Penny Blood Serial Fiction — page 275: what you’re looking at

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

258 - REYNOLDS’ WORKS proceeding being watched with mingled curiosity and sus- pense by all who beheld her. “Now, Solomon Patch,” she said, turning toward the landlord, ‘‘ here’s fifty pounds in good Bank of England notes, and I am going to entrust the sum to your keeping. You are all witnesses of the deposit.’’ ‘“ But what. be it for? ’’ asked the old man, gazing with astonishment upon Madge Somers, and almost hesitating to receive the money, lest some treacherous intent should lurk beneath this conduct on her part. ‘“ Take it — do not be afraid,’”’ she said, “‘I will soon ex- plain myself. And now listen, all of you. Some years ago there was the manager of a company of strolling players, whose name was Thompson, but what has become of him, I do not know. It 1s precisely this knowledge that I want to obtain. If any one will bring me the information I re- quire before eight o’clock in the evening of the twenty-first of this month, the individual thus giving me that informa- tion shall receive the fifty pounds which I have just lodged in the hands of Solomon Patch.” Numerous voices shouted out the willingness of the speakers to enter upon the search. “Tf he’s above ground, I’m blowed if I don’t ferret him out,’’ exclaimed Tony Wilkins, darting from his seat with the air of one resolved to enter upon the search at once. “T knows a many poor vimen as was vunce strolling performers,’’ observed a halt-tipsy female, with a hiccup at every second word she spoke. “ It’s soteuiieas how them poor creaturs comes down in their hold hage. There’s vun as used to play queens and great ladies, and was very poppilar, but now she’s took to get her livelihood by charing and what not.” ‘Oh you be hanged! ”’ ejaculated a rough-looking fellow, eager to put in his word. “ I’ll have a try for the fifty pound prize. But can’t you give us no more partiklers, Madge? ” ‘“ Nothing more,” she responded, curtly. “ Spose he’s dead, this feller Thompson,” observed Solomon Patch, ‘‘ what then? It ain’t no use looking arter him, be it? ”’ “ Unless,’’ remarked another of the women belonging to the company of revellers in the tap-room, ‘* old Bob Shakerly here would have up his carkiss,”’ Gomichbooks (E(0)