Mr. Licensed Victualler, the host, that it was Friday night, and,
besides, it was getting on for twelve, and Jack had gone aboard. A
sharp and watchful man, Mr. Licensed Victualler, the host, with
tight lips and a complete edition of Cocker's arithmetic in each
eye. Attended to his business himself, he said. Always on the
spot. When he heard of talent, trusted nobody's account of it, but
went off by rail to see it. If true talent, engaged it. Pounds a
week for talent--four pound--five pound. Banjo Bones was undoubted
talent. Hear this instrument that was going to play--it was real
talent! In truth it was very good; a kind of piano-accordion,
played by a young girl of a delicate prettiness of face, figure,
and dress, that made the audience look coarser. She sang to the
instrument, too; first, a song about village bells, and how they
chimed; then a song about how I went to sea; winding up with an
imitation of the bagpipes, which Mercantile Jack seemed to
understand much the best. A good girl, said Mr. Licensed
Victualler. Kept herself select. Sat in Snug, not listening to
the blandishments of Mates. Lived with mother. Father dead. Once
a merchant well to do, but over-speculated himself. On delicate
inquiry as to salary paid for item of talent under consideration,
Mr. Victualler's pounds dropped suddenly to shillings--still it was
a very comfortable thing for a young person like that, you know;
she only went on six times a night, and was only required to be
there from six at night to twelve. What was more conclusive was,
Mr. Victualler's assurance that he 'never allowed any language, and
never suffered any disturbance.' Sharpeye confirmed the statement,
and the order that prevailed was the best proof of it that could
have been cited. So, I came to the conclusion that poor Mercantile
Jack might do (as I am afraid he does) much worse than trust
himself to Mr. Victualler, and pass his evenings here.