Chapter Eleven.Sir Richard and Mr Brisbane discuss, and Di listens.“My dear sir,” said Sir Richard Brandon, over a glass of sherry one evening after dinner, to George Brisbane, Esquire of Lively Hall, “the management of the poor is a difficult, a very difficult subject to deal with.”“It is, unquestionably,” assented Brisbane, “so difficult, that I am afraid some of our legislators are unwilling to face it; but it ought to be faced, for there is much to be done in the way of improving the poor-laws, which at present tend to foster pauperism in the young, and bear heavily on the aged. Meanwhile, philanthropists find it necessary to take up the case of the poor as a private enterprise.”“Pardon me, Brisbane, there I think you are in error. Everything requisite to afford relief to the poor is provided by the state. If the poor will not take advantage of the provision, or the machinery is not well oiled and worked by the officials, the remedy lies in greater wisdom on the part of the poor, and supervision of officials—not in further legislation. But what do you mean by our poor-laws bearing heavily on the aged?”“I mean that the old people should be better cared for, simply because of their age. Great age is a sufficient argument of itself, I think, for throwing a veil of oblivion over the past, and extending charity with a liberal, pitying hand, because of present distress, and irremediable infirmities. Whatever may be the truth with regard to paupers and workhouses in general, there ought to be a distinct refuge for the aged, which should be attractive—not repulsive, as at present—and age, without reference to character or antecedents, should constitute the title to enter it. ‘God pity the aged poor,’ is often my prayer, ‘and enable us to feel more for them in the dreary, pitiful termination of their career.’”“But, my dear sir,” returned Sir Richard, “you would have old paupers crowding into such workhouses, or refuges as you call them, by the thousand.”“Well, better that they should do so than that they should die miserably by thousands in filthy and empty rooms—sometimes without fire, or food, or physic, or a single word of kindness to ease their sad descent into the grave.”“But, then, Brisbane, as I said, it is their own fault—they have the workhouse to go to.”“But, then, asIsaid, Sir Richard, the workhouse is rendered so repulsive to them that they keep out of it as long as they can, and too often keep out so long that it is too late, and their end is as I have described. However, until things are better arranged, we must do what we can for them in a private way. Indeed Scripture teaches distinctly the necessity for private charity, by such words as— ‘the poor ye have always with you,’ and, ‘blessed are they who consider the poor.’ Don’t you agree with me, Mr Welland?”Stephen Welland—who, since the day of his accident, had become intimate with Mr Brisbane and Sir Richard—replied that although deeply interested in the discussion going on, his knowledge of the subject was too slight to justify his holding any decided opinion.“Take another glass of sherry,” said Sir Richard, pushing the decanter towards the young man; “it will stir your brain and enable you to see your way more clearly through this knotty point.”“No more, thank you, Sir Richard.”“Come, come—fill your glass,” said the knight; “you and I must set an example of moderate drinking to Brisbane, as a counter-blast to his Blue-Ribbonism.”Welland smiled and re-filled his glass.“Nay, I never thrust my opinions on that point on people,” said Brisbane, with a laugh, “but if youwilldraw the sword and challenge me, I won’t refuse the combat!”“No, no, Brisbane. Please spare us! I re-sheath the sword, and need not that you should go all over it again. I quite understand that you are no bigot, that you think the Bible clearly permits and encourages total abstinence in certain circumstances, though it does not teach it; that, although a total abstainer yourself, you do not refuse to give drink to your friends if they desire it—and all that sort of thing; but pray let it pass, and I won’t offend again.”“Ah, Sir Richard, you are an unfair foe. You draw your sword to give me a wound through our young friend, and then sheath it before I can return on you. However, you have stated my position so well that I forgive you and shake hands. But, to return to the matter of private charity, are you aware how little suffices to support the poor—how very far the mere crumbs that fall from a rich man’s table will go to sustain them I Now, just take the glass of wine which Welland has swallowed—against his expressed wish, observe, and merely to oblige you, Sir Richard. Its value is, say, sixpence. Excuse me, I do not of course refer to its real value, but to its recognised restaurant-value! Well, I happened the other day to be at a meeting of old women at the ‘Beehive’ in Spitalfields; there were some eighty or a hundred of them. With dim eyes and trembling fingers they were sewing garments for the boys who are to be sent out to Canada. Such feeble workers could not find employment elsewhere, but by liberal hearts a plan has been devised whereby many an aged one, past work, can earn a few pence. Twopence an hour is the pay. They are in the habit of meeting once a week for three hours, and thus earn sixpence. Many of these women, I may remark, are true Christians. I wondered how far such a sum would go, and how the poor old things spent it. One woman sixty-three years of age enlightened me. She was a feeble old creature, suffering from chronic rheumatism and a dislocated hip. When I questioned her she said—‘I have difficulties indeed, but I tell my Father all. Sometimes, when I’m very hungry and have nothing to eat, I tell Him, and I know He hears me, for He takes the feeling away, and it only leaves me a little faint.’“‘But how do you spend the sixpence that you earn here?’ I asked.“‘Well, sir,’ she said, ‘sometimes, when very hard-up, I spend part of it this way:— I buy a hap’orth o’ tea, a hap’orth o’ sugar, a hap’orth o’ drippin’, a hap’orth o’ wood and a penn’orth o’ bread. Sometimes when better off than usual I get a heap of coals at a time, perhaps quarter of a hundredweight, because I save a farthing by getting the whole quarter, an’ that lasts me a long time, and wi’ the farthing I mayhap treat myself to a drop o’ milk. Sometimes, too, I buy my penn’orth o’ wood from the coopers and chop it myself, for I can make it go further that way.’“So, you see, Welland,” continued Brisbane, “your glass of sherry would have gone a long way in the domestic calculations of a poor old woman, who very likely once had sons who were as fond of her and as proud of her, as you now are of your own mother.”“It is very sad that any class of human beings should be reduced to so low an ebb,” returned the young man seriously.“Yes, and it is very difficult,” said Sir Richard, “to reduce one’s mental action so as to fully understand the exact bearing of such minute monetary arrangements, especially for one who is accustomed to regard the subject of finance from a different standpoint.”“But the saddest thing of all to me, and the most difficult to understand,” resumed Brisbane, “is the state of mind and feeling of those professing Christians, who, with ample means, give exceedingly little towards the alleviation of such distress, take little or no interest in the condition of the poor, and allow as much waste in their establishments as would, if turned to account, become streamlets of absolute wealth to many of the destitute.”This latter remark was a thrust which told pretty severely on the host—all the more so, perhaps, that he knew Brisbane did not intend it as a thrust at all, for he was utterly ignorant of the fact that his friend seldom gave anything away in charity, and even found it difficult to pay his way and make the two ends meet with his poor little five thousand a year—for, you see, if a man has to keep up a fairly large establishment, with a town and country house, and have his yacht, and a good stable, and indulge in betting, and give frequent dinners, and take shootings in Scotland, and amuse himself with jewellery, etcetera, why, he must pay for it, you know!“The greatest trouble of these poor women, I found,” continued Brisbane, “is their rent, which varies from 2 shillings to 3 shillings a week for their little rooms, and it is a constant struggle with them to keep out of ‘the House,’ so greatly dreaded by the respectable poor. One of them told me she had lately saved up a shilling with which she bought a pair of ‘specs,’ and was greatly comforted thereby, for they helped her fading eyesight. I thought at the time what a deal of good might be done and comfort given if people whose sight is changing would send their disused spectacles to the home of Industry in Commercial Street, Spitalfields, for the poor. By the way, your sight must have changed more than once, Sir Richard! Have you not a pair or two of disused spectacles to spare?”“Well, yes, I have a pair or two, but they have gold rims, which would be rather incongruous on the noses of poor people, don’t you think?”“Oh! by no means. We could manage to convert the rims into blue steel, and leave something over for sugar and tea.”“Well, I’ll send them,” said Sir Richard with a laugh. “By the way, you mentioned a plan whereby those poor women were enabled to do useful work, although too old for much. What plan might that be?”“It is a very simple plan,” answered Brisbane, “and consists chiefly in the work being apportioned according to ability. Worn garments and odds and ends of stuff are sent to the Beehive from all parts of the country by sympathising friends. These are heaped together in one corner of the room where the poor old things work. Down before this mass of stuff are set certain of the company who have large constructive powers. These skilfully contrive, cut out, alter, and piece together all kinds of clothing, including the house slippers and Glengarry caps worn by the little rescued boys. Even handkerchiefs and babies’ long frocks are conjured out of a petticoat or muslin lining! The work, thus selected and arranged, is put into the hands of those who, though not skilful in originating, have the plodding patience to carry out the designs of the more ingenious, and so garments are produced to cover the shivering limbs of any destitute child that may enter the Refuge as well as to complete the outfits of the little emigrants.”“Well, Brisbane, I freely confess,” said Sir Richard, “that you have roused a degree of interest in poor old women which I never felt before, and it does seem to me that we might do a good deal more for them with our mere superfluities and cast-off clothing. Do the old women receive any food on these working nights besides the pence they earn?”“No, I am sorry to say they do not—at least not usually. You see it takes a hundred or more sixpences every Monday merely to keep that sewing-class going, and more than once there has been a talk of closing it for want of funds, but the poor creatures have pleaded so pitifully that they might still be allowed to attend, even though they should work athalf-price, that it has been hitherto continued. You see it is a matter of no small moment for those women merely to spend three hours in a room with a good fire, besides which they delight in the hymns and prayers and the loving counsel and comfort they receive. It enables them to go out into the cold, even though hungry, with more heart and trust in God as they limp slowly back again to their fireless grates and bare cupboards.“The day on which I visited the place I could not bear the thought of this, so I gave a sovereign to let them have a good meal. This sufficed. Large kettles are always kept in readiness for such occasions. These were put on immediately by the matron. The elder girls in training on the floor above set to work to cut thick slices of bread and butter, the tea urns were soon brought down, and in twenty minutes I had the satisfaction of seeing the whole hundred eating heartily and enjoying a hot meal. My own soul was fed, too—for the words came to me, ‘I was an hungered and ye gave me meat,’ and one old woman, sitting near me, said, ‘I have a long walk home, and have been casting over in my mind all the afternoon whether I could spare a penny for a cup of tea on the way. How good the Lord is to send this!’”With large, round, glittering eyes and parted lips, and heightened colour and varying expression, sat little Di Brandon at her father’s elbow, almost motionless, her little hands clasped tight, and uttering never a word, but gazing intently at the speakers and drinking it all in, while sorrow, surprise, sympathy, indignation, and intense pity stirred her little heart to its very centre.In the nursery she retailed it all over, with an eager face and rapid commentary, to the sympathetic Mrs Screwbury, and finally, in bed, presided over millions of old women who made up mountains of old garments, devoured fields of buttered bread, and drank oceans of steaming tea!
“My dear sir,” said Sir Richard Brandon, over a glass of sherry one evening after dinner, to George Brisbane, Esquire of Lively Hall, “the management of the poor is a difficult, a very difficult subject to deal with.”
“It is, unquestionably,” assented Brisbane, “so difficult, that I am afraid some of our legislators are unwilling to face it; but it ought to be faced, for there is much to be done in the way of improving the poor-laws, which at present tend to foster pauperism in the young, and bear heavily on the aged. Meanwhile, philanthropists find it necessary to take up the case of the poor as a private enterprise.”
“Pardon me, Brisbane, there I think you are in error. Everything requisite to afford relief to the poor is provided by the state. If the poor will not take advantage of the provision, or the machinery is not well oiled and worked by the officials, the remedy lies in greater wisdom on the part of the poor, and supervision of officials—not in further legislation. But what do you mean by our poor-laws bearing heavily on the aged?”
“I mean that the old people should be better cared for, simply because of their age. Great age is a sufficient argument of itself, I think, for throwing a veil of oblivion over the past, and extending charity with a liberal, pitying hand, because of present distress, and irremediable infirmities. Whatever may be the truth with regard to paupers and workhouses in general, there ought to be a distinct refuge for the aged, which should be attractive—not repulsive, as at present—and age, without reference to character or antecedents, should constitute the title to enter it. ‘God pity the aged poor,’ is often my prayer, ‘and enable us to feel more for them in the dreary, pitiful termination of their career.’”
“But, my dear sir,” returned Sir Richard, “you would have old paupers crowding into such workhouses, or refuges as you call them, by the thousand.”
“Well, better that they should do so than that they should die miserably by thousands in filthy and empty rooms—sometimes without fire, or food, or physic, or a single word of kindness to ease their sad descent into the grave.”
“But, then, Brisbane, as I said, it is their own fault—they have the workhouse to go to.”
“But, then, asIsaid, Sir Richard, the workhouse is rendered so repulsive to them that they keep out of it as long as they can, and too often keep out so long that it is too late, and their end is as I have described. However, until things are better arranged, we must do what we can for them in a private way. Indeed Scripture teaches distinctly the necessity for private charity, by such words as— ‘the poor ye have always with you,’ and, ‘blessed are they who consider the poor.’ Don’t you agree with me, Mr Welland?”
Stephen Welland—who, since the day of his accident, had become intimate with Mr Brisbane and Sir Richard—replied that although deeply interested in the discussion going on, his knowledge of the subject was too slight to justify his holding any decided opinion.
“Take another glass of sherry,” said Sir Richard, pushing the decanter towards the young man; “it will stir your brain and enable you to see your way more clearly through this knotty point.”
“No more, thank you, Sir Richard.”
“Come, come—fill your glass,” said the knight; “you and I must set an example of moderate drinking to Brisbane, as a counter-blast to his Blue-Ribbonism.”
Welland smiled and re-filled his glass.
“Nay, I never thrust my opinions on that point on people,” said Brisbane, with a laugh, “but if youwilldraw the sword and challenge me, I won’t refuse the combat!”
“No, no, Brisbane. Please spare us! I re-sheath the sword, and need not that you should go all over it again. I quite understand that you are no bigot, that you think the Bible clearly permits and encourages total abstinence in certain circumstances, though it does not teach it; that, although a total abstainer yourself, you do not refuse to give drink to your friends if they desire it—and all that sort of thing; but pray let it pass, and I won’t offend again.”
“Ah, Sir Richard, you are an unfair foe. You draw your sword to give me a wound through our young friend, and then sheath it before I can return on you. However, you have stated my position so well that I forgive you and shake hands. But, to return to the matter of private charity, are you aware how little suffices to support the poor—how very far the mere crumbs that fall from a rich man’s table will go to sustain them I Now, just take the glass of wine which Welland has swallowed—against his expressed wish, observe, and merely to oblige you, Sir Richard. Its value is, say, sixpence. Excuse me, I do not of course refer to its real value, but to its recognised restaurant-value! Well, I happened the other day to be at a meeting of old women at the ‘Beehive’ in Spitalfields; there were some eighty or a hundred of them. With dim eyes and trembling fingers they were sewing garments for the boys who are to be sent out to Canada. Such feeble workers could not find employment elsewhere, but by liberal hearts a plan has been devised whereby many an aged one, past work, can earn a few pence. Twopence an hour is the pay. They are in the habit of meeting once a week for three hours, and thus earn sixpence. Many of these women, I may remark, are true Christians. I wondered how far such a sum would go, and how the poor old things spent it. One woman sixty-three years of age enlightened me. She was a feeble old creature, suffering from chronic rheumatism and a dislocated hip. When I questioned her she said—‘I have difficulties indeed, but I tell my Father all. Sometimes, when I’m very hungry and have nothing to eat, I tell Him, and I know He hears me, for He takes the feeling away, and it only leaves me a little faint.’
“‘But how do you spend the sixpence that you earn here?’ I asked.
“‘Well, sir,’ she said, ‘sometimes, when very hard-up, I spend part of it this way:— I buy a hap’orth o’ tea, a hap’orth o’ sugar, a hap’orth o’ drippin’, a hap’orth o’ wood and a penn’orth o’ bread. Sometimes when better off than usual I get a heap of coals at a time, perhaps quarter of a hundredweight, because I save a farthing by getting the whole quarter, an’ that lasts me a long time, and wi’ the farthing I mayhap treat myself to a drop o’ milk. Sometimes, too, I buy my penn’orth o’ wood from the coopers and chop it myself, for I can make it go further that way.’
“So, you see, Welland,” continued Brisbane, “your glass of sherry would have gone a long way in the domestic calculations of a poor old woman, who very likely once had sons who were as fond of her and as proud of her, as you now are of your own mother.”
“It is very sad that any class of human beings should be reduced to so low an ebb,” returned the young man seriously.
“Yes, and it is very difficult,” said Sir Richard, “to reduce one’s mental action so as to fully understand the exact bearing of such minute monetary arrangements, especially for one who is accustomed to regard the subject of finance from a different standpoint.”
“But the saddest thing of all to me, and the most difficult to understand,” resumed Brisbane, “is the state of mind and feeling of those professing Christians, who, with ample means, give exceedingly little towards the alleviation of such distress, take little or no interest in the condition of the poor, and allow as much waste in their establishments as would, if turned to account, become streamlets of absolute wealth to many of the destitute.”
This latter remark was a thrust which told pretty severely on the host—all the more so, perhaps, that he knew Brisbane did not intend it as a thrust at all, for he was utterly ignorant of the fact that his friend seldom gave anything away in charity, and even found it difficult to pay his way and make the two ends meet with his poor little five thousand a year—for, you see, if a man has to keep up a fairly large establishment, with a town and country house, and have his yacht, and a good stable, and indulge in betting, and give frequent dinners, and take shootings in Scotland, and amuse himself with jewellery, etcetera, why, he must pay for it, you know!
“The greatest trouble of these poor women, I found,” continued Brisbane, “is their rent, which varies from 2 shillings to 3 shillings a week for their little rooms, and it is a constant struggle with them to keep out of ‘the House,’ so greatly dreaded by the respectable poor. One of them told me she had lately saved up a shilling with which she bought a pair of ‘specs,’ and was greatly comforted thereby, for they helped her fading eyesight. I thought at the time what a deal of good might be done and comfort given if people whose sight is changing would send their disused spectacles to the home of Industry in Commercial Street, Spitalfields, for the poor. By the way, your sight must have changed more than once, Sir Richard! Have you not a pair or two of disused spectacles to spare?”
“Well, yes, I have a pair or two, but they have gold rims, which would be rather incongruous on the noses of poor people, don’t you think?”
“Oh! by no means. We could manage to convert the rims into blue steel, and leave something over for sugar and tea.”
“Well, I’ll send them,” said Sir Richard with a laugh. “By the way, you mentioned a plan whereby those poor women were enabled to do useful work, although too old for much. What plan might that be?”
“It is a very simple plan,” answered Brisbane, “and consists chiefly in the work being apportioned according to ability. Worn garments and odds and ends of stuff are sent to the Beehive from all parts of the country by sympathising friends. These are heaped together in one corner of the room where the poor old things work. Down before this mass of stuff are set certain of the company who have large constructive powers. These skilfully contrive, cut out, alter, and piece together all kinds of clothing, including the house slippers and Glengarry caps worn by the little rescued boys. Even handkerchiefs and babies’ long frocks are conjured out of a petticoat or muslin lining! The work, thus selected and arranged, is put into the hands of those who, though not skilful in originating, have the plodding patience to carry out the designs of the more ingenious, and so garments are produced to cover the shivering limbs of any destitute child that may enter the Refuge as well as to complete the outfits of the little emigrants.”
“Well, Brisbane, I freely confess,” said Sir Richard, “that you have roused a degree of interest in poor old women which I never felt before, and it does seem to me that we might do a good deal more for them with our mere superfluities and cast-off clothing. Do the old women receive any food on these working nights besides the pence they earn?”
“No, I am sorry to say they do not—at least not usually. You see it takes a hundred or more sixpences every Monday merely to keep that sewing-class going, and more than once there has been a talk of closing it for want of funds, but the poor creatures have pleaded so pitifully that they might still be allowed to attend, even though they should work athalf-price, that it has been hitherto continued. You see it is a matter of no small moment for those women merely to spend three hours in a room with a good fire, besides which they delight in the hymns and prayers and the loving counsel and comfort they receive. It enables them to go out into the cold, even though hungry, with more heart and trust in God as they limp slowly back again to their fireless grates and bare cupboards.
“The day on which I visited the place I could not bear the thought of this, so I gave a sovereign to let them have a good meal. This sufficed. Large kettles are always kept in readiness for such occasions. These were put on immediately by the matron. The elder girls in training on the floor above set to work to cut thick slices of bread and butter, the tea urns were soon brought down, and in twenty minutes I had the satisfaction of seeing the whole hundred eating heartily and enjoying a hot meal. My own soul was fed, too—for the words came to me, ‘I was an hungered and ye gave me meat,’ and one old woman, sitting near me, said, ‘I have a long walk home, and have been casting over in my mind all the afternoon whether I could spare a penny for a cup of tea on the way. How good the Lord is to send this!’”
With large, round, glittering eyes and parted lips, and heightened colour and varying expression, sat little Di Brandon at her father’s elbow, almost motionless, her little hands clasped tight, and uttering never a word, but gazing intently at the speakers and drinking it all in, while sorrow, surprise, sympathy, indignation, and intense pity stirred her little heart to its very centre.
In the nursery she retailed it all over, with an eager face and rapid commentary, to the sympathetic Mrs Screwbury, and finally, in bed, presided over millions of old women who made up mountains of old garments, devoured fields of buttered bread, and drank oceans of steaming tea!
Chapter Twelve.Sammy Twitter’s Fall.We must turn now to Samuel Twitter, senior. That genial old man was busy one morning in the nursery, amusing little Mita, who had by that time attained to what we may style the dawn-of-intelligence period of life, and was what Mrs Loper, Mr Crackaby, and Mr Stickler called “engaging.”“Mariar!” shouted Mr Twitter to his amiable spouse, who was finishing her toilet in the adjoining room. “She’s makin’ faces at me—yes, she’s actually attempting to laugh!”“The darling!” came from the next room, in emphatic tones.“Mariar!”“Well, dear.”“Is Sammy down in the parlour?”“I don’t know. Why?”“Because he’s not in his room—tumti-iddidy-too-too—you charming thing!”It must be understood that the latter part of this sentence had reference to the baby, not to Mrs Twitter.Having expended his affections and all his spare time on Mita,—who, to do her justice, made faces enough at him to repay his attentions in full,—Mr Twitter descended to the breakfast parlour and asked the domestic if she had seen Sammy yet.“No, sir, I hain’t.”“Are you sure he’s not in his room?”“Well, no, sir, but I knocked twice and got no answer.”“Very odd; Sammy didn’t use to be late, nor to sleep so soundly,” said Mr Twitter, ascending to the attic of his eldest son.Obtaining no reply to his knock, he opened the door and found that the room was empty. More than that, he discovered, to his surprise and alarm, that Sammy’s bed was unruffled, so that Sammy himself must have slept elsewhere!In silent consternation the father descended to his bedroom and said, “Mariar, Sammy’s gone!”“Dead!” exclaimed Mrs Twitter with a look of horror.“No, no; not dead, but gone—gone out of the house. Did not sleep in it last night, apparently.”Poor Mrs Twitter sank into a chair and gazed at her husband with a stricken face.Up to that date the family had prospered steadily, and, may we not add, deservedly; their children having been trained in the knowledge of God, their duties having been conscientiously discharged, their sympathies with suffering humanity encouraged, and their general principles carried into practical effect. The consequence was that they were a well-ordered and loving family. There are many such in our land—families which are guided by the Spirit and the Word of God. The sudden disappearance, therefore, of the eldest son of the Twitter family was not an event to be taken lightly for he had never slept out of his own particular bed without the distinct knowledge of his father and mother since he was born, and his appearance at the breakfast-table had been hitherto as certain as the rising of the sun or the winding of the eight-day clock by his father every Saturday night.In addition to all this, Sammy was of an amiable disposition, and had been trustworthy, so that when he came to the years of discretion—which his father had fixed at fifteen—he was allowed a latch-key, as he had frequently to work at his employer’s books till a lateish hour,—sometimes eleven o’clock—after the family, including the domestic, had gone to rest.“Now, Samuel,” said Mrs Twitter, with a slight return of her wonted energy, “there can be only two explanations of this. Either the dear boy has met with an accident, or—”“Well, Mariar, why do you pause?”“Because it seems so absurd to think of, much more to talk of, his going wrong or running away! The first thing I’ve got to do, Samuel, is to go to the police-office, report the case, and hear what they have to advise.”“The very thing I was thinking of, Mariar; but don’t it strike you it might be better thatIshould go to the station?”“No, Samuel, the station is near. I can do that, while you take a cab, go straight away to his office and find out at what hour he left. Now, go; we have not a moment to lose. Mary,” (this was the next in order to Sammy), “will look after the children’s breakfast. Make haste!”Mr Twitter made haste—made it so fast that he made too much of it, over-shot the mark, and went down-stairs head foremost, saluting the front door with a rap that threw that of the postman entirely into the shade. But Twitter was a springy as well as an athletic man. He arose undamaged, made no remark to his more than astonished children, and went his way.Mrs Twitter immediately followed her husband’s example in a less violent and eccentric manner. The superintendent of police received her with that affable display of grave good-will which is a characteristic of the force. He listened with patient attention to the rather incoherent tale which she told with much agitation—unbosoming herself to this officer to a quite unnecessary extent as to private feelings and opinions, and, somehow, feeling as if he were a trusted and confidential friend though he was an absolute stranger—such is the wonderful influence of Power in self-possessed repose, over Weakness in distressful uncertainty!Having heard all that the good lady had to say, with scarcely a word of interruption; having put a few pertinent and relevant questions and noted the replies, the superintendent advised Mrs Twitter to calm herself, for that it would soon be “all right;” to return home, and abide the issue of his exertions; to make herself as easy in the circumstances as possible, and, finally, sent her away with the first ray of comfort that had entered her heart since the news of Sammy’s disappearance had burst upon her like a thunderclap.“What a thing it is,” she muttered to herself on her way home, “to put things into the hands of aman—one you can feel sure will do everything sensibly and well, and without fuss.” The good lady meant no disparagement to her sex by this—far from it; she referred to a manly man as compared with an unmanly one, and she thought, for one moment, rather disparagingly about the salute which her Samuel’s bald pate had given to the door that morning. Probably she failed to think of the fussy manner in which she herself had assaulted the superintendent of police, for it is said that people seldom see themselves!But Mrs Twitter was by no means bitter in her thoughts, and her conscience twitted her a little for having perhaps done Samuel a slight injustice.Indeed shehaddone him injustice, for that estimable little man went about his inquiries after the lost Sammy with a lump as big as a walnut on the top of his head, and with a degree of persistent energy that might have made the superintendent himself envious.“Not been at the office for two days, sir!” exclaimed Mr Twitter, repeating—in surprised indignation, for he could not believe it—the words of Sammy’s employer, who was a merchant in the hardware line.“No, sir,” said the hardware man, whose face seemed as hard as his ware.“Do—you—mean—to—tell—me,” said Twitter, with deliberate solemnity, “that my son Samuel has not been in this office fortwo days?”“That is precisely what I mean to tell you,” returned the hardware man, “and I mean to tell you, moreover, that your son has been very irregular of late in his attendance, and that on more than one occasion he has come here drunk.”“Drunk!” repeated Twitter, almost in a shout.“Yes, sir, drunk—intoxicated.”The hardware man seemed at that moment to Mr Twitter the hardest-ware man that ever confronted him. He stood for some moments aghast and speechless.“Are you aware, sir,” he said at last, in impressive tones, “that my son Samuel wears the blue ribbon?”The hardware man inquired, with an expression of affected surprise, what that had to do with the question; and further, gave it as his opinion that a bit of blue ribbon was no better than a bit of red or green ribbon if it had not something better behind it.This latter remark, although by no means meant to soothe, had the effect of reducing Mr Twitter to a condition of sudden humility.“There, sir,” said he, “I entirely agree with you, but I had believed—indeed it seems to me almost impossible to believe otherwise—that my poor boy had religious principle behind his blue ribbon.”This was said in such a meek tone, and with such a woe-begone look as the conviction began to dawn that Sammy was not immaculate—that the hardware man began visibly to soften, and at last a confidential talk was established, in which was revealed such a series of irregularities on the part of the erring son, that the poor father’s heart was crushed for the time, and, as it were, trodden in the dust. In his extremity, he looked up to God and found relief in rolling his care upon Him.As he slowly recovered from the shock, Twitter’s brain resumed its wonted activity.“You have a number of clerks, I believe?” he suddenly asked the hardware man.“Yes, I have—four of them.”“Would you object to taking me through your warehouse, as if to show it to me, and allow me to look at your clerks?”“Certainly not. Come along.”On entering, they found one tying up a parcel, one writing busily, one reading a book, and one balancing a ruler on his nose. The latter, on being thus caught in the act, gave a short laugh, returned the ruler to its place, and quietly went on with his work. The reader of the book started, endeavoured to conceal the volume, in which effort he was unsuccessful, and became very red in the face as he resumed his pen.The employer took no notice, and Mr Twitter looked very hard at the hardware in the distant end of the warehouse, just over the desk at which the clerks sat. He made a few undertoned remarks to the master, and then, crossing over to the desk, said:—“Mr Dobbs, may I have the pleasure of a few minutes’ conversation with you outside?”“C–certainly, sir,” replied Dobbs, rising with a redder face than ever, and putting on his hat.“Will you be so good as to tell me, Mr Dobbs,” said Twitter, in a quiet but very decided way when outside, “where my son Samuel Twitter spent last night?”Twitter looked steadily in the clerk’s eyes as he put this question. He was making a bold stroke for success as an amateur detective, and, as is frequently the result of bold strokes, he succeeded.“Eh! your—your—son S–Samuel,” stammered Dobbs, looking at Twitter’s breast-pin, and then at the ground, while varying expressions of guilty shame and defiance flitted across his face.He had a heavy, somewhat sulky face, with indecision of character stamped on it. Mr Twitter saw that and took advantage of the latter quality.“My poor boy,” he said, “don’t attempt to deceive me. You are guilty, and you know it. Stay, don’t speak yet. I have no wish to injure you. On the contrary, I pray God to bless and save you; but what I want with you at this moment is to learn where my dear boy is. If you tell me, no further notice shall be taken of this matter, I assure you.”“Does—does—he know anything about this?” asked Dobbs, glancing in the direction of the warehouse of the hardware man.“No, nothing of your having led Sammy astray, if that’s what you mean,—at least, not from me, and you may depend on it he shall hear nothing, if you only confide in me. Of course he may have his suspicions.”“Well, sir,” said Dobbs, with a sigh of relief, “he’s in my lodgings.”Having ascertained the address of the lodgings, the poor father called a cab and soon stood by the side of a bed on which his son Sammy lay sprawling in the helpless attitude in which he had fallen down the night before, after a season of drunken riot. He was in a heavy sleep, with his still innocent-looking features tinged with the first blight of dissipation.“Sammy,” said the father, in a husky voice, as he shook him gently by the arm; but the poor boy made no answer—even a roughish shake failed to draw from him more than the grumbled desire, “let me alone.”“Oh! God spare and save him!” murmured the father, in a still husky voice, as he fell on his knees by the bedside and prayed—prayed as though his heart were breaking, while the object of his prayer lay apparently unconscious through it all.He rose, and was standing by the bedside, uncertain how to act, when a heavy tread was heard on the landing, the door was thrown open, and the landlady, announcing “a gentleman, sir,” ushered in the superintendent of police, who looked at Mr Twitter with a slight expression of surprise.“You are here before me, I see, sir,” he said.“Yes, but how did you come to find out that he was here?”“Well, I had not much difficulty. You see it is part of our duty to keep our eyes open,” replied the superintendent, with a peculiar smile, “and I have on several occasions observed your son entering this house with a companion in a condition which did not quite harmonise with his blue ribbon, so, after your good lady explained the matter to me this morning I came straight here.”“Thank you—thank you. It isverykind. I—you—it could not have been better managed.”Mr Twitter stopped and looked helplessly at the figure on the bed.“Perhaps,” said the superintendent, with much delicacy of feeling, “you would prefer to be alone with your boy when he awakes. If I can be of any further use to you, you know where to find me. Good-day, sir.”Without waiting for a reply the considerate superintendent left the room.“Oh! Sammy, Sammy, speak to me, my dear boy—speak to your old father!” he cried, turning again to the bed and kneeling beside it; but the drunken sleeper did not move.Rising hastily he went to the door and called the landlady.“I’ll go home, missis,” he said, “and send the poor lad’s mother to him.”“Very well, sir, I’ll look well after ’im till she comes.”Twitter was gone in a moment, and the old landlady returned to her lodger’s room. There, to her surprise, she found Sammy up and hastily pulling on his boots.In truth he had been only shamming sleep, and, although still very drunk, was quite capable of looking after himself. He had indeed been asleep when his father’s entrance awoke him, but a feeling of intense shame had induced him to remain quite still, and then, having commenced with this unspoken lie, he felt constrained to carry it out. But the thought of facing his mother he could not bear, for the boy had a sensitive spirit and was keenly alive to the terrible fall he had made. At the same time he was too cowardly to face the consequences. Dressing himself as well as he could, he rushed from the house in spite of the earnest entreaties of the old landlady, so that when the distracted mother came to embrace and forgive her erring child she found that he had fled.Plunging into the crowded thoroughfares of the great city, and walking swiftly along without aim or desire, eaten up with shame, and rendered desperate by remorse, the now reckless youth sought refuge in a low grog-shop, and called for a glass of beer.“Well, I say, you’re com—comin’ it raither strong, ain’t you, young feller?” said a voice at his elbow.He looked up hastily, and saw a blear-eyed youth in a state of drivelling intoxication, staring at him with the expression of an idiot.“That’s no business of yours,” replied Sam Twitter, sharply.“Well, thash true, ’tain’t no b–busnish o’ mine. I—I’m pretty far gone m’self, I allow; but I ain’t quite got the l–length o’ drinkin’ in a p–public ’ouse wi’ th’ bl–blue ribb’n on.”The fallen lad glanced at his breast. There it was,—forgotten, desecrated! He tore it fiercely from his button-hole, amid the laughter of the bystanders—most of whom were women of the lowest grade—and dashed it on the floor.“Thash right.—You’re a berrer feller than I took you for,” said the sot at his elbow.To avoid further attention Sammy took his beer into a dark corner and was quickly forgotten.He had not been seated more than a few minutes when the door opened, and a man with a mild, gentle, yet manly face entered.“Have a glass, ol’ feller?” said the sot, the instant he caught sight of him.“Thank you, no—not to-day,” replied John Seaward, for it was our city missionary on what he sometimes called a fishing excursion—fishing for men! “I have come to give you a glass to-day, friends.”“Well, that’s friendly,” said a gruff voice in a secluded box, out of which next minute staggered Ned Frog. “Come, what is’t to be, old man?”“A looking-glass,” replied the missionary, picking out a tract from the bundle he held in his hand and offering it to the ex-prize-fighter. “But the tract is not the glass I speak of, friend: here it is, in the Word of that God who made us all—made the throats that swallow the drink, and the brains that reel under it.”Here he read from a small Bible, “‘But they also have erred through wine, and through strong drink are out of the way.’”“Bah!” said Ned, flinging the tract on the floor and exclaiming as he left the place with a swing; “I don’t drink wine, old man; can’t afford anything better than beer, though sometimes, when I’m in luck, I have a drop of Old Tom.”There was a great burst of ribald laughter at this, and numerous were the witticisms perpetrated at the expense of the missionary, but he took no notice of these for a time, occupying himself merely in turning over the leaves of his Bible. When there was a lull he said:—“Now, dear sisters,” (turning to the women who, with a more or less drunken aspect and slatternly air, were staring at him), “for sisters of mine you are, having been made by the same Heavenly Father; I won’t offer you another glass,—not even a looking-glass,—for the one I have already held up to you will do, if God’s Holy Spirit opens your eyes to see yourselves in it; but I’ll give you a better object to look at. It is a Saviour—one who is able to save you from the drink, and from sin in every form. You know His name well, most of you; it is Jesus, and that name means Saviour, for He came to save His people from their sins.”At this point he was interrupted by one of the women, who seemed bent on keeping up the spirit of banter with which they had begun. She asked him with a leer if he had got a wife.“No,” he said, “but I have got a great respect and love for women, because I’ve got a mother, and if ever there was a woman on the face of this earth that deserves the love of a son, that woman is my mother. Sister,” he added, turning to one of those who sat on a bench near him with a thin, puny, curly-haired boy wrapped up in her ragged shawl, “the best prayer that I could offer up for you—and Idooffer it—is, that the little chap in your arms may grow up to bless his mother as heartily as I bless mine, but that can never be, so long as you love the strong drink and refuse the Saviour.”At that moment a loud cry was heard outside. They all rose and ran to the door, where a woman, in the lowest depths of depravity, with her eyes bloodshot, her hair tumbling about her half-naked shoulders, and her ragged garments draggled and wet, had fallen in her efforts to enter the public-house to obtain more of the poison which had already almost destroyed her. She had cut her forehead, and the blood flowed freely over her face as the missionary lifted her. He was a powerful man, and could take her up tenderly and with ease. She was not much hurt, however. After Seaward had bandaged the cut with his own handkerchief she professed to be much better.This little incident completed the good influence which the missionary’s words and manner had previously commenced. Most of the women began to weep as they listened to the words of love, encouragement, and hope addressed to them. A few of course remained obdurate, though not unimpressed.All this time young Sam Twitter remained in his dark corner, with his head resting on his arms to prevent his being recognised. Well did he know John Seaward, and well did Seaward know him, for the missionary had long been a fellow-worker with Mrs Twitter in George Yard and at the Home of Industry. The boy was very anxious to escape Seaward’s observation. This was not a difficult matter. When the missionary left, after distributing his tracts, Sammy rose up and sought to hide himself—from himself, had that been possible—in the lowest slums of London.
We must turn now to Samuel Twitter, senior. That genial old man was busy one morning in the nursery, amusing little Mita, who had by that time attained to what we may style the dawn-of-intelligence period of life, and was what Mrs Loper, Mr Crackaby, and Mr Stickler called “engaging.”
“Mariar!” shouted Mr Twitter to his amiable spouse, who was finishing her toilet in the adjoining room. “She’s makin’ faces at me—yes, she’s actually attempting to laugh!”
“The darling!” came from the next room, in emphatic tones.
“Mariar!”
“Well, dear.”
“Is Sammy down in the parlour?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Because he’s not in his room—tumti-iddidy-too-too—you charming thing!”
It must be understood that the latter part of this sentence had reference to the baby, not to Mrs Twitter.
Having expended his affections and all his spare time on Mita,—who, to do her justice, made faces enough at him to repay his attentions in full,—Mr Twitter descended to the breakfast parlour and asked the domestic if she had seen Sammy yet.
“No, sir, I hain’t.”
“Are you sure he’s not in his room?”
“Well, no, sir, but I knocked twice and got no answer.”
“Very odd; Sammy didn’t use to be late, nor to sleep so soundly,” said Mr Twitter, ascending to the attic of his eldest son.
Obtaining no reply to his knock, he opened the door and found that the room was empty. More than that, he discovered, to his surprise and alarm, that Sammy’s bed was unruffled, so that Sammy himself must have slept elsewhere!
In silent consternation the father descended to his bedroom and said, “Mariar, Sammy’s gone!”
“Dead!” exclaimed Mrs Twitter with a look of horror.
“No, no; not dead, but gone—gone out of the house. Did not sleep in it last night, apparently.”
Poor Mrs Twitter sank into a chair and gazed at her husband with a stricken face.
Up to that date the family had prospered steadily, and, may we not add, deservedly; their children having been trained in the knowledge of God, their duties having been conscientiously discharged, their sympathies with suffering humanity encouraged, and their general principles carried into practical effect. The consequence was that they were a well-ordered and loving family. There are many such in our land—families which are guided by the Spirit and the Word of God. The sudden disappearance, therefore, of the eldest son of the Twitter family was not an event to be taken lightly for he had never slept out of his own particular bed without the distinct knowledge of his father and mother since he was born, and his appearance at the breakfast-table had been hitherto as certain as the rising of the sun or the winding of the eight-day clock by his father every Saturday night.
In addition to all this, Sammy was of an amiable disposition, and had been trustworthy, so that when he came to the years of discretion—which his father had fixed at fifteen—he was allowed a latch-key, as he had frequently to work at his employer’s books till a lateish hour,—sometimes eleven o’clock—after the family, including the domestic, had gone to rest.
“Now, Samuel,” said Mrs Twitter, with a slight return of her wonted energy, “there can be only two explanations of this. Either the dear boy has met with an accident, or—”
“Well, Mariar, why do you pause?”
“Because it seems so absurd to think of, much more to talk of, his going wrong or running away! The first thing I’ve got to do, Samuel, is to go to the police-office, report the case, and hear what they have to advise.”
“The very thing I was thinking of, Mariar; but don’t it strike you it might be better thatIshould go to the station?”
“No, Samuel, the station is near. I can do that, while you take a cab, go straight away to his office and find out at what hour he left. Now, go; we have not a moment to lose. Mary,” (this was the next in order to Sammy), “will look after the children’s breakfast. Make haste!”
Mr Twitter made haste—made it so fast that he made too much of it, over-shot the mark, and went down-stairs head foremost, saluting the front door with a rap that threw that of the postman entirely into the shade. But Twitter was a springy as well as an athletic man. He arose undamaged, made no remark to his more than astonished children, and went his way.
Mrs Twitter immediately followed her husband’s example in a less violent and eccentric manner. The superintendent of police received her with that affable display of grave good-will which is a characteristic of the force. He listened with patient attention to the rather incoherent tale which she told with much agitation—unbosoming herself to this officer to a quite unnecessary extent as to private feelings and opinions, and, somehow, feeling as if he were a trusted and confidential friend though he was an absolute stranger—such is the wonderful influence of Power in self-possessed repose, over Weakness in distressful uncertainty!
Having heard all that the good lady had to say, with scarcely a word of interruption; having put a few pertinent and relevant questions and noted the replies, the superintendent advised Mrs Twitter to calm herself, for that it would soon be “all right;” to return home, and abide the issue of his exertions; to make herself as easy in the circumstances as possible, and, finally, sent her away with the first ray of comfort that had entered her heart since the news of Sammy’s disappearance had burst upon her like a thunderclap.
“What a thing it is,” she muttered to herself on her way home, “to put things into the hands of aman—one you can feel sure will do everything sensibly and well, and without fuss.” The good lady meant no disparagement to her sex by this—far from it; she referred to a manly man as compared with an unmanly one, and she thought, for one moment, rather disparagingly about the salute which her Samuel’s bald pate had given to the door that morning. Probably she failed to think of the fussy manner in which she herself had assaulted the superintendent of police, for it is said that people seldom see themselves!
But Mrs Twitter was by no means bitter in her thoughts, and her conscience twitted her a little for having perhaps done Samuel a slight injustice.
Indeed shehaddone him injustice, for that estimable little man went about his inquiries after the lost Sammy with a lump as big as a walnut on the top of his head, and with a degree of persistent energy that might have made the superintendent himself envious.
“Not been at the office for two days, sir!” exclaimed Mr Twitter, repeating—in surprised indignation, for he could not believe it—the words of Sammy’s employer, who was a merchant in the hardware line.
“No, sir,” said the hardware man, whose face seemed as hard as his ware.
“Do—you—mean—to—tell—me,” said Twitter, with deliberate solemnity, “that my son Samuel has not been in this office fortwo days?”
“That is precisely what I mean to tell you,” returned the hardware man, “and I mean to tell you, moreover, that your son has been very irregular of late in his attendance, and that on more than one occasion he has come here drunk.”
“Drunk!” repeated Twitter, almost in a shout.
“Yes, sir, drunk—intoxicated.”
The hardware man seemed at that moment to Mr Twitter the hardest-ware man that ever confronted him. He stood for some moments aghast and speechless.
“Are you aware, sir,” he said at last, in impressive tones, “that my son Samuel wears the blue ribbon?”
The hardware man inquired, with an expression of affected surprise, what that had to do with the question; and further, gave it as his opinion that a bit of blue ribbon was no better than a bit of red or green ribbon if it had not something better behind it.
This latter remark, although by no means meant to soothe, had the effect of reducing Mr Twitter to a condition of sudden humility.
“There, sir,” said he, “I entirely agree with you, but I had believed—indeed it seems to me almost impossible to believe otherwise—that my poor boy had religious principle behind his blue ribbon.”
This was said in such a meek tone, and with such a woe-begone look as the conviction began to dawn that Sammy was not immaculate—that the hardware man began visibly to soften, and at last a confidential talk was established, in which was revealed such a series of irregularities on the part of the erring son, that the poor father’s heart was crushed for the time, and, as it were, trodden in the dust. In his extremity, he looked up to God and found relief in rolling his care upon Him.
As he slowly recovered from the shock, Twitter’s brain resumed its wonted activity.
“You have a number of clerks, I believe?” he suddenly asked the hardware man.
“Yes, I have—four of them.”
“Would you object to taking me through your warehouse, as if to show it to me, and allow me to look at your clerks?”
“Certainly not. Come along.”
On entering, they found one tying up a parcel, one writing busily, one reading a book, and one balancing a ruler on his nose. The latter, on being thus caught in the act, gave a short laugh, returned the ruler to its place, and quietly went on with his work. The reader of the book started, endeavoured to conceal the volume, in which effort he was unsuccessful, and became very red in the face as he resumed his pen.
The employer took no notice, and Mr Twitter looked very hard at the hardware in the distant end of the warehouse, just over the desk at which the clerks sat. He made a few undertoned remarks to the master, and then, crossing over to the desk, said:—
“Mr Dobbs, may I have the pleasure of a few minutes’ conversation with you outside?”
“C–certainly, sir,” replied Dobbs, rising with a redder face than ever, and putting on his hat.
“Will you be so good as to tell me, Mr Dobbs,” said Twitter, in a quiet but very decided way when outside, “where my son Samuel Twitter spent last night?”
Twitter looked steadily in the clerk’s eyes as he put this question. He was making a bold stroke for success as an amateur detective, and, as is frequently the result of bold strokes, he succeeded.
“Eh! your—your—son S–Samuel,” stammered Dobbs, looking at Twitter’s breast-pin, and then at the ground, while varying expressions of guilty shame and defiance flitted across his face.
He had a heavy, somewhat sulky face, with indecision of character stamped on it. Mr Twitter saw that and took advantage of the latter quality.
“My poor boy,” he said, “don’t attempt to deceive me. You are guilty, and you know it. Stay, don’t speak yet. I have no wish to injure you. On the contrary, I pray God to bless and save you; but what I want with you at this moment is to learn where my dear boy is. If you tell me, no further notice shall be taken of this matter, I assure you.”
“Does—does—he know anything about this?” asked Dobbs, glancing in the direction of the warehouse of the hardware man.
“No, nothing of your having led Sammy astray, if that’s what you mean,—at least, not from me, and you may depend on it he shall hear nothing, if you only confide in me. Of course he may have his suspicions.”
“Well, sir,” said Dobbs, with a sigh of relief, “he’s in my lodgings.”
Having ascertained the address of the lodgings, the poor father called a cab and soon stood by the side of a bed on which his son Sammy lay sprawling in the helpless attitude in which he had fallen down the night before, after a season of drunken riot. He was in a heavy sleep, with his still innocent-looking features tinged with the first blight of dissipation.
“Sammy,” said the father, in a husky voice, as he shook him gently by the arm; but the poor boy made no answer—even a roughish shake failed to draw from him more than the grumbled desire, “let me alone.”
“Oh! God spare and save him!” murmured the father, in a still husky voice, as he fell on his knees by the bedside and prayed—prayed as though his heart were breaking, while the object of his prayer lay apparently unconscious through it all.
He rose, and was standing by the bedside, uncertain how to act, when a heavy tread was heard on the landing, the door was thrown open, and the landlady, announcing “a gentleman, sir,” ushered in the superintendent of police, who looked at Mr Twitter with a slight expression of surprise.
“You are here before me, I see, sir,” he said.
“Yes, but how did you come to find out that he was here?”
“Well, I had not much difficulty. You see it is part of our duty to keep our eyes open,” replied the superintendent, with a peculiar smile, “and I have on several occasions observed your son entering this house with a companion in a condition which did not quite harmonise with his blue ribbon, so, after your good lady explained the matter to me this morning I came straight here.”
“Thank you—thank you. It isverykind. I—you—it could not have been better managed.”
Mr Twitter stopped and looked helplessly at the figure on the bed.
“Perhaps,” said the superintendent, with much delicacy of feeling, “you would prefer to be alone with your boy when he awakes. If I can be of any further use to you, you know where to find me. Good-day, sir.”
Without waiting for a reply the considerate superintendent left the room.
“Oh! Sammy, Sammy, speak to me, my dear boy—speak to your old father!” he cried, turning again to the bed and kneeling beside it; but the drunken sleeper did not move.
Rising hastily he went to the door and called the landlady.
“I’ll go home, missis,” he said, “and send the poor lad’s mother to him.”
“Very well, sir, I’ll look well after ’im till she comes.”
Twitter was gone in a moment, and the old landlady returned to her lodger’s room. There, to her surprise, she found Sammy up and hastily pulling on his boots.
In truth he had been only shamming sleep, and, although still very drunk, was quite capable of looking after himself. He had indeed been asleep when his father’s entrance awoke him, but a feeling of intense shame had induced him to remain quite still, and then, having commenced with this unspoken lie, he felt constrained to carry it out. But the thought of facing his mother he could not bear, for the boy had a sensitive spirit and was keenly alive to the terrible fall he had made. At the same time he was too cowardly to face the consequences. Dressing himself as well as he could, he rushed from the house in spite of the earnest entreaties of the old landlady, so that when the distracted mother came to embrace and forgive her erring child she found that he had fled.
Plunging into the crowded thoroughfares of the great city, and walking swiftly along without aim or desire, eaten up with shame, and rendered desperate by remorse, the now reckless youth sought refuge in a low grog-shop, and called for a glass of beer.
“Well, I say, you’re com—comin’ it raither strong, ain’t you, young feller?” said a voice at his elbow.
He looked up hastily, and saw a blear-eyed youth in a state of drivelling intoxication, staring at him with the expression of an idiot.
“That’s no business of yours,” replied Sam Twitter, sharply.
“Well, thash true, ’tain’t no b–busnish o’ mine. I—I’m pretty far gone m’self, I allow; but I ain’t quite got the l–length o’ drinkin’ in a p–public ’ouse wi’ th’ bl–blue ribb’n on.”
The fallen lad glanced at his breast. There it was,—forgotten, desecrated! He tore it fiercely from his button-hole, amid the laughter of the bystanders—most of whom were women of the lowest grade—and dashed it on the floor.
“Thash right.—You’re a berrer feller than I took you for,” said the sot at his elbow.
To avoid further attention Sammy took his beer into a dark corner and was quickly forgotten.
He had not been seated more than a few minutes when the door opened, and a man with a mild, gentle, yet manly face entered.
“Have a glass, ol’ feller?” said the sot, the instant he caught sight of him.
“Thank you, no—not to-day,” replied John Seaward, for it was our city missionary on what he sometimes called a fishing excursion—fishing for men! “I have come to give you a glass to-day, friends.”
“Well, that’s friendly,” said a gruff voice in a secluded box, out of which next minute staggered Ned Frog. “Come, what is’t to be, old man?”
“A looking-glass,” replied the missionary, picking out a tract from the bundle he held in his hand and offering it to the ex-prize-fighter. “But the tract is not the glass I speak of, friend: here it is, in the Word of that God who made us all—made the throats that swallow the drink, and the brains that reel under it.”
Here he read from a small Bible, “‘But they also have erred through wine, and through strong drink are out of the way.’”
“Bah!” said Ned, flinging the tract on the floor and exclaiming as he left the place with a swing; “I don’t drink wine, old man; can’t afford anything better than beer, though sometimes, when I’m in luck, I have a drop of Old Tom.”
There was a great burst of ribald laughter at this, and numerous were the witticisms perpetrated at the expense of the missionary, but he took no notice of these for a time, occupying himself merely in turning over the leaves of his Bible. When there was a lull he said:—
“Now, dear sisters,” (turning to the women who, with a more or less drunken aspect and slatternly air, were staring at him), “for sisters of mine you are, having been made by the same Heavenly Father; I won’t offer you another glass,—not even a looking-glass,—for the one I have already held up to you will do, if God’s Holy Spirit opens your eyes to see yourselves in it; but I’ll give you a better object to look at. It is a Saviour—one who is able to save you from the drink, and from sin in every form. You know His name well, most of you; it is Jesus, and that name means Saviour, for He came to save His people from their sins.”
At this point he was interrupted by one of the women, who seemed bent on keeping up the spirit of banter with which they had begun. She asked him with a leer if he had got a wife.
“No,” he said, “but I have got a great respect and love for women, because I’ve got a mother, and if ever there was a woman on the face of this earth that deserves the love of a son, that woman is my mother. Sister,” he added, turning to one of those who sat on a bench near him with a thin, puny, curly-haired boy wrapped up in her ragged shawl, “the best prayer that I could offer up for you—and Idooffer it—is, that the little chap in your arms may grow up to bless his mother as heartily as I bless mine, but that can never be, so long as you love the strong drink and refuse the Saviour.”
At that moment a loud cry was heard outside. They all rose and ran to the door, where a woman, in the lowest depths of depravity, with her eyes bloodshot, her hair tumbling about her half-naked shoulders, and her ragged garments draggled and wet, had fallen in her efforts to enter the public-house to obtain more of the poison which had already almost destroyed her. She had cut her forehead, and the blood flowed freely over her face as the missionary lifted her. He was a powerful man, and could take her up tenderly and with ease. She was not much hurt, however. After Seaward had bandaged the cut with his own handkerchief she professed to be much better.
This little incident completed the good influence which the missionary’s words and manner had previously commenced. Most of the women began to weep as they listened to the words of love, encouragement, and hope addressed to them. A few of course remained obdurate, though not unimpressed.
All this time young Sam Twitter remained in his dark corner, with his head resting on his arms to prevent his being recognised. Well did he know John Seaward, and well did Seaward know him, for the missionary had long been a fellow-worker with Mrs Twitter in George Yard and at the Home of Industry. The boy was very anxious to escape Seaward’s observation. This was not a difficult matter. When the missionary left, after distributing his tracts, Sammy rose up and sought to hide himself—from himself, had that been possible—in the lowest slums of London.
Chapter Thirteen.Tells of some Curious and Vigorous Peculiarities of the Lower Orders.Now it must not be supposed that Mrs Frog, having provided for her baby and got rid of it, remained thereafter quite indifferent to it. On the contrary, she felt the blank more than she had expected, and her motherly heart began to yearn for it powerfully.To gratify this yearning to some extent, she got into the habit of paying frequent visits, sometimes by night and sometimes by day, to the street in which Samuel Twitter lived, and tried to see her baby through the stone walls of the house! Her eyes being weak, as well as her imagination, she failed in this effort, but the mere sight of the house where little Matty was, sufficed to calm her maternal yearnings in some slight degree.By the way, that name reminds us of our having omitted to mention that baby Frog’s real name was Matilda, and her pet name Matty, so that the name of Mita, fixed on by the Twitters, was not so wide of the mark as it might have been.One night Mrs Frog, feeling the yearning strong upon her, put on her bonnet and shawl—that is to say, the bundle of dirty silk, pasteboard, and flowers which represented the one, and the soiled tartan rag that did duty for the other.“Where are ye off to, old woman?” asked Ned, who, having been recently successful in some little “job,” was in high good humour.“I’m goin’ round to see Mrs Tibbs, Ned. D’you want me?”“No, on’y I’m goin’ that way too, so we’ll walk together.”Mrs Frog, we regret to say, was not particular as to the matter of truth. She had no intention of going near Mrs Tibbs, but, having committed herself, made a virtue of necessity, and resolved to pay that lady a visit.The conversation by the way was not sufficiently interesting to be worthy of record. Arrived at Twitter’s street an idea struck Mrs Frog.“Ned,” said she, “I’m tired.”“Well, old girl, you’d better cut home.”“I think I will, Ned, but first I’ll sit down on this step to rest a bit.”“All right, old girl,” said Ned, who would have said the same words if she had proposed to stand on her head on the step—so easy was he in his mind as to how his wife spent her time; “if you sit for half-an-hour or so I’ll be back to see you ’ome again. I’m on’y goin’ to Bundle’s shop for a bit o’ baccy. Ain’t I purlite now? Don’t it mind you of the courtin’ days?”“Ah! Ned,” exclaimed the wife, while a sudden gush of memory brought back the days when he was handsome and kind,—but Ned was gone, and the slightly thawed spring froze up again.She sat down on the cold step of a door which happened to be somewhat in the shade, and gazed at the opposite windows. There was a light in one of them. She knew it well. She had often watched the shadows that crossed the blind after the gas was lighted, and once she had seen some one carrying something which looked like a baby! It might have been a bundle of soiled linen, or undarned socks, but it might have been Matty, and the thought sent a thrill to the forlorn creature’s heart.On the present occasion she was highly favoured, for, soon after Ned had left, the shadows came again on the blind, and came so near it as to be distinctly visible. Yes, there could be no doubt now, itwasa baby, and as there was only one baby in that house it followed that the baby washerbaby—little Matty! Here was something to carry home with her, and think over and dream about. But there was more in store for her. The baby, to judge from the shadowy action of its fat limbs on the blind, became what she called obstropolous. More than that, it yelled, and its mother heard the yell—faintly, it is true, but sufficiently to send a thrill of joy to her longing heart.Then a sudden fear came over her. What if it was ill, and they were trying to soothe it to rest! How much bettershecould do that if she only had the baby!“Oh! fool that I was to part with her!” she murmured, “but no. It was best. She would surely have bin dead by this time.”The sound of the little voice, however, had roused such a tempest of longing in Mrs Frog’s heart, that, under an irresistible impulse, she ran across the road and rang the bell. The door was promptly opened by Mrs Twitter’s domestic.“Is—is the baby well?” stammered Mrs Frog, scarce knowing what she said.“You’venothink to do wi’ the baby that I knows on,” returned Mrs Twitter’s domestic, who was not quite so polite as her mistress.“No, honey,” said Mrs Frog in a wheedling tone, rendered almost desperate by the sudden necessity for instant invention, “but the doctor said I was to ask if baby had got over it, or if ’e was to send round the—the—I forget its name—at once.”“What doctor sent you?” asked Mrs Twitter, who had come out of the parlour on hearing the voices through the doorway, and with her came a clear and distinct yell which Mrs Frog treasured up in her thinly clad but warm bosom, as though it had been a strain from Paradise. “There must surely be some mistake, my good woman, for my baby is quite well.”“Oh! thank you, thank you—yes, there must have been some mistake,” said Mrs Frog, scarce able to restrain a laugh of joy at the success of her scheme, as she retired precipitately from the door and hurried away.She did not go far, however, but, on hearing the door shut, turned back and took up her position again on the door-step.Poor Mrs Frog had been hardened and saddened by sorrow, and suffering, and poverty, and bad treatment; nevertheless she was probably one of the happiest women in London just then.“Mybaby,” she said, quoting part of Mrs Twitter’s remarks with a sarcastic laugh, “no, madam, she’s notyourbabyyet!”As she sat reflecting on this agreeable fact, a heavy step was heard approaching. It was too slow for that of Ned. She knew it well—a policeman!There are hard-hearted policemen in the force—not many, indeed, but nothing is perfect in this world, and there are afewhard-hearted policemen. He who approached was one of these.“Move on,” he said in a stern voice.“Please, sir, I’m tired. On’y restin’ a bit while I wait for my ’usband,” pleaded Mrs Frog.“Come, move on,” repeated the unyielding constable in a tone that there was no disputing. Indeed it was so strong that it reached the ears of Ned Frog himself, who chanced to come round the corner at the moment and saw the policeman, as he imagined, maltreating his wife.Ned was a man who, while he claimed and exercised the right to treat his own wife as he pleased, was exceedingly jealous of the interference of others with his privileges. He advanced, therefore, at once, and planted his practised knuckles on the policeman’s forehead with such power that the unfortunate limb of the law rolled over in one direction and his helmet in another.As every one knows, the police sometimes suffer severely at the hands of roughs, and on this occasion that truth was verified, but the policeman who had been knocked down by this prize-fighter was by no means a feeble member of the force. Recovering from his astonishment in a moment, he sprang up and grappled with Ned Frog in such a manner as to convince that worthy he had “his work cut out for him.” The tussle that ensued was tremendous, and Mrs Frog retired into a doorway to enjoy it in safety. But it was brief. Before either wrestler could claim the victory, a brother constable came up, and Ned was secured and borne away to a not unfamiliar cell before he could enjoy even one pipe of the “baccy” which he had purchased.Thus it came to pass, that when a certain comrade expected to find Ned Frog at a certain mansion in the West-end, prepared with a set of peculiar tools for a certain purpose, Ned was in the enjoyment of board and lodging at Her Majesty’s expense.The comrade, however, not being aware of Ned’s incarceration, and believing, no doubt, that there was honour among thieves, was true to his day and hour. He had been engaged down somewhere in the country on business, and came up by express train for this particular job; hence his ignorance as to his partner’s fate.But this burglar was not a man to be easily balked in his purpose.“Ned must be ill, or got a haccident o’ some sort,” he said to a very little but sharp boy who was to assist in the job. “Howsever, you an’ me’ll go at it alone, Sniveller.”“Wery good, Bunky,” replied Sniveller, “’ow is it to be? By the winder, through the door, down the chimbly, up the spout—or wot?”“The larder windy, my boy.”“Sorry for that,” said Sniveller.“Why?”“’Cause itisso ’ard to go past the nice things an’ smell ’em all without darin’ to touch ’em till I lets you in. Couldn’t you let me ’ave a feed first?”“Unpossible,” said the burglar.“Wery good,” returned the boy, with a sigh of resignation.Now, while these two were whispering to each other in a box of an adjoining tavern, three police-constables were making themselves at home in the premises of Sir Richard Brandon. One of these was Number 666.It is not quite certain, even to this day, how and where these men were stationed, for their proceedings—though not deeds of evil—were done in the dark, at least in darkness which was rendered visible only now and then by bull’s-eye lanterns. The only thing that was absolutely clear to the butler, Mr Thomas Balls, was, that the mansion was given over entirely to the triumvirate to be dealt with as they thought fit.Of course they did not know when the burglars would come, nor the particular point of the mansion where the assault would be delivered; therefore Number 666 laid his plans like a wise general, posted his troops where there was most likelihood of their being required, and kept himself in reserve for contingencies.About that “wee short hour” of which the poet Burns writes, a small boy was lifted by a large man to the sill of the small window which lighted Sir Richard Brandon’s pantry. To the surprise of the small boy, he found the window unfastened.“They’ve bin an’ forgot it!” he whispered.“Git in,” was the curt reply.Sniveller got in, dropped to his extreme length from the sill, let go his hold, and came down lightly on the floor—not so lightly, however, but that a wooden stool placed there was overturned, and, falling against a blue plate, broke it with a crash.Sniveller became as one petrified, and remained so for a considerable time, till he imagined all danger from sleepers having been awakened was over. He also thought of thieving cats, and thanked them mentally. He likewise became aware of the near presence of pastry. The smell was delicious, but a sense of duty restrained him.Number 666 smiled to himself to think how well his trap had acted, but the smile was lost in darkness.Meanwhile, the chief operator, Bunky, went round to the back door. Sniveller, who had been taught the geography of the mansion from a well-executed plan, proceeded to the same door inside. Giles could have patted his little head as he carefully drew back the bolts and turned the key. Another moment, and Bunky, on his stocking soles, stood within the mansion.Yet another moment, and Bunky was enjoying an embrace that squeezed most of the wind out of his body, strong though he was, for Number 666 was apt to forget his excessive power when duty constrained him to act with promptitude.“Now, then, show a light,” said Giles, quietly.Two bull’s-eyes flashed out their rich beams at the word, and lit up a tableau of three, in attitudes faintly resembling those of the Laocoon, without the serpents.“Fetch the bracelets,” said Giles.At these words the bull’s-eyes converged, and Sniveller, bolting through the open door, vanished—he was never heard of more!Then followed two sharpclicks, succeeded by a sigh of relief as Number 666 relaxed his arms.“You needn’t rouse the household unless you feel inclined, my man,” said Giles to Bunky in a low voice.Bunky didnotfeel inclined. He thought it better, on the whole, to let the sleeping dogs lie, and wisely submitted to inevitable fate. He was marched off to jail, while one of the constables remained behind to see the house made safe, and acquaint Sir Richard of his deliverance from the threatened danger.Referring to this matter on the following day in the servants’ hall, Thomas Balls filled a foaming tankard of ginger-beer—for, strange to say, he was an abstainer, though a butler—and proposed, in a highly eulogistic speech, the health and prosperity of that admirable body of men, the Metropolitan Police, with which toast he begged to couple the name of Number 666!
Now it must not be supposed that Mrs Frog, having provided for her baby and got rid of it, remained thereafter quite indifferent to it. On the contrary, she felt the blank more than she had expected, and her motherly heart began to yearn for it powerfully.
To gratify this yearning to some extent, she got into the habit of paying frequent visits, sometimes by night and sometimes by day, to the street in which Samuel Twitter lived, and tried to see her baby through the stone walls of the house! Her eyes being weak, as well as her imagination, she failed in this effort, but the mere sight of the house where little Matty was, sufficed to calm her maternal yearnings in some slight degree.
By the way, that name reminds us of our having omitted to mention that baby Frog’s real name was Matilda, and her pet name Matty, so that the name of Mita, fixed on by the Twitters, was not so wide of the mark as it might have been.
One night Mrs Frog, feeling the yearning strong upon her, put on her bonnet and shawl—that is to say, the bundle of dirty silk, pasteboard, and flowers which represented the one, and the soiled tartan rag that did duty for the other.
“Where are ye off to, old woman?” asked Ned, who, having been recently successful in some little “job,” was in high good humour.
“I’m goin’ round to see Mrs Tibbs, Ned. D’you want me?”
“No, on’y I’m goin’ that way too, so we’ll walk together.”
Mrs Frog, we regret to say, was not particular as to the matter of truth. She had no intention of going near Mrs Tibbs, but, having committed herself, made a virtue of necessity, and resolved to pay that lady a visit.
The conversation by the way was not sufficiently interesting to be worthy of record. Arrived at Twitter’s street an idea struck Mrs Frog.
“Ned,” said she, “I’m tired.”
“Well, old girl, you’d better cut home.”
“I think I will, Ned, but first I’ll sit down on this step to rest a bit.”
“All right, old girl,” said Ned, who would have said the same words if she had proposed to stand on her head on the step—so easy was he in his mind as to how his wife spent her time; “if you sit for half-an-hour or so I’ll be back to see you ’ome again. I’m on’y goin’ to Bundle’s shop for a bit o’ baccy. Ain’t I purlite now? Don’t it mind you of the courtin’ days?”
“Ah! Ned,” exclaimed the wife, while a sudden gush of memory brought back the days when he was handsome and kind,—but Ned was gone, and the slightly thawed spring froze up again.
She sat down on the cold step of a door which happened to be somewhat in the shade, and gazed at the opposite windows. There was a light in one of them. She knew it well. She had often watched the shadows that crossed the blind after the gas was lighted, and once she had seen some one carrying something which looked like a baby! It might have been a bundle of soiled linen, or undarned socks, but it might have been Matty, and the thought sent a thrill to the forlorn creature’s heart.
On the present occasion she was highly favoured, for, soon after Ned had left, the shadows came again on the blind, and came so near it as to be distinctly visible. Yes, there could be no doubt now, itwasa baby, and as there was only one baby in that house it followed that the baby washerbaby—little Matty! Here was something to carry home with her, and think over and dream about. But there was more in store for her. The baby, to judge from the shadowy action of its fat limbs on the blind, became what she called obstropolous. More than that, it yelled, and its mother heard the yell—faintly, it is true, but sufficiently to send a thrill of joy to her longing heart.
Then a sudden fear came over her. What if it was ill, and they were trying to soothe it to rest! How much bettershecould do that if she only had the baby!
“Oh! fool that I was to part with her!” she murmured, “but no. It was best. She would surely have bin dead by this time.”
The sound of the little voice, however, had roused such a tempest of longing in Mrs Frog’s heart, that, under an irresistible impulse, she ran across the road and rang the bell. The door was promptly opened by Mrs Twitter’s domestic.
“Is—is the baby well?” stammered Mrs Frog, scarce knowing what she said.
“You’venothink to do wi’ the baby that I knows on,” returned Mrs Twitter’s domestic, who was not quite so polite as her mistress.
“No, honey,” said Mrs Frog in a wheedling tone, rendered almost desperate by the sudden necessity for instant invention, “but the doctor said I was to ask if baby had got over it, or if ’e was to send round the—the—I forget its name—at once.”
“What doctor sent you?” asked Mrs Twitter, who had come out of the parlour on hearing the voices through the doorway, and with her came a clear and distinct yell which Mrs Frog treasured up in her thinly clad but warm bosom, as though it had been a strain from Paradise. “There must surely be some mistake, my good woman, for my baby is quite well.”
“Oh! thank you, thank you—yes, there must have been some mistake,” said Mrs Frog, scarce able to restrain a laugh of joy at the success of her scheme, as she retired precipitately from the door and hurried away.
She did not go far, however, but, on hearing the door shut, turned back and took up her position again on the door-step.
Poor Mrs Frog had been hardened and saddened by sorrow, and suffering, and poverty, and bad treatment; nevertheless she was probably one of the happiest women in London just then.
“Mybaby,” she said, quoting part of Mrs Twitter’s remarks with a sarcastic laugh, “no, madam, she’s notyourbabyyet!”
As she sat reflecting on this agreeable fact, a heavy step was heard approaching. It was too slow for that of Ned. She knew it well—a policeman!
There are hard-hearted policemen in the force—not many, indeed, but nothing is perfect in this world, and there are afewhard-hearted policemen. He who approached was one of these.
“Move on,” he said in a stern voice.
“Please, sir, I’m tired. On’y restin’ a bit while I wait for my ’usband,” pleaded Mrs Frog.
“Come, move on,” repeated the unyielding constable in a tone that there was no disputing. Indeed it was so strong that it reached the ears of Ned Frog himself, who chanced to come round the corner at the moment and saw the policeman, as he imagined, maltreating his wife.
Ned was a man who, while he claimed and exercised the right to treat his own wife as he pleased, was exceedingly jealous of the interference of others with his privileges. He advanced, therefore, at once, and planted his practised knuckles on the policeman’s forehead with such power that the unfortunate limb of the law rolled over in one direction and his helmet in another.
As every one knows, the police sometimes suffer severely at the hands of roughs, and on this occasion that truth was verified, but the policeman who had been knocked down by this prize-fighter was by no means a feeble member of the force. Recovering from his astonishment in a moment, he sprang up and grappled with Ned Frog in such a manner as to convince that worthy he had “his work cut out for him.” The tussle that ensued was tremendous, and Mrs Frog retired into a doorway to enjoy it in safety. But it was brief. Before either wrestler could claim the victory, a brother constable came up, and Ned was secured and borne away to a not unfamiliar cell before he could enjoy even one pipe of the “baccy” which he had purchased.
Thus it came to pass, that when a certain comrade expected to find Ned Frog at a certain mansion in the West-end, prepared with a set of peculiar tools for a certain purpose, Ned was in the enjoyment of board and lodging at Her Majesty’s expense.
The comrade, however, not being aware of Ned’s incarceration, and believing, no doubt, that there was honour among thieves, was true to his day and hour. He had been engaged down somewhere in the country on business, and came up by express train for this particular job; hence his ignorance as to his partner’s fate.
But this burglar was not a man to be easily balked in his purpose.
“Ned must be ill, or got a haccident o’ some sort,” he said to a very little but sharp boy who was to assist in the job. “Howsever, you an’ me’ll go at it alone, Sniveller.”
“Wery good, Bunky,” replied Sniveller, “’ow is it to be? By the winder, through the door, down the chimbly, up the spout—or wot?”
“The larder windy, my boy.”
“Sorry for that,” said Sniveller.
“Why?”
“’Cause itisso ’ard to go past the nice things an’ smell ’em all without darin’ to touch ’em till I lets you in. Couldn’t you let me ’ave a feed first?”
“Unpossible,” said the burglar.
“Wery good,” returned the boy, with a sigh of resignation.
Now, while these two were whispering to each other in a box of an adjoining tavern, three police-constables were making themselves at home in the premises of Sir Richard Brandon. One of these was Number 666.
It is not quite certain, even to this day, how and where these men were stationed, for their proceedings—though not deeds of evil—were done in the dark, at least in darkness which was rendered visible only now and then by bull’s-eye lanterns. The only thing that was absolutely clear to the butler, Mr Thomas Balls, was, that the mansion was given over entirely to the triumvirate to be dealt with as they thought fit.
Of course they did not know when the burglars would come, nor the particular point of the mansion where the assault would be delivered; therefore Number 666 laid his plans like a wise general, posted his troops where there was most likelihood of their being required, and kept himself in reserve for contingencies.
About that “wee short hour” of which the poet Burns writes, a small boy was lifted by a large man to the sill of the small window which lighted Sir Richard Brandon’s pantry. To the surprise of the small boy, he found the window unfastened.
“They’ve bin an’ forgot it!” he whispered.
“Git in,” was the curt reply.
Sniveller got in, dropped to his extreme length from the sill, let go his hold, and came down lightly on the floor—not so lightly, however, but that a wooden stool placed there was overturned, and, falling against a blue plate, broke it with a crash.
Sniveller became as one petrified, and remained so for a considerable time, till he imagined all danger from sleepers having been awakened was over. He also thought of thieving cats, and thanked them mentally. He likewise became aware of the near presence of pastry. The smell was delicious, but a sense of duty restrained him.
Number 666 smiled to himself to think how well his trap had acted, but the smile was lost in darkness.
Meanwhile, the chief operator, Bunky, went round to the back door. Sniveller, who had been taught the geography of the mansion from a well-executed plan, proceeded to the same door inside. Giles could have patted his little head as he carefully drew back the bolts and turned the key. Another moment, and Bunky, on his stocking soles, stood within the mansion.
Yet another moment, and Bunky was enjoying an embrace that squeezed most of the wind out of his body, strong though he was, for Number 666 was apt to forget his excessive power when duty constrained him to act with promptitude.
“Now, then, show a light,” said Giles, quietly.
Two bull’s-eyes flashed out their rich beams at the word, and lit up a tableau of three, in attitudes faintly resembling those of the Laocoon, without the serpents.
“Fetch the bracelets,” said Giles.
At these words the bull’s-eyes converged, and Sniveller, bolting through the open door, vanished—he was never heard of more!
Then followed two sharpclicks, succeeded by a sigh of relief as Number 666 relaxed his arms.
“You needn’t rouse the household unless you feel inclined, my man,” said Giles to Bunky in a low voice.
Bunky didnotfeel inclined. He thought it better, on the whole, to let the sleeping dogs lie, and wisely submitted to inevitable fate. He was marched off to jail, while one of the constables remained behind to see the house made safe, and acquaint Sir Richard of his deliverance from the threatened danger.
Referring to this matter on the following day in the servants’ hall, Thomas Balls filled a foaming tankard of ginger-beer—for, strange to say, he was an abstainer, though a butler—and proposed, in a highly eulogistic speech, the health and prosperity of that admirable body of men, the Metropolitan Police, with which toast he begged to couple the name of Number 666!
Chapter Fourteen.Number 666 Off Duty.Some time after the attempt made upon Sir Richard Brandon’s house, Giles Scott was seated at his own fireside, helmet and truncheon laid aside, uniform taken off, and a free and easy suit of plain clothes put on.His pretty wife sat beside him darning a pair of very large socks. The juvenile policeman, and the incorrigible criminal were sound asleep in their respective cribs, the one under the print of the Queen, the other under that of Sir Robert Peel. Giles was studying a small book of instructions as to the duties of police-constables, and pretty Molly was commenting on the same, for she possessed that charming quality of mind and heart which induces the possessor to take a sympathetic and lively interest in whatever may happen to be going on.“They expect pretty hard work of you, Giles,” remarked Molly with a sigh, as she thought of the prolonged hours of absence from home, and the frequent night duty.“Why, Moll, you wouldn’t have me wish for easy work at my time of life, would you?” replied the policeman, looking up from his little book with an amused smile. “Somebody must always be taking a heavy lift of the hard work of this world, and if a big hulking fellow like me in the prime o’ life don’t do it, who will?”“True, Giles, but surely you won’t deny me the small privilege of wishing that you had alittleless to do, and alittlemore time with your family. You men,—especially you Scotchmen—are such an argumentative set, that a poor woman can’t open her lips to say a word, but you pounce upon it and make an argument of it.”“Now Molly, there you go again, assuming my duties! Why do you take me so sharp? Isn’t taking-up the special privilege of the police?”“Am I not entitled,” said Molly, ignoring her husband’s question, “to express regret that your work should include coming home now and then with scratched cheeks, and swelled noses, and black eyes?”“Come now,” returned Giles, “you must admit that I have fewer of these discomforts than most men of the force, owing, no doubt, to little men being unable to reach so high—and, d’you know, it’s the little men who do most damage in life; they’re such a pugnacious and perverse generation! As to swelled noses, these are the fortune of war, at least of civil war like ours—and black eyes, why, my eyes are black by nature. If they were of a heavenly blue like yours, Molly, you might have some ground for complaint when they are blackened.”“And then there is such dreadful tear and wear of clothes,” continued Molly; “just look at that, now!” She held up to view a sock with a hole in its heel large enough to let an orange through.“Why, Molly, do you expect that I can walk the streets of London from early morning till late at night, protect life and property, and preserve public tranquillity, as this little book puts it, besides engaging in numerous scuffles and street rows without making a hole or two in my socks?”“Ah! Giles, if you had only brain enough to take in a simple idea! it’s not the making of holes that I complain of. It is the making of such awfully big ones before changing your socks! There now, don’t let us get on domestic matters. You have no head for these, but tell me something about your little book. I am specially interested in it, you see, because the small policeman in the crib over there puts endless questions about his duties which I am quite unable to answer, and, you know, it is a good thing for a child to grow up with the idea that father and mother know everything.”“Just so, Molly. I hope you’ll tell your little recruit that the first and foremost duty of a good policeman is to obey orders. Let me see, then, if I can enlighten you a bit.”“But tell me first, Giles—for I really want to know—how many are there of you altogether, and when was the force established on its present footing, and who began it, and, in short, all about it. It’ssonice to have you for once in a way for a quiet chat like this.”“You have laid down enough of heads, Molly, to serve for the foundation of a small volume. However, I’ll give it you hot, since you wish it, and I’ll begin at the end instead of the beginning. What would you say, now, to an army of eleven thousand men?”“I would say it was a very large one, though I don’t pretend to much knowledge about the size of armies,” said Molly, commencing to mend another hole about the size of a turnip.“Well, that, in round numbers, is the strength of the Metropolitan Police force at the present time—and not a man too much, let me tell you, for what with occasional illnesses and accidents, men employed on special duty, and men off duty—as I am just now—the actual available strength of the force at any moment is considerably below that number. Yes, it is a goodly army of picked and stalwart men, (no self-praise intended), but, then, consider what we have to do.”“We have to guard and keep in order the population of the biggest city in the world; a population greater than that of the whole of Scotland.”“Oh! of course, you are sure to go to Scotland for your illustrations, as if there was no such place as England in the world,” quietly remarked Molly, with a curl of her pretty lip.“Ah! Molly, dear, you are unjust. It is true I go to Scotland for an illustration, but didn’t I come to England for a wife? Now, don’t go frowning at that hole as if it couldn’t be bridged over.”“It is the worst hole you ever made,” said the despairing wife, holding it up to view.“You make a worsted hole of it then, Moll, and it’ll be all right. Besides, you don’t speak truth, for I once made a worse hole in your heart.”“You never did, sir. Go on with your stupid illustrations,” said Molly.“Well, then, let me see—where was I?”“In Scotland, of course!”“Ah, yes. The population of all Scotland is under four millions, and that of London—that is, of the area embraced in the Metropolitan Police District, is estimated at above four million seven hundred thousand—in round numbers. Of course I give it you all in round numbers.”“I don’t mind how round the numbers are, Giles, so long as they’re all square,” remarked the little wife with much simplicity.“Well, just think of that number for our army to watch over; and that population—not all of it, you know, but part of it—succeeds—in spite of us in committing, during one year, no fewer than 25,000 ‘Principal’ offences such as murders, burglaries, robberies, thefts, and such-like. What they would accomplish if we were not ever on the watch I leave you to guess.“Last year, for instance, 470 burglaries, as we style house-breaking by night, were committed in London. The wonder is that there are not more, when you consider the fact that the number of doors and windows found open by us at night during the twelve months was nearly 26,000. The total loss of property by theft during the year is estimated at about 100,000 pounds. Besides endeavouring to check crime of such magnitude, we had to search after above 15,000 persons who were reported lost and missing during the year, about 12,000 of whom were children.”“Oh! thepoordarlings,” said Molly, twisting her sympathetic eyebrows.“Ay, and we found 7523 of these darlings,” continued the practical Giles, “and 720 of the adults. Of the rest some returned home or were found by their friends, but 154 adults and 23 children have been lost altogether. Then, we found within the twelve months 54 dead bodies which we had to take care of and have photographed for identification. During the same period, (and remember that the record of every twelve months is much the same), we seized over 17,000 stray dogs and returned them to their owners or sent them to the Dogs’ Home. We arrested over 18,000 persons for being drunk and disorderly. We inspected all the public vehicles and horses in London. We attended to 3527 accidents which occurred in the streets, 127 of which were fatal. We looked after more than 17,000 articles varying in value from 0 pence to 1500 pounds which were lost by a heedless public during the year, about 10,000 of which articles were restored to the owners. We had to regulate the street traffic; inspect common lodging-houses; attend the police and other courts to give evidence, and many other things which it would take me much too long to enumerate, and puzzle your pretty little head to take in.”“No, it wouldn’t,” said Molly, looking up with a bright expression; “I have a wonderful head for figures—especially for handsome manly figures! Go on, Giles.”“Then, look at what is expected of us,” continued Number 666, not noticing the last remark. “We are told to exercise the greatest civility and affability towards every one—high and low, rich and poor. We are expected to show the utmost forbearance under all circumstances; to take as much abuse and as many blows as we can stand, without inflicting any in return; to be capable of answering almost every question that an ignorant—not to say arrogant—public may choose to put to us; to be ready, single-handed and armed only with our truncheons and the majesty of the law, to encounter burglars furnished with knives and revolvers; to plunge into the midst of drunken maddened crowds and make arrests in the teeth of tremendous odds; to keep an eye upon strangers whose presence may seem to be less desirable than their absence; to stand any amount of unjust and ungenerous criticism without a word of reply; to submit quietly to the abhorrence and chaff of boys, labourers, cabmen, omnibus drivers, tramps, and fast young men; to have a fair knowledge of the ‘three Rs’ and a smattering of law, so as to conduct ourselves with propriety at fires, fairs, fights, and races, besides acting wisely as to mad dogs, German bands, (which are apt to produce madmen), organ-grinders, furious drivers, and all other nuisances. In addition to all which we must be men of good character, good standing—as to inches—good proportions, physically, and good sense. In short, we are expected to be—and blamed if we are not—as near to a state of perfection as it is possible for mortal man to attain on this side the grave, and all for the modest sum which you are but too well aware is the extent of our income.”“Is one of the things expected of you,” asked Molly, “to have an exceedingly high estimate of yourselves?”“Nay, Molly, don’t you join the ranks of those who are against us. It will be more than criminal if you do. You are aware that I am giving the opinion expressed by men of position who ought to know everything about the force. That we fulfil the conditions required of us not so badly is proved by the fact that last year, out of the whole 12,000 there were 215 officers and 1225 men who obtained rewards for zeal and activity, while only one man was discharged, and four men were fined or imprisoned. I speak not of number one—or, I should say Number 666. For myself I am ready to admit that I am the most insignificant of the force.”“O Giles! what a barefaced display of mock modesty!”“Nay, Molly, I can prove it. Everything in this world goes by contrast, doesn’t it? then, is there a man in the whole force except myself, I ask, whose wife is so bright and beautiful and good and sweet that she reduces him to mere insignificance by contrast?”“There’s something in that, Giles,” replied Molly with gravity, “but go on with your lecture.”“I’ve nothing more to say about the force,” returned Giles; “if I have not said enough to convince you of our importance, and of the debt of gratitude that you and the public of London owe to us, you are past conviction, and—”“You are wrong, Giles, as usual; I am never past conviction; you have only to take me before the police court in the morning, and any magistrate will at once convict me of stupidity for having married a Scotchman and a policeman!”“I think it must be time to go on my beat, for you beat me hollow,” said Number 666, consulting his watch.“No, no, Giles, please sit still. It is not every day that I have such a chance of a chat with you.”“Such a chance of pitching into me, you mean,” returned Giles. “However, before I go I would like to tell you just one or two facts regarding this great London itself, which needs so much guarding and such an army of guardians. You know that the Metropolitan District comprises all the parishes any portion of which are within 15 miles of Charing Cross—this area being 688 square miles. The rateable value of it is over twenty-six million eight hundred thousand pounds sterling. See, as you say you’ve a good head forfigures, there’s the sum on a bit of paper for you—26,800,000 pounds. During last year 26,170 new houses were built, forming 556 new streets and four new squares—the whole covering a length of 86 miles. The total number of new houses built during the lasttenyears within this area has been 162,525, extending over 500 miles of streets and squares!”“Stay, I can’t stand it!” cried Molly, dropping her sock and putting her fingers in her ears.“Why not, old girl?”“Because it is too much for me; why, evenyourfigure is a mere nothing to such sums!”“Then,” returned Giles, “you’ve only got to stick me on to the end of them to make my information ten times more valuable.”“But are you quite sure that what you tell me is true, Giles?”“Quite sure, my girl—at least as sure as I am of the veracity of Colonel Henderson, who wrote the last Police Report.”At this point the chat was interrupted by the juvenile policeman in the crib under Sir Robert Peel. Whether it was the astounding information uttered in his sleepy presence, or the arduous nature of the duty required of him in dreams, we cannot tell, but certain it is that when Number 666 uttered the word “Report” there came a crash like the report of a great gun, and Number 2 of the A Division, having fallen overboard, was seen on the floor pommelling some imaginary criminal who stoutly refused to be captured.Giles ran forward to the assistance of Number 2, as was his duty, and took him up in his arms. But Number 2 had awakened to the fact that he had hurt himself, and, notwithstanding the blandishments of his father, who swayed him about and put him on his broad shoulders, and raised his curly head to the ceiling, he refused for a long time to be comforted. At last he was subdued, and returned to the crib and the land of dreams.“Now, Molly, I must really go,” said Giles, putting on his uniform. “I hope Number 2 won’t disturb you again. Good-bye, lass, for a few hours,” he added, buckling his belt. “Here, look, do you see that little spot on the ceiling?”“Yes,—well?” said Molly, looking up.Giles took unfair advantage of her, stooped, and kissed the pretty little face, received a resounding slap on the back, and went out, to attend to his professional duties, with the profound gravity of an incapable magistrate.There was a bright intelligent little street-Arab on the opposite side of the way, who observed Giles with mingled feelings of admiration, envy, and hatred, as he strode sedately along the street like an imperturbable pillar. He knew Number 666 personally; had seen him under many and varied circumstance, and had imagined him under many others—not unfrequently as hanging by the neck from a lamp-post—but never, even in the most daring flights of his juvenile fancy, had he seen him as he has been seen by the reader in the bosom of his poor but happy home.
Some time after the attempt made upon Sir Richard Brandon’s house, Giles Scott was seated at his own fireside, helmet and truncheon laid aside, uniform taken off, and a free and easy suit of plain clothes put on.
His pretty wife sat beside him darning a pair of very large socks. The juvenile policeman, and the incorrigible criminal were sound asleep in their respective cribs, the one under the print of the Queen, the other under that of Sir Robert Peel. Giles was studying a small book of instructions as to the duties of police-constables, and pretty Molly was commenting on the same, for she possessed that charming quality of mind and heart which induces the possessor to take a sympathetic and lively interest in whatever may happen to be going on.
“They expect pretty hard work of you, Giles,” remarked Molly with a sigh, as she thought of the prolonged hours of absence from home, and the frequent night duty.
“Why, Moll, you wouldn’t have me wish for easy work at my time of life, would you?” replied the policeman, looking up from his little book with an amused smile. “Somebody must always be taking a heavy lift of the hard work of this world, and if a big hulking fellow like me in the prime o’ life don’t do it, who will?”
“True, Giles, but surely you won’t deny me the small privilege of wishing that you had alittleless to do, and alittlemore time with your family. You men,—especially you Scotchmen—are such an argumentative set, that a poor woman can’t open her lips to say a word, but you pounce upon it and make an argument of it.”
“Now Molly, there you go again, assuming my duties! Why do you take me so sharp? Isn’t taking-up the special privilege of the police?”
“Am I not entitled,” said Molly, ignoring her husband’s question, “to express regret that your work should include coming home now and then with scratched cheeks, and swelled noses, and black eyes?”
“Come now,” returned Giles, “you must admit that I have fewer of these discomforts than most men of the force, owing, no doubt, to little men being unable to reach so high—and, d’you know, it’s the little men who do most damage in life; they’re such a pugnacious and perverse generation! As to swelled noses, these are the fortune of war, at least of civil war like ours—and black eyes, why, my eyes are black by nature. If they were of a heavenly blue like yours, Molly, you might have some ground for complaint when they are blackened.”
“And then there is such dreadful tear and wear of clothes,” continued Molly; “just look at that, now!” She held up to view a sock with a hole in its heel large enough to let an orange through.
“Why, Molly, do you expect that I can walk the streets of London from early morning till late at night, protect life and property, and preserve public tranquillity, as this little book puts it, besides engaging in numerous scuffles and street rows without making a hole or two in my socks?”
“Ah! Giles, if you had only brain enough to take in a simple idea! it’s not the making of holes that I complain of. It is the making of such awfully big ones before changing your socks! There now, don’t let us get on domestic matters. You have no head for these, but tell me something about your little book. I am specially interested in it, you see, because the small policeman in the crib over there puts endless questions about his duties which I am quite unable to answer, and, you know, it is a good thing for a child to grow up with the idea that father and mother know everything.”
“Just so, Molly. I hope you’ll tell your little recruit that the first and foremost duty of a good policeman is to obey orders. Let me see, then, if I can enlighten you a bit.”
“But tell me first, Giles—for I really want to know—how many are there of you altogether, and when was the force established on its present footing, and who began it, and, in short, all about it. It’ssonice to have you for once in a way for a quiet chat like this.”
“You have laid down enough of heads, Molly, to serve for the foundation of a small volume. However, I’ll give it you hot, since you wish it, and I’ll begin at the end instead of the beginning. What would you say, now, to an army of eleven thousand men?”
“I would say it was a very large one, though I don’t pretend to much knowledge about the size of armies,” said Molly, commencing to mend another hole about the size of a turnip.
“Well, that, in round numbers, is the strength of the Metropolitan Police force at the present time—and not a man too much, let me tell you, for what with occasional illnesses and accidents, men employed on special duty, and men off duty—as I am just now—the actual available strength of the force at any moment is considerably below that number. Yes, it is a goodly army of picked and stalwart men, (no self-praise intended), but, then, consider what we have to do.”
“We have to guard and keep in order the population of the biggest city in the world; a population greater than that of the whole of Scotland.”
“Oh! of course, you are sure to go to Scotland for your illustrations, as if there was no such place as England in the world,” quietly remarked Molly, with a curl of her pretty lip.
“Ah! Molly, dear, you are unjust. It is true I go to Scotland for an illustration, but didn’t I come to England for a wife? Now, don’t go frowning at that hole as if it couldn’t be bridged over.”
“It is the worst hole you ever made,” said the despairing wife, holding it up to view.
“You make a worsted hole of it then, Moll, and it’ll be all right. Besides, you don’t speak truth, for I once made a worse hole in your heart.”
“You never did, sir. Go on with your stupid illustrations,” said Molly.
“Well, then, let me see—where was I?”
“In Scotland, of course!”
“Ah, yes. The population of all Scotland is under four millions, and that of London—that is, of the area embraced in the Metropolitan Police District, is estimated at above four million seven hundred thousand—in round numbers. Of course I give it you all in round numbers.”
“I don’t mind how round the numbers are, Giles, so long as they’re all square,” remarked the little wife with much simplicity.
“Well, just think of that number for our army to watch over; and that population—not all of it, you know, but part of it—succeeds—in spite of us in committing, during one year, no fewer than 25,000 ‘Principal’ offences such as murders, burglaries, robberies, thefts, and such-like. What they would accomplish if we were not ever on the watch I leave you to guess.
“Last year, for instance, 470 burglaries, as we style house-breaking by night, were committed in London. The wonder is that there are not more, when you consider the fact that the number of doors and windows found open by us at night during the twelve months was nearly 26,000. The total loss of property by theft during the year is estimated at about 100,000 pounds. Besides endeavouring to check crime of such magnitude, we had to search after above 15,000 persons who were reported lost and missing during the year, about 12,000 of whom were children.”
“Oh! thepoordarlings,” said Molly, twisting her sympathetic eyebrows.
“Ay, and we found 7523 of these darlings,” continued the practical Giles, “and 720 of the adults. Of the rest some returned home or were found by their friends, but 154 adults and 23 children have been lost altogether. Then, we found within the twelve months 54 dead bodies which we had to take care of and have photographed for identification. During the same period, (and remember that the record of every twelve months is much the same), we seized over 17,000 stray dogs and returned them to their owners or sent them to the Dogs’ Home. We arrested over 18,000 persons for being drunk and disorderly. We inspected all the public vehicles and horses in London. We attended to 3527 accidents which occurred in the streets, 127 of which were fatal. We looked after more than 17,000 articles varying in value from 0 pence to 1500 pounds which were lost by a heedless public during the year, about 10,000 of which articles were restored to the owners. We had to regulate the street traffic; inspect common lodging-houses; attend the police and other courts to give evidence, and many other things which it would take me much too long to enumerate, and puzzle your pretty little head to take in.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” said Molly, looking up with a bright expression; “I have a wonderful head for figures—especially for handsome manly figures! Go on, Giles.”
“Then, look at what is expected of us,” continued Number 666, not noticing the last remark. “We are told to exercise the greatest civility and affability towards every one—high and low, rich and poor. We are expected to show the utmost forbearance under all circumstances; to take as much abuse and as many blows as we can stand, without inflicting any in return; to be capable of answering almost every question that an ignorant—not to say arrogant—public may choose to put to us; to be ready, single-handed and armed only with our truncheons and the majesty of the law, to encounter burglars furnished with knives and revolvers; to plunge into the midst of drunken maddened crowds and make arrests in the teeth of tremendous odds; to keep an eye upon strangers whose presence may seem to be less desirable than their absence; to stand any amount of unjust and ungenerous criticism without a word of reply; to submit quietly to the abhorrence and chaff of boys, labourers, cabmen, omnibus drivers, tramps, and fast young men; to have a fair knowledge of the ‘three Rs’ and a smattering of law, so as to conduct ourselves with propriety at fires, fairs, fights, and races, besides acting wisely as to mad dogs, German bands, (which are apt to produce madmen), organ-grinders, furious drivers, and all other nuisances. In addition to all which we must be men of good character, good standing—as to inches—good proportions, physically, and good sense. In short, we are expected to be—and blamed if we are not—as near to a state of perfection as it is possible for mortal man to attain on this side the grave, and all for the modest sum which you are but too well aware is the extent of our income.”
“Is one of the things expected of you,” asked Molly, “to have an exceedingly high estimate of yourselves?”
“Nay, Molly, don’t you join the ranks of those who are against us. It will be more than criminal if you do. You are aware that I am giving the opinion expressed by men of position who ought to know everything about the force. That we fulfil the conditions required of us not so badly is proved by the fact that last year, out of the whole 12,000 there were 215 officers and 1225 men who obtained rewards for zeal and activity, while only one man was discharged, and four men were fined or imprisoned. I speak not of number one—or, I should say Number 666. For myself I am ready to admit that I am the most insignificant of the force.”
“O Giles! what a barefaced display of mock modesty!”
“Nay, Molly, I can prove it. Everything in this world goes by contrast, doesn’t it? then, is there a man in the whole force except myself, I ask, whose wife is so bright and beautiful and good and sweet that she reduces him to mere insignificance by contrast?”
“There’s something in that, Giles,” replied Molly with gravity, “but go on with your lecture.”
“I’ve nothing more to say about the force,” returned Giles; “if I have not said enough to convince you of our importance, and of the debt of gratitude that you and the public of London owe to us, you are past conviction, and—”
“You are wrong, Giles, as usual; I am never past conviction; you have only to take me before the police court in the morning, and any magistrate will at once convict me of stupidity for having married a Scotchman and a policeman!”
“I think it must be time to go on my beat, for you beat me hollow,” said Number 666, consulting his watch.
“No, no, Giles, please sit still. It is not every day that I have such a chance of a chat with you.”
“Such a chance of pitching into me, you mean,” returned Giles. “However, before I go I would like to tell you just one or two facts regarding this great London itself, which needs so much guarding and such an army of guardians. You know that the Metropolitan District comprises all the parishes any portion of which are within 15 miles of Charing Cross—this area being 688 square miles. The rateable value of it is over twenty-six million eight hundred thousand pounds sterling. See, as you say you’ve a good head forfigures, there’s the sum on a bit of paper for you—26,800,000 pounds. During last year 26,170 new houses were built, forming 556 new streets and four new squares—the whole covering a length of 86 miles. The total number of new houses built during the lasttenyears within this area has been 162,525, extending over 500 miles of streets and squares!”
“Stay, I can’t stand it!” cried Molly, dropping her sock and putting her fingers in her ears.
“Why not, old girl?”
“Because it is too much for me; why, evenyourfigure is a mere nothing to such sums!”
“Then,” returned Giles, “you’ve only got to stick me on to the end of them to make my information ten times more valuable.”
“But are you quite sure that what you tell me is true, Giles?”
“Quite sure, my girl—at least as sure as I am of the veracity of Colonel Henderson, who wrote the last Police Report.”
At this point the chat was interrupted by the juvenile policeman in the crib under Sir Robert Peel. Whether it was the astounding information uttered in his sleepy presence, or the arduous nature of the duty required of him in dreams, we cannot tell, but certain it is that when Number 666 uttered the word “Report” there came a crash like the report of a great gun, and Number 2 of the A Division, having fallen overboard, was seen on the floor pommelling some imaginary criminal who stoutly refused to be captured.
Giles ran forward to the assistance of Number 2, as was his duty, and took him up in his arms. But Number 2 had awakened to the fact that he had hurt himself, and, notwithstanding the blandishments of his father, who swayed him about and put him on his broad shoulders, and raised his curly head to the ceiling, he refused for a long time to be comforted. At last he was subdued, and returned to the crib and the land of dreams.
“Now, Molly, I must really go,” said Giles, putting on his uniform. “I hope Number 2 won’t disturb you again. Good-bye, lass, for a few hours,” he added, buckling his belt. “Here, look, do you see that little spot on the ceiling?”
“Yes,—well?” said Molly, looking up.
Giles took unfair advantage of her, stooped, and kissed the pretty little face, received a resounding slap on the back, and went out, to attend to his professional duties, with the profound gravity of an incapable magistrate.
There was a bright intelligent little street-Arab on the opposite side of the way, who observed Giles with mingled feelings of admiration, envy, and hatred, as he strode sedately along the street like an imperturbable pillar. He knew Number 666 personally; had seen him under many and varied circumstance, and had imagined him under many others—not unfrequently as hanging by the neck from a lamp-post—but never, even in the most daring flights of his juvenile fancy, had he seen him as he has been seen by the reader in the bosom of his poor but happy home.