“Why, Crux,” said one who had been a very lively member of the party during the ride out, “d’ye know, boy, that it’s writ in the book o’ Fate that you an’ I an’ all of us, have just got so many beats o’ the pulse allowed us—no more an’ no less—an’ we’re free to run the beats out fast or slow, just as we like? There’s nothin’ like drink for makin’ ’em go fast!”
“I don’t believe that, Robin Stout,” returned Crux; “an’ even if I did believe it I’d go on just the same, for I prefer a short life and a merry one to a long life an’ a wishy-washy miserable one.”
“Hear! hear!” exclaimed several of the topers.
“Don’t ye think, Crux,” interposed Darvall, “that a long life an’ a happy one might be better than either?”
“Hear! hear!” remarked Hunky Ben, with a quiet laugh.
“Well, boys,” said one fine bright-looking young fellow, patting the neck of his pony, “whether my life is to be long or short, merry, wishy-washy or happy, I shall be off cow-punching for the next six months or so, somewhere about the African bend, on the Colorado River, in South Texas, an’ I mean to try an’ keep my pulse a-goin’ without drink. I’ve seen more than enough o’ the curse that comes to us all on account of it, and I won’t be caught in that trap again.”
“Then you’ve bin caught in it once already, Jo Pinto?” said a comrade.
“Ay, I just have, but, you bet, it’s the last time. I don’t see the fun of makin’ my veins a channel for firewater, and then finishin’ off with D.T., if bullet or knife should leave me to go that length.”
“I suppose, Pinto,” said Crux, with a smile of contempt, “that you’ve bin to hear that mad fellow Gough, who’s bin howlin’ around in these parts of late?”
“That’s so,” retorted Pinto, flushing with sudden anger. “I’ve been to hear J.B. Gough, an’ what’s more I mean to take his advice in spite of all the flap-jack soakers ’tween the Atlantic and the Rockies. He’s a true man, is Gough, every inch of him, and men and women that’s bin used chiefly to cursin’ in time past have heaped more blessin’s on that man’s head than would sink you, Crux,—if put by mistake on your head—right through the lowest end o’ the bottomless pit.”
“Pretty deep that, anyhow!” exclaimed Crux, with a careless laugh, for he had no mind to quarrel with the stout young cow-boy whose black eyes he had made to flash so keenly.
“It seems to me,” said another of the band, as he hung the coils of his lasso round the horn of his Mexican saddle, “that we must quit talkin’ unless we make up our minds to stop here till sun-up. Who’s goin’ north? My old boss is financially busted, so I’ve hired to P.T. Granger, who has started a new ranch at the head o’ Pugit’s Creek. He wants one or two good hands I know, an’ I’ve reason to believe he’s an honest man. I go up trail at thirty dollars per month. The outfit’s to consist of thirty hundred head of Texas steers, a chuck wagon and cook, with thirty riders includin’ the boss himself an’ six horses to the man.”
A couple of stout-looking cow-boys offered to join the last speaker on the strength of his representations, and then, as the night bid fair to be bright and calm, the whole band scattered and galloped away in separate groups over the moonlit plains.
Chapter Twenty Nine.
They Return to the Ranch of Roaring Bull, where Something Serious Happens to Dick Darvall
When Dick Darvall and Hunky Ben returned from the expedition which we have just described, they found all right at the cave, except that a letter to Leather had been sent up from Bull’s ranch which had caused him much grief and anxiety.
“I have been eagerly awaiting your return, Ben,” said Charlie Brooke, when he and the scout went outside the cave to talk the matter over, “for the news in this letter has thrown poor Leather back considerably, and, as he will continue to fret about it and get worse, something must be done.”
He paused for a few moments, and the scout gravely waited for him to resume.
“The fact is,” continued Charlie, “that poor Leather’s father has been given far too much to the bottle during a great part of his life, and the letter just received tells us that he has suddenly left home and gone no one knows where. Now, my friend Leather and his father were always very fond of each other, and the son cannot forgive himself for having at various times rather encouraged his father in drinking, so that his conscience is reproaching him terribly, as you may well believe, and he insists on it that he is now quite able to undertake the voyage home. You and I know, Ben, that in his present state it would be madness for him to attempt it; yet to lie and fret here would be almost as bad. Now, what is your advice?”
For some moments the scout stood silent with his eyes on the ground and his right hand grasping his chin—his usual attitude when engaged in meditation.
“Is there enough o’ dollars,” he asked, “to let you do as ye like?”
“No lack of dollars, I dare say, when needed,” replied Charlie.
“Then my advice,” returned the scout promptly, “is to take Leather straight off to-morrow mornin’ to Bull’s ranch; make him comfortable there, call him Mister Shank,—so as nobody’ll think he’s been the man called Leather, who’s bin so long ill along wi’ poor Buck Tom’s gang,—and then you go off to old England to follow his father’s trail till you find him. Leather has great belief in you, sir, and the feelin’ that you are away doin’ your best for him will do more to relieve his mind and strengthen his body than tons o’ doctor’s stuff. Dick Darvall could remain to take care of him if he has no objection.”
“I rather think he would be well pleased to do so,” replied Charlie, with a laugh of significance, which the scout quietly subjected to analysis in what he styled his brain-pan, and made a note of the result in his mental memorandum book!
“But I doubt if Leather—”
“Shank,” interrupted the scout. “Call him Shank from now, so’s we may all git used to it; tho’ p’r’aps it ain’t o’ much importance, for most o’ the men that saw him here saw him in uncommon bad condition an’ would hardly know him again, besides, they won’t likely be at Bull’s ranch, an’ the captain an’ troops that were here have been ordered down south. Still one can never be too careful when life and death may be i’ the balance. Your friend niver was one o’ the outlaws, but it mightn’t be easy to prove that.”
“Well, then,” resumed our hero, “I was going to say that I fear Shank won’t be able to stand the journey even to the ranch.”
“No fear of that, sir. We’ll carry him down to the foot o’ the Trap, an’ when we git out on the plain mount him on one o’ the horses left by poor Buck—the one that goes along so quiet that they’ve given it the name o’ the Wheelbarrow.”
“Should I speak to him to-night about our plan, Ben?”
“No. If I was you I’d only say we’re goin’ to take him down to Bull’s ranch i’ the mornin’. That’ll take his mind a bit off the letter, an’ then it’ll give him an extra lift when you tell him the rest o’ the plan.”
In accordance with this arrangement, on the following morning a litter was made with two stout poles and a blanket between. On this the invalid was laid after an early breakfast; another blanket was spread over him, and the scout and Dick, taking it up between them, carried him out of Traitor’s Trap, while Charlie Brooke, riding Jackson’s horse, led the Wheelbarrow by the bridle. As for Black Polly, she was left to follow at her own convenience, a whistle from Hunky Ben being at any moment sufficient to bring her promptly to her master’s side.
On reaching the plain the litter was laid aside, the blankets were fastened to the horses, and Shank prepared, as Dick said, to board Wheelbarrow.
“Now then, Shank,” said the seaman, while helping his friend, “don’t be in a hurry. Nothin’ was ever done well in a hurry either afloat or ashore. Git your futt well into the stirrup an’ don’t take too much of a spring, else you’ll be apt to go right over on the starboard side. Hup you go!”
The worthy sailor lent such willing aid that there is little doubt he would have precipitated the catastrophe against which he warned, had not Hunky Ben placed himself on the “starboard side” of the steed and counteracted the heave. After that all went well; the amble of the Wheelbarrow fully justified the title, and in due course the party arrived at the ranch of Roaring Bull, where the poor invalid was confined to his room for a considerable time thereafter, and became known at the ranch as Mr Shank.
One evening Charlie Brooke entered the kitchen of the ranch in search of his friend Dick Darvall, who had a strange fondness for Buttercup, and frequently held converse with her in the regions of the back-kitchen.
“I dun know whar he is, massa Book,” answered the sable beauty when appealed to, “he’s mostly somewhar around when he’s not nowhar else.”
“I shouldn’t wonder if he was,” returned Charlie with a hopeful smile. “I suppose Miss Mary’s not around anywhere, is she?”
“I shouldn’t wonder if she wasn’t; but she ain’t here, massa,” said the black maid earnestly.
“You are a truthful girl, Butter—stick to that, and you’ll get on in life.”
With this piece of advice Charlie left the kitchen abruptly, and thereby missed the eruption of teeth and gums that immediately followed his remark.
Making his way to the chamber of his sick friend, Charlie sat down at the open window beside him.
“How d’you feel this evening, my boy?” he asked.
“A little better, but—oh dear me!—I begin to despair of getting well enough to go home, and it’s impossible to avoid being worried, for, unless father is sought for and found soon he, will probably sink altogether. You have no idea, Charlie, what a fearful temptation drink becomes to those who have once given way to it and passed a certain point.”
“I don’t know it personally—though I take no credit for that—but I have some idea of it, I think, from what I have seen and heard. But I came to relieve your mind on the subject, Shank. I wanted to speak with Dick Darvall first to see if he would fall in with my plan, but as I can’t find him just now I thought it best to come straight to you about it. Hallo! There is Dick.”
“Where?” said Shank, bending forward so as to see the place on which his friend’s eyes were fixed.
“There, don’t you see? Look across that bit of green sward, about fifty yards into the bush, close to that lopped pine where a thick shrub overhangs a fallen tree—”
“I see—I see!” exclaimed Shank, a gleeful expression banishing for a time the look of suffering and anxiety that had become habitual to him. “Why, the fellow is seated beside Mary Jackson!”
“Ay, and holding a very earnest conversation with her, to judge from his attitude,” said Charlie. “Probably inquiring into the market-price of steers—or some absorbing topic of that sort.”
“He’s grasping her hand now!” exclaimed Shank, with an expanding mouth.
“And she lets him hold it. Really this becomes interesting,” observed Charlie, with gravity. “But, my friend, is not this a species of eavesdropping? Are we not taking mean advantage of a pair who fondly think themselves alone? Come, Shank, let us turn our backs on the view and try to fix our minds on matters of personal interest.”
But the young men had not to subject themselves to such a delicate test of friendship, for before they could make any attempt to carry out the suggestion, Dick and Mary were seen to rise abruptly and hasten from the spot in different directions. A few minutes later Buttercup was observed to glide upon the scene and sit down upon the self-same fallen tree. The distance from the bedroom window was too great to permit of sounds reaching the observers’ ears, or of facial contortions meeting their eyes very distinctly, but there could be no doubt as to the feelings of the damsel, or the meaning of those swayings to and fro of her body, the throwing back of her head, and the pressing of her hands on her sides. Suddenly she held out a black hand as if inviting some one in the bush to draw near. The invitation was promptly accepted by a large brown dog—a well-known favourite in the ranch household.
Rover—for such was his name—leaped on the fallen tree and sat down on the spot which had previously been occupied by the fair Mary. The position was evidently suggestive, for Buttercup immediately began to gesticulate and clasp her hands as if talking very earnestly to the dog.
“I verily believe,” said Shank, “that the blacking-ball is re-enacting the scene with Rover! See! she grasps his paw, and—”
“My friend,” said Charlie, “we are taking mean advantage again! And, behold! like the other pair, they are flitting from the scene, though not quite in the same fashion.”
This was true, for Buttercup, reflecting, probably, that she might be missed in the kitchen, had suddenly tumbled Rover off the tree and darted swiftly from the spot.
“Come now, Shank,” said Charlie, resuming the thread of discourse which had been interrupted, “it is quite plain to Dick and to myself that you are unfit to travel home in your present state of health, so I have made up my mind to leave you here in the care of honest Jackson and Darvall, and to go home myself to make inquiries and search for your father. Will this make your mind easy? For that is essential to your recovery at the present time.”
“You were always kind and self-sacrificing, Charlie. Assuredly, your going will take an enormous weight off my mind, for you are much better fitted by nature for such a search than I am—to say nothing of health. Thank you, my dear old boy, a thousand times. As for Dick Darvall,” added Shank, with a laugh, “before this evening I would have doubted whether he would be willing to remain with me after your departure, but I have no doubt now—considering what we have just witnessed!”
“Yes, he has found ‘metal more attractive,’” said Charlie, rising. “I will now go and consult with him, after which I will depart without delay.”
“You’ve been having a gallop, to judge from your heightened colour and flashing eyes,” said Charlie to Dick when they met in the yard, half-an-hour later.
“N–no—not exactly,” returned the seaman, with a slightly embarrassed air. “The fact is I’ve bin cruisin’ about in the bush.”
“What! lookin’ for Redskins?”
“N–no; not exactly, but—”
“Oh! I see. Out huntin’, I suppose. After deer—eh?”
“Well, now, that was a pretty fair guess, Charlie,” said Dick, laughing. “To tell ye the plain truth, I have been out arter a dear—full sail—an’—”
“And you bagged it, of course. Fairly run it down, I suppose,” said his friend, again interrupting.
“Well, there ain’t no ‘of course’ about it, but as it happened, I did manage to overhaul her, and coming to close quarters, I—”
“Yes, yes, I know,” interrupted Charlie a third time, with provoking coolness. “You ran her on to the rocks, Dick—which was unseamanlike in the extreme—at least you ran the dear aground on a fallen tree and, sitting down beside it, asked it to become Mrs Darvall, and the amiable creature agreed, eh?”
“Why, how on earth did ’ee come for to know that?” asked Dick, in blazing astonishment.
“Well, you know, there’s no great mystery about it. If a bold sailor will go huntin’ close to the house, and run down his game right in front of Mr Shank’s windows, he must expect to have witnesses. However, give me your flipper, mess-mate, and let me congratulate you, for in my opinion there’s not such another dear on all the slopes of the Rocky Mountains. But now that I’ve found you, I want to lay some of my future plans before you.”
They had not been discussing these plans many minutes, when Mary was seen crossing the yard in company with Hunky Ben.
“If Hunky would only stop, we’d keep quite jolly till you return,” observed Dick, in an undertone as the two approached.
“We were just talking of you, Ben,” observed Charlie, as they came up.
“Are you goin’ for a cruise, Miss Mary?” asked the seaman in a manner that drew the scout’s attention.
“No,” replied Mary with a little laugh, and anything but a little blush, that intensified the attention of the scout. He gave one of his quiet but quick glances at Dick and chuckled softly.
“So soon!” he murmured to himself; “sartinly your sea-dog is pretty slick at such matters.”
Dick thought he heard the chuckle and turned a lightning glance on the scout, but that sturdy son of the forest had his leathern countenance turned towards the sky with profoundest gravity. It was characteristic of him, you see, to note the signs of the weather.
“Mr Brooke,” he said, with the slow deliberate air of the man who forms his opinions on solid grounds, “there’s goin’ to be a bu’st up o’ the elements afore long, as sure as my name’s Hunky.”
“That’s the very thing I want to talk about with you, Ben, for I meditate a long journey immediately. Come, walk with me.”
Taking the scout’s arm he paced with him slowly up and down the yard, while Dick and Mary went off on a cruise elsewhere.
Chapter Thirty.
Changes the Scene Somewhat Violently, and Shows our Hero in a New Light
The result of our hero’s consultation with the scout was not quite as satisfactory as it might have been. Charlie had hoped that Hunky Ben would have been able to stay with Shank till he should return from the old country, but found, to his regret, that that worthy was engaged to conduct still further into the great western wilderness a party of emigrants who wished to escape the evils of civilisation, and to set up a community of their own which should be founded on righteousness, justice, and temperance.
“You see, sir,” said the scout, “I’ve gi’n them my promise to guide them whenever they’re ready to start, so, as they may git ready and call for my services at any moment, I must hold myself free o’ other engagements. To say truth, even if they hadn’t my promise I’d keep myself free to help ’em, for I’ve a likin’ for the good man—half doctor, half parson as well as Jack-of-all-trades—as has set the thing agoin’—moreover, I’ve a strong belief that all this fightin’, an’ scalpin’, an’ flayin’ alive, an roastin’, an’ revenge, ain’t the way to bring about good ends either among Red men or white.”
“I agree with you heartily, Ben, though I don’t very well see how we are to alter it. However, we must leave the discussion of that difficulty to another time. The question at present is, what hope is there of your staying here even for a short time after I leave? for in Dick Darvall’s present condition of mind he is not much to be depended on, and Jackson is too busy. You see, I want Shank to go out on horseback as much as possible, but in this unsettled region and time he would not be safe except in the care of some one who knew the country and its habits, and who had some sort of sympathy with a broken-down man.”
“All I can say, Mr Brooke, is that I’ll stay wi’ your friend as long as I can,” returned the scout, “an’ when I’m obleeged to make tracks for the west, I’ll try to git another man to take my place. Anyhow, I think that Mr Reeves—that’s the name o’ the good man as wants me an’ is boss o’ the emigrants—won’t be able to git them all ready to start for some weeks yet.”
Charlie was obliged to content himself with this arrangement. Next day he was galloping eastward—convoyed part of the way by the scout on Black Polly and Dick Darvall on Wheelbarrow. Soon he got into the region of railways and steam-boats, and, in a few weeks more was once again in Old England.
A post-card announced his arrival, for Charlie had learned wisdom from experience, and feared to take any one “by surprise”—especially his mother.
We need not describe this second meeting of our hero with his kindred and friends. In many respects it resembled the former, when the bad news about Shank came, and there was the same conclave in Mrs Leather’s parlour, for old Jacob Crossley happened to be spending a holiday in Sealford at the time.
Indeed he had latterly taken to spending much of his leisure time at that celebrated watering-place, owing, it was supposed, to the beneficial effect which the sea-air had on his rheumatism.
But May Leather knew better. With that discriminating penetration which would seem to be the natural accompaniment of youth and beauty, she discerned that the old gentleman’s motive for going so frequently to Sealford was a compound motive.
First, Mr Crossley was getting tired of old bachelorhood, and had at last begun to enjoy ladies’ society, especially that of such ladies as Mrs Leather and Mrs Brooke, to say nothing of May herself and Miss Molloy—the worsted reservoir—who had come to reside permanently in the town and who had got the “Blackguard Boy” into blue tights and buttons, to the amazement and confusion of the little dog Scraggy, whose mind was weakened in consequence—so they said. Second, Mr Crossley was remarkably fond of Captain Stride, whom he abused like a pick-pocket and stuck to like a brother, besides playing backgammon with him nightly, to the great satisfaction of the Captain’s “missus” and their “little Mag.” Third, Mr Crossley had no occasion to attend to business, because business, somehow, attended to itself, and poured its profits perennially into the old gentleman’s pocket—a pocket which was never full, because it had a charitable hole in it somewhere which let the cash run out as fast as it ran in. Fourth and last, but not least, Mr Crossley found considerable relief in getting away occasionally from his worthy housekeeper Mrs Bland. This relief, which he styled “letting off the steam” at one time, “brushing away the cobwebs” at another, was invariably followed by a fit of amiability, which resulted in a penitent spirit, and ultimately took him back to town where he remained till Mrs Bland had again piled enough of eccentricity on the safety valve to render another letting off of steam on the sea-shore imperative.
What Charlie learned at the meeting held in reference to the disappearance of old Mr Isaac Leather was not satisfactory. The wretched man had so muddled his brain by constant tippling that it had become a question at last whether he was quite responsible for his actions. In a fit of remorse, after an attack of delirium tremens, he had suddenly condemned himself as being a mean contemptible burden on his poor wife and daughter. Of course both wife and daughter asserted that his mere maintenance was no burden on them at all—as in truth it was not when compared with the intolerable weight of his intemperance—and they did their best to soothe him. But the idea seemed to have taken firm hold of him, and preyed upon his mind, until at last he left home one morning in a fit of despair, and had not since been heard of.
“Have you no idea, then, where he has gone?” asked Charlie.
“No, none,” said Mrs Leather, with a tear trembling in her eye.
“We know, mother,” said May, “that he has gone to London. The booking clerk at the station, you know, told us that.”
“Did the clerk say to what part of London he booked?”
“No, he could not remember.”
“Besides, if he had remembered, that would be but a slight clue,” said Mr Crossley. “As well look for a needle in a bundle of hay as for a man in London.”
“As well go to sea without rudder or compass,” observed Captain Stride.
“Nevertheless,” said Charlie, rising, “I will make the attempt.”
“Hopeless,” said Crossley. “Sheer madness,” added Stride. Mrs Leather shook her head and wept gently. Mrs Brooke sighed and cast down her eyes. Miss Molloy—who was of the council, being by that time cognisant of all the family secrets—clasped her hands and looked miserable. Of all that conclave the only one who did not throw cold water on our hero was pretty little brown-eyed May. She cast on him a look of trusting gratitude which blew a long smouldering spark into such a flame that the waters of Niagara in winter would have failed to quench it.
“I can’t tell you yet, friends, what I intend to do,” said Charlie. “All I can say is that I’m off to London. I shall probably be away some time, but will write to mother occasionally. So good-bye.”
He said a good deal more, of course, but that was the gist of it.
May accompanied him to the door.
“Oh! thank you—thank you!” she said, with trembling lip and tearful eyes as she held out her hand, “I feel sure that you will find father.”
“I think I shall, May. Indeed I also feel sure that I shall—God helping me.”
At the ticket office he found that the clerk remembered very little. He knew the old gentleman well by sight, indeed, but was in the habit of selling tickets to so many people that it was impossible for him to remember where they booked to. In fact the only thing that had fixed Mr Leather at all in his memory was the fact that the old man had dropped his ticket, had no money to take another, and had pleaded earnestly to let him have one on trust, a request with which he dared not comply—but fortunately, a porter found and restored the ticket.
“Is the porter you refer to still here?” asked Charlie.
Yes, he was there; and Charlie soon found him. The porter recollected the incident perfectly, for the old gentleman, he said, had made a considerable fuss about the lost ticket.
“And you can’t remember the station he went to?”
“No, sir, but I do remember something about his saying he wanted to go to Whitechapel—I think it was—or Whitehall, I forget which, but I’m sure it was white something.”
With this very slender clue Charlie Brooke presented himself in due time at Scotland Yard, at which fountain-head of London policedom he gave a graphic account of the missing man and the circumstances attending his disappearance. Thence he went to the headquarters of the London City Mission; introduced himself to a sympathetic secretary there, and was soon put in communication with one of the most intelligent of those valuable self-sacrificing and devoted men who may be styled the salt of the London slums. This good man’s district embraced part of Whitechapel.
“I will help you to the extent of my power, Mr Brooke,” he said, “but your quest will be a difficult one, perhaps dangerous. How do you propose to go about it?”
“By visiting all the low lodging-houses in Whitechapel first,” said Charlie.
“That will take a long time,” said the City Missionary, smiling. “Low lodging-houses are somewhat numerous in these parts.”
“I am aware of that, Mr Stansfield, and mean to take time,” returned our hero promptly. “And what I want of you is to take me into one or two of them, so that I may see something of them while under your guidance. After that I will get their streets and numbers from you, or through you, and will then visit them by myself.”
“But, excuse me, my friend,” returned the missionary, “your appearance in such places will attract more attention than you might wish, and would interfere with your investigations, besides exposing you to danger, for the very worst characters in London are sometimes to be found in such places. Only men of the police force and we city missionaries can go among them with impunity.”
“I have counted the cost, Mr Stansfield, and intend to run the risk; but thank you, all the same, for your well-meant warning. Can you go round one or two this afternoon?”
“I can, with pleasure, and will provide you with as many lodging-house addresses as I can procure. Do you live far from this?”
“No, quite close. A gentleman, who was in your Secretary’s office when I called, recommended a small lodging-house kept by a Mrs Butt in the neighbourhood of Flower and Dean Street. You know that region well, I suppose?”
“Ay—intimately; and I know Mrs Butt too—a very respectable woman. Come, then, let us start on our mission.”
Accordingly Mr Stansfield introduced his inexperienced friend into two of the principal lodging-houses in that neighbourhood. They merely passed through them, and the missionary, besides commenting on all that they saw, told his new friend where and what to pay for a night’s lodging. He also explained the few rules that were connected with those sinks into which the dregs of the metropolitan human family ultimately settle. Then he accompanied Charlie to the door of his new lodging and bade him good-night.
It was a dingy little room in which our hero found himself, having an empty and rusty fire-grate on one side and a window on the other, from which there was visible a landscape of paved court. The foreground of the landscape was a pump, the middle distance a wash-tub, and the background a brick wall, about ten feet distant and fifteen feet high. There was no sky to the landscape, by reason of the next house. The furniture was in keeping with the view.
Observing a small sofa of the last century on its last legs in a corner, Charlie sat down on it and rose again instantly, owing apparently to rheumatic complaints from its legs.
“La! sir,” said the landlady, who had followed him into the room, “you don’t need to fear anythink. That sofar, sir, ’as bin in my family for three generations. The frame was renoo’d before I was born, an’ the legs I ’ad taken off an’ noo ones putt on about fifteen year ago last Easter as ever was. My last lodger ’ee went through the bottom of it, w’ich obliged me to ’ave that renoo’d, so it’s stronger than ever it were. If you only keep it well shoved up agin the wall, sir, it’ll stand a’most any weight—only it won’t stand jumpin’ on. You mustn’t jump on it, sir, with your feet!”
Charlie promised solemnly that he would not jump on it either with his feet or head, and then asked if he could have tea and a fire. On being informed that he could have both, he drew out his purse and said—
“Now, Mrs Butt, I expect to stay here for two or three weeks—perhaps longer. My name is Brooke. I was advised to come here by a gentleman in the offices of the City Mission. I shall have no visitors—being utterly unknown in this neighbourhood—except, perhaps, the missionary who parted from me at the door—”
“Mr Stansfield, sir?” said the landlady.
“Yes. You know him?”
“I’ve knowed ’im for years, sir. I shall only be too pleased to ’ave any friend of ’is in my ’ouse, I assure you.”
“That’s well. Now, Mrs Butt, my motive in coming here is to discover a runaway relation—”