A Rough Shaking, page 17
A bale of goods happening to be unpacked in his presence one day, Clare begged the head-shopman, who was also a partner, for a piece of what it was wrapped in; and he, having noted how well he worked, and being quite aware they could not get another such boy at such wages, gave him a large piece of the soiled canvas. Now Mrs. Person had taught Clare to work,—as I think all boys ought to be taught, so as not to be helpless without mother or sister,—and with the help of a needle and some thread the friendly girl gave him, he soon made of the packing-sheet a pair of trousers for Tommy, of a primitive but not unserviceable cut, and a shirt for himself, of fashion more primitive still. He managed it this way: he cut a hole in the middle of a piece of the stuff, through which to put his head, and another hole on each side of that, through which to put his arms, and hemmed them all round. Then, having first hemmed the garment also, he indued it, and let the voluminous mass arrange itself as it might, under as much of his jacket and trousers as cohered.
My reader may well wonder how, in what was called a respectable shop, he could be permitted to appear in such poverty; but Mr. Maidstone disliked the boy so much that he meant to send him away the moment he found another to do his work, and gave orders that he should never come up from the basement except when wanted to carry a parcel. The fact was that his still, solemn, pure face was a haunting rebuke to his master, although he did not in the least recognize the nature, or this as the cause, of his dislike.
CHAPTER XXXV. CLARE DISREGARDS THE INTERESTS OF HIS EMPLOYERS.
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THINGS WENT ON FOR NEARLY a month, every one thriving but Clare. Yet was Clare as peaceful as any, and much happier than Tommy, to whose satisfaction adventure was needful.
One day, a lady, attracted by a muff in the shop-window labelled with a very low price, entered, and requested to see it.
“We can offer you a choice from several of the sort, madam,” said the shopman. “It is one of a lot we bought cheap, but quite uninjured, after a fire.”
“I want to see the one in the window,” the lady answered.
“I hope you will excuse me, madam,” returned the shopman. “The muff is in a position hard to reach. Besides, we must ask leave to take anything down after the window is dressed for the day, and the master is out. But I will bring you the same fur precisely.”
So saying, he went, and returned presently with a load of muffs and other furs, which he threw on the counter. But the lady had heard that “there’s tricks i’ the world,” and persisted in demanding a sight of the muff in the window. Being a “tall personage” and cool, she carried her point. The muff was hooked down and brought her—not graciously. She glanced at it, turned it over, looked inside, and said,
“I will take it. Please bring a bandbox for it.”
“I will, madam,” said the man, and would have taken the muff. But she held it fast, sought her purse, and laid the price on the counter. The shopman saw that she knew what both of them were about, took up the money, went and fetched a bandbox, put the muff in it before her eyes, and tied it up. The lady held out her hand for it.
“Shall I not send it for you, madam?” he said.
“I do not live here,” she answered. “I am on my way to the station.”
“Here, Jack,” cried the shopman to Clare, whom he caught sight of that moment going down to the basement, “take this bandbox, and go with the lady to the station.”
If his transaction with the lady had pleased the man, he would not have sent such a scarecrow to attend her, although she did not belong to the town, and they might never see her again! The lady, on her part, was about to insist on carrying the bandbox herself; but when Clare came forward, and looked up smiling in her face, she was at once aware that she might trust him. The man stood watching for the moment when she should turn her back, that he might substitute another bandbox for the one Clare carried; but Clare never looked at him, and when the lady walked out of the shop, walked straight out after her. Along the street he followed her steadily, she looking round occasionally to see that he was behind her.
They had gone about half-way to the station, when from a side street came a lad whom Clare knew as one employed in the packing-room. He carried a box exactly like that Clare had in his hand, and came softly up behind him. Clare did not turn his head, for he did not want to talk to him while he was attending on the lady.
“Look spry!” he said in a whisper. “She don’t twig! It’s all right! Maidstone sent me.”
Clare looked round. The lad held out his bandbox for him to take, and his empty hand to take Clare’s instead. But Clare had by this time begun to learn a little caution. Besides, the lady’s interests were in his care, and he could be party to nothing done behind her back! He had not time to think, but knew it his duty to stick by the bandbox. If we have come up through the animals to be what we are, Clare must have been a dog of a good, faithful breed, for he did right now as by some ancient instinct. He held fast to the box, neither slackening his pace nor uttering a word. The lad gave him a great punch. Clare clung the harder to the box. The lady heard something, and turned her head. The boy already had his back to her, and was walking away, but she saw that Clare’s face was flushed.
“What is the matter?” she asked.
“I don’t rightly know, ma’am. He wanted me to give him my bandbox for his, and said Mr. Maidstone had sent him. But I couldn’t, you know!—except he asked you first. You did pay for it—didn’t you, ma’am?”
“Of course I did, or he wouldn’t have let me take it away! But if you don’t know what it means, I do.—You haven’t been in that shop long, have you?”
“Not quite a month, ma’am.”
“I thought so!”
She said no more, and Clare followed in silence, wondering not a little. When they reached the station, she took the bandbox, and looked at the boy. He returned her gaze, his gray eyes wondering. She searched her purse for a shilling, but, unable to find one, was not sorry to give him a half-crown instead.
“You had better not mention that I gave you anything?” she said.
“I will not, ma’am, except they ask me,” he answered.
“But,” he added, his face in a glow of delight, “is all this for me?”
“To be sure,” she answered. “I am much obliged to you for—carrying my parcel. Be a honest boy whatever comes, and you will not repent it.”
“I will try, ma’am,” said Clare.
But, to speak accurately, he did not know what it was to try to be honest: he had never been tempted to be anything else, and had scarcely had the idea of dishonesty in his mind except in relation to Tommy. Do you say, “Then it was no merit to him”? Certainly it was none. Who was thinking of merit? Not Clare. He is a sneak who thinks of merit. He is a cad who can’t do a gentlemanly action without thinking himself a fine fellow! It might be a merit in many a man to act as Clare did, but in Clare it was pure rightness—or, if you like the word better, righteousness.
Clare as little thought what awaited him. Had there been any truth, any appreciation of honesty in his vulgar heart, Mr. Maidstone could not have done as now he did. When his messenger came back with the tale of how he had been foiled, he said nothing, but his lips grew white. He closed them fast, and went and stood near the door. When Clare, unsuspecting as innocent, opened it, he was met by a blow that dazed him, and a fierce kick that sent him on his back to the curbstone. Almost insensible, but with the impression that something was interfering between him and his work, he returned to the door. As he laid his hand on it, it opened a little, and his master’s face, with a hateful sneer upon it, shot into the crack, and spit in his. Then the door shut so sharply that his fingers caught an agonizing pinch. At last he understood: he was turned off, and his day’s wages were lost!
What would have become of him now but for the half-crown the lady had given him! She was not quite a lady, or she would have walked out of the shop, and declined to gain by frustrating a swindle; but she was a good-hearted woman, and God’s messenger to Clare. He bought a bigger loaf than usual, at which, and the time of the day when he bought it, and the half-crown presented in payment, Mr. Ball wondered; but neither said anything—Mr. Ball from indecision, Clare from eagerness to get home to his family.
CHAPTER XXXVI. THE POLICEMAN.
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BUT, ALAS! CLARE HAD MADE another enemy—the lad whose attempt to change the bandboxes he had foiled. The fellow followed him, lurkingly, all the way home—on the watch for fit place to pounce upon him, and punish him for doing right when he wanted him to do wrong. He saw him turn into the opening that led to the well, and thought now he had him. But when he followed him in, he was not to be seen! He did not care to cross the well, not knowing what might meet him on the other side; but here was news to carry back! He did so; and his master saw in them the opportunity of indulging his dislike and revenge, and a means of invalidating whatever Clare might reveal to his discredit!
Clare and the baby and Tommy and Abdiel had taken their supper with satisfaction, and were all asleep. It was to them as the middle of the night, though it was but past ten o’clock, when Abdiel all at once jumped right up on his four legs, cocked his ears, listened, leaped off the bed, ran to the door, and began to bark furiously. He was suddenly blinded by the glare of a bull’s-eye-lantern, and received a kick that knocked all the bark out of him, and threw him to the other side of the room. A huge policeman strode quietly in, sending the glare of his bull’s-eye all about the room like a vital, inquiring glance. It discovered, one after the other, every member of the family. So tired was Clare, however, that he did not wake until seized by a rough hand, and at one pull dragged standing on the floor.
“Take care of the baby!” he cried, while yet not half awake.
“I’ll take care o’ the baby, never fear!—an’ o’ you too, you young rascal!” returned the policeman.
He roused Tommy, who was wide awake, but pretending to be asleep, with a gentle kick.
“Up ye get!” he said; and Tommy got up, rubbing his ferret eyes.
“Come along!” said the policeman.
“Where to?” asked Clare.
“You’ll see when you get there.”
“But I can’t leave baby!”
“Baby must come along too,” answered the policeman, more gently, for he had children of his own.
“But she has no clothes to go in!” objected Clare.
“She must go without, then.”
“But she’ll take cold!”
“She don’t run naked in the house, do she?”
“No; she can’t run yet. I keep her in a blanket. But the blanket ain’t mine; I can’t take it with me.”
“You’re mighty scrup’lous!” returned the policeman. “You don’t mind takin’ a ‘ole ‘ouse an’ garding, but you wouldn’ think o’ takin’ a blanket!—Oh, no! Honest boy you are!”
He turned sharp round, and caught Tommy taking a vigorous sight at him. Tommy, courageous as a lion behind anybody’s back, dropped on the rug sitting.
“We’ve done the house no harm,” said Clare, “and I will not take the blanket. It would be stealing!”
“Then I will take it, and be accountable for it,” rejoined the man. “I hope that will satisfy you!”
“Certainly,” answered Clare. “You are a policeman, and that makes it all right.”
“Rouse up then, and come along. I want to get home.”
“Please, sir, wouldn’t it do in the morning?” pleaded Clare. “I’ve no work now, and could easily go then. That way we should all have a sleep.”
“My eye ain’t green enough,” replied the policeman. “Look sharp!”
Clare said no more, but went to the baby. With sinking but courageous heart, he wrapped her closer in her blanket, and took her in his arms. He could not help her crying, but she did not scream. Indeed she never really screamed; she was not strong enough to scream.
“Get along,” said the policeman.
Clare led the way with his bundle, sorely incommoded by the size and weight of the wrapping blanket, the corners of which, one after the other, would keep working from his hold, and dropping and trailing on the ground. Behind him came Tommy, a scarecrow monkey, with mischievous face, and greedy beads for eyes—type not unknown to the policeman, who brought up the rear, big enough to have all their sizes cut out of him, and yet pass for a man. Down the stair they went, and out at the front door, which Clare for the first time saw open, and so by the iron gate into the street.
“Which way, please?” asked Clare, turning half round with the question.
“To the right, straight ahead. The likes o’ you, young un, might know the way to the lock-up without astin’!”
Clare made no answer, but walked obedient. It was a sad procession—comical indeed, but too sad when realized to continue ludicrous. The thin, long-bodied, big-headed, long-haired, long-tailed, short-legged animal that followed last, seemed to close it with a never-ending end.
There was no moon; nothing but the gas-lamps lighted Clare’s Via dolorosa. He hugged the baby and kept on, laying his cheek to hers to comfort her, and receiving the comfort he did not seek.
They came at last to the lock-up, a new building in the rear of the town-house. There this tangle of humanity, torn from its rock and afloat on the social sea, drifted trailing into a bare brilliant room, and at its head, cast down but not destroyed, went heavy-laden Clare, with so much in him, but only his misery patent to eyes too much used to misery to reap sorrow from the sight.
The head policeman—they called him the inspector—received the charge, that of house-breaking, and entered it. Then they were taken away to the lock-up—all but the faithful Abdiel, who, following, received another of the kicks which that day rained on every member of that epitome of the human family except the baby, who, small enough for a mother to drown, was too small for a policeman to kick. The door was shut upon them, and they had to rest in that grave till the resurrection of the morning should bring them before the magistrate.
Their quarters were worse than chilly—to all but the baby in her blanket manifoldly wrapped about her, and in Clare’s arms. Tommy would gladly have shared that blanket, more gladly yet would have taken it all for himself and left the baby to perish; but he had to lie on the broad wooden bench and make the best of it, which he did by snoring all the night. It passed drearily for Clare, who kept wide awake. He was not anxious about the morrow; he had nothing to be ashamed of, therefore nothing to fear; but he had baby to protect and cherish, and he dared not go to sleep.
CHAPTER XXXVII. THE MAGISTRATE.
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THE DAWN CAME AT LAST, and soon after the dawn footsteps, but they approached only to recede. When the door at length opened, it was but to let a pair of eyes glance round on them, and close again. The hours seemed to be always beginning, and never going on. But at the long last came the big policeman. To Clare’s loving eyes, how friendly he looked!
“Come, kids!” he said, and took them through a long passage to a room in the town-hall, where sat a formal-looking old gentleman behind a table.
“Good morning, sir!” said Clare, to the astonishment of the magistrate, who set his politeness down as impudence.
Nor was the mistake to be wondered at; for the baby in Clare’s arms hid, with the mountain-like folds of its blanket, the greater part of his face, and the old gentleman’s eyes fell first on Tommy; and if ever scamp was written clear on a countenance, it was written clear on Tommy’s.
“Hold your impudent tongue!” said a policeman, and gave Clare a cuff on the head.
“Hold, John,” interposed the magistrate; “it is my part to punish, not yours.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Clare.
“I will thank you, sir,” returned the magistrate, “not to speak till I put to you the questions I am about to put to you.—What is the charge against the prisoners?”
“Housebreaking, sir,” answered the big man.
“What! Housebreaking! Boys with a baby! House-breakers don’t generally go about with babies in their arms! Explain the thing.”
The policeman said he had received information that unlawful possession had been taken of a building commonly known as The Haunted House, which had been in Chancery for no one could tell how many years. He had gone to see, and had found the accused in possession of the best bedroom—fast asleep, surrounded by indications that they had made themselves at home there for some time. He had brought them along.
The magistrate turned his eyes on Clare.
“You hear what the policeman says?” he said.
“Yes, sir,” answered Clare.
“Well?”
“Sir?”
“What have you to say to it?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Then you allow it is true?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What right had you to be there?”
“None, sir. But we had nowhere else to go, and nobody seemed to want the place. We didn’t hurt anything. We swept away a multitude of dead moths, and killed a lot of live ones, and destroyed a whole granary of grubs; and the dog killed a great rat.”
“What is your name?”
“Clare—Porson,” answered Clare, with a little intervening hesitation.
“You are not quite sure?”
“Yes; that is my name; but I have another older one that I don’t know.”
“A bad answer! The name you go by is not your own! Hum! Is that boy your brother?”
“No, sir.”
“Your cousin?”
“No, sir; he’s not any relation of mine. He’s a tramp.”
“And what are you?”
“Something like one now, sir, but I wasn’t always.”
“What were you?”
“Not much, sir. I didn’t do anything till just lately.”
He could not bear at the moment to talk of his be-loved dead. He felt as if the old gentleman would be rude to them.
