Chapter X: Part 10

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.”

The policeman, by a question or two, elicited the fact that the captain had got a good look at the thief, and promptly advised him to go up to the Central Office and report the case, assuring him that it was by no means uncommon, when a case was thus quickly reported, for us to recover the stolen property in a few hours. This friendly exaggeration sent the captain up to the Central, when it became necessary for me to tone down his hopes a little. By the description given of the thief, I recognised Tommy Tait unmistakably, for Tommy had certain peculiarities of ugliness about his figure-head which, once seen, were always remembered, and I firmly assured the captain that I could easily lay hands on the nimble pickpocket in an hour’s time; but as to recovering the watch, that was altogether a different matter. I could not pledge myself to that.

“Why, it’s the chronometer I want,” exclaimed the bluff seaman, looking quite aghast. “I’ll give twenty pounds this minute to the man who puts it into my hands safe and sound. What do I care for the blessed thief? Though you got him and gave him twenty years on the treadmill, that wouldn’t do me a bit of good.”

“There’s a chance of getting the chronometer, too, if we get the man,” I quietly observed. “Just leave your name and address, and all particulars, while I go and see if I can lay hands on Tommy.”

I fully expected that I should get Tommy at some of his usual haunts, and return within the hour, but I was giving Tommy credit for far less ability than he possessed. I chanced to know his favourite hiding-place, and went to that direct. He was not there, and had not been near it for days. All his haunts were tried with a like result. Then, a little annoyed, I “tried back,” and discovered the entry and common stair in the Low Calton in which he had burrowed while his pursuers rushed by. Two boys had seen him there, and they testified that he had turned back towards Greenside as soon as it was safe to venture forth; and from that point all trace of him disappeared. I hunted for him high and low, for days on end, in vain; and what added to my mystification was the fact that Tommy’s relatives and acquaintances were as puzzled and distressed at his disappearance as I could possibly be. At first I thought it possible that he had left the city, but in a day or two had reason to believe that such was not the case. Tommy never went farther than Glasgow or Paisley, and as he had not been heard of or seen in either of these places, a queer thought came into my mind. Could it be possible that Tommy had wandered into bad company and got knocked on the head—in other words, murdered—for the valuable treasure he carried? I note the strange suspicion, not because it turned out to be correct in regard to the loss of Tommy’s valuable life, but because the treasure he carried was to bring him trouble quite as unexpected as his disappearance had been sudden. While I had thus been hunting in vain, and Tommy’s friends had been almost mourning him as dead, and even ungenerously hinting that I had had a hand in his slaughter, Tommy was enjoying the sweets of a well-earned repose in—of all places in the world the last I should have thought of—the Infirmary! He had got hurt, then—run over with a cab or something—in his flight? Not at all. Seized with a fever, then? Neither. He was as sound in body and limb as myself. It was simply this. Before the chronometer had come in his way, Tommy, who was lazy and hard-up, had gone once or twice to the Infirmary complaining of some imaginary trouble, which the doctors could not understand. His object was to get admitted as a patient, and have a month or two’s rest and retirement from the uncertainties of the thieving profession—to be coddled up in bed and tended night and day, and fed up with wine and other delicacies too often denied to the most ingenious malingerer in prison. Tommy was one of those clever malingerers, but he preferred to practise the art in a place where he could at any moment gain his liberty by ending the distressing symptoms of disease.

That was the position. The thought of making the Infirmary his hiding-place came to him as an inspiration. In Greenside he caught a ’bus which took him up to the head of Infirmary Street for a penny. He just managed to get within the gate of the Infirmary when he was seized with such a paroxysm of his trouble that he dropped almost insensible at the feet of the janitor. The house surgeon was summoned, and, as Tommy was then too far gone to be removed with safety to his home, he was borne in an invalid’s chair to the nearest ward, and there put to bed. Close to the head of this bed, and below the sash of one of the windows, was a little shelved cupboard, in which was stowed some of the other patients’ clothing—tied up in bundles till they should be needed again. Tommy’s agony was never so bad but that he could look after the folding up of his clothes, and more especially his trousers, in the pocket of which now reposed a gold chronometer worth at least £60. Such tender solicitude did he evince for the safety of these worn and shabby articles that the attention of more than one person was attracted, and the surgeon sharply demanded whether he had not any tobacco concealed about the pockets, to which Tommy gaspingly replied that he never used tobacco or snuff—a pathetic lie. As soon as the clothes were bundled up and put away in the little cupboard, Tommy had a relapse which occupied the surgeon and nurses for an hour at least, and effectually banished from their minds all remembrance of the little incident of the clothes.

Next forenoon, when the time arrived for the professors and students to make their round, it was found that Tommy’s trouble had all settled in his back and neck, for in the one he had such dreadful pains that he could scarcely lie in bed, and in the other a chronic stiffness which a year or two’s rheumatism could hardly have equalled. There was much grave consultation around his bed, and Tommy tried hard to learn the result of the deliberations, for he had a wholesome dread of being scarified on the nape of the neck with hot irons, or cupped on the shoulders, as he had been in the prison hospital for a similar attack, but all that passed was spoken in whispers, and sometimes in a language which Tommy did not understand.

Tommy was left ill at ease on two points. He feared some surgical appliance of a painful nature, and he had fidgetty feeling regarding the safety of his hard-earned chronometer. He never took his eyes off the door of the little cupboard except in sleep, and even then the slightest footfall roused him to wakefulness. Then there was a danger of some patient recovering and needing his clothes, and taking out those of Tommy by mistake. Tommy fidgetted himself almost into a fever over that possibility, the more so as he had on one side of him an evil-looking cabman, with a face as bloated as a Christmas pudding, who he was sure was a thorough rascal. In the bed on the other side was an innocent-looking Irishman, named Teddy O’Lacey, who sympathised with him very heartily, and whom Tommy set down as a born idiot and simpleton.

He had no fear of the fool of an Irishman; it was the bloated cabman he watched and dreaded. After considering the whole matter, Tommy decided that the chronometer was not in a safe place, and that night waited till every one in the ward was sound asleep, and the night attendant out of the way. Then he nimbly slipt out of bed, opened the cupboard, took out his clothes, and hid the chronometer under his pillow. He could there feel it with his hand almost constantly, and, if any nurses came to make his bed, could conceal it in his hand till they were gone. At all events he felt more comfortable with it beside him, and acutely reasoned that, even if it were seen, in its chamois leather cover it would excite no suspicion, as several patients had watches hanging by their beds or under their pillows.

Another day passed away, and all Tommy’s fears had subsided. The professors ordered nothing but harmless physic, and the chronometer was safe under his pillow, so Tommy settled himself to the full enjoyment of his well-earned repose. He slept soundly that night, and was so refreshed in the morning that he did not immediately think of his chronometer. After breakfast, when he did thrust in his hand, the treasure was gone! Tommy could scarcely believe his own senses. He grabbed wildly under the pillow, over the bed, under the sheet—everywhere; he even forgot in his sweat of mortal agony that he had a stiff neck, and stooped over the edge of the bed to see if haply it had fallen to the floor.

All in vain. The prize had vanished. Worse and worse, he dared not report the loss, for if the chronometer were hunted for and found, no matter who should be the thief, a police case would certainly follow, and Tommy get seven years at least. He looked around. The Irishman was sleeping, as was his wont; the cabman, on the contrary, was eyeing Tommy in a manner that convinced the latter of his guilt.

“You’ve got it then?” was Tommy’s savage thought. “I’ll see if I can’t take it back from you. I always know’d that cabmen was thieves, but I hardly think they’ll match a professional.”

The day passed away, and the hour for visitors arrived, bringing Teddy O’Lacey’s wife, who spent an hour with her husband, and was introduced to Tommy, and departed, hoping that he would soon be well.

Tommy paid little attention to her kind words, for all his powers were concentrated on the cabman. He watched the man till his very eyes became telescopic, and gloated over the fact that the scrutiny was evidently painful to the suspected one. After the gases were lit his patience was rewarded by seeing the cabman furtively take from under his pillow something in shape of a watch enclosed in a chamois leather cover. The sight was too much for Tommy.

He sprang out of bed, forgetful alike of pains in his back and stiffness of neck, and pounced on the watch with a cry of joy.

“That’s my watch, you plunderer!” he shouted; but to his surprise the cabman resisted stoutly, and stuck to the watch, dealing Tommy at the same time several blows, which sent him reeling back on his bed. The man was big-bodied and strong; such an unequal contest could never be maintained by Tommy; so he snatched up a kind of tin flagon, which stood handily near, and hurled it at the cabman’s head, closing up one of that patient’s eyes and scattering the contents all over his bed. Up sprang the cabman, and the next moment Tommy knew what a real pain in his back meant, for his breast bone had nearly driven the spine out of him through a tremendous blow from his opponent. The din of the battle, the shouts and imprecations, and the cries of the other patients, brought a number of nurses and attendants to the spot; and at length the combatants were torn apart and some explanation offered. Each accused the other of being a dastardly robber in attempting to steal a watch.

The cabman stated his case, and proved beyond question that the watch he held was his own—a silver lever, with his initials engraved on the case. Tommy had then very little to say, except that he had been robbed of a watch, which no one had ever seen, and which was certainly not in his possession when he entered the Infirmary. On the whole, Tommy looked and felt rather foolish, and not even the sympathy of Teddy O’Lacey, who warmly took his part, could quite convince him that he had not done a rash thing. This fear was confirmed when the house surgeon came round and audibly commented on Tommy’s astonishing agility and freedom from pain during the encounter, and ended in saying—

“I’m afraid you’re an impostor and malingerer, but we’ll see to-morrow when the professors come round.”

Morning came, and Tommy was sternly asked whether he would rise and put on his clothes and depart, or wait till a policeman was sent for to assist him from the place. With a deep groan Tommy chose to leave the building unaided. It cut him to the heart to make the decision, for had he not been robbed of the chronometer, and was he not thus putting himself farther than ever from the thief? O’Lacey, the simple Irishman, almost wept in sympathy with him, and hoped they would meet again when Tommy was free from all such persecutions and wicked conspiracies. They wrung hands pathetically, while the cabman, with a bread poultice on his eye, audibly wished that he might be present at Tommy’s execution.

While this affectionate adieu was taking place, I was entering the gate of the Infirmary with no thought of Tommy in my mind, but intending to see a miserable girl in another part of the building. I wished to see this girl, with the chaplain by my side, and had to get that gentleman before going farther. When this had been arranged, we crossed the quadrangle together, so intent on the subject of conversation that, when Tommy appeared before me, I looked him full in the face without seeing him, and should have passed on had he but been as inattentive as myself. He made sure I had come for him, and dashed away down the steps towards the Surgical Hospital. A high wall surrounded the building, covered with iron spikes, and facing the High School Yard. A ladder left by some workmen stood near, and Tommy pounced on that as a godsend, bore it to the wall, and was up like a monkey before I could reach the spot. The ladder was short, and he had to reach up and grasp the iron spikes to hoist himself up. As he did so, the rotten and rusted iron gave way, and down he flopped at my feet with a sprained ankle, a broken leg, and many more pains and aches than he had simulated for the past few days. He was carried into the building, and his leg set, and then I told him to be ready to accompany me as soon as he was able to leave the establishment. He would say nothing regarding the captain’s chronometer; but one of the nurses chanced to speak of the battle, and his strange accusation against the cabman, and I gradually pieced the facts together well enough to clear up all mystifications but one. That was—where was the chronometer?

The cabman had it not; and every other patient and crevice in the ward was searched with a like result. I firmly believed that the chronometer had never been in the place, and that the charge against the cabman was only some eccentric ruse on Tommy’s part to draw our attention from the real hiding-place. I visited him occasionally during his stay in the Infirmary, and at length, when he was able to move, took him with me and had him charged with the theft. But here an awkward circumstance arose, apparently to defeat justice. Captain Hosking had gone off to sea again before my capture of Tommy, and was not returned, so that Tommy’s identification could not be made. There was nothing for it but to remand him, when he kindly came to our help by confessing all that I have put down. But he declared most positively that he had been robbed of the chronometer during his sleep, and, as one of the nurses had been discharged on suspicion of having pilfered from a dead patient, I lost a deal of good time in ferreting after her. She proved to be innocent, having been out of the building on that particular night, and I was left as far from success as ever. A chance remark of Tommy’s about the “simplicity” of Teddy O’Lacey drew my attention to that patient, and one day when I was in the building I walked to the old ward to have a talk with him. He was gone, and his bed occupied by a new patient. I got an outline of his address, and began hunting for him in the West Port. While making this tour through one of the worst rookeries in the place I met a Roman Catholic priest well known to me, and hailed him at once with the question—

“Do you know one Teddy O’Lacey?”

The face of the priest became grave in a moment, and he appeared to me to _think well_ before he answered.

“Who are you after now? and what do you want with O’Lacey?” he slowly asked, when he had done thinking.

He was a keen-eyed, intelligent man, beloved as much for his acuteness as for his benevolence, and I saw that his eyes were reading every line and expression of my face—much as I have seen those of an anxious mother do when I have asked for her son.

“Never mind what I want, but tell me where he lives,” I laughingly replied. “I want to see him, if you will know.”

The priest made no answer for a full minute.

“Mr M^cGovan,” he said at last, with a tremor of deep feeling in his tones, “perhaps I know what you’re seeking, and perhaps I don’t. But answer me one question—do you believe me? can you depend on my word of honour as a Christian gentleman?”

“From my soul I can!” I warmly responded, grasping his proffered hand.

“Well, then, take my advice, and don’t show your face in that land to-day. If you do, _I think_ what you seek will be destroyed. Wait another day, and I will try to help you all I can. The man O’Lacey has been very ill, and he believes it is the visitation of God, which I do myself,” and he lifted his hat and looked reverently upwards. “Will you have patience for another day, especially when I assure you, on my soul’s salvation, that by going there now you will not get, and never see, what you’re after?”

“I will,” I answered, after revolving the proposition for a moment or two, and so we parted.

Next day a starch box, wrapped in brown paper and addressed to me, was handed into the office. Inside, in many folds of paper, was the captain’s chronometer, in its chamois leather cover, bright, beautiful, and perfect as when it left the maker’s hands. Pinned to it was a paper, on which were badly written these words—

“A contrite sinner restores what was wickedly stolen, and lifts a mighty load off his mind.”

I smiled, and though I made some inquiries after O’Lacey, they never came to anything. Tommy Tait was duly identified by the captain, and sentenced to seven years’ retirement, the captain getting back his chronometer, and saying and doing some handsome things on the occasion.

THE TORN TARTAN SHAWL.

A servant in a house at the outskirts of the city had been tempted by the clear air and dry frost to leave a whole “washing” of things out over night. She wanted them to get a nip of the frost, she said, but instead they got a nip of another kind. The girl woke at four o’clock in the morning and happened to look out at the green, when the clothes were there all right. She rose again at six, and, looking out, had to rub her eyes to make sure that she was not still in bed and dreaming. Nearly the whole of the things were gone.

Satisfied that she was awake, she first asked herself if some kind “brownie” had taken the brunt of the morning’s work off her hands by taking down and folding up the things; but then, remembering that these useful fairies had all vanished before the steam engine and electric telegraph, she ran out of the house, fearing theft and hopeful of catching some of the thieves. No one was visible. The very best of the clothes were gone; the clothes pegs, all scattered over the ground, the empty ropes, and a few articles of trifling value alone being left to tell of the robbery. At least so the girl thought as she ran into the house and roused all within it with the news. Of course the servant got the blame, and received notice of dismissal at once, although, as she afterwards informed me, it had been by her mistress’s express orders that the things had been left out. The lady denied that—it is convenient at times to have a bad memory—and so the disgrace rested on the girl’s shoulders. Had the lady, instead of indulging in recrimination and wrangling, sent word promptly to us, the whole case might have assumed a very different aspect, as we could thus have sent word to most of the pawnbrokers by their hour of opening. A good haul had been made, including some gentlemen’s shirts of fine linen, the best of the lady’s underclothing, and some twenty or thirty pairs of worsted stockings, of all sizes and sorts, as there was a big family. The most of the linen was marked with the letters “A. M. B.,” and some of the stockings had the same initials worked into them with pink worsted near the top of the leg.

When the news reached us I went out to see the place and get a list of the stolen articles. Six valuable hours had been lost, and I frankly told the lady that she need scarcely hope to recover all she had lost, and all through that stupid delay. The green had been left exactly as the servant had found it when she rushed out in the morning—the clothes pegs littered the ground; and while I glanced over the approaches to the green, the girl began to pick up these pegs and put them into a cotton bag which hung about half-way up one of the clothes poles. This bag was suspended from a nail at a height convenient for the hand, and at the head of the nail there fluttered a little pennon, which had never been meant for that queer flag-staff. It was a shred of bright coloured tartan, which appeared to have been rent out of some one’s shawl, as the owner hurriedly switched past.

“You’ve been damaging your shawl, Maggie,” I remarked to the servant girl, who was busy laying off to me her wrongs and grievances, and the deplorable failings of mistresses in general.

“It’s no mine—I dinna wear shawls,” said Maggie shortly as she continued her task. Her head was full of her troubles—mine was far away from what she was most anxious to speak of.

I took down the shred of tartan. It began narrow at the nail head which had caught it, and got gradually broader, till it ended, liked a filled-up A, in a fringe of the same colours. I spread the piece out along my palm, and then called to Maggie.

“Look here, now, and tell me if any one about the house, or living near, wears a shawl of that pattern?”

Maggie looked at the scrap of tartan, and declared most emphatically that no one in the household did wear such a shawl, and added with a smile that none of her acquaintances would be seen in such a thing—the colours being about the brightest and “loudest” that could be made for money. The same thought had already struck me, and my thoughts instinctively wandered in the direction of some of my own “bairns.” The tartan was of just such a pattern as one may see on scores of shoulders about the Cowgate on a Sunday afternoon. I seemed to see the whole shawl in that shred—a little square thing, folded across, and just big enough to cover the shoulders. By mentally picturing the shawl on a woman’s shoulders, and gauging her height by that treacherous nail, I could guess her to be a person rather under than above medium height, and immediately began to ask myself which of my “bairns” given to “snow-dropping” had been lately displaying such a grand shawl. Useless! their name is legion. They nearly all delight in these things, and a dozen at least might wear tartan of the identical colours of the shred in my hand. I began to think that I should make little of my discovery. However, I placed the scrap of tartan carefully between the leaves of my pocket-book, completed my list as far as I could at the house, and left. A bundle of the stolen things was in the Office before me. They had been offered at a pawnbroker’s shortly after the opening hour, and pledged for fourteen shillings. The boy who had taken in the things and paid over the money was a _blockhead_. He knew that the pledger was a woman, but could not describe her appearance. He did not think she was very old, and he did not think she was very young. Did she wear a tartan shawl? Yes, he thought so; but then he changed his mind, and thought that she hadn’t any shawl. No one could make anything of such a fool, and I strongly recommended the pawnbroker, for his own safety, to get rid of such a stupid assistant, to which the man replied that he would have been happy to do so, had the lad not been his own son. I grinned over my mistake, the pawnbroker helping me liberally, and then left. I then took a long stroll through the likeliest quarters, with a keen eye to every tartan shawl. Twice in the course of that walk did I start joyfully at sight of a shoulder shawl of the identical pattern, but in both cases the owners were decent, hard-working folks, and not a trace of a rent or patch to be found in either of the articles. With my eyes thus grown familiar in the search, I was wearily trudging homewards late in the afternoon with the shawl nearly gone from my thoughts, when on the South Bridge, near the head of Infirmary Street, I came up to a wretchedly-clad woman bearing in her arms a child, round which was wrapped a gaudy and apparently new shawl of the exact pattern I sought. Now, at the first glimpse of this shawl I decided that it was not the one I sought, which I imagined would scarcely be so bright and fresh-looking; but it was the incongruity of that bright shawl, allied to such rags and poverty, which made me slacken my pace, and almost instinctively follow the owner of the child.

The woman was not a professional thief—a glance at her somewhat pinched features told me that—yet her poverty was so apparent that I felt by no means certain that she would not have committed a robbery under such pressure. Poverty and a hungry bairn—where is the mother who could resist the pleadings of these? Then the shawl was the only fresh thing about the queer pair. The mother’s clothes were meagre and shabby in the extreme; her boots were mere apologies for foot coverings, and her bonnet only fit for a scarecrow, and the clothing of the child equally poor. They had also a worn and travel-stained look, and stood out prominently among the ordinary passengers as dusty tramps always do when they enter a city. They were strangers, they were poor, and the child wore a tartan shawl of the exact pattern I sought—it could do no harm to follow them, which I did with a sigh for the dinner I had hoped so soon to be consuming.

My interesting pair turned down Infirmary Street, and stopped at the gate of that institution—became, indeed, part of a crowd already gathering there—visitors waiting the hour of admittance to see friends. Five o’clock was the hour, and it lacked nearly ten minutes of the time. Most of these visitors were of the poorest, and they varied the monotony of the waiting by exchanging experiences and expressions of sympathy. My tramp joined in the conversation, and I soon learned from her tongue that she came from the West. The Glasgow brogue was strong in her tongue, but not strong enough, and I soon heard her say that she had come from Airdrie, which accounted for the slight difference in the accent. She was the wife of a pit labourer—an occupation considered far beneath that of a collier, who ranks as a skilled workman; and her husband in working among the hutches had got hurt in some way, and been laid up at home till their little house was almost stripped of furniture. Then the disabled man had gone to Glasgow for advice; and afterwards hearing of the great skill of the Edinburgh professors, he had scraped together enough to bring him through to this Infirmary, into which he was admitted as an indoor patient. He did not write very hopefully of recovery; and at length the wife, reduced to her last penny, had resolved to come through and see him with her own eyes.

“I’m feared that he’s waur than he says, and maybe winna get better,” she said, shedding tears freely as she spoke. “I’ve walkit every fit o’ the road, thinking I saw a coffin at the end o’ the way.”

Cheering words and homely sympathy were showered upon her without stint, most of those present seeming to find their own troubles light beside what that slight woman had endured.

“Is that your only bairn?” one asked, to which the mother replied—

“Yes, and I thocht we wad baith a’ been frozen to death on the road. It was awfu’ caul’ last nicht; I never thocht we’d see morning.”

“What? did ye sleep in the open air?” cried an old woman, holding up her hands.

“I hadna a penny to pay a lodging; and I was tired and dune, and didna like to gang to a poorhouse,” was the choking answer.

The old Irishwoman wiped her own eyes, and then I saw her slowly fumble in her own pocket and produce twopence, which she tried to slip into the hand of the baby.

“Oh, no, no! No, thank ye,” cried the mother, in strong protest, and flushing painfully at the proffered help so thinly disguised. “I’m no needing that now; I’ve got money since then. There’s some kind folk in the world yet, and I’ve as muckle as take me to my mither’s after I see how my man is.”

I did not hear the rest of her speech, for in putting back the proffered coppers she had thrown up the corner of the tartan shawl—turned it back with a whisk right under my eyes, and there I saw a wedge-shaped rent, as if a piece had been neatly torn out of the pattern near the edge. I was in a manner fascinated and horrified by the discovery, and stood staring at the torn shawl in a manner that must have looked idiotic in the extreme.

“That’s a bonnie shawl you’ve got on your bairn,” I at length managed to say, by way of opening up a conversation.

“The bairn’s bonnier than the shawl,” one woman hastened to add, “but that’s aye a man’s way o’ looking at things. The brightest colours catch his e’e first.”

“Have you had it long?” I continued to the mother.

“He’ll be eleven months next week,” she answered, with a look of pride.

“I don’t mean the bairn—the shawl,” I said in correction.

“Oh, no, not long,” she answered frankly; and then she appeared to catch herself up, and said no more.

“You’ve torn it a little there,” I continued. “The bit seems to be taken clean out.”

“Yes, I noticed that,” she quietly answered. She did not seem to like me or my remarks—just when she was becoming so interesting to me, too!

“Would you mind turning back the corner of the shawl again for a moment—just to oblige me?” I continued, in no ways abashed by her coldness.

She gave me a look as if wondering at my impudence, and then threw back the corner of the shawl over the baby’s shoulder as I had desired. Her look of contempt was beginning to be reflected in the faces around her, but I heeded the looks no more than if they had been the glassy stares of so many wax figures. I took out my pocket-book, turned open the leaves, and produced the shred of tartan. Then I spread the torn part of the shawl flat on the baby’s shoulder, placed the wedged-shaped piece I had taken from my pocket-book in the opening, and found that in shape, colour, and size they fitted and corresponded exactly.

The woman followed my movements with no great interest. Her indifference might have been assumed or caused by the door being about to be opened.

“Where were you this morning between four and six o’clock?” I demanded, when I had satisfied myself that I had at last got the right shawl.

“That’s nothing to you,” she indignantly answered, with a slight flash of annoyance.

“It is everything; and if you won’t answer it here, you must go with me up to the Police Office and refresh your memory there.”

The woman turned right round and looked me full in the face, more in astonishment than alarm. Then some one whispered to her—

“It’s M^cGovan, the detective,” with a significant nudge on the arm, and in a moment she became terribly agitated.

“Do you think I stole it?” she chokingly exclaimed.

“No, not exactly.”

“Then what for do you want me to gang to the Office?”

“That is not for me to explain, but go you must.”

“I winna! I’ve trampit a’ this way to see my puir man, and I maun see him.”

I brought out my handcuffs, whereupon the assembled crowd began to groan and hoot and abuse me to their hearts’ content. Would I drag a poor creature like that away to jail at such a moment, before she could even see her invalid husband? I replied that I would not drag her if she was inclined to walk. Then names were showered upon me enough to have stocked a slang dictionary. I pointed out to the crowd that the door was now open, and that through it was their way, while ours was in quite a different direction; and at length, with the aid of a policeman who chanced to pass the head of the street, I convinced them that I was right. The woman was now crying bitterly, and the child was screaming in concert.

“What am I ta’en awa’ for? Am I charged as a thief?” she at length sobbed as I led her off.

“Not yet. Just keep your mind easy for a little. It’s only your baby’s shawl as yet that is in trouble. Why are you afraid to say where you got it, and when?”

She could not see that anyone had a right to ask that. She had not stolen it, nor had she bought it, but she declined to say more, till she saw how serious things looked at the Office.

She was carefully searched, with the result that in her pocket was found a half sovereign and some coppers, but none of the stolen articles. Her baby was then inspected, and on it were found a pair of worsted stockings a world too big for its little legs, with the fatal initials “A. M. B.” worked in pink worsted near the top of the leg.

The case now seemed very clear, if a little sad. The woman had been in great want; had been tramping past the place, and under a sudden temptation had taken the clothes and pawned some of them. I fully expected her to admit the robbery, and plead the circumstances in piteous tones in extenuation, but nothing of the kind. She roused out of her torpor of grief, and in the most indignant tones made a statement which seemed to us to have not even the merit of ingenuity. She had been sleeping in the open air on the outskirts of the city, with her child closely clasped in her arms, “to keep it frae the caul’,” as it was but thinly clad, when she was roused by a hand shaking her violently. The disturber of her half-frozen torpor was a woman dressed like a servant girl in a common print wrapper, and carrying a big bundle. The strange woman shook her till certain that she was awake, and then rebuked her strongly for exposing herself and her child when shelter was within her reach.

“I tellt her I was a stranger, and didna ken where the Night Asylum was, and that I hadna a penny in the world,” continued our prisoner. “Then she took my bairn in her arms, and kissed it and cuddled it to make it warm, and then she took the shawl off her shouthers—that shawl that you’re makin’ sic a wark aboot—and wrapped it roon’ my wean, an’ brocht a pair o’ stockin’s oot o’ her bundle for it, an’ tellt me to keep them. Then she gie’d me a shillin’, an’ tellt me to gang to a lodging in the Grassmarket, and then said she was in a hurry or she wad have ta’en me there hersel’, and gaed awa’.”

And the half-sovereign found in her possession? How did she account for that? How did it happen that when the mysterious woman with the bundle spoke to her she had not a penny, and now she had a half-sovereign?