GUS' NEW FRIENDS.
GUS saw much of Lucas and his daughter in the days that followed. He was often invited into their room, and the man showed much interest in him. Sometimes Lucas would pat Gus on the back, and tell him he was a smart fellow, and he would make a man of him. Lucy, too, was kind to him, but she was very sad and quiet. Gus supposed it was being so weak and lame made her sad.
The boy saw and heard many things when he was with them which made him wonder. He noticed that though Lucas had no regular employment, he was never without money. He would speak to the neighbours of the bad times; but their badness seemed in no way to affect his comfort. His food was of the best; he had dainties on his table that were to be seen on no other in Lavender Terrace. He told Gus that he bought them for Lucy's sake, whose appetite required much tempting; but the fact remained that he had the power to spend money as none of his neighbours could. Certainly he had not the fatal weakness which had dragged Gus' father down into the lowest depths of misery. He never drank to excess. Some beer with his meals and an occasional glass of spirits was all he took. But the spirit was of the best quality, as was also the tobacco which he smoked.
"A gentleman could not have better, Gentleman Gus," he said one day to the boy, when he was in a merry mood.
"Gentleman Gus indeed!" snarled Jack, with a contemptuous glance at him.
"You hold your tongue!" cried his father. "I tell you he shall be a gentleman.
"You do as I tell you, my lad," he added, patting Gus on the shoulder, "and I'll make a gentleman of you."
Gus' colour rose with pleasure. He had no doubt Lucas could help him to be a gentleman, for the man was in many respects different from the other men who dwelt at Lavender Terrace.
But Jack scowled more darkly than before, and muttered something the boy could not understand. Gus was no favourite with him.
A few days later, Lucas invited Gus to come for a tramp with him and his son. Gus felt honoured by the invitation, and gladly accepted.
They started early in the afternoon. Lucas carried his workman's bag, so Gus concluded he was going in search of employment. They walked a long way in a Westerly direction from Glensford, passing through one suburb of London after another. They did not go to the shops, as Gus expected.
Lucas seemed more interested in the large handsome houses they passed—houses standing by themselves in gardens, and in which only rich people could dwell. The amount of curiosity concerning these which he displayed was something astonishing. Now he would steal along a shrubbery to get a nearer view, or swing himself lightly to the top of a wall. Gus saw with admiration how quick and nimble Lucas and his son were in their movements. He wished he could climb as well. Even a tall spiked fence seemed to offer them no obstacle if they wished to get to the other side. As they went on they talked to each other in a jargon Gus could not understand, but he could see they were not of one mind, and that Jack was out of temper with his father.
At last, when the sun was sinking low in the west, and Gus was growing very weary, Lucas said, as they approached some shops—
"Come, little chap, you're getting tired and hungry, I can see. You go to that shop and get yourself a glass of milk and a good big bun. Jack and I'll go on to the next pub, and you can come to us there; but I know it's no good asking you to take a drink of beer. And you're right, my little lad. Drink steals a man's brains, and he who muddles his head with it, can never succeed in business which requires keen wits. Now go and get your grub, and then come on to us."
As he spoke he handed Gus a bright two-shilling piece, bidding him bring back the change correctly. Gus thanked him, and ran off.
The woman in charge of the confectioner's shop looked coldly at the very ragged little boy who came in and asked for a glass of milk and a bun.
"Can you pay for it?" she demanded.
Gus promptly handed her the two-shilling piece. She looked at it suspiciously, then threw it on the counter. The sound it made seemed to confirm her suspicion. She looked at it once more, then gave it back to Gus.
"That is not good money," she said; "where did you get it?"
"Mr. Lucas gave it to me."
"And who is Mr. Lucas?"
"He's a friend of mine," said Gus; "but what do you mean about the money?"
"I mean that it's a bad florin; one that never came from the Mint. There's been a good many of them about lately. I was deceived by one once, but I shall not be again. Come, if that's all the money you've got to pay with, you'd best be off."
"I'll tell Mr. Lucas," said Gus, turning away disappointed; "I'm sure he did not know it was bad money."
"I daresay!" said the woman. "That's a likely story. Where's this Mr. Lucas that you talk about?"
"He's close by—just a little further along the road," said Gus.
The woman followed him to the door, her looks full of suspicion. It is so easy to believe the worst of those in whose appearance poverty is conspicuous. She looked up and down the road, but saw no man.
"You good-for-nothing young scamp!" she cried. "Don't come here with your false coin and your lies again. Be off with you, quick, or I'll give you to the police!"
Gus was bewildered. He had not been in the shop more than a minute, he could not understand how Lucas and his son had got so quickly out of sight.
"They were going to the public-house," he said.
"There's no public-house just here," said the woman, "and I can tell you this is not the place for you or your friends—if you have any. We're honest people here. Come, be off with you, or I'll call a policeman!"
Gus moved away feeling much disturbed. He could not bear to think that the woman looked upon him as a cheat, for he had been trained to strict honesty, and, in spite of what Dick had said, he was convinced that a gentleman should always act on the square. He walked on in the direction Lucas and his son had taken, wondering what had become of them. When he had gone a little distance they suddenly appeared before him, springing over a fence that skirted some fields.
"Well, boy, have you got my change?" asked Lucas.
Jack burst into a roar of laughter as Gus told his story, ending with the words, "I told her I was sure you did not know it was bad money."
Lucas laughed too for a moment, but seeing Gus' troubled look, he checked himself.
"Never mind, lad," he said, "you've done your best. I mean you could not help it, if the woman would have it, it was bad money."
"Wasn't it?" asked Gus eagerly.
"Of course it wasn't bad money," replied Lucas, laughing; "it was good money—very good money indeed."
Something in his manner made Gus uneasy. He began to be troubled with doubts concerning his new friends.
"Didn't I tell you?" cried Jack, turning to his father. "Didn't I tell you he was too green for anything?"
"Never you mind," returned the other; "he'll be all right by-and-by. Here, Gus, take this penny; you shall not lose your bun. There's another shop a little further on, and meanwhile here's our pub."
AT SUNDAY SCHOOL.
IT was not often that Gus could get away from the baby for a whole afternoon; but on the following Sunday, he found himself once more at liberty. Sally Dent had gone to visit a relative who lived in London, and had taken the baby with her. So Gus started forth for a ramble with a delightful sense of freedom. It was a lovely June day, lovely with that first freshness of the summer, which in the neighbourhood of London so quickly sullies.
Glensford looked its best on such a day. There were daisies and even a few lingering buttercups in the fields; the hedges were green; the stream, in which boys were bathing and paddling, rippled clear and bright in the sunshine. It was warm enough to make the ice-creams, which a man was selling at a corner of the green, very tempting to the youth of the place.
Gus had seldom a penny in his pocket, so ice-creams were not for him. He passed them by, turned his back on the boys noisily disporting themselves in the stream, and walked off in the direction he had taken with Lucas and his son a few days earlier. He thought he should like to go over some of the ground again, and look at his leisure on the large houses and pretty gardens along the road.
He found the way without difficulty. He saw much to interest him as he went along. Numbers of bright, neat-looking children passed him on their way to Sunday school. Some of them carried flowers in their hands. Gus had never been to Sunday school, and he wondered as he heard them talking what it could be like. Here and there a church bell was tinkling to summon people to the afternoon service.
Gus walked on briskly for some time; but when he had gained the top of a long hill, he felt hot and tired. Looking round, he saw on the left a small iron building, about which a number of children were gathering, like bees hovering and buzzing about a hive. Gus crossed the road and stood by the palings watching them curiously, and they looked at him with equal curiosity; but not one addressed him, for his clothes looked so very old, whilst they were all arrayed in their "Sunday things."
But suddenly Gus felt a light touch on his shoulder, and turning, saw a young lady standing beside him.
She was very pretty, with an abundance of fair hair neatly braided beneath her white straw hat, and soft blue eyes that were looking at him with the kindest of glances. They were indeed very like Gus' own eyes; but he did not know that. He was accustomed to make his toilette without the aid of a looking-glass, and had but the vaguest notion of the appearance he presented to the world.
But as he gazed into the young lady's kind eyes, he had a confused notion that he had seen them before. And trying to recall when and how they had met, he hardly heeded the words she addressed to him.
"Why are you standing here, little boy? Will you not come into school?"
The sweet, gentle voice, too, seemed familiar. The next moment there flashed on Gus a recollection of the day preceding his father's death, the cart covered with flaring posters, and the frightened pony he had led past it. This was the young lady who had driven the pony. He was so surprised at the discovery that he stared at her without speaking.
"Won't you come in?" she said again. "Do; I am sure you will like it."
"I'll come if you like," Gus answered then, "but I don't know nothing about it."
"That's right; come along."
And he followed her into the schoolroom, and to the corner where she held her class, and where already several boys were seated. Most of them were older, and all of them far more respectable in appearance than Gus. In the conscious glory of Sunday coats and clean collars, they looked askance at the little stranger their teacher brought with her. They drew away from him as he entered, and nudged each other as they eyed the rents in his garments.
Their teacher appeared unaware of the sensation the new scholar created. She gave him a place beside her. Perhaps she saw that though ragged, he was perfectly clean. Early that morning, when few other boys were astir, and the water was deliciously fresh, Gus had taken a good dip in the Glensford stream. It was his habit to do so every morning.
There were several other classes in the room, and for a while Gus was too much interested in observing all that was going on and the strange place in which he found himself, to be aware of the ill-will his companions began to manifest towards him.
It was a pleasant room, with pictures on the walls, and prettily coloured screens stood at hand, by which the classes would be partitioned off from each other when the teaching began. But first the superintendent, standing on a small platform at the end of the room, gave out a hymn, which was sung, and then he prayed.
The prayer was not a comfortable time for Gus. First he received a kick, and then a sharp pinch on the arm; and then some one inflicted on him the peculiar torture which is caused by seizing a single hair growing on a person's head, and tugging it out by one mighty pull. In vain Gus tried to discover and avenge himself on his persecutors. The boys were too quick for him, and all alike presented a devout appearance the instant he turned.
When the class began to read the lesson, it appeared that Gus, despite his poverty-stricken aspect, could read as well as any boy present, and better than some of them could. The teacher praised his reading, and the boys did not like him the better in consequence. Soon the young lady perceived the treatment to which Gus was being slyly subjected.
"For shame, boys!" she said. "Is that the way to treat a stranger? I am really ashamed. And I hoped I was going to make gentlemen of you."
Gus looked up quickly. Perhaps it was his vivid look of interest which made her say the next moment:
"Now tell me, what is a gentleman?"
The answers were various. One boy said that a gentleman was a rich man; another that he was one who knew a great deal; and a third suggested that he was one who had good manners. He, the teacher told him, was nearest to the truth.
"Because," said she, "truly good manners spring from a good heart. No one who acts unkindly to another, no one who takes advantage of the weak and helpless, no one who cheats and lies, is a gentleman. It is the gentle heart that makes the gentleman. Love is the law of his life. Oh, boys, the truest gentleman that ever lived was the Lord Jesus Christ, and you must follow His example if you would deserve the name of gentleman."
Gus listened eagerly. This was the kind of gentleman his father had wished him to be. Dick was altogether wrong.
There was at least one attentive scholar in the school that afternoon—one who missed no word that his teacher spoke of the love and graciousness of the Lord Jesus Christ; one to whom the Gospel story was not entirely new, but who saw for the first time that day what the story meant for him.
Gus was sorry when the lesson came to an end, sorry when the last hymn was sung, and the scholars began to pass out of the schoolroom. The young lady asked him with a smile if he would not come again; but Gus remembered the baby and shook his head. Just then a gentleman came forward to claim her attention, and Gus slipped away, followed by a gentle:
"Do come if you can."
Gus was full of thought as he took his way home. So the Lord Jesus Christ was the one perfect gentleman whom he must imitate if he would become a gentleman. There was a great deal about Him in the Bible, Gus knew. He wished he had paid more attention in the days when he used to read the Bible to his father. He wished he had that Bible again. What had Sally Dent done with it? Would she give it him, he wondered, if he were to ask her for it?
It was evening when Gus got back to Glensford. On a warm evening, when the dwellers at Glensford yearned for a breath of cool air, they would climb to the top of the sloping field to the right, which was already half built over. There were many persons in the fields to-night, but quite at the top of the high field, clearly outlined against the sky, Gus saw Lucy seated alone. He hastened to join her.
Lucy did not see him till he was almost at her side. She sat motionless upon the bank, gazing before her, and her face was sadder than ever, Gus thought. The fresh breeze brought no glow to her cheek, nor could the beauty of the sunset kindle gladness in her eyes. The view from the top of the hill was very fine. Behind Lucy, shrouded by a veil of smoke, London lay, but before her were meadows and hills, some of the hills wooded, and some covered with houses, to which distance gave picturesqueness, whilst immediately below lay the extensive cemetery of Glensford. When Lucy saw Gus, she smiled; but it was a poor little smile, which only seemed to emphasise the sadness of her eyes.
"Where have you been, Gus?" she asked. "I have seen nothing of you all the afternoon."
"I have been a long way," said Gus, with some importance; "right over there where you see those houses. And I have been to Sunday school."
"To Sunday school!" said Lucy surprised.
"A young lady asked me to come in, and she looked so nice and kind that I thought I would, just to see what 'twas like."
"And how did you like it?"
"Very much," said Gus; "though the boys led me a pretty life at first. I meant to give them something for themselves when we got outside, but somehow I didn't. It seemed to me more gentlemanly to take no notice of them."
"You are right," said Lucy, smiling. "Oh, Gus, I'm so glad you're not like those horrid boys who are always fighting and quarrelling. Do you know, I used to go to Sunday school once?"
"Did you?"
"Yes; it was when my mother was living." And Lucy's face grew sadder than before.
"She is dead now?"
"Yes, she died five years ago. Gus, since I have been sitting here and looking down there—" she pointed in the direction of the cemetery—"I have been wishing that I too could die; it would be so good to lie there beneath the trees and rest for ever."
"Oh, Lucy, why should you say that?"
"Because I am always so tired," she replied; "so tired and full of trouble. There was a man here in the fields this afternoon. He had a harmonium, and he played and sang to the people about there being sweet rest in heaven. And he talked about Jesus, and how He would forgive us our sins and take us to heaven if we asked Him; but somehow I didn't seem to care. I don't know as I want to go to heaven; but I do long to lie still and be at rest."
"But what would your father do without you, Lucy? Think how it would grieve him if you died."
"Yes, I suppose it would," she said sadly.
"Of course it would," replied Gus, almost indignantly; "why, there isn't anything he wouldn't do for you. He is always buying things for you. There isn't another girl—"
"Oh, Gus, I know!" she interrupted him, with fresh sadness in look and tone. "But I'd gladly give them up. I'd gladly live on dry bread and go bare-foot if only I could be sure—that things were honestly come by."
She said the last words very low, as if speaking to herself; but Gus heard them.
He started, and looked up at her with consternation painted on his face.
"Oh, Lucy, you don't mean—"
"Hush, hush!" she whispered, turning on him a white, frightened face. "What did I say? I should not have said it. Don't think of it again, Gus. I did not mean anything, indeed."
"Lucy, you might tell me."
"There is nothing to tell; indeed I know nothing, only I am full of fear. Please, Gus, never speak of this again. And now come in with me, and I will give you some supper. Father and Jack will not be home till late. Do come and cheer me. You shall tell me about the lesson at Sunday school, and we can read about it in mother's Bible. I have her Bible, but I seldom read it, because it makes me so sad to think that I shall never read it to her again."
Gus willingly consented. He said little as they went down the field, Lucy moving slowly and with difficulty. He was overpowered by the astounding conviction which had come to him. The doubts suggested by the affair of the bad florin had received unexpected confirmation. He felt sure now that Lucas was a dishonest man.
GUS SEES HIS TEACHER AGAIN.
THE summer weeks passed by, and brought little variation into Gus' life. Only the baby seemed to grow daily heavier, and to weary him more and more as he dragged him about in the heat. And as the baby's mother grew more addicted to "taking something," and resting after it, she thrust every task she could upon the boy who had to "earn his keep." But Gus never grumbled. He did his best sturdily; he did not lose patience with the baby, restless, struggling, fretful little mortal though he was, nor was he ever cross to the other little ones who called Sally Dent mother. But he prized every leisure moment he could spend with Lucy.
Sometimes on a Sunday they could get a quiet hour together, and then they would read from Lucy's Bible some passage in the history of the Lord Jesus—"the truest gentleman as ever was," as Gus loved to say, remembering the lady's words. And already the little boy's life was guided by a conscious effort to follow the example of the highest, holiest Manhood.
Lucas continued to treat Gus kindly, but Gus did not see much of him or of his son during the summer weeks. They would often be away from home for several nights, and Lucy never seemed to know exactly when they would return. And as Gus saw no fresh indications of anything being wrong, he ceased to think about those words from Lucy which had so startled him. He noticed that things seemed less prosperous with Lucas than formerly. There was not so much butter and jam going, and Lucy's cookery did not send forth such savoury odours. Perhaps Lucas had given up his dishonest practices, and was living strictly within his lawful means. Gus was glad to believe this.
One day, when summer was fairly gone, Lucas asked Gus if he could go out for a tramp with him and Jack.
Gus had little hope that Sally Dent would let him go, but he ran to ask her. At first she said she could not spare him; but when she heard that Lucas wanted him, she gave her consent. Lucas was too good a lodger for her to risk offending him.
Gus set out in capital spirits. It was a bright autumn day. The air was fresh and invigorating, the sunshine brilliant. Already the trees were touched with warm brown and gold, and in the gardens which they passed the dead leaves lay thick.
Strange to say, Lucas and his son took Gus exactly the same tramp they had taken him before. He passed and looked with interest on the little iron schoolroom in which he had had his first experience of a Sunday school. A little further on was the shop where he had tendered the bad florin. Gus' cheeks glowed with shame now as he thought of it, and he slunk quickly past the shop, hoping the woman would not see him.
A little farther on along the road was a large house, "standing in its own grounds," as the advertisements say. Beyond the garden lay fields, so that the position of the house was quite isolated. This house seemed greatly to interest Lucas and his son. They hung about the gate for some time, furtively watching a gardener who was engaged in sweeping the lawn. The garden was bright with chrysanthemums and dahlias, but not prettier than many they had seen; so that Gus wondered why they lingered there so long. At last they heard a church clock strike twelve, and soon afterwards the gardener laid down his broom and disappeared.
"Now, Gus, come with me," said Lucas.
He led him a little way up the shrubbery, till they were almost in sight of the house; then he said—
"Look here, if you do as I tell you, I'll give you twopence. I want you to go all round the house—this way, see—till you come to the kitchen door, where you must knock and ask for a piece of bread."
"I'm not a beggar," said Gus, colouring.
"Well, never mind, ask for a drink of water—anything. Don't be a duffer. I'll make it sixpence, if you do it to please me; and just keep your eyes open as you go; see if the windows under the verander come right down to the ground, and find out if they keep a dog, and whether there's a man-servant, and what time they have their dinner."
"But who am I to ask?" said Gus, looking bewildered.
"Find out without asking if you can, but if not there's the cook; surely a pretty boy like you can get round the cook. And not a word about our being here, mind. Now, off with you."
Gus moved away reluctantly. He did not like the errand; had he had the least idea for what purpose Lucas desired this information, he would have refused to seek it.
image003
He followed the path which ran in front of the verandah. It was not the direct path to the kitchen, but Lucas had purposely sent him that way. Yes, the windows beneath the verandah came to the ground; Gus noticed that, and then, turning the corner of the house, he found himself before a window of the same description, which stood wide open to the sunlight, and his unexpected appearance startled a young lady, who sat just within, and scared away a poor half-starved kitten, to whom she was giving a saucer of milk. The young lady uttered a faint cry as she rose quickly; but the next moment she recognised Gus, and smiled on him.
"Why, you are Gus!" she said. "The poor little Gus whom I had in my class one afternoon. I hoped you would come again, but you have never been."
"I couldn't get away any more," said Gus.
"And were you coming to see me now?"
"No. I didn't know you lived here. I was going to the kitchen to ask for a drink of water."
"Will milk do as well?" asked the young lady, filling a glass from a jug which stood on the table. "Here, sit down and drink it. You look tired."
Gus gladly seated himself on the step of the window, and the girl, who evidently thought that he needed to be cared for as much as the starved kitten, gave him a large slice of cake.
"Now tell me where you live, and what you do with yourself?" she said.
"I live at Glensford," he replied; "that's a long way from here."
"Have you a mother?" she inquired, looking pitifully at Gus' deplorable attire.
"My mother has been dead a long while, and father died a few months ago," he said. "I live with Mrs. Dent, and mind her baby."
"Poor child!" said the young lady. Her voice was soft and caressing as she said this, and Gus thought he had never seen such sweet blue eyes as those that were bent on him. And she, at the same time, was struck with the beauty of his large, innocent blue eyes.
"My father and mother are living," she said; "but they are in India. That is a great way off."
"And you live here?" said Gus, suddenly remembering that he was there to gather information.
"Yes, in my grandfather's home."
"It's a big house," said Gus, glancing round. "I s'pose you don't live here all by yourself?"
"Certainly not," said the girl, laughing. "An aunt, my father's sister, is here for a while, taking care of me, and there are the three servants besides."
"No man?" asked Gus.
"No man-servant, if that is what you mean; but my grandfather of course lives here, only just now he is away on a visit."
"Oh," said Gus. So far he had had no difficulty in getting the information he wanted, and just at that moment the kitten came creeping round the corner of the window.
"Here's your kitten," said Gus.
"It's not my kitten," said the girl; "it's a poor stray thing."
"Haven't you got a kitten of your own?" asked Gus.
"No," she replied; "I think I must adopt this one."
"P'raps you've a dog?" he suggested.
"No, I have not," she replied. "We had a splendid dog here—dear old Towser—but he died in the spring, and grandpapa has not yet got another. He was such a good house-dog; it is a pity he died."
"It is," said Gus, quite innocently. He had finished his cake, and he remembered that Lucas and Jack were waiting for him; but on his own account, he felt in no hurry to depart.
"Take another piece of cake," said the young lady; "I am sure you must be hungry."
"No more, thank you," said Gus. "I must be going. I was hungry, for it's about the time we have our dinner."
"What, at twelve o'clock? That seems very early to me."
"Does it?" said Gus. "What time do you have your dinner then?"
"Not till seven o'clock in the evening; but we have a meal in the middle of the day which is almost like a dinner."
"Two dinners! My word!" exclaimed Gus in amazement; but ere he could say more, a lady entered the room into which he was gazing. She was tall, angular, and severe of aspect. She had a very high nose, and very thin lips, and very cold eyes. She advanced with much dignity till she observed the open window and the ragged boy seated on the sill. Then she threw up her hands, and gave a scream.
"Good gracious, Edith! What have you here?"
"Only a poor little boy, aunt; he came to my class one afternoon," Edith began hurriedly to explain.
But her aunt scarce heeded her words.
"How could you?" she said reproachfully. "Is this the time, when we are left without a protector, to encourage a young scamp like this to come to the house? There is no knowing what may come of it. He may—there, be off with you, boy; you'll get nothing more here. Be off; we want no tramps here; we'll set the dog at you, if you don't move quickly!"
And as Gus hastily sprang up, she pushed to the glass doors and bolted them.
"Oh, aunt!" cried Edith, unable to help laughing, though she was vexed, "How could you say that, when you know we have no dog?"
"My dear, I said it with a purpose. I don't want him to come here and murder us all in our beds. It is not that I am nervous—you know I am not nervous—but one must be cautious. You should not have let him sit there. He may have brought scarlet fever or small-pox. I will tell Jane to scrub that window-sill." And she rang the bell sharply to summon the housemaid.
"What a pity!" murmured Edith to herself. "I wanted to get him some better clothes, and now aunt has frightened him away there is no knowing when I shall see him again."
Meanwhile Gus was hurrying to the gate as fast as his feet could carry him. Lucas stood awaiting him uneasily, but his face brightened when he saw Gus approaching.
"Well, youngster, you've been a long while," he said. "I began to be afraid something had happened. It's to be hoped you've made good use of the time."
Gus told how kind the young lady had been to him, and repeated all that had passed between them. As he did so Jack appeared; he had been across the fields to take a survey of the house from the back.
Lucas burst out laughing when Gus told how he had learned that there was no dog belonging to the house. "Upon my word," he said, patting Gus on the back, "you're a well-plucked one; we'll send you on that business again. He couldn't have done it better, could he, Jack?"
Jack chuckled, but suggested that they had better be moving on. So they turned towards home again.
Apparently their purpose in coming out was accomplished. Both Lucas and his son seemed greatly entertained and pleased at what had happened. Gus could not understand much that they said to each other as they walked along. They seemed to be laying plans of some kind. Once Jack said emphatically, with a nod in the direction of Gus, "Things will go all right, if you keep him out of it, not unless."
Whereupon Lucas turned angrily upon his son, being clearly of another opinion. Whatever was the matter in dispute, they continued to wrangle over it all the way home. Gus could not understand what it was they were quarrelling about, but he had an uneasy consciousness that it somehow concerned himself.
LUCAS' "JOB."
THE next morning at an early hour Lucas went forth with his workman's bag upon his shoulder. Gus heard him tell Sally Dent that he had had the luck to get a good job of work, which would probably keep him out till late at night. Then, beckoning Gus to walk beside him a few steps, Lucas said to him, as soon as they were beyond the houses, and no one was within hearing—
"Look here, Gus; I want your help in a job I have in hand to-night. If you're a good little chap, and do what you're told, and ask no questions, I'll give you a bob, a whole bob, for yourself, do you hear?"
Gus nodded, and his eyes sparkled with pleasure. It was rare good fortune for him to have the chance of earning a shilling.
"Can I do the work, do you think?" he asked anxiously. "Is it easy?"
"Oh, your part's easy enough," said Lucas, with a laugh. "All you've got to do is to obey orders. Now listen to me. Jack will bring you this evening to meet me. You must leave home at six o'clock—not a minute later. Now mind, I depend on your coming, and you must not disappoint me. If you've got the baby to mind, you can give it to Lucy, and she will look after it. Now promise me that you will come."
"I'll come," said Gus; "I'll be sure to come; but what am I to do?"
"Never mind what you have to do; I'll show you when you come. You are to do whatever I tell you, do you hear?"
"Yes," said Gus; and with that Lucas dismissed him, and the boy ran back to the house.
Gus wondered many times that day what the work could be for which Lucas needed his help. In the afternoon, Sally Dent gave the baby to his care, and when evening came, she lay in a drunken slumber. Gus amused the baby and kept the other children quiet till it wanted but a few minutes to six o'clock. Then, with the baby in his arms, he knocked at Lucy's door.
Lucy opened the door a little way and looked out; then, seeing it was Gus, she opened the door wider, and invited him to come in. Jack was seated at the table, hastily devouring a substantial meal.
"So you've come," he said, nodding to Gus; "that's right. We must be off in a minute or two."
"Is Gus going out with you?" asked Lucy in surprise.
Her brother only nodded.
"Yes, I'm going," said Gus; "and I've brought you the baby, because Mrs. Dent's asleep, and there's no one to mind him. I hope you won't find him a trouble; your father said you'd take him."
He held the baby out to Lucy as he spoke, but she had turned very white, and seemed to have lost all strength. Instead of attempting to take the baby she sank on to a chair, weak and trembling.
"Ah, I see you're not strong enough to hold him," said Gus, full of sympathy. "He is heavy; but perhaps he will lie on the rug for a bit. He'll keep quiet sometimes if you give him something to suck. A potato's as good as anything. I wish you needn't have him, but I promised your father I'd go."
"And you'd better keep that promise, and any other you've made to my father, let me tell you," said Jack significantly.
A shiver ran through Lucy's slender frame, but she controlled herself and said—
"Have you had your supper, Gus?"
"No," said the boy, looking wistfully at the well-spread table.
"You must have some then," she said quickly; "you cannot go out without having eaten."
"Give him a hunch of bread, and let him eat it as he goes along," said Jack, rising from the table as he spoke.
Lucy began to cut some bread and butter, whilst Gus carefully placed the baby on the hearth-rug and gave him a spoon to amuse himself with. Having buttered two thick pieces, Lucy placed between them a slice of cold bacon; then, as she thrust the whole into Gus' hand, she whispered, "Oh, Gus, I wish you were not going with them! Be careful; oh, do be careful!"
"Now then, are you coming?" cried Jack roughly from the door.
Gus could not reply to Lucy. He felt uneasy as he hurried after Jack, and he wondered why Lucy had bidden him to be careful. Did she know more about the evening's job than he?
For a while Gus and Jack trudged on in silence. Gus had often to break into a trot in order to keep up with Jack's long strides. They took the way Gus now knew so well, and which he had twice before trodden in Jack's company. The day had been dull, and night was closing in early. A grey mist was creeping over the fields, and the wind, which blew in their faces, brought with it tiny drops of rain.
When they had gone some distance, and were in a lonely part of the road, Jack suddenly halted beneath a lamp-post, and drew something from beneath his coat.
"There, lad, do you know what that is?" he inquired, pointing at Gus the thing he held.
Gus recoiled in a manner that showed he knew it to be a deadly weapon.
"Ah, I see you do know," said Jack coolly; "that's my father's revolver, and I'd have you know he'll think nothing of turning it against you if you do not please him in this night's business. He'll just hold it like that and fire, and you'll be as dead as a door-nail in half a second."
Gus trembled at the prospect. Having shown him this incentive to obedience, Jack put the firearm back into its place, and they marched on again. A little further, in the darkest part of the road, Lucas met them.
"Here you are then," he said in a tone of relief. "You are a little late; I began to fear something had gone wrong. The dinner-bell has rung. We need not have feared it would not be dark enough by seven. I've got a ladder that the painters left in the garden below. Things are all as square as possible, and in another ten minutes it will be safe."
They went on a few steps, and then halted at a gate. The place seemed familiar to Gus.
"You wait here," said Lucas, "whilst Jack and I go in; I'll come for you in a minute. Have you brought my revolver, Jack?"
Gus saw the revolver handed over to Lucas. His heart misgave him. How he wished the night's business was over!
Jack and Lucas passed into the shrubbery, and Gus stood alone, cold and miserable. The mysterious character of Lucas' proceedings alarmed him. He longed to run away, but he dared not, and the next minute Lucas was again by his side.
"Now come with me," he said; "and, mind you, if you don't do exactly as I tell you, it will be the worse for you. You are not to ask questions, but just to do as I tell you; do you hear?"
"Yes," said Gus; but he felt sick at heart as Lucas hurried him up the garden.
Gus saw dimly before him a long, low house, with a verandah. In spite of the gathering mist, he recognised it as the house in which Miss Edith lived. There was the window where, on the previous morning, he had sat and been regaled with cake and milk. The window was closed and shuttered now, and so were all the windows on the ground-floor. But at the side of the house was a small window, which was open a little way. Against this a ladder had been placed.
"Take off your shoes," said Lucas to Gus.
The boy obeyed trembling.
"Now, Gus," said Lucas in low, deliberate tones, which nevertheless had a certain thrill of excitement, "you're to go up that ladder and get in at that window. You will find yourself in the bath-room of the house. The door is open, and you can pass out into the passage, and go into all the bedrooms on this side the house. You must look quickly round the room, and take everything of value. If there's a watch on the dressing-table take it; every brooch, every ring take. Slip them into your pocket, and bring them to me. Now see how cleverly you can manage it."
Gus heard him in the utmost bewilderment and terror.
"That would be stealing!" he cried. "Oh, I can't steal!"
"Hold your tongue!" cried Lucas, shaking him roughly; "it's not stealing—at least it is not your stealing, it's mine. The window is too small for me to get through, so you do it for me."
"Oh, I can't do it; don't ask me!" cried Gus.
"You can, and you shall," said Lucas. "What are you afraid of? The family's in the dining-room having dinner, the parlour-maid is waiting on them, the cook's busy in the kitchen, and the housemaid has gone for a holiday. No one will hear you; you can get all there is, and be back in five minutes. Go along with you."
"I can't!" cried Gus, falling on his knees before the man. "I can't do that! Please, Mr. Lucas, do not ask me! Indeed, I cannot steal!"
"There, what did I tell you?" said Jack, turning to his father. "There's no doing anything with a boy like that. I said he would spoil it all, and so he has."
"But he shall not spoil it!" cried Lucas fiercely. "I'll see to that. Gus, you go up that ladder and do as I tell you, or, as sure as I stand here, I'll blow your brains out. See—" and he drew out his revolver—"if you do not go at once, I'll fire. Now, are you going?"
The aspect of the man was so fierce, he looked so capable of executing his threat, that instinctively Gus shrank from him and turned towards the ladder. Jack pushed him on to the lowest rung, and feeling that the weapon was still pointed at him, Gus went up the ladder, closely followed by Jack.
"Go on, go on," said Lucas, "or I fire."
Jack opened the window as wide as he could, and helped Gus to get into the room.
"Now go on," said Jack, pointing to the door. "Go through all the rooms, and be sharp back. We'll half kill you, if you don't bring all you can find!"
Thus urged, Gus passed out of the bath-room into the passage, and Jack waited nervously for his return. Five minutes passed, ten minutes, but the boy did not return.
"What can be keeping him so long?" asked Lucas anxiously, at the foot of the ladder. "They'll have done dinner directly. Can't you whistle to him?"
"It's hardly safe; some one might hear," said Jack. Nevertheless, he attempted a soft whistle.
"Can they have got hold of him?" asked Lucas nervously. "We must be off if he does not soon appear."
"Little humbug! I said he would spoil all," returned Jack. "What's to be done?"
At that moment there was the sound of a window opening at the other side of the house, followed by what seemed like a splash and a faint scream. Almost instantly another window was thrown up with a noise, and a female voice screamed shrilly, "Help, help! Thieves! Murder! Help!"
Jack was down the ladder in a second.
"Confound him, it is all up!" cried Lucas; and waiting only to throw the ladder into the shrubbery, they were off.
A GAME OF "HIDE-AND-SEEK."
PASSING out of Jack's sight, Gus found himself in a dimly lighted corridor, on to which several rooms opened. It was a relief to get away from Jack; but yet Gus felt his position to be embarrassing in the extreme. Here he was in Miss Edith's home, where he had no right to be, and for a purpose the very thought of which made him tingle all over with shame.
But Lucas had made a grand mistake in supposing that Gus was to be driven by bribe or threat to take part in a burglary. He would rather have died than have laid his hand on any of Miss Edith's possessions.
"He may kill me if he likes," Gus said to himself, though not without a shiver at the thought, "but he shall not make me steal."
At the moment Gus was creeping cautiously along the corridor, moved by a desire to get as far from Jack as possible. Suddenly he resolved that he would not go back to the men who awaited him outside. He would look about him for some hole or corner in which he could hide till the morning. Lucas could not force him to come out; he could not make his way into the house in search of him. The criminal object which had brought Lucas and his son to the house gave Gus an advantage over them. It would be easy, Gus thought, to tell Miss Edith all in the morning, and ask her to protect him from the rage of Lucas and his son.
Perfect stillness reigned in the house as Gus cautiously stepped along the passage, his shoeless feet making no sound on the thick carpet. He came to a door which stood partly open, and peeping round it saw a large and comfortably furnished bedroom, lighted by the glow from a bright fire. The gleam shone on the dressing-table, with its handsome toilet mirror, dainty drapery and ornaments, and Gus saw there a gold watch hanging on a pretty stand.
"Ah, Lucas would like that," he said to himself, and passed on smiling. But in vain he looked about for some place in which he could hide. Oh for some cupboard or recess in which he could lie safely till the morning!
He had reached the end of the corridor, and stood at the head of the stairs. To the right a narrow passage turned off. It was almost in darkness, and Gus stole along it, hoping to find the shelter he sought.
Presently he became aware that he was close to the head of a narrow staircase; a light flashed in his face, and he saw a portly female form, bearing a lighted candle, slowly ascending.
Gus started off in the darkness, fell over a pail, and made a clatter which caused the woman to scream in alarm, dashed through the first open doorway, and found himself in a small bedroom. There was no place to hide, nor any way of escape save through the window. It was unhasped, and Gus threw it up in a moment. In the dim light he could see some kind of platform below, and he sprang out. He jumped on to the thin and rather rotten planks which covered the top of a cistern. They gave way with him, and with a faint cry Gus fell through into the cold water. Happily the cistern was only half full, and in a few moments he had scrambled out again. But crouching behind the cistern on the narrow sloping roof, he found himself in considerable peril.
The woman he had startled had been too frightened to follow him; but now she threw up the landing window, and screamed lustily for help.
"'Elp, 'elp! Thieves! Murder 'elp!" she screamed; and then Gus heard the sound of steps hurrying to her assistance.
"Oh, cook! What is it? Whatever is the matter?" cried a voice, which Gus recognised as Miss Edith's.
"Cook, cook, control yourself; it is absurd to give way like this! I insist upon knowing what has happened!" said some one, uttering the words in very shaky accents.
"It's burglars, mum; it's 'ouse-breakers!" sobbed the cook. "I see'd 'em, miss, as true as I'm a-standin 'ere—leastways I 'eard 'em. There was some one rushed along the passage in front of me, and out o' that winder. He fell into the cistern, he did, and he's just got out. I 'card 'im a-shakin' 'isself not a minute agone."
"Burglars! Good gracious! And we without a man in the house! Oh, Edith! What will become of us? I said it was wrong of the colonel to leave us so unprotected. Some one must fetch a policeman; the house must be searched. Martha, you must fetch a policeman."
"That's easier said than done, if you'll excuse me, ma'am," said Martha, evidently shrinking from the task. "For my part, I don't believe there's been no man here. I don't suppose cook saw anything bigger than a cat. She's so nervous, she's frightened at her own shadow, cook is."
"A cat! Are you a cat?" returned the cook, indignantly. "I tell you it was a full-grown man as comed along the passage. He fell over the pail, and I 'eard 'im swear, I did. He's down there now somewhere, I'll be bound. You get a lantern and see."
"No, thank you," said Martha, drawing back; "I am not going on to that roof, if I know it. I won't risk my neck for the sake of any burglar."
"Perhaps it was a stray cat," said Edith, catching at the suggestion. "I daresay Mary left her window open, and so it got in. A cat can startle one dreadfully, and things seem so much larger when you cannot see them properly."
"The house must be searched," said her aunt solemnly. "I cannot close my eyes to-night till I know every corner of the house and grounds has been searched. I am not nervous, as you know; but this is a serious matter. I insist upon some one's fetching a policeman."
"As sure as I'm a livin' woman, it was no cat," muttered cook under her breath.
"I suppose I had better go in search of a policeman," said Edith. "I can see Martha is not inclined to do so, and cook is far too upset."
"You, Edith! You must not go; I cannot have you leave me! Suppose the man should appear when I was alone!"
"Why, then, auntie, you would be equal to the occasion, no doubt."
"Had we not better ring the alarm bell?" suggested Martha. "Mr. Thornton's valet, which is a very civil young man, would be sure to come across to know what was the matter."
"I have no doubt he would," said Edith, who was aware that the young man in question was enamoured of Martha.
Miss Durrant, who of late had exercised much ingenuity in devising means of preventing Martha from seeing Mr. Thornton's valet, now caught eagerly at the maid's suggestion.
Martha accordingly hurried off to ring the bell, and the others drew back from the raw, cold atmosphere of the night, cook finally closing the windows, lest the burglar should be disposed to return.
Shaking with cold and fear, Gus could hardly keep himself from falling from the roof. What should he do? He must get away somehow—but how? Crouching low, and supporting himself on his hands, he looked over the edge of the gutter. Immediately below was a small square window. Having first wrung all the water he could from his ragged clothes, and shaken himself thoroughly, Gus tightly clutched the gutter and swung himself off the roof, and after hanging perilously for a moment or two, managed to get his feet planted on the narrow window-sill below. Happily the window was open an inch or two at the bottom. Steadying himself against the wall with one hand, Gus, in extreme peril of falling headlong, pushed up the lower window-sash with the other.
The next moment, feet foremost, he fell rather than climbed through the window. A roll of carpet broke his fall, and gathering himself up, he found he was in a small room full of boxes and other lumber. He made some noise as he tumbled over these on his way to the door, but the sound was lost in the clamour of the alarm bell, which Martha was now pulling lustily.
Gus was at a loss what to do. If the house were immediately searched, there was little hope that he could escape detection, and though he had previously thought it would be easy to tell everything to Miss Edith, he had now a horror of being dragged forth before all the household, and branded as a young housebreaker. If only he could find his way back to the bath-room window, and descend by the ladder!
Opening the door of the lumber-room as gently as possible, he stole into the passage. There was no one about, for Miss Durrant had forbidden any one to go through the house at present, and she and Edith had returned to the dining-room. Cook was keeping watch at her bedroom window, and Martha was at the top of the attic stairs pulling the bell.
Swiftly and noiselessly the boy glided along the passage, ascended a short flight of stairs, and found himself again in the corridor where was the bath-room. But though the window stood open, the ladder was gone. Gus leaned out, but could see nothing in the darkness. He knew that the window was too high above the ground for him to venture a leap.
Clearly, Lucas and his son had decamped and left him to his fate. Gus closed the window, and turned away in despair. What should he do?
Just then the sudden opening of a door, a blast of cold air through the house, and the sound of excited voices below, assured Gus that Mr. Thornton's valet had arrived, and was receiving a warm welcome from the unprotected females. No time was to be lost. Gus fled desperately along the corridor.
The warm glow from the fire-lit bedroom seemed to invite him. Wet and shivering, Gus ran instinctively to the glowing hearth, and for a few moments forgot his embarrassing position in the delight of warming himself. Then he became aware of steps and voices on the stairs. A procession was approaching armed with fireirons, and headed by Mr. Thornton's valet, flourishing the kitchen poker.