THE ADVENTURE OF THE "TURKEYS PIN."
The disappearance of Juliet Mitchell from Littlebourne Lock the second
time did not surprise or frighten her relations nearly so much as her
flight had done on the first occasion.
"Oh, she'll come home," said Mrs. Rowles; "never fear. When she is
hungry she'll turn up, or someone will bring her."
But as the evening closed in, and neither meal-time nor bed-time
brought the wanderer home, some alarm began to spread through the
house. Philip had taken his boat to the place where he had left
Juliet, but she was not there. He went again and shouted for her, but
there was no reply. Then Mr. Rowles shouted from the lock in a voice
that must have been heard at half a mile's distance. Still no sign of
Juliet.
"You should not have left her there, Phil," said Mrs. Rowles.
"I've often set Emily down at the same place," was Phil's defence, "to
gather king-cups or forget-me-nots."
"Yes, I know; but Juliet is not Emily."
This could not be denied. It accounted for Juliet's absence, but it
did not bring her home.
Dozens of boats went up the river, and dozens went down. Rowles said
to the occupants of each of them, "If you should see a girl of
thirteen what has got lost, be so good as to tell her to come home
double-quick, or it will be worse for her."
Some of the people laughed, and some said "Very well;" but evening
deepened into night without bringing Juliet.
The last boat was that of the old gentleman's butler, or valet, or
whatever he liked to call himself. When Rowles made his speech about
the missing girl, the man replied, "I know; that is the child whose
father is a printer. Mr. Burnet takes an interest in that child, being
himself a master-printer, and the son of a journeyman printer."
"The son of a journeyman printer!" Rowles repeated. "You don't say so,
Mr. Robert?"
"Yes, I do say it. My Mr. Burnet's father began life at the bottom of
the ladder, and ended it near the top; and my Mr. Burnet began life
near the top, and is ending it quite at the top. Hard work, Mr.
Rowles, hard work, perseverance, honesty, and temperance; that's what
does it. Your little girl's father may get to the top of the tree
yet."
"Not with his bad health," replied Rowles, shaking his head; "and not
without his proper night's sleep."
"They make up their sleep in the daytime," said the other, beginning
to push his boat out of the lock which was now full. "I've got
relations of my own in the same line, so I know they can make up their
sleep in the daytime. Well, good-night; if I see the girl I'll hurry
her home."
"Good--night, Mr. Robert. I'm glad you've learnt to manage your boat."
As Roberts went off his voice was heard saying, "It is hard work, and
perseverance, and honesty, and temperance that does it." And he was
not wrong.
Ten o'clock came. The lock-house was closed, and all its inmates went
to bed. Mrs. Rowles had little sleep, watching all night for Juliet's
knock. But it did not come.
At six o'clock next morning Mr. Rowles went out to look up and down
the river, and to prophesy the weather. It was still and cloudless and
warm. While he was standing idly beside the running water, listening
to the twitter of birds and the lowing of cows, he heard yet another
cry, that of a man; and presently he saw on the far-off bank the
figure of a big, burly man with a bushy beard.
"I do believe it's Mrs. Bosher's brother!"
"Over! over!" bawled the man, as if hailing a ferry-boat.
"Well, if that ain't a joke! I ain't the ferry. Here you, Phil, jump
into the _Fairy_ and go and see what that man wants."
So Phil played the part of the ferry and brought Mrs. Bosher's brother
to the lock-eyot.
He told his story. The previous evening he had met a young girl in the
wood, and as it was private property, he had warned her out of it.
Afterwards he found that she had gone to his sister's house, evidently
a runaway, and had engaged herself as a general servant. But Mrs.
Bosher, who was one that never took no rest, never even took off her
bonnet, saw through that girl, and knew right well that she had come
from the Littlebourne side of the river; and perhaps Mrs. Rowles could
state what family had lost a little maid-servant.
Yes, Mrs. Rowles could tell him all about Juliet; and after giving him
some breakfast sent him back in the _Fairy_ to his own side of the
river, with a request that Mrs. Bosher would take Juliet to the
station, where someone would meet the tiresome girl and convey her to
her home in London.
The big man promised to do all this, and went out with Rowles
intending to have a pipe and a gossip with him, when down came a boat
rowed by Leonard Burnet, and steered by the old master-printer; and
so the gossip was cut short, though not the pipe.
"I am not going through," said Mr. Burnet from the boat. "Help me to
land, Rowles; I want to have a talk with you. Who is that man?"
looking at the big person who had just gone off in the little _Fairy_.
"Oh, that is Mrs. Bosher's brother. I hope you are well, sir, and the
young gentleman; likewise Mr. Robert."
"Yes, thanks, Leonard and I are very well; but Roberts has a smart
touch of rheumatism, and will not come on the river to-day. May I sit
here, Rowles?" added Mr. Burnet, pointing to a seat under some small
trees.
"If you please, sir. Why, Emma, where are _you_ a-going?"
Mrs. Rowles curtsied to Mr. Burnet. "I am going, Ned, to the vicarage.
I heard say that Mr. and Mrs. Webster are going to London to-day, and
if they would take charge of Juliet it would save my time and money."
Mrs. Rowles hurried off, and caught Mrs. Webster, who most kindly
undertook the charge of Juliet if Mrs. Bosher should bring her to the
station, and to see her safe to her own home in London.
While Mrs. Rowles was absent on this errand, her husband was having a
very important conversation with Mr. Burnet under the small trees.
Neither Leonard nor Phil heard what passed, as they were not within
earshot; but when they presently came near their fathers they caught
these words from Mr. Burnet:
"I hope that he will consent to do as we suggest. It was really my boy
who first thought that it would be a good move. These young people
sometimes get hold of ideas which are worth carrying out. And then
Roberts took it up, knowing as he does from his relations the
difficulties of that kind of life in London."
"I'm sure, sir," said Rowles doubtfully, "it is very kind of you to
think of doing such kindness to a stranger. But I'm much afeard that
Thomas Mitchell is so used to his topsy-turvy way of living, that he
will not fit in with the morning for getting up and the night for
going to bed."
"I will endeavour to get him to try it, at all events. I have taken a
lease of the Bourne House; very likely you know it."
"I should think I did! A good old gentleman used to live there when I
was a boy, as like to you, sir, as one pea is to another; and, what is
more, Mrs. Bosher's brother farms all the arable land belonging to
it."
"Does he? Of course I know all about my future tenant, but I did not
know he was Mrs. Bosher's brother. Well, Rowles, there is a nice
little cottage on the property which your brother-in-law can rent
cheap from me; and I will put him on the _Thames Valley Times and
Post_, which only comes out once a week, and does not keep the men up
at night. We also do a good deal of handbill printing, and catalogues
for sales, and that kind of work, which is easy enough. And I hope to
see your friends settled down here by the beginning of the week after
next."
Rowles shook his head, feeling certain that the arrangement would not
answer. But Mr. Burnet was determined to try it, and Leonard was
delighted with the project.
"Your cousins," said Leonard to Philip, "will have to learn all about
country things. I don't suppose they know a garden when they see one."
"No, they don't," was Phil's answer. "When Juliet saw the first of the
country from the train window, she says to mother, 'It's a pretty
churchyard!' says she."
Mr. Burnet looked very sad for a few moments, then he stood up and
said that he must be going back, as he had to meet Mrs. Bosher's
brother and talk over the barns and the stables and the
farm-buildings. "And on Monday," he added, "I think I shall go to town
and see your brother-in-law, and offer him a place at my
printing-office. I have already inquired his character of his present
employers."
Rowles's head was shaking again; but he only held the boat for Mr.
Burnet and Leonard to step into it, and his forebodings of failure on
Mitchell's part were for the moment kept to himself.
There were also forebodings of failure in the mind of Roberts, when
his master talked so hopefully of what was going to happen to Juliet's
father.
"Don't make too sure, Mr. Leonard, of anything. I daresay that
Juliet's father will have better health living in the country, but as
for his getting to be foreman of your printing-office, I have my
doubts."
Perhaps Roberts's doubts were due to his attack of rheumatism. He was
at this time suffering so much from it that he was almost cross. He
was laid up the very day that Mr. Burnet took possession of the Bourne
House, and sat wrapped in flannel, though the weather was very warm.
"Don't talk to me any more," he said savagely when a tremendous twinge
seemed to be piercing between his bones, "about your Juliet's father
and your Mrs. Bosher's brother. If people have not got names of their
own I don't want to hear about such people."
The housekeeper who was waiting on him began to say, "The name of Mrs.
Bosher's brother--"
"Hold your tongue, do! How this arm does ache, to be sure!"
Leonard was in the room. He got as far as, "The name of Juliet's
father--"
"I won't hear it!" cried poor Roberts, kicking out his right foot, in
which the pain was steely cold.
"We want you to go and see him on Monday," said Leonard.
"Then you may want!" and he flung out the left foot in which the pain
was red-hot.
The housekeeper signed to Leonard to leave the invalid to himself.
When this attack was over Roberts would be himself again--kind and
gentle and polite.
But there was no chance of his being able to go to London to make
arrangements for the move of the Mitchell family. Mr. Burnet was in
the habit of leaving a great deal to Roberts, being himself old and
ailing, and easily upset. On the Sunday, a lovely, sweet, clear day,
it was plain that Roberts would not be of any use for another week or
more.
Mr. Burnet and his son were walking back from evening service, and
enjoying the calm of Sunday evening. Everything had been beautiful;
the hymns, the sermon in church; the hymns of the birds and the
sermons of the harvest, in the fields.
"Delicious!" said Mr. Burnet, pausing as he entered his own large
grounds. "How I wish poor Roberts was well enough to enjoy it all. I
am afraid his exertions at the oar, and his exposure to the evening
damps, have brought on this painful attack. The only thing I can do is
to go to town myself to see this Thomas Mitchell, and I really do not
feel up to it."
The father and son walked on side by side. Presently Leonard said, "Do
you think I could go and make the arrangements with Mitchell?"
Mr. Burnet stopped in his walk, and leaning on his stick said, "Upon
my word, Leonard, I do not see why you could not."
"Then let me do it, father; and if you give me a note to the head of
the press where Mitchell works, perhaps he would let me look round,
and take a practical lesson in the business."
"A good idea!" exclaimed Mr. Burnet.
It was settled in that way; and on the Monday, Mr. Burnet being very
gouty, and Roberts very rheumatic, there was no one who could possibly
go to town except Leonard. He went off, armed with directions and
papers from his father.
Arrived in London he presented himself at the great printing-office
where Mitchell worked; was courteously received by one of the heads of
it, and was shown some of the type, the presses, the paper, and other
things used for printing that morning journal which deprived Thomas
Mitchell and many others of almost every night's rest. Having seen as
much as he could remember, he said to the gentleman who was explaining
matters, "I think I must now speak to Mitchell, who is to leave you on
Saturday, and to begin work with us on Monday next."
"I will send for him," replied the gentleman. "He is a good, steady
fellow, and if his health becomes stronger will deserve your
confidence and regard."
Then, speaking down a telephone, "Send Thomas Mitchell to me."
The answer came back: "Mitchell has this moment knocked off work and
gone."
"Provoking!" said the gentleman.
"It does not matter," said Leonard. "I know his address, and I can go
there and speak to him."
He set off, having a vague notion of the neighbourhood in which the
Mitchells lived. Leonard was not much used to London, especially that
part of it, and as he went he saw many things to interest him. The day
was hot and close, and the narrower streets were far from pleasant. He
was struck by the number of small grocers' shops, and the smell of
paraffin which pervaded this part of London. He also noticed how dry
the vegetables appeared, and how moist the fruits which were exposed
for sale; further, how shabby and threadbare were the carpets
floating at the pawnbrokers' doors, and how fusty the odour from them.
In a word, Leonard could not help seeing that this was a very poor
region.
It did _not_ strike him that poverty and crime are near neighbours;
that the circumstances which make the honest man poor, make the lazy
man a thief. Leonard was too young to be suspicious. He scarcely saw a
shambling poorly-dressed rather wasted man whom he passed, and who
afterwards stumbled along a very little way behind him. Nor did he
specially notice two rather well-dressed but coarse-looking men who
kept just ahead of him.
But when these two began to talk loud he did notice them. When they
stood in the middle of the narrow pavement, quarrelling, Leonard
paused and looked on.
"You did!" said the one.
"I did not!" said the other.
"I'll make you confess it on your marrow-bones!"
"You shall have every bone in your body broke first!"
By this time a crowd had begun to collect. The two men seemed
preparing for a fight.
"Part them, someone!" cried Leonard.
"Let them fight it out!" cried a costermonger, seating himself on his
barrow.
"I'll see fair play!" roared a great unwashed man.
A voice behind Leonard said in his ear, "You come out of this, young
fellow!" and looking round the lad saw the shabby, sickly man who had
been following him.
The crowd hemmed them all four in the midst of it.
"Hallo! The bobbies!" was whispered.
The crowd opened a way through which one of the disputants rushed, all
eyes fixed upon him.
An arm came over Leonard's shoulder, and a dirty hand clutched his
turquoise breast-pin; another arm came over the other shoulder and
another hand clutched the first one. At the same moment two
policemen's helmets peered over the crowd, and a stern voice said,
"What's up? What's your game?"
Then in some mysterious way the first hand and arm vanished, and only
the second remained, and Leonard found himself thus hugged by a
stranger, and confronted by two stalwart policemen.
When an English man or boy finds himself in the hands (or, as in this
case, in the arms) of a stranger, his first impulse is to show fight.
Naturally Leonard began to plunge and to double his fists. But he
could not keep this up, for the man whose arm was round him quickly
retired and stood a few paces off, looking wan and haggard, and very
unlike a thief or ruffian.
The crowd had melted away. The two policemen stood with faces fixed in
something between a grin and a scowl.
"What are you all up to?" said Leonard, in astonishment at the
suddenness of the whole affair.
"Just this, young man," replied one of the policemen, "that if you
want to walk about in this part of London you had better not wear such
an enticing pin in your scarf."
Leonard put up his hand, and found that his turquoise pin was pulled
half-way out of his scarf. He said angrily, "Then why don't you take
the thief in charge?" And he pointed at the sickly-looking man who
stood close by.
"Because he was too quick for us. He's on the other side of the river
long before this."
"Why, there he stands!" cried Leonard, pointing again at the shabby
figure.
"Begging your pardon, young sir, this is him that has saved your pin
from them two thieves. You owe him many thanks, and something more
substantial, in my humble opinion."
Then Leonard understood the affair, and how the poor delicate man had
prevented the smart colleagues from making off with the valuable pin
given him by his late mother, and therefore very greatly precious to
him. He turned to his defender with warm thanks.
The two policemen sauntered away.
"I am awfully obliged to you, I'm sure," said Leonard. "You don't look
well."
"No," replied the poor man; "I have had sickness and sorrow lately,
and a little thing upsets me. I shall be better in a few minutes. You
put your pin in your pocket, sir; and do not show any jewellery when
you come through these shady slums."
"I think I must have come wrong."
"What street do you want?"
Leonard named it.
"Well, you have not come wrong exactly; but you had better have stuck
to the main thoroughfares, and not have taken these short cuts, which
are all very well for some of us, but not for young gents with
'turkeys' breast-pins. If you are not ashamed of my company I can take
you straight to the street you've named."
After his late escape Leonard felt suspicious of every stranger in
London; but as he really had reason to feel obliged to this man, he
put aside that feeling and walked on for some time with his new
acquaintance.