as, “Oh, mother, how cheap these eggs are!”
In a corner of Hyde Park I chanced to see a little graveyard; everything about it was little. The mounds were small, the headstones tiny, and little children were decorating the graves with flowers. On inquiry I learned that it was a dogs’ cemetery, but instead of laughing I was touched by the mental picture of heavy-hearted boys and girls going there with floral tributes to departed playfellows. A little girl who was passing noted that one grave was bare, and I heard her say to her nurse:
“That must have been a bad doggie buried there.”