Wheeling Sunday register. [volume] (Wheeling, W. Va.) 1882-1934, 1899-04-23
A MAN FROM THE DARK.
By MRS. C. IN. WILLIAMSON,
or Barn Sormers The Woman Grey, fortunes
81 Sport aThe House by Lock" &c.
Copy right.)
CHAPTER TX.
WHAT HAPPENED AT THE SPIN

CHAfIEt la.
WHAT HAPPENED AT THE SPIN
MING JIMMY INN.
II know it's somewhere in the High
street" said. 'but don't know which
end, and I'm anxious not to waste any
time on the way
BE vera sure ye dinna waste ony
when we've got to the Spinnin' jimmy"
was the peculiar, though good-na-
turedly delivered reply. "Yell find it
the moo, in the High street. as We were
sayin', and at the top o. Crockett's
Wynd."
sAre strangers prone to wasting
time at the Spinning Jinny?" eau
tiously asked you speak as II the
place bore a queer reputation"
L could'na say" the policeman an
swered with prudence equal to my
own. There has been naught against
the Spinnin' jimmy in my time, but it is
no bonny. There's as guild cheer to
be had elsewhar."
sThank you.' said thoughtfully. And
then, with a goodnight" / went on.
It was late, and it would not be long
before the closing hour for public
houses. / should not have much time
to spend in pursuing the inquiries I
hoped to make.
The quaint and ancient High street
was as black as an old painting in oils
that needs the touch of the renovator;
and the dull yellow lights that twinkl-
ed here and there, struggling for their
lives in the engulfng gloom, only
seemed to make the rich thickness Of
the shadows more visible. A storm
was brewing, and the sky's torn vest
ments OF cloud tapped raggedly across
the far white lustre of the stars.
| had to look carefully for the Wynd
sacred to the name of Crockett among
many other wynds. But at last I
came to the right one, and faced the
Spinning jimmy Inn, which nodded and
creaked welcome to me with Its
wind-moved signboard.
The building was lower than most
others among the High street stranded
fiotsam and jetsam of the past, though,
like it's companions, it must have been
exceedingly old. A lantern of fantastic
fashion hung from mailed hand of
iron, beneath the sign Of the Spinning
jimmy, giving enough light to reveal
how the red, gold and blue paint had
worn away. The door, as if it wished
to offend neither the High street nor
the Wynd, but to show both an equal
favor, was set diagonally, so that it
could not be said to belong wholly to
either one. To open, and enter the
region which might lie beyond, it was
necessary to walk, or tumble. or de-
scend in some manner. four or five
much-worn stone-steps, covered above
the door with a frowning projection
of porch.
One window glared at the High street
like sullen eye of red, through
blind of that color which showed light
behind. But though l stopped outside
and listened for moment, could hear
no sound of jollity issuing from within.
The door was not locked, but tightly
and inhospitably closed for public
house; and, pushing it back with an
effort, I found myself in brick-paved
passage, with a door at one side and
another at the end. The first I opened
and looked into a squalid, ill-smelling
bar. An Italian organgrinder, with
monkey Derched on his shoulder. sat
drinking a tumbler of liquor. A de-
formed pedlar, with his pack on the
floor. lounged by the counter, behind
which limped an old bedlame among
her array of jugs and bottles. No one
else was there, and reflected that the
Spinning jimmy must do a poor bust
ness, or keep early hours; or else that
the inn made its money in some mys-
terious way not wholly dependent up
on It's nightly customers.
The three occupants of the room
glanced up with some manifestation OF
curiosity on my entrance, which emo
ton. to all appearances, died almost as
soon as born. They had removed their
eyes from my face by the time l spoke,
which I did after moments pause,
and / lAd once more to attract the old
womans attention.
Il was told I should find message
awaiting me here" I said. "My name
is Napier, Derek Napier"
The old woman stared at me DULY,
and might, or might not, have been
mistaken in fancying, for the fraction
of second, that a sudden fire had shot
forth a CLEAN at me from under the
purple, swollen eyelids. Il don't know
nothin' about it," she answered in the
voice OF a Cockney, not Scotswoman.
sI'll ask my son Bill He'll be in after
a hit Will Won ave ANYTHING to