PRETTY ROMANCE OF MR. TOOLE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXV, Issue 9220, 24 November 1888, Page 2 (Supplement)

PRETTY ROMANCE OF MR. TOOLE.

DECEIVED BY AN ARTISTIC THIEF. They have been romancing concerning Mr. Toole in France, and the story has found its way to London. M. Alfred de Souveliiere is a gentleman with a vivid imagination and an excellent literary turn. His story is too good a one to escape repetition. Toole himself is made by the journalist to tell it in the presence of a party assembled at " the Strand tavern, the Coalhole." They had been laughing (so we are told) at his amusing efforts of ventriloquism—" little society talents," as the journalist called them. "And these same little talents," Toole is made to say, "have sometimes a great utility in life." Then he told his story. " Some years ago" (proceeded Mr. Toole) '' I was passing one evening through Drury Lane 011 my way to the Gaiety Theatre, where I was at that time playing a role. My attention was suddenly attracted by a pathetic voice imploring charity. I stopped and looked around me. The voice proceeded from a misshapen being, apparently a cripple, crouched in the corner of an archway leading into one of those winding alleys so numerous in this populous quarter. His white hair and beard, and his cracked voice, indicated clearly that the beggar was an old man. 'A few pence for a poor old man, sir,' said the tremulous voice. ' I am cold and hungry—oh, so hungry ! I have eaten nothing since yesterday.' 'What misery,' I exclaimed, gazing at the old man. 'Is it possible that you are condemned to begging at your ago? Have you no sons or daughters?' 'Alas! yes, gentleman,'said the beggar, in a smothered tone, as if ashamed to acknowledge the truth ; ' but they have abandoned me.' 'It is infamous !' I added. And I drew from my purse a half-crown. As I handed it towards the beggar, my customary suspicion seized me. Perhaps, after all, it was a made-up cripple. ' I prefer to assist you more effectively,' I remarked, after an instant's pause. 'You have a refuge somewhere? where do you live 1 expected to be enlightened as to the genuineness of my beggar ; the slightest hesitation on his part would have put me on my guard at once. ' Not over a quarter of a mile from here,' replied the cripple. ' I will take you to my lodging, sir, if you like.' ' Very well, go ahead ; I will follow,' I answered. The beggar started off on his crutches dragging after him two stumps of legs ; and lie manoeuvred rapidly along the muddy and slippery sidewalk of Drury Lane. At length we crossed Coven t Garden Market and Long Acre, and entered that quarter which you all know—Seven Dials. The adventure commenced to only half-way please me. ' Are we far from your loom still ?' I asked, catching up with the beggar. 'I haven't much time to spare.' As I spoke I drew out my watch, an excellent chronometer of Dent's, of considerable value. Looking suddenly up I surprised an ugly, covetous glance beneath the beggar's bushy eyebrows. ' Oh, oh !' I said to myself, ' that's a mighty young eye for an old man.' My suspicions" (Mr. Toole says) " returned with triple force. . . . But I determined to push the adventure to its end, and more so as my companion now turned to me and said in his cracked, faltering tones, ' Here is my home, gentleman !' He slipped through the half-opened door of a dilapidated building and started up a rieketty staircase with the agility I had before remarked. I had difficulty in following him in the nauseating obscurity. At the third storey the old beggar stopped : I heard him feeling about in tne dark, and then came the sound of a key turning in a lock. ' One moment, my good gentleman,' said the trembling voice ; ' I will light a candle.' Some seconds passed, the dismal glimmer ot a tallow candle lit up a room which struck me as tolerably spacious. The beggar had slipped behind me, and I now heard tho sharp click of the key in the O'-k. I had expected to lirul a sordid, miserable hole, fitted out with a broken stool and a bundle of straw in the corner for a bed ; instead of which the room was furnished with a certain degree of luxury, and the floor was covered with rich carpet. 'What does this mean 7' I asked in stupor. ' You have deceived me.' I turned towards the door. The old man had vanished ; a man in the vigour of life, a white wig in his hand, his face covered with pencilled wrinkles, looked up at me and laughed. ' You look surprised,' lie said, in a mocking tone. ' There are miracles still in our days, you sec. My good logs have come back to me, and my crutches—look there?' He pointed towards the corner near the door. ' Well, what do you want of me?' I asked resolutely enough. ' I want you to lend me your watch,' impudently answered the man. ' Mine happens to be at the jeweller's just now, and yours looks like a tolerably good one. I'll warrant it keeps good time.' After all, it was but one man, and a struggle man to man demands but ordinary courage. But my pseudo greybeard drew a revolver from his pocket. 'No,' said he, holding the muzzle to my face, ' the watch and the purse first.' I drew back. Indignation and anger at letting myself into such an absurd trap almost suffocated me ; but what could I do against this man armed. All at once an idea occurred to me. ' Imp of Satan ! I'll catch you yet !' called out gruff voice behind the beggar. Instinctively he turned round. 1 seized the opportunity to rush upon him and snatch the revolver from his hands. ' My turn now,' said I, holding the revolver under his nose. 'Open that door this ininstant or I will blow out your brains.' The robber looked at me with a stupid air. He was a resolute fellow, without a doubt, but the revolver and the mysterious voice together were too much for him. Growling savagely like a bulldog, he opened the door, and slammed it savagely after me. Feeling my way along I found the staircase, and with some difficulty gained the street. I directed my steps at once towards the Strand. I arrived a half-hour late at my theatre, where reigned the greatest inquietude at my non-appearance. 1 kept the revolver as a ' tribute of war.' And you see," continued Toole, " how my 'little talent' of ventriloquism that night helped me out of an ugly scrape."