The Argosy — page 81: what you’re looking at

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

63 THE»: DEVIL, IN. DUNCHES TE A PROFESSIONAL EPISODE. Ob many years ago, I happened to be much in want of a human head—and lest such a want on the part of a civilised being should appear shocking or even incredible, I hasten to add that it was for scientific purposes. But for whatever purposes re- quired, it is not an article usually kept in stock in a country town, and I had almost determined on making a long journey to London in search of it, when I chanced to hear that a notorious murderer was to be executed on the following Saturday at Dunchester, a place at no great distance, and where I was not unknown. Even at that time traffic in the bodies of criminals was illegal, but I was aware that in spite of the restrictions of the law it was often possible to procure a hand, a foot, or such other small “ subject” as might be required—why not then a head? Determined at any rate to try my luck, I immediately invited myself to the house of a medical friend in Dunchester. It was with some anxiety that I entered the gaol on that Saturday night; but to my relief I found that the criminal had been without friends or relations likely to take an interest in his remains, and the obstacles between me and my much-coveted “ subject ” were compara- tively few and slight. Still it was not to be obtained in a moment, and it was past midnight when it was finally delivered to me, loosely wrapped in an insufficient sheet of newspaper. “That’s all as J could find sir,” said the man apologetically, “ but I suppose you’ve got a basket or a handkerchief.” ‘“‘ Basket !” I exclaimed impatiently, ‘‘ of course not—and as to my handkerchief I have some other use for it. Give me the head and look sharp, there’s a good fellow.” ‘Well, sir,” returned he, handing me the parcel, “I can’t say as it’s very securely wrapped, and ”—laboriously turning the big key of the postern gate, that opened into the outer air with a grim clanking of chains—‘ Jim he always was an uncommon slippery chap to hold, and if I didn’t know he was as dead as a door nail, I could take my Davy that ugly mug of his was as lively as ever. Good night, sir.” And while he was still laughing uneasily at his own humour the gaol gate banged behind me, and I was alone in the chill darkness of a stormy winter’s night. Dunchester gaol stands in an exposed position on the top of a hill, half-way up which straggle a few dingy little streets, so steep that the roadway becomes at last merely a narrow flight of stone steps ascend- ing between sordid houses. A wind from the North Sea was sweeping before it an endless succession of heavy clouds, from which there fe eoniichoolke (E©) m