For ’tis the sport to have the engineer

Hoist with his own petard, and it shall go hard,

But I will delve one yard below their mines,

And blow ’em at the moon.

Shakspere.

Mr. Chewkle, with a tolerably large sum of money in his pocket, felt quite a different man to the Mr. Chewkle hunted, like a fox, by a pack of policemen, or a fugitive slave—according to his own view of the matter—by bloodhounds. He was a cunning fellow was Mr. Chewkle. He had spoken truth when he stated that he had made use of—i.e., embezzled—the money entrusted to him by a benefit society, but he had carefully secreted their books when he left word that he was “gone into the country,” and he was now prepared to “arrive home,” produce his books carefully made up, hand over the balance, and commence actions at law for slander against every person worth sueing whom he could discover to have spoken prejudicially against him.

His place of abode was watched, but not so closely as to prevent his slinking into it, during a violent shower of rain, unobserved, and regaining his room.

Having carefully shut out every possibility of a light breaking through a chink or cranny, in shutter or door, he proceeded to light a lamp, to fetch out his books, to set them in order, and, when that was done, to sneak to bed. He woke with the dawn, and got away without attracting the attention of the man set to watch the premises, inasmuch as that individual was, at the moment, tightly hugged in the arms of Morpheus. Chewkle made his way to the residence of Jukes, who received him with a grin of felicitous surprise, as he knew there was a reward offered for his apprehension, and he instantly resolved to obtain it by handing his dear old pal, Chewk, over to the tender attentions of the police. This hope of aggrandisement was dispelled, however, by Chewkle confessing his knowledge of the charges made against him, and that the police were after him.

“But there’s the books to show all straightforward, Jukes,” he cried, snapping his fingers.

“And the ballence,” suggested Jukes, “you forget the little bal-lence?”

“That’s here,” cried Chewkle, slapping his pocket, “and the money’s here to bring fifty actions again’ them who has been calling me hard names an’ slandering my character, Jukes. I’ll serve every man on ’em with a writ, Jukes. And them as can pay, I’ll foller up; an’ them as is straw. I’ll screw some costs out on—eh, Jukes. There, d’ye see that!”

As he concluded, he produced a fifty pound note, given to him by Grahame.

“There’s lots more where that came from,” he cried, “and I’ll work up that mine until I’ve got a pretty trifle out on it.”

Jukes looked at the note with the eyes of a vulture, and bent towards Chewkle with the manner of a spaniel. He adored money, and reverenced those who possessed it. Being himself a myrmidon of the law, one of its harshest and most brutal, he feared its operation, because he only too well knew its power. He had been suffering his tongue to wag very freely in defamation of Chewkle, and the mention of an action made him sweat with nervous apprehension. He wrung Chewkle’s hand, as though he would twist it from the wrist.

“I am glad of this, old boy,” he said; “I’m precious glad o’ this, old Chewk; I’ve had a precious fight for you, old boy; I said you’d come back to shame ’em all.”

“And here I am,” said Chewkle, with the sternness of assumed innocence. “I’ll serve ’em out, you’ll see. But come, Jukes, I want this flimsy changed, and I want you to take it for me to the old gal in Threadneedle Street.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Jukes, looking blank, and by no means fascinated with the proposition, “ha! ha! its all re’glar, I s’pose, ha! ha! I say its all right and square, old Chewk, eh?”

“You ain’t one of ’em who ’s been speaking agin’ me behind my back, eh?” asked Chewkle in a very significant tone. Mr. Jukes laughed vacantly, and suggested that such a notion was utterly preposterous.

“Well,” said Chewkle, “then look there,” pointing as he spoke to a name written on the back of the note; “you see that name, ‘Grahame Regent’s Park,’ don’t you? now you can put the name and address of Chewkle on it, that will do, won’t it?”

Mr. Jukes did not think, he said, that half of that was necessary; the word of “old Chewk” was all he required; and he took the note, leaving Chewkle to await his return.

He returned with the money, and Chewkle, in pursuance of a plan he had formed, took some of his best clothes out of pledge, got shaved and scoured, for it required that labour to get his flesh cleaned; had his hair cut and brushed, his whiskers trimmed, and really came out quite smart, and looking very much, as of old—like an individual engaged in the recovery of small debts.

Making a variety of promises, largely interlarded with boasts to Juke, not one of which he intended to redeem, he made his way to his friend Scorper, a lawyer’s clerk, and, having secured his services, proceeded to face his creditors.

For three hours the turmoil was tremendous. He was given into custody, went before a magistrate, was charged with felonious embezzlement, produced his books and the balance, which he declared himself ready to hand over to a properly constituted person appointed by the society itself, satisfied the magistrate that he was a grossly ill-used individual, was discharged, and obtained subsequently, a list of persons, who, having called him with great truth and justice, a rogue and swindler, he instructed Scorper, to proceed against them all, for defaming his precious character.

Mr. Chewkle had a deep motive in all this. He knew sufficient of human nature to be aware that his present triumph, coupled with the actions at law, would cause people who had been busy in talking about him, speculating on his movements, or wondering to their friends what he was up to, to take no further notice of him whatever—to drop him, as he said to himself, “as if he was a hot ’tatur.”

He was going in now for a desperate stake, and he was especially anxious that his future movements should not attract attention.

He was pretty fairly acquainted with the nature of the property Grahame would obtain by the death of Maybee, or of Wilton, provided the latter had no son living. He speculated at first, whether he should gain most by keeping his word with Grahame, or by revealing all he knew to Wilton. But a little reflection soon decided him, that he could obtain more continuous gifts from Grahame than Wilton, because he should be able to put on a screw with the former by constant threats, while with the latter, it would be only by appeals to his gratitude, that he should be able occasionally, to obtain money after the first reward. He knew that men soon grow tired of being grateful when it costs them money—he did himself—so feeling a pretty sure conviction that he should be able by the pressure of threats to draw the largest income from Grahame, he decided upon adhering to his course, even though it laid the crime of murder upon his soul.

The spirit of acquisitiveness was, however, strong within him. It was evident to him that money was to be extracted from Wilton, by holding out the alluring promise of producing the missing evidence, necessary to secure to him the large property now in the clutches of Chancery. He might even go to the length of mentioning the name of Maybee, and other particulars, necessary to prove his ability to perform his promise, before he put the poor old prisoner out of the way of being produced by anybody.

Now he knew from two or three sources, that Nathan

Gomer had interested himself much in Wilton’s affairs no doubt, as Chewkle surmised, at a swinging profit; and it suggested itself to him that he would be the man to apply to in the matter; Nathan would listen to him with a ready ear, because no doubt profit was to be made out of the transaction; and Nathan had the ear of Wilton, so that what he suggested was likely to be carried out.

Accordingly Mr. Chewkle, one evening, directed his steps to the chambers of the remarkable little saffronfaced dwarf.

Mr. Chewkle had no favourable opinion of the individual he was about to visit; he had an uncomfortable sense that the satellites of Satan were, on certain conditions, permitted to visit the earth, to lure men to perdition, and that Nathan was one of the demoniacal crew. He pshaw’d the notion with a grim laugh every time it presented itself, but he could not drive the impression away.

In one of the dreariest bye-lanes in the city of London there is a narrow passage leading into what may be termed a duodecimo square. It contains twelve houses, the floors of which are let out in chambers; that is to say, they would be if tenants were rife; but only a few can boast of being occupied.

To one of the largest, gloomiest and dustiest, Mr. Chewkle advanced. Upon the door-post, in faded black letters, he saw, painted by the hands of a writer in his noviciate, the words—“Second Floor. Mr. N. Gomer.”

The hour was so far advanced, that lamps, in the streets, and in shop windows, were lighted; and, by contrast, the square was dark. Still Chewlde was able to decipher the words upon the door-post; but the staircase was uncomfortably obscure. However, he mounted the stairs.

He went up gently, as though, plunder being his object, he had no wish to arouse the attention of any inmate. He felt, he scarcely knew why, a strange apprehension that one of the closed doors he had to pass would; as he reached it; burst open; and some frantic individual; in a fit of wild frenzy; dash upon him, and seize him by the throat; on the assumption that he, Chewkle; had no business to be anywhere but in the station-house or at Dartmoor.

He paused; without any such event happening; before the door upon the second floor.

It was awfully dark here. He groped for a door, and found an outer one open. The inner door was closed; but it yielded to the pressure of his hand; and opened inwardly.

The room within was intensely dark. Mr. Chewkle gave a short dry cough; but it was not responded to.

“Gomer is out,” he thought to himself; “out; and has forgotten to lock his door.”

Mr. Chewkle paused to take breath; for his thoughts oppressed him.

His ideas, his speculations and impressions; respecting Nathan Gomer were interwoven with bank-notes and sovereigns; with gold-dust and diamonds; with Indian riches; with; in truth; wealth inexhaustible.

Mr. Gomer was an individual; in his estimation; who trusted none of his valuables to other people’s care; save such moneys as he advanced on undeniable security; and; consequently; the room in which he, Mr. Chewkle, was then standing must be the storehouse of fabulous wealth.

This storehouse; in an indiscreet moment; had been left unguarded—unprotected; open to the lustful hand of any lucky individual, like himself, who, dropping in promiscuously, as he had done, could enrich himself and disappear with his prize, swiftly and unobserved, leaving no trace behind him.

Mr. Chewkle broke out into a nervous perspiration, and instantly became active; he groped about for the table, which no doubt had a drawer where the keys of chests containing heaps of gold and notes were deposited.

He found a table, and felt for the coveted drawer.

Then he uttered a roar of fright.

In a corner of the room a light suddenly displayed itself. It shone brightly on the face of Nathan Gomer, grinning hideously at him.

In another moment his eyes were dazzled to blindness by the light being turned full upon his own face.

He heard Nathan, in his strange shrill voice, cry—

“Oh! Chewkle, is it? My good, industrious friend Chewkle come to pay me a visit, to serve me, of course, and himself slightly, perhaps? How do you do, Chewkle?”

Large drops of cold perspiration rolled down that individual’s forehead; he tried to speak, but for the minute he found his voice was gone, and he could only make one or two hoarse sounds in his throat.

Nathan Gomer, who had been lying screwed up in an arm chair, now rose up and lighted a lamp from a bull’s-eye lantern which he had in his hand, and then he motioned to Chewkle to be seated.

“I found the door open,” abruptly observed Chewkle, feeling that an explanation of his peculiar proceedings was due from him.

“I know you did,” said Gomer, with a grin. “I opened it for you—wire and spring simple enough.”

“Ah,” said Chewkle, “I thought you was out, and had left valuable property about.”

“He! he! and you were trying to find it out, so as to secure it, eh?” returned Nathan, with a grin.

“Hem!” coughed Chewkle. “I—I—it was very dark, and I was gropin’ about for—for—for——”

“The lucifer box, I suppose,” suggested Nathan, sarcastically.

“That’s jest it; I thought to myself that you had left——”

“But I never do, Mr. Chewkle; I am not of an absent or forgetful nature; I am a methodical man; and do everything systematically. Well, now we have a light; you are seated, and so am I. You have come to me with some purpose, and minutes are more precious than gold. Mr. Chewkle, to your business at once.”

“Mr. Gomer, that’s jes’ what I likes, and that’s why I preferred comin’ to you to goin’ direct to Mr. Wilton.”

“Mr. Wilton?”

“Yes, sir; he ’as was lately in the Bench, and is now at Harleydale Manor, Devon. A friend of yourn I believe, sir.”

“Your business is directly, then, with him?”

“He is directly affected by it,” returned Chewkle, dropping his eyes, unable to endure the bright gaze of the little golden-hued money-lender.

“And you desire to negociate the matter through me,” continued Gomer, as Chewkle paused.

“I do,” he answered.

“Proceed,” said Gomer, laconically.

“Mr. Wilton is claimant to a large property in Devonshire and elsewhere,” said Chewkle. “As I have been concerned for Mr. Grahame, of course you know I am aware of that.”

Nathan Gomer nodded.

“It is about that property I want to speak to you, sir,” he added.

“Go on,” observed Nathan, drily.

“I have some information about it—some information very important to Mr. Wilton, I can assure you.”

“Ha! hem! Have you had a quarrel with Mr. Grahame?” inquired Nathan, sharply.

“Quarrel, sir? No, sir,” returned Chewkle. “He’s a very good friend to me, he is.”

“How will this information of which you speak affect his interest with regard to his claim to the Devonshire property?” asked Nathan Gomer, regarding Chewkle with a fixed gaze.

“Floor him there, sir,” responded Chewkle; “quite knock him out of time.”

“Yet, my good Chewkle, you suggest that he is your very kind friend—eh?”

“So for the matter o’ that he is, sir. But you, sir, are a man of the world—I says a distinguished man of the world—am I right?”

“I am prepared to concede that point to save time,” responded Nathan Gomer, with a grin.

“Well, sir, the very vallyble information I possess couldn’t make Mr. Grahame inherit that property, though he still prefers a claim to it, but it will actually put Mr. Wilton into possession of it.”

“What?”

“It will completely establish his claim to it!” exclaimed Chewkle, striking the table with his fist, adding, “That’s information worth having, I should think.”

“Clearly,” said Nathan Gomer, coolly. “Mr Wilton has had in his day many such offers, but they turned out moonshine, all of them. How is he to know that your information is any better than that which has already proved worthless?”

“’Cos I’ll explain why, in a very few words,” answered Chewkle.

“Do so,” said Nathan.

“You know, sir, p’raps better than I do, that the marriage of Mr. Wilton’s father and mother is a pint in dispute.”

“I do.”

“That their register of marriage was cut out o’ the parish book, and the cetiffykit has never been found; but it was supposed to be in the possession of a cousin, who has a claim to some part of the property.”

“Very true—very correct,” responded Gomer, still cool, but nevertheless edging his chair a little closer to Chewkle.

“Now this man disappeared many years ago.”

“He did, good Chewkle.”

“And if he can be found and produced, all the property will become Mr. Wilton’s.”

“I don’t quite see the force of that conclusion, friend Chewkle.”

“Don’t you? Look here—this man Maybee——”

“Ha! Maybee—that is his name.”

“Yes, Maybee. This Maybee——”

“John Maybee, I think?”

“No, Joshua Maybee.”

“Oh, Joshua—ah! yes—Joshua.”

“The old fellow, among his pals in Spike Hotel, is called Josh Maybee.”

“To be sure, very probable; go on, good Chewkle,” said Nathan Gomer, with glittering eyes and a glowing face, but just now without a grin upon his features.

“Now if this cousin is brought forward, he can produce, no doubt, the cetiffykit of the marriage of Wilton’s father and mother, and by proving his legitimacy, substantiate his claim to the property.”

“True—true, very feasible. But suppose he can’t produce the certificate, my Chewkle? What then?”

“He was present at the marriage; he can prove that by bringing forward witnesses who were present as well as himself, and, therefore, establish the fact beyond a doubt.”

“Hem! very strong, I confess. But how is it, my good Chewkle, that this man—what is his name——”

“Never mind his name, sir,” said Chewkle, vexed with himself to find he had let it slip out.

“How stupid in me to forget his name!” said Nathan Gomer, tapping his forehead; “but, no matter, how is it that this man does not himself come forward. He must be well aware that in helping Mr. Wilton to obtain his rights, he would be securing his own, eh! Chewkle, how do you explain that?”

“It’s a secret I cannot tell without putting you in the same position as myself, and then you know my claim for giving you the information wouldn’t be worth much, and I want a stiff sum, I do,” responded Chewkle, with a marked emphasis upon the last sentence.

“I suppose I may ask how you came to find this man out, and how you obtained from him the information you have already given to me?” asked Gomer, regarding him with a penetrating glance.

“Yes,” said Chewkle, assuming an indifferent tone, although he was aware he was treading on delicate ground; “I employed the man to carry some messages for me, and other little matters, and one day I treated him to some beer. Over the drink he repeated some of the things as had occurred to him years ago. While he was talking, I found the circumstances he related tallied with what Mr. Grahame and old Wilton wanted to clear up, and then I went quickly to work, and sucked him as dry as a pump that’s given it’s last drop.”

“You hinted to him, of course, that what he was telling to you might turn out of value to both,” suggested Gomer.

“Not a word,” returned Chewkle, with a wink. “No, no; if I’d put him up to that I might have hook’d for my share of the—the——”

“Plunder,” supplied Gomer, with a grin.

Chewkle grinned too.

“Not ’zactly that,” he said, “but the price of producing the man and giving a large fortune to Mr. Wilton.”

“Then he remains still in ignorance of the service he might be to Mr. Wilton,” said Gomer as if thoughtfully. “Strange, that, very strange.”

“Not strange, when you remembers that Wilton’s father and mother were married in disguised names,” said Chewkle.

Nathan Gomer felt greatly disposed to give way to a whistle, but he restrained his feelings, and though he felt astonished he looked composed.

After a minute’s reflection, he said to Chewkle—

“When can you produce Mr.———? What did you say his name was?”

“Don’t flurry yourself about his name,” returned Chewkle; “it’s the man you want. Let me see, Thursday, Friday, Saturday—in ten days from this I can do it.”

“You can?”

“I can.”

“And will?”

“If I am well paid for it.”

“How much does that mean—open your mouth?” exclaimed Nathan, with a grin.

“A hun—two—a—a thousand pounds,” cried Chewkle, with a sudden bound from the sum he purposed at first asking.

“And worth it, I should say,” returned Mr. Nathan

Gomer, with a contortion which was something between a yawn and a horrifying convulsion. “But there is Mr. Wilton’s consent to be obtained to the payment of this large sum,” he added, “and the terms upon which it is to be paid to be arranged.”

“That I admits,” returned Chewkle, with a cunning leer; “but I must have something in hand, you know, before I goes from here to-night, Mr. Gomer.”

“Not a farthing,” returned Nathan Gomer, coolly; I shall not be a shilling the richer, nor a penny-piece the poorer, whether the man is produced or kept perdu. All you have been telling me may be lies, you know, my Chewkle; I don’t mean to insinuate that such is the case, but when one is called to pay down for bare assertion, then it is necessary to be cautious.”

“I’ve told you truth, sir,” replied Chewkle, with earnestness, and then, thoughtlessly, as the forged deed flashed through his mind, he said, “And I could tell you some information about Mr. Grahame as you’d like to have.”

“Not you,” said Nathan Gomer, coolly.

“You have lent him a heap of money, haven’t you?” inquired Chewkle, with a tone as much as to say, “I know you have.”

“I am well secured,” said Gomer, apathetically; “and, therefore, Chewkle, it is of no use your trying it on with me in that quarter.”

“Ain’t it?”

“No.”

“You’re sure o’ that?”

“Quite. Mr. Grahame has borrowed money. Many a prouder man than he has done the same thing, but he has given security for it. There is nothing out of the ordinary routine of worldly circumstances in that. He may be in difficulties now—perhaps he is——”

“No, he ain’t.”

“Well, he might be. There is nothing, however, that Mr. Grahame has done, or is likely to do, but what would be strictly honorable; and, therefore, nothing you can say about him can affect me.”

“Nor Mr. Wilton?”

“Nor Mr. Wilton.”

“There you’re wrong. I could tell you a trifle about a forged deed, as would uncurl your ’air, and make it quiver like that of a ’lectrified cat, if I liked.”

“Pshaw! What could you tell me?”

All! What? That question restored Mr. Chewkle to his equilibrium, which Nathan Gomer’s taunts were fast pulling him out of. He bit his lips, and mentally called himself a fool of great magnitude for having permitted himself to be so far drawn out. So, to prevent further trips of speech, he rose up, and prepared to go.

“If you will not give me anything down, Mr. Gomer,” he said, “the thing’s off. I shan’t come agen. It won’t be worth my while.”

“Perhaps you would like to go to Mr. Wilton and see him. You can ask him if he will put down the large sum you ask upon the mere faith of your promise to produce the man of whom you have spoken. The proposition is so very reasonable.”

Chewkle thought for a moment; then he fixed his eyes upon the face of Nathan inquiringly, and said—“What then is your idea of that matter, to be fair between man and man?”

“My proposition is this;” replied Gomer, “I have no objection to give you a sovereign now, and to meet you to-morrow morning at nine, and then either give you a further sum and enter into an agreement with you, or tell you that I intend to take no further steps in the affair.”

Chewkle reflected for an instant. He should be sure of a pound at least, perhaps he might get more; the offer appeared, also, too reasonable, if he wished it to be thought he intended to act honestly, to refuse; so he intimated his readiness to consent to it, and Nathan gave to him a sovereign, saying to him—

“You must meet me exactly at nine to-morrow morning, at the Paddington Station of the Great Western Railway; I will see you at that hour, or as shortly after as possible, in the waiting-room, for if I decide upon purchasing your information, I shall proceed immediately afterwards, direct to Harleydale Manor, to Mr. Wilton!”

“Mind!” said Chewkle, quietly, “I tell you I can’t produce the man for ten days.”

“Very true, but you will want the money you ask, and I must obtain the authority to give it you. You understand?”

“All right,” replied Chewkle.

“Be punctual. Good night!” exclaimed Nathan Gomer, and laying hold of a button of Chewkle’s coat, he led him to the outer door, nodded and grinned at him with so elfish an expression, that Chewkle was really glad to get away.

He saw Nathan close his outer door, and heard him lock it; he heard him double lock and bolt the inner door, and then he groped his way down into the street.

“He’s a queer little imp of old Nick’s,” he muttered to himself; then he chuckled, “I’ve done him, I think,” he said, “I shall have that money, and he may hook for the evidence, for I shall be off for a little while for the benefit of my health, likewise in the neighbourhood of Harleydale, but not for the benefit of old Wilton’s health. I don’t think he’ll rapidly improve, after I get’s down about his ’ouse.”

He turned into the bye-lane and so on into a crowded thoroughfare.

In the meantime, Nathan Gomer, on returning to his easy chair, drew up his knees to his chin, and went through some extraordinary evolutions. He rubbed his yellow hands with delight, and his golden visage glistened and beamed with felicity.

“Cunning Chewkle!” he cried—“cunning, cunning Chewkle. Ho! ho! ho! such a cunning fellow! Mr. Josh Maybee is the man, eh? Confined in Spike Hotel, which is the Queen’s Prison. I will be closeted with him while Mr. Chewkle is admiring the carpetbags, and longing to secure the heaviest in the waiting-room of the railway. Having settled my business with Mr. Maybee, I shall turn my attention to the forged deed executed, I suppose, by Grahame, and stolen, I suspect, by Chewkle. Ay! on that very morning I watched him to and from his lodgings, and the chambers of Grahame’s solicitors. It will come right at last!—all come right at last! Flora, from your bright abode in heaven, your gentle eyes may witness that I have striven truly and honestly to keep the solemn vow I have made; and though, on earth you regarded me with emotions of distaste, or sad compassionateness only, you may bend on me a smile of tenderness denied to me on earth. Alas! alas!”

He placed his hands over his eyes, and, with a strange shivering convulsion of the frame, sobbed aloud.