“Out with ’em, and come along, for Heaven’s sake! Ah, here’s Mr. Blowbody; that’s lucky.” (Blowbody was the third of the three borough magistrates.)
“Well, what’s the row?” said Blowbody. “Got their names—hey?”
“No. Now,” said Grower to one of the constables, “you go with Mr. Blowbody round by the Old Walk and come up the street; and I’ll go with Stubberd straight forward. By this plan we shall have ’em between us. Get their names only: no attack or interruption.”
Thus they started. But as Stubberd with Mr. Grower advanced into Corn Street, whence the sounds had proceeded, they were surprised that no procession could be seen. They passed Farfrae’s, and looked to the end of the street. The lamp flames waved, the Walk trees soughed, a few loungers stood about with their hands in their pockets. Everything was as usual.
“Have you seen a motley crowd making a disturbance?” Grower said magisterially to one of these in a fustian jacket, who smoked a short pipe and wore straps round his knees.
“Beg yer pardon, sir?” blandly said the person addressed, who was no other than Charl, of Peter’s Finger. Mr. Grower repeated the words.
Charl shook his head to the zero of childlike ignorance. “No; we haven’t seen anything; have we, Joe? And you was here afore I.”
Joseph was quite as blank as the other in his reply.
“H’m—that’s odd,” said Mr. Grower. “Ah—here’s a respectable man coming that I know by sight. Have you,” he inquired, addressing the nearing shape of Jopp, “have you seen any gang of fellows making a devil of a noise—skimmington riding, or something of the sort?”
“O no—nothing, sir,” Jopp replied, as if receiving the most singular news. “But I’ve not been far tonight, so perhaps—”