SPRING-HEELED JACK
THE TERROR OF LONDON
PART I.
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Out of the enormous army of highwaymen, footpads, and housebreakers, who have made themselves famous or infamous in the annals of English crime, probably not one ever succeeded in gaining such a large amount of notoriety in so short a space of time as the subject of our present sketch, Spring-Heeled Jack.
This quickly acquired reputation was the result, probably, of the veil of mystery which shrouded the identity of the man who was known on all hands as the Terror of London.
It was at one time generally believed that Spring-Heeled Jack was no less a personage than the then Marquis of Waterford.
This, however, was distinctly proved not to be the case, although the manner of proving it does not redound to the noble marquis’s credit.
That the Marquis of Waterford and Jack could not be identical is proved conclusively by the fact that the terrible apparition showed itself to many persons on the 4th, 5th, and 6th, of April, 1837.
At this time we find from an indictment which was tried at the Derby assizes on Aug. 31st, 1s3s, that the Marquis of Waterford, Sir F. Johnstone, Bart., the Hon. A. C. H. Villiers, and E. H. Reynard, Esq., were charged with having committed an assault on April 5th, 1s37.
On that day it was proved that the defendants were at the Croxton Park Races, about five miles from Melton Mowbray.
The whole of the four had been dining out at Melton on the evening of that day, and about two in the morning of the following day the watchmen on duty, hearing a noise, proceeded to the market place, and near Lord Rosebery’s place saw several gentlemen attempting to overturn a caravan, a man being inside at the time.
The watchmen eventually succeeded in preventing this.
The marquis immediately challenged one of them to fight.
That worthy, however, having heard something about the nobleman’s proficiency in the “noble art,” at once declined.
On this the four swells took their departure.
Subsequently the same watchmen heard a noise in the direction of the toll bar.
They proceeded there at once, when they found that the gatekeeper had been screwed up in his house, and had been for some time calling out—
“Murder! come and release me.”
The watchmen released the toll-keeper and started in pursuit of the roysterers.
When the “Charlies,” as the guardians of the peace were called in those days, came up with the marquis’s party for the second time, the watchman who had declined the challenge to fight observed that one of the swells carried a pot of red paint while the other carried a paint brush.
The man who had by this time grown a little more valorous, managed to wrest the paint brush from the hand of the person who held it.
But his triumph was of short duration, the four swells surrounded him, threw him on his back, stripped him, and ten minutes later the unfortunate man was painted a bright red from head to foot.
They then continued their “lark,” painting the doors and windows of different houses red.
Some time later or rather earlier, Mr. Reynard was captured and put in the lock up.
The marquis and his two remaining companions succeeded in making an entrance to the constable’s room.
Once there they had little difficulty in forcing him to give up his keys.
Once having obtained possession of these they had little difficulty in releasing the prisoner.
This done they bore their living trophy back to their lodgings in state, and the little town resumed its normal condition of quiet repose.
The jury found the defendants (who were all identified as having taken part in the affray) guilty of a common assault, and they were sentenced to pay a fine of £100 each, and to be imprisoned until such fine was paid.
It is hardly necessary to add that the money was at once forthcoming.
So our readers will see that this disgraceful affair proves conclusively that the Marquis of Waterford and Spring-Heeled Jack had a separate existence, unless the marquis was gifted with the power of being in two places at once.
In the Annual Register, Feb. 20th, 1s3s, we find the following—
“OUTRAGE ON A YOUNG LADY.—Frequent representations have of late been made to the Lord Mayor, of the alarm excited by a miscreant, who haunted the lanes and lonely places in the neighbourhood of the metropolis for the purpose of terrifying women and children.
“For some time these statements were supposed to be greatly exaggerated.
“However, the matter was put beyond a doubt by the following circumstance:—
“A Mr. Alsop, who resided in Bearbind-lane, a lonely spot between the villages of Bow and Old Ford, attended at Lambeth-street Office, with his three daughters, to state the particu1ars of an outrageous assault upon one of his daughters, by a fellow who goes by the name of the suburban ghost, or ‘Spring-Heeled Jack.’
“Miss Jane Alsop, one of the young ladies, gave the following evidence:—
“About a quarter to nine o’clock on the preceding night she heard a violent ringing at the gate in front of the house; and on going to the door to see what was the matter, she saw a man standing outside, of whom she inquired what was the matter.
“The person instantly replied that he was a policeman, and said, ‘For Heaven’s sake bring me a light, for we have caught Spring-Heeled Jack here in the lane.’
“She returned into the house and brought a candle and handed it to the person, who appeared enveloped in a large cloak.
“The instant she had done so, however, he threw off his outer garment, and applying the lighted candle to his breast, presented a most hideous and frightful appearance, and vomited forth a quantity of blue and white flame from his mouth, and his eyes resembled red balls of fire.
“From the hasty glance which her fright enabled her to get at his person, she observed that he wore a large helmet, and his dress, which appeared to fit him very tight, seemed to her to resemble white oilskin.
“Without uttering a sentence he darted at her, and catching her partly by her dress and the back part of her neck, placed her head under one of his arms, and commenced bearing her down with his claws, which she was certain were of some metallic substance.
“She screamed out as loud as she could for assistance, and by considerable exertion got away from him, and ran towards the house to get in.
“Her assailant, however, followed her, and caught her on the steps leading to the hall door, when he again used considerable violence, tore her neck and arms with his claws, as well as a quantity of hair from her head; but she was at length rescued from his grasp by one of her sisters.
“Miss Alsop added that she had suffered considerably all night from the shock she had sustained, and was then in extreme pain, both from the injury done to her arm, and the wounds and scratches inflicted by the miscreant on her shoulders and neck, with his claws or hands.”
This story was fully confirmed by Mr. Alsop, and his other daughter said—
“That the fellow kept knocking and ringing at the gate after she had dragged her sister away from him, but scampered off when she shouted from an upper window for a policeman.
He left his cloak behind him, which someone else picked up, and ran off with.”
And again on Feb, 26th, of the same year, we find the following:—
“‘THE GHOST, alias ‘SPRING-HEELED JACK’ AGAIN.—At Lambeth-street office, Mr. Scales, a respectable butcher, residing in Narrow-street, Limehouse, accompanied by his sister, a young woman eighteen years of age, made the following statement relative to the further gambols of Spring-Heeled Jack:—
“Miss Scales stated that on the evening of Wednesday last, at about half-past eight o’clock, as she and her sister were returning from the house of their brother, and while passing along Green Dragon-alley, they observed some, person standing in an angle in the passage.
“She was in advance of her sister at the time, and just as she came up to the person, who was enveloped in a large cloak, he spurted a quantity of blue flame right in her face, which deprived her of her sight, and so alarmed her, that she instantly dropped to the ground, and was seized with violent fits, which continued for several hours.
“Mr. Scales said that on the evening in question, in a few minutes after his sisters had left the house, he heard the loud screams of one of them, and on running up Green Dragon-alley he found his sister Lucy, who had just given her statement, on the ground in a fit, and his other sister endeavoring to hold and support her.
“She was removed home, and he then learned from his other sister what had happened.
“She described the person to be of tall, thin, and gentlemanly appearance, enveloped in a large cloak, and carried in front of his person a small lamp, or bull’s eye, similar to those in possession of the police.
“The individual did not utter a word, nor did he attempt to lay hands on them, but walked away in an instant.
“Every effort was subsequently made by the police to discover the author of these and similar outrages, and several persons were taken up and underwent lengthened examinations, but were finally set at liberty, nothing being elicited to fix the offence upon them.”
Articles and paragraphs of this nature were of almost daily occurrence at this period, and the public excitement rose to such a pitch that “Vigilance Committees” were formed in various parts of London to try and put a stop to the Terror’s pranks and depredations, even if they could not succeed in securing his apprehension. There could be no possible doubt that there was very little exaggeration in the extraordinary statements as to Spring-Heeled Jack’s antics.
A bet of two hundred pounds, which became the talk of the clubs and coffee-houses, did more to add to Jack’s reputation for supernatural powers than all the talk of mail-coach guards, market people, and servant girls.
A party of gentlemen were travelling by the then newly-opened London and North-Western Railway.
As they neared the northern end of the Primrose Hill tunnel they observed the figure of Jack sitting on a post, looking exactly as his Satanic Majesty is usually represented in picture books or on the stage.
“By Jove! there’s Spring-Heeled Jack,” cried Colonel Fortescue, one of the travellers.
“Yes,” cried Major Howard, one of his companions, “and I’ll bet you two hundred pounds even that he’s at the other end of the tunnel when we arrive there.”
“Done!” cried the colonel.
And sure enough as the train emerged once more into the open air there was Spring-Heeled Jack at the side of the line, his long moustaches twirled up the sides of his prominent nose, and stream of sulphurous flame seeming to pour out from between his lips.
Another instant and he had disappeared..
The whole party in the train were almost
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paralysed for a time, although most of them had “set their squadron in the field,” and hardly knew what fear meant.
Colonel Fortescue handed the major the two hundred pounds, and the affair became a nine-days’ wonder.
The solution was, no doubt, simple enough.
Spring-Heeled Jack had sprung on to the moving train at the rear, and during its passage through the tunnel had made his way to the front, and then, with a bound, had made his appearance in front of the advancing train.
Be this as it may, the unimpeachable evidence of men of position, like the gallant officers, backed up, as it was, by the payment and receipt of the two hundred pounds, brought Jack with a bound, like one from his own spring heels, to the utmost pinnacle of notorious fame.
We have no particulars of the exact mechanism that enabled Spring-heeled Jack to make such extraordinary bounds.
To jump clear over a stage coach, with its usual complement of passengers on top, was as easy to him as stepping across a gutter would be to any ordinary man.
The secret of these boots had died with the inventor, and perhaps it is as well.
We have no doubt that if those boots were purchasable articles many of our readers would be tempted to leave off taking in the Boy’s STANDARD, so as to be able to save up more pennies towards the purchase of a pair.
Fancy, if you can, what would be the consequence of a small army of Spring-heels in every district.
To return, however, to our hero.
His dress was most striking.
It consisted of a tight-fitting garment, which covered him from his neck to his feet.
This garment was of a blood-red colour.
One foot was encased in a high-heeled, pointed shoe, while the other was hidden in a peculiar affair, something like a cow’s hoof, in imitation, no doubt, of the “cloven hoof” of Satan. It was generally supposed that the “springing” mechanism was contained in that hoof.
He wore a very small black cap on his head, in which was fastened one bright crimson feather.
The upper part of his face was covered with black domino.
When not in action the whole was concealed by an enormous black cloak, with one hood, and which literally covered him from head to foot.
He did not always confine himself to this dress though, for sometimes he would place the head of an animal, constructed out of paper and plaster, over his own, and make changes in his attire.
Still, the above was his favourite costume, and our readers may imagine it was a most effective one for Jack’s purpose.
These are almost all the published facts about this extraordinary man.
But we have been favoured by the descendants of Spring-Heeled Jack with the perusal of his “Journal” or “Confessions,” call it which you will.
The only condition imposed upon us in return for this very great favour is that we shall conceal the real name of the hero of this truly extraordinary story.
The reason for this secresy is obvious.
The descendants of Spring-Heeled Jack are at the present time large landed proprietors in South of England, and although had it not been for our hero’s exploits they would not at the present time be occupying that position, still one can hardly wonder at their not wishing the real name of Spring-Heeled Jack to become known.
As it will, however, be necessary for the proper unravelling of our story that some name should be used we will bestow upon our hero the name of Dacre.
Jack Dacre was the son of a baronet whose creation went back as far back as 1619.
Jack’s father had been a younger son, and, as was frequently the case in those days, he had been sent out to India to see what he could do for himself.
This was rendered necessary by the fact that I although the Dacres possessed a considerable amount of land the whole of it was strictly entailed.
This fact was added to the perhaps more important one that each individual Dacre in possession of the title and estates seemed to consider that it was his duty to live close up to his income, and to give his younger sons nothing to start in life with, save a good education.
That is to say, the younger sons had the run of the house.
They were taught to shoot by the keepers; to ride by the grooms; to throw a fly, perhaps, by the gardener; and to pick up what little “book-learning” they could.
Not altogether a bad education, perhaps, in those days when fortunes could be made in India by any who had fair connections, plenty of pluck, and plenty of industry.
Jack’s father was early told that he could expect no money out of the estate, and he was also informed that he could choose his own path in life.
This did not take him long.
Sidney Dacre was a plucky young fellow, and thought that India would afford the widest scope for his talents, which were not of the most brilliant order, as may be expected from his early training.
To India he therefore went, and managed to shake the “pagoda tree” to a pretty fair extent.
In 1s13 he thought he was justified in taking to himself a wife, and of this union Jack, who was born in the year of Waterloo, was the only result.
Fifteen years later Sidney Dacre received the intelligence that his father and his two brothers had perished in a storm near Bantry Bay, where they had gone to assist as volunteers in repelling a supposed French invading party which it was anticipated would attempt to effect a landing there.
This untimely death of his three relatives left Sidney Dacre the heir to the baronetcy and estates; and although he had plantation after plantation in the Presidencies, he made up his mind that he would at once return to the old country.
He therefore placed his Indian plantations in the hands of one Alfred Morgan, a clerk, in whom he had always placed implicit confidence.
This man, by the way, had been the sole witness to his marriage with Jack’s mother.
A month later, and Sir Sidney and Lady Dacre, with their son, set sail in the good ship Hydaspes on their way to England.
Nothing of any importance occurred on the voyage, and the Hydaspes was within sight of the white cliffs of old Albion when a storm came on, and almost within gunshot of home the brave old ship which had weathered many a storm went to pieces.
All that were saved out of passengers and crew were two souls.
One, our hero Jack Dacre, afterwards to become the notorious Spring-Heeled Jack; the other, a common sailor, Ned Chump, a man who is destined to play a not unimportant part in this history, even if the part he had already played did not entitle him to mention in our columns.
And when we tell our readers that had it not been for the friendly office of Ned Chump our hero must inevitably have perished with the rest, we think they will agree that they owe the jolly sailor a certain amount of gratitude.
Ned Chump had taken very great interest in our hero on the voyage home.
Jack was such a handsome, bright-looking lad, that everyone seemed to take to him at first sight.
Ned’s devotion to him more resembled that of a faithful mastiff to his master than any other simile that we can call to mind.
When Ned saw that the fate of the Hydaspes was inevitable he made up his mind that Master Jack and he should be saved if there was any possibility of such a thing.
The jolly tar bound Jack Dacre fast to a hen coop, and then attached his belt to it with a leather thong.
This done Ned threw the lad, the coop, and himself into the sea, and beating out bravely managed to get clear of the ship as she went down head first.
Had he not have done this they must inevitably have been drawn into the vortex caused by the sinking ship.
Fortunately for both of them Jack had become unconscious, or it is not likely that he would have deserted his father and mother, even at this critical juncture.
However, the Hydaspes and all on board, including Sir Sidney and Lady Dacre, had gone to the bottom of the sea ere Jack recovered consciousness and found himself on the shore of Kent, with his faithful companion in adversity bending over him with loving care.
As soon as Jack Dacre was sufficiently recovered, Ned proceeded to “take his bearings” as he expressed it, and knowing that Jack’s ancestral home was somewhere in the county of Sussex, he suggested that they should move in a westerly direction until they should find some native of the soil who could inform them of the locality they were in.
They found upon inquiry that they had been cast ashore at a little village called Worth, in the neighbourhood of Sandwich, and that the good ship Hydaspes had fallen a victim to the insatiable voracity of the Goodwin Sands.
Shipwrecked mariners are always well treated in England, the old stories of wreckers and their doings notwithstanding, and Jack Dacre and the trusty Ned Chump had little difficulty in making their way to Dacre Hall in Sussex, though neither had sixpence in his pocket, so sudden had their departure from the wrecked ship been.
When Jack arrived at the home of his forefathers he found one Michael Dacre, who informed our hero that he was his father’s first cousin, in possession.
“Yes, my lad,” went on Michael Dacre, in a particularly unpleasant manner, “Sir Sidney’s cousin; and failing his lawful issue I am the heir to Dacre Hall and the baronetcy.”
“Failing his lawful issue!” cried Jack, with all the impetuosity of youth. “Am I not my father’s only son, and therefore heir to the family honours and estates?”
“Softly, young man—softly,” cringed Michael, “I do not want to anger you. Of course you have the proof with you that your father and mother were married, and that you are the issue of that union?”
“Proof !” cried Jack, fairly losing his temper. “Do you think one swims ashore from a doomed ship with his family archives tied round his waist?”
“There—there, my boy,” said the wily Michael, “don’t lose your temper; for you must see that it would have been better for you if you had have taken the precaution to have brought the papers with you.”
“But,” said Jack, quite non-plussed by his cousin’s coolness, “Ned Chump, here, knows who I am, and that everything is straight and above board.”
“Yes, yes, my boy,” replied Michael; “and pray how long has Mr. Chump, as I think you call him, known you? Was he present at your father’s marriage? I do not suppose he was present at your birth,” and Michael Dacre concluded his speech with a quiet but diabolical chuckle.
“I have known him ever since the day we left India—” began the lad.
But Michael interrupted him by saying, in a somewhat harsher tone than he had used before—
“That is equal to not knowing you at all. I am an acknowledged Dacre, and until you can prove your right to that name I shall remain in possession of Dacre Hall; for the honour of my family I could not do otherwise.”
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“But what am I? Where am I to go? What am I to do?” stammered Jack.
Meanwhile, Ned Chump looked on with kindling eyes, and a fierce light in his face that boded ill for Michael Dacre should it come to blows between them.
Michael caught the look, and felt that perhaps it would be better to temporise, he therefore said—
“Oh! Dacre Hall is large enough for us all. While I am making the necessary enquiries in India, you and this common sailor here can knock about the place. It will, perhaps, be quite as well that I have you under my eye, so that if you turn out to be an impostor you may be punished as you deserve.”
After a short consultation, Jack and Ned Chump made up their mind that it would be best to accept the churlish offer.
“After all,” said Ned, “you know that you are the rightful heir. And when the proofs come over from India you will easily be able to claim your own.”
“Yes, Ned, I suppose we had better remain on the spot.”
“Of course we had,” said Ned. “There is only one thing against it, and that is that if I ever saw murder in anyone’s eye it was in your cousin’s just now. But never mind, lad, we’ll stick together, and we shall circumvent the old villain, never you fear.”
So it was arranged, and Ned Chump and Jack Dacre soon seemed to have become part and parcel of the establishment at Dacre Hall.
The sailor’s ready ingenuity and willingness to oblige made him rapidly a great favourite among the servants and employés generally, while Jack’s sunny face, and flow of anecdote about the strange places he had been in and the strange sights he had seen, rendered him a decided acquisition to what was, under the circumstances, a somewhat sombre household.
So time passed on, and the first reply was received from India.
This reply came from Alfred Morgan, the late Sir Sidney’s trusted representative.
This letter destroyed in an instant any hope, if such ever existed, in Michael Dacre’s breast that Jack might be an impostor.
But there was one gleam of hope in the cautiously-worded postscript to the letter.
“Do not mention this to anyone. I am on my way to England, and I may identify the boy and produce the necessary papers—or I may not. It will depend a great deal upon the first interview I have with you; and that interview must take place before I see the boy.”
“What did this mean?” thought Michael Dacre. “Did it mean that here was a tool ready to his hand, who would swear away his cousin’s birthright?”
Time alone would show.
Then again the improbability of such a thing occurring would sweep over him with tenfold force, and he decided to take time by the fore-lock and remove Jack from his path.
Michael Dacre had not the pluck to do this fell deed himself, but he had more than one tool at hand who would fulfil his foul bidding for a price.
The man he chose on this occasion was one Black Ralph, a ruffian who had been everything by turns, but nothing long.
He was strongly suspected of obtaining his living at the time of which we are writing by poaching, but nothing had ever been proved against him.
In the days when Jack’s grandfather had been alive, Michael Dacre, who acted as steward and agent on the estate, always pooh-poohed any suggestion of the kind, and sent the complaining gamekeepers away, literally “with a flea in their ears.”
The arrangement was soon made between Michael Dacre and Black Ralph.
The former was to admit the latter to the house, and he was to ransack the plate pantry, taking sufficient to repay him for his trouble.
He was then to pass to Jack’s bedroom, which Michael pointed out, and to settle him at once.
He was then to proceed to Newhaven, where a lugger was to be in waiting, and so make his way with his booty over to France.
This the cousin thought would make all secure.
But he had reckoned without his host.
Or shall we say his guest, as it was in that light that he regarded the real Sir John Dacre?
The lad was a light sleeper, and on the night planned for the attack he became aware of the presence of Black Ralph in his chamber almost as soon as the would-be assassin had entered it.
Brave though Jack was, he felt a thrill of terror run through him as he thought of his utterly helpless condition, for Ned Chump had been sent on some cunningly-contrived errand to keep him out of the way, and he had not yet returned.
That murder was the object of the midnight intruder Jack Dacre never doubted.
There was but one way out of it, and that was to rush up into the bell tower which communicated with a staircase abutting on his chamber.
Once here he could ring the bell, if he could only keep his assailant at bay.
At the worst, he could but jump into the moat below, and stand a chance of saving his life.
In an instant he had left his bed, and dashed for the door.
But the assassin was upon him.
Jack just managed to bound up the stairs, and enter the tower.
Ere he could seize the bell-rope he felt Black Ralph’s hot breath upon his neck. In an instant the lad had sprang upon the parapet. Then an instant later he was speeding on his way to the moat below, having made the terrible leap with a grace and daring which he never afterwards eclipsed, even when assisted by the mechanical appliances which he used in the adventures we are about to describe in his assumed character of Spring-Heeled Jack.
Our hero suffered nothing from his perilous jump worse than a ducking.
And it is very probable that this did him more good than harm, as it served to restore his somewhat scattered thoughts.
By the time Jack Dacre had managed to clamber oat of the moat, Black Ralph had put a considerable distance between himself and Dacre Hall.
He had got his share of the booty, and whether Master Jack survived the fall or not mattered little to him.
He could rely upon Michael Dacre’s promise that the lugger should be waiting for him at Newhaven, and once in France he could soon find a melting-pot for his treasure, and live, for a time at least, a life of riotous extravagance.
When Jack reached the house he found the hall door open, and without fear he entered; bent upon going straight to his cousin’s room and informing him of what had happened.
Before he could reach the corridor which contained the state bedroom in which Michael Dacre had ensconced himself, Jack heard a low—
“Hist!”
He turned round and saw Ned Chump beckoning to him and pointing to the flight of stairs that led to their common chamber, and from thence to the bell tower.
Our hero having perfect confidence in his sailor friend obeyed the signal.
When the two were safely seated in their bedroom, Ned said, eagerly—
“Tell me, boy, what has happened?”
In a very few words Jack told him.
“My eye!” ejaculated Ned with a low whistle, “that was a jump indeed.”
Then he continued—
“But who was your assailant? Could you not see his face?”
“No; it was too dark,” replied Jack; “but there was a something about his figure that seemed familiar to me.”
“Yes, lad, there was,” said honest Ned Chump. “I met the ruffian but now, making the best of his way to Newhaven, no doubt.”
“Who was it?” asked the lad.
“Why that poaching scoundrel, Black Ralph,” answered Ned; “and you may depend upon it that your worthy cousin has laid this plant to kill you, and so prevent any chance of a bother about the property.”
“What had I better do?” asked Jack. “I will act entirely under your advice.”
“Well, my boy,” said Ned, “take no notice; let matters take their course. We are sure to find out something or other in the morning.”
And the two firm friends carefully fastened their door and turned in to rest.
In the morning the alarm of the robbery was given, but neither Jack nor Ned uttered one word to indicate that they knew aught about it.
“How did you get in?” asked Michael Dacre, roughly, as he turned towards Chump.
The would-be baronet’s rage at the appearance of Jack Dacre unharmed, although his plate-chest (as he chose to consider it) had been ransacked, knew no bounds.
But Ned had his answer ready.
“I thought the door was left open for me, sir,” he said, “so I simply entered and bolted the door behind me, and made my way up to bed.”
“This is indeed a mysterious affair,” said Michael Dacre, “but I have reasons of my own for not letting the officers of justice know about this affair. I have my suspicions as to who the guilty party is, and I think, if all is kept quiet, I can see my way to recovering my lost plate.”
“Your lost plate!” said Jack, contemptuously. “Say, rather, my lost plate.”
“I thought that subject was to be tabooed between us until Mr. Morgan arrives with the proofs of your identity, or imposture, as the case may be.”
“Very well, sir,” replied Jack; “so be it. But I cannot help thinking that Mr. Morgan ought to have arrived long before this,”
However, in due course the long-looked for one arrived.
But instead of coming straight on to Dacre Hall, as one would have expected a trustworthy agent to have done, he took up his quarters at the Dacre Arms, and sent word to Michael Dacre that Mr. Alfred wanted to see hint on important business.
The message, of course, was a written one, as the people belonging to the inn would have thought it strange had an unknown man sent such a message to one so powerful as Michael Dacre was now making himself out to be.
In an hour’s time the two men were seated over a bottle of brandy, discussing the position of affairs.
“And if I prove to the law’s satisfaction—never mind about yours, for you know the truth—that the boy is illegitimate, what is to be my share?”
“A thousand pounds,” said Michael.
“A thousand fiddlesticks,” replied Morgan, grinding his teeth. “Without my aid you are a penniless beggar, kicked out of Dacre Hall; and with no profession to turn your hands to. Make it worth my while, and what are you? Why Sir Michael Dacre, the owner of this fine estate, and one of the most powerful landowners in this part of the county of Sussex. A thousand pounds –bah!”
The would-be owner of Dacre Hall looked aghast at Morgan’s vehemence, and with an imploring gesture he placed his finger on his lip and pointed at the door.
Then under his breath he muttered—
“Five thousand, then?”
“No, not five thousand, nor yet ten thousand,” said Morgan.
“Now look you here, Mr. Michael Dacre,” he went on with a strong emphasis upon the prefix.
“Now look here—my only terms are these: You to take the Dacre estates in England, and I to have the Indian plantations. That’s my ultimatum. Answer, ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ ”
For an instant Michael Dacre hesitated, but
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he saw no hope in the cold grey eye of Alfred Morgan, and at last consented.
The two now separated, but met again the following day, when the necessary agreements were signed, and Mr. Alfred retired to Brighton to make his appearance two days later as Mr. Alfred Morgan, the Indian representative of the late Sir Sidney Dacre.
“My poor boy,” he said, sympathetically, when he first met our hero. “My poor boy, this is a terrible blow for you.”
“What do you mean?” asked Jack; “it was a terrible blow to me when my father and my mother went down in the Hydaspes—but Time, the great Healer, has softened that blow so that I should hardly feel it now, were it not for the doubts that my cousin here has cast upon my identity.”
“Ah! of your identity there can be no doubt, poor boy,” sighed Alfred Morgan; “and that’s where lies the pity of it.”
“How do you mean?” cried Jack, an angry flush mantling his handsome features.
“How do mean, poor boy?” went on the merciless scoundrel. “Why, the pity of it is that, although I know so well that you are the son of your father and mother, the law refuses to recognise you as such.”
“And why?” yelled Jack, with a sudden and overwhelming outburst of fury. “
”Because,” meekly replied the villain, “your father and mother were never married.”
“But,” cried Jack, thoroughly taken aback by this assertion,” you were the witness to the marriage. I have heard my father say so scores of times.”
“Aye, my poor lad; but your mother had a husband living at the time,” and Mr. Alfred handed a bundle of papers to the family solicitor, who had not yet spoken, the whole conversation having taken place between Jack and Mr. Alfred Morgan.
A silence like that of the tomb fell upon the fell upon the occupants of the room as the lawyer examined the papers.
Ten minutes or a quarter of an hour passed, then, with a sigh, the kind-hearted solicitor turned to Jack and said, with tears in his—
“Alas, my lad; it is too true; you have no right to the name of Dacre.”
Without a word Jack caught hold of Ned’s hand, and, turning to his cousin, said, in a voice of thunder—
“There is some villainy here, which, please Heaven, I will yet unravel. Once already you have tried to murder my body, now you are trying to murder my mother’s reputation; but as I escaped from the first plot by a clean pair of heels and a good spring from the bell tower, so on occasion I feel that I shall eventually conquer. Come, Ned, we will leave this, and make our plans for the future.”
“Aye, Master Spring-Heels, make yourself scarce, or I will have you lashed and kicked from the door, you wretched impostor!”
“Yes, cousin, I will go,” answered Jack, impressively; “and I will accept the name you have given me, as you say I have no right to any other. But, beware! false Sir Michael Dacre, the time will come, and that ere long, when the tortures of the damned shall be implanted in your heart by me—the wretched, despised outcast whom you have christened Spring-Heeled-Jack!”
(To be continued.)
PART II.
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As our hero uttered these words Michael Dacre’s cheek paled visibly.
And indeed there was good cause for his apparent fear.
Jack Dacre had thrown such an amount of expression into his words and gestures as seemed to render them truly prophetic.
At this moment Mr. Reece, the solicitor, advanced towards Jack and, holding out a well filled purse to him, said—
“Take this, my lad; it shall never be said that Sam Reece allowed the son of his old playmate, Sid Dacre, to be turned out of house and home without a penny in his pocket, legitimate or not.”
Jack, responding to a nudge from Ned Chump, took the purse and said—
“Thank you, sir, for your kindness. That there is some villainy afloat I am convinced, but whether I eventually succeed in proving my claim or not this money shall be faithfully returned. Once more, thank you, sir, and good-bye.”
With this Jack and Ned left the room. As soon as they had taken their departure the “baronet,” as we must style him for a time, recovered his self-possession to a certain extent.
Turning to the solicitor, he said—
“How much was there in that purse, Mr. Reece? Of course I cannot allow you to lose your money over the unfortunate whelp.”
The lawyer, who, although the documentary evidence was so plain, could not help thinking with Jack Dacre that some villainy was afloat, answered the baronet very shortly.
“What I gave the lad, I gave him out of pure good feeling, I want no repayment from anyone. And, mark my words, Sir Michael Dacre, that boy will return my loan sooner or later, and if there is anything wrong about these papers I feel assured that he will carry out his threat with regard to yourself.”
“What do you mean, insolent—” cried the baronet.
But ere he could finish the sentence, Mr. Reece calmly said—
“You do not suppose that the matter will drop here? The poor lad has no friends, and I was stupid in not having detained him when he proposed to leave this house. However, I missed that opportunity of questioning him as to his life in India, and the relations that existed between his father and his mother. One thing is certain, however, and that is he will appear here again.”
“Well, and if he does!” asked the angry baronet.
“Well, and if he does he will find a firm friend in Sam Reece,” answered the lawyer. “I shall retain these papers—not by virtue of any legal right that I can claim to possess. So, if you want them, you have only to apply to the courts of law to recover possession of them.”
“Then you shall do no more business for me,” cried Michael Dacre.
“I should have thought, “ replied the solicitor, “that my few words had effectually severed all business relations between us. As it appears that you do not take this view, allow me to say that all the gold in the Indies would not tempt me to act as your legal adviser for another hour. A man who can behave to an unfortunate boy-cousin in the manner you have behaved to Jack Dacre, legitimate or not, can hold no business communications with Sam Reece.”
“But how about my papers?” quoth the now half-frightened baronet.
“I will send you your bill, and on receipt of a cheque for my coats I will return you all the papers of yours that I hold—save and except, mark you, those relating to the marriage of the late baronet and the birth and baptism of his son.”
The new baronet looked at his ally, Mr. Alfred Morgan, but saw very little that was consoling in that worthy man’s face.
He therefore accepted the position, and with as haughty a bow as he could possibly make under the circumstances, he allowed Mr. Reece to take his departure,
By this time Jack Dacre and Ned Chump were more than a mile away from the hall.
Ned, although far more experienced in the ways of the world than Jack Dacre, tacitly allowed the latter to take the lead of the “expedition,” if such a word may be used.
Jack, boy as he was, was in no way deficient in common sense, so perhaps Ned was justified in accepting the youngster as his leader.
For some miles not a word escaped Jack Dacre’s lips.
At last they arrived at the old-fashioned town of Arundel, and here Jack suddenly turned to his companion, and said—
“We’ll stop here and rest, and think over what will be our best course to pursue.”
“All serene, skipper,” answered Ned, “I am quite content.”
Jack gave a melancholy smile as he replied to the sailor’s salutation—
“Oh! then you don’t object to calling me your skipper, although you have heard that I am base born, and have no right to bear any name at all.”
Never fear, Master Jack—or Sir John, perhaps, I ought to say—there is some rascality at work, and I believe that that Mr. Alfred Morgan is at the bottom of it. But we shall circumvent the villains, I am sure, never fear.”
“Yes,” replied Jack, :I think we shall.”
“Ah !” said Ned, “but how?”
“I have not been idle during our long walk,” said Jack, as the two entered the hospitable portals of the Bridge House Hotel.
“I have not been idle, and if we can get a private room we will talk the matter over, and see how much money the good lawyer was kind enough to give us.”
“To give you, you mean,” said Chump, with a chuckle. “It’s precious little he’d have given me, I reckon.”
They managed to obtain a private room, and over a plain but substantial repast they counted the contents of the lawyer’s purse.
To the intense surprise of both, and to the extreme delight of Ned Chump, it was found to contain very little short of fifty guineas.
The sailor had never in the whole of his life had a chance of sharing in such a prize as this.
With Jack, of course, the thing was different.
In India he had been accustomed to see money thrown about by lavish hands.
Between the ideas of Ned Chump, the common sailor, and those of the son of the rich planter, there could hardly be anything in common as far as regarded the appreciation of wealth.
But, nevertheless, the friendship that had sprang up between them in so short a time, never faded until death, the great divider, stepped in and made all human friendship impossible.
As soon as Jack had satisfied himself as to the actual strength of their available capital, he turned to Ned Chump and said—
“This money will not last long, and I do not see how I can do anything in the way of
working for a living, if I am ever to hope to prove my title to the Dacre baronetcy and estates.”
“That’s as it may be, skipper,” said Ned, “but I don’t quite see how we are to live without work when this here fifty pounds has gone.”
“That’s just the point I have been thinking over,” said Jack. “I am not yet sixteen, but, thanks to my Oriental birth, I look more like twenty.”
“That you do, skipper,” chimed in Ned.
“Well, then, I’ll tell you what I intend to do.”
“Go on, sir,” cried the anxious sailor.
“Some year or two ago I had for a tutor an old Moonshee, who had formerly been connected with a troop of conjurors—and you must have heard how clever the Indian conjurors are.”
“Yes,” replied Ned, “and I have seen for myself as well.”
“Then,” said Jack, “you will not be surprised at what I am going to tell you.”
“Perhaps not, skipper—fire away,” said Ned.
“Well, this Moonshee taught me the mechanism of a boot which one member of his band had constructed, and which boot enabled him to spring fifteen or twenty feet up in the air, and from thirty to forty feet in a horizontal direction.”
“Lor!” was the only exclamation that the open-mouthed and open-eared sailor could make use of.
“Yes,” continued our hero, “and I intend to invest a portion of this money in making a boot like it.”
“Yes; but,” stammered the half-bewildered sailor—”but when you have made it, of what use will it be to us, or, rather, how will it enable you to regain your rights?”
“I have formed my plan,“ answered Jack, “and it is this. I’ll make the boot, and then startle the world with a novel highwayman. My cousin twitted me about my spring into the moat and my nimble heels. I’ll hunt him down and keep him in a perpetual state of deadly torment, under the style and title of Spring-Heeled Jack.”
“But,” asked the sailor, “you will not turn thief?”
“I shall not call myself a thief,” said Jack, proudly. The world may dub me so if it likes. I shall take little but what belongs to me, I shall confine my depredations as much as possible to assisting my cousin in collecting my rents.”
“Oh! I see,” said Ned, only half-convinced.
The faithful tar had the sailor’s natural respect for honesty, and did not quite like his “skipper’s” plan for securing a livelihood.
But Jack, who had been brought up under the shadow of the East India Company, had not many scruples as to the course of life he had resolved to adopt.
To him pillage and robbery seemed to be the right of the well-born.
He had seen so much of this sort of thing amongst his father’s friends and acquaintances that his moral sense was entirely warped.
So speciously did he put forth his arguments that Ned at last yielded.
The sailor simply stipulated that he should take no active part in any robbery.
For the faithful salt could find no other term for the operation.
To this Jack readily consented, and a compact was entered into between them as to what each was expected to do.
Ned promised faithfully to do all he could to assist his master in escaping, should he at any time be in danger of arrest.
Jack, on his part, promising Ned Chump a fair share of the plunder gained by Spring-Heeled Jack.
This arrangement entered into, the next thing was to make the spring boot.
Jack, who was possessed with an intelligence as well as physique far beyond his years, suggested that they should make their way to Southampton.
There, he argued, they could procure all they wanted without exciting suspicion.
Ned, of course, had no hesitation in falling in with this proposal.
A fortnight later and the boot was completed.
Completed, that is, so far as the actual manufacture was concerned.
Whether it would act or not remained to be seen.
To have tried its power in any ordinary house would have been absurdly ridiculous.
There was no place where it would be safe to make the trial spring save in the open air.
Jack had manufactured the boot strictly ac-
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cording to the old Moonshee’s directions, but he could not tell to what length the mechanism might hurl him, and he was a great deal too sensible to attempt to ascertain the extent of its power in any enclosed space.
So one morning, Ned and Jack started off from the inn where they were staying, for a ramble in the country, taking the magic boot with them.
Ned had by this time managed to allay his scruples and went into the affair with as much spirit as did Jack himself.
In due course they reached a spot which Jack pronounced to be a suitable one for the important trial.
The spot was an old quarry, or rather chalk pit, where at one spot the soil had only been removed for a depth of about twelve feet.
Descending this pit Jack placed the boot on his foot.
Ned looked on in the utmost wonderment.
He could hardly conceive that it was possible such a simple contrivance should possess such magical attributes.
To his astonishment, however, he saw his young master, for as such Ned regarded Jack Dacre, suddenly rise in the air and settle down quietly on the upper land some twelve or fourteen feet above.
Ned, who, although a Protestant, if anything, had lived long enough amongst Catholics on board ship and elsewhere to have imbibed some of their customs, made the sign of the cross and ejaculated something that was meant for a prayer.
To his untutored mind the whole thing savoured strongly of sorcery.
An instant later and Jack Dacre, who had thus easily earned the right to be called Spring-Heeled Jack, had sprung down into the quarry again, and stood by the side of his faithful henchman.
“Well, skipper,” cried Ned, “I’ve heard of mermaids and sea-serpents, and whales that have swallowed men without killing them, but this boot of yours bangs anything I have ever heard of, though you must know, it isn’t all gospel that is preached in the forecastle.”
“It’s all right, Ned,” said Jack, “and with this simple contrivance you will see that I shall spring myself into what I feel convinced is my lawful inheritance.”
“I’m with you,” said Ned, as keen in the affair now as Jack Dacre himself.
“I’m with you, and where shall we go now.”
“Well, old friend, I must purchase one or two articles of disguise, and then I think we will make our way towards Dorking.”
“To Dorking?” queried Ned. “I thought you would have made your way towards Dacre Hall, especially as you said you wished to assist your cousin to collect his rents. Ha ! ha ! ha !” and the jolly tar finished his sentence by bursting into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.
“Well, you see,” replied Jack, “that’s just where it is. Although my poor father never dreamed that he would inherit the family estates, he had sufficient pride of birth to keep me, his own son, in spite of all that they say, well posted in the geography of the entailed estates of the Dacres. I consequently know that more than one goodly farm in the neighborhood of Dorking belongs to me by right; and, therefore, to that place I mean to start to make my first rent collection, as I am determined to call my operations; for the terms robbery and thief are quite as repugnant to me as they are to you, Ned Chump.”
“But, skipper, I never thought of you as a real thief,” said Ned, “it was merely because I could not see how you could take that which belonged other people without robbery, that made me speak as I did. But if you are really only going to collect that which is your own, why there can be no harm in it, I am sure.”
“That’s right, Ned, and if I ever I do kick over the traces and make mistake, you may depend I’ll do more good than harm with the money I capture, even if it should not be legally my own.”
Four days later the two had arrived at Dorking.
Jack had provided himself with a most efficient disguise.
His tall and well-developed, although youthful, figure suited the tight-fitting garb of the theatrical Mephistopheles to a nicety.
Ned was perfectly enraptured at his appearance, and declared that he could not possibly fail to strike terror into the guilty breast of his cousin, the false baronet, should they ever meet again.
Jack merely laughed, and said that that was an event which would assuredly come to pass sooner or later.
It was an easy task, in a place like Dorking, to ascertain which were the lands that belonged to the Dacres.
The first farm that Jack chose as the one for his maiden rent collection was at a small place called Newdigate.
Jack chose this for his first attempt, partly because of the isolated situation of the farm, and partly because the tenant bore a very evil reputation in the neighbourhood.
Our hero, it must be remembered, was at that romantic period of life when youth is apt to consider it is its duty to become as far as possible the protector of virtue and the avenger of injustice.
It was currently reported that the tenant in question, whom we will call Farmer Brown (all names in this veracious chronicle it must be understood are assumed) had possessed himself of the lease in an unlawful manner.
It was also said that his niece, Selina Brown, who was the rightful owner of the farm, was kept a prisoner somewhere within the walls of the solitary farmhouse.
Rumour also added that she was a maniac.
To one of Jack’s ardent and romantic temperament this story was, as our readers may easily conjecture, a great inducement for him to make his first venture a call at Brown’s farm.
Ned received strict injunctions to remain at the inn where they had taken up their abode, and to be ready to admit our hero without a moment’s delay upon his return.
The night was a truly splendid one.
As Jack set out on his errand, an errand which might as a result land him in goal, he felt not one tittle of fear.
“Thrice armed is he who has hit cause aright,” runs the old saying, and Jack certainly believed that he was perfectly justified in the course he was pursuing.
Modern moralists would doubtless differ; but we must remember what his early training had been, and make excuses accordingly.
He arrived at Brown’s Farm, Newdigate, in due course.
Now came the most critical point in the career of Spring-Heeled Jack.
This was his first venture.
Failure meant ruin—ruin pure and simple.
If his wonderful contrivance refused to act in the manner in which it had acted at the rehearsal, what would be the result?
There could be but one answer to that question.
Capture, ruin to all his plans, and the infinite shame of a public trial.
But our hero had well weighed the odds and was quite prepared to face them.
Arrived at the farm he had no difficulty in finding out the window of the room in which Mr. Brown usually slept.
This window had been so clearly described to him by the Dorking people that there was no fear of Jack making a mistake.
With one spring he alighted on the broad, old-fashioned window-sill, and an instant later he had opened the casement.
The farmer was seated in a comfortable armchair in front of a large old-fashioned bureau.
He had evidently been counting his money and appropriating it in special portions for the payment perhaps of his landlord, his seed merchant, and so on.
The noise that Jack made as he opened the window caused the farmer to turn swiftly round.
Judge, if you can, his dismay when he found what kind of a visitor had made a call upon him.
On this, his first adventure in the garb of Spring-Heeled Jack, our hero had not called the aid of phosphorus into requisition.
His appearance, however, was well calculated to strike terror into the breast of any one.
Still more so, therefore, into the heart of one, who, like the farmer, was depriving his orphan niece of her legal rights, as well as of her liberty.
With a yell like that of a man in an epileptic fit, Farmer Brown sprang to his feet.
In another instant, however, he had sunk back again into his chair-rendered for the time hopelessly insane.
Jack, without any consideration of the amount which might or might not be due to the owner of the Dacre estates, calmly took possession of all the cash that he could find in the bureau, and then thought it was time to turn his attention to the alleged prisoner, Selina Brown.
Satisfying himself that the bureau contained no money save that which he had already secured, Jack was overjoyed at finding a document, hidden away in a corner of a pigeon hole.
This document bore upon it the superscription—”The last will and testament of Richard Brown, farmer.”
In an instant our hero pieced together the story he had heard in Dorking, and arrived at the conclusion that the present Farmer Brown, although he had usurped his niece’s position and concealed his brother’s will, had at the same time, actuated by some strange fear, such as does occasionally possess criminals, dared not destroy the important document.
And here it was in Jack’s hands.
There seemed no chance of immediate recovery by the farmer of his lost senses, so our hero coolly opened the document and read it through.
“As I thought,” he muttered to himself.
“As I thought, the whole farm belongs to this girl, and this rascally uncle, one of the same kidney as my precious cousin, has simply swindled her out of her inheritance.
“However, I will see if I cannot manage to find her, and if I do, I think it will go hard if she does not recover her own again.”
Then, taking up a pen, he selected a sheet of paper, and wrote upon it in bold characters—
“Received of the tenant of Brown’s Farm, Surrey, the sum of £120. And I hereby acknowledge that the above sum has been so received by me in payment of any rent now due for the said farm, or which may afterwards accrue until such sum is exhausted.
“(Signed) SPRING-HEELED JACK.”
“N. B.—If this receipt is shown to Sir Michael Dacre, as he calls himself, its validity will be accepted without question, otherwise let him beware.”
With a quiet chuckle Jack read this over to himself, then he laid it down in front of the jabbering lunatic, Farmer Brown.
“Now for the girl.” Jack said, as he carefully put the will in one of the pockets of his capacious cloak.
The search for the girl did not take long.
The farmhouse was not a large one, and our hero’s ears soon discovered a low moaning sound that evidently came from a garret which could only be approached by a rickety ladder.
In an instant Jack was at the top of the frail structure.
There, right in front of him, lay the object of his search.
She was a young and lovely girl about his own age.
Jack’s heart gave one bound as he looked at her, then with a grateful sigh he said, fervently—
“Thank Heaven! I have come here. I take this as an augury that even if there is any wrong in the life I have chosen, I shall gain
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absolution for the evil by the good that will come out of it.”
This philosophy was undoubtedly rather Jesuitical, but allowance must be made for the manner and place in which he had been brought up.
The girl seemed perfectly dazed when she saw Jack, but she betrayed not the slightest sign of fear.
She advanced towards our hero as far as a chain which was passed round her waist and fastened with a staple to the floor, would allow her, and with a child-like innocence, said—
“Ah! I know you, but I am not frightened at you. You have come to take me away from this. I do so long to see the green fields again. Take me away. I am not afraid of you.”
For an instant and an instant only Jack hesitated.
His hesitation was only caused by his self inquiry as to what course he had better pursue under the circumstances.
He soon made up his mind, however.
With Jack to think was to act.
He had heard that one Squire Popham, a local justice of the peace, had expressed strong doubts as to the right of the present Farmer Brown to hold the farm.
To this worthy man’s house our hero determined to convey the lovely child whom we have called by the unromantic name of Selina Brown.
To remove the chain from the girl’s waist was work of no little difficulty, but perseverance, as it usually does, conquered in the end, and half an hour later Jack had carried the girl to Squire Popham’s house, where, with a furious ring at the bell, he had left her, having first chalked on the door of the mansion the following words—
“This girl is the daughter of the late Farmer Brown, of Newdigate.
“Her father’s will is in her pocket.
“Her wretched uncle is a jabbering idiot at the farm.”
“See that the girl enjoys her rights, or dread the vengeance of “SPPRING-HEELED JACK.”
In another instant, and before the hall-door had opened to admit the half-unconscious girl, Jack gave one bound and disappeared from sight, and so for the time ended the first adventure of Spring-Heeled Jack.
(To be continued—Commenced in No. 219.)
PART III.
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BEFORE we follow our hero any further on his extraordinary career we may as well finish the story of Farmer Brown and his niece.
When Squire Popham’s footman opened the hall door he at first failed to see the girl so strangely rescued by Spring-Heeled Jack.
He, however, saw the chalk marks on the door, but was unable to read them—no extraordinary circumstance with a man of his class in the early part of the present century.
Then, turning round, he saw the poor girl.
There was a vacant look on her face that told the footman, untutored as he was, that she was “a button short,” as he expressed it to himself.
The mysterious chalk marks and the “daft” girl were a little too much for the footman, and he hastened to call the butler.
This worthy could read, and as soon as he made his appearance, and had deciphered Jack’s message, he directed his subordinate to call the squire.
When Mr. Popham, a typical country gentleman of the period, made his appearance, and read the inscription and saw the girl, his sympathies were immediately enlisted on her behalf.
“Confound Mr. Spring-Heeled Jack, whoever he may be, and his impudence, too!” cried the irate squire.
“Does he think that it requires threats to make an English magistrate see justice done?”
Then bidding the butler to call all the men servants together, he instructed the housekeeper to see after the welfare of the poor girl.
As soon as the men had assembled Mr. Popham read Spring-Heeled Jack’s message to them, and then for the first time recollected that he had not secured the will.
He told one of the men to go to the housekeeper’s room, and ask for the document which was in th
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