Lavengro by George Borrow (read me a book txt) 📕

“He seems to be insane,” said the prim-looking man, “we had better order the porter to turn him out.”

“I am by no means certain,” said I, “that the porter could turn me out; always provided there is a porter, and this system of ours be not a lie, and a dream.”

“Come,” said the lion-looking man, impatiently, “a truce with this nonsense. If the porter cannot turn you out, perhaps some other person can; but to the point⁠—you want a Bible?”

“I do,” said I, “but not for myself; I was sent by another person to offer something in exchange for one.”

“And who is that person?”

“A poor old woman, who has had what you call convictions⁠—heard voices, or thought she heard them⁠—I forgot to ask her whether they were loud ones.”

“What has she sent to offer in exchange?” said the man, without taking any notice of the concluding part of my speech.

“A book,” said I.

“Let me see it.”

“Nay, brother,” said the precise man, “this will never do; if we once adopt the system of barter, we shall have all the holders of useless rubbish in the town applying to us.”

“I wish to see what he has brought,” said the other; “perhaps Baxter, or Jewell’s Apology, either of which would make a valuable addition to our collection. Well, young man, what’s the matter with you?”

I stood like one petrified; I had put my hand into my pocket⁠—the book was gone.

“What’s the matter?” repeated the man with the lion countenance, in a voice very much resembling thunder.

“I have it not⁠—I have lost it!”

“A pretty story, truly,” said the precise-looking man, “lost it!”

“You had better retire,” said the other.

“How shall I appear before the party who entrusted me with the book? She will certainly think that I have purloined it, notwithstanding all I can say; nor, indeed, can I blame her⁠—appearances are certainly against me.”

“They are so⁠—you had better retire.”

I moved towards the door. “Stay, young man, one word more; there is only one way of proceeding which would induce me to believe that you are sincere.”

“What is that?” said I, stopping and looking at him anxiously.

“The purchase of a Bible.”

“Purchase!” said I, “purchase! I came not to purchase, but to barter; such was my instruction, and how can I barter if I have lost the book?”

The other made no answer, and turning away I made for the door; all of a sudden I started, and turning round, “Dear me,” said I, “it has just come into my head, that if the book was lost by my negligence, as it must have been, I have clearly a right to make it good.”

No answer.

“Yes,” I repeated, “I have clearly a right to make it good; how glad I am! see the effect of a little reflection. I will purchase a Bible instantly, that is, if I have not lost⁠—” and with considerable agitation I felt in my pocket.

The prim-looking man smiled: “I suppose,” said he, “that he has lost his money as well as book.”

“No,” said I, “I have not;” and pulling out my hand I displayed no less a sum than three half-crowns.

“O, noble goddess of the Mint!” as Dame Charlotta Nordenflycht, the Swede, said a hundred and fifty years ago, “great is thy power; how energetically the possession of thee speaks in favour of man’s character!”

“Only half a crown for this Bible?” said I, putting down the money, “it is worth three;” and bowing to the man of the noble features, I departed with my purchase.

“Queer customer,” said the prim-looking man, as I was about to close the door⁠—“don’t like him.”

“Why, as to that, I scarcely know what to say,” said he of the countenance of a lion.

A few days after the occurrence of what is recorded in the last chapter, as I was wandering in the City, chance directed my footsteps to an alley leading from one narrow street to another in the neighbourhood of Cheapside. Just before I reached the mouth of the alley, a man in a greatcoat, closely followed by another, passed it; and, at the moment in which they were passing, I observed the man behind snatch something from the pocket of the other; whereupon, darting into the street, I seized the hindermost man by the collar, crying at the same time to the other, “My good friend, this person has just picked your pocket.”

The individual whom I addressed, turning round with a start, glanced at me, and then at the person whom I held. London is the place for strange rencounters. It appeared to me that I recognised both individuals⁠—the man whose pocket had been picked and the other; the latter now began to struggle violently; “I have picked no one’s pocket,” said he. “Rascal,” said the other, “you have got my pocketbook in your bosom.” “No, I have not,” said the other; and struggling more violently than before, the pocketbook dropped from his bosom upon the ground.

The other was now about to lay hands upon the fellow, who was still struggling. “You had better take up your book,” said I; “I can hold him.” He followed my advice, and, taking up his pocketbook, surveyed my prisoner with a ferocious look, occasionally glaring at me. Yes, I had seen him before⁠—it was the stranger whom I had observed on London Bridge, by the stall of the old apple-woman, with the cap and cloak; but, instead of these, he now wore a hat and greatcoat. “Well,” said I, at last, “what am I to do with this gentleman of ours?” nodding to the prisoner, who had now left off struggling. “Shall I let him go?”

“Go!” said the other; “go! The knave⁠—the rascal; let him go, indeed! Not so, he shall go before the Lord Mayor. Bring him along.”

“Oh, let me go,” said the other: “let me go; this is the first offence, I assure ye⁠—the first time I ever thought to do anything wrong.”

“Hold your tongue,”