Spring-Heel'd Jack, The Terror of London — page 309: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

ee SPRING-HEEL’D JACK THE TERROR OF LONDON. ‘“ Let him go !” roared a chorus of voices. “ He shall go to gaol,” said the woman. “ He murdered my Bill, and he shall suffer for it.” ‘“ Let go of me, will you?” said Pappy, “or Pll chuck you over!” “ I will drag you to gaol, you murderer. You shall not go, Help! police! help!” Curse you! Take that, then!” said Pappy, striking her on the lips with his open hand, but with sufficient force to draw blood, and cause her to release her hold and totter back. _“ Now, nammus,”’ cried the landlord, “and perhaps we can settle the job with her. Shng your daddle—quick ! ” “By God! he shall not,” cried the woman, furious at the blow, and seizing the pot, which the landlord still held in his hand. | “Get out of my way,” said Pappy, who really began to fear the woman. “I don’t want to hit you; but I shall, if you interfere with me.” And he strove to pass the landlord, and slip from the skittle-ground. Mrs. Jackson again faced him, grasping the pewter pot by the handle. “You shall suffer for this!’ she screamed. “You shan’t escape! You killed my Bill, and you shall not go, only with the police.” ‘Get back, or I’ll serve you the same!”’ said the man, pushing her away from the door, which he grasped in his hand, and opened quickly. But not quick enough for his own safety. Mrs. Jackson uttered a cry, raised the pewter pot above her head, and before anyone of those assembled could prevent her, she brought the sharp rim down upon the bared head of Pappy, - cutting it fearfully, and felling him at the feet of the astounded and terrified landlord. _ With flashing eyes, she glared around her. The men fell back from before her as from an enraged tigress, and even the landlord retreated hastily from her side, leaving her standing alone with the man who lay stunned and bleeding beside his victim. “Don’t come near me,” she cried, in a husky. voice, “or I shall kill you if you do. [am mad. This cursed hell has made me mad, and [I will tear it down, But for this den he would have been a good man ; but for the cursed poison he drank here he would be alive now. Don’t come near me, I say, for my blood is up, and there will be another murder. If you dol will not be silent. I will rouse the neighbourhood for miles round. None shall escape—not one— not one!” 7 Brandishing the pot, she rushed out of the skittle-cround, through the bar, into the street, shrieking aloud— tei y. Lolice) Murder’? Her cries soon brought a number of persons around her, and among them our old friend, Bobby Bristles, who had his beat in that neigh- bourhood for the first time, and, hearing the eries of Mrs. Jackson, and perceiving her flourish- ing a quart pot in her hand at the door of the beershop, immediately leaped to the conclusion that she was drunk, So. Bobby quietly walked up behind her, and, making a sudden snatch at the pot, deprived her of it. ‘‘ Now, then—now then !—what’s all this row 31ll about ?” he cried, as he pitched the pot into the- bar, so that it should be out of the way. ‘* Oh, my Bill! my Bill!” cried the woman. ‘Go home with you,” said Bobby, “and don’t be making this drunken disturbance here, or I shall have to take you where you won’t find a feather bed to lay on.” | “Pm not drunk—I’m mad!” cried Mrs. Jackson, clinging to Bobby. “I should think you was,” said Bobby. ‘“‘ But the best thing you can do is to go home without showing any of your mad tricks.” “She ain’t drunk,” cried an attenuated woman in the crowd. ‘“‘ Poor cretur, she don’t get enough to get drink with, like me. Catch Bill letting her have the price of a pint. He want’s it all for his own inside—he does. What’s the matter, Mrs. Jackson?” ‘Oh, my Bill! my Bill! he’s’’*—— “Been slogging into you, again ?”’ interrupted the woman. “No! he’s been murdered—murdered in the skittle-ground of this hell here ! ” “Eh, what?” cried Bobby, whipping his staff from his pocket. ‘‘ Murder!—did you say murder ? ” “Murdered !”’ echoed the crowd. And, without waiting for an answer, the crowd passed into the bar of the Pigeon Flyers. ‘““Oh, they've murdered him!” cried the woman, turning to bristles. ‘‘He lays dead in the skittle-ground! Don’t let them go! Hang them! They’ve killed my Bill !—they’ve killed my Bill!” | ““Show me where he is,” said Bristles. ‘‘ Go on, woman! ” “This way—this way.” And the excited woman, clutching the arm of Bristles, led that model officer through the bar into the yard. ‘* They are all in there,” she cried, pointing to the door of the skittle alley. - A rush was made for the door by those who had been brought to the scene by the cries of the poor wife ; but Bristles majestically waved them back with his staff, and, rough fellows as they were, they retreated at the command. Bristles pushed at the door, but could not open it. It had been secured inside. ‘““Qpen the door! In the name of the law, I demand this door be instantly opened !’’ cried Bristles. | There was no response, “Break it open!” shrieked Mrs. Jackson. “They'll nammus out of the window into the next yard,” said a bystander: “that’s their game.” “There were several pieces of solid wood lying about, and, pointing to these, Bristles ordered the people assembled to batter in the door with them. | In afew moments the old dirty panels were split into a dozen fragments, and egress gained to the skittle-ground, which had been plunged into darkness. JBristles, however, turned the slide of his lantern, and suffered the stream of light to fall into the place. There were two bodies lying on the ground, but no one else was there, ‘COOO KAP am, CO mee