THE FINDING OF BUTSEY
It did not take Allen long to learn something about Butsey. An
inquiry at the offices of the philanthropic people, who dealt with
the transfer of ragged boys to the country for fresh air, brought out
the fact that Butsey was a thief, and a sparrow of the gutter, who
lived in a certain Whitechapel den--address given--with a set of the
greatest ruffians in London.
"It was a mere accident the boy came here," said the spectacled
gentleman who supplied the information; "we were sending out a number
of ragged children to Westhaven for a couple of days, and this boy
came and asked if he could go too. At first, we were not inclined to
accept him, as we knew nothing about him. But the boy is so clever
and amusing, that we consented he should go. He went with the rest to
Westhaven, but did not keep with those who looked after the poor
creatures. In fact, Mr. Hill," said the gentleman frankly, "Butsey
took French leave."
"Where did he go?"
"I can't tell you. But one of our men caught sight of Father Don, and
Red Jerry, at Westhaven--those are the ruffians Butsey lives with. He
might have gone with them."
"Did you take the children down on a Wednesday?"
"Yes. And then they came back, late the next day."
Allen reflected that if Butsey sent the wire before four o'clock, he
must have gone back to London, and wondered where he got the money
for the fare. Then he must have come down again, in order to give the
lying message to Mrs. Merry. However, he told the philanthropist
nothing of this, but thanked him for his information. "I intend to
look this boy up," he said, when taking his leave.
"Has he got into trouble?" asked the gentleman anxiously.
"Well, not exactly. But I want to learn something from him relative to
a matter about which it is not necessary to be too precise. I assure
you, sir, Butsey will not come to harm."
"He has come to harm enough already, poor lad." I tell you, Mr.
Hill, "that I should like to drag that boy out of the gutter, and
make him a decent member of society. He is sharp beyond his years,
but his talents are utilised in the wrong way----"
"By Father Don, Red Jerry, and Co.," said Allen drily; "so I think."
"One moment, Mr. Hill; if you go to the Perry Street den, take a plain
clothes policeman with you. Father Don is dangerous."
"Oh, I'll see to that," said Allen, confident in his own muscles and
in those of Parkins. "You couldn't get Butsey to come here?"
"I fear not--I sadly fear not, Mr. Hill. The boy has never been near
us since he came back with the children from Westhaven."
"He did come back with them, then?"
"Oh yes," said the philanthropist frankly, by the late train; "but
what he did in the meantime, and where he went, I can't say. He
refused to give an account of himself."
"Shrewd little devil," said Allen; "but I think I know."
"I trust it has nothing to do with the police," said the gentleman
anxiously; "a detective asked after Butsey. I gave him the address
of Father Don in Perry Street, but the lad could not be found. The
detective refused to say why the lad was wanted, and I hope he'll
not come to harm. If you find him, bring him to me, and I'll see
what I can do to save him. It's a terrible thing to think that an
immortal soul and a clever lad should remain in the depths."
Allen assented politely, promised to do what he could towards
bringing about the reformation of Butsey, and went his way. He
privately thought that to make Butsey a decent member of society
would be next door to impossible, for the lad seemed to be quite a
criminal, and education might only make him the more dangerous to
the well-being of the community. However he reserved his opinion
on this point, and got back to his Woburn rooms to explain to
Horace. The big American--for he virtually was a Yankee--nodded
gravely.
"We'll go down this very night," he said. "I guess we'd best put on
old togs, leave our valuables at home, and carry six-shooters."
"Do you think that last is necessary?" asked Allen anxiously.
"It's just as well to be on the safe side, Hill. If this boy is
employed by Father Don and his gang, he won't be let go without a
fight. Maybe he knows too much for the safety of the gang."
"That's very probable," assented Hill drily; "however, we'll take
all precautions, and go to Perry Street."
"This is what I call enjoyment," said Horace, stretching his long
limbs. "I'm not a quarrelsome man, but, by Gosh, I'm just spoiling
for a fight."
"I think there's every chance we'll get what you want, Parkins."
So the matter was arranged, and after dinner the two men changed
into shabby clothes. It was raining heavily, and they put on
overcoats, scarves, and wore slouch hats. Both carried revolvers, and
thus they felt ready for any emergency. As Allen knew London
comparatively well, he took the lead, and conducted Horace to
Aldgate Station by the underground railway. Here they picked up a cab
and went to Whitechapel. The driver knew Perry Street but refused
to go near it, on the plea that it was a dangerous locality. However,
he deposited the two near the place, and drove away in the rain,
leaving Allen and Horace in a somewhat dark street. A search for a
guide produced a ragged boy of the Butsey type, who volunteered to
show the way to Father Don's den. "You've got some swag to send up
the spout, gents both?" leered the brat, looking up to the big men
as they stood under a lamp-post.
"Just so," said Horace quickly, thinking this a good excuse; "you
engineer us along, sonny, and we'll give you a shilling."
"A bob?--that's good enough," said the urchin, and scampered down a
back street so quickly that they had some difficulty in keeping up
with him. Later on, when they caught him at the end of a
_cul-de-sac_, Allen gripped the guide by his wet shoulder. "Do you know
a boy called Butsey?"
"Oh my eyes and ears, don't I just? Why, he's Father Don's pet. But
he's in disgrace now."
"Why?" asked Horace coolly.
"Father Don sent him down the country, and he didn't turn up at the
hour he was told to. He's been whacked and put on bread and water,"
said the brat, grinning, "worse luck for Father Don. Butsey'll put a
knife into him for that."
"Good," whispered Allen to the American as they went on in the
darkness. "Butsey will have a grudge against Father Don, and will be
all the more ready to tell."
"Humph! I'm not so sure. There's honour amongst thieves."
They had no further time for conversation, for the guide turned down a
narrow lane leading off the _cul-de-sac_, and knocked at the door of a
ruined house with broken windows. A shrill voice inside asked who was
there.
"Swell mobsmen with swag for the patrico," said the guide, whistling
shrilly. "Show us a light."
The door opened, and a small pinched-looking girl appeared with a
candle. She examined the two men and then admitted them. When they
ventured within, she shut the door, which seemed to be very strong.
But Horace noticed a door on the left of the passage leading into an
empty room. He knew that one of the broken windows set in the street
wall gave light to this room, and resolved to make it a line of
retreat should they be too hardly pressed. Meantime the boy and girl
led the way along the passage and towards a trap-door. Here, steps
leading downward brought them to a large cellar filled with ragged
people of both sexes. There was a fire in a large chimney, which
seemed to have been constructed to roast an ox, and round this they
sat, their damp garments steaming in the heat. A curtain portioned off
a corner of the cellar, and when the strangers entered two shrill
voices were heard talking together angrily. But the thieves around
paid no attention.
"Red Jerry," said Horace, touching Allen's arm, and he pointed to a
truculent-looking ruffian, almost as big as himself, who was lying on
a bed composed of old newspapers and day-bills. He seemed to be
drunk, for he breathed heavily and his pipe had fallen from his
fevered lips. "Nice man to tackle," muttered Horace.
"Come along," said the guide, tugging at Allen's hand. "Father Don's
got some one in there, but he'll see you. What's the swag--silver?"
"Never you mind," said Horace; "you find Butsey and I'll make it worth
your while."
"Give us a sov. and I'll do it," said the brat. "I'm Billy, and fly at
that."
"Good. A sov. you shall have."
The boy whistled again and some of the thieves cursed him. He then
pushed Horace towards the ragged curtain behind which the shrill voices
sounded, and vanished. The two were now fully committed to the adventure.
Curiously enough, the ruffians in the cellar did not take much notice
of the strangers. Perhaps they were afraid of Father Don, seeing that
the two came to dispose of swag, and at all events they apparently
thought that Father Don could protect himself. Meanwhile the keen ears
of Horace heard a deeper voice, something like a man's, mingling with
the shrill ones of the other speakers. Without a moment's hesitation,
and anxious to get the business over, the big American dragged aside
the curtain and entered.
Allen and he found themselves before a narrow door. On entering this,
for it was open, they saw an old man with a white beard sitting at a
small table with papers before him. Near, was a small sharp-faced man,
and at the end of the table sat a woman dressed in black.
"It won't do, Father Don," the woman was saying in deep tones; "you
told that brat to rob me. Give it up, I tell you."
"Give up what?" asked Father Don sharply. "How can I give up anything,
when I don't know what it is?"
"Butsey knows," said the woman. "Where is he?"
"On bread and water in the attic," said the small man with a shrill
laugh; "he's having his pride brought down."
"You'd better take care of Butsey," said the woman drily, "or he'll
sell you."
"Let him try," snarled the benevolent-looking old gentleman. "Red
Jerry's his father and will break his back."
This much the two gentlemen heard, and it was then that the American
appeared in the narrow doorway. The woman started and looked at him.
He eyed her in turn and saw a fine-looking creature with dark eyes,
and of a full voluptuous beauty hardly concealed by the plain dark
robes she wore. Allen glanced over Parkins's shoulder and uttered an
ejaculation. "Why, Miss Lorry," he said.
The woman started and rose quickly, overturning the table. The small
lamp on it, fell and went out. There were a few curses from Father
Don and a shrill expostulation from the small man. In the hot
darkness a dress brushed past the two men who were now in the room,
and a strong perfume saluted their nostrils. Horace could have
stopped Miss Lorry from going, but he had no reason to do so, and she
slipped out while Father Don was groping for the lamp, and the other
man struck a match. As the blue flare spurted up, the man saw the two
who had entered. "What's this?" he cried with an oath, which it is not
necessary to set down; "who are you?"
"We've come about business," said Horace; "don't you move till the old
man's got the lamp alight, or you'll get hurt."
"It's the 'tecs," said Father Don savagely.
"I guess not. We've come to do business."
This remark seemed to stimulate the curiosity of the two men, and
they refrained from a shout which would have brought in all the
riff-raff without. Allen congratulated himself, that Parkins had
roused this curiosity. He had no desire to fight in a dark cellar
with his back to the wall against a score of ruffians. In a few
minutes the lamp was lighted. "Turn it up, Foxy," said Father Don;
"and now, gentlemen," he added politely, "how did you get here?"
"A boy called Billy brought us," said Allen stepping forward. "I fear
we've frightened the lady away."
"Let her go, the jade," said Foxy shrilly; "there would have been a
heap of trouble if she'd remained," and he confirmed this speech with
several oaths.
Father Don did not swear. He spoke in a clear, refined, and
educated voice, and apparently was a well-educated man who had
fallen into the depths through some rascality. But his face looked
most benevolent, and no one would have suspected him of being a
ruffian of the worst. He eyed Allen piercingly, and also his
companion. "Well, gentlemen," he asked quietly, "and what can I do
for you?" Horace sat down heavily and pulled out his pipe. "We may
as well talk comfortably," he said. "Sit down, Hill."
"Hill?" said Father Don with a start, while Foxy opened his small
eyes--"not of Wargrove?"
"The same," said Allen quietly. "How do you know me?"
"I know a good many things," said Father Don calmly.
"Do you know who shot Strode?"
Foxy rose as though moved by a spring. "You're on that lay, are you?"
said he shrilly; "then you've come to the wrong shop."
"Oh, I guess not, said Horace lazily--to the right shop. You see,
Mister," he went on to the elder ruffian, "we want that wooden hand."
"What wooden hand?" asked Father Don. "If you mean----"
"Yes, I do mean that," said Allen quickly; "you brought it to Mr. Mask
to get the money."
"Did I?" said Father Don coolly and eyeing the young man; "well, maybe
I did. But I didn't take it from the dead?"
Allen coloured. "Merry took it," he said.
"Oh no, he didn't," sneered Foxy. "Merry got it from Butsey, who dug
it up after it had been planted by----"
"Stop," said Allen, rising. "Father Don," he added, turning to
the old man, "you seem to be a gentleman----"
"I was once. But what's that got to do with this?"
"Stop this man," he pointed to Foxy, "from mentioning names."
"I'll stop everything, if you'll tell us where the diamonds are to be
found," said Father Don.
"I don't know what you mean," said Allen.
"Oh yes, you do. You know everything about this case, and you've come
here to get the hand. Well then, you won't. Only while I hold that
hand can I get the diamonds."
"Where will you get them?"
"That's what I want you to tell me."
"I guess Red Jerry knows," said Horace sharply; "he took the diamonds
from the dead body of the man he shot."
"Meaning Strode," said Foxy, with a glance at Father Don.
"Jerry didn't shoot him," said that venerable fraud.
"I surmise he did," said Parkins. "Ask him in."
"How do you know about Jerry?" asked Father Don uneasily.
"I sailed along o' him, and saved him from being lynched as a
horse-thief. If you won't call him in, I'll do so myself."
"Hold your tongue," said Father Don, rising and looking very
benevolent, "you take too much upon yourself. I'm king here, and if I
say the word neither of you will go out alive."
"Oh, I guess so," said Horace coolly, "we don't come unprepared," and
in a moment he swung out his Derringer. "Sit still, Father Christmas,"
said Parkins, levelling this, "or you'll get hurt."
Seeing Parkins's action, Allen produced his weapon and covered Foxy,
so there sat the kings of the castle, within hail of their ruffianly
crew, unable to call for assistance.
"And now we'll call in Jerry," said Allen coolly. "Sing out, Parkins."
But before the big American could raise a shout there was a sudden
noise outside. A shrill voice was heard crying that the police were
coming, and then ensued a babel. Father Don seized the opportunity
when Parkins's eye was wavering to knock the revolver out of his
hand. The American thereupon made a clutch at his throat, while
Allen tripped Foxy up. A small boy dashed into the room. He was
white-faced, stunted, red-haired, and had but one eye. At once he
made for Parkins, squealing for the police. When he got a grip of
Horace's hand he dropped his voice:
"Ketch t'other cove's hand, and mine," said the boy, and then with a
dexterous movement overturned the table, whereby the lamp went out
again for the second time. Parkins seized the situation at once, and
while Father Don, suddenly released, scrambled on the floor, and made
use for the first time of bad language, he grabbed Allen's hand and
dragged him toward the door. Horace in his turn was being drawn
swiftly along by the small boy. The outer cellar was filled with a
mass of screaming, squalling, swearing humanity, all on the alert for
the advent of the police. The boy drew the two men through the crowd,
which did not know whence to expect the danger. Horace hurled his way
through the mob by main strength, and Allen followed in his
devastating wake. Shortly, they reached the trap-door, and ran along
the passage. The boy pulled them into the side-room Horace had noted
when he came to the den.
"Break the winder," said the boy to Parkins.
The American did not need further instructions, and wrapping his
coat round his arm he smashed the frail glass. From below came
confusedly the noise of the startled thieves. But Horace first,
Allen next, and the boy last, dropped on to the pavement. Then
another lad appeared, and all four darted up the street. In ten
minutes they found themselves blown but safe, in the chief
thoroughfare and not far from a policeman, who looked suspiciously
at them.
"There," said the last-joined boy, "you're saif. Butsey saived y'."
"Butsey?" said Allen, looking at the stunted, one-eyed lad.
"That's me," said Butsey with a grin; "y'were near being scragged by
th' ole man. If y'd called Red Jerry, he'd ha' done fur y'. Miss Lorry
told me t'get you out, and I've done it."
"But I reckon the old Father Christmas told us you were locked up."
"Was," said Butsey laconically; "in th' attic--bread an' water. I
ain't goin' to work fur sich a lot any more, so I dropped out of th'
winder, and climbed the roof--down the spout. In the street I met Miss
Lorry--she told me there was fightin' below, so'--he winked.
"Then there was no police?" said Allen, admiring the boy's cleverness.
"Not much. But they're allays expecting of th' peelers," said Butsey
coolly; "'twasn't difficult to get 'em rizzed with fright. But you look
here, Misters, you clear out now, or they'll be after you."
"You come also, Butsey."
"Not me. I'm a-goin' to doss along o' Billy here. I'll come an' see you
at Wargrove and bring the wooden hand with me."
"What," said Allen, "do you know----?"
"I knows a lot, an' I'm going to split," said Butsey. "Give us a
bob"; and when Allen tossed him one, he spat on it for luck. "See y'
m' own time," said Butsey. "I'm goin' to turn respectable an' split.
Th' ole man ain't goin' to shut me up for nix. 'Night," and catching
his companion's arm, both boys ran off into the darkness.