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Authors: Michael Crichton
Tags: Suspense
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there and saw him.”
Pierce said, “How much?”
“Twenty-five quid, all in.”
Pierce stared at the animal for a moment, then said, “I want the best dog you have.”
“This is the very same, I swear it—the very dog that’s best of the lot.”
Pierce crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his foot on the ground.
“I swear it, sir, twenty-five quid, a gentleman’s fancy and most excellent in all respects.”
Pierce just stared.
“Well, then,” Johnson said, looking away as if embarrassed, “there
is
one more animal, but he’s very special. He has the killer instinct, the taste of blood, the quick move, and a tough hide. This way.”
He led Pierce out of the enclosed courtyard to another area, where there were three dogs in somewhat larger pens. They were all heavier than the others;Pierce guessed they must weigh fifty pounds, perhaps more. Johnson tapped the middle cage.
“This’un,” he said. “This’un turned felon on me,” he said. “Thought I’d have to top him off—he was a felon, pure and simple.” Johnson rolled up his sleeve to reveal a set of jagged white scars. “This’un did this to me,” he said, “when he turned felon. But I brought him back, nursed him, and trained him special, because he has the spirit, see, and the spirit’s everything.”
“How much?” Pierce said.
Johnson glanced at the scars on his arm. “This’un I was saving—”
“How much?”
“Couldn’t let him go for less’n fifty quid, beg pardon.”
“I will give you forty.”
“Sold,” Johnson said quickly. “You’ll take ’im now?”
“No,” Pierce said. “I’ll call for him soon. For the moment, hold him.”
“Then you’ll be putting a little something down?”
“I will,” Pierce said, and gave the man ten pounds. Then he had him pry open the dog’s jaws, and he checked the teeth; and then he departed.
“Damn me,” Johnson said after he had gone. “Man buys a made dog, then leaves him. What’re we up to today?”
CHAPTER 11
The Destruction of Vermin
Captain Jimmy Shaw, a retired pugilist, ran the most famous of the sporting pubs, the Queen’s Head, off Windmill Street. A visitor to that pub on the evening of August 10, 1854, would be greeted by a most peculiar spectacle, for although the pub was notably low-ceilinged, dingy, and cheap, it was filled with all manner of well-dressed gentlemen who rubbed shoulders with hawkers, costers, navvies, and others of the lowest social station. Yet nobody seemed to mind, for everyone shared a state of excited, noisy anticipation. Furthermore, nearly everyone had brought a dog. There were dogs of all sorts: bulldogs, Skye terriers, brown English terriers, and various mongrels. Some nestled in the arms of their owners; others were tied to the legs of tables or to the footrail of the bar. All were the subject of intense discussion and scrutiny: they were hefted into the air to gauge their weight, their limbs were felt for the strength of bones, their jaws opened for a look at the teeth.
A visitor might then observe that the few decorative features of the Queen’s Head reflected this same interest in dogs. Studded leather collars hung from the rafters; there were stuffed dogs in dirty glass boxes mounted over the bar; there were prints of dogs by the hearth, including a famous drawing of Tiny, “the wonder dog,” a white bulldog whose legendary exploits were known to every man present.
Jimmy Shaw, a burly figure with a broken nose,moved about the room calling, “Give your orders, gentlemen,” in a loud voice. At the Queen’s Head, even the best gentlemen drank hot gin without complaint. Indeed, no one seemed to notice the tawdry surroundings at all. Nor, for that matter, did anyone seem to mind that most of the dogs were heavily scarred of the face, body, and limbs.
Above the bar, a soot-covered sign read:
EVERY MAN HAS HIS FANCY
RATTING SPORTS IN REALITY
And if people should be uncertain as to the meaning of that
Pierce said, “How much?”
“Twenty-five quid, all in.”
Pierce stared at the animal for a moment, then said, “I want the best dog you have.”
“This is the very same, I swear it—the very dog that’s best of the lot.”
Pierce crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his foot on the ground.
“I swear it, sir, twenty-five quid, a gentleman’s fancy and most excellent in all respects.”
Pierce just stared.
“Well, then,” Johnson said, looking away as if embarrassed, “there
is
one more animal, but he’s very special. He has the killer instinct, the taste of blood, the quick move, and a tough hide. This way.”
He led Pierce out of the enclosed courtyard to another area, where there were three dogs in somewhat larger pens. They were all heavier than the others;Pierce guessed they must weigh fifty pounds, perhaps more. Johnson tapped the middle cage.
“This’un,” he said. “This’un turned felon on me,” he said. “Thought I’d have to top him off—he was a felon, pure and simple.” Johnson rolled up his sleeve to reveal a set of jagged white scars. “This’un did this to me,” he said, “when he turned felon. But I brought him back, nursed him, and trained him special, because he has the spirit, see, and the spirit’s everything.”
“How much?” Pierce said.
Johnson glanced at the scars on his arm. “This’un I was saving—”
“How much?”
“Couldn’t let him go for less’n fifty quid, beg pardon.”
“I will give you forty.”
“Sold,” Johnson said quickly. “You’ll take ’im now?”
“No,” Pierce said. “I’ll call for him soon. For the moment, hold him.”
“Then you’ll be putting a little something down?”
“I will,” Pierce said, and gave the man ten pounds. Then he had him pry open the dog’s jaws, and he checked the teeth; and then he departed.
“Damn me,” Johnson said after he had gone. “Man buys a made dog, then leaves him. What’re we up to today?”
CHAPTER 11
The Destruction of Vermin
Captain Jimmy Shaw, a retired pugilist, ran the most famous of the sporting pubs, the Queen’s Head, off Windmill Street. A visitor to that pub on the evening of August 10, 1854, would be greeted by a most peculiar spectacle, for although the pub was notably low-ceilinged, dingy, and cheap, it was filled with all manner of well-dressed gentlemen who rubbed shoulders with hawkers, costers, navvies, and others of the lowest social station. Yet nobody seemed to mind, for everyone shared a state of excited, noisy anticipation. Furthermore, nearly everyone had brought a dog. There were dogs of all sorts: bulldogs, Skye terriers, brown English terriers, and various mongrels. Some nestled in the arms of their owners; others were tied to the legs of tables or to the footrail of the bar. All were the subject of intense discussion and scrutiny: they were hefted into the air to gauge their weight, their limbs were felt for the strength of bones, their jaws opened for a look at the teeth.
A visitor might then observe that the few decorative features of the Queen’s Head reflected this same interest in dogs. Studded leather collars hung from the rafters; there were stuffed dogs in dirty glass boxes mounted over the bar; there were prints of dogs by the hearth, including a famous drawing of Tiny, “the wonder dog,” a white bulldog whose legendary exploits were known to every man present.
Jimmy Shaw, a burly figure with a broken nose,moved about the room calling, “Give your orders, gentlemen,” in a loud voice. At the Queen’s Head, even the best gentlemen drank hot gin without complaint. Indeed, no one seemed to notice the tawdry surroundings at all. Nor, for that matter, did anyone seem to mind that most of the dogs were heavily scarred of the face, body, and limbs.
Above the bar, a soot-covered sign read:
EVERY MAN HAS HIS FANCY
RATTING SPORTS IN REALITY
And if people should be uncertain as to the meaning of that
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