Dickens used to haunt the publics, those curious resting-places where all sorts and conditions of thirsty philosophers meet to discuss all sorts of themes.  My guide took me to many of these inns which the great novelist frequented, and we always had one legend with every drink.  After we had called at three or four different snuggeries, Hawkins would begin to shake out the facts.

Now, it is not generally known that the so-called stories of Dickens are simply records of historic events, like What-do-you-call-um’s plays!  F’r instance, Dombey and Son was a well-known firm, who carried over into a joint stock company only a few years ago.  The concern is now known as The Dombey Trading Company; they occupy the same quarters that were used by their illustrious predecessors.

I signified a desire to see the counting-house so minutely described by Dickens, and Mr. Hawkins agreed to pilot me thither on our way to Tavistock Square.  We twisted down to the first turning, then up three, then straight ahead to the first right-hand turn, where we cut to the left until we came to a stuffed dog, which is the sign of a glover.  Just beyond this my guide plucked me by the sleeve; we halted, and he silently and solemnly pointed across the street.  Sure enough!  There it was, the warehouse with a great stretch of dirty windows in front, through which we could see dozens of clerks bending over ledgers, just as though Mr. Dombey were momentarily expected.  Over the door was a gilt sign, “The Bombay Trading Co.”

Bobby explained that it was all the same.

I did not care to go in; but at my request Hawkins entered and asked for
Mister Carker, the Junior, but no one knew him.

Then we dropped in at The Silver Shark, a little inn about the size of a large dustbin of two compartments and a sifter.  Here we rested a bit, as we had walked a long way.

The barmaid who waited upon us was in curl-papers, but she was even then as pretty if not prettier than the barmaid at the public in Angel Court, and that is saying a good deal.  She was about as tall as Trilby or as Ellen Terry, which is a very nice height, I think.

As we rested, Mr. Hawkins told the barmaid and me how Rogue Riderhood came to this very public, through that same doorway, just after he had his Alfred David took down by the Governors Both.  He was a slouching dog, was the Rogue.  He wore an old, sodden fur cap, Winter and Summer, formless and mangy; it looked like a drowned cat.  His hands were always in his pockets up to his elbows, when they were not reaching for something, and when he was out after game his walk was a half-shuffle and run.

Hawkins saw him starting off this way one night and followed him—­knowing there was mischief on hand—­followed him for two hours through the fog and rain.  It was midnight and the last stroke of the bells that tolled the hour had ceased, and their echo was dying away, when all at once——­