Chapter Twenty Five.

Chapter Twenty Five.In which the Biter is bit.The disappearance of Joey from the school was immediately communicated to McShane by the master, who could not imagine how such an incident could have occurred in such a decent establishment as his preparatory seminary; it was an epoch in his existence, and ever afterwards his chronology was founded upon it, and everything that occurred was so many months or weeks before or after the absconding of young Master McShane. The letter had, of course, been produced, and as soon as the schoolmaster had taken his departure, McShane and his wife were in deep council. “I recollect,” said Mrs McShane, who was crying in an easy chair—“I recollect, now, that one day the boy came up and asked me the meaning of wilful murder, and I told him. And now I think of it, I do also remember the people at Number 1 table, close to the counter, some time ago, talking about a murder having been committed by a mere child, and a long report of it in the newspapers. I am sure, however (as Joey says in his letter), that he is not guilty.”“And so am I,” replied McShane. “However, bring up the file of newspapers, dear, and let me look over them. How long back do you think it was?”“Why, let me see; it was about the time you went away with Captain O’Donahue, I think, or a little before—that was in October.”McShane turned over the file of newspapers, and after a quarter of an hour’s search found the report of the coroner’s inquest.“Here it is, my dear, sure enough,” said McShane.As soon as he had read it over, and came to the end, he said, “Yes; wilful murder against Joseph Rushbrook the younger, and 200 pounds for his apprehension. This it was that drove the boy away from home, and not poaching, although I have no doubt that poaching was the cause of the murder. Now, my dear,” continued McShane, “I think I can unravel all this; the murder has been committed, that’s evident, by somebody, but not by Joey, I’ll be sworn; he says that he is not guilty, and I believe him. Nevertheless, Joey runs away, and a verdict is found against him. My dear wife, I happen to know the father of Joey well; he was a fine, bold soldier, but one who would stick at nothing; and if I could venture an opinion, it is, that the murder was committed by Rushbrook, and not by the boy, and that the boy has absconded to save his father.”The reader will acknowledge that McShane was very clear-sighted.“That’s my opinion,” continued McShane. “How it has been managed to make the boy appear as the party, I cannot tell; but knowing the father, and knowing the son, I’d stake my commission that I’ve guessed at the truth.”“Poor boy!” exclaimed Mrs McShane; “well, the Commandments say that the sins of the father shall be visited upon the children. What can be done, McShane?”“Nothing at present; it would injure Joey to raise a hue and cry after him; for, you see, if he is apprehended, he must either be tried for his life, and convicted himself, or prove that he did not do it, which probably he could not do without convicting his father; I will, however, make some inquiries about Rushbrook himself, and if I can I will see him.”The same evening the schoolmaster again called upon McShane, to say that two persons had come to the school in the afternoon and asked to see him; that one of them, shabbily dressed, but evidently a person who was not of so low a class in life as the other, had accosted him, when he came into the parlour, with, “I believe I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr Slappum; if so, may I request the favour to see my little friend Joey, whom I met yesterday walking out with the other young gentlemen under your care, as I have a message to him from his father and mother? The dear boy was once under my tuition, and did me much credit, as I have no doubt that he has done you.”Now, the usher had told Mr Slappum that Joey had been addressed by this person the day before, and the schoolmaster presuming, of course, that it was Joey McShane, replied,—“I am sorry to say that he left this house last night, and has absconded we know not where. He left a letter for Major McShane, which I have this day delivered to him, acquainting him with the unpleasant circumstance.”“Bolted, by all that’s clever!” said the second personage to the first, who looked very much surprised and confounded.“You really have astonished me, my dear sir,” replied the first person, whom the reader will of course recognise to be Furness; “that a lad brought up by me in such strict moral principles, such correct notions of right and wrong, and, I may add, such pious feelings, should have taken such a step, is to me incomprehensible. Major McShane, I think you said, lives at —?”“Major McShane lives at Number — in Holborn,” replied the schoolmaster.“And the lad has not gone home to him?”“No, he has not; he left a letter, which I took to Major McShane; but I did not break the seal, and am ignorant of its contents.”“I really am stupefied with grief and vexation,” replied Furness, “and will not intrude any longer. Bless the poor boy! what can have come of him?”So saying, Furness took his departure with the peace-officer, whom he had intrusted with the warrant, which he had taken out to secure the person of our hero.McShane heard the schoolmaster’s account of this visit without interruption, and then said, “I have no doubt but that this person who has called upon you will pay me a visit; oblige me, therefore, by describing his person particularly, so that I may know him at first sight.”The schoolmaster gave a most accurate description of Furness, and then took his leave.As the eating-house kept by Mrs McShane had a private door, Furness (who, as McShane had prophesied, came the next afternoon), after having read the name on the private door, which was not on the eating-house, which went by the name of the Chequers, imagined that it was an establishment apart, and thought it advisable to enter into it, and ascertain a little about Major McShane before he called upon him. Although McShane seldom made his appearance in the room appropriated for the dinners, it so happened that he was standing at the door when Furness entered and sat down in a box, calling for the bill of fare, and ordering a plate of beef and cabbage. McShane recognised him by the description given of him immediately, and resolved to make his acquaintance incognito, and ascertain what his intentions were; he therefore took his seat in the same box, and winking to one of the girls who attended, also called for a plate of beef and cabbage. Furness, who was anxious to pump any one he might fall in with, immediately entered into conversation with the major.“A good house this, sir, and well attended apparently?”“Yes, sir,” replied McShane; “it is considered a very good house.”“Do you frequent it much yourself?”“Always, sir; I feel much interested in its success,” replied McShane; “for I know the lady who keeps it well, and have a high respect for her.”“I saw her as I passed by—a fine woman, sir! Pray may I ask who is Major McShane, who I observe lives in the rooms above?”“He is a major in the army, sir—now on half-pay.”“Do you know him?”“Remarkably well,” replied McShane; “he’s a countryman of mine.”“He’s married, sir, I think? I’ll trouble you for the pepper.”“He is married, sir, to a very amiable woman.”“Any family, sir?”“Not that I know of; they have a youngprotégé, I believe, now at school—a boy they call Joey.”“Indeed! how very kind of them; really, now, it’s quite refreshing for me to see so much goodness of heart still remaining in this bad world. Adopted him, I presume?”“I really cannot exactly say that; I know that they treat him as their own child.”“Have you seen Major McShane lately, sir?”“Saw him this morning, sir, just after he got up.”“Indeed! This is remarkably good ale, sir—will you honour me by tasting it?”“Sir, you are very kind; but the fact is I never drink malt liquor. Here, girl, bring a half pint of brandy. I trust, sir, you will not refuse to join me in a glass, although I cannot venture to accept your polite offer.”Furness drank off his pot of ale, and made ready for the brandy which had been offered him; McShane filled his own glass, and then handed the decanter over to Furness.“I have the pleasure of drinking your good health, sir,” said McShane. “You are from the country, I presume; may I inquire from what part?”“I am from Devonshire; I was formerly head of the grammar school at —; but, sir, my principles would not allow me to retain my situation; rectitude of conduct, sir, is absolutely necessary to the profession which inculcates morality and virtue, as well as instruction to youth, sir. Here’s to our better acquaintance, sir.”“Sir, to your’s; I honour your sentiments. By the powers! but you’re right, Mr —, I beg your pardon—but I don’t catch your name exactly.”“Furness, sir, at your service. Yes, sir, the directors of the foundation which I presided over, I may say, with such credit to myself, and such advantage to the pupils under my care, wished to make a job—yes, sir—of a charity; I could not consent to such deeds, and I resigned.”“And you have been in London ever since?”“No, sir; I repaired to the small village of Grassford, where I set up a school, but circumstances compelled me to resign, and I am now about to seek for employment in another hemisphere; in short, I have an idea of going out to New South Wales as a preceptor. I understand they are in great want of tuition in that quarter.”“I should think so,” replied McShane; “and they have a great deal to unlearn as well as to learn.”“I speak of the junior branches—the scions or offsets, I may say—born in the colony, and who I trust, will prove that crime is not hereditary.”“Well, I wish you luck, sir,” replied McShane; “you must oblige me by taking another glass, for I never shall be able to finish this decanter myself.”“I gladly avail myself of the pleasure of your company, sir.”As the reader is well aware that Furness was an intemperate man, it is not surprising that he accepted the offer; and before the second glass was finished, the ale and brandy had begun to have the effect, and he had become very communicative.“What was the name of the village which you stated you had resided in lately, sir?” inquired McShane.“The village of Grassford.”“There is something I recollect about that village; let me see—something that I read in the newspapers. I remember now—it was the murder of a pedlar.”“Very true, sir, such a circumstance did take place; it was a dreadful affair—and, what is more strange, committed by a mere child, who absconded.”“Indeed! What was his name?”“Rushbrook, sir; his father was a well-known poacher—a man who had been in the army, and had a pension for wounds. There is an old saying, sir, of high authority—‘Bring up a child in the way he should go, and he will not depart from it.’ I instructed that boy, sir; but alas! what avails the instruction of a preceptor when a father leads a child into evil ways?”“That’s the truth, and no mistake,” replied McShane. “So the boy ran away? Yes; I recollect now. And what became of the father?”“The father, sir, and mother have since left the village, and gone nobody knows where.”“Indeed! are you sure of that?”“Quite sure, sir; for I was most anxious to discover them, and took great pains, but without success.”“What did the people say thereabouts? Was there no suspicion of the father being implicated?”“I do not think there was. He gave evidence at the inquest, and so did I, sir, as you may suppose, most unwillingly; for the boy was a favourite of mine. I beg your pardon, sir—you say you are acquainted with Major McShane, and saw him this morning; is the interesting little boy you speak of as under his protection now at home or still at school?”“I really cannot positively say,” replied McShane; “but this is not holiday-time. Come, sir, we must not part yet; your conversation is too interesting. You must allow me to call for some more brandy; poor as I am, I must treat myself and you too. I wish I knew where I could pick up a little money; for, to tell you the truth, cash begins to run low.”Furness was now more than half drunk. “Well, sir,” said he; “I have known money picked up without any difficulty: for instance, now, suppose we should fall in with this young rascal who committed the murder; there is 200 pounds offered for his apprehension and conviction.”“I thought as much,” muttered McShane; “the infernal scoundrel! I suspect that you will find him where you are going to, Mr Furbish, he’s got that far by this time.”“Between you and I, I think not, sir. My name is Furness, sir—I beg your pardon—not Furbish.”“Why you do not think he would be such a fool as to remain in the country after such an act?”“The wicked are foolish, sir, as well as others,” replied Furness, putting his finger to his nose, and looking very knowingly.“That’s truth, sir. Help yourself; you drink nothing. Excuse me one minute; I’ll be back directly.”McShane left the box for a few minutes to explain to his wife what he was about, and to give time for the liquor to operate upon Furness. As he expected, he found, on his return, that Furness had finished his glass, and was more tipsy than when he left him.The conversation was renewed, and McShane again pleading his poverty, and his wish to obtain money, brought out the proposal of Furness, who informed him that he had recognised theprotégéof Major McShane to be the identical Joseph Rushbrook; that the boy had absconded from the school, and was concealed in the house. He concluded by observing to McShane, that, as he was so intimate with the major, it would be very easy for him to ascertain the fact, and offered him 50 pounds, as his share of the reward, if he would assist him in the boy’s capture. It was lucky for Furness that McShane was surrounded by others, or in all probability there would have been another murder committed. The major, however, said he would think of it, and fell back in deep thought; what he was thinking of was what he should do to punish Furness. At last an idea came into his head; the rascal was drunk, and he proposed that he should go to another house, where they might find the major, and he would present him. Furness consented, and reeled out of the box; McShane, although he would as soon have touched a viper, controlled himself sufficiently to give Furness his arm, and leading him down by two or three back courts, he took him into an ale-house where there was a rendezvous for enlisting marines for the navy. As soon as they were seated, and had liquor before them, McShane spoke to the sergeant, tipped him a guinea, and said he had a good recruit for him, if he could be persuaded to enlist. He then introduced the sergeant as the major, and advised Furness to pretend to agree with him in everything. The sergeant told long stories, clapped Furness, who was now quite intoxicated, on the back, called him a jolly fellow, and asked him to enlist. “Say ‘yes,’ to please him,” said McShane in his ear. Furness did so, received the shilling, and when he came to his senses next day, found his friend had disappeared, and that he was under an escort for Portsmouth. All remonstrances were unavailing; McShane had feed (paid a fee to) the sergeant, and had promised him a higher fee not to let Furness off; and the latter, having but a few shillings in his pocket, was compelled to submit to his fate.

The disappearance of Joey from the school was immediately communicated to McShane by the master, who could not imagine how such an incident could have occurred in such a decent establishment as his preparatory seminary; it was an epoch in his existence, and ever afterwards his chronology was founded upon it, and everything that occurred was so many months or weeks before or after the absconding of young Master McShane. The letter had, of course, been produced, and as soon as the schoolmaster had taken his departure, McShane and his wife were in deep council. “I recollect,” said Mrs McShane, who was crying in an easy chair—“I recollect, now, that one day the boy came up and asked me the meaning of wilful murder, and I told him. And now I think of it, I do also remember the people at Number 1 table, close to the counter, some time ago, talking about a murder having been committed by a mere child, and a long report of it in the newspapers. I am sure, however (as Joey says in his letter), that he is not guilty.”

“And so am I,” replied McShane. “However, bring up the file of newspapers, dear, and let me look over them. How long back do you think it was?”

“Why, let me see; it was about the time you went away with Captain O’Donahue, I think, or a little before—that was in October.”

McShane turned over the file of newspapers, and after a quarter of an hour’s search found the report of the coroner’s inquest.

“Here it is, my dear, sure enough,” said McShane.

As soon as he had read it over, and came to the end, he said, “Yes; wilful murder against Joseph Rushbrook the younger, and 200 pounds for his apprehension. This it was that drove the boy away from home, and not poaching, although I have no doubt that poaching was the cause of the murder. Now, my dear,” continued McShane, “I think I can unravel all this; the murder has been committed, that’s evident, by somebody, but not by Joey, I’ll be sworn; he says that he is not guilty, and I believe him. Nevertheless, Joey runs away, and a verdict is found against him. My dear wife, I happen to know the father of Joey well; he was a fine, bold soldier, but one who would stick at nothing; and if I could venture an opinion, it is, that the murder was committed by Rushbrook, and not by the boy, and that the boy has absconded to save his father.”

The reader will acknowledge that McShane was very clear-sighted.

“That’s my opinion,” continued McShane. “How it has been managed to make the boy appear as the party, I cannot tell; but knowing the father, and knowing the son, I’d stake my commission that I’ve guessed at the truth.”

“Poor boy!” exclaimed Mrs McShane; “well, the Commandments say that the sins of the father shall be visited upon the children. What can be done, McShane?”

“Nothing at present; it would injure Joey to raise a hue and cry after him; for, you see, if he is apprehended, he must either be tried for his life, and convicted himself, or prove that he did not do it, which probably he could not do without convicting his father; I will, however, make some inquiries about Rushbrook himself, and if I can I will see him.”

The same evening the schoolmaster again called upon McShane, to say that two persons had come to the school in the afternoon and asked to see him; that one of them, shabbily dressed, but evidently a person who was not of so low a class in life as the other, had accosted him, when he came into the parlour, with, “I believe I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr Slappum; if so, may I request the favour to see my little friend Joey, whom I met yesterday walking out with the other young gentlemen under your care, as I have a message to him from his father and mother? The dear boy was once under my tuition, and did me much credit, as I have no doubt that he has done you.”

Now, the usher had told Mr Slappum that Joey had been addressed by this person the day before, and the schoolmaster presuming, of course, that it was Joey McShane, replied,—“I am sorry to say that he left this house last night, and has absconded we know not where. He left a letter for Major McShane, which I have this day delivered to him, acquainting him with the unpleasant circumstance.”

“Bolted, by all that’s clever!” said the second personage to the first, who looked very much surprised and confounded.

“You really have astonished me, my dear sir,” replied the first person, whom the reader will of course recognise to be Furness; “that a lad brought up by me in such strict moral principles, such correct notions of right and wrong, and, I may add, such pious feelings, should have taken such a step, is to me incomprehensible. Major McShane, I think you said, lives at —?”

“Major McShane lives at Number — in Holborn,” replied the schoolmaster.

“And the lad has not gone home to him?”

“No, he has not; he left a letter, which I took to Major McShane; but I did not break the seal, and am ignorant of its contents.”

“I really am stupefied with grief and vexation,” replied Furness, “and will not intrude any longer. Bless the poor boy! what can have come of him?”

So saying, Furness took his departure with the peace-officer, whom he had intrusted with the warrant, which he had taken out to secure the person of our hero.

McShane heard the schoolmaster’s account of this visit without interruption, and then said, “I have no doubt but that this person who has called upon you will pay me a visit; oblige me, therefore, by describing his person particularly, so that I may know him at first sight.”

The schoolmaster gave a most accurate description of Furness, and then took his leave.

As the eating-house kept by Mrs McShane had a private door, Furness (who, as McShane had prophesied, came the next afternoon), after having read the name on the private door, which was not on the eating-house, which went by the name of the Chequers, imagined that it was an establishment apart, and thought it advisable to enter into it, and ascertain a little about Major McShane before he called upon him. Although McShane seldom made his appearance in the room appropriated for the dinners, it so happened that he was standing at the door when Furness entered and sat down in a box, calling for the bill of fare, and ordering a plate of beef and cabbage. McShane recognised him by the description given of him immediately, and resolved to make his acquaintance incognito, and ascertain what his intentions were; he therefore took his seat in the same box, and winking to one of the girls who attended, also called for a plate of beef and cabbage. Furness, who was anxious to pump any one he might fall in with, immediately entered into conversation with the major.

“A good house this, sir, and well attended apparently?”

“Yes, sir,” replied McShane; “it is considered a very good house.”

“Do you frequent it much yourself?”

“Always, sir; I feel much interested in its success,” replied McShane; “for I know the lady who keeps it well, and have a high respect for her.”

“I saw her as I passed by—a fine woman, sir! Pray may I ask who is Major McShane, who I observe lives in the rooms above?”

“He is a major in the army, sir—now on half-pay.”

“Do you know him?”

“Remarkably well,” replied McShane; “he’s a countryman of mine.”

“He’s married, sir, I think? I’ll trouble you for the pepper.”

“He is married, sir, to a very amiable woman.”

“Any family, sir?”

“Not that I know of; they have a youngprotégé, I believe, now at school—a boy they call Joey.”

“Indeed! how very kind of them; really, now, it’s quite refreshing for me to see so much goodness of heart still remaining in this bad world. Adopted him, I presume?”

“I really cannot exactly say that; I know that they treat him as their own child.”

“Have you seen Major McShane lately, sir?”

“Saw him this morning, sir, just after he got up.”

“Indeed! This is remarkably good ale, sir—will you honour me by tasting it?”

“Sir, you are very kind; but the fact is I never drink malt liquor. Here, girl, bring a half pint of brandy. I trust, sir, you will not refuse to join me in a glass, although I cannot venture to accept your polite offer.”

Furness drank off his pot of ale, and made ready for the brandy which had been offered him; McShane filled his own glass, and then handed the decanter over to Furness.

“I have the pleasure of drinking your good health, sir,” said McShane. “You are from the country, I presume; may I inquire from what part?”

“I am from Devonshire; I was formerly head of the grammar school at —; but, sir, my principles would not allow me to retain my situation; rectitude of conduct, sir, is absolutely necessary to the profession which inculcates morality and virtue, as well as instruction to youth, sir. Here’s to our better acquaintance, sir.”

“Sir, to your’s; I honour your sentiments. By the powers! but you’re right, Mr —, I beg your pardon—but I don’t catch your name exactly.”

“Furness, sir, at your service. Yes, sir, the directors of the foundation which I presided over, I may say, with such credit to myself, and such advantage to the pupils under my care, wished to make a job—yes, sir—of a charity; I could not consent to such deeds, and I resigned.”

“And you have been in London ever since?”

“No, sir; I repaired to the small village of Grassford, where I set up a school, but circumstances compelled me to resign, and I am now about to seek for employment in another hemisphere; in short, I have an idea of going out to New South Wales as a preceptor. I understand they are in great want of tuition in that quarter.”

“I should think so,” replied McShane; “and they have a great deal to unlearn as well as to learn.”

“I speak of the junior branches—the scions or offsets, I may say—born in the colony, and who I trust, will prove that crime is not hereditary.”

“Well, I wish you luck, sir,” replied McShane; “you must oblige me by taking another glass, for I never shall be able to finish this decanter myself.”

“I gladly avail myself of the pleasure of your company, sir.”

As the reader is well aware that Furness was an intemperate man, it is not surprising that he accepted the offer; and before the second glass was finished, the ale and brandy had begun to have the effect, and he had become very communicative.

“What was the name of the village which you stated you had resided in lately, sir?” inquired McShane.

“The village of Grassford.”

“There is something I recollect about that village; let me see—something that I read in the newspapers. I remember now—it was the murder of a pedlar.”

“Very true, sir, such a circumstance did take place; it was a dreadful affair—and, what is more strange, committed by a mere child, who absconded.”

“Indeed! What was his name?”

“Rushbrook, sir; his father was a well-known poacher—a man who had been in the army, and had a pension for wounds. There is an old saying, sir, of high authority—‘Bring up a child in the way he should go, and he will not depart from it.’ I instructed that boy, sir; but alas! what avails the instruction of a preceptor when a father leads a child into evil ways?”

“That’s the truth, and no mistake,” replied McShane. “So the boy ran away? Yes; I recollect now. And what became of the father?”

“The father, sir, and mother have since left the village, and gone nobody knows where.”

“Indeed! are you sure of that?”

“Quite sure, sir; for I was most anxious to discover them, and took great pains, but without success.”

“What did the people say thereabouts? Was there no suspicion of the father being implicated?”

“I do not think there was. He gave evidence at the inquest, and so did I, sir, as you may suppose, most unwillingly; for the boy was a favourite of mine. I beg your pardon, sir—you say you are acquainted with Major McShane, and saw him this morning; is the interesting little boy you speak of as under his protection now at home or still at school?”

“I really cannot positively say,” replied McShane; “but this is not holiday-time. Come, sir, we must not part yet; your conversation is too interesting. You must allow me to call for some more brandy; poor as I am, I must treat myself and you too. I wish I knew where I could pick up a little money; for, to tell you the truth, cash begins to run low.”

Furness was now more than half drunk. “Well, sir,” said he; “I have known money picked up without any difficulty: for instance, now, suppose we should fall in with this young rascal who committed the murder; there is 200 pounds offered for his apprehension and conviction.”

“I thought as much,” muttered McShane; “the infernal scoundrel! I suspect that you will find him where you are going to, Mr Furbish, he’s got that far by this time.”

“Between you and I, I think not, sir. My name is Furness, sir—I beg your pardon—not Furbish.”

“Why you do not think he would be such a fool as to remain in the country after such an act?”

“The wicked are foolish, sir, as well as others,” replied Furness, putting his finger to his nose, and looking very knowingly.

“That’s truth, sir. Help yourself; you drink nothing. Excuse me one minute; I’ll be back directly.”

McShane left the box for a few minutes to explain to his wife what he was about, and to give time for the liquor to operate upon Furness. As he expected, he found, on his return, that Furness had finished his glass, and was more tipsy than when he left him.

The conversation was renewed, and McShane again pleading his poverty, and his wish to obtain money, brought out the proposal of Furness, who informed him that he had recognised theprotégéof Major McShane to be the identical Joseph Rushbrook; that the boy had absconded from the school, and was concealed in the house. He concluded by observing to McShane, that, as he was so intimate with the major, it would be very easy for him to ascertain the fact, and offered him 50 pounds, as his share of the reward, if he would assist him in the boy’s capture. It was lucky for Furness that McShane was surrounded by others, or in all probability there would have been another murder committed. The major, however, said he would think of it, and fell back in deep thought; what he was thinking of was what he should do to punish Furness. At last an idea came into his head; the rascal was drunk, and he proposed that he should go to another house, where they might find the major, and he would present him. Furness consented, and reeled out of the box; McShane, although he would as soon have touched a viper, controlled himself sufficiently to give Furness his arm, and leading him down by two or three back courts, he took him into an ale-house where there was a rendezvous for enlisting marines for the navy. As soon as they were seated, and had liquor before them, McShane spoke to the sergeant, tipped him a guinea, and said he had a good recruit for him, if he could be persuaded to enlist. He then introduced the sergeant as the major, and advised Furness to pretend to agree with him in everything. The sergeant told long stories, clapped Furness, who was now quite intoxicated, on the back, called him a jolly fellow, and asked him to enlist. “Say ‘yes,’ to please him,” said McShane in his ear. Furness did so, received the shilling, and when he came to his senses next day, found his friend had disappeared, and that he was under an escort for Portsmouth. All remonstrances were unavailing; McShane had feed (paid a fee to) the sergeant, and had promised him a higher fee not to let Furness off; and the latter, having but a few shillings in his pocket, was compelled to submit to his fate.

Chapter Twenty Six.In which our Hero again falls in with an Old Acquaintance.For nearly two years Joey had filled his situation as chancellor of the exchequer to Mrs Chopper. He certainly did not feel himself always in the humour or the disposition for business, especially during the hard winter months, when, seated almost immovably in the boat during the best portion of the day, he would find his fingers so completely dead, that he could not hold his pen. But there is no situation, under any of the powers that be, that has not some drawback. People may say that a sinecure is one that has not its disadvantages; but such is not the case—there is the disgrace of holding it. At all events, Joey’s place was no sinecure, for he was up early, and was employed the whole of the day.Nancy, the young woman we have introduced to our readers, had contracted a great regard for our hero, ever since his offering her his money; and Joey was equally partial to her, for she possessed a warm heart and much good feeling, she would very often run upstairs into Mrs Chopper’s room, to talk with the old lady and to see Joey, and would then take out her thimble and needle, examine his clothes, and make the necessary repairs.“I saw you walking with little Emma Phillips, Peter,” said Nancy: “where did you come to know her?”“I met her in the road the day that I came down to Gravesend.”“Well, I’m sure! and do you speak to every young lady you chance to meet?”“No; but I was unhappy, and she was very kind to me.”“She’s a very sweet child, or rather, I can only say that she was, when I knew her?”“When did you know her?”“Four or five years ago. I lived for a short time with Mrs Phillips; that was when I was a good girl.”“Yes, indeed, Nancy,” said Mrs Chopper, shaking her head.“Why ain’t you good, now, Nancy?” replied Joey.“Because—” said Nancy.“Because why?”“Because I am not good,” replied the girl; “and now, Peter, don’t ask any more questions, or you’ll make me cry. Heigho! I think crying very pleasant now and then; one’s heart feels fresher, like flowers after the rain. Peter, where are your father and mother?”“I don’t know; I left them at home.”“You left them at home! but do you never hear from them? do you never write?”“No.”“But why not? I am sure they have brought you up well. They must be very good people—are they not?”Joey could not answer; how could he say that his father was a good man after what had passed?“You don’t answer me, Peter; don’t you love your father and mother dearly?”“Yes, indeed I do; but I must not write to them.”“Well, I must say there is something about Peter and his parents which I cannot understand, and which I have often tried to make him tell, and he will not,” said Mrs Chopper. “Poaching ain’t such a great crime, especially in a boy. I can’t see why he should not write to his father and mother, at all events, I hope, Peter, you have told me the truth?”“I have told you what is true; but my father was a poacher, and they know it; and if they did not punish me, they would him, and transport him, too, if I gave evidence against him, which I must do, if put to my oath. I’ve told you all I can tell; I must not tell of father, must I?”“No, no, child; I dare say you are right,” replied Mrs Chopper.“Now, I don’t ask you to tell me, Peter,” said Nancy, “for I can guess what has taken place; you and your father have been out poaching, there has been a scuffle with the keepers, and there has been blood shed; and that’s the reason why you keep out of the way. Ain’t I right?”“You are not far wrong,” replied Joey; “but I will not say a word more upon it.”“And I won’t ask you, my little Peter; there—that’s done—and now I shall have a peep out of the window, for it’s very close here, Mrs Chopper.”Nancy threw the window open and leaned out of it, watching the passers-by. “Mercy on us! here’s three soldiers coming up the street with a deserter handcuffed,” cried she. “Who can it be? he’s a sailor. Why, I do believe it’s Sam Oxenham, that belongs to theThomas and Maryof Sunderland. Poor fellow! Yes, it is him.”Joey went to the window, and took his stand by the side of Nancy.“What soldiers are those?” inquired he.“They’re not soldiers, after all,” replied Nancy; “they are jollies—a sergeant and two privates.”“Jollies! what are they?”“Why, marines, to be sure.”Joey continued looking at them until they passed under the window, when Nancy, who had a great disgust at anything like arbitrary power, could not refrain from speaking.“I say, master sergeant, you’re a nice brave fellow, with your two jollies. D’ye think the young man will kill you all three, that you must put the darbies on so tight?”At this appeal, the sergeant and privates looked up at the window, and laughed when they saw such a pretty girl as Nancy. The eyes of one of the privates were, however, soon fixed on our hero’s face, and deeply scrutinising it, when Joey looked at him. As soon as Joey recognised him, he drew back from the window, pale as death, the private still remaining staring at the window.“Why, what’s the matter, Peter?” said Nancy; “what makes you look so pale? do you know that man?”“Yes,” replied Joey, drawing his breath, “and he knows me, I’m afraid.”“Why do you fear?” replied Nancy.“See if he’s gone,” said Joey.“Yes, he has; he has gone up the street with the sergeant; but every now and then he looks back at this window; but perhaps that’s to see me.”“Why, Peter, what harm can that marine do you?” inquired Mrs Chopper.“A great deal; he will never be quiet until he has me taken up, and then what will become of my poor father?” continued Joey, with the tears running down his cheeks.“Give me my bonnet, Peter. I’ll soon find out what he is after,” said Nancy, leaving the window. She threw her bonnet on her head, and ran downstairs.Mrs Chopper in vain endeavoured to console our hero, or make him explain—he did nothing but sit mournfully by her side, thinking what he had best do, and expecting every minute to hear the tramp of Furness (for it was he who had recognised Joey) coming up the stairs.“Mrs Chopper,” at last said Joey, “I must leave you, I’m afraid; I was obliged to leave my former friends on this man’s account.”“Leave me, boy! no, no, you must not leave me—how could I get on without you?”“If I don’t leave you myself, I shall be taken up, that is certain; but indeed I have not done wrong—don’t think that I have.”“I’m sure of it, child; you’ve only to say so, and I’ll believe you; but why should he care about you?”“He lived in our village, and knows all about it; he gave evidence at—”“At what, boy?”“At the time that I ran away from home; he proved that I had the gun and bag which were found.”“Well, and suppose you had; what then?”“Mrs Chopper, there was a reward offered, and he wants to get the money.”“Oh, I see now—a reward offered; then it must be as Nancy said, there was blood shed,” and Mrs Chopper put her apron up to her eyes.Joey made no answer. After a few minutes’ silence he rose, and went to his room where he slept, and put his clothes up in a bundle. Having so done, he sat down on the side of his bed and reflected what was the course he ought to pursue.Our hero was now sixteen, and much increased in stature; he was no longer a child, although, in heart, almost as innocent. His thoughts wandered—he yearned to see his father and mother, and reflected whether he might not venture back to the village, and meet them by stealth; he thought of the McShanes, and imagined that he might in the same way return to them; then little Emma Phillips rose in his imagination, and his fear that he should never see her again; Captain O’Donahue was at last brought to his recollection, and he longed to be once more with him in Russia; and, lastly, he reviewed the happy and contented life he had lately led with his good friend Mrs Chopper, and how sorry he should be to part with her. After a time he threw himself on his bed and hid his face in the pillow; and, overcome with the excess of his feelings, he at last fell asleep.In the mean time Nancy had followed the marines up the street, and saw them enter, with their prisoner, into a small public-house, where she was well known; she followed them, spoke a few kind words to the seaman who had been apprehended, and with whom she was acquainted, and then sat down by Furness to attract his attention.Furness had certainly much improved in his appearance since he had (much against his will) been serving his Majesty. Being a tall man, he had, by drilling, become perfectly erect, and the punishment awarded to drunkenness, as well as the difficulty of procuring liquor, had kept him from his former intemperance, and his health had in consequence improved. He had been more than once brought up to the gangway upon his first embarkation, but latterly had conducted himself properly, and was in expectation of being made a corporal, for which situation his education certainly qualified him. On the whole, he was now a fine-looking marine, although just as unprincipled a scoundrel as ever.“Well, my pretty lass, didn’t I see you looking out of a window just now?”“To be sure you did, and you might have heard me too,” replied Nancy; “and when I saw such a handsome fellow as you, didn’t I put on my bonnet in a hurry, and come after you? What ship do you belong to?”“TheMars, at the Nore.”“Well, I should like to go on board of a man-of-war. Will you take me?”“To be sure I will; come, have a drink of beer.”“Here’s to the jollies,” said Nancy, putting the pewter pot to her lips. “When do you go on board again?”“Not till to-morrow; we’ve caught our bird, and now we’ll amuse ourselves a little. Do you belong to this place?”“Yes, bred and born here; but we hardly ever see a man-of-war; they stay at the Nore, or go higher up.”Nancy did all she could to make Furness believe she had taken a fancy to him, and knew too well how to succeed. Before an hour had passed, Furness had, as he thought, made every arrangement with her, and congratulated himself on his good fortune. In the mean time the beer and brandy went round; even the unfortunate captive was persuaded to drink with them, and drown reflection. At last, Furness said to Nancy, “Who was that lad that was looking out of the window with you? Was it your brother?”“My brother! bless you, no. You mean that scamp, Peter, who goes in the bumboat with old Mother Chopper.”“Does he?—well, I have either seen him before, or some one like him.”“He’s not of our town,” replied Nancy; “he came here about two years ago, nobody knows where from, and has been with Mrs Chopper ever since.”“Two years ago,” muttered Furness, “that’s just the time. Come, girl, take some more beer.”Nancy drank a little, and put down the pot.“Where does Mrs Chopper live?” inquired Furness.“Where you saw me looking out of the window,” replied Nancy.“And the boy lives with her? I will call upon Mrs Chopper by-and-bye.”“Yes, to be sure he does; but why are you talking so about the boy? Why don’t you talk to me, and tell me what a pretty girl I am, for I like to be told that.”Furness and his comrades continued the carouse, and were getting fast into a state of intoxication; the sergeant only was prudent; but Furness could not let pass this opportunity of indulging without fear of punishment. He became more loving towards Nancy as he became more tipsy; when Nancy, who cajoled him to the utmost of her power, again mentioned our hero; and then it was that Furness, who, when inebriated, could never hold a secret, first told her there was a reward offered for his apprehension, and that if she would remain with him they would spend the money together. To this Nancy immediately consented, and offered to assist him as much as she could, as she had the entrance into Mrs Chopper’s house, and knew where the lad slept. But Nancy was determined to gain more from Furness, and as he was now pretty far gone, she proposed that they should take a walk out, for it was a beautiful evening. Furness gladly consented. Nancy again explained to him how she should manage to get Joey into her power, and appeared quite delighted at the idea of there being a reward, which they were to obtain; and finding that Furness was completely deceived, and that the fresh air had increased his inebriety, she then persuaded him to confide to her all the circumstances connected with the reward offered for our hero’s apprehension. She then learned what had occurred at the inquest—Joey’s escape—his being again discovered by Furness—and his second escape from the school, to which he had been put by the McShanes.“And his father and mother, where are they? When I think of them I must say that I do not much like to assist in taking up the boy. Poor people, how they will suffer when they hear of it? Really I don’t know what to say,” continued Nancy, biting the tip of her finger, as if hesitating.“Don’t let them stop you,” said Furness; “they will not be likely even to hear of it; they left the village before me, and no one knows where they are gone. I tried to find out myself, but could not. It’s very clear that they are gone to America.”“Indeed!” said Nancy, who had put the questions because she wished to give Joey some information relative to his parents; “gone to America, do you say?”“Yes, I am inclined to think so, for I lost all trace of them.”“Well, then,” replied Nancy, “that scruple of mine is got over.”She then pointed out to Furness the propriety of waiting an hour or two, till people were in bed, that there might be no chance of a rescue; and they returned to the public-house. Furness took another glass of ale, and then fell fast asleep on the bench, with his head over the table.“So,” thought Nancy, as she left the public-house, “the drunken fool makes sure of his 200 pounds; but there is no time to be lost.”Nancy hastened back to Mrs Chopper, whom she found sitting with a candle turning over the leaves of one of the old account books.“O, Nancy, is that you? I was just sighing over you, here’s the things that were ordered for your wedding. Poor girl! I fear you have not often been to church since.”Nancy was silent for a short time. “I’m sick of my life and sick of myself, Mrs Chopper: but what can I do?—a wretch like me! I wish I could run away, as poor Peter must directly, and go to where I never was known; I should be so happy.”“Peter must go, do you say, Nancy? Is that certain?”“Most certain, Mrs Chopper, and he must be off directly I have been with the marines, and the fellow has told me everything; he is only waiting now for me to go back, to come and take him.”“But tell me, Nancy, has Peter been guilty?”“I believe from my heart that he has done nothing; but still murder was committed, and Peter will be apprehended, unless you give him the means of running away. Where is he now?”“Asleep, fast asleep: I didn’t like to wake him, poor fellow!”“Then he must be innocent, Mrs Chopper: they say the guilty never sleep. But what will he do—he has no money?”“He has saved me a mint of money, and he shall not want it,” replied Mrs Chopper. “What shall I do without him? I can’t bear to part with him.”“But you must, Mrs Chopper; and, if you love him, you will give him the means, and let him be off directly. I wish I was going too,” continued Nancy, bursting into tears.“Go with him, Nancy, and look after him, and take care of my poor Peter,” said Mrs Chopper, whimpering; “go, my child, go, and lead a good life. I should better part with him, if I thought you were with him, and away from this horrid place.”“Will you let me go with him, Mrs Chopper—will you, indeed?” cried Nancy, falling on her knees. “Oh! I will watch him as a mother would her son, as a sister would her brother! Give us but the means to quit this place, and the good and the wicked both will bless you.”“That you shall have, my poor girl, it has often pained my heart to look at you; for I felt that you are too good for what you are, and you will be again a good honest girl. You both shall go. Poor Peter! I wish I were young enough, I would go with you; but I can’t. How I shall be cheated again when he is gone! but go he must. Here Nancy, take the money; take all I have in the house:” and Mrs Chopper put upwards of 20 pounds into Nancy’s hand as she was kneeling before her. Nancy fell forward with her face in the lap of the good old woman, suffocated with emotion and tears. “Come, come, Nancy,” said Mrs Chopper, after a pause, and wiping her eyes with her apron, “you mustn’t take on so, my poor girl. Recollect poor Peter; there’s no time to lose.”“That is true,” replied Nancy, rising up. “Mrs Chopper you have done a deed this night for which you will have your reward in heaven. May the God of mercy bless you! and, as soon as I dare, night and morning will I pray for you.”Mrs Chopper went into Joey’s room with the candle in her hand, followed by Nancy. “See, how sound he sleeps!” said the old woman; “he is not guilty. Peter! Peter! come get up, child.”Joey rose from his bed, confused at first with the light in his eyes, but soon recovered himself.“Peter, you must go, my poor boy, and go quickly, Nancy says.”“I was sure of it,” replied Joey: “I am very, very sorry to leave you, Mrs Chopper. Pray think well of me, for, indeed, I have done nothing wrong.”“I am sure of it; but Nancy knows it all, and away you must go. I wish you were off; I’m getting fidgety about it, although I cannot bear to lose you; so good-bye at once, Peter, and God bless you! I hope we shall meet again yet.”“I hope so, indeed, Mrs Chopper; for you have been very kind to me, as kind as a mother could be.”Mrs Chopper hugged him to her breast, and then said, in a hurried tone, as she dropped on the bed,—“There; go, go.”Nancy took up Joey’s bundle in one hand and Joey by the other, and they went down stairs. As soon as they were in the street, Nancy turned short round, and went to the house where she usually slept, desiring Joey to wait a moment at the door. She soon returned with her own bundle, and then, with a quick pace, walked on, desiring Joey to follow her. They proceeded in this manner until they were clear of the town, when Joey came up to Nancy, and said, “Thank you, Nancy; I suppose we’d better part now?”“No, we don’t part yet, Peter,” replied Nancy.“But where are you going, and why have you that bundle?”“I am going with you, Peter,” replied Nancy.“But, Nancy—,” replied Joey; and then, after a pause, “I will do all I can for you—I will work for you—but I have no money, and I hope we shall not starve.”“Bless you, boy! bless you for that kind feeling! but we shall not starve; I have Mrs Chopper’s leave to go with you; indeed, she wished me so to do, and she has given me money for you—it is for you, although she said for both.”“She is very kind; but why should you go with me, Nancy? You have nothing to fear.”“We must not talk now, Peter; let us walk on; I have more to fear than you.”“How is that? I fear being taken up for that of which I am not guilty, but you have nothing to fear.”“Peter, dear,” replied Nancy, solemnly, “I do not fear for anything the world can do to me—but don’t talk now; let us go on.”

For nearly two years Joey had filled his situation as chancellor of the exchequer to Mrs Chopper. He certainly did not feel himself always in the humour or the disposition for business, especially during the hard winter months, when, seated almost immovably in the boat during the best portion of the day, he would find his fingers so completely dead, that he could not hold his pen. But there is no situation, under any of the powers that be, that has not some drawback. People may say that a sinecure is one that has not its disadvantages; but such is not the case—there is the disgrace of holding it. At all events, Joey’s place was no sinecure, for he was up early, and was employed the whole of the day.

Nancy, the young woman we have introduced to our readers, had contracted a great regard for our hero, ever since his offering her his money; and Joey was equally partial to her, for she possessed a warm heart and much good feeling, she would very often run upstairs into Mrs Chopper’s room, to talk with the old lady and to see Joey, and would then take out her thimble and needle, examine his clothes, and make the necessary repairs.

“I saw you walking with little Emma Phillips, Peter,” said Nancy: “where did you come to know her?”

“I met her in the road the day that I came down to Gravesend.”

“Well, I’m sure! and do you speak to every young lady you chance to meet?”

“No; but I was unhappy, and she was very kind to me.”

“She’s a very sweet child, or rather, I can only say that she was, when I knew her?”

“When did you know her?”

“Four or five years ago. I lived for a short time with Mrs Phillips; that was when I was a good girl.”

“Yes, indeed, Nancy,” said Mrs Chopper, shaking her head.

“Why ain’t you good, now, Nancy?” replied Joey.

“Because—” said Nancy.

“Because why?”

“Because I am not good,” replied the girl; “and now, Peter, don’t ask any more questions, or you’ll make me cry. Heigho! I think crying very pleasant now and then; one’s heart feels fresher, like flowers after the rain. Peter, where are your father and mother?”

“I don’t know; I left them at home.”

“You left them at home! but do you never hear from them? do you never write?”

“No.”

“But why not? I am sure they have brought you up well. They must be very good people—are they not?”

Joey could not answer; how could he say that his father was a good man after what had passed?

“You don’t answer me, Peter; don’t you love your father and mother dearly?”

“Yes, indeed I do; but I must not write to them.”

“Well, I must say there is something about Peter and his parents which I cannot understand, and which I have often tried to make him tell, and he will not,” said Mrs Chopper. “Poaching ain’t such a great crime, especially in a boy. I can’t see why he should not write to his father and mother, at all events, I hope, Peter, you have told me the truth?”

“I have told you what is true; but my father was a poacher, and they know it; and if they did not punish me, they would him, and transport him, too, if I gave evidence against him, which I must do, if put to my oath. I’ve told you all I can tell; I must not tell of father, must I?”

“No, no, child; I dare say you are right,” replied Mrs Chopper.

“Now, I don’t ask you to tell me, Peter,” said Nancy, “for I can guess what has taken place; you and your father have been out poaching, there has been a scuffle with the keepers, and there has been blood shed; and that’s the reason why you keep out of the way. Ain’t I right?”

“You are not far wrong,” replied Joey; “but I will not say a word more upon it.”

“And I won’t ask you, my little Peter; there—that’s done—and now I shall have a peep out of the window, for it’s very close here, Mrs Chopper.”

Nancy threw the window open and leaned out of it, watching the passers-by. “Mercy on us! here’s three soldiers coming up the street with a deserter handcuffed,” cried she. “Who can it be? he’s a sailor. Why, I do believe it’s Sam Oxenham, that belongs to theThomas and Maryof Sunderland. Poor fellow! Yes, it is him.”

Joey went to the window, and took his stand by the side of Nancy.

“What soldiers are those?” inquired he.

“They’re not soldiers, after all,” replied Nancy; “they are jollies—a sergeant and two privates.”

“Jollies! what are they?”

“Why, marines, to be sure.”

Joey continued looking at them until they passed under the window, when Nancy, who had a great disgust at anything like arbitrary power, could not refrain from speaking.

“I say, master sergeant, you’re a nice brave fellow, with your two jollies. D’ye think the young man will kill you all three, that you must put the darbies on so tight?”

At this appeal, the sergeant and privates looked up at the window, and laughed when they saw such a pretty girl as Nancy. The eyes of one of the privates were, however, soon fixed on our hero’s face, and deeply scrutinising it, when Joey looked at him. As soon as Joey recognised him, he drew back from the window, pale as death, the private still remaining staring at the window.

“Why, what’s the matter, Peter?” said Nancy; “what makes you look so pale? do you know that man?”

“Yes,” replied Joey, drawing his breath, “and he knows me, I’m afraid.”

“Why do you fear?” replied Nancy.

“See if he’s gone,” said Joey.

“Yes, he has; he has gone up the street with the sergeant; but every now and then he looks back at this window; but perhaps that’s to see me.”

“Why, Peter, what harm can that marine do you?” inquired Mrs Chopper.

“A great deal; he will never be quiet until he has me taken up, and then what will become of my poor father?” continued Joey, with the tears running down his cheeks.

“Give me my bonnet, Peter. I’ll soon find out what he is after,” said Nancy, leaving the window. She threw her bonnet on her head, and ran downstairs.

Mrs Chopper in vain endeavoured to console our hero, or make him explain—he did nothing but sit mournfully by her side, thinking what he had best do, and expecting every minute to hear the tramp of Furness (for it was he who had recognised Joey) coming up the stairs.

“Mrs Chopper,” at last said Joey, “I must leave you, I’m afraid; I was obliged to leave my former friends on this man’s account.”

“Leave me, boy! no, no, you must not leave me—how could I get on without you?”

“If I don’t leave you myself, I shall be taken up, that is certain; but indeed I have not done wrong—don’t think that I have.”

“I’m sure of it, child; you’ve only to say so, and I’ll believe you; but why should he care about you?”

“He lived in our village, and knows all about it; he gave evidence at—”

“At what, boy?”

“At the time that I ran away from home; he proved that I had the gun and bag which were found.”

“Well, and suppose you had; what then?”

“Mrs Chopper, there was a reward offered, and he wants to get the money.”

“Oh, I see now—a reward offered; then it must be as Nancy said, there was blood shed,” and Mrs Chopper put her apron up to her eyes.

Joey made no answer. After a few minutes’ silence he rose, and went to his room where he slept, and put his clothes up in a bundle. Having so done, he sat down on the side of his bed and reflected what was the course he ought to pursue.

Our hero was now sixteen, and much increased in stature; he was no longer a child, although, in heart, almost as innocent. His thoughts wandered—he yearned to see his father and mother, and reflected whether he might not venture back to the village, and meet them by stealth; he thought of the McShanes, and imagined that he might in the same way return to them; then little Emma Phillips rose in his imagination, and his fear that he should never see her again; Captain O’Donahue was at last brought to his recollection, and he longed to be once more with him in Russia; and, lastly, he reviewed the happy and contented life he had lately led with his good friend Mrs Chopper, and how sorry he should be to part with her. After a time he threw himself on his bed and hid his face in the pillow; and, overcome with the excess of his feelings, he at last fell asleep.

In the mean time Nancy had followed the marines up the street, and saw them enter, with their prisoner, into a small public-house, where she was well known; she followed them, spoke a few kind words to the seaman who had been apprehended, and with whom she was acquainted, and then sat down by Furness to attract his attention.

Furness had certainly much improved in his appearance since he had (much against his will) been serving his Majesty. Being a tall man, he had, by drilling, become perfectly erect, and the punishment awarded to drunkenness, as well as the difficulty of procuring liquor, had kept him from his former intemperance, and his health had in consequence improved. He had been more than once brought up to the gangway upon his first embarkation, but latterly had conducted himself properly, and was in expectation of being made a corporal, for which situation his education certainly qualified him. On the whole, he was now a fine-looking marine, although just as unprincipled a scoundrel as ever.

“Well, my pretty lass, didn’t I see you looking out of a window just now?”

“To be sure you did, and you might have heard me too,” replied Nancy; “and when I saw such a handsome fellow as you, didn’t I put on my bonnet in a hurry, and come after you? What ship do you belong to?”

“TheMars, at the Nore.”

“Well, I should like to go on board of a man-of-war. Will you take me?”

“To be sure I will; come, have a drink of beer.”

“Here’s to the jollies,” said Nancy, putting the pewter pot to her lips. “When do you go on board again?”

“Not till to-morrow; we’ve caught our bird, and now we’ll amuse ourselves a little. Do you belong to this place?”

“Yes, bred and born here; but we hardly ever see a man-of-war; they stay at the Nore, or go higher up.”

Nancy did all she could to make Furness believe she had taken a fancy to him, and knew too well how to succeed. Before an hour had passed, Furness had, as he thought, made every arrangement with her, and congratulated himself on his good fortune. In the mean time the beer and brandy went round; even the unfortunate captive was persuaded to drink with them, and drown reflection. At last, Furness said to Nancy, “Who was that lad that was looking out of the window with you? Was it your brother?”

“My brother! bless you, no. You mean that scamp, Peter, who goes in the bumboat with old Mother Chopper.”

“Does he?—well, I have either seen him before, or some one like him.”

“He’s not of our town,” replied Nancy; “he came here about two years ago, nobody knows where from, and has been with Mrs Chopper ever since.”

“Two years ago,” muttered Furness, “that’s just the time. Come, girl, take some more beer.”

Nancy drank a little, and put down the pot.

“Where does Mrs Chopper live?” inquired Furness.

“Where you saw me looking out of the window,” replied Nancy.

“And the boy lives with her? I will call upon Mrs Chopper by-and-bye.”

“Yes, to be sure he does; but why are you talking so about the boy? Why don’t you talk to me, and tell me what a pretty girl I am, for I like to be told that.”

Furness and his comrades continued the carouse, and were getting fast into a state of intoxication; the sergeant only was prudent; but Furness could not let pass this opportunity of indulging without fear of punishment. He became more loving towards Nancy as he became more tipsy; when Nancy, who cajoled him to the utmost of her power, again mentioned our hero; and then it was that Furness, who, when inebriated, could never hold a secret, first told her there was a reward offered for his apprehension, and that if she would remain with him they would spend the money together. To this Nancy immediately consented, and offered to assist him as much as she could, as she had the entrance into Mrs Chopper’s house, and knew where the lad slept. But Nancy was determined to gain more from Furness, and as he was now pretty far gone, she proposed that they should take a walk out, for it was a beautiful evening. Furness gladly consented. Nancy again explained to him how she should manage to get Joey into her power, and appeared quite delighted at the idea of there being a reward, which they were to obtain; and finding that Furness was completely deceived, and that the fresh air had increased his inebriety, she then persuaded him to confide to her all the circumstances connected with the reward offered for our hero’s apprehension. She then learned what had occurred at the inquest—Joey’s escape—his being again discovered by Furness—and his second escape from the school, to which he had been put by the McShanes.

“And his father and mother, where are they? When I think of them I must say that I do not much like to assist in taking up the boy. Poor people, how they will suffer when they hear of it? Really I don’t know what to say,” continued Nancy, biting the tip of her finger, as if hesitating.

“Don’t let them stop you,” said Furness; “they will not be likely even to hear of it; they left the village before me, and no one knows where they are gone. I tried to find out myself, but could not. It’s very clear that they are gone to America.”

“Indeed!” said Nancy, who had put the questions because she wished to give Joey some information relative to his parents; “gone to America, do you say?”

“Yes, I am inclined to think so, for I lost all trace of them.”

“Well, then,” replied Nancy, “that scruple of mine is got over.”

She then pointed out to Furness the propriety of waiting an hour or two, till people were in bed, that there might be no chance of a rescue; and they returned to the public-house. Furness took another glass of ale, and then fell fast asleep on the bench, with his head over the table.

“So,” thought Nancy, as she left the public-house, “the drunken fool makes sure of his 200 pounds; but there is no time to be lost.”

Nancy hastened back to Mrs Chopper, whom she found sitting with a candle turning over the leaves of one of the old account books.

“O, Nancy, is that you? I was just sighing over you, here’s the things that were ordered for your wedding. Poor girl! I fear you have not often been to church since.”

Nancy was silent for a short time. “I’m sick of my life and sick of myself, Mrs Chopper: but what can I do?—a wretch like me! I wish I could run away, as poor Peter must directly, and go to where I never was known; I should be so happy.”

“Peter must go, do you say, Nancy? Is that certain?”

“Most certain, Mrs Chopper, and he must be off directly I have been with the marines, and the fellow has told me everything; he is only waiting now for me to go back, to come and take him.”

“But tell me, Nancy, has Peter been guilty?”

“I believe from my heart that he has done nothing; but still murder was committed, and Peter will be apprehended, unless you give him the means of running away. Where is he now?”

“Asleep, fast asleep: I didn’t like to wake him, poor fellow!”

“Then he must be innocent, Mrs Chopper: they say the guilty never sleep. But what will he do—he has no money?”

“He has saved me a mint of money, and he shall not want it,” replied Mrs Chopper. “What shall I do without him? I can’t bear to part with him.”

“But you must, Mrs Chopper; and, if you love him, you will give him the means, and let him be off directly. I wish I was going too,” continued Nancy, bursting into tears.

“Go with him, Nancy, and look after him, and take care of my poor Peter,” said Mrs Chopper, whimpering; “go, my child, go, and lead a good life. I should better part with him, if I thought you were with him, and away from this horrid place.”

“Will you let me go with him, Mrs Chopper—will you, indeed?” cried Nancy, falling on her knees. “Oh! I will watch him as a mother would her son, as a sister would her brother! Give us but the means to quit this place, and the good and the wicked both will bless you.”

“That you shall have, my poor girl, it has often pained my heart to look at you; for I felt that you are too good for what you are, and you will be again a good honest girl. You both shall go. Poor Peter! I wish I were young enough, I would go with you; but I can’t. How I shall be cheated again when he is gone! but go he must. Here Nancy, take the money; take all I have in the house:” and Mrs Chopper put upwards of 20 pounds into Nancy’s hand as she was kneeling before her. Nancy fell forward with her face in the lap of the good old woman, suffocated with emotion and tears. “Come, come, Nancy,” said Mrs Chopper, after a pause, and wiping her eyes with her apron, “you mustn’t take on so, my poor girl. Recollect poor Peter; there’s no time to lose.”

“That is true,” replied Nancy, rising up. “Mrs Chopper you have done a deed this night for which you will have your reward in heaven. May the God of mercy bless you! and, as soon as I dare, night and morning will I pray for you.”

Mrs Chopper went into Joey’s room with the candle in her hand, followed by Nancy. “See, how sound he sleeps!” said the old woman; “he is not guilty. Peter! Peter! come get up, child.”

Joey rose from his bed, confused at first with the light in his eyes, but soon recovered himself.

“Peter, you must go, my poor boy, and go quickly, Nancy says.”

“I was sure of it,” replied Joey: “I am very, very sorry to leave you, Mrs Chopper. Pray think well of me, for, indeed, I have done nothing wrong.”

“I am sure of it; but Nancy knows it all, and away you must go. I wish you were off; I’m getting fidgety about it, although I cannot bear to lose you; so good-bye at once, Peter, and God bless you! I hope we shall meet again yet.”

“I hope so, indeed, Mrs Chopper; for you have been very kind to me, as kind as a mother could be.”

Mrs Chopper hugged him to her breast, and then said, in a hurried tone, as she dropped on the bed,—“There; go, go.”

Nancy took up Joey’s bundle in one hand and Joey by the other, and they went down stairs. As soon as they were in the street, Nancy turned short round, and went to the house where she usually slept, desiring Joey to wait a moment at the door. She soon returned with her own bundle, and then, with a quick pace, walked on, desiring Joey to follow her. They proceeded in this manner until they were clear of the town, when Joey came up to Nancy, and said, “Thank you, Nancy; I suppose we’d better part now?”

“No, we don’t part yet, Peter,” replied Nancy.

“But where are you going, and why have you that bundle?”

“I am going with you, Peter,” replied Nancy.

“But, Nancy—,” replied Joey; and then, after a pause, “I will do all I can for you—I will work for you—but I have no money, and I hope we shall not starve.”

“Bless you, boy! bless you for that kind feeling! but we shall not starve; I have Mrs Chopper’s leave to go with you; indeed, she wished me so to do, and she has given me money for you—it is for you, although she said for both.”

“She is very kind; but why should you go with me, Nancy? You have nothing to fear.”

“We must not talk now, Peter; let us walk on; I have more to fear than you.”

“How is that? I fear being taken up for that of which I am not guilty, but you have nothing to fear.”

“Peter, dear,” replied Nancy, solemnly, “I do not fear for anything the world can do to me—but don’t talk now; let us go on.”

Chapter Twenty Seven.In which the Wheel of Fortune brings our Hero’s Nose to a Grindstone.When Nancy and our hero had proceeded about three miles on their way, Nancy slackened her pace, and they entered into conversation.“Which way are you going?” demanded Joey.“I’m cutting right across the country, Peter, or rather Joey, as I shall in future call you, for that is your real name—the marine told me it was Joseph Rushbrook; is it not?”“Yes, it is,” replied Joey.“Then in future I shall call you so, for I do not want to hear even a name which would remind me of the scene of my misery; and Joey, do you never call me Nancy again, the name is odious to me; call me Mary.”“I will if you wish it; but I cannot imagine why you should run away from Gravesend, Mary. What do you mean to do? I ran away from fear of being taken up.”“And I, Joey, do more; I fly from the wrath to come. You ask me what I intend to do; I will answer you in the words of the catechism which I used once to repeat, ‘to lead a new life, have a thankful remembrance of Christ’s death, and be in charity with all men.’ I shall seek for service; I care not how humble—it will be good enough. I will sift cinders for brick-making, make bricks, do anything, as long as what I do is honest.”“I am very glad to hear you say that, Mary,” replied Joey, “for I was always very fond of you.”“Yes, Joey, and you were the first who offered to do a kind thing for me for a long while; I have never forgotten it, and this night I have done something to repay it.”Nancy then entered into a detail of all that had passed between her and Furness, of which Joey had been ignorant, and which proved to him what a narrow escape he had had.“I little thought you had done all this while I slept,” replied Joey; “but I am very grateful, Mary.”“I know you are, so say no more about it. You see, Joey, he gave me all your history, and appears to believe that you committed the murder. I do not believe it; I do not believe you would do such a thing, although your gun might have gone off by accident.”“No, Mary, I did not do it, either on purpose or by accident; but you must ask me no more questions, for if I were put on my trial, I should not reveal the secret.”“Then I will never speak to you any more about it, if I can help it. I have my own thoughts on the business, but now I drop it. It is nearly daylight, and we have walked a good many miles; I shall not be sorry to sit down and rest myself.”“Do you know how far we have to go before we come to any town, Mary?”“We are not far from Maidstone; it is on our right, but it will be as well not to go through so large a town so near to Gravesend. Besides, some of the soldiers may know me. As soon as we come to a good place, where we can find a drink of water, we will sit down and rest ourselves.”About a mile further on they came to a small rivulet which crossed the road.“This will do, Joey,” said Nancy; “now we’ll sit down.”It was then daylight; they took their seats on their bundles as soon as they had drunk from the stream.“Now, Joey,” said Mary (as we shall call her for the future), let us see what money we have. Mrs Chopper put all she had in my hands; poor, good old woman, bless her! Count it. Joey; it is yours.“No, Mary; she gave it for both of us.”“Never mind; do you keep it: for you see, Joey, it might happen that you might have to run off at a moment’s warning, and it would not do for you to be without money.”“If I was to run off at a minute’s warning, I should then take it all with me, and it would not do for you to be left without any money, Mary; so we must halve it between us, although we will always make one purse.”“Well, be it so; for if you were robbed, or I were robbed, on the way, the other might escape.”They then divided the money, Joey putting his share into his pocket, and tying it in with a string. Mary dropped hers down into the usual deposit of women for bank-notes and billets-doux. As soon as this matter had been arranged, Mary opened her bundle, and took out a handkerchief, which she put on her shoulders; combed out the ringlets which she had worn, and dressed her hair flat on her temples; removed the gay ribbons from her bonnet, and substituted some plain brown in their stead.“There,” says she; “now, Joey, don’t I look more respectable?”“You do look more neat and more—”“More modest, you would say, Joey. Well, and I hope in future to become what I look. But I look more fit to be your sister, Joey, for I have been thinking we had better pass off as brother and sister to avoid questioning. We must make out some story to agree in. Who shall we say that we are (as we dare not say who we really are)? I am looking out for service, and so are you, that’s very clear; father and mother are both dead; father was a baker. That’s all true, as far as relates to me: and as you are my brother, why you must take my father and mother. It’s no very great story, after all.”“But it won’t do to say we came from Gravesend.”“No; we need not say that, and yet tell no story; the village we passed through last night was Wrotham, so we came from thence.”“But where do you think of going, Mary?”“A good way farther off yet; at all events, before we look out for service, we will get into another county. Now, if you are ready, we will go on Joey, and look out for some breakfast, and then I shall be able to change my gown for a quieter one.”In half an hour they arrived at a village, and went into a public-house. Mary went up stairs and changed her dress; and now that she had completed her arrangements, she looked a very pretty, modest young woman, and none could have supposed that the day before she had been flaunting in the street of a seafaring town. Inquiries were made, as might be supposed, and Mary replied that she was going to service, and that her brother was escorting her. They had their breakfast, and, after resting two hours, they proceeded on their journey.For some days they travelled more deliberately, until they found themselves in the village of Manstone, in Dorsetshire, where they, as usual, put up at an humble public-house. Here Mary told a different story; she had been disappointed in a situation, and they intended to go back to their native town.The landlady of the hotel was prepossessed in favour of such a very pretty girl as Mary, as well as with the appearance of Joey, who, although in his sailor’s dress, was very superior in carriage and manners to a boy in his supposed station in life, and she said that if they would remain there a few days she would try to procure them some situation. The third day after their arrival, she informed Mary that she had heard of a situation as under-housemaid at the squire’s, about a mile off, if she would like to take it, and Mary gladly consented. Mrs Derborough sent up word, and received orders for Mary to make her appearance, and Mary accordingly went up to the hall, accompanied by Joey. When she arrived there, and made known her business, she was desired to wait in the servants’ hall until she was sent for. In about a quarter of a hour she was summoned, and, leaving Joey in the hall, she went up to see the lady of the house, who inquired whether she had ever been out at service before, and if she had a good character.Mary replied that she had never been out at service, and that she had no character at all (which, by the bye, was very true).The lady of the house smiled at this apparentlynaïveanswer from so very modest-looking and pretty a girl, and asked who her parents were.To this question Mary’s answer was ready, and she further added that she had left home in search of a place, and had been disappointed; that her father and mother were dead, but her brother was down below, and had escorted her; and that Mrs Chopper was an old friend of her mother’s, and could answer to her character.The lady was prepossessed by Mary’s appearance, by the report of Mrs Derborough, and by the respectability of her brother travelling with her, and agreed to try her; but at the same time said she must have Mrs Chopper’s address, that she might write to her; but, the place being vacant, she might come to-morrow morning: her wages were named, and immediately accepted; and thus did Mary obtain her situation.People say you cannot be too particular when you choose servants; and, to a certain degree, this is true; but this extreme caution, however selfishness and prudence may dictate it, is but too often the cause of servants who have committed an error, and have in consequence been refused a character, being driven to destitution and misery, when they had a full intention, and would have, had they been permitted, redeemed their transgression.Mary was resolved to be a good and honest girl. Had the lady of the house been very particular, and had others to whom she might afterwards have applied been the same, all her good intentions might have been frustrated, and she might have been driven to despair, if not to her former evil courses. It is perhaps fortunate that everybody in the world is not so particular as your very good people, and that there is an occasional loophole by which those who have erred are permitted to return to virtue. Mary left the room delighted with her success, and went down to Joey in the servants’ hall. The servants soon found out from Mary that she was coming to the house, and one of the men chucked her under the chin, and told her she was a very pretty girl. Mary drew back, and Joey immediately resented the liberty, stating that he would not allow any man to insult his sister, for Joey was wise enough to see that he could not do a better thing to serve Mary. The servant was insolent in return, and threatened to chastise Joey, and ordered him to leave the house. The women took our hero’s part. The housekeeper came down at the time, and hearing the cause of the dispute, was angry with the footman; the butler took the side of the footman; and the end of it was that the voices were at the highest pitch when the bell rang, and the men being obliged to answer it, the women were for the time left in possession of the field.“What is that noise below?” inquired the master of the house.“It is a boy, sir—the brother, I believe of the girl who has come as under-housemaid, who has been making a disturbance.”“Desire him to leave the house instantly.”“Yes, sir,” replied the butler, who went down to enforce the order.Little did the master of the house imagine that in giving that order he was turning out of the house his own son; for the squire was no other than Mr Austin. Little did the inconsolable Mrs Austin fancy that her dear, lamented boy was at that moment under the same roof with her, and been driven out of it by her menials; but such was the case. So Joey and Mary quitted the hall, and bent their way back to the village inn.“Well, Mary,” said Joey, “I am very glad that you have found a situation.”“And so I am very thankful, indeed, Joey,” replied she; “and only hope that you will be able to get one somewhere about here also, and then we may occasionally see something of one another.”“No, Mary,” replied Joey, “I shall not look for a situation about here; the only reason I had for wishing it was that I might see you; but that will be impossible now.”“Why so?”“Do you think that I will ever put my foot into that house again, after the manner I was treated to-day? Never.”“I was afraid so,” replied Mary, mournfully.“No, Mary, I am happy that you are provided for; for I can seek my own fortune, and I will write to you, and let you know what I do; and you will write to me, Mary, won’t you?”“It will be the greatest pleasure that will be left to me, Joey; for I love you as dearly as it you were my own brother.”The next day our hero and Mary parted, with many tears on her side, and much sorrow on his. Joey refused to take more of the money than what he had in his possession, but promised; in case of need, to apply to Mary, who said that she would hoard up everything for him; and she kept her word. Joey, having escorted Mary to the hall lodge, remained at the inn till the next morning, and then set off once more on his travels.Our hero started at break of day, and had walked, by a western road, from Manstone, about six miles, when he met two men coming towards him. They were most miserably clad—neither of them had shoes or stockings; one had only a waistcoat and a pair of trousers, with a sack on his back; the other had a pair of blue trousers torn to ribbons, a Guernsey frock, and a tarpaulin hat. They appeared what they represented themselves to be, when they demanded charity, two wrecked seamen, who were travelling to a northern port to obtain employment; but had these fellows been questioned by a sailor, he would soon have discovered, by their total ignorance of anything nautical, that they were impostors. Perhaps there is no plan more successful than this, which is now carried on to an enormous extent by a set of rogues and depredators, who occasionally request charity, but too often extort it, and add to their spoils by robbing and plundering everything in their way. It is impossible for people in this country to ascertain the truth of the assertions of these vagabonds, and it appears unfeeling to refuse assistance to a poor seaman who has lost his all: even the cottager offers his mite, and thus do they levy upon the public to an extent which is scarcely credible; but it should be known that, in all cases of shipwreck, sailors are now invariably relieved and decently clothed, and supplied with the means of travelling to obtain employment; and whenever a man appeals for charity in a half-naked state, he is invariably an impostor or a worthless scoundrel.The two men were talking loud and laughing when they approached our hero. As soon as they came near, they looked hard at him, and stopped right before him, so as to block up the footpath.“Hilloah, my little sailor! where are you bound to?” said one to Joey, who had his common sailor’s dress on.“And, I say, what have you got in that bundle?” said the other; “and how are you off for brads?—haven’t you something to spare for brother-seamen? Come, feel in your pockets; or shall I feel for you?”Joey did not much like this exordium; he replied, stepping into the road at the same time, “I’ve no money, and the bundle contains my clothes.”“Come, come,” said the first, “you’re not going to get off that way. If you don’t wish your brains beaten out, you’ll just hand over that bundle for me to examine;” and so saying, the man stepped into the road towards Joey, who continued to retreat to the opposite side.There was no footpath at the side of the road to which Joey retreated, but a very thick quick-set hedge, much too strong for any man to force his way through. Joey perceived this; and as the man came at him to seize his bundle, he contrived, by a great effort, to swing it over the hedge into the field on the other side. The man, exasperated at this measure on the part of our hero, ran to seize him; but Joey dodged under him, and ran away down the road for a few yards, where he picked up a heavy stone for his defence, and there remained, prepared to defend himself, and not lose his bundle if he could help it.“You get hold of him, Bill, while I go round for the bundle,” said the man who had followed across the road, and he immediately set off to find the gate, or some entrance into the field, while the other man made after Joey. Our hero retreated at full speed; the man followed, but could not keep pace with our hero, as the road was newly-gravelled, and he had no shoes. Joey, perceiving this, slackened his pace, and when the man was close to him, turned short round, and aiming the stone with great precision, hit him on the forehead, and the fellow fell down senseless. In the meantime the other miscreant had taken the road in the opposite direction to look for the gate; and Joey, now rid of his assailant, perceived that in the hedge, opposite to the part of the road where he now stood, there was a gap which he could get through. He scrambled into the field, and ran for his bundle. The other man, who had been delayed, the gate being locked, and fenced with thorns, had but just gained the field when Joey had his bundle in his possession. Our hero caught it up, and ran like lightning to the gap, tossed over his bundle, and followed it, while the man was still a hundred yards from him. Once more in the high road, Joey took to his heels, and having run about two hundred yards, he looked back to ascertain if he was pursued, and perceived the man standing over his comrade, who was lying where he had fallen. Satisfied that he was now safe, Joey pursued his journey at a less rapid rate, although he continued to look back every minute, just by way of precaution; but the fellows, although they would not lose an opportunity of what appeared such an easy robbery, had their own reasons for continuing their journey, and getting away from that part of the country.Our hero pursued his way for two miles, looking out for some water by the wayside to quench his thirst, when he observed in the distance that there was something lying on the roadside. As he came nearer, he made it out to be a man prostrate on the grass, apparently asleep, and a few yards from where the man lay was a knife-grinder’s wheel, and a few other articles in the use of a travelling tinker; a fire, nearly extinct, was throwing up a tiny column of smoke, and a saucepan, which appeared to have been upset, was lying beside it. There was something in the scene before him which created a suspicion in the mind of our hero that all was not right; so, instead of passing on, he walked right up to where the man lay, and soon discovered that his face and dress were bloody. Joey knelt down by the side of him, and found that he was senseless, but breathing heavily. Joey untied the handkerchief which was round his neck, and which was apparently very tight, and almost immediately afterwards the man appeared relieved and opened his eyes. After a little time he contrived to utter one word, “Water!” and Joey, taking up the empty saucepan, proceeded in search of it. He soon found some, and brought it back. The tinker had greatly recovered during his absence, and as soon as he had drunk the water, sat upright.“Don’t leave me, boy,” said the tinker; “I feel very faint.”“I will stay by you as long as I can be of any use to you,” replied Joey; “what has happened?”“Robbed and almost murdered!” replied the man, with a groan.“Was it by those two rascals without shoes and stockings who attempted to rob me?” inquired Joey.“Yes, the same, I’ve no doubt. I must lie down for a time, my head is so bad,” replied the man, dropping back upon the grass.In a few minutes the exhausted man fell asleep, and Joey remained sitting by his side for nearly two hours. At last, his new companion awoke, raised himself up, and, dipping his handkerchief into the saucepan of water, washed the blood from his head and face.“This might have been worse, my little fellow,” said he to Joey, after he had wiped his face; “one of those rascals nearly throttled me, he pulled my handkerchief so tight. Well, this is a wicked world, this, to take away a fellow-creature’s life for thirteenpence-halfpenny, for that was all the money they found in my pocket. I thought an itinerant tinker was safe from highway robbery, at all events. Did you not say that they attacked you, or did I dream it?”“I did say so; it was no dream.”“And how did a little midge like you escape?”Joey gave the tinker a detail of what had occurred.“Cleverly done, boy, and kindly done now to come to my help, and to remain by me. I was going down the road, and as you have come down, I presume we are going the same way,” replied the tinker.“Do you feel strong enough to walk now?”“Yes, I think I can; but there’s the grindstone.”“Oh, I’ll wheel that for you.”“Do, that’s a good boy, for I tremble very much, and it would be too heavy for me now.”Joey fixed his bundle with the saucepan, etcetera, upon the knife-grinder’s wheel, and rolled it along the road, followed by the tinker, until they came to a small hamlet, about two miles from the spot from which they had started; they halted when they were fifty yards from the first cottage, and the tinker, having selected a dry place under the hedge, said, “I must stop here a little while?”Joey, who had heard the tinker say that the men had robbed him of thirteenpence-halfpenny, imagined that he was destitute, and as he wished to proceed on his way, he took out two shillings, and held them out to the man, saying, “This will keep you till you can earn some more. Good-bye now; I must go on.”The tinker looked at Joey. “You’re a kind-hearted lad, at all events, and a clever, bold one, if I mistake not,” said he; “put up your money, nevertheless, for I do not want any. I have plenty, if they had only known where to look for it.”Joey was examining his new companion during the time that he was speaking to him. There was a free and independent bearing about the man, and a refinement of manner and speech very different from what might be expected from one in so humble a situation. The tinker perceived this scrutiny, and, after meeting our hero’s glance, said, “Well, what are you thinking of now?”“I was thinking that you have not always been a tinker.”“And I fancy that you have not always been a sailor, my young master; but, however, oblige me by going into the village and getting some breakfast for us. I will pay you the money when you return, and then we can talk a little.”Joey went into the village, and finding a small chandler’s shop, bought some bread and cheese, and a large mug which held a quart of beer, both of which he also purchased, and then went back to the tinker. As soon as they had made their breakfast, Joey rose up and said—“I must go on now; I hope you’ll find yourself better to-morrow.”“Are you in a very great hurry, my lad?” inquired the tinker. “I want to find some employment,” replied Joey; “and, therefore, I must look for it.”“Tell me what employment you want. What can you do?”“I don’t exactly know; I have been keeping accounts for a person.”“Then you are a scholar, and not a seafaring person?”“I am not a sailor, if you mean that; but I have been on the river.”“Well, if you wish to get employment, as I know this country well and a great many people, I think I may help you. At all events, a few days can make no difference; for you see, my boy, to-morrow I shall be able to work, and then, I’ll answer for it, I’ll find meat and drink for both of us, so, what do you say? Suppose you stay with me, and we’ll travel together for a few days, and when I have found work that will suit you, then we can part?”“I will if you wish it,” replied Joey.“Then that’s agreed,” said the tinker; “I should like to do you a good turn before we part, and I hope I shall be able; at all events, if you stay with me a little while, I will teach you a trade which will serve you when all others fail.”“What, to mend kettles and to grind knives?”“Exactly; and, depend upon it, if you would be sure of gaining your livelihood, you will choose a profession which will not depend upon the caprice of others, or upon patronage. Kettles, my boy, will wear out, knives will get blunt, and, therefore, for a good trade, give me ‘kettles to mend, knives to grind.’ I’ve tried many trades, and there is none that suits me so well. And now that we’ve had our breakfast, we may just as well look out for lodgings for the night, for I suppose you would not like the heavens for your canopy, which I very often prefer. Now, put yourself to the wheel, and I’ll try my old quarters.”The knife-grinder walked into the village, followed by Joey, who rolled the wheel, until they stopped at a cottage, where he was immediately recognised and welcomed. Joey was ordered to put the wheel under a shed, and then followed the tinker into the cottage. The latter told his story, which created a good deal of surprise and indignation, and then complained of his head and retired to lie down, while Joey amused himself with the children. They ate and slept there that night, the people refusing to take anything for their reception. The next day the tinker was quite recovered, and having mended a kettle and ground three or four knives for his hostess, he set off again, followed by Joey, who rolled the wheel.

When Nancy and our hero had proceeded about three miles on their way, Nancy slackened her pace, and they entered into conversation.

“Which way are you going?” demanded Joey.

“I’m cutting right across the country, Peter, or rather Joey, as I shall in future call you, for that is your real name—the marine told me it was Joseph Rushbrook; is it not?”

“Yes, it is,” replied Joey.

“Then in future I shall call you so, for I do not want to hear even a name which would remind me of the scene of my misery; and Joey, do you never call me Nancy again, the name is odious to me; call me Mary.”

“I will if you wish it; but I cannot imagine why you should run away from Gravesend, Mary. What do you mean to do? I ran away from fear of being taken up.”

“And I, Joey, do more; I fly from the wrath to come. You ask me what I intend to do; I will answer you in the words of the catechism which I used once to repeat, ‘to lead a new life, have a thankful remembrance of Christ’s death, and be in charity with all men.’ I shall seek for service; I care not how humble—it will be good enough. I will sift cinders for brick-making, make bricks, do anything, as long as what I do is honest.”

“I am very glad to hear you say that, Mary,” replied Joey, “for I was always very fond of you.”

“Yes, Joey, and you were the first who offered to do a kind thing for me for a long while; I have never forgotten it, and this night I have done something to repay it.”

Nancy then entered into a detail of all that had passed between her and Furness, of which Joey had been ignorant, and which proved to him what a narrow escape he had had.

“I little thought you had done all this while I slept,” replied Joey; “but I am very grateful, Mary.”

“I know you are, so say no more about it. You see, Joey, he gave me all your history, and appears to believe that you committed the murder. I do not believe it; I do not believe you would do such a thing, although your gun might have gone off by accident.”

“No, Mary, I did not do it, either on purpose or by accident; but you must ask me no more questions, for if I were put on my trial, I should not reveal the secret.”

“Then I will never speak to you any more about it, if I can help it. I have my own thoughts on the business, but now I drop it. It is nearly daylight, and we have walked a good many miles; I shall not be sorry to sit down and rest myself.”

“Do you know how far we have to go before we come to any town, Mary?”

“We are not far from Maidstone; it is on our right, but it will be as well not to go through so large a town so near to Gravesend. Besides, some of the soldiers may know me. As soon as we come to a good place, where we can find a drink of water, we will sit down and rest ourselves.”

About a mile further on they came to a small rivulet which crossed the road.

“This will do, Joey,” said Nancy; “now we’ll sit down.”

It was then daylight; they took their seats on their bundles as soon as they had drunk from the stream.

“Now, Joey,” said Mary (as we shall call her for the future), let us see what money we have. Mrs Chopper put all she had in my hands; poor, good old woman, bless her! Count it. Joey; it is yours.

“No, Mary; she gave it for both of us.”

“Never mind; do you keep it: for you see, Joey, it might happen that you might have to run off at a moment’s warning, and it would not do for you to be without money.”

“If I was to run off at a minute’s warning, I should then take it all with me, and it would not do for you to be left without any money, Mary; so we must halve it between us, although we will always make one purse.”

“Well, be it so; for if you were robbed, or I were robbed, on the way, the other might escape.”

They then divided the money, Joey putting his share into his pocket, and tying it in with a string. Mary dropped hers down into the usual deposit of women for bank-notes and billets-doux. As soon as this matter had been arranged, Mary opened her bundle, and took out a handkerchief, which she put on her shoulders; combed out the ringlets which she had worn, and dressed her hair flat on her temples; removed the gay ribbons from her bonnet, and substituted some plain brown in their stead.

“There,” says she; “now, Joey, don’t I look more respectable?”

“You do look more neat and more—”

“More modest, you would say, Joey. Well, and I hope in future to become what I look. But I look more fit to be your sister, Joey, for I have been thinking we had better pass off as brother and sister to avoid questioning. We must make out some story to agree in. Who shall we say that we are (as we dare not say who we really are)? I am looking out for service, and so are you, that’s very clear; father and mother are both dead; father was a baker. That’s all true, as far as relates to me: and as you are my brother, why you must take my father and mother. It’s no very great story, after all.”

“But it won’t do to say we came from Gravesend.”

“No; we need not say that, and yet tell no story; the village we passed through last night was Wrotham, so we came from thence.”

“But where do you think of going, Mary?”

“A good way farther off yet; at all events, before we look out for service, we will get into another county. Now, if you are ready, we will go on Joey, and look out for some breakfast, and then I shall be able to change my gown for a quieter one.”

In half an hour they arrived at a village, and went into a public-house. Mary went up stairs and changed her dress; and now that she had completed her arrangements, she looked a very pretty, modest young woman, and none could have supposed that the day before she had been flaunting in the street of a seafaring town. Inquiries were made, as might be supposed, and Mary replied that she was going to service, and that her brother was escorting her. They had their breakfast, and, after resting two hours, they proceeded on their journey.

For some days they travelled more deliberately, until they found themselves in the village of Manstone, in Dorsetshire, where they, as usual, put up at an humble public-house. Here Mary told a different story; she had been disappointed in a situation, and they intended to go back to their native town.

The landlady of the hotel was prepossessed in favour of such a very pretty girl as Mary, as well as with the appearance of Joey, who, although in his sailor’s dress, was very superior in carriage and manners to a boy in his supposed station in life, and she said that if they would remain there a few days she would try to procure them some situation. The third day after their arrival, she informed Mary that she had heard of a situation as under-housemaid at the squire’s, about a mile off, if she would like to take it, and Mary gladly consented. Mrs Derborough sent up word, and received orders for Mary to make her appearance, and Mary accordingly went up to the hall, accompanied by Joey. When she arrived there, and made known her business, she was desired to wait in the servants’ hall until she was sent for. In about a quarter of a hour she was summoned, and, leaving Joey in the hall, she went up to see the lady of the house, who inquired whether she had ever been out at service before, and if she had a good character.

Mary replied that she had never been out at service, and that she had no character at all (which, by the bye, was very true).

The lady of the house smiled at this apparentlynaïveanswer from so very modest-looking and pretty a girl, and asked who her parents were.

To this question Mary’s answer was ready, and she further added that she had left home in search of a place, and had been disappointed; that her father and mother were dead, but her brother was down below, and had escorted her; and that Mrs Chopper was an old friend of her mother’s, and could answer to her character.

The lady was prepossessed by Mary’s appearance, by the report of Mrs Derborough, and by the respectability of her brother travelling with her, and agreed to try her; but at the same time said she must have Mrs Chopper’s address, that she might write to her; but, the place being vacant, she might come to-morrow morning: her wages were named, and immediately accepted; and thus did Mary obtain her situation.

People say you cannot be too particular when you choose servants; and, to a certain degree, this is true; but this extreme caution, however selfishness and prudence may dictate it, is but too often the cause of servants who have committed an error, and have in consequence been refused a character, being driven to destitution and misery, when they had a full intention, and would have, had they been permitted, redeemed their transgression.

Mary was resolved to be a good and honest girl. Had the lady of the house been very particular, and had others to whom she might afterwards have applied been the same, all her good intentions might have been frustrated, and she might have been driven to despair, if not to her former evil courses. It is perhaps fortunate that everybody in the world is not so particular as your very good people, and that there is an occasional loophole by which those who have erred are permitted to return to virtue. Mary left the room delighted with her success, and went down to Joey in the servants’ hall. The servants soon found out from Mary that she was coming to the house, and one of the men chucked her under the chin, and told her she was a very pretty girl. Mary drew back, and Joey immediately resented the liberty, stating that he would not allow any man to insult his sister, for Joey was wise enough to see that he could not do a better thing to serve Mary. The servant was insolent in return, and threatened to chastise Joey, and ordered him to leave the house. The women took our hero’s part. The housekeeper came down at the time, and hearing the cause of the dispute, was angry with the footman; the butler took the side of the footman; and the end of it was that the voices were at the highest pitch when the bell rang, and the men being obliged to answer it, the women were for the time left in possession of the field.

“What is that noise below?” inquired the master of the house.

“It is a boy, sir—the brother, I believe of the girl who has come as under-housemaid, who has been making a disturbance.”

“Desire him to leave the house instantly.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the butler, who went down to enforce the order.

Little did the master of the house imagine that in giving that order he was turning out of the house his own son; for the squire was no other than Mr Austin. Little did the inconsolable Mrs Austin fancy that her dear, lamented boy was at that moment under the same roof with her, and been driven out of it by her menials; but such was the case. So Joey and Mary quitted the hall, and bent their way back to the village inn.

“Well, Mary,” said Joey, “I am very glad that you have found a situation.”

“And so I am very thankful, indeed, Joey,” replied she; “and only hope that you will be able to get one somewhere about here also, and then we may occasionally see something of one another.”

“No, Mary,” replied Joey, “I shall not look for a situation about here; the only reason I had for wishing it was that I might see you; but that will be impossible now.”

“Why so?”

“Do you think that I will ever put my foot into that house again, after the manner I was treated to-day? Never.”

“I was afraid so,” replied Mary, mournfully.

“No, Mary, I am happy that you are provided for; for I can seek my own fortune, and I will write to you, and let you know what I do; and you will write to me, Mary, won’t you?”

“It will be the greatest pleasure that will be left to me, Joey; for I love you as dearly as it you were my own brother.”

The next day our hero and Mary parted, with many tears on her side, and much sorrow on his. Joey refused to take more of the money than what he had in his possession, but promised; in case of need, to apply to Mary, who said that she would hoard up everything for him; and she kept her word. Joey, having escorted Mary to the hall lodge, remained at the inn till the next morning, and then set off once more on his travels.

Our hero started at break of day, and had walked, by a western road, from Manstone, about six miles, when he met two men coming towards him. They were most miserably clad—neither of them had shoes or stockings; one had only a waistcoat and a pair of trousers, with a sack on his back; the other had a pair of blue trousers torn to ribbons, a Guernsey frock, and a tarpaulin hat. They appeared what they represented themselves to be, when they demanded charity, two wrecked seamen, who were travelling to a northern port to obtain employment; but had these fellows been questioned by a sailor, he would soon have discovered, by their total ignorance of anything nautical, that they were impostors. Perhaps there is no plan more successful than this, which is now carried on to an enormous extent by a set of rogues and depredators, who occasionally request charity, but too often extort it, and add to their spoils by robbing and plundering everything in their way. It is impossible for people in this country to ascertain the truth of the assertions of these vagabonds, and it appears unfeeling to refuse assistance to a poor seaman who has lost his all: even the cottager offers his mite, and thus do they levy upon the public to an extent which is scarcely credible; but it should be known that, in all cases of shipwreck, sailors are now invariably relieved and decently clothed, and supplied with the means of travelling to obtain employment; and whenever a man appeals for charity in a half-naked state, he is invariably an impostor or a worthless scoundrel.

The two men were talking loud and laughing when they approached our hero. As soon as they came near, they looked hard at him, and stopped right before him, so as to block up the footpath.

“Hilloah, my little sailor! where are you bound to?” said one to Joey, who had his common sailor’s dress on.

“And, I say, what have you got in that bundle?” said the other; “and how are you off for brads?—haven’t you something to spare for brother-seamen? Come, feel in your pockets; or shall I feel for you?”

Joey did not much like this exordium; he replied, stepping into the road at the same time, “I’ve no money, and the bundle contains my clothes.”

“Come, come,” said the first, “you’re not going to get off that way. If you don’t wish your brains beaten out, you’ll just hand over that bundle for me to examine;” and so saying, the man stepped into the road towards Joey, who continued to retreat to the opposite side.

There was no footpath at the side of the road to which Joey retreated, but a very thick quick-set hedge, much too strong for any man to force his way through. Joey perceived this; and as the man came at him to seize his bundle, he contrived, by a great effort, to swing it over the hedge into the field on the other side. The man, exasperated at this measure on the part of our hero, ran to seize him; but Joey dodged under him, and ran away down the road for a few yards, where he picked up a heavy stone for his defence, and there remained, prepared to defend himself, and not lose his bundle if he could help it.

“You get hold of him, Bill, while I go round for the bundle,” said the man who had followed across the road, and he immediately set off to find the gate, or some entrance into the field, while the other man made after Joey. Our hero retreated at full speed; the man followed, but could not keep pace with our hero, as the road was newly-gravelled, and he had no shoes. Joey, perceiving this, slackened his pace, and when the man was close to him, turned short round, and aiming the stone with great precision, hit him on the forehead, and the fellow fell down senseless. In the meantime the other miscreant had taken the road in the opposite direction to look for the gate; and Joey, now rid of his assailant, perceived that in the hedge, opposite to the part of the road where he now stood, there was a gap which he could get through. He scrambled into the field, and ran for his bundle. The other man, who had been delayed, the gate being locked, and fenced with thorns, had but just gained the field when Joey had his bundle in his possession. Our hero caught it up, and ran like lightning to the gap, tossed over his bundle, and followed it, while the man was still a hundred yards from him. Once more in the high road, Joey took to his heels, and having run about two hundred yards, he looked back to ascertain if he was pursued, and perceived the man standing over his comrade, who was lying where he had fallen. Satisfied that he was now safe, Joey pursued his journey at a less rapid rate, although he continued to look back every minute, just by way of precaution; but the fellows, although they would not lose an opportunity of what appeared such an easy robbery, had their own reasons for continuing their journey, and getting away from that part of the country.

Our hero pursued his way for two miles, looking out for some water by the wayside to quench his thirst, when he observed in the distance that there was something lying on the roadside. As he came nearer, he made it out to be a man prostrate on the grass, apparently asleep, and a few yards from where the man lay was a knife-grinder’s wheel, and a few other articles in the use of a travelling tinker; a fire, nearly extinct, was throwing up a tiny column of smoke, and a saucepan, which appeared to have been upset, was lying beside it. There was something in the scene before him which created a suspicion in the mind of our hero that all was not right; so, instead of passing on, he walked right up to where the man lay, and soon discovered that his face and dress were bloody. Joey knelt down by the side of him, and found that he was senseless, but breathing heavily. Joey untied the handkerchief which was round his neck, and which was apparently very tight, and almost immediately afterwards the man appeared relieved and opened his eyes. After a little time he contrived to utter one word, “Water!” and Joey, taking up the empty saucepan, proceeded in search of it. He soon found some, and brought it back. The tinker had greatly recovered during his absence, and as soon as he had drunk the water, sat upright.

“Don’t leave me, boy,” said the tinker; “I feel very faint.”

“I will stay by you as long as I can be of any use to you,” replied Joey; “what has happened?”

“Robbed and almost murdered!” replied the man, with a groan.

“Was it by those two rascals without shoes and stockings who attempted to rob me?” inquired Joey.

“Yes, the same, I’ve no doubt. I must lie down for a time, my head is so bad,” replied the man, dropping back upon the grass.

In a few minutes the exhausted man fell asleep, and Joey remained sitting by his side for nearly two hours. At last, his new companion awoke, raised himself up, and, dipping his handkerchief into the saucepan of water, washed the blood from his head and face.

“This might have been worse, my little fellow,” said he to Joey, after he had wiped his face; “one of those rascals nearly throttled me, he pulled my handkerchief so tight. Well, this is a wicked world, this, to take away a fellow-creature’s life for thirteenpence-halfpenny, for that was all the money they found in my pocket. I thought an itinerant tinker was safe from highway robbery, at all events. Did you not say that they attacked you, or did I dream it?”

“I did say so; it was no dream.”

“And how did a little midge like you escape?”

Joey gave the tinker a detail of what had occurred.

“Cleverly done, boy, and kindly done now to come to my help, and to remain by me. I was going down the road, and as you have come down, I presume we are going the same way,” replied the tinker.

“Do you feel strong enough to walk now?”

“Yes, I think I can; but there’s the grindstone.”

“Oh, I’ll wheel that for you.”

“Do, that’s a good boy, for I tremble very much, and it would be too heavy for me now.”

Joey fixed his bundle with the saucepan, etcetera, upon the knife-grinder’s wheel, and rolled it along the road, followed by the tinker, until they came to a small hamlet, about two miles from the spot from which they had started; they halted when they were fifty yards from the first cottage, and the tinker, having selected a dry place under the hedge, said, “I must stop here a little while?”

Joey, who had heard the tinker say that the men had robbed him of thirteenpence-halfpenny, imagined that he was destitute, and as he wished to proceed on his way, he took out two shillings, and held them out to the man, saying, “This will keep you till you can earn some more. Good-bye now; I must go on.”

The tinker looked at Joey. “You’re a kind-hearted lad, at all events, and a clever, bold one, if I mistake not,” said he; “put up your money, nevertheless, for I do not want any. I have plenty, if they had only known where to look for it.”

Joey was examining his new companion during the time that he was speaking to him. There was a free and independent bearing about the man, and a refinement of manner and speech very different from what might be expected from one in so humble a situation. The tinker perceived this scrutiny, and, after meeting our hero’s glance, said, “Well, what are you thinking of now?”

“I was thinking that you have not always been a tinker.”

“And I fancy that you have not always been a sailor, my young master; but, however, oblige me by going into the village and getting some breakfast for us. I will pay you the money when you return, and then we can talk a little.”

Joey went into the village, and finding a small chandler’s shop, bought some bread and cheese, and a large mug which held a quart of beer, both of which he also purchased, and then went back to the tinker. As soon as they had made their breakfast, Joey rose up and said—“I must go on now; I hope you’ll find yourself better to-morrow.”

“Are you in a very great hurry, my lad?” inquired the tinker. “I want to find some employment,” replied Joey; “and, therefore, I must look for it.”

“Tell me what employment you want. What can you do?”

“I don’t exactly know; I have been keeping accounts for a person.”

“Then you are a scholar, and not a seafaring person?”

“I am not a sailor, if you mean that; but I have been on the river.”

“Well, if you wish to get employment, as I know this country well and a great many people, I think I may help you. At all events, a few days can make no difference; for you see, my boy, to-morrow I shall be able to work, and then, I’ll answer for it, I’ll find meat and drink for both of us, so, what do you say? Suppose you stay with me, and we’ll travel together for a few days, and when I have found work that will suit you, then we can part?”

“I will if you wish it,” replied Joey.

“Then that’s agreed,” said the tinker; “I should like to do you a good turn before we part, and I hope I shall be able; at all events, if you stay with me a little while, I will teach you a trade which will serve you when all others fail.”

“What, to mend kettles and to grind knives?”

“Exactly; and, depend upon it, if you would be sure of gaining your livelihood, you will choose a profession which will not depend upon the caprice of others, or upon patronage. Kettles, my boy, will wear out, knives will get blunt, and, therefore, for a good trade, give me ‘kettles to mend, knives to grind.’ I’ve tried many trades, and there is none that suits me so well. And now that we’ve had our breakfast, we may just as well look out for lodgings for the night, for I suppose you would not like the heavens for your canopy, which I very often prefer. Now, put yourself to the wheel, and I’ll try my old quarters.”

The knife-grinder walked into the village, followed by Joey, who rolled the wheel, until they stopped at a cottage, where he was immediately recognised and welcomed. Joey was ordered to put the wheel under a shed, and then followed the tinker into the cottage. The latter told his story, which created a good deal of surprise and indignation, and then complained of his head and retired to lie down, while Joey amused himself with the children. They ate and slept there that night, the people refusing to take anything for their reception. The next day the tinker was quite recovered, and having mended a kettle and ground three or four knives for his hostess, he set off again, followed by Joey, who rolled the wheel.

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