Minutes of a Special Meeting, By an Ambushed Reporter.

Observer, Volume v, Issue 115, 25 November 1882, Page 170

Minutes of a Special Meeting, By an Ambushed Reporter.

It was night. Nature was wrapped in the mantl c of darkness. Only the crescent moon threw a dim. and ghastly gleam over the timber -stacks and a shimmer of light on the waves that laved the silent shore. The stars twinkled overhead like — ur n! — yes, like — just so — paste diamonds in a Christy Minstrel troupe. " Now o'er one-half the world Nature seems dead ; and wicked dreams abuse The curtained sleeper." A deep, solemn hush had fallen on the empty streets. No sound broke the stillness save the rumble of a distant 'bus, the footsteps of some lonely policeman stealing out from the back door of a pub., or the howling of a chained and forlorn dog. It was such a scene as a poet would have loved, for here he would have found peace and rest, and tranquillity of soul. " O sacred solitude ! Divine retreat ! Choice of the prudent, envy of the great I" Suddenly dark figures are seen flitting through the shadows —mysterious, noiseless, like midnight wolves seeking their prey, or the grim shades of the dead going on temporary leave of absence for a rampage about the scenes they loved in their mortal life. By the dim, uncertain light, we distinguish between the timber-stacks the figures of human beings, assembled, like nocturnal conspirators, in a group. The faint moonbeams play lightly on stray hairs protruding through the crowns of slouch hats j mellow with soft melancholy the snub nose and sooty cheeks of the leader of the band ; glisten on the massive silver rings which adorn his fat, stumpy fingers ; and impart an appearance like that of dirty lace to the a3 cending smoke of half-a-dozen dlrudeens. It is hi 3 voice — wheezy and sepulchral as with the weakness of premature age, like the maudlin murmurs of an asthmatic toper — that breaks the silence. " Hello, me covies ! Slap bang, 'ere we is agin !" " S'help me, Stumpy, w'ere'r we all goin' ter ?" the response came from a small boy in the corner, hatless, bootless, and with trousers cut short at the knees, Highlander fashion. " Come, me kiddies," exclaimed the mysterious leader, in a tone of authority, " stow gammon, an' git ter business. 'As any on yer got a chew o' terbacker on him ?" " 'Ere y'are." There was a brief pause, broken by the aforesaid daring commander, in a voice emotional with tobacco-juice — . " Now, me kiddies, wot's the swag ? You, Muggins, start fast." The bold brigand thus called upon to give an account of his stewardship fumbled in his tattered pockets, and, producing therefrom a bundle of cigars, remarked in a hoarse stage whisper — " I prigged these 'ere out er a bacca shop wile the gal was a-spoonin' with a cove- in the back room." " There's some on 'em gone, Muggins," said the commander in an ominous tone ; " this ain't gbin' snacks, yer know, fair an' square." " They was gone w'en I got 'em," replied the miserable Muggins, in a tone of abject apology. "Wot've yer got, Spriggs ?" asked the ter-' rible leader, quietly pocketing the cigars. " Well, yer see, Stumpy, " I didn't 'aye no hick, I didn't; I on'y prigged a cove's dinner from a kid as wuz takm' it to him, an' in course " "In course what?" growled the dreaded Stumpy. " Well, yer see, it wuz 'ot Hirish stoo, an' so I tuk it to a gully an' scoffed it." "Why, yer blanky greedy little beggar !" said the leader in a tone of intense disgust, "git out! I'll 'aye yer shoved outer the Kelly gang, I will. Wot's the rest on yer got ?" "Me an' Bloggs chiveyed a hold covey, knocked 'mi m the gutter, an' went through him ; but he on'y 'ad a knife, a box o' matches, an' foui'pence. 'Ere they are." " An' wot've yer got, Bilks ?" " I frightened an old party, and she dropped these 'ere," said the person thus appealed to, producing a set of false teeth. Having calmly appropriated the booty, the leader suddenly asked, " Well, me kiddies, wot's the programme tonight?" " I know," said Spriggs ; " let's bust the gasworks. My dad's got. a 'ammer an' chisel, an' I'll prig 'em." " Grit out !" contemptuously interjected Bloggs; " wot's the good — no fun in that. Let's ring a fire-bell." " G-er long with yer!" broke in Bilks ; "rob the comtnoonyun-plate outer a church, an' melt it down for rings." "Them's no good," said Muggins, in the familiar graveyard wheeze from the comer — *' let's rob a bank."

The vastness of this daring proposal staggered them. There was profound silence. Each brigand was trying to grasp the thing in his*,, mind, when — A sudden yell broke the stillness. -'A chorus of yells rang through the night air. The dull sound of blows falling with rapid " swishes," followed by scampering footsteps, then by the deep, passionate voice of a man, " D them young shavers ! they'll be a- j settin' fire to the timber some o' these nights." j It was the night-watchman. Then there was profound silence, only the long wash of the waves on the shore.