A SLAVE INDEED
OLD Renard, as Tad soon found, was a Jack-of-all-trades. He could
turn his hand to most things, though he did no sort of work well or
thoroughly. But he was a bit of a tinker, a basket-maker, and mender;
he could do a bit of rough cobbling for any villager who wanted a pair
of boots mended; he could put a passable patch in a pair of trousers;
and he could even play the dentist after a fashion of his own, and take
out teeth, often getting a sound tooth by mistake, and very cheerfully
giving any amount of pain for his fee.
Then, too, he was a bit of a pedlar, and generally carried about with
him a box of cheap jewellery, relics, and knick-knacks, on which, by
aid of his glib tongue, he made a fair profit. He also sold patent
pills and ointments and quack remedies to the ignorant folk, besides
earning many a dishonest penny by the telling of their fortunes. But it
was by the lads in his employ that he made the most regular part of his
income, and Tad soon found that his new work was by no means a bed of
roses, and that old Foxy was quite as fully bent upon making him serve
with rigour, as were the old Egyptian task-masters with their Israelite
bondsmen.
Every morning, early, Phil and Tad were sent out into the streets of
any town in which they happened to be. Phil had his little organ and
monkey Jacko, and Tad was obliged to carry a much larger and noisier
instrument, which sent forth a hoarse mingling of howl and screech when
he turned the stiff handle, eliciting much bad language from people
condemned to listen to it.
Every day the lads were compelled to give their master a certain sum.
Sometimes they earned a little more, sometimes less, but not a sou did
he ever abate of the sum to be paid to him; and if the required amount
were not forthcoming every night on their return, the boys met with
punishment more or less severe, according to the state of intoxication
reached at the time by their master. For Renard was a heavy drinker,
though seldom helplessly drunk. His was a head accustomed to alcohol,
and he could take a great deal without other results than to make him
quarrelsome and violent. But in the later stages of his drinking bouts,
he became utterly unreasonable and a perfect savage, beating the lads
unmercifully, and using horrible language.
It was only when he was tired out, exhausted with his own violence,
that he fell into a deep sleep, and then the two English boys dared
to talk freely after they lay down to rest, exchanging confidences,
telling their respective stories, and giving each other the sympathy
which was now their only comfort.
To ensure that his little slaves did not run away from him, Renard
had taken from them everything that belonged to them save the poor
clothes they wore. He had sold their little possessions and pocketed
the proceeds; and now he chuckled with an evil triumph as they left
him in the morning, for he well knew that even if they tried to escape
from the bondage in which he held them, they could not get far. Without
money, or articles which they could turn into money, and also without
friends—what could they do in a foreign land? Even the so-called
musical instruments they carried were worthless, and no pawnbroker in
his senses would have advanced ten centimes upon them.
So passed the days and weeks, and autumn merged into winter. Frost and
sleet and bitter winds made the lives of the poor boys yet harder to
bear.
Scantily fed, yet more scantily clothed, housed like dogs, their
suffering was great, while old Foxy appeared to take a malicious
pleasure in their misery, and taunted them cruelly when he saw them
especially downhearted and sad.
At first Tad bore all these new troubles with a kind of dogged,
stubborn patience. Even such a life as this, he told himself, was
better than that he had led at home, and as he had made up his mind to
rough it, rough it he would.
But after a while the growing brutality of Renard roused the lad's
hatred and instinct of retaliation, and the man himself would have
shrunk in startled horror, had he guessed what dark and murderous
thoughts began to fill the brain of this poor, ill-used drudge of his.
But it never occurred to old Foxy that there might be danger to
himself resulting from his treatment of the lads if he drove them to
desperation. He had no notion of their doing anything worse than trying
to run away, or possibly robbing him of food or a few sous; and if they
did either of these things, he thought he knew how to deal with them.
Time went on, and now Christmas was close at hand: at least it wanted
only ten days to the twenty-fifth, a festive season for many, but not
for poor Phil and Tad. Poor gentle little Phil was sadder than ever
now, for the great cold had killed Jacko, and the boy, who had dearly
loved his little companion, grieved sorely over his loss, and clung the
more closely to Tad as his only friend and sole comforter.
One day Renard and the lads were tramping along a high road, on their
way to a place some miles away. Stopping to rest awhile and eat their
poor dinner, they were joined by two men who were evidently known to
Renard.
The newcomers, after a little talk, drew old Foxy away from the
spot where the boys were seated munching their crusts and drinking
cold barley coffee out of a bottle. Here the men were quite out of
earshot, and a whispered conversation commenced, which seemed, from
the mysterious faces and gestures of the speakers, to be of the utmost
interest and importance.
Presently it appeared that the two men were to accompany Renard and his
boys on their journey, for when dinner was over, all rose and walked
together towards the town, which was reached about nightfall.
The lads slept on straw in a shed in the suburbs that night, and would
have been thankful to rest undisturbed till morning, for they were very
weary. But they were roused about midnight by their master's hissing
whisper:
"Rise and come wid me, bote of you!"
Tad sat up staring straight before him, only half awake, while Phil
rubbed his heavy eyes and groaned.
"Why," said Tad, "surely it's the middle of the night, master; what do
you want with us? We are both tired and need to sleep."
"Hold dat tongue of yours, and get you up," replied Foxy sharply; "dat
is all you have to do. And be queek if you would not haf the steek."
So very weary, and full of fear and foreboding, the boys rose and
followed Foxy out into the road, where, much to their surprise, a light
spring cart and good horse were awaiting them, the two strange men
sitting in front.
"Now then, Renard," said Paul, the one who held the reins, "in with the
children and yourself! The luggage is in already, you say? Good! Now
are you ready?"
"They are all in, Paul," said Jean, his companion; "drive on, my
friend; anyway it will be one o'clock before we get there."
Paul drew the whip across the horse's flanks, the animal sprang
forward, fell into a spanking trot, and soon left the little town far
behind.