CHAPTER CIII.

THE SURPRISE.—A CHANGE OF SCENE.

It was about half-past three o'clock in the morning, and profound silence reigned in Baker Street, when four men, bearing a ladder upon their shoulders, passed like phantoms through the obscurity of the thoroughfare, and halted in front of Mr. Curtis's house; where their operations, so far from being at all ghost-like, assumed very much the appearance of those proceedings which are carried on by creatures of flesh and blood.

Thieves, however, they were not: but sheriff's-officers they were,—being our old friends Mac Grab and Proggs, assisted by two other queer-looking fellows of the species which chiefly abounds in the tap-rooms and parlours of public-houses in Chancery Lane.

Mr. Mac Grab having satisfied himself by a close scrutiny of the number on the front-door, that they had pitched upon the right house, the ladder was forthwith placed against the little iron railings forming the balcony at the drawing-room window; and Mr. Proggs was ordered to mount first. But Mr. Proggs, having perhaps recently studied some book upon etiquette, would not think of preceding his master; and Mr. Mac Grab was doubtless too meek a man to take upon himself the post of honour. As for the two underlings, they very bluntly assured Mr. Mac Grab that they would see him unpleasantly condemned before they would venture first; and thus the entire project was threatened with discomfiture, when Proggs, overcoming his fears, consented to lead the way.

Up the ladder did this hero accordingly drag himself; and had he lost his life in the desperate deed, the epic muse would have been compelled to deplore the death of the last of the famous house of Proggs. But fortune beamed upon Proggs, though the moon did not; and he reached the balcony in safety. Mac Grab ascended next—and the two subordinates followed,—by which time the intrepid Proggs had obtained admission into the house by the simple process of cutting out a pane with a glazier's diamond, and thrusting in his hand to undo the fastening of the window.

And now, behold the four men safe in the drawing-room—in actual possession of the place,—four heroes who had just carried a strongly fortified castle—by surprise!

A lanthorn, which Mr. Proggs took from his pocket, was lighted; and a flask of rum, which Mr. Mac Grab took from _his_ pocket, was drunk. The heroes then stole gently from the apartment—descended the stairs—opened the front-door—and laid down the ladder along the area railings, so that the watchman, on going his rounds, might not raise an alarm of "thieves." This being accomplished, they re-entered the house, and fastened the street-door, the key of which Mr. Mac Grab secured about his own person.

The officers next entered the parlour on the ground floor, where they found Frank Curtis lying asleep upon the sofa.

"That's our chap," said Mac Grab, in a tone of deep satisfaction, as he threw the light of his lanthorn full upon the young gentleman's countenance. "I shall take him off at once, with one of the men; and you, Proggs, will remain in possession along with t'other."

"Two on us isn't enow to keep possession agin that devil of an Irisher," exclaimed Proggs, bluntly; and the loudness with which he spoke disturbed Mr. Curtis.

Starting up, Frank rubbed his eyes—then stared around him with the stupid vacancy of one who had only half slept off the fumes of whiskey—and at last, as the truth gradually glimmered upon him, he said in a hoarse, thick tone, "Well—who the devil are all you fellows?"

"You'll know soon enow who we be," growled Mac Grab. "Come—get up, young genelman; and don't sit there a-staring at us, as if you was a stuck pig and we was ghostesses."

"So you've got in at last—have you, old fellow?" said Frank, with an awful yawn. "But I feel precious seedy, though. Can't you let me sleep a little longer."

"You won't sleep no more till you gets to Chancery Lane," returned Mac Grab; "and then you can have a turn-in if you like."

"What o'clock is it?" demanded Frank, his teeth chattering and his whole frame shivering alike with the cold and the unpleasant petition to which he had been awakened.

"It's getting on for a quarter to four, or thereabouts," said Mac Grab, consulting a huge silver watch of the turnip species.

"Then I must have been asleep here for some time," mused Frank aloud; and, glancing at the table, he added, "Oh! I remember—I was precious drunk last night——"

"Well, I'm blest if I didn't think you was," said Proggs, expressing his opinion with more bluntness than politeness. "You'll find a many lushing coven over in Spike Island."

"Spike Island?" ejaculated Frank: then, as a light broke in upon him through the mist and fumes of whiskey, he added, "Oh! I understand—the Bench, eh? Well—never say die, my boys; as my friend the Crown Prince of Holland used to observe. If it must be the Bench, it must: but you'll let me tell my wife what's happened."

"We won't let you rouse that Irisher, young gentleman," said Mac Grab. "Let us get you safe off, and then he may wake up, and be damned to him."

"I pledge you my word I will not attempt to rouse the Captain," exclaimed Curtis: "but I must speak to my wife."

"Well, that's only fair and reasonable," said Mac Grab; "although you don't deserve no good treatment at our hands, seeing how we was served by that owdacious Irish friend of yourn. Howsomever, you shall speak to your good lady; but mind, I ain't going to lose sight on you."

"You can come with me as far as the bed-chamber door," observed Frank; "and I shan't keep you many minutes."

"Proggs, you'll come along with me," said Mac Grab. "And now, mind, Mr. Curtis, what you're up to. We've got pistols with us; and blowed if we don't use 'em in self-defence if that Irish friend of your's happens to wake up and tries it on again with any of his nonsense."

"It wasn't my fault that he acted as he did the last time you was here," returned Frank. "But come along, you two—if you must go with me."

Curtis lighted a candle, and led the way gently up stairs, Mac Grab and Proggs following close at his heels. They reached the second landing, where Frank stopped at a door, which he was about to open, when the first-mentioned officer said in a low tone, "Now, mind—no nonsense!—we won't be done a second time, remember."

"I assure you this is my wife's room," returned Curtis, also speaking in a whisper; and he entered the chamber, the two bailiffs remaining at the door, which was left ajar.

Frank, carrying the light in his hand, approached the bed, and was just on the point of saying, "My dear—my dear!"—when he stopped short—aghast—stupefied—his mouth wide open—and every faculty which he possessed, save that of sight, entirely suspended.

For there—by the side of his wife—lay Captain O'Blunderbuss!

Both were fast asleep; and the countenance of the gallant officer seemed absolutely on fire, so red was it in contrast with the white pillow.

"By Jove—this is too bad!" exclaimed Curtis, at length recovering the powers of speech and movement; and, influenced only by the sudden rage which took possession of him, and which rendered him bold and courageous for the instant, he seized a water-jug from the washing-stand and dashed the contents completely over Captain O'Blunderbuss.

"Blood and thunther!" roared the man of war starting up in a towering passion;—and, springing from the bed, he was about to inflict summary chastisement on his friend, when a shriek issued from the couch—and the captain, stopping short and looking around him, ascertained where he was. The cause of Frank's conduct towards him was instantly apparent; and, subduing his anger, he exclaimed, "Be Jasus! and it was all a mistake, me boy! I dhrank too much of the potheen——"

"The Irishman, by goles!" growled a hoarse voice in the landing outside.

"Well—never mind, Proggs!" cried another voice: "if he touches us, we'll fire. Holloa! you fellows down there—come up!—come up!" roared Mac Grab.

And now the whole house was in confusion.

Mrs. Curtis lay screaming and shrieking in bed—the captain rushed upon the landing, with nothing on save his shirt, and looking as if he had just sprung out of a water-butt—Curtis followed, sulky and not half satisfied with the apology he had received relative to the presence of the officer in his wife's chamber—the two men who had been left down stairs were running up as hard as they could—and the servants were calling from the garrets to know what was the matter, but rather suspecting something very much like the real truth in respect to the invasion of the bailiffs.

"Down—down with ye, wild bastes that ye are!" vociferated the captain, as the light which Curtis still carried showed the gallant officer the well known faces of Mac Grab and Proggs.

But the two men, who had worked their courage up to the sticking point, produced each a heavy horse-pistol; at the appearance of which formidable weapons the captain hung back, and Curtis shouted out in alarm, "No violence! I'll keep my word and go off with you quiet enough."

"Be Jasus! and you shan't though, my dear frind!" cried O'Blunderbuss, looking rapidly round in search of some object which he might use as an offensive weapon against the invaders; but the two men from down stairs now made their appearance, and Curtis put an end to all further hostilities by surrendering himself to them without any more ado.

"Frank! Frank!" shrieked his wife from the bed-room.

"Curthis, my frind—don't be a fool!" roared the captain: "we'll bate 'em yet!"

The young gentleman, however, took no notice either of his wife's appeal or his friend's adjuration, and rapidly descended the stairs, followed by the sheriff's-officers. He was not only afraid of the pistols; but he was likewise too much annoyed at the bed-chamber scene to care about remaining in the house any longer. Not having courage enough to resent the wrong which he conceived to have been done him, he was nevertheless unable to endure it passively; and here signed himself, moodily and sulkily, to the lot which circumstances had shaped for him.

Mac Grab and one of the subordinates accordingly departed with their prisoner to the spunging-house in Chancery Lane; while Proggs and the other man remained in possession of the dwelling in Baker Street.

It was about half-past four o'clock on that dark and chilly morning, when Frank Curtis entered the lock-up establishment owned by Mr. Mac Grab, the sheriff's-officer. A racking head-ache, the result of the preceding night's debauch—a cold nervousness, amounting almost to a continuous shiver,—and thoughts of by no means a pleasant nature, all combined to depress the young man's spirits to a very painful degree; and, as the door of the spunging-house closed behind him, he murmured to himself, "Oh! what a fool I have been!" Fortunately, he had plenty of ready money in his pocket; and, putting a guinea into Mac Grab's hand, he said, "Let me have a private room; and have a fire lighted directly."

"Please to sit down for a few minutes in the office here," observed the bailiff, pocketing the coin, "while I call up the servant."

In the meantime the subordinate had lighted a lamp in the little, dirty, cold-looking place, dignified by the name of "the office;" and while Mac Grab went to summon the domestic, Curtis, who was a prey to that fidgety sensation which seems the forerunner of something dreadful, endeavoured to divert his thoughts from gloomy topics by scrutinizing the objects around him.

A sorry desk, much hacked about with a pen-knife and stained all over with ink—a small shelf containing a few old law books—a law-almanack with thick black lines in the calender denoting Term-times—a list of the sheriffs and undersheriffs of England and Wales—printed papers showing the arrangements of the Courts for the sittings in and after Term—two or three crazy chairs—and a Dutch clock, which ticked with a monotony calculated to drive a nervous person out of his senses,—these were the objects which met his view. Every thing appeared musty and worm-eaten;—the office looked as if it never were swept out;—and there was an earthly smell of a peculiarly unpleasant nature.

In this miserable place—so cold and cheerless—Frank Curtis was kept waiting for nearly half-an-hour; while the man who remained with him sate dozing in a chair, and every now and then awaking with a sudden dive down and bob up of the head which painfully augmented the nervousness of the prisoner. At last Mr. Mac Grab returned, smelling very strong of rum, and followed by a dirty-looking old woman, who seemed to have huddled on her clothes anyhow, and to be in a particularly ill-humour at being disturbed so early in the morning.

"Now then," she said, in a short, sulky tone, addressing herself to Curtis, without however looking at him: "this way."

Frank followed her into a short passage, and then up a narrow staircase, the miserable candle which she held in one hand and shaded with the other on account of the draught, affording only just sufficient light to render apparent the cheerless aspect of the premises. It was not that there was any thing mean or poor in the interior of the dwelling, the office excepted: but there was an air of deep gloom, and also of dirt and neglect, which struck even so superficial an observer as Mr. Frank Curtis.

The old woman led the way into a moderate-sized front room on the second floor, where she lighted two candles, and then set to work to persuade a few damp sticks smothered with small coal to burn up in the grate. The apartment was fitted up as a sitting-room, but had a bed in it. The walls were hung with numerous pictures the frames of which were an inch thick in dust and cob-webs; and there was a side-board covered with old-fashioned cut glass. The carpet was worn out in many places, and was also much soiled with grease and beer: the table-cover was likewise stained with liquor and spotted with ink. The curtains, which were of good material, were completely disguised in dust; and the windows were so dirty that at mid-day they formed a pleasantly subdued medium for the sun-light. Altogether, there was an air of expense mingled with the most cheerless discomfort—an appearance of liberal outlay altogether neutralized by neglect and habits of wanton slovenliness.

The fire burnt feebly—the old woman slunk sulkily away—and Frank Curtis threw himself upon the bed. He was thoroughly wretched, and would have given all the money he had left in his pocket for a few hours' tranquil repose. But sleep would not visit his eyes; and, after tossing about for some time in painful restlessness, he got up as the clock struck eight.

His burning, feverish countenance craved the contact of cold water; and the idea of a refreshing toilette rendered him almost cheerful. But the jug was empty; and there were no towels. He rang the bell: five minutes elapsed—and no one came. He rang again; and at last, another five minutes having gone tediously by, the old woman made her appearance. His wishes were expressed; and the harridan took away the jug. A third interval of five minutes passed, ere she returned. Then she had forgotten the towels; and now a quarter of an hour dragged its slow length along before she came back, bringing with her a miserably thin rag of about a foot square. She was about to leave the room again, when Curtis discovered that there was no soap; and ten minutes more were required for the provoking old wretch to produce a small sample of that very necessary article. Yet for all this _discomfort_, the prisoner had paid a guinea in advance!

"Pray let me have some breakfast us soon as you can, my good woman," said Frank, humiliated and miserable.

"As soon as the kittle biles down stairs," answered the servant, in a surly tone, as she turned to leave the room.

"And how long will that be?" demanded Curtis.

"Don't know: the kitchen fire ain't alight yet:"—and she hobbled away.

In a fit of desperation the prisoner addressed himself to his toilette: but the feeling of utter discomfort still clung to him. The water seemed thick and clammy, instead of cool and refreshing; and the towel was so small that it became saturated in a few moments, and he was compelled to dry his face with a corner of one of the sheets. Having no nail brush, he could not cleanse his hands properly; and the want of a comb left his hair matted and disordered. In fact, he positively felt more uncomfortable and dirty after his ablutions than he did before he began them; and that disagreeable sensation kept him dispirited and wretched.

He walked about the room, examining all the pictures one after the other, until he became as thoroughly acquainted with their subjects as if he had lived for years in that room. He then posted himself at one of the windows, and watched the people passing up and down the street. It was now nine o'clock, and the law-clerks were proceeding to their respective offices. Seedy-looking men were hurrying along with mysterious slips of paper in their hands; and now and then a better-attired person, in a suit of black, would be seen wending his way towards the Chancery Court, carrying the blue bag of his master, a barrister. Small parties of threes or fours would likewise pass up the lane, affording to the initiated the irresistible idea—which was also the true one—of tipstaves conducting insolvents to the court in Portugal Street.

At the public house, opposite the barred window from which Curtis was gazing, a small knot of very shabby men had collected; and it required but little knowledge of the specimens of animated nature in Chancery Lane, to recognise their especial calling. In fact they were individuals who belonged to the outworks of the strong entrenchments of the law,—process-servers, sheriff's-officers' assistants, and men who hired themselves out to be left in possession at dwellings where executions were levied. When not actively engaged, they regularly haunted the public-houses, of which they seemed the very door-posts; and if they stepped inside to take something, which was very often indeed, they appeared on intimate terms with the landlord, said "Miss" to the bar-girl, and called the waiter by his Christian name. They had a dirty, seedy, mean, and cringing look about them; and yet, if not adequately recompensed by the unfortunate victims of the law with whom they had to deal, they would become doggedly insolent and grossly abusive.

Half-an-hour passed away; and Chancery Lane grew more attractive. A few barristers, in all the imposing dignity of the black gown and the awful wisdom of the wig, were seen moving along to the Rolls' Court: well-dressed attorneys alighted from their gigs, cabs, or phaetons at the doors of their offices;—and articled clerks, having thrown away their cigars when within view of the windows of their places of business, made up for lost time by cutting briskly over the pavement, flourishing short sticks, and complacently surveying their polished boots, tight-fitting trousers, and flash waistcoats.

Frank Curtis sighed as he beheld so many, many persons in the enjoyment of freedom;—but his mournful reverie was at length broken by the entrance of the old woman with the breakfast-tray. His throat was parched, and he had been unable to drink the water: he now, therefore, eagerly applied himself to the tea. But it was wretched stuff; and even extreme thirst could not render it palatable. He tried to eat a piece of toast; but the butter was so rank that his heart heaved against it. He broke open an egg: it however tasted of straw, and nearly made him sick.

Having forced himself to swallow a couple of cups of tea, Frank rang the bell and ordered the woman to bring him a sheet of paper. This command was complied with, after a long delay; and, by the aid of a worn down stump of a pen and ink which flowed like soot and water, Frank managed to pen a brief note to a lawyer whom he knew, and who dwelt in Carey Street hard by. After a great deal of trouble, a messenger was found, who, for the moderate reward of eighteen pence, undertook to convey the note to its place of destination—just fifty yards distant; and in the course of half an hour, Mr. Pepperton, the legal limb alluded to, made his appearance in the shape of a short, thin, sallow-faced man, with small piercing eyes, and very compressed lips.

"Well, Mr. Curtis," said the lawyer, as he entered the room; "got into a mess—eh?"

"Rather so," replied the young man. "But I don't care so much about that, as on account of being locked up in this cursed place. The fact is I must go over to the Bench; and I dare say Sir Christopher won't let me lie very long there."

"You require a _habeas_, you know," observed the lawyer. "But are you sure that you're sued in the Court of Queen's Bench? because, if it is in the Common Pleas or Exchequer, you will have to go to the Fleet."

"The devil!" ejaculated Frank. "But here's a paper which Mac Grab gave me——"

"Ah! that's right," said Mr. Pepperton, examining the document placed in his hands. "Yes—it's in the Bench, safe enough. Holloa!" he exclaimed suddenly, after a few moments' silence: "here's an error in the description. Your name is Francis, and not Frank."

"Just so!" cried the prisoner, his heart fluttering with the vague hope which his legal adviser's words and manner had encouraged.

"Well—I think—mind, I _think_ that it is highly probable we may set the caption aside," continued Pepperton. "At all events it would be worth the trying. But I must apply to the Judge in Chambers this afternoon; and if we _do_ happen to fail—mind, I say _if_ we _do_—why, then you can pass over to the Bench to-morrow."

Somehow or another, persons locked up in spunging-houses always feel confident of getting out on the slightest legal quibble that their ingenious attorneys may suggest. They do not apprehend the chance of failure, and of disbursing two or three guineas, which they can so ill afford, for nothing: the process of applying to a Judge in Chambers seems so certain of a triumphant issue, and there is such a spell in the bare idea, that the door of freedom appears already opening to the touch.

Frank Curtis was not an exception to the general rule which we have mentioned; and he forthwith desired Mr. Pepperton to adopt the necessary steps, although this gentleman assured him that nothing could be done until the after part of the day.

Poor, deluded captive! Little did he think Mr. Pepperton was well aware beforehand that there was not the shadow of the ghost of a chance of success; but that his only motive in suggesting these proceedings was to make as much out of his client as possible.

When Pepperton had left the room, Frank Curtis began to pace it as if he were a Wandering Jew confined to a very miniature world; and he examined the pictures over and over again, until they seemed the most familiar friends of the kind he had ever known. Then he returned to the window, and beheld Mr. Mac Grab and one of his men just starting in a queer-looking gig upon a suburban expedition; and having watched the equipage until it was no longer visible, he bethought himself of asking for a newspaper. He accordingly rang the bell, and intimated his wishes to the old woman, who, after keeping him in suspense as usual for ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, returned with a _Weekly Dispatch_ a fortnight old and a _Times_ of ten days back. Curtis could scarcely control his indignation; and, tossing a shilling to the harridan, he desired her to send out and buy him a morning paper. She departed accordingly, and in half-an-hour returned with that day's _Times_, whereby Mr. Frank Curtis was enabled to divert himself until two o'clock, when he partook of an execrable chop nearly raw, a potato that seemed as if it were iced, and a pint of wine which appeared to have been warmed.

Then how heavily, heavily did the weary hours pass away; and Curtis more than half regretted that his friend O'Blunderbuss did not call upon him. He felt that, for the pleasure of his society, he would overlook and forget the treatment he had received at his hands. But the gallant officer came not; and, what with another examination of the pictures, a complete spell of the advertisements (the news being already disposed of) in the _Times_, and a cigar or two, Frank managed to dispose of the time, though miserably enough, until five o'clock.

Mr. Pepperton then came back; and Frank awaited the report in excruciating suspense.

"Well, my dear fellow," said the lawyer, flinging himself in a chair as if regularly worn out by hard work, "we have lost the point; but we have this consolation——"

"What?" demanded Curtis, in the anxious hope of seeing another loophole promising emancipation.

"Why—that we as nearly gained it as possible," returned Pepperton. "It was old Justice Foozlehem that was at Chambers to-day; and, when I argued the point, he rubbed his nose with the feather-end of the pen—he always does that when the thing is very ticklish——"

"Damn Judge Foozlehem!" emphatically cried Mr. Frank Curtis. "A miss is as good as a mile; and that was what the Prince of Malabar said when my bullet whistled close by his ear at that duel which him and me fought at Boulogne three years ago. But, to speak seriously of business—I suppose that there's nothing left for me to do——"

"Save to pay the debt or go to the Bench," added the lawyer, putting the alternatives in as nut-shell a compass as possible.

"Well—the Bench it must be, then!" ejaculated Frank.

"I will take out the _habeas_ to-morrow," observed Mr. Pepperton; "and at about five o'clock in the afternoon the tipstaff will be at Serjeant's Inn waiting for you—or may be, you'll have to go over to him at the public-house opposite."

Curtis invited the lawyer to pass the evening with him: but Mr. Pepperton was engaged elsewhere; and the prisoner was therefore compelled to drink and smoke in solitude, occasionally varying the occupation by another spell at the _Times_—another long gaze of envy from the window—and another scrutiny of the pictures.

At last, when ten o'clock struck, Mr. Curtis was thoroughly worn out by feverish excitement, suspense, and annoyances of all kinds; and he retired to rest with the fervent hope of enjoying an uninterrupted slumber till morning. But scarcely had he begun to get drowsy, when a tickling sensation commenced in a thousand parts of his body and limbs; and, to his dismay, he found himself assailed by a perfect legion of those abominable little torturers termed bugs.

Now, Mr. Curtis was most peculiarly sensitive in this respect; and if there were ever a flea or a bug in a bed, it was certain to find him out—aye, and feast upon him too. But never, in the whole course of his life, had he experienced such an attack as on the present occasion: never till now had he known bugs so numerous, nor bites so pungent.

At length he jumped up in rage and agony, and lighted a candle. But vain was all search: not a bug could he find. The legion _appeared_ to have suddenly _disappeared_. Like Destiny, they were always to be felt, but never seen. He could not sleep with a light in the room; so, having extinguished it, he laid himself down once more.

For a few minutes he was suffered to remain quiet enough; but at last, back came his tormentors by slow degrees; and scarcely had he torn the skin off one part of his body, than he was compelled to flay another. In this manner hour after hour passed; and, when he did at length fall asleep between one and two in the morning, he was pursued by a legion of bugs and sheriff's-officers in his dreams.