Next thing that happened, the little woman was lifted up bodily in her son’s arms—a counterpart of his father—and deposited in the carriage; while her husband, in spite of his lumbering large body, succeeded in jumping in just as the patience of all the railway officials was exhausted, and the signal given to start the train. Before it was lost to view, a white handkerchief fluttered out, by way of good-bye, causing a smile to rise over the calm features of John the younger, who, lifting his hat politely to me, bade me good-evening, adding: ‘Mother is no great traveller, so she is easily put about. Dessay if she went often from ’ome, she’d learn to be more composed.’
From that hour I have never ceased to regret that I did not ask the good-natured young builder to forward me a local paper with the account of the death and burial of ‘step-mother.’ No doubt there would be due notice taken of such an interesting personage, as she lay in state in her ‘hoak’ coffin, surrounded by her bearers in the flowing scarfs and hat-bands. Sharp as my friends generally give me credit for being, I own I committed a grievous blunder; I am therefore obliged to leave my story without an end, not being able even to add that the fair Mary-Anne’s wedding came off on the appointed day, or was postponed till after the complimentary days of mourning were past. I cheer myself with the thought that ‘John—that’s father’—being a firm man and a sensible, would insist upon the previous arrangements standing good, seeing that the bridegroom—a most important fact I have omitted to record—had a fortnight’s holiday reluctantly granted to him by his employers. Why, now that I think of it, my countryman the railway porter would have sent me any number of papers, judging by the kindly interest he took in my behalf, and the determined manner he fought for a particular seat for me in a particular carriage when the time came for my train to start. ‘Na, na, mem; nae need for thanks; blood’s thicker than water,’ he said. ‘Never you fear, now that the Scotch guard has ta’en up your cause; you’re a’ right; he’ll see that ye’re safely housed.’ And safely housed I was, and went steaming out of the station with my worthy friend hanging on by the door, calling to me: ‘If you’re ever in the town o’ Perth, mem, my auld mother would be downright pleased to see you, for my sake. Tell her I’m getting on as weel as can be expeckit, sae far frae hame.’
All night, my disturbed sleep was made doubly so by dreams of old women of every age and style. Now I was hunting for the porter’s nameless mother; now I was standing by the bedside of the step-mother who was lying a-dying. Again I was an active assistant at a marriage ceremony, with the fair Mary-Anne, surrounded by her genteel relations, leaning on my shoulder, weeping copiously at the idea of travelling to Scotland. Once more I stood gazing down on the old step-mother; and just as the day dawned, I was fairly roused, in my determination not to be smothered under an oak coffin and a pyramid of scarfs, hat-bands, and bearers, by the tumbling of my own bonnet-box from the luggage-rack above me.
FRENCH DETECTIVES.
‘The Secret Police’ in France are not only personally unknown to the general public, but, save in exceptional cases, even to each other. It is known where they may be found at a moment’s notice when wanted; but, as a rule, they do not frequent the prefecture more than can be helped. They have nothing whatever to do with serving summonses or executing warrants. There are among them men who have lived in almost every class of life, and each of them has what may be called a special line of business of his own. In the course of their duty, some of them mix with the receivers of stolen goods, others with thieves, many with what are called in Paris commercial rascals, and not a few with those whose ‘industry’ it is to melt silver and other property of a like valuable nature. Forgers, sharpers of all kinds, housebreakers and horse-stealers—a very numerous class in Paris—have each all their special agents of the police, who watch them, and know where to lay hands upon them when they are wanted. A French detective who cannot assume and act up to any character, and who cannot disguise himself in any manner so effectually as not to be recognised even by those who know him best, is not considered fit to hold his appointment. Their ability in this way is marvellous. Some years ago, one of them made a bet that he would in the course of the next few days address a gentleman with whom he was acquainted four times, for at least ten minutes each time, and that he should not know him on any occasion until the detective had discovered himself. As a matter of course, the gentleman was on his guard, and mistrusted every one who came near him. But the man won his bet. It is needless to enter into the particulars. Suffice it to say that in the course of the next four days he presented himself in the character of a bootmaker’s assistant, a fiacre-driver, a venerable old gentleman with a great interest in the Bourse, and finally as a waiter in the hotel in which the gentleman was staying.
‘NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE.’
My little child, with clustering hair,
Strewn o’er thy dear, dead brow,