GOOD-BYE TO FOXY
RENARD turned in a white rage towards the men, Paul and Jean, who were
standing impatiently waiting for the result of the parley with the two
lads.
"What can I do?" he whispered, his utterance thick with passion. "One
cannot use force; there might be an outcry which would rouse the whole
house. What then is to be done?"
Paul advanced a step and pushed him aside.
"Since you have failed, Renard, in your half of the bargain," said he,
"you cannot expect to share in the profits. Go away now, you and these
useless boys of yours."
"But Paul," exclaimed Foxy, "did I not—"
"No," interrupted Paul, "I will hear nothing."
And Jean added:
"Enough, Renard; go without more words. Your belongings which are in
the cart we will leave at No. 9 in the village to-morrow. There—that is
all we have to say to you—now go."
With a snarl of savage disappointment and rage, Renard, taking the boys
by the arm, led them away down the dark, shady walk by which they had
come, and out once more into the road, where, under the shadow of two
great trees, stood the cart and the patient horse.
"Oh, but you weel pay for dis, mine sweet boys!" muttered Renard, as
he dragged the reluctant lads along. "Yes, you weel pay for dis—as
de English say—tro' de nose. Dis night you have make me lose lot of
moneys, and old Renard, he forgives not; dat you shall remember for
effer. Amen."
A village well-known to Foxy was not far distant, and towards this he
now led the two boys, muttering awful threats in mingled French and
English, and swearing horribly under his breath. When they hung back,
or for a moment struggled to free themselves, his cruel clutches forced
them on.
In this fashion the village was reached, a place which at this hour
looked like a little city of the dead, for there was not a light in the
one straggling street of which the hamlet consisted. But Renard went
straight to a small house standing back a few paces from the crooked
thoroughfare in a narrow strip of weed-grown garden. Here he knocked
in a peculiar way—not at the door, but at the window, and in a minute
or two the door was opened to him. A few words passed between him and
the man who opened the door, then Renard and the boys were shown into a
room on the ground floor, where were two straw mattresses and a couple
a three-legged stools and a table.
Setting down the candle which the owner of the house had given him,
Foxy locked the door, and pulled off his rusty overcoat, first drawing
from one of the pockets a coil of stout cord. Then sitting down on one
of the stools, he proceeded to twist and knot this cord, until he had
fashioned out of it a kind of rough cat-o'-nine-tails or scourge. But
he glanced up now and again, and the malignant look on his ugly face—a
mingling of frown and leer, full of evil triumph and covert menace—sent
a shudder of fearful expectation through the chilled forms of the two
lads huddled together on one of the straw mattresses.
In a few minutes the instrument of punishment was completed, and
Renard, getting up from his seat, came towards the bed, and brandishing
his scourge, said to Tad:
"Now, Edouard, hark to me! You shall take this wiep and you weel beat
Philipe teel I tell you assez—enough. And as for you, Philipe, put off
your coat, dat do wiep may work well. So! Allons! Begeen, and forget
not dat you master is—"
"What!" cried Tad, aghast. "What, master! You want me to set upon this
poor little chap and flog him? You don't mean it—you can't!"
"Mais certainement I mean it!" replied Foxy, showing his teeth. "Take
dis wiep of cords and beat well Philips, or—" and the man's face
assumed a yet more evil and threatening aspect.
"Don't anger him no more, dear Tad," said Phil in a whisper. "Do as he
tells you. I can bear it. I ain't afeared of a thrashin' that I haven't
deserved. There, I'm quite ready, and you'll see I won't cry nor make a
sound."
But Tad that night had learned a great lesson while he stood with the
burglars outside the little window of the outhouse. He had seen this
gentle little lad brave the utmost that three villains could do to
him, rather than commit a crime in obedience to their commands—a crime
of which, but for Phil's example, Tad felt that he himself should
certainly have been guilty.
And now—could he inflict pain upon this brave child, for fear of
anything Renard could do? No—the lesson had not been lost upon the lad.
True he had been on the downward track ever since he ran away from
home, but here was the chance for a step up. Once more a chance lay
before him, and his resolve was taken.
Pulling himself together, he rose and faced Renard, looking full in the
cruel green eyes without flinching.
"Master," said he firmly, "Phil is little, and I'm big, and what's
more, he haven't done nothin' wrong, and I ain't a-goin' to lay a
finger on him—not for you nor no one. I won't—no matter what you say
nor what you do."
For a minute old Foxy stared at the lad, hardly able to believe his own
ears. But when Tad repeated: "I wouldn't do master, not if it were ever
so," the man raised his sinewy right arm and with a blasphemous oath
struck him down upon the mattress where Phil was lying. Then snatching
up the scourge which he had dropped for a moment in the surprise of
Tad's refusal to obey him, he began to use it upon both the boys,
Tad managing to cover his little friend, now and again, with his own
broader back, thus shielding him from many a blow.
The flogging went on till Renard's arm was tired and weak. Then he
flung the instrument of torture aside, and going back to the corner
where he had thrown his coat, he drew out of one of its capacious
pockets a bottle of spirit, and sitting down upon the second mattress,
began to drink, muttering ominously the while.
We have said that, as a rule, Foxy only became more excited and furious
the more he took, and that he managed to stop short of the helpless
stage. But this night, either because he was more weary than usual, or
that he had a greater craving for the stimulant in which he habitually
indulged, he went on drinking steadily until he passed from the raving
and excited stage into a drunken stupor, and at last rolled over on the
straw couch quite unconscious, the now empty bottle escaping from his
listless hand.
For a little while Tad and Phil lay still. Sore and aching all over,
they had eagerly watched their master in the various stages of his
intoxication, and now they half feared lest he should be only shamming,
to see what they would do.
But at last his stertorous breathing convinced the lads that he was in
a stupor. Tad was the first to sit up, and Phil, glancing at him, was
frightened at the expression of his friend's face. The eyes were hard
and sullen, the mouth rigid, and a dogged scowl was sot deep between
the brows.
"Now at last," said Tad with a gasp, "we can take some kind of revenge
upon that brute for all he's made us suffer. I'd like to kill him—I
would; he deserves it. But I suppose we must be content with robbin'
him. Where does he keep the tin, Phil?"
The younger lad caught Tad's arm with a look of fear and horror. "Are
you crazy, Tad?" he whispered. "Do you want to be as wicked as he is?
After standin' out agen bein' burglars, are we goin' to be common
thieves! Think, Tad—only think a moment! You must be well-nigh off your
head, dear old boy, to speak of such a thing."
"But we may never have such a chance again, Phil," said Tad.
"Yes, that's true; and so let's clear out, and run away from Foxy.
Better starve or die of cold alone and out in the open than live longer
with this brute. Come, Tad—come quick, afore he wakes up."
"But we can't get out," whispered the elder lad. "Foxy locked the door,
and the key's in his right trouser pocket, and he's lyin' on that side;
we can't get it nohow."
"Then we'll get out at the winder," replied Phil. "See, it opens down
the middle, and we can just squeeze through. Be quick, Tad; Foxy's
snorin' like a hog now, but he may wake at any time."
Picking up their coats and caps, the boys opened the window, and just
managed to get through, though for Tad it was a pretty tight fit.
Then away they went, lame, battered, and sore with their recent blows,
but running at their best pace down the dark, crooked street, pausing
not even to take breath, until they found themselves well outside the
village, with miles of quiet open country stretching away before them,
and a faint dawn just streaking the far-off east.