A LIFT ON THE ROAD.A curious difficulty sometimes faces the administrators of the law in dealing with some of that numerous class known as swindlers. A man calls at various houses and represents that he is a clergyman in want or distress, and thus gets money. Some one sharper than the rest runs him down, and he is caught and charged; when, lo! it turns out that the so-called rogue—and rogue he generally is—has actually been a clergyman, and of course is, in common with all broken men, actually in want. The result is clear—there has been no fraud. He has deceived no one; he has told the truth; and though he might be convicted of begging, he cannot be charged with swindling or obtaining money under false pretences.It is a man of this stamp I have now to introduce. His real name was Alfred Johnston. He was a college-bred man of great smartness, and would have soon made a mark as a clergyman had he not been caught and ruined by a bad woman. Rendered dissolute in his habits and disowned by his friends, he changed his life and became as great a rascal as before he had been promising as a man.Even with talents such as Johnston possessed this life is not all smooth sailing. There come times of want and danger, when their dearest companions would betray them without reward, or see them drop dying of hunger at their feet without putting out a hand to save. These are the reverses which are never heard of, but which are more common in a life of crime than any other on the face of the globe.Johnston had tramped on foot the greater part of the road from Glasgow to Edinburgh, and had just crossed the boundary of the shire, which means that he was ten or twelve miles from the capital. His appearance was very much against him, or his route would have been easier. His boots were mere shreds of leather, through which his feet showed conspicuously, and he had no stockings. He had no shirt, and the utmost ingenuity in buttoning up his ragged coat could scarcely conceal the fact. The only trace of respectability remaining about his attire was a shabby and much battered dress hat. Johnston was a very good-looking fellow, with fine flowing black hair, and a big beard and moustache, and was still young—about thirty—but Apollo himself would have had an evil look in such a garb, so this prodigal’s lines had been hard ones for some time. In this plight—wearied in body, tired of life, disgusted with himself and all the world—Johnston lay down on a green bank by the road-side, wondering whether it were best to lie there and die, or struggle on over the remaining miles, which seemed to lengthen as they grew fewer in number.A lovely sunset was shedding glory on the scene, and all was peaceful but the mind of that lost man. In looking listlessly around, his eye fell on a comfortable and well-sheltered residence, the very air of which proclaimed it, to Johnston’s experienced eye, a minister’s manse. There was a large garden attached, well stocked with fruit trees and bushes, and every other appurtenance that could render a country house snug and attractive. I don’t know whether the thought struck him that he might have been the comfortable occupant of such a house—possibly it did, for he was conscious that he had more talent than dozens of the drones occupying manses of the kind—but his immediate action was to rouse himself to consider whether he could not lay the occupant under contribution. A passing field hand, belonging to the village close by, supplied him with the occupant’s name and opinions, and, thus armed, he ventured up to the house, gently rang the bell, and with some difficulty induced the servant to take up his name—“The Rev. Alfred Johnston”—to her master.Johnston stood demurely in the lobby, to which he had been admitted with marked suspicion by the servant, till the Rev. Robert Goodall appeared, in spectacles and slippers, direct from his study. If he had been startled to learn that a brother clergyman wished to see him, he was much more so at seeing the brother clergyman. But Johnston was fluent of tongue, and he had experience in dealing with such surprise.“I am really a clergyman, as I can prove to you, but have been reduced to this state by my own folly,” he hastened to humbly say. “And I have not come to beg or ask you for money, as I daresay there are so many legitimate calls upon your goodness that you can ill afford to succour strangers. But I have walked all the way from Glasgow, and am now nearly fainting with hunger. If you could tell your servant to give me, out on the door-step or at the road-side, enough broken victuals, no matter how plain or coarse, to support me till morning, your kindness will never be forgotten.”The clergyman heard him in silence, and probably scepticism; but on questioning him closely as to his college career, was surprised to find every statement agreeing with his own knowledge. Johnston described the classes; mimicked the Professors; quoted Greek and Hebrew writings with the utmost ease and correctness, and even showed that he had made the acquaintance of personal friends of Mr Goodall who had attended during the same sessions. In this narration Johnston had only to keep to the truth to make it saddening to listen to, and this he did, adding a few pathetic touches about a wife and child left in great want in Glasgow, while he made a struggle to reach Edinburgh on foot, in hope of securing a tutor’s place, for which he was well qualified.“Do you mean to try to reach Edinburgh to-night?” inquired the clergyman, with some pity in his tones.“No, that is impossible, for I am quite exhausted,” said the wanderer, with apparent frankness. “I cannot go much further. I shall rest under some hedge or hay-stack till morning, and then make my way thither by daylight.”“I am sorry for you, a man of education and talent, who might be in so much better a position,” said the clergyman, in gentle rebuke. “However, you shall have the food you require, but not out on the door-step. Come this way.”Mr Goodall led the way to a comfortable parlour, where he lighted a lamp, drew the blinds, and then ordered in the remains of his own dinner—cold, of course, but much better fare than Johnston had tasted for many a day. When he had eaten his fill, and finished with a glass of wine brought to him by the kind clergyman, he was in no hurry to leave, and his entertainer was as willing that he should linger. Johnston’s tongue was fluent, and he could tell many strange stories of his ups and downs, and in the present case so suited them to a clerical ear that the good-hearted man at length felt strong qualms as to sending such a man out into the darkness. The best plan would have been to give the needy being a shilling wherewith to pay for a lodging at some travellers “howff,” but that never occurred to the minister. He was entertained, flattered, and amused by the queer waif cast up at his door, and fancied that the best way to show his gratitude was to invite Johnston to stay there over the night. The wanderer affected to receive the invitation with unbounded astonishment, but was at length prevailed upon to accept the offer, and after patiently listening to some of Mr Goodall’s printed sermons, and passing very flattering criticisms upon their logic and learning, he followed the good man upstairs to a spare bedroom, where an old suit of the minister’s, with a pair of boots and a shirt, made a considerable improvement in his appearance.After supper they parted for the night with mutual good wishes, and the minister lay down to a sound night’s sleep, conscious of having that day emulated his great Master in doing one good action to the neediest near his hands. Johnston ought to have slept soundly too, for he had travelled far and fasted, and then eaten well, but cupidity was in him stronger than drowsiness. In producing his pet sermons to read them over for his guest’s edification, the clergyman had used his keys to a drawer in the writing-table and exposed something very like a cash-box. When the sermons had been restored to their place of security, the drawer had been again locked, but the keys were left in the lock. Johnston, during a momentary absence of his entertainer, unlocked the drawer and placed the keys ostentatiously on the top of the writing-table, from which they were lifted by the owner a few minutes later, all unconscious but that he had himself left them there.No opportunity occurred during the evening for testing the contents of the unlocked drawer; but in anticipation of there being something in it worth carrying away, he arranged with his kind host that he should be allowed to leave the house very early in the morning.The thought of that money-box kept him awake for three hours, by which time he guessed rightly that both the clergyman and his housekeeper would be fast asleep. He then slipped down to the parlour on his stocking-soles—the first use to which he put the gift of Mr Goodall—and took from the box about £50 in notes and coin. A gold pencil-case, a silver fruit knife, and a pair of spectacles, which were lying close by, he was mean enough also to appropriate. He then slipped upstairs, and lay down and slept the sleep of the unjust till about seven in the morning.I don’t know what the man’s feelings had been when he found that Mr Goodall was up, and had caused the servant to prepare breakfast for him, and when that was hastily swallowed, insisted on accompanying the wanderer back part of the way to the nearest railway station, at which he paid his fare to Edinburgh, and pressed a few shillings into his hand, merely saying atparting—“Go in peace, and sin no more.”Surely his heart must have got a sore twinge at that moment.Johnston soon reached Edinburgh, and the telegram announcing the robbery followed an hour or two later. This message contained a brief description of the man, who, however, was known to me by reputation, though I had never seen him. My only wonder was that he had given his real name and antecedents, which, I suppose, may be accounted for by the robbery being an after-thought. With such a sum of money in his possession Johnston was practically at the ends of the earth, and it might be thought foolish to look for him in Edinburgh; but I reasoned otherwise. Your very needy rascal, who has not fingered money for a long time, grudges to throw away much of it on railway fares, or anything, indeed, which does not minister immediately to his own gratification. Besides, Johnston had spoken of going to “friends” in Edinburgh, and I had no doubt but he had in his mind at the moment certain of my “bairns” hailing from Glasgow, and already known to him, who would be glad to profit by his superior education and planning power. By telegraphing to Johnny Farrel I had a list of these “friends” an hour after the receipt of the news, and immediately went out to seek some of them, sending McSweeny in another direction on the same errand. The brief description from the robbed clergyman was supplemented by a fuller one from Glasgow, and thus we were pretty certain of identifying our man, even if we had met him on the street. Now, behold how, when you are most certain, you may be most easily deceived. McSweeny went to a certain house in Potterrow, which he entered without ceremony, and then proceeded to question the inmates. This house had generally a stranger or two in it at every inspection, and the present occasion proved no exception. There were two strangers—one a hawker, and the other an evil-looking character with the hair of his head cropped close to the skull, and his face as smooth and hairless as the palm of his hand. Neither of these answering the description, McSweeny began to make inquiries for Johnston, and was even obliging enough to describe his character and general appearance to those present in that kitchen.“I believe I saw him not an hour ago,” said the cropped-headed man sullenly, after a dead silence on the part of all present.“Where?” eagerly demanded McSweeny.“Where I could get him again in five minutes, I think, if it was worth my while,” suggestively returned the man.“Will you take me to him now, then?” cried McSweeny.“No. But I’ll send him up here if you like to wait. Is it worth half-a-crown?”McSweeny considered for a moment, and then said that it was. The man slowly rose from his place by the fire and held out his hand for the money; but the clever and cunning McSweeny only winked hard, and made a few remarks about great detectives, famous all over the world, not being easily cheated.“No, no, my jewel,” he added; “ye’ll get the money when ye’ve earned it—not a minute sooner.”The man scowled horribly, and slowly slunk out of the room and the house. Was ever an escape more neatly effected? That clean-shaven, cropped-haired man was Johnston! The moment he had entered the city he had gone to a barber and got shaved and cropped—I afterwards spoke to the man who did it—and the alteration which such an operation effects on the appearance can be understood only by those who have seen it performed. Had Johnston been placed at that moment under the eyes of Mr Goodall he most certainly would not have been able to identify his late guest; nay, I am not sure but he might have sworn most positively that that was not the man.McSweeny waited patiently for nearly half an hour, and then it began to dawn upon him that he had been done. The grins of the occupants of that kitchen as he went out did not tend to soothe his feelings. Not a word was said on either side; it was all understood. What had first roused my chum’s suspicion of the truth was the recollection that the man had passed out of the room without a head-covering, and that the remainder of his body was covered with a very loose-fitting old suit of blacks. Now the clergyman had made Johnston a present of just such a suit, and being himself a stout man, had not been able to give him a very good fit. Along with the suit went a broad-brimmed clerical-looking dress hat; but that Johnston had only assumed when out of McSweeny’s sight. What made the thing more aggravating was that McSweeny had seen the hat hanging on a window-shutter in one of the rooms in searching the house, yet had never thought of connecting it with the evil-looking wretch by the fire. Not long after McSweeny’s discomfiture, one of the county police appeared with a full description of this suit of clothes and broad-brimmed hat—just too late, of course.When McSweeny had spent a deal of time in hunting for the man who had so neatly escaped him, and appeared to report to me, I was in a very bad temper, for I was conceited enough to think that, if it had been I who had clapped eyes on Johnston, he would not have got off—an opinion which I changed when I knew the rascal better.Like Jim Macluskey, [SeeBrought to Bay, page 5] he had the rare faculty of being able to change the whole expression of his face by ingeniously contorting his features, and could speak in any kind of language or tone to suit. McSweeny’s mistake was really not so surprising or stupid as it appeared to me at the moment, or as it now appears in print.I had no time to say much, for I felt that Johnston must have realised that the city was too hot for him, and would get out of it at his swiftest. If I was to get him it must be at once.What route or means was he most likely to take? That was the all-important question with me. First I decided that he would not go near any of the railway stations, else I should have hopefully turned in the direction of the Forth and the North—quite a favourite route for escaping criminals. Then it struck me that, having gone the length of sacrificing his fine beard and hair, and been so successful in thus altering his appearance, he might boldly try the most dangerous route of all, as that on which he was least likely to be looked for—the road for Glasgow. He was not to know that, when it was too late, we had penetrated his disguise, and at that moment was probably exulting over his cleverness. I did not expect him to walk all the way to Glasgow, but thought he might go out a good distance, and then take train at some obscure railway station for whatever town he meant to favour with his presence. My idea was that Glasgow itself was to be thus favoured, but that point did not concern me for the present.Now, there were the three roads all crossed by the railway to choose from, and I was a little puzzled which to try. He had come by that leading through East Calder, and I scarcelythoughthe would take that. That left the Bathgate and Linlithgow routes to choose from. I got a gig with a strong stepping horse, and drove out the Linlithgow road till I came upon one of the county police, who satisfied me that no such man had passed along that road within the last three hours. My reason for trying that route was that there was a possibility of him, when once on the railway skirting that road, branching away to the north by way of Stirling, and so escaping. However, there was nothing for it but to drive back in all haste and get on to the Bathgate road, which is the favourite one for tramps. When I was a few miles from the city, I could scarcely believe my own eyes when I saw a man approaching me from the opposite direction, clad in a suit identical with that I was looking for. There it was—loose-fitting, shabby, old, and black, with the broad-brimmed hat to crown all. The man’s face had no beard either, but it was roasted brown with the sun, and had on the chin a stubbly growth of hair some days old. Nevertheless, I pulled up and stopped him.“Here, you!” I said, displaying my staff as I jumped down.“Alfred Johnston, I’ve been looking for you. I’ve a warrant for all Scotland, so step up quietly;” and before he had recovered from his astonishment, or uttered a word, I had the handcuffs on his dirty wrists.“My name isn’t Johnston—that I’ll swear,” he said, simply, when he got his breath; then a light appeared to break on him, and with a great oath he added, “Now I think I know why the kind gentleman got me to change clothes with him, though mine were sorry rags and them is first-class. Whew! who’d have thought it? He’s done something, and the police is after him for it?”This seemed not bad at all, and quite worthy of the man who had so neatly befooled McSweeny, but I only grinned unfeelingly in his simple face, and said dryly that “I believed so,” and bundled him without ceremony into the gig.“But—but—ye don’t mean to tell me ye’re going to take me instead of him?” he at length articulated, with a look of half-comical alarm.“I am—just.”“Then the real man’ll get off, and I’ll be hanged in his stead!” he cried, fairly breaking down with terror; “for he’s footing it out fast enough, I tell ye.”“The real man?” I said, thinking to humour him, as I resumed the reins and turned the horse’s head; “and what was he like, pray?”“A clean-shaved, smooth-spoken gentleman—for all the world like a priest or a minister, only that his head’s cropped as close as if he was just new out of jail,” was the prompt answer; “though, by my troth, he looked more like a shockerawn in my old duds when I left him.”I started, and began to think. Then I pulled off my prisoner’s hat, and found his hair not at all close cropped. I drove rapidly back to one of those wayside stations of the county police, and there left my prisoner safely locked up, every question he answered confirming my impression that he had been speaking the truth. The only difficulty I had with him was in getting him to describe the clothes which he had exchanged for the old blacks he wore. These he either could not or would not name—in colour, shape, or material—a difficulty which I only understood when the rags were before me—and then it would have puzzledmeto do what I wondered at him not doing. Even a detective can be unreasonable at times.Leaving the Irish-speaking man thus, I turned the horse’s head and made him spin along the road at a fine rate, being not only anxious to overtake the wearer of the “duds,” if he existed, but also to escape a storm of rain which had been threatening for half the day and was then beginning to descend. When I had gone on thus for a few miles, and passed a good many on the road—not one of whom answered the description of my man—I allowed the horse to “breathe” in ascending one of the braes by laying the reins on his neck and letting him take his own pace. In thus moving slowly along, I turned a corner allotted to stone breaking, and there caught sight of a dark object huddled in to shelter from the rain. I was all but past, and had just noticed that the figure was that of a ragged tramp, when the man rose and trotted hurriedly after the gig, sayingrespectfully—“If you please, sir, would it be asking too much, sir, for you to give me a lift?”I pulled up the horse and scanned him closely, while I appeared to busy myself pulling up my collar to keep out the driving rain.“Well,” I said, in a tone by no means gracious or obliging, “how far are you going?”“I’m not particular, sir,” he answered with alacrity, “as far as you’re going yourself, sir.”“Come up, then.”I had decided that he might not be my man, but I would be as well to have him beside me till I saw if there were any others further on. Besides, it was already growing dark, and I had little time to lose.The bundle of rags got up, and I had a better view of his face as he made his ragged legs comfortable under the knee cloth. It was clean shaven and by no means so loutish as his speech. His hair, I saw, was cropped to the bone. I drove on till it was dark without overtaking any other, drawing my companion out on the weather and other every-day topics.“What are you when you are at home?” I at length half jocularly asked.I had kept him at arm’s length, so to speak, all the way, never allowing him to become familiar in the least.He paused over his answer, looking up at my face through the darkness.“I’d astonish you if I told you,” he at last replied, in a somewhat altered tone.“Indeed!” I answered, apparently with great indifference, but really trembling with eager curiosity.“Yes, I am really a clergyman, but reduced to this state by my own folly.”At last I had him! There he was sitting close by me in the dark, betrayed by his own pet phrase, so truthful, and yet so often used to deceive. I could have shouted with exultation, but I was too anxious to see him safe under lock and key. Plenty of time for crowing when I had him in the cells.I gave a dissatisfied grunt and a dry “Imphum,” and remained silent for some time. During that interval a bright thought flashed upon me, and at the first cross road I purposely turned the horse off the main road, and went on till we were stopped by a farm.I had gig lamps, and these I got lighted, and then I mounted and turned back till we reached the main road, which I boldly turned into—in the direction leading back to Edinburgh.“Are you sure you’re not going the wrong way?” said my companion, after a little.“I am going my way—this is my road,” I replied, with some gruffness; “I can’t say anything about yours. I think you said you weren’t particular?”“All right—neither I am,” he said, evidently not relishing the thought of being turned out on the dark road in such a rain. “Just drive on, please, and never mind me.”I did drive on at my fastest. I soon reached the little station-house; but before that I had decided that it might not be very safe to trust Johnston in such a place for the night, and I passed it without stopping. At last the lights of the city appeared in front of us, and my companion roused himself to watch them with growing interest.“What town is this?” he at length asked.“Edinburgh,” I shortly answered.“What! Edinburgh?” he cried, almost jumping up from his seat. “How can that be? I thought we were driving towards Bathgate?”“We were at first, but I changed my mind and turned back. Want to get down, or will you go further?”He considered the matter, though I was really laughing at him in my sleeve while making the suggestion; for, as may be guessed, I had no intention of allowing him to get down—alone. Then he saidruefully—“Which way are you going?”“Round by the back of the Castle towards the High Street,” was my prompt answer; and he directed me to drive on, signifying that he was going that way too—which was perfectly true. At the Puseyite Chapel he touched me on the arm and said—“I’ll get down here, sir, if you please.”I was driving along at a great speed and appeared not to hear him, and in a moment more we were tearing into the brightly-lighted Lawnmarket and High Street.“I wanted to get down,” he said reproachfully, and a little angrily, as we went careering madly down the street.“It’s all right,” I said; “I’m getting down in a minute myself;” and sure enough, in less than that time, I pulled up in front of the Central, where I gave the reins to a man, who delightedlyexclaimed—“Oh, McGovan’s got him!”My prisoner gave me a look—long and steady—which spoke more than a thousand words, and then I helped him down with thewords—“Come away, Johnston; we’ve had a very successful drive, haven’t we, though it has been disagreeably wet?”He replied in the affirmative, but the language in which it was couched was not clerical. That lift on the road cost him just five years’ penal servitude. I shall allude to him again.
A curious difficulty sometimes faces the administrators of the law in dealing with some of that numerous class known as swindlers. A man calls at various houses and represents that he is a clergyman in want or distress, and thus gets money. Some one sharper than the rest runs him down, and he is caught and charged; when, lo! it turns out that the so-called rogue—and rogue he generally is—has actually been a clergyman, and of course is, in common with all broken men, actually in want. The result is clear—there has been no fraud. He has deceived no one; he has told the truth; and though he might be convicted of begging, he cannot be charged with swindling or obtaining money under false pretences.
It is a man of this stamp I have now to introduce. His real name was Alfred Johnston. He was a college-bred man of great smartness, and would have soon made a mark as a clergyman had he not been caught and ruined by a bad woman. Rendered dissolute in his habits and disowned by his friends, he changed his life and became as great a rascal as before he had been promising as a man.
Even with talents such as Johnston possessed this life is not all smooth sailing. There come times of want and danger, when their dearest companions would betray them without reward, or see them drop dying of hunger at their feet without putting out a hand to save. These are the reverses which are never heard of, but which are more common in a life of crime than any other on the face of the globe.
Johnston had tramped on foot the greater part of the road from Glasgow to Edinburgh, and had just crossed the boundary of the shire, which means that he was ten or twelve miles from the capital. His appearance was very much against him, or his route would have been easier. His boots were mere shreds of leather, through which his feet showed conspicuously, and he had no stockings. He had no shirt, and the utmost ingenuity in buttoning up his ragged coat could scarcely conceal the fact. The only trace of respectability remaining about his attire was a shabby and much battered dress hat. Johnston was a very good-looking fellow, with fine flowing black hair, and a big beard and moustache, and was still young—about thirty—but Apollo himself would have had an evil look in such a garb, so this prodigal’s lines had been hard ones for some time. In this plight—wearied in body, tired of life, disgusted with himself and all the world—Johnston lay down on a green bank by the road-side, wondering whether it were best to lie there and die, or struggle on over the remaining miles, which seemed to lengthen as they grew fewer in number.
A lovely sunset was shedding glory on the scene, and all was peaceful but the mind of that lost man. In looking listlessly around, his eye fell on a comfortable and well-sheltered residence, the very air of which proclaimed it, to Johnston’s experienced eye, a minister’s manse. There was a large garden attached, well stocked with fruit trees and bushes, and every other appurtenance that could render a country house snug and attractive. I don’t know whether the thought struck him that he might have been the comfortable occupant of such a house—possibly it did, for he was conscious that he had more talent than dozens of the drones occupying manses of the kind—but his immediate action was to rouse himself to consider whether he could not lay the occupant under contribution. A passing field hand, belonging to the village close by, supplied him with the occupant’s name and opinions, and, thus armed, he ventured up to the house, gently rang the bell, and with some difficulty induced the servant to take up his name—“The Rev. Alfred Johnston”—to her master.
Johnston stood demurely in the lobby, to which he had been admitted with marked suspicion by the servant, till the Rev. Robert Goodall appeared, in spectacles and slippers, direct from his study. If he had been startled to learn that a brother clergyman wished to see him, he was much more so at seeing the brother clergyman. But Johnston was fluent of tongue, and he had experience in dealing with such surprise.
“I am really a clergyman, as I can prove to you, but have been reduced to this state by my own folly,” he hastened to humbly say. “And I have not come to beg or ask you for money, as I daresay there are so many legitimate calls upon your goodness that you can ill afford to succour strangers. But I have walked all the way from Glasgow, and am now nearly fainting with hunger. If you could tell your servant to give me, out on the door-step or at the road-side, enough broken victuals, no matter how plain or coarse, to support me till morning, your kindness will never be forgotten.”
The clergyman heard him in silence, and probably scepticism; but on questioning him closely as to his college career, was surprised to find every statement agreeing with his own knowledge. Johnston described the classes; mimicked the Professors; quoted Greek and Hebrew writings with the utmost ease and correctness, and even showed that he had made the acquaintance of personal friends of Mr Goodall who had attended during the same sessions. In this narration Johnston had only to keep to the truth to make it saddening to listen to, and this he did, adding a few pathetic touches about a wife and child left in great want in Glasgow, while he made a struggle to reach Edinburgh on foot, in hope of securing a tutor’s place, for which he was well qualified.
“Do you mean to try to reach Edinburgh to-night?” inquired the clergyman, with some pity in his tones.
“No, that is impossible, for I am quite exhausted,” said the wanderer, with apparent frankness. “I cannot go much further. I shall rest under some hedge or hay-stack till morning, and then make my way thither by daylight.”
“I am sorry for you, a man of education and talent, who might be in so much better a position,” said the clergyman, in gentle rebuke. “However, you shall have the food you require, but not out on the door-step. Come this way.”
Mr Goodall led the way to a comfortable parlour, where he lighted a lamp, drew the blinds, and then ordered in the remains of his own dinner—cold, of course, but much better fare than Johnston had tasted for many a day. When he had eaten his fill, and finished with a glass of wine brought to him by the kind clergyman, he was in no hurry to leave, and his entertainer was as willing that he should linger. Johnston’s tongue was fluent, and he could tell many strange stories of his ups and downs, and in the present case so suited them to a clerical ear that the good-hearted man at length felt strong qualms as to sending such a man out into the darkness. The best plan would have been to give the needy being a shilling wherewith to pay for a lodging at some travellers “howff,” but that never occurred to the minister. He was entertained, flattered, and amused by the queer waif cast up at his door, and fancied that the best way to show his gratitude was to invite Johnston to stay there over the night. The wanderer affected to receive the invitation with unbounded astonishment, but was at length prevailed upon to accept the offer, and after patiently listening to some of Mr Goodall’s printed sermons, and passing very flattering criticisms upon their logic and learning, he followed the good man upstairs to a spare bedroom, where an old suit of the minister’s, with a pair of boots and a shirt, made a considerable improvement in his appearance.
After supper they parted for the night with mutual good wishes, and the minister lay down to a sound night’s sleep, conscious of having that day emulated his great Master in doing one good action to the neediest near his hands. Johnston ought to have slept soundly too, for he had travelled far and fasted, and then eaten well, but cupidity was in him stronger than drowsiness. In producing his pet sermons to read them over for his guest’s edification, the clergyman had used his keys to a drawer in the writing-table and exposed something very like a cash-box. When the sermons had been restored to their place of security, the drawer had been again locked, but the keys were left in the lock. Johnston, during a momentary absence of his entertainer, unlocked the drawer and placed the keys ostentatiously on the top of the writing-table, from which they were lifted by the owner a few minutes later, all unconscious but that he had himself left them there.
No opportunity occurred during the evening for testing the contents of the unlocked drawer; but in anticipation of there being something in it worth carrying away, he arranged with his kind host that he should be allowed to leave the house very early in the morning.
The thought of that money-box kept him awake for three hours, by which time he guessed rightly that both the clergyman and his housekeeper would be fast asleep. He then slipped down to the parlour on his stocking-soles—the first use to which he put the gift of Mr Goodall—and took from the box about £50 in notes and coin. A gold pencil-case, a silver fruit knife, and a pair of spectacles, which were lying close by, he was mean enough also to appropriate. He then slipped upstairs, and lay down and slept the sleep of the unjust till about seven in the morning.
I don’t know what the man’s feelings had been when he found that Mr Goodall was up, and had caused the servant to prepare breakfast for him, and when that was hastily swallowed, insisted on accompanying the wanderer back part of the way to the nearest railway station, at which he paid his fare to Edinburgh, and pressed a few shillings into his hand, merely saying atparting—
“Go in peace, and sin no more.”
Surely his heart must have got a sore twinge at that moment.
Johnston soon reached Edinburgh, and the telegram announcing the robbery followed an hour or two later. This message contained a brief description of the man, who, however, was known to me by reputation, though I had never seen him. My only wonder was that he had given his real name and antecedents, which, I suppose, may be accounted for by the robbery being an after-thought. With such a sum of money in his possession Johnston was practically at the ends of the earth, and it might be thought foolish to look for him in Edinburgh; but I reasoned otherwise. Your very needy rascal, who has not fingered money for a long time, grudges to throw away much of it on railway fares, or anything, indeed, which does not minister immediately to his own gratification. Besides, Johnston had spoken of going to “friends” in Edinburgh, and I had no doubt but he had in his mind at the moment certain of my “bairns” hailing from Glasgow, and already known to him, who would be glad to profit by his superior education and planning power. By telegraphing to Johnny Farrel I had a list of these “friends” an hour after the receipt of the news, and immediately went out to seek some of them, sending McSweeny in another direction on the same errand. The brief description from the robbed clergyman was supplemented by a fuller one from Glasgow, and thus we were pretty certain of identifying our man, even if we had met him on the street. Now, behold how, when you are most certain, you may be most easily deceived. McSweeny went to a certain house in Potterrow, which he entered without ceremony, and then proceeded to question the inmates. This house had generally a stranger or two in it at every inspection, and the present occasion proved no exception. There were two strangers—one a hawker, and the other an evil-looking character with the hair of his head cropped close to the skull, and his face as smooth and hairless as the palm of his hand. Neither of these answering the description, McSweeny began to make inquiries for Johnston, and was even obliging enough to describe his character and general appearance to those present in that kitchen.
“I believe I saw him not an hour ago,” said the cropped-headed man sullenly, after a dead silence on the part of all present.
“Where?” eagerly demanded McSweeny.
“Where I could get him again in five minutes, I think, if it was worth my while,” suggestively returned the man.
“Will you take me to him now, then?” cried McSweeny.
“No. But I’ll send him up here if you like to wait. Is it worth half-a-crown?”
McSweeny considered for a moment, and then said that it was. The man slowly rose from his place by the fire and held out his hand for the money; but the clever and cunning McSweeny only winked hard, and made a few remarks about great detectives, famous all over the world, not being easily cheated.
“No, no, my jewel,” he added; “ye’ll get the money when ye’ve earned it—not a minute sooner.”
The man scowled horribly, and slowly slunk out of the room and the house. Was ever an escape more neatly effected? That clean-shaven, cropped-haired man was Johnston! The moment he had entered the city he had gone to a barber and got shaved and cropped—I afterwards spoke to the man who did it—and the alteration which such an operation effects on the appearance can be understood only by those who have seen it performed. Had Johnston been placed at that moment under the eyes of Mr Goodall he most certainly would not have been able to identify his late guest; nay, I am not sure but he might have sworn most positively that that was not the man.
McSweeny waited patiently for nearly half an hour, and then it began to dawn upon him that he had been done. The grins of the occupants of that kitchen as he went out did not tend to soothe his feelings. Not a word was said on either side; it was all understood. What had first roused my chum’s suspicion of the truth was the recollection that the man had passed out of the room without a head-covering, and that the remainder of his body was covered with a very loose-fitting old suit of blacks. Now the clergyman had made Johnston a present of just such a suit, and being himself a stout man, had not been able to give him a very good fit. Along with the suit went a broad-brimmed clerical-looking dress hat; but that Johnston had only assumed when out of McSweeny’s sight. What made the thing more aggravating was that McSweeny had seen the hat hanging on a window-shutter in one of the rooms in searching the house, yet had never thought of connecting it with the evil-looking wretch by the fire. Not long after McSweeny’s discomfiture, one of the county police appeared with a full description of this suit of clothes and broad-brimmed hat—just too late, of course.
When McSweeny had spent a deal of time in hunting for the man who had so neatly escaped him, and appeared to report to me, I was in a very bad temper, for I was conceited enough to think that, if it had been I who had clapped eyes on Johnston, he would not have got off—an opinion which I changed when I knew the rascal better.
Like Jim Macluskey, [SeeBrought to Bay, page 5] he had the rare faculty of being able to change the whole expression of his face by ingeniously contorting his features, and could speak in any kind of language or tone to suit. McSweeny’s mistake was really not so surprising or stupid as it appeared to me at the moment, or as it now appears in print.
I had no time to say much, for I felt that Johnston must have realised that the city was too hot for him, and would get out of it at his swiftest. If I was to get him it must be at once.
What route or means was he most likely to take? That was the all-important question with me. First I decided that he would not go near any of the railway stations, else I should have hopefully turned in the direction of the Forth and the North—quite a favourite route for escaping criminals. Then it struck me that, having gone the length of sacrificing his fine beard and hair, and been so successful in thus altering his appearance, he might boldly try the most dangerous route of all, as that on which he was least likely to be looked for—the road for Glasgow. He was not to know that, when it was too late, we had penetrated his disguise, and at that moment was probably exulting over his cleverness. I did not expect him to walk all the way to Glasgow, but thought he might go out a good distance, and then take train at some obscure railway station for whatever town he meant to favour with his presence. My idea was that Glasgow itself was to be thus favoured, but that point did not concern me for the present.
Now, there were the three roads all crossed by the railway to choose from, and I was a little puzzled which to try. He had come by that leading through East Calder, and I scarcelythoughthe would take that. That left the Bathgate and Linlithgow routes to choose from. I got a gig with a strong stepping horse, and drove out the Linlithgow road till I came upon one of the county police, who satisfied me that no such man had passed along that road within the last three hours. My reason for trying that route was that there was a possibility of him, when once on the railway skirting that road, branching away to the north by way of Stirling, and so escaping. However, there was nothing for it but to drive back in all haste and get on to the Bathgate road, which is the favourite one for tramps. When I was a few miles from the city, I could scarcely believe my own eyes when I saw a man approaching me from the opposite direction, clad in a suit identical with that I was looking for. There it was—loose-fitting, shabby, old, and black, with the broad-brimmed hat to crown all. The man’s face had no beard either, but it was roasted brown with the sun, and had on the chin a stubbly growth of hair some days old. Nevertheless, I pulled up and stopped him.
“Here, you!” I said, displaying my staff as I jumped down.
“Alfred Johnston, I’ve been looking for you. I’ve a warrant for all Scotland, so step up quietly;” and before he had recovered from his astonishment, or uttered a word, I had the handcuffs on his dirty wrists.
“My name isn’t Johnston—that I’ll swear,” he said, simply, when he got his breath; then a light appeared to break on him, and with a great oath he added, “Now I think I know why the kind gentleman got me to change clothes with him, though mine were sorry rags and them is first-class. Whew! who’d have thought it? He’s done something, and the police is after him for it?”
This seemed not bad at all, and quite worthy of the man who had so neatly befooled McSweeny, but I only grinned unfeelingly in his simple face, and said dryly that “I believed so,” and bundled him without ceremony into the gig.
“But—but—ye don’t mean to tell me ye’re going to take me instead of him?” he at length articulated, with a look of half-comical alarm.
“I am—just.”
“Then the real man’ll get off, and I’ll be hanged in his stead!” he cried, fairly breaking down with terror; “for he’s footing it out fast enough, I tell ye.”
“The real man?” I said, thinking to humour him, as I resumed the reins and turned the horse’s head; “and what was he like, pray?”
“A clean-shaved, smooth-spoken gentleman—for all the world like a priest or a minister, only that his head’s cropped as close as if he was just new out of jail,” was the prompt answer; “though, by my troth, he looked more like a shockerawn in my old duds when I left him.”
I started, and began to think. Then I pulled off my prisoner’s hat, and found his hair not at all close cropped. I drove rapidly back to one of those wayside stations of the county police, and there left my prisoner safely locked up, every question he answered confirming my impression that he had been speaking the truth. The only difficulty I had with him was in getting him to describe the clothes which he had exchanged for the old blacks he wore. These he either could not or would not name—in colour, shape, or material—a difficulty which I only understood when the rags were before me—and then it would have puzzledmeto do what I wondered at him not doing. Even a detective can be unreasonable at times.
Leaving the Irish-speaking man thus, I turned the horse’s head and made him spin along the road at a fine rate, being not only anxious to overtake the wearer of the “duds,” if he existed, but also to escape a storm of rain which had been threatening for half the day and was then beginning to descend. When I had gone on thus for a few miles, and passed a good many on the road—not one of whom answered the description of my man—I allowed the horse to “breathe” in ascending one of the braes by laying the reins on his neck and letting him take his own pace. In thus moving slowly along, I turned a corner allotted to stone breaking, and there caught sight of a dark object huddled in to shelter from the rain. I was all but past, and had just noticed that the figure was that of a ragged tramp, when the man rose and trotted hurriedly after the gig, sayingrespectfully—
“If you please, sir, would it be asking too much, sir, for you to give me a lift?”
I pulled up the horse and scanned him closely, while I appeared to busy myself pulling up my collar to keep out the driving rain.
“Well,” I said, in a tone by no means gracious or obliging, “how far are you going?”
“I’m not particular, sir,” he answered with alacrity, “as far as you’re going yourself, sir.”
“Come up, then.”
I had decided that he might not be my man, but I would be as well to have him beside me till I saw if there were any others further on. Besides, it was already growing dark, and I had little time to lose.
The bundle of rags got up, and I had a better view of his face as he made his ragged legs comfortable under the knee cloth. It was clean shaven and by no means so loutish as his speech. His hair, I saw, was cropped to the bone. I drove on till it was dark without overtaking any other, drawing my companion out on the weather and other every-day topics.
“What are you when you are at home?” I at length half jocularly asked.
I had kept him at arm’s length, so to speak, all the way, never allowing him to become familiar in the least.
He paused over his answer, looking up at my face through the darkness.
“I’d astonish you if I told you,” he at last replied, in a somewhat altered tone.
“Indeed!” I answered, apparently with great indifference, but really trembling with eager curiosity.
“Yes, I am really a clergyman, but reduced to this state by my own folly.”
At last I had him! There he was sitting close by me in the dark, betrayed by his own pet phrase, so truthful, and yet so often used to deceive. I could have shouted with exultation, but I was too anxious to see him safe under lock and key. Plenty of time for crowing when I had him in the cells.
I gave a dissatisfied grunt and a dry “Imphum,” and remained silent for some time. During that interval a bright thought flashed upon me, and at the first cross road I purposely turned the horse off the main road, and went on till we were stopped by a farm.
I had gig lamps, and these I got lighted, and then I mounted and turned back till we reached the main road, which I boldly turned into—in the direction leading back to Edinburgh.
“Are you sure you’re not going the wrong way?” said my companion, after a little.
“I am going my way—this is my road,” I replied, with some gruffness; “I can’t say anything about yours. I think you said you weren’t particular?”
“All right—neither I am,” he said, evidently not relishing the thought of being turned out on the dark road in such a rain. “Just drive on, please, and never mind me.”
I did drive on at my fastest. I soon reached the little station-house; but before that I had decided that it might not be very safe to trust Johnston in such a place for the night, and I passed it without stopping. At last the lights of the city appeared in front of us, and my companion roused himself to watch them with growing interest.
“What town is this?” he at length asked.
“Edinburgh,” I shortly answered.
“What! Edinburgh?” he cried, almost jumping up from his seat. “How can that be? I thought we were driving towards Bathgate?”
“We were at first, but I changed my mind and turned back. Want to get down, or will you go further?”
He considered the matter, though I was really laughing at him in my sleeve while making the suggestion; for, as may be guessed, I had no intention of allowing him to get down—alone. Then he saidruefully—
“Which way are you going?”
“Round by the back of the Castle towards the High Street,” was my prompt answer; and he directed me to drive on, signifying that he was going that way too—which was perfectly true. At the Puseyite Chapel he touched me on the arm and said—“I’ll get down here, sir, if you please.”
I was driving along at a great speed and appeared not to hear him, and in a moment more we were tearing into the brightly-lighted Lawnmarket and High Street.
“I wanted to get down,” he said reproachfully, and a little angrily, as we went careering madly down the street.
“It’s all right,” I said; “I’m getting down in a minute myself;” and sure enough, in less than that time, I pulled up in front of the Central, where I gave the reins to a man, who delightedlyexclaimed—
“Oh, McGovan’s got him!”
My prisoner gave me a look—long and steady—which spoke more than a thousand words, and then I helped him down with thewords—
“Come away, Johnston; we’ve had a very successful drive, haven’t we, though it has been disagreeably wet?”
He replied in the affirmative, but the language in which it was couched was not clerical. That lift on the road cost him just five years’ penal servitude. I shall allude to him again.