Part 8

Without a word to the now drowsy Tyke, nodding over the blackening cinders in his grated brazier, Cleg Kelly set off at his top speed towards the fire, to be in at the death. "It's surely in the Pleasance," he said to himself as he ran. The flame towered mightily clear and clean, without sparks or crackling as when houses burn.

"It's Callendar's yaird!" said Cleg again, and never in his life had he run so fast. For there in the midst of the timber was the little wooden house in which were lying asleep little Vara Kavannah and her baby brothers.

It was indeed Callendar's wood-yard. When Cleg arrived there were whole regiments of firemen playing upon the flames; but his experienced eyes saw at once that the case was hopeless. Indeed, the officer in charge had come to the same conclusion some time before, and he was now directing the solid streams of water towards such surrounding properties as seemed in danger of catching fire.

The crowds were kept back by police, and all was orderly. The owner of all stood patiently at the gate, talking matters over with his foreman. After all, it was the visitation of God, and, further, he was fully insured. It is a great thing to be prepared for affliction.

Into the black mass of the onlookers Cleg darted. He wormed his way round to the back. He crossed a wall on which three or four boys were roosting.

"Ye'll get nabbed if ye gang that road," cried one of them, giving Cleg "the office" in the friendliest way, though he belonged to quite another gang.

But Cleg sped on. He dived between the long legs of his former friend, the red-headed officer known as "Longshanks." He skimmed across the yard among the falling sparks, dodging the flames which shot out of the burning piles to intercept him, as if they had been policemen.

The little wooden house lay before him in the red heart of the fire. He saw the daisies growing in his own garden plots. He remembered that, in the hurry and distress of listening to Vara's story, he had not watered them that day.

But he dashed for the door, opened it eagerly, and fell forward across the floor. The hut was filled with the odour of burning. Shooting flames met him in the face as he rose; but nevertheless he groped all about the tiny room, getting his hands and arms burned as he did so. The children were not there—Vara, Hugh, and the baby—all were gone! He turned to the door. The thing that he had stumbled over was a body. He turned over the lump with his bare foot. It was soft, heavy, and smelled of whisky. Cleg had found Sal Kavannah in the home he had made to protect her children from her search. He had little doubt that it was she who had set the yard on fire and stumbled in here afterwards.

Cleg stood a moment wondering whether he would not do better to leave her where she was; and more than once since that night has the same thought crossed his mind. He still fears that in dragging her away by the feet from the burning hut he unduly interfered with the working of the designs of an all-wise Providence.

ADVENTURE XVI.

IN THE KEY OF BOY NATURAL.

In time and under a new superintendent Cleg Kelly went back to Hunker Court Sunday school, some time after the loss of his friends the Kavannahs. This is equivalent to saying that Hunker Court became again an exceedingly lively place of instruction and amusement on a Sabbath afternoon. It is true that Cleg was not always present, and when he was absent his teacher's heart sent up a silent thanksgiving. That, of course, was before Miss Cecilia Tennant took him in hand.

Cleg had several teachers before he found his fate. He was, in fact, the crux of the school, and every aspiring young neophyte who "took a class" was provided with a nut to crack in the shape of Cleg. But he never cracked him.

The superintendent of Hunker Court at the date of this first pilgrimage was a somewhat ineffective gentleman, whose distinguishing trait was that he appeared to be of a pale sandy complexion all over. That is, all of him not covered by a tightly-buttoned black surtout. His name was Samson Langpenny. Why it was so, is historically uncertain—"Langpenny," probably, owing to his connection with his father. But "Samson" is wholly inexplicable, and was certainly exceedingly hard upon Master Langpenny as a boy. For it procured him many lickings at that delightful season, owing to logic of the usual schoolboy type and cogency.

"Jock, ye dinna ken wha was the strongest man?"

"It's a lee, I do ken. It was Samson!"

"Na, then it juist isna, for I lickit Samson this mornin' mysel'!"

The second boy thought this over a moment—saw it—considered it rather good.

"Dod," he said, "I wad like to could say that mysel'. I can lick Samson mysel' as weel as Pate Tamson!"

Whereupon he went and lurked for Samson till that unfortunate youth came along. Then he triumphantly established his claim to be the strongest man by once more thrashing "Samson" Langpenny, while the tears of the first combat were hardly yet dry upon the cuff of the coat-sleeve which Master Langpenny ordinarily used instead of a pocket-handkerchief.

It was quite in accordance with the contrariness of things, that Samson Langpenny should develop into the superintendent of the roughest Sunday school in all the South Side of Edinburgh. He had now a real handkerchief, as every one might see, for he wore about equal parts of it within his pocket and without. The lower and unseen portion was the working end. Now, there may be excellent moral purpose in a judiciously-used pocket-handkerchief. There is, indeed, a certain literary man whose wife avers that her husband's toilet consists ordinarily of "four paper knives, four pens, and no pocket-handkerchief." But this person is not usually held up in Sunday schools as a shining example. Quite the contrary.

Now, Cleg Kelly had no great personal grievance against his superintendent. But he said in his vulgar way (for there is no doubt that he was that kind of boy) that "he did not cotton to that wipe o' Langpenny's!"

Cleg's present teacher was a young gentleman of the name of Percy Somerville, whose principal reasons for teaching in Hunker Court were that he might improve the minds of the youth of the district, and that he might have a fair chance of seeing Miss Cecilia Tennant home across the meadows. This last was a pleasant thing to do at any time, but specially desirable in the summer season, after the heat and turmoil of Hunker Court, and on this account Samson Langpenny never lacked for recruits to his teaching staff at that time.

Now, Percy Somerville was "a very nice boy"—these were Miss Tennant's own words. "But, you know—well, you know—after all, he is only a boy."

And, in addition, as they say in political circles, when the leadership of the party is in question, "there was no vacancy." The junior partner still lived.

How Percy Somerville undoubtedly had his troubles, owing chiefly to Celie Tennant's hardness of heart; but they were as nothing to the difficulties which afflicted Samson Langpenny.

For instance, it was in this wise that Mr. Percy Somerville was greeted, as he appeared with a reluctant scholar who had been detected in trying to escape by the side door after the roll had been marked. (It was drawing near the time of the summer treat into the country, so it behoved the teachers to be careful in marking attendances.)

"Go it, Pierce-eye! Hit him one in the eye!"

This exclamation was traced afterwards to Cleg Kelly's acquaintance in day-school with a baleful ballad included in the _Royal Poetry Book_, and intituled "Chevy Chase."

Mr. Somerville thereupon promptly lost his rightful and given name, and became to all eternity—or so long, at least, as he remained at Hunker Court—"Old One-in-the Eye."

But it so happened that, on this particular Sunday, Cleg's teacher with the pugnacious title was absent; and, in despite of the notice prominently placarded on the walls behind the superintendent's desk, he was absent without having provided a substitute.

There was nothing for it, therefore, but that Samson Langpenny should take the class himself. And he would as soon have faced a battery of artillery as a class in which sat the Egyptian plague of his school, Cleg Kelly. It was, indeed, on this particular day that there came to Samson the resolution to try him with Miss Celie Tennant as a last resource, previous to a second and final expulsion.

Indeed, he would have chosen the latter alternative long ago, but for a well-grounded inward belief that, at the close of the hour after Cleg's compulsory exit, there would not be a whole pane of glass in all the many windows of Hunker Court Sunday school. He remembered well as a teacher the awful scene which accompanied the first expulsion under the reign of "Pund o' Cannles"—a scene which since his return had made Cleg almost idolised by the scholars of Hunker Court.

Samson Langpenny sat down to teach the Border Ruffians of the Sooth Back—Cleg Kelly's class. Now he was out of place, and knew it. His true sphere in a Sunday school was in the infant department; where, with a packet of butterscotch and "Hush-a-bye, Baby!" he might have been a great and shining success.

Why the minister did not see this was a standing problem in Hunker Court. But, as the teachers said one to another on their several ways home:

"It is so hard to get the minister to see anything—_and as for his wife_——"

"Can you say your Psalm—metrical version?" asked Samson Langpenny, as though of a certainty they were all letter-perfect in the prose version.

"_I_ can," said Cleg Kelly promptly.

"Then," said Samson, smiling, well-pleased, "we will take you last."

With various hitches and shoves, the awkward and unruly class bored its way through the Psalm—"metrical version." An impartial observer might have noticed that the teacher contributed about ninety-five per cent. of the recitation in the form of hints and suggestions. Nevertheless, each boy, having completed his portion, sat back with a proud consciousness that he had done his duty with even needless promptitude and accuracy. Also it was an established canon of the place that so soon as each boy was released from the eye of the teacher, he instantly put his hand slyly under the bench. Then he either nipped his neighbour in a place which made the sufferer take an instant interest in the circumstance, or else he incontinently stuck a pin into him.

In either case the boy assaulted remarked: "OUCH! please, sir, Tam Rogerson's nippin' me. Wull ye speak to him?"

But this was only the usual routine, and provoked no remark.

When, however, the superintendent came to Cleg Kelly, and that diligent young student began at once to reel off the twenty-third Psalm with vivacity and despatch—the psalm which the entire body of Scottish youth learns long before the A, B, C—it was obviously time to interfere.

"If ye please, sir (or whether or no), that's no the richt yin!" said Tam Rogerson, who ran Cleg close for the place of honour as the "warst loon i' the schule!" This was a post of as great distinction at Hunker Court as the position of clown in a circus.

Cleg's answer was twofold.

To Tam Rogerson he remarked—under his breath, it is true, but with startling distinctness—

"Wait till I get you oot, ma man; I'll warm you."

And Tam Rogerson grew hot from head to foot, for he knew that he was as good as warmed already.

On the other hand, Cleg gave the answer of peace to his teacher:

"Please, sir, Maister Langshanks—penny, I mean—my faither is a Papish—an' he winna let me learn ony ither Psalm but the three-an'-twunty. But I hae learned HER to richts!"

After this exhibition of the rights of the nonconforming conscience in strange places, Cleg continued his lesson in Hunker Court under the vague tutelage of Samson Langpenny. Now Samson was unaware of the strong feeling of resentment which was gathering in the bosoms of his scholars, owing to the length of his "introductory exercises." The Psalm and the "questions" were all in the day's work, but Samson introduced a prayer in the middle of the teaching hour, which Cleg Kelly considered to be wholly uncalled for and indeed little short of impious.

So, as soon as Samson shut his eyes, Cleg silently joined the class nearest him, and the other scholars of the absent Mr. Somerville did likewise. When Samson opened his eyes and awoke to the state of the case, he found himself wholly without a single scholar to whom instruction could be given.

Cleg had betaken himself to the class of Miss Robina Semple, an excellent maiden lady of much earnestness and vigour. She was so busy explaining the Scripture lesson, that she did not at first observe the addition to the number of her scholars in the wholly undesirable person of Master Kelly.

The lesson was the parable of the lame man at the pool of Siloam.

Now in Miss Semple's class there was a lame boy named Chris Cullen. He sat listening with strained attention and invincible eagerness to every word which fell from his teacher. Cleg, to whom all lessons were much alike, listened also—chiefly, it may be, because he saw the reflection of an angel's smile on the face of the lame boy, Chris Cullen.

"What gars ye hearken like that, Chris?" whispered Cleg, with some anxiety. Only the news of a prize fight would have brought such an expression of interest to his own face, or (it might be) the announcement that his father had got ten years.

"It's aboot a man that got a dook, an' then he could walk!" said Chris, speaking hurriedly over his shoulder, being anxious not to miss a word.

"What hindered him to dook afore?" asked Cleg.

"He couldna get doon to the water-edge," said Chris.

"Was the bobby there?" persisted Cleg, to whom the limit of where he might not go or might not do coincided with the beat of the officers of Her Majesty's peace.

"_Wheesht!_" interjected Chris Cullen, "she's telling it the noo!"

For the lame boy, his teacher existed for this purpose alone.

The calm, high voice of Miss Robina Semple went on—Robina Semple, whom some called "a plain old maid"—

"And so the poor man, who had no one to carry him down to the edge when the angel troubled the water, had to stay where he was, and somebody else got in before him! Are you not sorry for him?"

"Never heed, Chris Cullen," broke in Cleg, "I'll cairry ye doon on my back mysel'! There's naebody will daur to hinder ye dookin' in ony dub ye like, when I'm cairryin' ye!"

Cleg Kelly was certainly acquiring, by contact if in no other way, certain Christian ideas. For the rest he was still frankly pagan.

Now at this particular date Hunker Court Sabbath school was run under a misapprehension. It was the idea of the superintendent that a little sugared advice would tame the young savages of the courts and wynds. Hence the hour of instruction was largely taken up with confused sound and fury. Samson would have been wiser if he had suborned a prize-fighter of good moral principles to teach the young idea of Hunker Court how to shoot head foremost out at the door. Under these circumstances it is conceivable that some good might have been done. But as it was, under the placid consulship of Samson Langpenny, teachers and scholars alike had a good deal of physical exercise of an interesting and healthful sort. But the moral and religious improvement was certainly to seek.

Yet in the class of Miss Semple, that excellent woman and good teacher of youth, there was one scholar who that Sunday had heard to profit. It was Cleg Kelly. He carried home little Chris Cullen on his shoulders, and if no angel stirred the waters of the gutter puddles as these two went their way, and if no immediate healing resulted, both Chris and Cleg were the better for the lesson of the troubling of the waters.

Even Samson Langpenny did not go to Hunker Court that day in vain, for he went along with Chris and Cleg part of the way home. Pride was not among Samson's failings, and, as we know, bashfulness was equally absent from the black catalogue of the sins of our hero.

"What for are you carrying Chris?" asked Samson Langpenny, who, though he had many weaknesses, had also large and sufficient virtues of earnestness and self-sacrifice.

"Weel, ye see, sir," said Cleg, trotting alongside cheerily, his burden upon his shoulders, "it's true that Chris can gang himsel'. But ye ken yersel' gin the laddies are verra ceevil when they get oot o' schule. They micht knock the wee yin ower. But when he is up on my shoothers, they juist darena. My certes, but I wad like to fa' acquaint wi' the yin that wad as muckle as lift a 'paver' to him. I wad 'paver' him!"

The superintendent smiled, though as a general rule he deprecated an appeal to arms. Cleg had also a little sound advice to offer his superior.

"Ye dinna lick aneuch in your schule, Maister!" continued Cleg, for he was unselfishly desirous that everyone should succeed in the sphere of life to which Providence had called him. He did not, it is true, see any great reason for a man's having taken to keeping Sunday school. Summer treats in the country might surely have been given without them—likewise tea _soirées_. But since these things had been mixed up together, the instruction part, however unnecessary, should certainly be carried out in a workmanlike fashion.

"Not lick enough?" queried the superintendent, aghast. He thought he could not have heard aright—the pest of Hunker Court counselling corporal punishment!

"Aye, an' div ye ken," Cleg went on, "div ye ken I can tell ye, wha ye could get to keep the laddies as quaite as pussy."

The superintendent looked at the rebel Head Centre of Hunker Court, bending with the weight of Chris Cullen upon his shoulders. It did not strike him that Cleg might also be able to support his own crippled steps upon his willing heathen shoulders.

"What would you advise?" he asked at last, with a certain pathetic humility.

"There's a maister at oor day schule that's awsome handy wi' the taws, an a' the laddies are feared o' him. He comes to your kirk—I hae seen him gang in the door. Ye micht get him for a teacher in yer Sabbath schule! Then the boys wad hae to be quaite. His name's MacRobb."

"Why would the boys have to be quiet then?" said Samson Langpenny, who did not yet understand what his ragged mentor was driving at.

"Dinna ye see, sir," said Cleg eagerly, "the boys daurna play their capers on Sabbaths at Hunker Court, an' gang to his schule on Mondays. Na, he wad fair skin them alive. It wad mak' an awfu' differ to you, sir."

"But I do not know Mr. MacRobb," said Samson; "how can I get him to give up his Sabbath afternoons to teach in such a noisy place? He will say that he gets enough of teaching through the week."

"Gae 'way!" said Cleg in his vernacular, forgetting for the moment to whom he spoke, "gae 'way, man! Get bonny Miss Tennant, the lass in the yella frock, to speer him. He'll come fast aneuch then. He does naething else in the kirk but glower at her a' the time the minister's preaching."

Thus Cleg jested with love, and used its victims at his pleasure.

ADVENTURE XVII.

THE KNUCKLE DUSTERS.

Soon after this Cleg Kelly became a member of a young lady's class, in a manner which has been elsewhere related.[3]

That young lady was Miss Cecilia Tennant, otherwise known as Celie—a young lady much admired by all who knew her (and by some who did not, but wanted to); and especially admired by Mr. Donald Iverach, junior partner in the firm on whose premises the class was held. I have also related the tragical events which preceded the formation of the boys' class, organised under the guidance and tutelage of Cleg Kelly. But it soon became evident that something more than a night class was necessary, if any impression were to be made on the wild Arabs of the Sooth Back.

"Ye see the way o' it is this, Miss Celie," Cleg explained. "Ye canna keep a boy frae ill-doing by juist telling him aboot Jacob for an hour in the week. There's a' day in the shop, wi' the gaffer swearin' blue murder even on, an' ill-talk an' ither things that I juist canna tell ye. Then there's every nicht, when we drap work. What can we do but stand about the streets, or start the Gang an' look aboot us for a bobby to chivvy, or else for something handy for 'liftin'?'"

"But, Cleg," cried Celie, much alarmed, "surely I do not understand you to say that you _steal_?"

"Na," said Cleg, "we dinna steal. We only 'nick' things whiles!"

Celie had heard, indeed, of the "mobs," the "unions," the "gangs," the "crowds." But she thought them simply amiable and rather silly secret societies, such as her own brothers used to make a great deal of unnecessary secrecy about—calling themselves "Bloody Bill of the Ranch," "Navajo Tommy," and other stupid names. She had remarked the same mania in Cleg sometimes, and had some reason to believe that all boys are alike, whatever may be their station in life.

But Cleg soon put his friend out of the danger of any such mistake.

"Mind, say '_As sure as daith_,' an' ye'll cut your throat gin ye tell," said Cleg, very earnestly, "an' I'll tell ye, aye, an' make ye a member!"

Cleg was about to reveal state secrets, and he did not want to run any risks. Celie promised faithfully the utmost discretion.

"Weel, Miss Celie, I can see that ye are no gaun to do muckle guid amang us boys, if I dinna tell ye. An' I want ye no to believe ony lees, like what are telled to the ministers an' folk like them. There's mair ill in the Sooth Back than can be pitten richt wi' a track. I canna bide them tracks——"

The distribution of tracts was an old grievance of Cleg's. But Celie earnestly and instantly put him on the plain way again, for if he once began upon "tracks," there was no telling if ever she would get any nearer to her promised lesson on the good and evil of the boys' unions.

Celie found herself as eager as ever was her first mother Eve, to eat of the tree of the forbidden knowledge.

"Gie us your han', Miss Celie, I'll no hurt ye," said Cleg.

Celie drew off her dainty glove, and instantly extended a hand that was white and small beyond all the boy's imagining. Cleg took it reverently in his dirty, work-broadened paw. He touched the slender fingers as if they were made of thistle-down and might blow away accidentally. So he held his breath. Then he took out his knife, one with a point like a needle, which had been used in a shoe factory.

Perhaps Celie winced a little as he opened the blade, but, if it were so, it was very little indeed. Yet it was enough to be perceptible to her very sincere admirer.

Cleg let her hand drop, and without a pause thrust the sharp point into the ball of his own thumb, squeezing therefrom a single drop of blood.

"It's no juist exactly richt, no to hae your ain blood, ye ken!" he explained gravely; "but as ye dinna tell so mony lees as the boys, maybe mine will do as weel this time to take the oath with."

With a clean new pen from Celie's desk, Cleg made on her palm the sign of a cross, and for her life the initiated dared not so much as let her hand quiver or her eyelid droop.

She knew that the occasion was an entirely critical one. But in a moment it was over, and Celie Tennant was admitted a _bonâ fide_ acting member of the Sooth Back Gang, with full right in its secrets and to the disposal of one full and undivided share of its profits. No questions to be asked as to how these profits were come by. Indeed, from that moment there is little doubt that Celie Tennant might have been indicted for reset, conspiracy, and crimes infinitely various.

That night at Miss Tennant's class there was a full attendance, and the opening was delayed owing to necessity arising for the expulsion of a boy, apparently in no way offending against discipline.

Celie looked the question she dared not speak.

"_He's no yin o' us!_" explained Cleg in a whisper. "He belongs to the Potter-raw gang—a low lot."