Part 19

When the cat was gone his own desperate condition returned to his mind with redoubled strength. There were the loaves in dozens on the shelves within, but there was no sympathising friend present to whom to appeal. How much easier it would be to take a loan of two loaves, and come back on Monday and explain all about them to Mr Borland. If he went home without the loaves, Johnny had an idea they would all be dead before Monday, and then his father need never know anything about it till it was all explained and adjusted.

I am not trying to give his reasoning as sound, but rather to show that when a child is wolfish with hunger he and reason have for the time parted company.

Johnny prised the window sash a few inches higher, and wriggled himself inside. The first loaves that came to hand were grasped at. He meant to take only two, but there happened to be four sticking together, and he concluded that he might as well take the lot. He placed the big square of bread out on the window sill, and then clambered out, and was turning to reclose the window, when something glaring and far more terrible than a cat’s eye caught his gaze, and riveted him helpless and speechless to the spot. It was a bull’s eye, and the holder was a policeman, who had first been attracted by Johnny’s knocking at the front door, and then had slipped in by another entry to watch the whole proceedings from the other end of the green.

The slide of the lantern had been closed till the critical moment when Johnny had accomplished his burglary, when out shone the light, and with a few quick strides the man was upon the trembling boy.

“What! you’re young begun,” said the policeman, throttling Johnny nearly black in the face, and then shaking him violently lest there should be any breath left in his body by the throttling. “How old are you?”

“Twelve,” gasped Johnny at random.

He was barely ten, but with the wild, reproachful thought at his heart that he had disgraced and ruined himself for ever by his rashness had come a queer resolve.

“And what’s yer name?” continued the man, who was from the far north, and thought he saw the gallows written in every line of the boy’s face.

“Peter M^cBain.”

It was the first name that came to the tongue of the boy, and he blurted it out, with death at his heart.

“And far dee ye live?” continued his captor.

“In the West Port.”

Lies, lies! every word of it. Johnny simply named the place farthest from his own home, but then he had an object in view, and the lies wrung more agony out of him than the truth would have done. He was thinking of his father and that fierce warning in the dark—“If ever you turn thief while I’m living, never come near me or look me in the face again.”

“How did I ever come to do it? how did I do it?” he bitterly added to himself; but to that there came no answer.

He did not know that famine and excitement had slightly unhinged his faculties; he knew only that in some amazing manner he had become a housebreaker and a thief in the face of his father’s commands, and got captured by the police in the very act.

“Then jist you tak’ up your bundle and come awa’ wi’ me to the office,” said the policeman; and Johnny lifted the loaves and obeyed, the man closing the window, and taking down the name and address before leaving. While the pair were passing up St Mary’s Wynd towards the High Street, I chanced to be coming down, and stopped to learn the nature of the crime. Johnny’s face was quite unknown to me, and I could not believe that he or his relatives belonged to the West Port, a suspicion which was strengthened when Johnny became taciturn, and refused to reveal aught of his antecedents. I turned back with them, and went as far as the Central, trying in vain to draw the truth from the poor quivering boy. I should not have taken half the trouble with him but for the fact that he was evidently labouring under great excitement, and that more than once I saw his eyes become brimful of tears. Your true gutter child—the raggamuffin who steals as naturally as he draws his breath—is case-hardened against either tears or trembling. There is no mistaking him; and the first glance at Johnny half convinced me that in spite of his wretched clothing and haggard looks, he was not of that class. As he refused to speak, he was entered as “Peter M^cBain, West Port, aged twelve,” and locked up, charged with breaking into the shop of a baker whom I may name Brown, “and stealing therefrom four loaves of bread, of the value of 2s. 8d. or thereby.”

My idea was that he was a runaway from some distant town, who had tramped the boots off his feet, and then been forced by sheer hunger to the robbery. I therefore had him tested with the offer of food. But Johnny was now too excited and overwhelmed with grief and shame at his position, and refused the food with unaffected loathing. Then the last prop was soon driven from my theory by a policeman on the West Port beat declaring, on being shown “Peter M^cBain,” that he believed he knew him well as one who had long been a pest to that district.

While this small and terrible burglar was thus seeing the inside of a cell for the first time, his parents were awaiting his return in anxiety and trembling expectancy. Hour after hour passed, and still the light footfall failed to strike upon their ears, and at last, near midnight, the father could bear the strain no longer, and started out to search for the wanderer. Had the hour been an earlier one, Mossman would have gone in the same direction as the boy had taken, and probably have discovered that the name had been changed. But he logically reasoned that now the shop must be shut, and Borland at his own home, which was a street or two further off.

“He’ll have taken pity on the boy and asked him to go home with him,” was his parting remark to his wife, and to the home of his old friend he turned his steps—a shabby shadow, walking softly and hurriedly upon stocking soles, for his boots had long since gone to feed the hungry bairns. He was thoroughly ashamed of his appearance, and nothing short of his great anxiety for the boy would have roused him to brave the humiliation of appearing before Borland. The house was a respectable flat in Lothian Street, and the same which the baker had occupied for years. Mossman made certain by examining the bell-plates by the light of the street lamps, and then rang and was admitted. To his relief the door was opened by Borland himself, who had been busy looking over his books at home after the rest of the household were in bed. The prosperous baker stared at the gaunt and poorly-clad figure rising before him out of the darkness of the stair, and then exclaimed, in lively horror—

“Good God! it’s not Geordie Mossman?”

“I’ve come after my laddie,” said the other, hurriedly. “I sent him to your shop hours ago, to—to ask a favour, and he’s never come back.”

“I’m no an hour hame,” said Borland, “and he never came near while I was there. But I’m no in the auld place now, and maybe he’s wandered a bit in lookin’ for the new shop. Man, Geordie,” he added with deep feeling, and wringing the other’s hand with a fervour unmistakable, “is it possible ye’ve been in distress and never let me ken? Come in by and tell me a’ about it.”

Kindness is more overpowering than cruelty. The poor baker staggered, trembled, and then fairly broke down, and was then hurried into the house, planted down by a rousing fire, and there forced to sit at ease, while the stout baker hastened to pile before him half the eatables in the house. While thus busy diving in and out the room as a means of concealing his own emotion, Borland managed to draw from his broken-down visitor an account of his misfortunes, and the state of things in his home; and then he quietly slipped out of the room, roused his wife out of bed, and sent her off in that direction with a bundle and a basket, which she and the servant girl could scarce carry between them. Then he got a pair of boots and a coat and muffler for Mossman, and the two set out to search for Johnny. Borland advised that they should go to the Police Office first, but that Mossman would not hear of, declaring that that was the last place Johnny would go near. When they had spent an hour in the streets they went to Hill Place in full hope that the boy would be there before them. They found some appearance of comfort in the house, but the poor mother was in tears, and the cause of her grief was explained in a few words—

“Johnny said that if he was away there would be ane less to eat, and he said he would run away and be a sailor. He’s away now, and we’ll maybe never see him again.”

“I never thought of that,” gasped Mossman, with a sinking heart. “One less to eat—he’s been craiking aboot that for weeks. We’ll never see him again;” and then in that relieved household there was more of tears than mirth or rejoicing.

“If I had only gone myself!” the father cried in unsparing self-reproach.

“If I had only known an hour or two earlier,” said the kind-hearted master baker.

But the mother was most inconsolable.

“I made him gang—if it hadna been for me he would have been here yet!” she sobbed. “I have done it all.”

“Tuts, the laddie is not out o’ the world surely,” said her husband, with more lightness than he really felt. “I’ve often heard him speak of trying to find out his uncle, who is a fisherman in Kirkcaldy, and of learning under him. Have patience for a day or two, and we’ll hear of him all right.”

They waited the day or two, but Johnny was as effectually hidden from them as if he had been buried alive. On the Monday morning he had been placed at the bar of the Police Court, and, when asked if he had taken the loaves in the manner described, said simply that he had, but had never thought of taking them till he opened the window to let out the cat. The magistrate thought for a little, and spoke of sending him to a reformatory, but as there was a difficulty in having no parents to fall back on for the cost of maintenance, he contented himself with a sentence of three days’ imprisonment, and a warning to the terrible burglar not to be seen there again or it would be worse for him.

At the trial Johnny’s father never appeared, and from that the boy concluded that he was cast off for ever as an unclean thing. Neither was he once inquired for by his mother, which fact cut him keenest of all.

“_She_ might have known I didn’t mean it,” he thought with bitter tears, “but was just led to take them by thinking of them at home.”

As “Peter M^cBain” he served his term of three days, and then was free. Curiously enough, his first thought was of his fisher uncle in Kirkcaldy, whom he had often heard of but never seen. Johnny never thought of going home, but asked the way to Kirkcaldy. He had not a penny in his pocket, and the rags he called clothes could scarcely hold together, and, when he was told that there were two ways to Kirkcaldy—a short way by the ferry, and a long way by land—he had no choice but to go by land, and turned his face with the utmost coolness in the direction of Stirling.

Very little alters the whole course of a life. As with most boys, Johnny’s little head was full of romance, and he had determined either to be a fisherman or a sailor, and actually might have had his desire accomplished had he ever found that uncle in Kirkcaldy. But he had not got many miles on his way when he picked up an acquaintance in shape of a boy a year or two older than himself, who, having been well thrashed by his father for some fault, was “running away” to a grannie in Dundee. He had run away before, and was never tired of describing the glories of life in the mills there, and the kindness of his grannie, who kept lodgers, and was always glad to see him when his own home became too hot for him. So Johnny, who still stuck to the name of “Peter M^cBain,” decided to accept the boy’s offer of friendship and guidance, and the two small waifs at length reached that town, where the reception by the grannie was quite as kind and loving to Johnny as if he had been her own grandson. After the boys had rested two days to heal their blistered feet, they went to one of the largest mills, and were readily engaged for some simple part of the jute spinning which could be learnt in an hour or two. At this work Peter M^cBain showed real smartness, and soon attracted the notice of the foreman. Peter lived with the grannie who had first welcomed him to Dundee, and learned to call her grannie too. The first flush of prosperity was on Dundee at the time; wages were high, and work was plentiful, and anyone showing peculiar smartness was almost certain of speedy promotion.

When Peter had been in the mill for nearly a year, the manager asked him if he would like to learn a trade instead of to be a tenter. Peter was willing, and was taken into the mechanics’ shop attached to the mill, there to learn to make and fit up machinery. He grew stout and sturdy, and gave great satisfaction, as he never seemed happier than when tearing in at his work. He never dared to write home, and was mourned as one dead. In six years Peter became a full-fledged journeyman. He was now a tall, strapping fellow, with a good face, and a clear, laughing eye, and was qualified to go anywhere and command a high wage as a first-class engine-fitter. He had been diligent and steady, and had studied drawing and designing to help him in his trade, and altogether was quite a different character from what he had promised as a small and terrible burglar. He had even saved a little money, and it was the thought of that money lying idle, and the heaps more which he was now able to earn, which sent his thoughts homewards and his heart throbbing for dear Auld Reekie. When he had been a few weeks journeyman, and engaged in the same mill at a capital wage, the Fair holidays came on, and Peter’s eye caught a bill announcing a “Trip to Edinburgh.” Edinburgh! The very sight of the word thrilled him through. He got a ticket and went through next day. He made his way first to Hill Place. His parents had not lived there for years. No one knew them, or had heard of them, and he began to faintly wonder if they could have been all starved to death at that fearful time when he was locked up in prison as a burglar. Then he thought of the bakers’ house of call, and went thither and got a great lift to his heart. His father was alive and doing well as foreman to Borland the baker, who had now two shops, and was flourishing also. Peter went to the principal shop, and found Mr Borland behind the counter. As he entered the shop a floury-faced man, in his shirt sleeves, was leaving for the regions below, and the young engine-fitter stared into the face with a palpitating heart.

“That’s my faither! that’s my faither!” he thought, with a great lump rising in his throat; but he could no more have spoken than he could have flown in the air.

Borland stared at him curiously, and thought from his incoherent words and strange manner that the stranger was drunk. At length he understood that the young man wished to be directed to the home of Mossman, the foreman, and, as he refused to see the foreman, he got the address and departed. Mossman came up from the bakehouse a few minutes later, and was apprised of the circumstance, but thought nothing of it till he was half-way down the stair again. Then something familiar in the face he had seen for a moment in the shop had flashed upon his memory, and he dashed up to the shop, whiter than the flour on his face, and faintly staggered towards his friend and master, Borland, with the words—

“I’ll hae to gang hame for a minute. I believe that fellow was my lost laddie—my Johnny come back!”

Meanwhile Peter M^cBain had gone a street or two farther, and found the house—a much nicer one than the last he had called his home in Edinburgh. A shining brass-plate on the door bore his father’s name, and when he knocked, a little urchin, chubby and rosy, whom he had never seen before, opened the door and allowed him to step within. A grey-haired woman sat sewing by the window, and some older children were clustered around, but they all stared at the stranger in blank amazement, and in utter ignorance of his identity. Peter stepped forward and gazed into his mother’s face, with the tears creeping into his eyes.

“Dae ye no ken me, mother?” he slowly and chokingly articulated. “I’m Johnny that ran awa’!”

A scream of joy and a wild clasp of the arms was the answer, and then the floury-faced father broke in on them to join in their great rejoicing.

Johnny became a sailor in one sense, for he is now engineer on board one of the American liners, but his heart always turns to Auld Reekie as warmly as when he stood thus before his mother, like one restored from the grave.

THE CAPTAIN’S CHRONOMETER.

The captain had come home with honours—that is, he had saved the ship and a very valuable cargo under his care by sheer bravery and indomitable energy, and been presented with the chronometer by the combined owners in token of their appreciation of his labours. That pleasing memento he carried in his pocket, enclosed in a little chamois leather cover to keep it from dust and wear. It was a ship chronometer, and therefore not meant for use on land or carrying in the pocket; but the captain was proud of his present, and especially of the flattering inscription engraved on the back of the case, and had carried it home to show to his wife and family and any friends he might meet during his short stay.

His ship was at Tynemouth, but his home was in Leith Walk, and about a week of his furlough had gone when he one forenoon met an old friend, and with that gentleman entered a big and respectable public-house in Leith Walk to drink and have a chat over old times. The place was divided into boxes by wooden partitions about six feet high; so customers, though enjoying a certain degree of privacy, could never be certain that their words were not being listened to by others in the adjoining compartments.

Captain Hosking and his friend were too much overjoyed at meeting to think of that, and chatted away in the loudest tones, while a nimble little thief named Tommy Tait, seated at the other side of the partition, swallowed every word. One of the topics was the recent storm and the dangers through which the captain had successfully struggled, and, as a natural result, the chronometer was brought out and displayed to every advantage. The heads of the two friends were close over the valuable present when that of Tommy Tait cautiously rose over the partition.

“It must have cost a good round sum?” said the friend, as he returned the chronometer, and it was carefully encased in the chamois leather cover and returned to the captain’s vest pocket.

“Sixty pounds, at least,” returned the captain, proudly; “perhaps a good bit more. I know they wouldn’t give me a shabby present.”

Sixty pounds! Tommy Tait’s mouth fairly watered as he prudently withdrew his head, and rubbed his hands in gloating anticipation. Such a prize had not come in his way for many a day. But would the captain be an easy victim to manipulate? There was the rub. Had Tommy Tait’s line been one of violence he would have had not the ghost of a chance against the captain, who was six feet two in his stockings, broad in proportion, and strong as a lion. But Tommy’s was the delicate art of the pick-pocket, and had the time been night instead of day, and the captain only sufficiently befogged with drink, Tommy would have felt as sure of his prey as if the chronometer already lay in his clutches. Everything was against him. The captain was drinking only lemonade, and had the look of an exceedingly wide-awake customer besides; the sun was shining brightly, and the streets, he knew, were crowded with passengers. Tommy uttered a few strong imprecations under his breath, coupled with a wish that all temperance captains might come to a bad end for creating extra risks and dangers to hard-working fellows like himself. Still the chance was there and must not be missed; and what was a thief worth if his genius could not rise to an occasion like that?

The captain was going towards Edinburgh, as Tommy learned from the conversation, while the friend was going to Leith. So much the better. Tommy would have one pair of eyes less to trouble him. He waited patiently till they had talked their fill, and then followed them out of the shop. They stood for five minutes at the door; but that interval Tommy filled up ingeniously by lighting his pipe at the bar. When the friends fairly parted, Tommy lost all interest in the barman and his dogs, and abruptly closed the conversation and left. As the captain moved on before him with firm and giant-like strides Tommy’s heart sank within him. He was a bit of a coward, and he felt certain that if he bungled, and got into the clutches of that powerful man, he would not have to wait long for a sore punishment. Sea captains are accustomed to administer law for themselves, and Tommy’s body tingled all over at the very thought of those boots and fists playing about his diminutive person.

The captain wore a pilot coat, the top button of which was fastened. The chronometer, as Tommy knew, was in the right-hand pocket of the vest, with no chain or guard attached. There was both a watch and chain in the opposite pocket, but that was only of silver, and had no attraction for Tommy.

The captain gave no chance till Greenside was reached. There a tobacconist’s window had been done out with fountains and grottoes, and real flowing water, as a Christmas decoration, and the crowd around it attracted the captain, and drew a sigh of profound thankfulness from the breast of Tommy Tait. The captain was amused and interested, and pressed closer; Tommy helped him diligently. Looking hard at the window and laughing consumedly, Tommy got his fingers under the pilot coat and touched the chronometer. The absence of a chain was a sore trial to his skill, but at length he got the chamois leather cover between his fingers, and had the whole out and into his own pocket like lightning. But, alas, the thing had been so roughly done, that Tommy was actually ashamed of his own clumsy work. He felt that the captain had started suspiciously and looked him full in the face, and he concluded that it was time to go.

He moved off as unconcernedly as possible for about twenty yards, when the thrilling shout of the captain fell on his ears, and almost stopped the beating of his heart—

“Hi! you! thief!—stop thief!”

Tommy heard no more. Whatever he lacked, he could run with great swiftness, and that wild cry, and the thought of the powerful limbs of the man who emitted the words, made him put on his most desperate pace.

He dived for the Low Calton, in which he managed to burrow successfully, while the crowd, led by the captain and a policeman who had joined, ran on and did not halt till the foot of Leith Wynd was reached. Not a trace of the fugitive was to be found, and the captain, quite breathless with the race, exclaimed resignedly—

“Oh, what a fool I’ve been! Well, that’s the last I’ll see of my chronometer.”