T
he most probable explanation of the noise I had heard seemed to be that the house had not after all been empty—indeed, it could not be empty! Although the regular occupants had gone they might have left some one behind as a caretaker, who certainly must be in the depths of despair. Heedless of the fact that my presence might be resented, I opened the kitchen door, crossed the stone-paved passage, and going up a few stairs, came to a fair-sized hall. Here there were four doors, one leading out to the porch where I had found shelter yesterday afternoon, one to a room right at the back, and two which apparently opened respectively into the drawing-room and dining-room.
As the front room was above the kitchen I determined to try that first, for thence the weird sounds of the night had seemed to come. Advancing rather nervously towards it, I gathered sufficient courage to turn the handle, when, discovering that the door had been locked from the outside, I began to hesitate about turning the key.
Unless somebody had been shut in by mistake, how had he or she obtained admission? But as I stood there hesitating, I suddenly broke into a laugh of perfect relief. The truth now seemed plain enough. I could hear scampering feet, and an eager whine, which ended in an impatient bark. Opening the door, I saw a small rough-coated terrier with a patch by his tail; bounding forward he began to yelp and spring and fawn upon me, licking my hands and showing every sign of joy and satisfaction.
I think my own pleasure was almost equal to the terrier's. It is impossible to make any one understand the intense joy of finding a companion after the night I had passed. Although he looked rather thin, his condition did not suggest that he had been locked up longer than a day or two; but picking him up in my arms while he whined and licked my face, I carried him downstairs, and turning on the tap over the sink let him drink as much water as he wished. Fortunately I had still half of the pork-pie in my pocket, and it was good to see him eat it bit by bit from my hand. It was true that my remaining small piece of chocolate made an unsatisfactory breakfast, and that the terrier eyed me a little reproachfully even when I ate that, but he would not leave me for an instant, and in less than half an hour it seemed as if he had belonged to me all my life.
'What's your name, old chap?' I asked, and he wagged his stump of a tail as if he would have told me if he could. 'Anyhow,' I said, 'you must have a name of some sort. What shall it be?'
It took some time to decide upon a suitable name, and then we did not arrive at anything more original than 'Patch.' Having settled this pressing question, I stripped to the waist and had a good wash at the sink, drying myself as well as I could on the shavings which had served as a bed. By this time the rain had almost ceased, and I began to think that it might be advisable to get outside the house before I chanced to be seen. So, having got through the window with Patch in my arms, I shut it again and was going round to the front when I saw that the terrier was poking his muzzle into every nook and corner, as if in search of his lawful owner.
Still, he came to my whistle, and not forgetting the sack, I went round to the front of the house, standing under the porch at the top of the steps until presently the rain entirely ceased, the clouds broke, and the sun shone in a feeble kind of way.
The first order of the day was breakfast, then to make my way to Hazleton with the object of returning Jacintha's locket. With the sack rolled up beneath my arm, with Patch running excitedly around me, I set forth along the muddy road across the moor. Having left this behind and followed a winding lane for some distance, we seemed to be approaching a village. Passing one or two houses, we crossed over a railway bridge, passed a dozen or more cottages, and then, at the corner of two roads, I saw what appeared to be a kind of mixture between a temperance hotel and a mission hall.
After the various escapades through which I had passed since leaving Castlemore, my clothes were in a sad condition, my boots especially being coated with mud, so that for a moment I shrank from entering the building. Summoning courage, however, I pushed open the door and found myself in a bare-looking room with several large illuminated texts on the walls, and three wooden tables, at one of which a man was seated drinking a cup of tea.
A clock over the mantelpiece showed that it was a quarter-past ten, although I had thought it considerably later. As Patch followed me into the room, leaving damp footmarks on the clean linoleum, a short thin-faced woman, with fair hair drawn very tightly back, entered from the opposite door with a wet dish in one hand and a cloth in the other.
'We can't have dogs in here!' she cried by way of greeting.
'Will it matter if I nurse him?' I asked.
'If he doesn't spoil my floor,' she answered, and as I took Patch up in my arms she added, 'What is it you want?'
'I should like some breakfast.'
'Tea and bread and butter?' she asked.
'How much are eggs?' I inquired.
'Three-halfpence each. Tea a penny the cup, bread and butter a halfpenny a slice.'
I made a hasty calculation in my mind, and being extremely hungry determined to spend sixpence, though it made a rather serious inroad into my remaining four shillings and a penny.
'I will have two boiled eggs, four slices of bread and butter, and a cup of tea,' I answered. Soon afterwards, while I sat with Patch on my knees, the other customer left the room. When the woman returned with my breakfast and received the sixpence in exchange, I was agreeably surprised by her altered manner. At first she had created an unfavourable impression, but now as I ate she stood watching with kindly interest, presently remarking, however, that it was beginning to rain again.
'How far is it to Hazleton?' I asked.
'Close on twenty-six miles,' she answered.
'I was told that it was thirty yesterday,' I said, 'and I know I have walked ten miles since.'
'Are you walking to Hazleton?' she inquired.
'Yes.'
'Well, you won't be able to get far on your way in this rain,' she replied, and indeed it was again coming down in torrents. 'We make up beds here,' she added. While she was speaking, a small, fair-headed child of four or five years ran into the room, and, encouraged by the way the woman caught him up and kissed him, I thought that I would confide in her.
'You see,' I explained, 'I have only three and sixpence to last me to Hazleton, and this weather I can't get along very quickly—that is the worst of it.'
She pursed her lips as she looked into my face. 'Well,' she answered, 'I can give you a bed for sixpence if you're not too particular. Then there's dinner——'
'I shall not care about dinner,' I said, feeling perfectly satisfied after two eggs and four thick slices of bread and butter, 'if I could have some bread and cheese for supper.'
Finally, she agreed to give me some tea in the afternoon, some supper, a bed, and a plain breakfast the following morning, for one and ninepence; this would leave the same sum to carry me to Hazleton, beyond which my plans did not at present extend. The woman, moreover, offered to tie Patch up in an out-house and give him some scraps, and later in the day she said that if I would go to bed early she would wash my shirt, which sadly needed such attention. Altogether it seemed that I had found a friend; and as the rain did not cease all day, I amused myself reading such books as the place contained. At six o'clock I had supper and went to bed, putting everything but my cap and cloth clothes outside my door, where, after a long night's sleep, I found them nicely ironed and folded. On coming downstairs, I borrowed some boot-brushes, so that on Wednesday morning I set out looking far more respectable than I had done on my arrival, in excellent spirits, with one and ninepence in my pocket and Patch at my heels.
A short distance from the reading-room, or whatever it ought to be called, I met a postman who told me it was only twenty-three miles to Hazleton, although, after I had covered quite four miles more, a member of the county police told me it was still twenty-two miles. Seeing that it would be impossible in any event to reach Colebrook Park to-day, although I could easily manage the distance to-morrow, I did not hurry, but, the sun being hot, allowed Patch several rests by the way, until on making another inquiry at about half-past five that evening, I was informed that Hazleton was still eighteen miles distant.
Although the day had been fine, the ground was still wet, far too wet to sleep out of doors with comfort. I had economised as much as possible, but walking is hungry work, and now I found myself with only one and fourpence by way of capital. The consequence was that a free lodging of some kind must be discovered, and I looked about vainly for another empty house.
At about six o'clock I happened to pass a farm; a good-natured-looking man stood leaning against a gate, smoking a pipe.
'Should you mind if I were to sleep in one of those barns?' I asked.
'On the tramp?' he exclaimed.
'To Hazleton,' I said.
'Pretty near twenty miles.'
'No one seems to know exactly how far it is,' I answered, and he chuckled as he puffed at his pipe. Then he began to eye me inquisitively, and presently, knocking out his pipe with a good deal of deliberation, he turned and walked away. I was beginning to feel that I had met with a rebuff, when he looked back and told me to follow him.
'Better pick up that terrier,' he said, 'because of the chickens.'
With Patch in my arms I followed the farmer round the house to an empty shed behind.
'You can have a shake-down here if you don't mind being locked in,' he said; and, although I would rather not have had the key turned, I at once consented. It was a large shed, and quite clean and fresh, but entirely bare. When I had been there about half an hour a maid opened the door, with a plate of cold beef and potatoes in her hand, and she stayed talking while Patch and I shared the meal. Soon after she had gone, taking the plate and knife and fork, the farmer came again, followed by a man with an armful of straw.
'I shall not lock you up,' he said, 'though I have been done so often you can't tell whom to trust and whom not. If you go to the back door to-morrow morning, you will get some breakfast.'
I have slept in more comfortable places, but still the shed was quite as good as anything I had a right to expect, while Patch's presence proved the greatest comfort. He lay down close beside me, artfully taking advantage of the straw, and when I felt very lonely—for I could not get to sleep for some time—I put out a hand and felt his coat.
(Continued on page 106.)
"'You can have a shake-down here,' said the farmer.""'You can have a shake-down here,' said the farmer."
"'The question is, where did you get the dog?'""'The question is, where did you get the dog?'"
I
t was half-past six the next morning when I went to the farmer's back door, where the rough-looking maid provided me with a cup of coffee and a chunk of bread and butter, then, followed by Patch, I set out that Thursday morning on the road to Hazleton. The weather could not have been better, although the middle of the day promised to be excessively hot.
As I trudged along the pleasant road, I had some wild idea of reaching Hazleton that evening, but this was soon destroyed, for about a mile from the farm where we had slept, I noticed that Patch was limping. Sitting down on a heap of stones by the roadside, I looked at his near hind paw, and saw that it was nastily cut, so that he could only walk in great pain. I suppose he had trodden on a piece of glass in the road.
Now I realised that I was in an awkward plight. Of course, Patch must on no account be left behind; but, on the other hand, how was I to get him along? Tearing a piece off the edge of the sack, I frayed out some of the thread and made a kind of bag, which I put over the wounded paw, tying it round the leg. This took some time, and, as the job was finished and Patch was licking my hand by way of thanks, I saw a large van approaching from the direction of the farm, driven by one of the fattest men I had ever seen. The cart was laden with bottles of ginger-beer and mineral waters, but, as it passed us by, at a fair pace, a nosebag, which was tied behind, fell off into the road.
The driver, alone in the van, was entirely unaware of his loss until, rising from the heap of stones, I shouted to him to stop, and, picking up the nosebag, ran after the van. Pulling up his horse, he leaned down to take the bag, and then asked where I was going.
'To Hazleton,' I answered, as usual.
'That is about seventeen miles,' he said.
'The worst of it is,' I continued, 'my dog has cut his foot and can't walk.'
'Like a lift, doggie?' asked the fat driver.
'We should most awfully!' I exclaimed, eagerly.
'Well, now, listen to me,' was the answer. 'My round doesn't take me as far as Hazleton, but I am going to Watcombe, and that's ten miles short. We shall not get there much afore evening, because you see I have to travel a good bit out of the main road, and stop at ever so many places on the way.'
At any rate, the proffered lift would take me within ten miles of Colebrook Park, whereas without such help I did not see how I was to get even so far unless I carried Patch in my arms. Besides, the drive was tempting in itself, the only drawback being that my remaining capital of one and fourpence would have to bear an extra strain, and, in case of more bad weather, it would probably be exhausted before I reached my destination. However, in a very few moments Patch and I were seated on the top of a wooden box full of lemonade bottles, the fat driver whipped up his horse, and we sped gaily along the country road.
As I sat on the box of lemonade bottles, with a hand on Patch lest he should show a desire to jump down from the van, I noticed that he was sniffing curiously at the back of the driver's coat; and presently the driver in his turn began to look with equal interest at the terrier.
'He seems to know you,' I remarked.
'Come to that,' was the answer, 'I seem to know him. Looks to me most uncommon like Mr. Westrop's dog, he does.'
'Who is Mr. Westrop?' I inquired, holding Patch more tightly.
For a few minutes, without answering (for the fat driver was slow of speech and spoke in a deep voice which seemed to come from the direction of his boots), he divided his attention between the horse and the dog, and then fixed his small eyes on my face.
'The question is,' he said slowly, 'where did you get him?'
'You see, I found him,' I replied.
'Mr. Westrop's been in a bad way about his dog,' continued the driver. 'A very bad way. What do you think about it, Sam, old chap?'
The terrier, to my sorrow, showed what he thought about it by wagging his stumpy tail and whining with satisfaction, so that it would have been ridiculous to attempt to persuade myself that he failed to recognise the name of 'Sam.'
'I know most people betwixt here and Barton,' said the driver, laying his whip gently across the horse. 'Come to that, so I ought.'
'Do you live at Barton?' I asked, thinking of Mr. Turton and Augustus, and their wasted drive to that town.
'Just this side,' was the answer. 'That's where our factory is—half a mile this side of Barton. And every day of every week, for fifteen years or more, I've driven round the country with this van.'
'Are you going back to-night?' I inquired.
'Why, of course,' he exclaimed. 'Back by the straight road, after I've done my round.'
We had already left the wider road, and as the driver spoke he pulled up the horse at the door of a small rustic inn. Fastening his reins to a hook on his seat, he slowly dismounted, took a box of bottles from the van, carried it into the inn, returning after a short interval with the same box filled by a similar number of empty bottles. Then he climbed up to his seat again, unhooked the reins, and cried 'Gee-up' to the horse, which at once started at a smart trot along the lane.
'Now about this dog,' he began. 'Mr. Westrop used to live at the Beacon on Ramleigh Forest—I can remember before the house was built. He moved out last Friday to a house near Barton, and sure enough he has lost his terrier. Where did you find him? That's what I should like to know.'
'I don't know whether the house was called the Beacon,' I answered, 'because I didn't see any name. Patch had got locked in the drawing-room.'
'Well, now!' cried the driver, 'who would have thought the dog was fool enough for that! Locked in the drawing-room, were you, Sam, old chap? And how did you get him out?'
When at some length I explained how I had been caught in the storm, and sought shelter in the empty house, and slept in the kitchen, and had been frightened by the ghostly noises in the middle of the night, the driver leaned forward and laughed so uproariously that I felt afraid lest he should fall from his seat on to the horse: and as soon as his merriment permitted him to speak, he turned to me with his great red face redder than ever.
'Well,' he cried, 'you are a nice young man for a small party, you are! A nice young burglar, to be sure! Going and breaking into people's houses, cool as you please, and stealing their dogs. Howsoever,' he added, 'Mr. Westrop will be no end glad when I take Sam back to him to-night.'
I clasped Patch more closely.
'You're—you are not going to take him back?' I said.
'Why, what do you think?' he demanded. 'You wouldn't go and keep a dog that didn't belong to you!'
I am afraid I might have been tempted to keep Patch or Sam, whichever he ought to be named, on any terms, if circumstances had permitted; and useful as the lift on my way had appeared, I began to regret that I had ever seen the driver or his van. But before I had time to reply we were pulling up in front of another inn, where another box of mineral waters was carried in, and a box of empty bottles was brought out.
'Not but what,' the driver continued, 'I am sorry to take the dog from you, because he is just the sort you could soon grow fond of—aren't you, Sam? But right is right,' said the driver, looking straight in front of him, as he laid the whip on his horse.
During the next two hours we stopped at numerous inns, and I might have been able to enjoy the drive through the country lanes, and the remarks which the driver exchanged with almost every one we met, if it had not been for the necessity of restoring Patch to his rightful owner. It was impossible to pretend that the driver had not right on his side, but the fact remained that the terrier's companionship had become very valuable, and I would have borne a great deal rather than give him up. On the other hand, I began to persuade myself that it would have been perhaps difficult to keep him in London, especially if I succeeded in obtaining work as quickly as I hoped, when necessarily I should be occupied most of the day.
When we stopped at a more important inn at one o'clock, the driver took from beneath his seat two plates, one covering the other, and tied up in a clean napkin. Without a moment's hesitation, he offered to share his meal with me, and there appeared to be quite enough rabbit-pie for two. After dinner, as we drove on again, he became more talkative, and asked a good many questions about myself, with the result that he soon learned where I was going after I left Hazleton, and how much money I had in my pockets, though I did not mention the gold locket.
'Now where did you think of sleeping to-night?' he asked, and I told him that I intended to wait to see what might turn up in the way of shelter. 'You see,' he continued, 'I always like fair play. Fair play is a jewel. It was you who found the dog, though you had no business to have been on the spot, so to speak. But Mr. Westrop is pretty sure to give me a tip for bringing Sam back, and I don't see why you should not have your share.'
'Oh, that is all right,' I answered.
'Of course it is, because I am going to make it all right,' he said. 'I told you I would set you down at Watcombe, ten miles from Hazleton; but half a mile short of that my sister-in-law lets lodgings. I will speak to her, and arrange that you shall have some supper and a bed and breakfast, and then I think we can cry quits, eh—what do you say?'
I said that it was very kind of him, and he proved as good as his promise. The house was not particularly tempting-looking, but, at all events, it was far better than no place to sleep in. I climbed down from the van, followed by Patch, from whom I was so soon to part, and accompanied the driver into a kind of kitchen, where a tall, stout woman in a cotton dress was busily employed as we entered. She glanced at me once or twice while the driver carried on a whispered conversation and handed her some money. Then she went out at a back door and returned with a piece of rope.
'This is the only bit I can find,' she said.
'That's enough,' answered the driver, and, going down on his knees, he whistled to Patch, who went obediently, and stood wagging his tail while a loop was fastened round his neck. I followed when the driver led him out at the door, lifting him into the van, and tying the end of the rope to the rail behind his own seat. Standing on an empty box, Patch looked down at me and whimpered, so that I climbed on to one of the wheels to pat his coat and hold his muzzle as a last good-bye. The driver mounted to his seat and unhooked the reins.
'Down you jump!' he cried. 'So long! be good!' and, whipping up his horse, he drove away, while Patch began to run about on the top of the box, and strained at the rope as if he were as sorry to leave me behind as I was to let him go.
(Continued on page 117.)
Louis XIV., King of France, was very fond of playing at chess. One day he was having a game with one of his courtiers, and during the game made a false move, to which his adversary respectfully called his attention. The King, who did not easily suffer contradiction, did not wish to acknowledge that he was wrong, and appealed to the noblemen who surrounded the table, but none of them made any reply. Just then the Duke de Grammont came into the room, and immediately the King saw him he appealed to him, and wished to explain tohim the subject of the dispute, but the Duke hardly allowed him to finish.
"'Your Majesty is certainly wrong.'""'Your Majesty is certainly wrong.'"
'Your Majesty is certainly wrong,' he said, with a firmness of tone which astonished the King, and caused him to frown.
'How do you know that I am wrong, Monsieur le Duc?' replied the King; 'you have not even given me time to explain to you what the question was.'
'I know undoubtedly,' replied the Duke of Grammont, 'for all these gentlemen, whom your Majesty was consulting at the moment I arrived, only replied by their silence. They would every one have hastened to take your part if your Majesty had been right.'
The King was struck with the sense of this argument, and admitted that he had made a mistake.
(Concluded from page 78.)
When the method of feeding employed by the Snail is compared with that of the Butterfly or the common Fly, a very striking difference in the construction of the mouth-parts will be noticed. The common snail (fig.d), for example, feeds by the constant licking, or rather rasping, motion of a very wonderful tongue—a tongue which, stretched out, appears to be longer than the whole body! Yet only a small portion of this curious organ is in use at one time.
Fig. D.—Common Snail.Fig. D.—Common Snail.
Fig. E.—Section of Snail's Head (much magnified).Fig. E.—Section of Snail's Head (much magnified).
This tongue (fig.f) consists of a long flat ribbon, or 'radula,' as it is called, the surface of which is beset by a series of minute teeth, set in rows across the ribbon. The number of these teeth varies greatly in the different species of Mollusca—the group to which the snail belongs. In some there may be as few as sixteen; in others, in some relatives of our garden snail, for example, there may be as many as forty thousand! The working portion of this ribbon is fixed to a sort of tough cushion, which, by means of muscles, can be drawn forward and protruded from the mouth, where it is worked backwards and forwards with a licking or rasping action that effectually scrapes away, in a fine pulp, the edge of the cabbage leaf on which the creature is feeding. The teeth serve, in fact, the same purpose as the horny spines on the tongue of the lion, or, on a small scale, of the cat. You all must have noticed how rough a cat's tongue is when, in a burst of affection, pussy insists on licking your hand. If she went on licking long enough she would wear away the skin. As the snail's teeth wear away in front they are replaced from the reserve store which is kept in a sort of pocket, which lies behind the 'cushion' in the drawing of a section of a snail's head (fig.e). It is here that new teeth are being constantly formed, and pushed forward to supply those lost.
Fig. F.—Snail's Tongue (much magnified).Fig. F.—Snail's Tongue (much magnified).
In this drawing, by the way, you will notice a long arrow (a-b): this marks the passage which the food takes from the mouth to the gullet, and thence to the stomach. The head of the arrow points towards the snail's interior.
In many mollusca, the teeth, instead of resembling one another throughout the series, are of different kinds, very large and very small teeth alternating one with another in endless variety.
The horny jaws, to which reference has been made, are generally not conspicuous; but in the Cuttle-fish and Octopuses they are of huge size, and have been aptly compared to the beak of a parrot. But we must return to this subject again on another occasion, for it is one of quite unusual interest.
This little 'grace before meat' was written two hundred and fifty years ago by Robert Herrick, a Devonshire clergyman who became a famous poet. 'Paddocks' is an old name for 'frogs,' and 'benison' means blessing; 'heaving up' means 'lifting up in prayer.'
Here a little child I stand,Heaving up my either hand;Cold as paddocks though they be,Here I lift them up to Thee,For a benison to fallOn our meat and on us all.—Amen.
Here a little child I stand,Heaving up my either hand;Cold as paddocks though they be,Here I lift them up to Thee,For a benison to fallOn our meat and on us all.—Amen.
Time and progress have swept away many of the old streets, lanes, and alleys for which London City was remarkable. Most of them had names with a meaning, though it is sometimes difficult to find this out now. One reason is that, as the years went on, names often got altered in very odd ways. There were few of what might be called 'fancy' names, such as are now often given to new streets or roads. Frequently a name arose from the business of the people who lived in the street, or perhaps it kept in remembrance some notable person who had a house there. Occasionally it happened that a lane or alley had several names, and it is not easy to tell which is the oldest. The citizens sometimes gave two or three streets the same name.
When it could be done, old names have been kept, or not much altered, though the street is changed. Old-time Londoners would stare at Cannon Street of nowadays, so different from the Candle-wick or Candlewright Street of the past, where lived dealers in tapers and candles. It is said that Paternoster Row got its name from the fact that stationers and writers had shops there, who sold, among other things, copies of the Lord's Prayer. It had an Amen Corner, and Creed Lane is also near. Afterwards mercers and lacemen invited customers to shops in the Row, and finally it became famous for books and magazines.
Chancery Lane and Fetter Lane still keep the old names they had when their appearance was not that of streets or business thoroughfares, but quiet lanes between Holborn and Fleet Street, dotted with private houses. Fetter Lane had nothing to do with fetters or prisoners; it was so called because 'fewters,' or idle persons, were often found lurking amongst the back gardens. One of the short turnings out of this lane had the odd name of Three Leg Alley; nobody seems to know why. It is supposed that Gracechurch Street is a reminder of a church in the locality, St. Benet's, Grasschurch, thus called because near the church was a herb-market, where wild or garden plants were sold. Occasionally the name is found in books written by chance as Gracious Street. At first the Gresham Street of our day was called Cateaton Street, but an old writer about London states that this was also shortened to 'Catte.' There was a surname Catte or Katt, which might have belonged to a person who built houses along the street. Hog Lane, Spitalfields, we are told, was visited now and then by the porkers that were allowed to range in the fields and obtain what food they could. Doubtless they strolled up the lane on the chance of getting fragments from the kitchens of citizens. Was Duck Lane, Smithfield, damp enough to be attractive to ducks? It may once have been, but later it was known as Duke Street.
Many places in the city were named from eatables or other articles that were sold in them. This was the case with Pudding Lane and Pie Corner; Milk Street, too, is supposed to have been a milk market, but Honey Lane was not a depôt for honey, nor remarkable for its sweetness. The historian Stow says that it was both narrow and dark, needing much sweeping to keep it clean. The Poultry was a market for fowls, and Scalding Alley, close by, had houses in which people scalded poultry and prepared them for sale. An old name given to Grocers' Alley was Coney-slope Alley, for it had a market where coneys or rabbits could be bought. In Rood Lane formerly stood the Church of St. Margaret Pattens, beside which the women offered pattens to by-passers. These wooden elevators for the feet were much in demand at the time when London streets were often deep in mud, and the fields splashy or sticky with clay. But they did not sell bucklers in Bucklersbury; so far as we know, it was called after a citizen named Buckle, to whom the manor belonged. Grub Street did not have at all a pretty name, though some say it was first Grape Street; then it was altered to Milton Street in honour of our great poet. Little Britain or Britagne Street had a residence belonging to the Dukes of Brittany, and Barbican was notable for its Roman tower, around which were large gardens.
'I wish we could scrape enough money together to buy poor old Father a pair of slippers for his birthday,' said Jack; 'his old ones are all in holes, and I know he can't afford a new pair—he has had so many expenses since Mother's illness.'
Geoffrey looked up from his home-lessons and sighed deeply. 'Mymoney-box is quite empty,' he remarked, 'and Nellie and Hilda have not a farthing in the world.'
'That is true enough,' laughed Nellie. 'But, oh, Jack,' turning to her eldest brother, 'if only we could dosomethingfor Father, I should be so glad! He seems so worried lately, and I am sure it's because he can't get Mother all the nice things she ought to have now that she is getting better.'
'Couldn't I take out a broom and sweep a crossing?' asked Geoffrey; 'that would bring in a little, and I would not mind what I did, if it helped.'
'You must find your crossing first,' returned Jack. 'The roads are as dry as a bone at present, sothatwon't work, little stupid!'
'Little stupid' sighed again. 'If only I knew how to earn an honest penny!' he murmured.
'Or twopence,' said Hilda. 'I think twopence would be a little better.'
'I would rather it was half-a-crown,' put in Nellie.
There was silence for a moment; then Jack said slowly: 'I wonder what became of Uncle Harry after he went out to Australia. Father never writes to him; he doesn't know where he is now, and we have moved so many times that I expect Uncle does not know whereweare either. I dare say if he knew we were so badly off he would help us.'
'It's no good talking about Uncle Harry,' said Geoff; 'the question is, Canwehelp Father?'
'Look here,' cried Jack, suddenly; 'supposing, instead of saying "Canwe," we say "Wemust." Supposing,' he added, 'we all make up our minds toearn a shilling each as best we can, so that we may have four shillings to buy Father some slippers?'
'Capital!' exclaimed Nell; 'buthoware we to earn it?'
'Oh, we must each hit upon a plan for ourselves,' returned Jack; 'I vote we draw lots for the first victim to-night, and we will allow each victim two days to earn the shilling in, and then will draw for the next.'
Of course, they all began to puzzle their young brains about plans; but Jack cut some slips of paper into different lengths, and, placing them between his thumb and first finger, while he clasped his other fingers tightly over the ends inside his hand, he bade them each take one, and whoever drew the longest was to earn the first shilling.
Well, they all drew, and Jack took the slip which was left; but Nellie got the longest, and she retired to the window, and stared out for inspiration.
'I know what I shall do,' she announced, at last; 'I'll cut my twelve chrysanthemums out of my garden, take them down to town, and sell them in the street for a penny each.'
'Nellie!' cried Jack; 'you mustn't think of doing such a thing! Father would not like it, and I am sureweshould not. You are not half strong enough to go out into the streets.'
But Nell was firm. 'It's the only thing I can think of, Jack,' she replied, 'and Iwilldo it. We must earn some money somehow, and no one will recognise me if I put on my old frock, and a shawl over my head. We can't help being poor, Jack, and it is anhonestway of earning a shilling.'
Jack, however, looked a little worried. He admired Nellie's pluck, but he did not like the thought of her going out into the streets alone. Nevertheless, after some discussion, it was decided that she should have her way, on condition that Jack went with her to see that she was quite safe. It was agreed that the matter should be kept dark, and that if Mother asked where Jack and Nellie had gone next evening, the others were to say it was a secret.
So, after tea the following day, the two children stole out. Mother was resting in her own room, and Geoffrey and Hilda were at their lessons, though it must be confessed they found it hard to give their whole attention to them.
It was a good mile and a half down to the town, but Nellie trudged bravely on with her treasured chrysanthemums (she alone knew what it cost her to cut them), and Jack walked a little behind, for his sister said that flower-girls never had any one to escort them, and he must not let any one see he belonged to her.
When they arrived in town, Nellie took up her station at a busy corner, and timidly offered her flowers for sale, while her brother stood in a doorway not far off, pretending to read a book by the light of a street lamp, but in reality he was watching to see that she came to no harm.
One honest penny was earned—two; then Nell grew bolder, and ran after a man whom she thought a likely customer. But he pushed her roughly on one side, and she fell upon the pavement. Jack could have kicked that man, but he was out of sight in an instant, so the boy went and helped Nellie to rise instead. Gathering up her flowers, he entreated her to return home, and not to trouble any more. But the little girl bravely held out, assured him she was not hurt, and in the end persuaded him to go back to his doorway.
Ten minutes passed away without any more flowers being sold, then Nellie held out the best of all to a kind-looking gentleman who was passing slowly by.
He stopped, looked at the child somewhat curiously, and then said, 'No, little lass, I do not want any flowers; but I wonder if you can tell me where Greenfield Road is, eh?'
Nellie started, for that was the name of the road where she lived. However, she simply directed him, and was turning away to seek for another customer when he slipped a bright half-crown into her hand. The child was so astonished that for the moment she could say nothing, and when she recollected herself the gentleman had gone, and Jack was by her side, asking what had happened.
'Well,' he said, when she had told him, 'no more selling flowers to-night, Nell, so you can just come home at once, for you have done your part and more,' and he would not hear of her staying there any longer.
Together the two started for home, feeling very happy indeed; but scarcely had they got inside the door when Geoffrey literally rushed at them.
'Oh, Jack! Nellie!' he cried, 'you can't think what a splendid thing has happened! Who do you think turned up ten minutes ago? Uncle Harry; yes,Uncle Harry!He has been hunting for us for days. Oh, it seems too good to be true! He's in the dining-room now, with Father, and——'
'Oh, is he?' said a voice from behind, and who should appear on the scene but the kind gentleman who had given Nell half-a-crown! 'Why!' he exclaimed, suddenly, 'what's this I see? Well, if it isn't——Why, what does it all mean?' he asked, turning round to Father, who had followed him out, and was looking equally puzzled.
There was an awkward silence. Nellie coloured, and in her nervousness, down went all her pretty flowers on to the floor. But Jack came to the rescue, and blurted out the whole story on the spot.
Father turned his head away as Jack explained; indeed, he was much touched by the children's thoughtfulness; but Uncle Harry patted Nell's head, and praised her for her pluck. He said that Father ought to be proud of his four children, and I am sure Father was, though he said they must never think of going into the streets to sell flowers again.
Of course, the earning an honest penny business came to an end, for Uncle Harry had come back much better off than when he went out to Australia, and he gave the children a shilling each to buy Father some slippers, and something else for themselves besides.
Later on, he and Father became partners in a business of their own, and Nellie never had to think of selling her flowers again, or Geoffrey of sweeping a crossing.
J. A. Vivian.
"'No, little lass, I do not want any flowers.'""'No, little lass, I do not want any flowers.'"
"'Look out, Father, they are going to shoot you!'""'Look out, Father, they are going to shoot you!'"
Thomas M'Calmont had blue eyes, a mop of red hair, a moderate share of brains, and a most insatiable thirst for adventure. When his school-fellows made insulting remarks about his red locks, he was wont to answer, 'Ginger for pluck;' and, indeed, on several occasions, he had acted up to this saying there and then on the persons of his unfortunate persecutors.
Tommy was only eleven years old. Mrs. M'Calmont, his mother, regarded him as the most wonderful boy in the world, and would have utterly spoilt him, after the fashion of adoring mothers, had it not been that Mr. M'Calmont, seeing nothing more wonderful in his son than a red-headed, mischievous boy, set himself most diligently to curb Tom's youthful energy, and make an honest, sensible fellow of him.
They lived in the country, and Tom had three miles to go to his school. But Mr. M'Calmont also had business in Barton, so the pair set out together each morning in a trap drawn by a steady-going horse, who never shied or ran away, or did anything at all exciting. Tom was set down at the door of his school at nine o'clock, and called for at half-past four precisely, just like a grocery parcel. Never a chance for a frolic over the fields in the clear morning air, never any scrapes to get into! No gentle dawdles through the lanes after school, with occasional excursions into hedge or spinny after wild creatures, or the chance of a nice creepy adventure in the darkness of some winter's evening. The whole business, Tom thought, was humdrum and commonplace.
But at last, one early springtime, it happened that Mr. M'Calmont had urgent business at the town of Greenhurst, twenty miles away. It was a cross-country journey, where railways did not fit, so Mr. M'Calmont departed in his trap, leaving Tom and his mother in sole possession for a whole fortnight at Red House. Mrs. M'Calmont was secretly rather glad to be able to spoil her son as she liked.
Tom made the most of his advantages, and mother and son together revelled in the glorious sense of doing everything they liked best. Tom's favourite dishes appeared at every meal, bedtime came a good hour later than usual, and Tom also managed three clear days' 'old-soldiering' on the strength of a slight cold. But the last morning of liberty came, and as Tom dressed he carefully turned over in his mind how he should celebrate it. It was a beautiful morning after a week of heavy rain, and Tom had no wish for another day of coddling indoors.
Tom's mother packed his lunch-case with many dainties, and kissed him good-bye. Tom felt rather mean, 'like a wriggle-up worm' as he afterwards put it, and he half resolved to give up his plan and go soberly to school, for, to tell the truth, he had already resolved to play truant. Unhappily, as he turned into the lane from the drive gates, a rabbit dashed across the road right in front of him, and frisked into the hedge in a most tantalising manner, as if to show his contempt for stupid human beings who plod along the beaten track. That killed all Tom's scruples, and he was soon scurrying through the fields, scrambling over hedges, leaping ditches, and getting his clothes into as pretty a pickle as could be desired.
What a splendid day he spent, following no settled route, but wandering here and there as the impulse of the moment directed, and feeling in all his boyish frame the gladness of life and of spring! He lunched in a little wood, with a fallen tree for a throne, and a rippling stream to play him music while he feasted. Then he sauntered leisurely on in the afternoon sunlight, many thoughts busy beneath his comical red thatch. The long hours in the open after his three days indoors made him sleepy at last, and he was glad to discover behind the temporary abode of a railway navvy a little rough wood hut, where, with a friendly dog for company, and some straw for a couch, he was soon fast asleep.
Tom was dreaming. He heard a babel of voices fierce and angry, and was striving very hard to hear what they were saying; but, though the voices seemed loud, he could not distinguish one word from another, and in trying to do so he awoke. The voices continued, but they were not loud at all, though rough and angry. They came from the navvy shelter, and Tom could hear plainly every word. He was about to move away when he heard his father's name mentioned, qualified with expressions of hatred. Plainly it was right that he should hear what these men had to say about his father, so Tom crouched nearer the wall of the hut and listened. His blue eyes grew big and round, and his face filled with horror.
Tom knew that the navvies at work in the district were not regular workmen, but a very rough set. A gang of them had been almost a terror to the neighbourhood, and Tom's father had been foremost in bringing the guilty ones to justice. Three of their friends were in the hut, one with a revolver. They had learned from a workman that Mr. M'Calmont was to return from Greenhurst that evening, and they were discussing the spot where they could best waylay and shoot him. 'We won't kill him, only damage him a bit,' were the last words Tom heard as he crept from his hiding-place and made his way quietly into the wood.
Tom's fear began to give way to excitement. He had an adventure at last, and all to himself. To go home for help would be no use and would only terrify his mother. The setting sun showed that the evening was advancing, and his father would soon be coming, so that the only thing was to go and hide near the spot where the men had planned to wait. This was where two roads merged into one, at the bottom of a steep hill overhung with trees. Mr. M'Calmont might come by either of the two roads—it would depend on whether he wished to go into Barton or not.
Tom made his way to his post as quickly as possible, and found himself a hiding-place in a hole beneath the hedge, where only a boy could wriggle, and where he hoped that in the dusk he would be unobserved. His post was just the point where the road forked; the men had planned to stand some yards from that point, where it was more shaded bytrees, so Tom hoped that when he heard the trap approaching, and could distinguish on which road it was, he would have time to run and warn his father, who would then, he did not doubt, with the aid of his valiant son, be a match for any three men.
It was rather a lonely watch. Tom was getting hungry again and very tired and stiff. As the light faded, his excitement faded too, and it was almost a relief to hear the stealthy arrival of the conspirators. Then another long wait, until at last he heard the cart-wheels going over unrolled stones, which told that it was not on the Barton road. Out of his hiding-place he crept, and darted along the grass at the road-side. An unlucky stumble over a fallen branch betrayed him, but as he fell he shouted with all his might, 'Look out, Father, they are going to shoot you!' Then there was a rush, a crack as something came into violent contact with his head, the world went round, and then—darkness.
When Tom woke, the morning sun was shining into his own room. His mother was busy at the window, fixing the curtain to keep the light from his face, and Tom could see that she was crying. A great fear entered his mind, and, as his mother turned and looked at him, all he could say was 'Father?'
'Quite safe, my brave laddie, for you frightened the men away. My dear, brave boy.'
Then joy filled the heart of Thomas M'Calmont, and for once the fault of playing truant went unpunished.
Jessie Harvey.