WITHOUT A ROOF.
The boy, Iver, trudged along carrying the infant in his arms. The
little face was against his cheek, and the warm breath played over
it. Whenever the child cried, he spoke, and his voice reassured
the babe, and it was quiet again. He walked cautiously, as the
path was narrow and the night dark. A false step might send him
rolling down the steep slope with his burden.
Iver had often been to the squatters' quarters, and he knew very
well his direction; but he was now agitated and alarmed.
After a while he reached bushes and could see trees standing
black against the sky, and caught the twinkling of lights. Before
him was a cottage, and a little garden in front. He opened a
wicket and went up to the door and rapped. A call of "Who is
there?" in response. The boy raised the latch and entered.
A red peat fire was burning on the hearth, and a man sat by it.
A woman was engaged at needlework by the light of a tallow candle.
"Tom Rocliffe!" exclaimed the boy. "There's been a murder. A
sailor--he's dead on the path--there's Bideabout Kink standing
by and wants you all to come and help and--here's the baby."
The man sprang to his feet. "A murder! Who's dead?"
"There was a sailor came to our place, it's he."
"Who killed him?"
"Some chaps as was drinking with him, so Bideabout says. They've
robbed him--he had a lot of brass."
"Dead--is he?" The man ran out.
"And what have you got there?" asked the woman.
"It's his baby."
"How came he by the baby?"
"I heard him say his wife was dead, and he were going to carry
the child to his wife's sister."
"What's the man's name?"
"I don't know."
"Where did he come from?"
"He was a seaman."
"Where was he going to put the baby?"
"I don't know 'xactly--somewhere Portsmouth way."
"What's the man's name?"
"I don't know."
"How'll you find her?"
"I don't know."
"Portsmouth is a large place. Are you sure she's in Portsmouth?"
"He said Portsmouth way, I think."
"Then there be a difficulty in finding her?"
"'Spose there will. Will you take the baby?"
"I-I--" The woman stared. "What's its name?"
"It ain't got none."
"Is it a boy or girl?"
"I think it's a girl."
"How old is it?"
"I think he said about six weeks."
"Is it healthy?"
"I don't know."
"Maybe it has the smallpox."
"I do not think so. Will you take it?"
"I--not I. I know nothin' about it. There's no saying, it might
bring diseases into the house, and I must consider my own children.
Is it terrible dirty?"
"I--I don't think so."
"And it hasn't got a name?"
"No; the sailor said it was not baptized."
"What's the color of its eyes?"
"I don't know."
"Has it got any hair?"
"I have not looked."
"P'raps it's an idjot?"
"I don't think so."
"And is deformed?"
"Oh, no."
"Well, I can't have no baby here as I don't know nothin about. You
can take it over to the Snellings. They may fancy it. I won't have
nothin' to do with a babe as ain't got no parents and no name, and
ain't got no hair and no color in its eyes. There is my Samuel
snorin'. Take the child away. I don't want no measles, and smallpox,
and scarlatina, and rickets brought into my house. Quick, take the
nasty thing off as fast as you can."
Iver shrunk away, left the house, and made his way, carrying the
baby, to another cottage a hundred yards distant. There was a lane
between them, with a stream running through it, and the banks were
high and made the lane dark. The boy stumbled and fell, and though
he probably had not hurt the child, he had frightened it, and it set
up loud and prolonged screams. With brow bathed in perspiration,
and heart beating from alarm, Iver hurried up to the second
squatter's cabin, and, without knocking, burst in at the door.
"I say," shouted he, "there's been a man killed, and here's a
baby yelling, and I don't know what's the matter with it. I
stumbled."
A man who was pulling off his boots started to his feet.
"Stop that darned noise," he said. "My wife--she's bad--got the
fever, and can't abide no noise. Stop that din instantly, or I'll
kick you out. Who are you, and what do'y mean rushing in on a
fellow that way?"
The boy endeavored to explain, but his voice was tremulous, and
the cries of the infant pitched at a higher note, and louder.
"I can't hear, and I don't want to," said the man. "Do you mind
what I sed? My wife be terrible bad wi' fever, and her head all of
a split, and can't bear no noise--and will you do what I say? Take
that brat away. Is this my house or is it yours? Take that 'orrid
squaller away, or I'll shy my boot at yer head."
"But," said Iver, "there's a man dead--been murdered up in the--"
"There'll be more afore long, if you don't cut. I'll heave that
boot at you when I've counted thrice, if you don't get out. Drat
that child! It'll wake my wife. Now, then, are you going?"
Iver retreated hastily as the man whirled his heavy boot above his
head by the lace.
On leaving the house he looked about him in the dark. The cottages
were scattered here and there, some in hollows by springs, others
on knolls above them, without a definite road between them, except
when two enclosures formed a lane betwixt their hedges.
The boy was obliged to step along with great care, and to feel his
way in front of him with his foot before planting it. A quarter
of an hour had elapsed before he reached the habitation of the
next squatter.
This was a ramshackle place put together of doors and windows
fitted into walls, made of boards, all taken from ruinous cottages
that had been pillaged, and their wreckage pieced together as best
could be managed. Here Iver knocked, and the door was opened
cautiously by an old man, who would not admit him till he had
considered the information given.
"What do you say? A man murdered? Where? When? Are the murderers
about?"
"They have run away."
"And what do you want me to do?"
"Would you mind taking in the poor little baby, and going to help
Master Bideabout Kink to carry the body down."
"Where to? Not here. We don't want no bodies here."
The old fellow would have slammed the door in Iver's face had not
the boy thrust in foot and knee.
Then a woman was heard calling, "What is that there, Jamaica? I
hear a babe."
"Please, Mrs. Cheel, here is a poor little creature, the child of
the murdered man, and it has no one to care for it," said the boy.
"A babe! Bless me! give the child to me," cried the woman. "Now
then, Jamaica, bundle out of that, and let me get at the baby."
"No, I will not, Betsy," retorted the man designated Jamaica. "Why
should I? Ask for an inch, and they'll have an ell. Stick in the
toe of the baby, and they'll have the dead father after it. I don't
want no corpses here."
"I will have the baby. I haven't set my eyes on a baby this
hundred years."
"I say you shan't have nothing of the sort."
"I say I shall. If I choose to have a baby, who's to say me nay?"
"I say you nay. You shan't have no babies here."
"This is my house as much as yourn."
"I'm master I reckon."
"You are an old crabstick."
"You're an old broom-handle."
"Say that again."
"I say it."
"Now then--are you going to hit me?"
"I intend to."
Then the old man and his wife fell to fighting, clawing and
battering each other, the woman screaming out that she would have
a baby, the man that she should not.
Iver had managed to enter. The woman snatched at the child, the
man wrenched it away from her. The boy was fain to escape outside
and fly from the house with the child lest the babe should be torn
in pieces between them. He knew old Cheel and his wife well by
repute--for a couple ever quarrelling.
He now made his way to another house, one occupied by settlers of
another family. There were here some sturdy sons and daughters.
When Iver had entered with the babe in his arms and had told his
tale, the young people were full of excitement.
"Bill," said one of the lads to his brother, "I say! This is
news. I'm off to see."
"I'll go along wi' you, Joe."
"How did they kill him?" asked one of the girls. "Did they punch
him on the head?"
"Or cut his throat?" asked Bill.
"Joe!" called one of the girls, "I'll light the lantern, and
we'll all go."
"Aye!" said the father, "these sort o' things don't happen but
once in a lifetime."
"I wouldn't be out of seeing it for nuthin'," said the mother.
"Did he die sudden like or take a long time about it?"
"I suppose they'll inquitch him," said one of the girls.
"There'll be some hanging come o' this," said one of the boys.
"Oh, my! There will be goings on," said the mother. "Dear life,
I may never have such a chance again. Stay for me, Betsy Anne.
I'm going to put on my clogs."
"Mother, I ain't agoing to wait for your clogs."
"Why not? He won't run away."
"And the baby?" asked Iver.
"Oh, bother the baby. We want to see the dead man."
"I wonder, now, where they'll take him to?" asked the mother.
"Shall we have him here?"
"I don't mind," said the father. "Then he'll be inquitched here;
but I don't want no baby."
"Nor do I nuther," said the woman. "Stay a moment, Betsy Anne!
I'm coming. Oh, my! whatever have I done to my stocking, it's
tore right across."
"Take the child to Bideabout," said one young man, "we want no
babies here, but we'll have the corpse, and welcome. Folks will
come and make a stir about that. But we won't have no babies.
Take that child back where you found it."
"Babies!" said another, scornfully, "they come thick as blackberries,
and bitter as sloes. But corpses--and they o' murdered men--them's
coorosities."
"But the baby?" again asked the boy.