The Autobiography of Jack the Ripper by James Carnac Read Free Book Online

is Johnson?” she asked. “What is his father?”
    â€œI think he’s a butcher.”
    She placed her tray on the table and looked steadily at me for a few moments. “And is the son of a butcher the only boy you can find to make a friend of?” she enquired. At that moment my father entered the room.
    â€œJames wants to go to tea with a butcher’s boy,” she told him.
    â€œDo you mean a butcher’s son or the boy who delivers the meat?” he asked.
    â€œHis son. It’s a pity he can’t find some respectable boys to associate with at that school.”
    â€œWell, when I can afford to set up in Harley Street we’ll talk about sending him to Rugby,” said my father.
    â€œIf you ever can he’ll be too old for Rugby,” observed my mother, who always took my father’s remarks quite literally.
    â€œAs for this boy being the son of a butcher,” my father continued, “he may be none the worse for that.”
    â€œBut a butcher!” said my mother.
    â€œWell, what of it?” exclaimed my father irritably. “Let Jim go to tea with his friend. I’ve no patience with this silly snobbery.”
    â€œNo, and it’s no wonder you can’t keep your practice together,” complained my mother. “What with—”
    I shut my ears to the further conversation and applied myself to my meal. The only point which affected me seemed to have been settled.
    â€œBe sure you get home by eight,” my mother admonished me as I left for afternoon school.
    The pig-sticking which I was privileged to see that evening I can recall to this day. As a preliminary I partook of a substantial tea in the company of Johnson, his father, mother and a small sister. I have little recollection of the characteristics of these people; nor can I remember the composition of the meal beyond the fact that it included water-cress, an herb which never appeared on our tea-table at home.
    At the conclusion of the meal Mr. Johnson rose briskly from the table and, with a twinkling eye, stated that he would “just fetch the knife,” and left the room. Immediately Johnson’s small sister retired to a sofa at the side of the room and, stuffing up her ears with both hands, buried her face in the cushions.
    â€œShe don’t like to hear the pigs being killed,” Johnson remarked indulgently, jerking a thumb towards her as he led the way from the room.
    I followed my friend to a yard at the back of the building, where we found Mr. Johnson arrayed in a long overall, the front of which was stained and encrusted with dried blood. He was toying with a long, thin knife of the kind used to carve ham, and looking into an enclosure at the end of the yard from which proceeded a mixture of grunts and squeals.
    â€œWhich one are you going to kill, father?” Johnson enquired, ranging himself beside the man.
    â€œReginald,” replied Mr. Johnson.
    â€œI’m glad it’s to be one of the pink ones,” said his son. “Come and look at them, Carnac.”
    I walked to his side and looked into the pen.
    â€œYou won’t see pigs like them every day, Carnac,” observed Mr. Johnson.
    â€œNo,” I agreed. “They look fine pigs.” In point of fact I had hardly ever before seen a live pig except at a distance. There were some half dozen there and I was surprised to notice that instead of the small, prick ears with which pigs are represented in pictures, these had long, drooping ears like those of a dachshund. But I was too excited to observe any details.
    The pigs were moving about the pen, grubbing in the straw, and Mr. Johnson was apparently alert for the approach of the particular animal he had marked out. Suddenly he opened the small gate which he had stealthily unlatched and swiftly grabbed a small pink pig by an ear as it was passing. He dragged it squealing from the pen, kicking-to the gate behind him. The pig twisted