Midnight Webs

I’ve waited these many years, expecting some one or another would give a full and true account of it all, but little thinking it would ever come to be my task; for it’s not in my way. But seeing how much has been said about other parts and other people’s sufferings, while ours never so much as came in for a line of newspaper, I can’t think it’s fair; and as fairness is what I always did like, I set to, very much against my will; while, on account of my empty sleeve, the paper keeps slipping and sliding about, so that I can only hold it quiet by putting the lead inkstand on one corner, and my tobacco-jar on the other. You see, I’m not much at home at this sort of thing; and though, if you put a pipe and a glass of something before me, I could tell you all about it, taking my time like, it seems that won’t do. I said: “Why don’t you write it down as I tell it, so as other people could read all about it?” But “No,” he says; “I could do it in my fashion; but I want it to be in your simple unadorned style; so set to and do it.” I daresay a good many of you know me—seen me often in Bond-street, at Facet’s door—Facet’s, you know, the great jeweller’s, where I stand and open carriages, or take messages, or small parcels with no end of valuables in them; for I’m trusted. Smith, my name is—Isaac Smith; and I’m that tallish grisly fellow with the seam down one side of his face, his left sleeve looped up to the button, and not a speck to be seen on that “commissionnaire’s” uniform, upon whose breast there are three medals. I was standing one day, waiting patiently for something to do, when a tallish gentleman came up, nodded as if he knew me well; and I saluted.