Knock! knock! knock!
The tremulous sound, three times repeated, disturbed the stillness of
an empty street of small wooden houses. The night was very dark, but
the square mass of the tanner's house could just be discerned, black
and solid against the sky. The rays of a solitary oil lamp straggled
faintly across the roadway, and showed a man with a large bundle on
his back standing on the doorstep of that house, knocking as if he
were afraid of the noise he made.
Knock! knock! knock! He tried once more, but with growing timidity and
hesitation. Evidently the inmates of the house were busy, or too far
off to hear the feeble summons. No one answered. The man's small stock
of courage seemed exhausted. Giving his heavy bundle a hitch back on
to his shoulder, he slunk off down the road, to where at a little
distance the small oil lamp high up on the wall beckoned faintly in
the darkness. The all-pervading smell of a tannery close by filled the
air.
When he came directly under the lamp, the man stopped. The light,
falling directly upon the package he carried, showed it to be a bundle
of hides all ready for tanning. Here he stopped, and drew out a piece
of crumpled newspaper from his pocket. Smoothing out the creases as
carefully as he could, he held it up towards the lamp, and read once
more the strange words that he already knew almost by heart.
This notice was printed in large letters in the advertisement column:
'WHOEVER stole a lot of hides on the fifth day of the present month
is HEREBY informed that their owner has a sincere wish to be his
friend. If poverty tempted him to this false step the owner will keep
the whole transaction secret, and will gladly put him in the way of
obtaining money by means more likely to bring him peace of mind.'
'If poverty tempted him to this false step,' the man repeated to
himself half aloud. 'Tanner Savery wraps up his meaning in fine words,
but their sense is plain enough. If it was being poor that drove a man
to become a thief and to steal these hides from the shadow of that
dark archway down by the river last Sunday night,--suppose it was
poverty, well what then? Friend Savery "will gladly put him in the way
of obtaining money by means more likely to bring him peace of mind."
Will he indeed? Can I trust him? Is it a hoax? I would rather do
without the money now, if only I could get rid of these hides, and of
their smell, that sticks to a man's nostrils even as sin does to his
memory. But the tanner promises to give me back peace of mind, does
he? Well, that's a fair offer and worth some risk. I'll knock once
more at his door and see what happens.'
Stuffing the newspaper into his pocket he walked quickly up the road
again, back to the square house, and up the sanded steps. Again he
lifted the brass knocker, and again 'knock! knock! knock!' rang out on
the night air. But this time the knocking was less tremulous, and as
it happened the inmates of the house were crossing the hall on their
way to bed and heard the sound at once. In less than a minute the door
opened, and a square brass candlestick, held high up, threw its light
out into the street. The candlestick was held by a tall man with
greyish white hair, whom all the town knew as Tanner Savery. Peeping
behind his shoulder appeared his wife's gentle face, surmounted by the
clear muslin of a Quakeress's cap. The man on the doorstep never
lifted up his eyes to the couple. 'I've brought them back, Mr.
Savery,' he mumbled, too much ashamed even to explain what he meant by
'them.' But William Savery needed no explanation. Ever since the hides
had mysteriously disappeared from his tanyard a few days before, he
had felt sure that this quarrelsome neighbour of his must have taken
them.
What was that neighbour's real name? That, nobody knows, or ever will
know now. We only know that whatever it may have been it certainly was
not John Smith, because when, in after years, Tanner Savery
occasionally told this story he always called the stealer of his hides
'John Smith' in order to disguise his identity; so we will speak of
John Smith too. 'A ne'er-do-well' was the character people gave him.
They spoke of him as a man who was his own worst enemy, sadly too fond
of his glass, and always quarrelling with his neighbours. Only William
Savery refused to believe that any man could be altogether evil, and
he kept a ray of hope in his heart for John Smith, even when his
valuable bundle of hides mysteriously disappeared. It was that ray of
hope that had made him put the advertisement in the paper, though he
knew it would set the town laughing over 'those Quakers and their
queer soft ways.' This evening the ray of hope was shining more
brightly than ever. More brightly even than the candlelight shone in
the darkness of the night, the hope in his heart shone through the
brightness of the Tanner's eyes and smile. Yet he only answered
cheerily, 'All right, friend, wait till I can light a lantern and go
to the barn to take them back with thee.'
There was no trace of surprise in his voice. Those matter-of-fact
tones sounded as if it were the most natural thing in the world to go
out to the tanyard at 10 o'clock at night instead of going upstairs to
bed.
'After we have done that,' he continued, 'perhaps thou wilt come in
and tell me how this happened; we will see what can be done for thee.'
A lantern, hanging on its hook in the hall, was soon lighted. The two
men picked their way down the sanded steps again, then passing under a
high creeper-covered gateway they followed a narrow, flagged path to
the tanyard.
All this time William Savery had not said one word to his wife--but
the ring of happiness in his voice had made her happy too, and had
told her what he would like her to do during his absence from the
house. Lifting up the bedroom candlestick from the oak chest on which
her husband had set it down, she hastened to the larder, then to the
kitchen, where she poked up the fire into a bright glow, put a kettle
on, and then went back again through the hall to the parlour, to and
fro several times. When the two men returned to the house a quarter of
an hour later, the fragrance of hot coffee greeted them. Solid pies
and meat were spread out on the dark oak table. Mrs. Savery's pies
were famous throughout the town. But besides pies there were cakes,
buns, bread, and fruit,--a meal, indeed, to tempt any hungry man.
'I thought some hot supper would be good for thee, neighbour Smith,'
said Mrs. Savery in her gentle voice, as she handed him some coffee in
one of her favourite blue willow-pattern cups. But John Smith did not
take the cup from her. Instead, he turned his back abruptly, went over
to the high carved fireplace, and leaning down looking into the
glowing coals, said in a choked voice, 'It is the first time I ever
stole anything, and I can tell you I have felt very bad about it ever
since. I don't know how it is. I am sure I didn't think once that I
should ever come to be a thief. First I took to drinking and then to
quarrelling. Since I began to go downhill everybody gives me a kick;
you are the first people who have offered me a helping hand. My wife
is sickly and my children are starving. You have sent them many a
meal, God bless you! Yet I stole the hides from you, meaning to sell
them the first chance I could get. But I tell you the truth when I
say, drunkard as I am, it is the first time I was ever a thief.'
'Let it be the last time, my friend,' replied William Savery, 'and the
secret shall remain between ourselves. Thou art still young, and it is
within thy power to make up for lost time. Promise me that thou wilt
not take any strong drink for a year, and I will employ thee myself in
the tanyard at good wages. Perhaps we may find some employment for thy
family also. The little boy can, at least, pick up stones. But eat a
bit now, and drink some hot coffee; perhaps it will keep thee from
craving anything stronger tonight.'
So saying, William Savery advanced, and taking his guest by the arm,
gently forced him into a chair. Mrs. Savery pushed the cup towards
him, and heaped his plate with her excellent meat-pies. The stranger
took up the cup to drink, but his hand trembled so much that he could
not put it to his lips. He tried to swallow a small mouthful of bread,
but the effort nearly choked him. William Savery, seeing his guest's
excited state, went on talking in his grave kind voice, to give him
time, and help him to grow calm.
'Doubtless thou wilt find it hard to abstain from drink at first,' he
continued, 'but keep up a brave heart for the sake of thy wife and
children, and it will soon become easy. Whenever thou hast need of
coffee tell my wife, Mary, and she will give it thee.'
Mary Savery's blue eyes shone as she nodded her head; she did not say
a word, for she saw that her guest was nearly at an end of his
composure. Gently she laid her hand on his rough sleeve as if to try
to calm and reassure him. But even her light touch was more than he
could bear at that moment. Pushing the food and drink away from him
untasted, he laid both his arms on the table, and burying his head, he
wept like a child.
The husband and wife looked at each other. 'Can I do anything to help
him?' Mary's eyes asked her husband in silence. 'Leave him alone for a
little; he will be better when this fit of tears is over,' his wise
glance answered back.
William Savery was right. The burst of weeping relieved John Smith's
over-wrought feelings. Besides, he really was almost faint with
hunger. In a few moments, when the coffee was actually held to his
lips, he found he could drink it--right down to the bottom of the cup.
As if by magic, the cup was filled up again, and then, very quickly,
the meatpies too began to disappear.
At each mouthful the man grew calmer. It was an entirely different
John Smith who took leave of his kind friends an hour later. Again
they followed him to the door. 'Try to do well, John, and thou wilt
always find a friend in me,' William Savery said, as they parted. Mary
Savery added no words--she was never a woman given to much talk. Only
she slipped her fingers into her guest's hand with a touch that said
silently, 'Fare thee well, _friend_.'
The next day John Smith entered the tanyard, not this time slinking in
as a thief in the darkness, but introduced by the master himself as an
engaged workman. For many years he remained with his employer, a
sober, honest, and faithful servant, respected by others and
respecting himself. The secret of the first visit was kept. William
and Mary Savery never alluded to it, and John Smith certainly did not,
though the memory of it never left him and altered all the rest of his
life.
Long years after John Smith was dead, William Savery, in telling the
story, always omitted the man's name. That is why he has to be called
John Smith, because no one knows now, no one ever will know, what his
real name may have been. 'But,' as William Savery used to say when he
was prevailed on to tell the story, 'the thing to know and remember is
that it is possible to overcome Evil with Good.'