Chapter Forty One.Tom was some ten feet or so from the ground when he described an arc in the darkness, so that it was not a very serious fall, but bad enough to knock the sense out of him for a moment or two, and the worse from its coming so closely upon his bumping down the upper steps. Consequently he lay quite still with the ladder upon him for a while, with a dim idea that he could hear whispering, scrambling, and then the patter of steps somewhere not far away.Those footsteps were still to be heard when the boy thrust the ladder over, rose very slowly to a sitting position, and tried to look round him, seeing more stars than he had when he knelt at his bedroom window, these too having a peculiar circling motion of their own, which made his head ache violently.“He’s got the best of me again,” said the boy rather piteously, “for it’s no good to go after him now.”Tom had the organ of order sufficiently developed to make him wish to pick up and return the ladder instead of leaving it lying in the yard; but he felt shaken up, and the feeling of confusion came upon him again so strongly that he stood thinking for a few minutes, and then went and unlocked the gate, listened a while, and then locked it after him and crossed the lane into the garden.The next minute he was under his bedroom window, feeling unwilling to climb up, for he was getting cold and stiff; but he dragged himself on to the sill, got in, and without stopping to undress, threw himself on the bed and fell into a sound sleep, in which he dreamed that two policemen came down from London with the big black prison van and carried off Pete Warboys, who was taken to the Old Bailey to be tried for stealing the round wooden dome-shaped structure which formed the top of the mill.He was awakened next morning soon after six by the pattering at his window of some scraps of fine gravel, and jumping off the bed he found David below on the lawn.“Here, look sharp and come down, Master Tom,” cried the gardener excitedly.“What’s the matter?” said Tom, whose mind was rather blank as to the past night’s business.“Some ’un’s been in the night and stole the tallowscoop.”“Nonsense!”“But they have, sir. It’s as fact as fack. There’s the top wooden window open, and Jellard’s long fruit-ladder lying in the yard.”Tom hurried down at once, to find the ladder just as he had left it; and on entering the mill, closely followed by David, he looked round for traces of the burglarious work that must have been done.But all was in its ordinary state in the workshop, and after a sharp investigation, Tom was on his way to the steps, when David looked at him in a half-injured way as if disappointed.“What, arn’t nothing stole here, sir?”“No; everything seems to be right,” replied Tom.“Well, I should ha’ thought they’d ha’ took the spacklums or something while they was about it.”But matters wore a different aspect upon the laboratory being reached. On the whole the place looked undisturbed, save that a rug or two had been kicked up, and a chair tilted over against the wall; but at the second glance Tom felt a thrill, for there facing him was the old walnut bureau, with its drawers open, and the contents tumbled over and over, the small top drawer to the right especially taking Tom’s attention, for it hung nearly out and was perfectly empty.There had not been much in it, only a few papers, but one was the large cartridge paper envelope, which contained the documents given to him by his uncle when that strange visit was paid. These had evidently gone; what else had been taken it was impossible to say.“They’ve been at it here, Master Tom, haven’t they?”“I’m afraid so, David.”“Then hadn’t I better go and fetch the policeman directly, sir?”“No,” said Tom decisively. “We must wait till uncle comes back, and see what he says.”“But they’ll get right away, sir, ’fore he comes back.”“I’m afraid whoever it was has got right away, David,” said Tom; and he told his companion as much of the events of the past night as he thought necessary.“Oh, why didn’t you come and call me up, Master Tom?” cried the gardener reproachfully. “If I’d been there we could ha’ captivated ’em, for there must ha’ been two. That there ladder couldn’t ha’ lifted itself up again, and stood ready for the one inside to get down.”“Yes, there must have been two,” said Tom thoughtfully.“You should ha’ comed and called me, sir—you should indeed. I’ve got as much right to take care o’ master’s property when he’s out as you have.”“I never thought of it, David.”“It’s on’y three ’undered and forty-nine yards and a half to my cottage, sir. You might have thought o’ me.”“I only wish I had,” said Tom warmly. “I should have been so glad to have you.”“Well, sir, there’s something in that,” said David, but only to repeat himself in a reproachful tone—“It was on’y three ’undered and forty-nine yards, and what’s that to a young gent like you.”“It can’t be helped now, David. Let’s go up-stairs.”Tom felt stiffer as he went up the step-ladder, and the whole business of the struggle in the dark came back as they stood in the observatory, where all seemed to be correct, save an overturned stool, and the position of the telescope in the middle changed.“What’s gone from here, sir?” asked David.“I don’t see anything.”“Oh, but they must have took something else, sir.”“Perhaps so, but I cannot see what.”“Then that’s because you disturbed ’em, sir. They was ramshacking your uncle’s desk thing when you come. Tend upon it that was it. Oh, I do wish I’d been there just at the bottom of the ladder ready to nab ’em as they come down. Say, Master Tom—think your uncle kep’ his money in that there old chest-o’-drawers thing?”“I think he used to keep a little bag of change there,” replied Tom thoughtfully; and it seemed more probable that the thieves were after that than in search of papers, which could have been of no earthly use to them, though the drawer was nearly empty all the same.“You did get hold o’ one of ’em, sir?” said David, after a pause.“Oh, yes, more than once.”“And he felt like that there Pete Warboys, didn’t he?”“Yes—no—I don’t know,” said Tom confusedly; and David scratched his head.“That’s like asking a man a riddle, sir,” he said. “Can’t make much o’ that.”“Well, what can I say, David?” cried Tom impatiently. “It was pitch dark, and I was thinking of nothing else but catching him. I could see nothing but the dim-looking windows.”“But you felt him, sir.”“Oh yes, I had hold of him.”“Well, did he feel like Pete?”“What nonsense! One lad would feel like another.”“Oh no, sir, he wouldn’t. Pete’s bones’d feel all loose and shimbly. Bound to say you heared his jyntes keep on cracking.”“No, I don’t remember that.—Yes, I do,” continued Tom excitedly. “I did hear him go crack twice when we were wrestling.”“There you are, you see,” cried the gardener triumphantly, “that’s c’roborative evidence, and c’roborative evidence is what they make detective police on. It was Pete Warboys, sure enough.”“I thought it must be, David.”“Not a doubt ’bout it, sir. We’ve got him this time safe enough, and he’ll be sent away for the job, and a blessing to Furzebrough, I say. But I’ll try you again, sir. Just lead you up like. Now, then, to make more sure—you smelt him too, didn’t you?”“Smelt him?” cried Tom.“Ay, sir, that’s what I said. You could smell him yards away.”“Oh no, I didn’t smell him,” said Tom, laughing.“Do you mean to tell me, Master Tom, that, you didn’t smell Pete the other night when you was letting go at him with that stick atop o’ our wall?”“I remember smelling onions very strong.”“There!” cried David triumphantly. “Of course you did. I like an onion roasted, or in stuffing, or the little ’uns pickled, but that chap lives on ’em. You ask anybody in the village, and they’ll tell you they can’t keep an onion in their gardens for him. He’s a savage at ’em. And you mean to tell me that you didn’t smell onions when you was fighting with him last night?”“No, I’m sure I didn’t.”“I don’t like that,” said David, polishing one of his red ears. “P’r’aps he hadn’t been able to steal any yesterday. But it’s a wonder you didn’t smell that.”“But perhaps it wasn’t Pete.”“Now don’t say that, my lad. There’s no getting away from them bones. Nobody never had such loose bones. It was him right enough.”“Think so, David?” said Tom dubiously.“Course I do, Master Tom. Who else would ha’ knowed where to find Jellard’s ladder?”“Plenty o’ people,” said Tom eagerly; “all the village.”“Don’t you say a word, like that, Master Tom,” said the gardener solemnly, “because it arn’t right. I’ve knowed Furzebrough man and boy ever since I was born, and there arn’t a soul in it as’d go and get that ladder and break in and steal your uncle’s contrapshums. I won’t say as there arn’t a lot o’ people who talk about ’em, and believe old Mother Warboys when she says they’re bad and dangerous, and like to bring evil on the place; but, bless your ’art, sir, there arn’t one as would do your uncle harm. I won’t say as the boys, and maybe a school-gal, wouldn’t help theirselves to a happle or a pear or two as were in reach—I won’t deceive you, Master Tom, I’ve done it myself coming home from school; but take it altogether, there arn’t a honester village nowhere in Sorrey, and I’ll stick to that, even if I was up before a judge, and a jury of my fellow-countrymen swore me till I was black in the face.”Tom smiled.“Ah, you may laugh, sir,” said David, shaking his head; “that’s youth, and wanting to know better. I’m a bit older than you. This here’s a honest place, sir. I won’t say nothing about tramps from London, and furreners coming in search o’ work; but you might keep gold and silver jools down here without locking your doors—leastwise if Pete Warboys warn’t about; but I told you how it would be.”“Well, let’s go down, David,” said Tom, who could not help thinking about the proverb concerning a dog with a bad name. “This shutter must have a proper fastening. But who would have thought of any one getting a ladder? You had better take it back.”“Yes, sir, and tell old Jellard to put a chain and padlock on it, or else there’s no knowing what may happen.”So after deciding to leave the old bureau just as it was until his uncle had examined and seen what was missing, and noting that it had been opened by means of some kind of chisel inserted just above the keyhole, Tom locked up, and then held the gate open for David to carry the ladder he had shouldered home.“Nyste sort of a job, Master Tom,” he said, “clearing up the bits arter robbers and thieves; but there—you never knows what you may come to in this life.”The next moment Tom had to duck his head to avoid a blow as the ladder was swung round; and that morning Mrs Fidler, who knew nothing of what had happened, took Tom aside directly after breakfast.“I beg your pardon, Master Tom,” she began, and the boy stared; “I didn’t notice it before we begun, but I do now, and as master’s out it makes me feel anxious. You’re not well, sir.”“Oh yes, quite well,” said Tom hastily.“No, sir, you can’t deceive me. But I know it’s only natural for young people to say so. Physic isn’t nice, sir, but it’s very necessary sometimes, and if you would be advised by me you’d let me give you something this morning. Better late than never, sir.”“What, me take some medicine?” cried Tom. “Nonsense! I’m quite right.”Mrs Fidler shook her head.“Take which you like, sir; I’ve got them both in my store closet. A tablespoonful of castor oil—”“Ugh!” ejaculated Tom, with a grimace.”—Or a cupful of prune tea.”“That sounds better,” said Tom, smiling.Mrs Fidler shook her head.“I shouldn’t like to deceive you, Master Tom,” she said, “because though prune tea sounds very nice, you don’t taste the French plums I make it of, but the salts and senna in which the prunes are stewed. But it’s a very, very valuable medicine, my dear, and if you will be prevailed upon—Dear me! look at that now. Oh, how obstinate young folks can be!”For at her description of the concoction of prune tea, Tom thrust his handkerchief to his mouth, and ran out into the garden, before going across to the workshop to continue the manufacture of a perfect plane of glass, such as would satisfy Uncle Richard on his return.
Tom was some ten feet or so from the ground when he described an arc in the darkness, so that it was not a very serious fall, but bad enough to knock the sense out of him for a moment or two, and the worse from its coming so closely upon his bumping down the upper steps. Consequently he lay quite still with the ladder upon him for a while, with a dim idea that he could hear whispering, scrambling, and then the patter of steps somewhere not far away.
Those footsteps were still to be heard when the boy thrust the ladder over, rose very slowly to a sitting position, and tried to look round him, seeing more stars than he had when he knelt at his bedroom window, these too having a peculiar circling motion of their own, which made his head ache violently.
“He’s got the best of me again,” said the boy rather piteously, “for it’s no good to go after him now.”
Tom had the organ of order sufficiently developed to make him wish to pick up and return the ladder instead of leaving it lying in the yard; but he felt shaken up, and the feeling of confusion came upon him again so strongly that he stood thinking for a few minutes, and then went and unlocked the gate, listened a while, and then locked it after him and crossed the lane into the garden.
The next minute he was under his bedroom window, feeling unwilling to climb up, for he was getting cold and stiff; but he dragged himself on to the sill, got in, and without stopping to undress, threw himself on the bed and fell into a sound sleep, in which he dreamed that two policemen came down from London with the big black prison van and carried off Pete Warboys, who was taken to the Old Bailey to be tried for stealing the round wooden dome-shaped structure which formed the top of the mill.
He was awakened next morning soon after six by the pattering at his window of some scraps of fine gravel, and jumping off the bed he found David below on the lawn.
“Here, look sharp and come down, Master Tom,” cried the gardener excitedly.
“What’s the matter?” said Tom, whose mind was rather blank as to the past night’s business.
“Some ’un’s been in the night and stole the tallowscoop.”
“Nonsense!”
“But they have, sir. It’s as fact as fack. There’s the top wooden window open, and Jellard’s long fruit-ladder lying in the yard.”
Tom hurried down at once, to find the ladder just as he had left it; and on entering the mill, closely followed by David, he looked round for traces of the burglarious work that must have been done.
But all was in its ordinary state in the workshop, and after a sharp investigation, Tom was on his way to the steps, when David looked at him in a half-injured way as if disappointed.
“What, arn’t nothing stole here, sir?”
“No; everything seems to be right,” replied Tom.
“Well, I should ha’ thought they’d ha’ took the spacklums or something while they was about it.”
But matters wore a different aspect upon the laboratory being reached. On the whole the place looked undisturbed, save that a rug or two had been kicked up, and a chair tilted over against the wall; but at the second glance Tom felt a thrill, for there facing him was the old walnut bureau, with its drawers open, and the contents tumbled over and over, the small top drawer to the right especially taking Tom’s attention, for it hung nearly out and was perfectly empty.
There had not been much in it, only a few papers, but one was the large cartridge paper envelope, which contained the documents given to him by his uncle when that strange visit was paid. These had evidently gone; what else had been taken it was impossible to say.
“They’ve been at it here, Master Tom, haven’t they?”
“I’m afraid so, David.”
“Then hadn’t I better go and fetch the policeman directly, sir?”
“No,” said Tom decisively. “We must wait till uncle comes back, and see what he says.”
“But they’ll get right away, sir, ’fore he comes back.”
“I’m afraid whoever it was has got right away, David,” said Tom; and he told his companion as much of the events of the past night as he thought necessary.
“Oh, why didn’t you come and call me up, Master Tom?” cried the gardener reproachfully. “If I’d been there we could ha’ captivated ’em, for there must ha’ been two. That there ladder couldn’t ha’ lifted itself up again, and stood ready for the one inside to get down.”
“Yes, there must have been two,” said Tom thoughtfully.
“You should ha’ comed and called me, sir—you should indeed. I’ve got as much right to take care o’ master’s property when he’s out as you have.”
“I never thought of it, David.”
“It’s on’y three ’undered and forty-nine yards and a half to my cottage, sir. You might have thought o’ me.”
“I only wish I had,” said Tom warmly. “I should have been so glad to have you.”
“Well, sir, there’s something in that,” said David, but only to repeat himself in a reproachful tone—“It was on’y three ’undered and forty-nine yards, and what’s that to a young gent like you.”
“It can’t be helped now, David. Let’s go up-stairs.”
Tom felt stiffer as he went up the step-ladder, and the whole business of the struggle in the dark came back as they stood in the observatory, where all seemed to be correct, save an overturned stool, and the position of the telescope in the middle changed.
“What’s gone from here, sir?” asked David.
“I don’t see anything.”
“Oh, but they must have took something else, sir.”
“Perhaps so, but I cannot see what.”
“Then that’s because you disturbed ’em, sir. They was ramshacking your uncle’s desk thing when you come. Tend upon it that was it. Oh, I do wish I’d been there just at the bottom of the ladder ready to nab ’em as they come down. Say, Master Tom—think your uncle kep’ his money in that there old chest-o’-drawers thing?”
“I think he used to keep a little bag of change there,” replied Tom thoughtfully; and it seemed more probable that the thieves were after that than in search of papers, which could have been of no earthly use to them, though the drawer was nearly empty all the same.
“You did get hold o’ one of ’em, sir?” said David, after a pause.
“Oh, yes, more than once.”
“And he felt like that there Pete Warboys, didn’t he?”
“Yes—no—I don’t know,” said Tom confusedly; and David scratched his head.
“That’s like asking a man a riddle, sir,” he said. “Can’t make much o’ that.”
“Well, what can I say, David?” cried Tom impatiently. “It was pitch dark, and I was thinking of nothing else but catching him. I could see nothing but the dim-looking windows.”
“But you felt him, sir.”
“Oh yes, I had hold of him.”
“Well, did he feel like Pete?”
“What nonsense! One lad would feel like another.”
“Oh no, sir, he wouldn’t. Pete’s bones’d feel all loose and shimbly. Bound to say you heared his jyntes keep on cracking.”
“No, I don’t remember that.—Yes, I do,” continued Tom excitedly. “I did hear him go crack twice when we were wrestling.”
“There you are, you see,” cried the gardener triumphantly, “that’s c’roborative evidence, and c’roborative evidence is what they make detective police on. It was Pete Warboys, sure enough.”
“I thought it must be, David.”
“Not a doubt ’bout it, sir. We’ve got him this time safe enough, and he’ll be sent away for the job, and a blessing to Furzebrough, I say. But I’ll try you again, sir. Just lead you up like. Now, then, to make more sure—you smelt him too, didn’t you?”
“Smelt him?” cried Tom.
“Ay, sir, that’s what I said. You could smell him yards away.”
“Oh no, I didn’t smell him,” said Tom, laughing.
“Do you mean to tell me, Master Tom, that, you didn’t smell Pete the other night when you was letting go at him with that stick atop o’ our wall?”
“I remember smelling onions very strong.”
“There!” cried David triumphantly. “Of course you did. I like an onion roasted, or in stuffing, or the little ’uns pickled, but that chap lives on ’em. You ask anybody in the village, and they’ll tell you they can’t keep an onion in their gardens for him. He’s a savage at ’em. And you mean to tell me that you didn’t smell onions when you was fighting with him last night?”
“No, I’m sure I didn’t.”
“I don’t like that,” said David, polishing one of his red ears. “P’r’aps he hadn’t been able to steal any yesterday. But it’s a wonder you didn’t smell that.”
“But perhaps it wasn’t Pete.”
“Now don’t say that, my lad. There’s no getting away from them bones. Nobody never had such loose bones. It was him right enough.”
“Think so, David?” said Tom dubiously.
“Course I do, Master Tom. Who else would ha’ knowed where to find Jellard’s ladder?”
“Plenty o’ people,” said Tom eagerly; “all the village.”
“Don’t you say a word, like that, Master Tom,” said the gardener solemnly, “because it arn’t right. I’ve knowed Furzebrough man and boy ever since I was born, and there arn’t a soul in it as’d go and get that ladder and break in and steal your uncle’s contrapshums. I won’t say as there arn’t a lot o’ people who talk about ’em, and believe old Mother Warboys when she says they’re bad and dangerous, and like to bring evil on the place; but, bless your ’art, sir, there arn’t one as would do your uncle harm. I won’t say as the boys, and maybe a school-gal, wouldn’t help theirselves to a happle or a pear or two as were in reach—I won’t deceive you, Master Tom, I’ve done it myself coming home from school; but take it altogether, there arn’t a honester village nowhere in Sorrey, and I’ll stick to that, even if I was up before a judge, and a jury of my fellow-countrymen swore me till I was black in the face.”
Tom smiled.
“Ah, you may laugh, sir,” said David, shaking his head; “that’s youth, and wanting to know better. I’m a bit older than you. This here’s a honest place, sir. I won’t say nothing about tramps from London, and furreners coming in search o’ work; but you might keep gold and silver jools down here without locking your doors—leastwise if Pete Warboys warn’t about; but I told you how it would be.”
“Well, let’s go down, David,” said Tom, who could not help thinking about the proverb concerning a dog with a bad name. “This shutter must have a proper fastening. But who would have thought of any one getting a ladder? You had better take it back.”
“Yes, sir, and tell old Jellard to put a chain and padlock on it, or else there’s no knowing what may happen.”
So after deciding to leave the old bureau just as it was until his uncle had examined and seen what was missing, and noting that it had been opened by means of some kind of chisel inserted just above the keyhole, Tom locked up, and then held the gate open for David to carry the ladder he had shouldered home.
“Nyste sort of a job, Master Tom,” he said, “clearing up the bits arter robbers and thieves; but there—you never knows what you may come to in this life.”
The next moment Tom had to duck his head to avoid a blow as the ladder was swung round; and that morning Mrs Fidler, who knew nothing of what had happened, took Tom aside directly after breakfast.
“I beg your pardon, Master Tom,” she began, and the boy stared; “I didn’t notice it before we begun, but I do now, and as master’s out it makes me feel anxious. You’re not well, sir.”
“Oh yes, quite well,” said Tom hastily.
“No, sir, you can’t deceive me. But I know it’s only natural for young people to say so. Physic isn’t nice, sir, but it’s very necessary sometimes, and if you would be advised by me you’d let me give you something this morning. Better late than never, sir.”
“What, me take some medicine?” cried Tom. “Nonsense! I’m quite right.”
Mrs Fidler shook her head.
“Take which you like, sir; I’ve got them both in my store closet. A tablespoonful of castor oil—”
“Ugh!” ejaculated Tom, with a grimace.
”—Or a cupful of prune tea.”
“That sounds better,” said Tom, smiling.
Mrs Fidler shook her head.
“I shouldn’t like to deceive you, Master Tom,” she said, “because though prune tea sounds very nice, you don’t taste the French plums I make it of, but the salts and senna in which the prunes are stewed. But it’s a very, very valuable medicine, my dear, and if you will be prevailed upon—Dear me! look at that now. Oh, how obstinate young folks can be!”
For at her description of the concoction of prune tea, Tom thrust his handkerchief to his mouth, and ran out into the garden, before going across to the workshop to continue the manufacture of a perfect plane of glass, such as would satisfy Uncle Richard on his return.
Chapter Forty Two.Uncle James Brandon sat one morning a short time before the events of the night described in the last chapters, biting his nails, and looking old, yellow, and careworn. He was supposed to be quite well again, and the doctors had given up visiting him, but, as his son said in a very contemptuous, unfilial way to his mother—“He’s better in health than temper, and if things are going on like this I shall be off somewhere, for I’m sick of it.”For there had been quarrels daily between father and son, stormings against wife and servants, and poor Pringle the clerk had vowed to himself that he would not stay at the office for another week; but he always stayed, for there were reasons at home against his throwing himself out of work.So Uncle James sat in his private room at the Gray’s Inn office, looking old, yellow, and biting his nails, like the ancient ogre, sometimes making up his mind in one direction, sometimes in another.At last he touched his table gong, and, as quickly as he could get there, Pringle presented himself.“You ring, sir?”“You know I rang, sir,” cried Uncle James savagely. “Send him here directly.”“Cert’ny, sir, but—er—”“I said send him here.”“Yes, sir. Who, sir?”“Mr Samuel, you blockhead. Didn’t you hear what I said?”“Yes, sir; but Mr Samuel’s not in the office, sir.”“Bah!” ejaculated his employer; and Pringle made his escape.Ten minutes later Sam entered the place, and the clerk whispered to him sharply—“Gov’nor wants you, sir. Awful temper, sir.”“Oh, is he?” said Sam sullenly. And then to himself—“I’m not going to take any of his nonsense, so I tell him.”Pulling down his cuffs, and looking very pugnacious, he entered the private room ready to repel an attack, but to his surprise, his father, who the minute before had been seated looking very irresolute, now became very determined, and pointed to a chair.“Sit down, my boy,” he said in a low voice.Sam felt relieved, and he drew forward a chair.“Sam, my boy,” continued James Brandon, “I’m in terrible trouble.”“What about, father—money?” James Brandon nodded.“I’ve been too hasty, my boy. I was very ill, and I did what I should not have done in calmer moments.”There was a pause, and Sam waited, wondering what was to come next.“You remember my sending for your cousin to come up?”“Yes, father; you sent me away on business,” said Sam, in rather a sneering tone, “so as to get me out of the way, but I heard all about it afterwards.”“All about it?” said his father, with an anxious look.“I suppose so,” replied Sam carelessly.“No, my boy, you did not,” said his father, leaning forward and taking his son by the coat as he spoke in a very low voice. “The fact is, Sam, while I was ill and low-spirited I got a number of curious fancies into my head—half-delirious, I suppose—about some deeds and documents left in my charge by your aunt, Tom Blount’s mother, when she died.”“Yes?” said Sam, growing interested now.“I fancied somehow, my boy, that it was my duty to give those deeds up to your cousin; and though I fought against it for some time, the idea grew too strong for me, and I felt that I must send for him and give them over into his charge.”“Were they his by rights, father?” said Sam sharply.“They were given into my charge, my boy,” replied his father evasively, “and I behaved very weakly and foolishly in giving them up to your cousin.”“Then you did give them up to Tom that day?”“Yes, Sam, and it is a very troublesome matter. I tell you, I did not know what I was about then, and it will affect you very seriously by and by, if I don’t get them back.”“You mean in money matters, father?” said Sam sharply.“Yes; affect me now heavily, and you by and by.”“Get them back then at once,” said Sam—the young lawyer giving the elder advice.“Yes, Sam, my boy, that’s what I want to do, but how?”“Write and tell young Tom to bring them up.”James Brandon shook his head.“No use—no use, my boy. I must have said a great many foolish things to the lad that day.”“But you must get the papers or whatever they are back again, father,” cried Sam, who was now growing excited. “You’ll have to go down there yourself.”“Impossible; but I have made up my mind to send you to try and get them.”“And suppose I did, father?”“Suppose you did? Why then, my boy, I could—I mean we could laugh at them, treat anything that was said with contempt. Do you hear? With contempt.”“Stop a bit,” said Sam quietly. “You always told me to be cautious in business matters, and that I was to keep one foot down firmly till I found a safe place for the other.”“Of course, my lad, of course.”“Well, suppose I go down to that country bumpkin’s place?”“Yes, if you went down you would find out where the papers were kept,” said James Brandon eagerly.“And if I did?”“You could bring them away. The boy’s too stupid to take very great care of them.”“But suppose he has given them to Uncle Richard?”“Pish! what then? Your uncle would only pitch them into a drawer, and go away to forget them, and dream about the moon. You could go down on a visit, find out where they are, and bring them away.”“I say, dad,” said Sam, with a sneer, “isn’t that very much like stealing?”“No, no, no, no,” cried his father quickly; “only getting back some documents left in my charge—papers which I gave up during a severe illness, when I did not know what I was about. You understand?”“Oh yes, father, I understand, but it looks ugly.”“It would look uglier for you to be left almost without a penny, Sam, and your cousin to be well off.”“Ye-es,” said Sam quietly, as he stood with his brows knit; “that would be ugly, dad.”“Then you will go?”“Perhaps. That depends. Not as you propose. They’d miss the papers, and I should get the credit of having taken them.”James Brandon stared at his son in surprise, forgetting the fact that he had been training and moulding him for years to become a self-satisfied, selfish man, with only one idea, that of taking care of himself, no matter who suffered.“He’s growing a sharp one,” thought the father, half gratified, half annoyed. Then aloud—“Oh no, Sam, I don’t think that.”“You don’t want to think that, father,” said Sam, drawing himself up importantly.“Oh yes, my boy,” said James Brandon. “I don’t want to get you into trouble.”“No, father, of course not; it would be getting you into a scrape as well. Look here, suppose I slip down and get the deeds without being seen—without any one being a bit the wiser?”James Brandon shook his head.“Oh, I don’t want the job,” said Sam coolly.His father was silent for a few moments, and Sam took out a knife, threw himself back in his chair, and began to trim his nails.“But look here, Sam,” said James Brandon at last, and he seemed to be in a nervous, excited state. “It is of vital importance to me that I should have those papers.”“Then if I were you I should go down and get them, father,” said Sam coolly.“But that is impossible, my boy. Come, you will do that for me?”“I don’t see why I should,” replied Sam; “you don’t make things very pleasant for me.”“But I will, my boy, I will do anything you like; and don’t you understand how important it is for you?”“Yes, I begin to see,” said Sam coolly. “You’ve got yourself into a scrape, father, over some of young Tom Blount’s affairs, and you want to make cat’s-paws of me.”“No, sir,” cried his father angrily.“Oh, but you do.”“I do want you to help me get those—those—”“Chestnuts,” said Sam, with a grin.“Well, call them that if you like, my boy,” said his father, trying to be jocose, but looking ghastly pale the while, and with the perspiration standing in tiny drops upon his forehead. “But you must help me, Sam. The money will all be yours by and by.”Sam sat back staring straight before him in silence for a few minutes, while his father watched him intently.“Well, I don’t want you to get into trouble, father,” he said at last. “You don’t open out to me frankly, but I can see as far into a millstone as most people. I’m not quite a fool.”“No, my boy, no,” said James Brandon eagerly. “I’m delighted to find what a sharp man of business you are growing.”“But you never made yourself hoarse by telling me so, dad,” said Sam, with a grin.“Because I did not want to make you conceited, my dear boy,” cried the father. “Then you will help me?”“The money’s no temptation to me, father,” said Sam loftily.“But it will be very useful to you by and by, my boy. Surely you don’t want that ill-conditioned cub to inherit it.”“Of course I don’t,” said Sam. “There, all right, I’ll go and get them for you somehow, but if there’s any rumpus afterward you’ll have to stand the racket, for I shan’t. I shall say you sent me.”“Of course, my boy, of course. But you are too clever to make any mistake over the business, and—and you are beginning to be a great help to me, Sam. The time’s getting on now towards when we must begin to think of your being a junior partner. Only about three or four years, Sam.—Then you will go down at once?”“You leave that to me,” said Sam importantly. “But I must have some money.”“Yes, my boy, of course. Half-a-sovereign will be plenty, I suppose?”“No, you don’t,” said Sam, with a look full of contempt at the shrunken, degraded man before him, who was receiving the punishment already of his misdeeds, and suffering more keenly than from any which could have been inflicted by the law.“But how much do you want, my boy?” he faltered—“fifteen shillings?”“I want two pounds,” said Sam coolly, “to pay my expenses. Perhaps I shall have to give some blackguard half-a-sovereign to get the papers for me, and if I come back with them all right, you’ll have to give me five pounds.”“Five pounds!” gasped his father.“Yes, dad; and if you make so much fuss about it I shan’t go unless you give me ten pounds.”James Brandon looked in a ghastly way, which made his sickly face seem agonised, and he slowly drew out his purse and handed his son the money.“When will you start?” he said.“Now, directly,” said Sam, rising from his chair; and his father’s countenance brightened.“Hah!” he exclaimed, “that’s very prompt and business-like of you, Sam. You’ll be careful though.” And he whispered some instructions.“You leave me alone for that, dad,” said Sam. “I know what I’m about.”As he spoke he rose quickly from his chair, gave his father a short nod, and opened the door, to find himself face to face with Pringle, whose hand was raised.“Oh!” cried the clerk, starting. “Beg pardon, sir, I was just going to knock.”“What is it?” cried James Brandon angrily, and turning pale in dread lest the clerk should have heard anything which had passed.“These deeds, sir—finished the copying,” said the man quietly, and with a look of surprise that his employer should have asked him what he wanted.“Oh yes; put them down,” said Brandon hastily.“What shall I go on with next?”“The letters I told you about last night.”“Cert’ny, sir, of course,” said Pringle; and he hurried out of the room, leaving father and son staring at each other across the table.“Think he heard, Sam?” said James Brandon, looking more ghastly than ever.“No, not he. Couldn’t have heard more than a word or two. He daren’t listen.”“Think not, Sam?”“Sure of it, dad. There, I’ll be off now.”“Yes, do; and pray be careful. One moment, Sam: your uncle is not out with you?”“Which means he is with you,” said Sam, smiling.“Yes, my boy, a little. We don’t quite agree about—about a little matter; but he would be friendly to you. So don’t you think you had better go down as a visitor?”“No, father, I don’t,” said Sam shortly; and he went out at once.“Gov’nor must have made a terrible mess of it, or he wouldn’t be in such a stew,” said Sam to himself, as he went thoughtfully away, and came to the conclusion that the best thing he could do would be to have a mouthful of something.The mouthful took the form of a good dinner at a restaurant, and over this he sat thinking out his proceedings in a very cool, matter-of-fact way, till he thought it was time to make a commencement, when he summoned the waiter, and asked for the railway time-table. Then, after picking out a suitable train, he paid his bill with one of his father’s sovereigns, called a cab, and had himself driven to the terminus, where he took his ticket for the station beyond Furzebrough Road, and soon after was on his way down into the wild part of Surrey.
Uncle James Brandon sat one morning a short time before the events of the night described in the last chapters, biting his nails, and looking old, yellow, and careworn. He was supposed to be quite well again, and the doctors had given up visiting him, but, as his son said in a very contemptuous, unfilial way to his mother—
“He’s better in health than temper, and if things are going on like this I shall be off somewhere, for I’m sick of it.”
For there had been quarrels daily between father and son, stormings against wife and servants, and poor Pringle the clerk had vowed to himself that he would not stay at the office for another week; but he always stayed, for there were reasons at home against his throwing himself out of work.
So Uncle James sat in his private room at the Gray’s Inn office, looking old, yellow, and biting his nails, like the ancient ogre, sometimes making up his mind in one direction, sometimes in another.
At last he touched his table gong, and, as quickly as he could get there, Pringle presented himself.
“You ring, sir?”
“You know I rang, sir,” cried Uncle James savagely. “Send him here directly.”
“Cert’ny, sir, but—er—”
“I said send him here.”
“Yes, sir. Who, sir?”
“Mr Samuel, you blockhead. Didn’t you hear what I said?”
“Yes, sir; but Mr Samuel’s not in the office, sir.”
“Bah!” ejaculated his employer; and Pringle made his escape.
Ten minutes later Sam entered the place, and the clerk whispered to him sharply—
“Gov’nor wants you, sir. Awful temper, sir.”
“Oh, is he?” said Sam sullenly. And then to himself—“I’m not going to take any of his nonsense, so I tell him.”
Pulling down his cuffs, and looking very pugnacious, he entered the private room ready to repel an attack, but to his surprise, his father, who the minute before had been seated looking very irresolute, now became very determined, and pointed to a chair.
“Sit down, my boy,” he said in a low voice.
Sam felt relieved, and he drew forward a chair.
“Sam, my boy,” continued James Brandon, “I’m in terrible trouble.”
“What about, father—money?” James Brandon nodded.
“I’ve been too hasty, my boy. I was very ill, and I did what I should not have done in calmer moments.”
There was a pause, and Sam waited, wondering what was to come next.
“You remember my sending for your cousin to come up?”
“Yes, father; you sent me away on business,” said Sam, in rather a sneering tone, “so as to get me out of the way, but I heard all about it afterwards.”
“All about it?” said his father, with an anxious look.
“I suppose so,” replied Sam carelessly.
“No, my boy, you did not,” said his father, leaning forward and taking his son by the coat as he spoke in a very low voice. “The fact is, Sam, while I was ill and low-spirited I got a number of curious fancies into my head—half-delirious, I suppose—about some deeds and documents left in my charge by your aunt, Tom Blount’s mother, when she died.”
“Yes?” said Sam, growing interested now.
“I fancied somehow, my boy, that it was my duty to give those deeds up to your cousin; and though I fought against it for some time, the idea grew too strong for me, and I felt that I must send for him and give them over into his charge.”
“Were they his by rights, father?” said Sam sharply.
“They were given into my charge, my boy,” replied his father evasively, “and I behaved very weakly and foolishly in giving them up to your cousin.”
“Then you did give them up to Tom that day?”
“Yes, Sam, and it is a very troublesome matter. I tell you, I did not know what I was about then, and it will affect you very seriously by and by, if I don’t get them back.”
“You mean in money matters, father?” said Sam sharply.
“Yes; affect me now heavily, and you by and by.”
“Get them back then at once,” said Sam—the young lawyer giving the elder advice.
“Yes, Sam, my boy, that’s what I want to do, but how?”
“Write and tell young Tom to bring them up.”
James Brandon shook his head.
“No use—no use, my boy. I must have said a great many foolish things to the lad that day.”
“But you must get the papers or whatever they are back again, father,” cried Sam, who was now growing excited. “You’ll have to go down there yourself.”
“Impossible; but I have made up my mind to send you to try and get them.”
“And suppose I did, father?”
“Suppose you did? Why then, my boy, I could—I mean we could laugh at them, treat anything that was said with contempt. Do you hear? With contempt.”
“Stop a bit,” said Sam quietly. “You always told me to be cautious in business matters, and that I was to keep one foot down firmly till I found a safe place for the other.”
“Of course, my lad, of course.”
“Well, suppose I go down to that country bumpkin’s place?”
“Yes, if you went down you would find out where the papers were kept,” said James Brandon eagerly.
“And if I did?”
“You could bring them away. The boy’s too stupid to take very great care of them.”
“But suppose he has given them to Uncle Richard?”
“Pish! what then? Your uncle would only pitch them into a drawer, and go away to forget them, and dream about the moon. You could go down on a visit, find out where they are, and bring them away.”
“I say, dad,” said Sam, with a sneer, “isn’t that very much like stealing?”
“No, no, no, no,” cried his father quickly; “only getting back some documents left in my charge—papers which I gave up during a severe illness, when I did not know what I was about. You understand?”
“Oh yes, father, I understand, but it looks ugly.”
“It would look uglier for you to be left almost without a penny, Sam, and your cousin to be well off.”
“Ye-es,” said Sam quietly, as he stood with his brows knit; “that would be ugly, dad.”
“Then you will go?”
“Perhaps. That depends. Not as you propose. They’d miss the papers, and I should get the credit of having taken them.”
James Brandon stared at his son in surprise, forgetting the fact that he had been training and moulding him for years to become a self-satisfied, selfish man, with only one idea, that of taking care of himself, no matter who suffered.
“He’s growing a sharp one,” thought the father, half gratified, half annoyed. Then aloud—
“Oh no, Sam, I don’t think that.”
“You don’t want to think that, father,” said Sam, drawing himself up importantly.
“Oh yes, my boy,” said James Brandon. “I don’t want to get you into trouble.”
“No, father, of course not; it would be getting you into a scrape as well. Look here, suppose I slip down and get the deeds without being seen—without any one being a bit the wiser?”
James Brandon shook his head.
“Oh, I don’t want the job,” said Sam coolly.
His father was silent for a few moments, and Sam took out a knife, threw himself back in his chair, and began to trim his nails.
“But look here, Sam,” said James Brandon at last, and he seemed to be in a nervous, excited state. “It is of vital importance to me that I should have those papers.”
“Then if I were you I should go down and get them, father,” said Sam coolly.
“But that is impossible, my boy. Come, you will do that for me?”
“I don’t see why I should,” replied Sam; “you don’t make things very pleasant for me.”
“But I will, my boy, I will do anything you like; and don’t you understand how important it is for you?”
“Yes, I begin to see,” said Sam coolly. “You’ve got yourself into a scrape, father, over some of young Tom Blount’s affairs, and you want to make cat’s-paws of me.”
“No, sir,” cried his father angrily.
“Oh, but you do.”
“I do want you to help me get those—those—”
“Chestnuts,” said Sam, with a grin.
“Well, call them that if you like, my boy,” said his father, trying to be jocose, but looking ghastly pale the while, and with the perspiration standing in tiny drops upon his forehead. “But you must help me, Sam. The money will all be yours by and by.”
Sam sat back staring straight before him in silence for a few minutes, while his father watched him intently.
“Well, I don’t want you to get into trouble, father,” he said at last. “You don’t open out to me frankly, but I can see as far into a millstone as most people. I’m not quite a fool.”
“No, my boy, no,” said James Brandon eagerly. “I’m delighted to find what a sharp man of business you are growing.”
“But you never made yourself hoarse by telling me so, dad,” said Sam, with a grin.
“Because I did not want to make you conceited, my dear boy,” cried the father. “Then you will help me?”
“The money’s no temptation to me, father,” said Sam loftily.
“But it will be very useful to you by and by, my boy. Surely you don’t want that ill-conditioned cub to inherit it.”
“Of course I don’t,” said Sam. “There, all right, I’ll go and get them for you somehow, but if there’s any rumpus afterward you’ll have to stand the racket, for I shan’t. I shall say you sent me.”
“Of course, my boy, of course. But you are too clever to make any mistake over the business, and—and you are beginning to be a great help to me, Sam. The time’s getting on now towards when we must begin to think of your being a junior partner. Only about three or four years, Sam.—Then you will go down at once?”
“You leave that to me,” said Sam importantly. “But I must have some money.”
“Yes, my boy, of course. Half-a-sovereign will be plenty, I suppose?”
“No, you don’t,” said Sam, with a look full of contempt at the shrunken, degraded man before him, who was receiving the punishment already of his misdeeds, and suffering more keenly than from any which could have been inflicted by the law.
“But how much do you want, my boy?” he faltered—“fifteen shillings?”
“I want two pounds,” said Sam coolly, “to pay my expenses. Perhaps I shall have to give some blackguard half-a-sovereign to get the papers for me, and if I come back with them all right, you’ll have to give me five pounds.”
“Five pounds!” gasped his father.
“Yes, dad; and if you make so much fuss about it I shan’t go unless you give me ten pounds.”
James Brandon looked in a ghastly way, which made his sickly face seem agonised, and he slowly drew out his purse and handed his son the money.
“When will you start?” he said.
“Now, directly,” said Sam, rising from his chair; and his father’s countenance brightened.
“Hah!” he exclaimed, “that’s very prompt and business-like of you, Sam. You’ll be careful though.” And he whispered some instructions.
“You leave me alone for that, dad,” said Sam. “I know what I’m about.”
As he spoke he rose quickly from his chair, gave his father a short nod, and opened the door, to find himself face to face with Pringle, whose hand was raised.
“Oh!” cried the clerk, starting. “Beg pardon, sir, I was just going to knock.”
“What is it?” cried James Brandon angrily, and turning pale in dread lest the clerk should have heard anything which had passed.
“These deeds, sir—finished the copying,” said the man quietly, and with a look of surprise that his employer should have asked him what he wanted.
“Oh yes; put them down,” said Brandon hastily.
“What shall I go on with next?”
“The letters I told you about last night.”
“Cert’ny, sir, of course,” said Pringle; and he hurried out of the room, leaving father and son staring at each other across the table.
“Think he heard, Sam?” said James Brandon, looking more ghastly than ever.
“No, not he. Couldn’t have heard more than a word or two. He daren’t listen.”
“Think not, Sam?”
“Sure of it, dad. There, I’ll be off now.”
“Yes, do; and pray be careful. One moment, Sam: your uncle is not out with you?”
“Which means he is with you,” said Sam, smiling.
“Yes, my boy, a little. We don’t quite agree about—about a little matter; but he would be friendly to you. So don’t you think you had better go down as a visitor?”
“No, father, I don’t,” said Sam shortly; and he went out at once.
“Gov’nor must have made a terrible mess of it, or he wouldn’t be in such a stew,” said Sam to himself, as he went thoughtfully away, and came to the conclusion that the best thing he could do would be to have a mouthful of something.
The mouthful took the form of a good dinner at a restaurant, and over this he sat thinking out his proceedings in a very cool, matter-of-fact way, till he thought it was time to make a commencement, when he summoned the waiter, and asked for the railway time-table. Then, after picking out a suitable train, he paid his bill with one of his father’s sovereigns, called a cab, and had himself driven to the terminus, where he took his ticket for the station beyond Furzebrough Road, and soon after was on his way down into the wild part of Surrey.
Chapter Forty Three.Sam Brandon timed himself so accurately that he was crossing the little river-ford just as it was so dark that he could hardly make out the stepping-stones. But he got over quite dry, and after a short walk on the level, began to mount the sandy hill which formed part of the way entering Furzebrough at the top end, and led him by the fork in the road down one side of which his father had steered the bath-chair, and plunged into the soft sand of the great pit.It was a soft, silent time, and the place seemed to be terribly lonely to one accustomed to the gas-lamps of London streets. The shadows under the hedges were so deep that they appeared likely to hide lurkers who might suddenly leap out to rob, perhaps murder, for with all his outward show in bravado, Sam Brandon felt extremely uneasy consequent about the mission which had brought him down there, and he at once decided that it would be better to walk in the middle of the road.Five minutes later he had to take the path again, for he met a horse and cart, the driver shouting a friendly good-night, to which Sam responded with a stifled cry of alarm, for he had nearly run against a man who suddenly appeared in the darkness, but proved to be quite an inoffensive personage bound for home.Then as the crown of the hill was reached, there was the great gloomy fir-wood, whose columns stood up quite close to the road, and under whose shade Sam had to make his way toward the village, thinking deeply the while, that after all his task was not so easy as it seemed before he came down into the country.“No fear of being seen though,” he thought, as he went on, continually on the look-out for danger to himself, but seeing none, hearing none, till he was in the deepest part of the sandy lane, with the side of the fir-wood on his right, a hedge-topped bank on the left.It was darker now than ever; and as it was early yet for the work he had in hand, he had slackened speed, and finally stopped short, hesitating about going on.“What a horrible, cut-throat-looking place!” he muttered, as he tried to pierce the gloom which hid the beautifully—draped sand-banks dotted with ferns, and made lovely by flowers at all times of the year. “Any one might be in hiding there, ready to spring out.”He had hardly thought this when he uttered a cry of horror, swung round, and ran as hard as he could back toward the crown of the hill, for all at once there was a peculiar sound, like the magnified hiss of some large serpent, and, looking up, he could dimly see against the starlit sky a gigantic head with curling horns, whose owner was evidently gazing down upon him where he stood in the middle of the lane twenty feet below.Sam Brandon must have run five hundred yards back before want of breath compelled a slackening of speed, and his panic fear gave place to common-sense.“What a fool I am!” he said to himself, with wonderful accuracy; “it must have been some precious old cow.”This thought brought him quite to a stand, and after a little consideration, he felt so certain of the cause of his alarm that he turned and continued his route again toward the village, reaching the dark part, hesitating for a few moments before going on, and now hearing up to the left and over the dimly-seen hedgerow the regularcrop, crop, cropof some animal grazing upon the crisp dew-wet grass.“If anybody had told me,” he muttered, “that I could have been scared by a jolly old cow, I should have kicked him. How absurd!”He walked on now firmly enough, till, in spite of the darkness, the road became more familiar, and in due time he could see the lights at Heatherleigh, and looking up to his right against the starry sky, the top of the great mill.It was too soon, he felt, and turning back, pretty well strung up now to what was rapidly assuming the aspect of a desperate venture, he walked on till the golden sand looked light upon his left, and showed a way into the wood. Here he turned off, walked cautiously in amongst the tall columns for a few yards, and then sat down on the fir-needles, listened to find that all was still, and taking out cigarette-case and match-box he struck a light and began to smoke, sheltering the bright burning end of the little roll of tobacco, and trying as he rested to improve his plans.For he was hot and tired. He had found the station beyond Furzebrough quite seven miles from the village, and being a perfectly fresh route to him, it had seemed twice as far; while the fact that he wished to keep his visit a profound secret forced him to refrain from asking questions as to the way, after being instructed by the station-master at the first.It was restful and pleasant there on the soft natural couch of sand and fir-needles, and after a time Sam’s head began to bow and nod, and then, just as he was dropping off fast asleep, the cigarette, which he had been puffing at mechanically, dropped from his lips and fell in his lap.In a few minutes the fume which had been rising changed its odour from burning vegetable to smouldering animal, and Sam leaped up with a yell of pain, to hastily clap his hands to a bright little round hole upon the leg of his trousers, where the woollen material had caught fire and burned through to his skin.“Hang the stupid thing!” he grumbled, as he squeezed the cloth and put out the tiny glowing spark. “Must have dropped off. Looked nice if I’d slept all night in this idiotic place. Too soon yet, but I mustn’t go to sleep again.”To avoid this he began to walk up and down among the trees, but carefully kept close to the road, for he grasped the fact that it would be very easy to go astray in a fir-wood at night.Now as the dark hours are those when certain animals which live in the shade of trees choose for their rambles abroad, it so happened that one of these creatures was awake, had left its hole, and was prowling about on mischief bent, when the yell Sam Brandon uttered rose on the night air.The first effect was to cause the prowler to start off and run; the second caused curiosity, and made the said prowler begin to crawl cautiously toward the spot from whence the cry arose, and in and out among the tree-trunks, till the shadowy figure of Sam could be seen going to and fro to avoid more sleep.Then, as the prowler lay near at hand upon his chest watching, there came a time when Sam went down upon his knees in the densest spot near, to shelter himself from observation while he lit a fresh cigarette.Now it so happened that the darkest spot was close to where the prowler lay without being able to escape, as it would have caused a noise, and consequent betrayal.Then after selecting a cigarette by touch, and opening his match-box, Sam struck a little wax taper, began to light his cigarette, and naturally held the flame so near his face that, as he knelt there, it was well illumined for the benefit of the prowler, who crouched close and stared hard, expecting moment by moment to be seen.But Sam saw nothing for the glare, while the prowler recognised his features, and lay still and waited close by the smoker till nearly another hour had elapsed, when Sam drew a long deep breath and said softly—“Now for it.”Foritmeant money, freedom from all domination, and, as the lad thought very unwisely, a general sense of independence of father and the whole world; though in carrying out this act he was riveting, so to speak, moral fetters round his wrists.He had had hard work to string himself up to his task, but now he showed plenty of determination, and going back into the lane, he walked rapidly toward Heatherleigh, passing nobody on his way.Upon reaching the bottom of the garden he hesitated for a few moments, peering over the hedge at the house; then seeking the palings, and looking over them at a spot where the trees were rather open, and, lastly, making his way to the gate, where he satisfied himself that there were only two lights visible there—in the servants’ part of the house, and in the little dining-room.Apparently contented, he walked back to where the yard wall turned off at right angles, and following this for a few yards, he climbed over and made his way like a dark shadow close up to the mill, where he stood listening and looking sharply round.All was still, and in spite of the glittering stars, it was very dark close up to the tall brick building—so black, in fact, that unless close up, there was not the slightest probability of his being seen even by any one upon the watch.Satisfied of this, he went softly to the door, took hold of the handle, and tried it, pressing hard at the same time, in expectation that it might yield, as people were so careless about locking up in the country. But he was soon convinced that the door was securely fastened, and he moved now to one of the workshop windows and tried it, with no result. Then he gave it a sharp shake, but there was no suggestion of its yielding, and he at once went right round to the other side and tried the window there.The result was the same, and he uttered a low ejaculation indicative of his vexation on finding everything so secure.“More ways than one of killing a cat,” he said softly, and taking a large screw-driver from his pocket, he was in the act of thrusting its wedgelike flat point in beneath the framework of the casement when there was a step behind him, and as he turned sharply, it was to face a tall, thin, rough-looking figure, very indistinctly seen as it stood close to him, and the word “Halloo!” was whispered hoarsely almost in his ear.For a few moments Sam was paralysed. Then he recovered himself, and stepping back he raised the screw-driver, as if it had been a short Roman sword.“You hit me,” said the shadowy figure, “and I’ll let you have this hedgestake right on the head.”“Who are you? What are you doing here?” said Sam, in a subdued voice.“And who are you, and what are you a-doin’ of here?” was the retort. “You give me any of your mouth, and I’ll go and ring the old man’s bell.”Sam had met his match, and stood thinking what course he should pursue when his interrupter continued—“I know: you’re come because the old man arn’t at home. Think I don’t know yer?”“Hush! hold your tongue!” said Sam, and for the moment he felt disposed to run for it; but there was the fact that, dark as it was, he had been recognised, and if he had any doubt it was dispelled by his companion saying with a faint laugh—“Got any more o’ them pears?”“No,” said Sam shortly; and recovering himself a little, “What do you want?”“To see what you’re a-going to do,” was the reply.“But you’ve no business here, sir,” said Sam haughtily.“More have you. I arn’t a fool. I see you trying to break open the winders with that thing.”“It’s a lie; you didn’t.”“Oh yes, I did. I know; I can see in the dark. What are you after?”Sam was silent, and the disposition was on him strongly now to strike the fellow down.He dismissed the thought again, feeling how useless it would be to make him an enemy, and the other course now offered itself to him.“You don’t want to know what I’m after,” he said, with a faint laugh. “It’s only for a bit of fun.”“Not it. People don’t break in at windows for fun. You give me something, or I’ll go and tell.”Sam’s heart leaped with satisfaction at this. Money, then, would buy the young scoundrel off, and he hastily took out a coin, and held it out so as to silence his enemy; but at the same time he felt that there was nothing to be done now but get back to town with his mission unfulfilled.To his great delight the coin was snatched and pocketed, but he did not feel so well satisfied the next moment.“That’s on’y a shillin’. Give’s another.”A second was held out and taken.“Now I wants another,” said Pete, and upon this being given, he demanded a fourth, and then a fifth.Pete was satisfied now, and he said with a low chuckle—“If any o’ these is bad ’uns, I shall go and tell.”“But they’re not, they’re all good,” whispered Sam. “Now be off.”“Shee-arn’t! I’m goin’ to stop and see what you do. But you can’t get in like that. The winders has all got noo fasteners. I could get in if I liked.”“How?” said Sam, in spite of himself.“Think I’m goin’ to tell you for this,” said Pete. “You give me another, and I’ll show you how to get in. I see you come in the wood and smoke over yonder.”“And you’ve been watching me ever since?”“Course I have. What do you want to get?”Sam made no answer, for he was trying to arrange his thoughts, and make out what was the best thing to do. Then all at once Pete broke out with—“You ain’t half a chap. I could soon get in there if I wanted.”“Could you? How?”“I’ve been in the mill lots o’ times,” said Pete evasively, “’fore they took the stones out, and since old Dicky Brandon pulled the sails off.”“Tell me how you managed it,” said Sam, after a glance round; for, mingled with his uneasy feeling about being betrayed by the great lad before him, he began to feel desperate, and as if he must succeed now he had gone so far. He was convinced in his own mind that the most likely place to find the documents he sought would be in his uncle’s study, and to him the first floor of the old mill was that study. Tom had told him as much, and that the old walnut-wood bureau was the depository where their uncle kept his papers.“People in the country are such idiots,” he said to himself; “they never think of having strongrooms or iron safes. He has locked the papers up there as sure as a gun.”It was with a certainty of this being the case that he had come down, and now that there was nothing between him and the prize but a window and this spying lad, the position was irritating to a degree.Sam thrust his hand into his pocket, where it came in contact with half-a-sovereign and some silver, and he began to think that of these he could perhaps after all make a key. The only question was how to begin.Pete had uttered a low sniggering laugh on hearing Sam’s last question, and now feeling that he must either act or give up; the latter repeated his inquiry.“I used to have some bantams,” replied the young scoundrel. “Bantams like wheat and barley.”“And you used to come and steal some for them?” said Sam sharply.“Oh, did I? Who said anything about stealing? I didn’t eat the barley; the bantams did.”“But you stole it all the same,” said Sam, who felt now that he had a handle to take hold of.“Oh, did I? So are you,” snarled Pete. “You’ve come to steal something, or you wouldn’t be here in the dark.”“Never you mind about that,” said Sam quickly. “Look here; you tell me the way to get in, and I’ll give you another shilling.”Pete thrust his dirty face close to Sam’s.“Give us hold then.”“No; you show me the way first.”“Shee-arn’t! Give us the shillin’ first.”“I don’t believe you know a way.”“Oh, don’t I! You give me the shillin’, and you’ll see.”Sam hesitated, but there was no time to lose. It seemed to be his only policy to make friends with this young ruffian, and he finally took a shilling out of his pocket, the action being grasped at once by the lad in spite of the darkness.“No games,” said Sam. “If I give you the shilling, will you tell me fairly?”“Course I will.”“There; now tell me.”Pete took the shilling handed, made believe to spit upon it, and thrust it into his pocket.“Winders is fastened up tight now.”“What, those up higher too?”“Yes; all on ’em.”“Then how am I to get in?”Pete laughed softly, and Sam grew angry.“I thought so,” he whispered. “You don’t know.”“Oh, don’t I just?” said Pete, with his sniggering laugh. “I said I’d tell yer, and I will.”“Quick then. How?”“There’s a kind o’ door up atop as opens right over and lies on its back. It’s got a bolt to it, but you can shove yer hand under when yer gets up inside them little palings and push it back. Then yer can open the door and get in.”“How do you know?” said Sam sharply.“How do I know? ’Cause I’ve done it.”“But up there? How did you get up?”“Ladder,” said the lad laconically.“What, is there a ladder here?”“No,” said Pete.“Bah!” ejaculated Sam. “What’s the good of telling me that, then?”Pete chuckled now with satisfaction, as if he enjoyed his companion’s trouble.“I know where there’s a ladder,” he said.“One we could get?”“You couldn’t. I could.”“Get it for me, then, there’s a good fellow.”“Ha, ha! Oh, I say; arn’t you getting jolly civil!”“Hush!” whispered Sam excitedly. “Don’t make that noise. Some one will hear.”“Yah! There’s no one to hear! The old man’s gone out, and old Mother Fidler’s fast asleep, and snoring by this time.”“But there’s he,” whispered Sam.“What, young Tom Blount? Yah! Not him: he won’t come.”“Where’s the ladder?” whispered Sam, in agony.“Don’t I tell yer, yer couldn’t get it if yer did know!”“Then will you get it for me?”“Give’s another shillin’, and I will.”“Oh!” groaned Sam. “I’ve given you too much now.”“All right. I don’t want the ladder. I arn’t going to fetch that and carry it ever so far for nothin’.”“But is it long enough?”“Yes; just reaches up to them railings outside the top door. Yer can’t get in without.”“If I give you another shilling—the last, mind—will you fetch me a ladder?”“Course I will.”“All right then; make haste.”“Give us the shillin’ first.”“Then you won’t fetch the ladder.”“Oh yes, I will—honour bright.”Sam unwillingly produced another shilling.“There, that’s the last I’m going to give you,” he whispered. “Now, then, fetch the ladder quickly.”
Sam Brandon timed himself so accurately that he was crossing the little river-ford just as it was so dark that he could hardly make out the stepping-stones. But he got over quite dry, and after a short walk on the level, began to mount the sandy hill which formed part of the way entering Furzebrough at the top end, and led him by the fork in the road down one side of which his father had steered the bath-chair, and plunged into the soft sand of the great pit.
It was a soft, silent time, and the place seemed to be terribly lonely to one accustomed to the gas-lamps of London streets. The shadows under the hedges were so deep that they appeared likely to hide lurkers who might suddenly leap out to rob, perhaps murder, for with all his outward show in bravado, Sam Brandon felt extremely uneasy consequent about the mission which had brought him down there, and he at once decided that it would be better to walk in the middle of the road.
Five minutes later he had to take the path again, for he met a horse and cart, the driver shouting a friendly good-night, to which Sam responded with a stifled cry of alarm, for he had nearly run against a man who suddenly appeared in the darkness, but proved to be quite an inoffensive personage bound for home.
Then as the crown of the hill was reached, there was the great gloomy fir-wood, whose columns stood up quite close to the road, and under whose shade Sam had to make his way toward the village, thinking deeply the while, that after all his task was not so easy as it seemed before he came down into the country.
“No fear of being seen though,” he thought, as he went on, continually on the look-out for danger to himself, but seeing none, hearing none, till he was in the deepest part of the sandy lane, with the side of the fir-wood on his right, a hedge-topped bank on the left.
It was darker now than ever; and as it was early yet for the work he had in hand, he had slackened speed, and finally stopped short, hesitating about going on.
“What a horrible, cut-throat-looking place!” he muttered, as he tried to pierce the gloom which hid the beautifully—draped sand-banks dotted with ferns, and made lovely by flowers at all times of the year. “Any one might be in hiding there, ready to spring out.”
He had hardly thought this when he uttered a cry of horror, swung round, and ran as hard as he could back toward the crown of the hill, for all at once there was a peculiar sound, like the magnified hiss of some large serpent, and, looking up, he could dimly see against the starlit sky a gigantic head with curling horns, whose owner was evidently gazing down upon him where he stood in the middle of the lane twenty feet below.
Sam Brandon must have run five hundred yards back before want of breath compelled a slackening of speed, and his panic fear gave place to common-sense.
“What a fool I am!” he said to himself, with wonderful accuracy; “it must have been some precious old cow.”
This thought brought him quite to a stand, and after a little consideration, he felt so certain of the cause of his alarm that he turned and continued his route again toward the village, reaching the dark part, hesitating for a few moments before going on, and now hearing up to the left and over the dimly-seen hedgerow the regularcrop, crop, cropof some animal grazing upon the crisp dew-wet grass.
“If anybody had told me,” he muttered, “that I could have been scared by a jolly old cow, I should have kicked him. How absurd!”
He walked on now firmly enough, till, in spite of the darkness, the road became more familiar, and in due time he could see the lights at Heatherleigh, and looking up to his right against the starry sky, the top of the great mill.
It was too soon, he felt, and turning back, pretty well strung up now to what was rapidly assuming the aspect of a desperate venture, he walked on till the golden sand looked light upon his left, and showed a way into the wood. Here he turned off, walked cautiously in amongst the tall columns for a few yards, and then sat down on the fir-needles, listened to find that all was still, and taking out cigarette-case and match-box he struck a light and began to smoke, sheltering the bright burning end of the little roll of tobacco, and trying as he rested to improve his plans.
For he was hot and tired. He had found the station beyond Furzebrough quite seven miles from the village, and being a perfectly fresh route to him, it had seemed twice as far; while the fact that he wished to keep his visit a profound secret forced him to refrain from asking questions as to the way, after being instructed by the station-master at the first.
It was restful and pleasant there on the soft natural couch of sand and fir-needles, and after a time Sam’s head began to bow and nod, and then, just as he was dropping off fast asleep, the cigarette, which he had been puffing at mechanically, dropped from his lips and fell in his lap.
In a few minutes the fume which had been rising changed its odour from burning vegetable to smouldering animal, and Sam leaped up with a yell of pain, to hastily clap his hands to a bright little round hole upon the leg of his trousers, where the woollen material had caught fire and burned through to his skin.
“Hang the stupid thing!” he grumbled, as he squeezed the cloth and put out the tiny glowing spark. “Must have dropped off. Looked nice if I’d slept all night in this idiotic place. Too soon yet, but I mustn’t go to sleep again.”
To avoid this he began to walk up and down among the trees, but carefully kept close to the road, for he grasped the fact that it would be very easy to go astray in a fir-wood at night.
Now as the dark hours are those when certain animals which live in the shade of trees choose for their rambles abroad, it so happened that one of these creatures was awake, had left its hole, and was prowling about on mischief bent, when the yell Sam Brandon uttered rose on the night air.
The first effect was to cause the prowler to start off and run; the second caused curiosity, and made the said prowler begin to crawl cautiously toward the spot from whence the cry arose, and in and out among the tree-trunks, till the shadowy figure of Sam could be seen going to and fro to avoid more sleep.
Then, as the prowler lay near at hand upon his chest watching, there came a time when Sam went down upon his knees in the densest spot near, to shelter himself from observation while he lit a fresh cigarette.
Now it so happened that the darkest spot was close to where the prowler lay without being able to escape, as it would have caused a noise, and consequent betrayal.
Then after selecting a cigarette by touch, and opening his match-box, Sam struck a little wax taper, began to light his cigarette, and naturally held the flame so near his face that, as he knelt there, it was well illumined for the benefit of the prowler, who crouched close and stared hard, expecting moment by moment to be seen.
But Sam saw nothing for the glare, while the prowler recognised his features, and lay still and waited close by the smoker till nearly another hour had elapsed, when Sam drew a long deep breath and said softly—
“Now for it.”
Foritmeant money, freedom from all domination, and, as the lad thought very unwisely, a general sense of independence of father and the whole world; though in carrying out this act he was riveting, so to speak, moral fetters round his wrists.
He had had hard work to string himself up to his task, but now he showed plenty of determination, and going back into the lane, he walked rapidly toward Heatherleigh, passing nobody on his way.
Upon reaching the bottom of the garden he hesitated for a few moments, peering over the hedge at the house; then seeking the palings, and looking over them at a spot where the trees were rather open, and, lastly, making his way to the gate, where he satisfied himself that there were only two lights visible there—in the servants’ part of the house, and in the little dining-room.
Apparently contented, he walked back to where the yard wall turned off at right angles, and following this for a few yards, he climbed over and made his way like a dark shadow close up to the mill, where he stood listening and looking sharply round.
All was still, and in spite of the glittering stars, it was very dark close up to the tall brick building—so black, in fact, that unless close up, there was not the slightest probability of his being seen even by any one upon the watch.
Satisfied of this, he went softly to the door, took hold of the handle, and tried it, pressing hard at the same time, in expectation that it might yield, as people were so careless about locking up in the country. But he was soon convinced that the door was securely fastened, and he moved now to one of the workshop windows and tried it, with no result. Then he gave it a sharp shake, but there was no suggestion of its yielding, and he at once went right round to the other side and tried the window there.
The result was the same, and he uttered a low ejaculation indicative of his vexation on finding everything so secure.
“More ways than one of killing a cat,” he said softly, and taking a large screw-driver from his pocket, he was in the act of thrusting its wedgelike flat point in beneath the framework of the casement when there was a step behind him, and as he turned sharply, it was to face a tall, thin, rough-looking figure, very indistinctly seen as it stood close to him, and the word “Halloo!” was whispered hoarsely almost in his ear.
For a few moments Sam was paralysed. Then he recovered himself, and stepping back he raised the screw-driver, as if it had been a short Roman sword.
“You hit me,” said the shadowy figure, “and I’ll let you have this hedgestake right on the head.”
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” said Sam, in a subdued voice.
“And who are you, and what are you a-doin’ of here?” was the retort. “You give me any of your mouth, and I’ll go and ring the old man’s bell.”
Sam had met his match, and stood thinking what course he should pursue when his interrupter continued—
“I know: you’re come because the old man arn’t at home. Think I don’t know yer?”
“Hush! hold your tongue!” said Sam, and for the moment he felt disposed to run for it; but there was the fact that, dark as it was, he had been recognised, and if he had any doubt it was dispelled by his companion saying with a faint laugh—
“Got any more o’ them pears?”
“No,” said Sam shortly; and recovering himself a little, “What do you want?”
“To see what you’re a-going to do,” was the reply.
“But you’ve no business here, sir,” said Sam haughtily.
“More have you. I arn’t a fool. I see you trying to break open the winders with that thing.”
“It’s a lie; you didn’t.”
“Oh yes, I did. I know; I can see in the dark. What are you after?”
Sam was silent, and the disposition was on him strongly now to strike the fellow down.
He dismissed the thought again, feeling how useless it would be to make him an enemy, and the other course now offered itself to him.
“You don’t want to know what I’m after,” he said, with a faint laugh. “It’s only for a bit of fun.”
“Not it. People don’t break in at windows for fun. You give me something, or I’ll go and tell.”
Sam’s heart leaped with satisfaction at this. Money, then, would buy the young scoundrel off, and he hastily took out a coin, and held it out so as to silence his enemy; but at the same time he felt that there was nothing to be done now but get back to town with his mission unfulfilled.
To his great delight the coin was snatched and pocketed, but he did not feel so well satisfied the next moment.
“That’s on’y a shillin’. Give’s another.”
A second was held out and taken.
“Now I wants another,” said Pete, and upon this being given, he demanded a fourth, and then a fifth.
Pete was satisfied now, and he said with a low chuckle—
“If any o’ these is bad ’uns, I shall go and tell.”
“But they’re not, they’re all good,” whispered Sam. “Now be off.”
“Shee-arn’t! I’m goin’ to stop and see what you do. But you can’t get in like that. The winders has all got noo fasteners. I could get in if I liked.”
“How?” said Sam, in spite of himself.
“Think I’m goin’ to tell you for this,” said Pete. “You give me another, and I’ll show you how to get in. I see you come in the wood and smoke over yonder.”
“And you’ve been watching me ever since?”
“Course I have. What do you want to get?”
Sam made no answer, for he was trying to arrange his thoughts, and make out what was the best thing to do. Then all at once Pete broke out with—
“You ain’t half a chap. I could soon get in there if I wanted.”
“Could you? How?”
“I’ve been in the mill lots o’ times,” said Pete evasively, “’fore they took the stones out, and since old Dicky Brandon pulled the sails off.”
“Tell me how you managed it,” said Sam, after a glance round; for, mingled with his uneasy feeling about being betrayed by the great lad before him, he began to feel desperate, and as if he must succeed now he had gone so far. He was convinced in his own mind that the most likely place to find the documents he sought would be in his uncle’s study, and to him the first floor of the old mill was that study. Tom had told him as much, and that the old walnut-wood bureau was the depository where their uncle kept his papers.
“People in the country are such idiots,” he said to himself; “they never think of having strongrooms or iron safes. He has locked the papers up there as sure as a gun.”
It was with a certainty of this being the case that he had come down, and now that there was nothing between him and the prize but a window and this spying lad, the position was irritating to a degree.
Sam thrust his hand into his pocket, where it came in contact with half-a-sovereign and some silver, and he began to think that of these he could perhaps after all make a key. The only question was how to begin.
Pete had uttered a low sniggering laugh on hearing Sam’s last question, and now feeling that he must either act or give up; the latter repeated his inquiry.
“I used to have some bantams,” replied the young scoundrel. “Bantams like wheat and barley.”
“And you used to come and steal some for them?” said Sam sharply.
“Oh, did I? Who said anything about stealing? I didn’t eat the barley; the bantams did.”
“But you stole it all the same,” said Sam, who felt now that he had a handle to take hold of.
“Oh, did I? So are you,” snarled Pete. “You’ve come to steal something, or you wouldn’t be here in the dark.”
“Never you mind about that,” said Sam quickly. “Look here; you tell me the way to get in, and I’ll give you another shilling.”
Pete thrust his dirty face close to Sam’s.
“Give us hold then.”
“No; you show me the way first.”
“Shee-arn’t! Give us the shillin’ first.”
“I don’t believe you know a way.”
“Oh, don’t I! You give me the shillin’, and you’ll see.”
Sam hesitated, but there was no time to lose. It seemed to be his only policy to make friends with this young ruffian, and he finally took a shilling out of his pocket, the action being grasped at once by the lad in spite of the darkness.
“No games,” said Sam. “If I give you the shilling, will you tell me fairly?”
“Course I will.”
“There; now tell me.”
Pete took the shilling handed, made believe to spit upon it, and thrust it into his pocket.
“Winders is fastened up tight now.”
“What, those up higher too?”
“Yes; all on ’em.”
“Then how am I to get in?”
Pete laughed softly, and Sam grew angry.
“I thought so,” he whispered. “You don’t know.”
“Oh, don’t I just?” said Pete, with his sniggering laugh. “I said I’d tell yer, and I will.”
“Quick then. How?”
“There’s a kind o’ door up atop as opens right over and lies on its back. It’s got a bolt to it, but you can shove yer hand under when yer gets up inside them little palings and push it back. Then yer can open the door and get in.”
“How do you know?” said Sam sharply.
“How do I know? ’Cause I’ve done it.”
“But up there? How did you get up?”
“Ladder,” said the lad laconically.
“What, is there a ladder here?”
“No,” said Pete.
“Bah!” ejaculated Sam. “What’s the good of telling me that, then?”
Pete chuckled now with satisfaction, as if he enjoyed his companion’s trouble.
“I know where there’s a ladder,” he said.
“One we could get?”
“You couldn’t. I could.”
“Get it for me, then, there’s a good fellow.”
“Ha, ha! Oh, I say; arn’t you getting jolly civil!”
“Hush!” whispered Sam excitedly. “Don’t make that noise. Some one will hear.”
“Yah! There’s no one to hear! The old man’s gone out, and old Mother Fidler’s fast asleep, and snoring by this time.”
“But there’s he,” whispered Sam.
“What, young Tom Blount? Yah! Not him: he won’t come.”
“Where’s the ladder?” whispered Sam, in agony.
“Don’t I tell yer, yer couldn’t get it if yer did know!”
“Then will you get it for me?”
“Give’s another shillin’, and I will.”
“Oh!” groaned Sam. “I’ve given you too much now.”
“All right. I don’t want the ladder. I arn’t going to fetch that and carry it ever so far for nothin’.”
“But is it long enough?”
“Yes; just reaches up to them railings outside the top door. Yer can’t get in without.”
“If I give you another shilling—the last, mind—will you fetch me a ladder?”
“Course I will.”
“All right then; make haste.”
“Give us the shillin’ first.”
“Then you won’t fetch the ladder.”
“Oh yes, I will—honour bright.”
Sam unwillingly produced another shilling.
“There, that’s the last I’m going to give you,” he whispered. “Now, then, fetch the ladder quickly.”
Chapter Forty Four.He uttered his low, sniggering, malicious laugh again, and without a word went off towards the back, disappearing into the darkness, and then, unseen by Sam, crawling over the wall like some great dark slug, leaving the London boy alone with his thoughts, as he kept close up to the mill, and gazed toward the cottage, dreading moment by moment an interruption from that direction.His thoughts were not pleasant company. For there he was upon his uncle’s property, feeling that not only had he come down there in the character of a thief, but circumstances had forced him into taking for confederate about as low-typed and blackguardly a young scoundrel as there was for twenty miles round. He had been forced to bribe the fellow heavily for him, and in addition to place himself entirely at his mercy, so that in the future, if he was successful in getting the papers, this scoundrel would be always coming upon him for money, and getting it by threats.“I can’t help it,” muttered Sam; “it’s the gov’nor’s fault, and he’ll have to pay for it all. He sent me, and—pooh, it isn’t stealing. It’s all in the family, and I’ve a better right to have what there is than young Tom Blount.”Sam tried to think of other things, but two matters had it all their own way—the dread of being caught, and the coming of Pete with the ladder.But the time wore on, and neither event seemed likely to happen. He grew hotter and hotter; every now and then he felt a peculiar nervous attack in one leg, which made his right knee tremble violently, and again and again he was on the point of rushing off, leaping the wall, and making for the open country, when at last he heard some faint noise coming out of the darkness.Once he felt that all was over, and there was nothing left for him to do but flee. For there were heavy steps in the lane coming nearer and nearer, till they stopped opposite the gate, and Sam’s heart throbbed like the beating of a soft mallet.“Policeman!” he thought, and he would have turned to run, but his feet felt as if glued to the ground, and the agony he suffered was intense.Just as he was at the worst point, there was a scratching sound, a gleam of light, the smell of tobacco, and directly after the steps were heard again, to pass on and die out in the distance.“‘Conscience makes cowards of us all,’” Sam might have said, but he did not know the words; and so he only wiped his forehead, and began to think of how he could get back to town, for it was perfectly evident that Pete had got all he could out of him, and, so far from returning with a ladder, in all probability he had invented the whole story, and there was no ladder anywhere nearer than in the rascal’s imagination.The moments passed on like minutes, and Sam felt as if an hour must have passed.“It’s of no use,” he said to himself; “he has been too sharp for me, and I shall have to come down as the dad said, and take my chance. I can do no more.”He sighed in his misery and dread, for he knew that there was an all-night walk before him, till he could take one of the earliest morning trains somewhere on the road. But it had to be done, and he went from out of the deep black shadow of the mill to the wall where he came over, and was in the act of raising himself up, when his neck was caught as if in a fork, and he was thrown down on to his back. Then, as he struggled up, he grasped the fact that Pete must have been coming back, and thrust the top of the ladder over first, sending the ends on each side of his neck.“Don’t do that, mate,” came to him in a sharp whisper from the wall. “Ketch hold and steady it while I run it to you.”Sam caught hold of the ladder eagerly, forgetting the pain in satisfaction, and the next minute the bottom round rested on the top of the wall. Then Pete crept over, slug fashion, and lifted the end off and set it down.“There y’are,” he said.“What a while you’ve been,” whispered Sam.“Oh, have I! Juss you go and fetch it yerself, and see how quick you’d be. It was worth two shillin’ to go for that; there, hyste it up and in with you.”“Hoist the ladder by myself?”“Yes, it’s easy enough. Bottom’s heavy and top’s light. Shall I do it?”“Yes, quickly.”“’Nother shillin’. I arn’t going to have nothing to do with it, and so I tell yer, without.”“I wish you wouldn’t speak so loudly,” whispered Sam impatiently.“Yah! go on! nobody can’t hear us. Where’s that shillin’?”“I told you I wouldn’t give you any more,” said Sam, stoutly now, “and I won’t.”Pete chuckled.“All right; I’ll hyste the ladder, only mind you telled me to—it was your doing.”“Yes, my doing,” said Sam, who was full of nervous impatience. “Be smart; here, I’ll help.”“I can do it,” said Pete, and with two or three sharp jerks he raised the ladder right on end, and then, after working it round two or three times, let the light narrow end down against the railing, just in front of the long shutter on the rounded roof.“Will it bear me?” whispered Sam nervously.“Bear a dozen on yer. Up you goes, and I’ll keep watch. If young Tom Ugly Blount comes, shall I give him one over the head?”“Yes,” whispered Sam, as he began to mount.“Shove yer hand under the door, and yer can feel the bolt directly. You can open it. Look alive.”Sam mounted round by round, wondering whether the thin ladder would bear his weight or collapse and let him down, as a punishment for the degrading crime he was about to commit; and the higher he went, and the ladder vibrated more easily, the more nervous he grew. Twice he stopped breathless and full of dread.“Is it safe?” he whispered.“Yes; up with yer.”Then he grasped the railing, stepped over into the little gallery, and, stooping down, soon found that he could unbolt the shutter.The next minute he was inside, and descending at once into the laboratory, he took the screw-driver from his pocket, and had no difficulty in prizing open the drawers, the wood bending enough to set free the catch. A match gave him sufficient light, and when he paused before the right drawer, in which were several carefully-sealed-up papers and envelopes, he hesitated, wondering which would be the documents he wished to secure.Helped by so feeble a light, it was hard work to tell, and at last he came to the conclusion that it would be best to make sure; and to this end he gathered all together, and thrust them, to the number of eight or nine, into his breast-pocket and buttoned his jacket.“Hurrah!” he muttered. “Safe. Now for home.”He had hardly conceived this thought, when a sound overhead caught his ear, and he felt for the moment that Pete had come to see what he was doing. The next minute he was in full flight, pursued by Tom, as we have seen, and at last reached the ground, thanks to the help of Pete, who, after lying in hiding while the ladder was lowered, hurriedly raised it again.Just as Tom was half-way down Pete gave the ladder a wrench, hoisted one leg, and sent it sidewise. Then—“This way,” he whispered, catching Sam’s hand, guiding him to the corner of the yard, and as soon as they were over leading the way at a steady dog-trot.“You keep alongside me,” he said; “I’ll show yer a near cut. Where do you want to go?”“I want to get on the main road two or three miles away,” whispered Sam.“All right. Did you get it?”“Yes, but don’t talk.”“Shall if I like,” growled Pete. “I say, look here. I arn’t seen you ter-night, and I don’t know nothin’ about that ladder. Let ’em think it was Tom Ugly Blount. But I say, you’ll give me another shillin’?”“I’ll give you two,” panted Sam, “if you’ll promise never to blab.”“You’re a good ’un,” said Pete, laughing softly. “Won’t ketch me talking. Hand over; and if you come down again I’ll help yer any night. I hates that there t’other chap, but I likes you.”“Thankye,” said Sam, who gave the lad a couple of shillings more, when, as good as his word, Pete guided him to the road a good three miles on his way.“Good-night, mate,” the lad said, holding out his hand.“Mate!” thought Sam in disgust, as he felt constrained to shake hands.“I say, I know: you’re going on to London.”“Am I? you don’t know,” said Sam hurriedly. “But I say, are you going home to bed now?”“No,” said Pete, with a chuckle; “I’m going back to my roost in the wood. Good-night, matey.”“Good-night,” said Sam; and he started off at a rapid rate along the hard road, feeling the papers tightly buttoned up in his pocket, where they soon grew hot, and as if they were going to burn his chest. “Oh, what a terrible walk,” he muttered; “and that fellow will know I’m making for London. Don’t matter,” he said directly after; “he won’t tell tales, and if he comes up, ferrets us out, and wants more money, the gov’nor ’ll have to pay.”Pete went back to his sandy hole, and in an hour was fast asleep, while Sam was plodding steadily on toward the great city, growing more and more weary as the hours passed, and longing to lie down and sleep, but dreading to do this for fear of some policeman or tramp coming upon him, when he felt that the result would be the same—the papers he had gone through so much to obtain would be found, and perhaps pass entirely from his hands.
He uttered his low, sniggering, malicious laugh again, and without a word went off towards the back, disappearing into the darkness, and then, unseen by Sam, crawling over the wall like some great dark slug, leaving the London boy alone with his thoughts, as he kept close up to the mill, and gazed toward the cottage, dreading moment by moment an interruption from that direction.
His thoughts were not pleasant company. For there he was upon his uncle’s property, feeling that not only had he come down there in the character of a thief, but circumstances had forced him into taking for confederate about as low-typed and blackguardly a young scoundrel as there was for twenty miles round. He had been forced to bribe the fellow heavily for him, and in addition to place himself entirely at his mercy, so that in the future, if he was successful in getting the papers, this scoundrel would be always coming upon him for money, and getting it by threats.
“I can’t help it,” muttered Sam; “it’s the gov’nor’s fault, and he’ll have to pay for it all. He sent me, and—pooh, it isn’t stealing. It’s all in the family, and I’ve a better right to have what there is than young Tom Blount.”
Sam tried to think of other things, but two matters had it all their own way—the dread of being caught, and the coming of Pete with the ladder.
But the time wore on, and neither event seemed likely to happen. He grew hotter and hotter; every now and then he felt a peculiar nervous attack in one leg, which made his right knee tremble violently, and again and again he was on the point of rushing off, leaping the wall, and making for the open country, when at last he heard some faint noise coming out of the darkness.
Once he felt that all was over, and there was nothing left for him to do but flee. For there were heavy steps in the lane coming nearer and nearer, till they stopped opposite the gate, and Sam’s heart throbbed like the beating of a soft mallet.
“Policeman!” he thought, and he would have turned to run, but his feet felt as if glued to the ground, and the agony he suffered was intense.
Just as he was at the worst point, there was a scratching sound, a gleam of light, the smell of tobacco, and directly after the steps were heard again, to pass on and die out in the distance.
“‘Conscience makes cowards of us all,’” Sam might have said, but he did not know the words; and so he only wiped his forehead, and began to think of how he could get back to town, for it was perfectly evident that Pete had got all he could out of him, and, so far from returning with a ladder, in all probability he had invented the whole story, and there was no ladder anywhere nearer than in the rascal’s imagination.
The moments passed on like minutes, and Sam felt as if an hour must have passed.
“It’s of no use,” he said to himself; “he has been too sharp for me, and I shall have to come down as the dad said, and take my chance. I can do no more.”
He sighed in his misery and dread, for he knew that there was an all-night walk before him, till he could take one of the earliest morning trains somewhere on the road. But it had to be done, and he went from out of the deep black shadow of the mill to the wall where he came over, and was in the act of raising himself up, when his neck was caught as if in a fork, and he was thrown down on to his back. Then, as he struggled up, he grasped the fact that Pete must have been coming back, and thrust the top of the ladder over first, sending the ends on each side of his neck.
“Don’t do that, mate,” came to him in a sharp whisper from the wall. “Ketch hold and steady it while I run it to you.”
Sam caught hold of the ladder eagerly, forgetting the pain in satisfaction, and the next minute the bottom round rested on the top of the wall. Then Pete crept over, slug fashion, and lifted the end off and set it down.
“There y’are,” he said.
“What a while you’ve been,” whispered Sam.
“Oh, have I! Juss you go and fetch it yerself, and see how quick you’d be. It was worth two shillin’ to go for that; there, hyste it up and in with you.”
“Hoist the ladder by myself?”
“Yes, it’s easy enough. Bottom’s heavy and top’s light. Shall I do it?”
“Yes, quickly.”
“’Nother shillin’. I arn’t going to have nothing to do with it, and so I tell yer, without.”
“I wish you wouldn’t speak so loudly,” whispered Sam impatiently.
“Yah! go on! nobody can’t hear us. Where’s that shillin’?”
“I told you I wouldn’t give you any more,” said Sam, stoutly now, “and I won’t.”
Pete chuckled.
“All right; I’ll hyste the ladder, only mind you telled me to—it was your doing.”
“Yes, my doing,” said Sam, who was full of nervous impatience. “Be smart; here, I’ll help.”
“I can do it,” said Pete, and with two or three sharp jerks he raised the ladder right on end, and then, after working it round two or three times, let the light narrow end down against the railing, just in front of the long shutter on the rounded roof.
“Will it bear me?” whispered Sam nervously.
“Bear a dozen on yer. Up you goes, and I’ll keep watch. If young Tom Ugly Blount comes, shall I give him one over the head?”
“Yes,” whispered Sam, as he began to mount.
“Shove yer hand under the door, and yer can feel the bolt directly. You can open it. Look alive.”
Sam mounted round by round, wondering whether the thin ladder would bear his weight or collapse and let him down, as a punishment for the degrading crime he was about to commit; and the higher he went, and the ladder vibrated more easily, the more nervous he grew. Twice he stopped breathless and full of dread.
“Is it safe?” he whispered.
“Yes; up with yer.”
Then he grasped the railing, stepped over into the little gallery, and, stooping down, soon found that he could unbolt the shutter.
The next minute he was inside, and descending at once into the laboratory, he took the screw-driver from his pocket, and had no difficulty in prizing open the drawers, the wood bending enough to set free the catch. A match gave him sufficient light, and when he paused before the right drawer, in which were several carefully-sealed-up papers and envelopes, he hesitated, wondering which would be the documents he wished to secure.
Helped by so feeble a light, it was hard work to tell, and at last he came to the conclusion that it would be best to make sure; and to this end he gathered all together, and thrust them, to the number of eight or nine, into his breast-pocket and buttoned his jacket.
“Hurrah!” he muttered. “Safe. Now for home.”
He had hardly conceived this thought, when a sound overhead caught his ear, and he felt for the moment that Pete had come to see what he was doing. The next minute he was in full flight, pursued by Tom, as we have seen, and at last reached the ground, thanks to the help of Pete, who, after lying in hiding while the ladder was lowered, hurriedly raised it again.
Just as Tom was half-way down Pete gave the ladder a wrench, hoisted one leg, and sent it sidewise. Then—
“This way,” he whispered, catching Sam’s hand, guiding him to the corner of the yard, and as soon as they were over leading the way at a steady dog-trot.
“You keep alongside me,” he said; “I’ll show yer a near cut. Where do you want to go?”
“I want to get on the main road two or three miles away,” whispered Sam.
“All right. Did you get it?”
“Yes, but don’t talk.”
“Shall if I like,” growled Pete. “I say, look here. I arn’t seen you ter-night, and I don’t know nothin’ about that ladder. Let ’em think it was Tom Ugly Blount. But I say, you’ll give me another shillin’?”
“I’ll give you two,” panted Sam, “if you’ll promise never to blab.”
“You’re a good ’un,” said Pete, laughing softly. “Won’t ketch me talking. Hand over; and if you come down again I’ll help yer any night. I hates that there t’other chap, but I likes you.”
“Thankye,” said Sam, who gave the lad a couple of shillings more, when, as good as his word, Pete guided him to the road a good three miles on his way.
“Good-night, mate,” the lad said, holding out his hand.
“Mate!” thought Sam in disgust, as he felt constrained to shake hands.
“I say, I know: you’re going on to London.”
“Am I? you don’t know,” said Sam hurriedly. “But I say, are you going home to bed now?”
“No,” said Pete, with a chuckle; “I’m going back to my roost in the wood. Good-night, matey.”
“Good-night,” said Sam; and he started off at a rapid rate along the hard road, feeling the papers tightly buttoned up in his pocket, where they soon grew hot, and as if they were going to burn his chest. “Oh, what a terrible walk,” he muttered; “and that fellow will know I’m making for London. Don’t matter,” he said directly after; “he won’t tell tales, and if he comes up, ferrets us out, and wants more money, the gov’nor ’ll have to pay.”
Pete went back to his sandy hole, and in an hour was fast asleep, while Sam was plodding steadily on toward the great city, growing more and more weary as the hours passed, and longing to lie down and sleep, but dreading to do this for fear of some policeman or tramp coming upon him, when he felt that the result would be the same—the papers he had gone through so much to obtain would be found, and perhaps pass entirely from his hands.