The Argosy — page 267: what you’re looking at

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

246 The Story of Charies Strange. followed close upon it. Edmund Clavering, by the way, had been with me that day to impart a bit of news: he was going to be married ; to a charming girl, too; and we were discussing the settle- ments. My Lady Clavering, he said, was figuring at Baden-Baden, and report ran that she was about to espouse a French Count with a fierce moustache. Presently I took up the Zzmes, not opened before that day, and was deep in a police case, which had convulsed the court in Marl- borough Street with laughter, and was convulsing me, when a vehicle dashed down Essex Street. It was the van of the Parcels Delivery Company. ‘Mr. Strange live here?” was the question I heard, from the man who had descended from the seat beside the driver, when Watts went out. All right,” said Watts. ‘“‘ Here’s a parcel for him. Nothing to pay.” The driver coquetted with his horse, then turned sharp round, and ~ —overturned the van. It was not the first accident of a similar nature, or the last, by many, that I have seen in that particular spot. How it is I don’t know, but drivers, especially cabmen, have an unconquerable propensity for pulling their horses round in a danger- ously short fashion at the bottom of Essex Street, and sometimes the result is that they come to grief. 1 threw down my newspaper and leaned out at the window, watching the fun. The street was covered with parcels, and the driver and his friend were throwing off their consternation in choice language. One hamper could not be picked up: it had contained wine, loosely packed, and the broken bottles were lying in a red pool. Where the mob collected from that speedily arrived to assist was a marvel. ‘The van at length took its departure up the street, considerably shorn of the triumph with which it had dashed down. This had taken up a considerable space of time, and it was grow- ing too dark to resume my newspaper. Turning from the window, I proceeded to examine the parcel which Watts had brought up on its arrival and placed on the table. It was about a foot square, wrapped in brown paper, sealed and tied with string; and, in what Tony Lumpkin would have called a confounded cramped, up-and-down hand, where you could not tell an izzard from an R, was directed * C. Strange, Esquire.” - I took out my penknife, cut the string, and removed the paper ; and there was disclosed a pasteboard box with green edges, which was also sealed. I opened it, and from a mass of soft paper, put in to steady its contents, took out a small canvas bag, tied round with tape, and containing thirty golden sovereigns ! From the very depth of my conviction, I believed it to be the bag we had lost. It was the bag; for, on turning it round, there were Mr, Coney’s initials, S. C., neatly marked with blue cotton, as they ECORNIELIOOKS © im