"But--how? What do you mean?"
"I means as I'll be valking along a street, say, looking at every
face as I pass. Vell, all at once I'll spot a cove or covess vith
vot I calls a capital mug, I'll follow that cove or covess, and by
'ook or by crook I'll find out that there cove or covess's name,
and--down it goes in my little book, d' ye see?" and he tapped the
little book.
"But surely," said Barnabas, "surely they don't all prove to be
murderers?"
"Vell no, sir--that's hardly to be expected,--ye see, some on 'em
wanishes away, an' some goes an' dies, but they mostly turns out
true capitals--if I only vaits for 'em long enough, and--up they goes."
"And are you always on the lookout for such faces?"
"Yes, sir,--v'en I ain't busy on some case. A man must 'ave some
little relaxation, and that's mine. Lord love you, sir, scarcely a
day goes by that I don't spot one or two. I calls 'em my children,
an' a werry large, an' a werry mixed lot they are too! Rich an' poor,
men an' women,--rolling in their coaches an' crawling along the
kennel. Aha! if you could look into my little reader an' see the
names o' some o' my most promisin' children they'd as-tonish you.
I've been to 'ave a look at a couple of 'em this mornin'. Aha! it
would a-maze you if you could look into my little reader."
"I should like to," said Barnabas, eyeing the small, shabby book
with a new interest. But Mr. Shrig only blinked his wide, innocent
eyes, and slipping the book into his pocket, led the way round a
sudden corner into another alley narrower than the last, and, if
possible, dirtier.
"Where are we going?" Barnabas demanded, for Mr. Shrig, though
always placid, had suddenly taken on an air that was almost alert,
his bright, roving eye wandered more than ever, and he appeared to
be hearkening to distant sounds. "Where are we going?" repeated
Barnabas.
"Gray's Inn is 'andiest, sir, and I must ask you to step out a bit,
they're a rough crowd as lives 'ereabouts,--scamps an' hunters,
didlers an' cly-fakers, so I must ask you to step out a bit, this is
a bad country for me."
"Bad for you? Why?"
"On account o' windictiveness, sir!"
"Of what?"
"Windictiveness, sir--windictiveness in every shape an' form, but
brick-ends mostly--vith a occasional chimbley-pot."
"I'm afraid I don't understand," Barnabas began.
"Veil then," explained Mr. Shrig as they strode along, "I vere the
means o' four coves bein' topped d' ye see, 'ighvay robbery vith
wiolence,--'bout a month ago, used to live round 'ere, they did, an'
their famblies an' friends is windictive against me accordingly, an'
werry nat'ral too, for 'uman natur' is only 'uman natur', ain't it?
Werry good then. Now their windictiveness,--or as you might say,
'uman natur',--generally takes the shape of chimbley-pots and
brick-ends, though I 'ave met windictiveness in the form o' b'iling
vater and flat-irons, not to mention saucepans an' sich, afore now,
and vunce a arm-cheer, all of vich is apt to vorry you a bit until
you gets used to it. Then there's knives--knives is allus awk'ard,
and bludgeons ain't to be sneezed at, neither. But, Lord! every
perfession and trade 'as its drawbacks, an' there's a sight o'
comfort in that, ain't there?"