"_AN HONEST BOY._"
When little Miss Joy had tripped across the row to her own door, Mrs.
Harrison had gone into the house.
The shutters were being taken down from several of the windows, blinds
were drawn up, doors opened, and the row was waking to life and the
business of life.
Mrs. Harrison went about her usual work of clearing up and dusting and
sweeping, and about half-past six she called a boy from one of the
opposite houses to take down the shutters of the little shop front.
The boy looked wistfully at her sad face, and asked, "Is Jack ill,
please, ma'am?"
"No, not ill," she answered, unwilling to spread the news that he had
run away; "not ill; but I am up early."
The boy asked no further question, but said to himself, "Something is
up; and here comes Mr. Paterson!"
"Have you found him?" Patience asked, under her breath. "Any news?
Any news?"
George passed into the house, for he did not wish to excite observation.
"No--no direct news; but I hear some ships got under weigh about three
o'clock. The tide served, and it is just likely that the boy is aboard
one. Don't you think me unfeeling now if I say, it is just as well he
should go; he may learn a lesson you couldn't teach him."
"The same story, the same trial over again! Oh, how can I bear it?"
Patience said, in a voice that filled the honest heart of George
Paterson with deep pity and almost deeper pain.
"Well," he said, "this wrangling here was bad for all parties. The boy
was always in hot water."
"Because she was so cross-grained--because she hated him. Oh, I
cannot, cannot bear to think of it!"
"Pray," said a sharp, shrill voice from the bottom step of the very
narrow staircase which led into the still narrower passage, "pray, what
is all this about?"
"Jack never came home last night," Patience said in a voice of
repressed emotion. "He never came home. He is gone, and I shall never
see him again."
"Oh, fiddlesticks!" was the reply. "Bad pennies always turn up. I
never knew one in my life that was lost. Mark my words, you have not
seen the last of him--worse luck."
"That's not a very pleasant way to talk, Miss Pinckney: you'll excuse
me for saying so," said Mr. Paterson. "The boy was a good boy on the
whole."
"A good boy!" Miss Pinckney was screaming now. "Well, George
Paterson, your ideas of goodness and mine differ. You may please to
take yourself off now, for I've no time to spend in gossip;" and Miss
Pinckney began her operations by flapping with a duster the counter of
the shop, and taking from the drawers certain boxes of small articles
in which she dealt.
While she was thus engaged, she suddenly stopped short, and uttered an
exclamation of horror, turning a white face to her sister, who was
listening to the few words of comfort George had to bestow. "Look
here!" she exclaimed; "look here! The secret's out. The little tin
cash-box is gone, and the thief is out of reach. What do you say to
your good boy now, eh, George Paterson?"
George Paterson took one step into the shop, and said--
"How do you know he took it? He is the last boy I could think of as a
thief."
"Of course. Oh, he is a perfect boy--a good boy! I only wish he had
never darkened my doors--the young villain!"
"Hush, now Miss Pinckney. Calm yourself, and let us have a look for
the box. Where was it put?"
"Why, in the drawer, to be sure, under the counter. I keep the key of
the drawer in my key basket. I always locked it--always. He got the
key and opened it. There was four pounds and odd money in it--close on
five pounds."
"I am certain," said Patience, "Jack did not steal your money, sister
Amelia." Poor Patience was calm now. "It is impossible," she
continued. "He was--he was as honest as the day, and as true as gold."
"All that's very fine--very fine indeed. He stole the money, and made
off. If he didn't, who did?"
Patience stood wondering for a few moments, going over all that
day--that last day. Jack had been at school and out till nearly
tea-time; then he had sat with his books till supper; and then came the
uproar with his aunt, and he had rushed away--straight out of the
house. He could not have stopped in the shop on the way; besides, a
plot must have been laid to get the key. It was impossible Jack could
be guilty.
She looked at George, and read in his face deep sympathy, and also read
there a reassuring smile.
"No," he said. "Whoever is the thief, Jack is innocent. Circumstances
may be against him--his running off to sea, and his passion-fit against
you--but I believe him to be innocent. You had better leave things as
you found them, and I'll call in a policeman. There'll be one on his
beat at the end of the row by this time. It is right and just all
proper inquiries should be made."
The policeman--a stolid, sober individual, who never wasted words--came
at George Paterson's bidding, and looked with a professional eye at the
drawer whence the money had been abstracted.
"Box and all gone! That's queer. Key of box fastened to it by a
string. Humph! Any servant in the house?"
"No."
"Boy that cleans up and takes down the shutters, eh?"
"_No_--that is--my nephew was in the house, and," said Miss Pinckney
with emphasis, "he ran off to sea last night."
The policeman gave a prolonged "Ah!"
Then he proceeded to examine the lock of the drawer.
"Where's the key?"
"Here, in my key basket. I lock the drawer the last thing, and lock
the shop-door myself. You know that, Patience. Speak up."
"Yes, I know it--I know it."
"Well, there seems no certain clue," the policeman said, twisting the
key of the drawer round and round in the lock.
"There's this clue," Miss Pinckney said; "my nephew who ran off to sea
stole the box. He and I had quarrelled a bit, for he was the most
impudent and trying young vagabond. If you wish to know my thoughts,
policeman, they are that he took the cash-box."
"There's no proof. We must have proof. But there's suspicion. We
must try to track the youngster, find out what ship he sailed in; and
when she comes into port, why, we'll keep an eye on the little chap."
The policeman had no more to say just then, and departed, saying to
George, who shouldered his tools and followed him, "I know the boy. A
sharp one, isn't he?"
"An honest one, if ever an honest boy lived," was the rejoinder, as
George Paterson strode away.