A FRIEND AND AN ENEMY
"THERE'S one thing I wish we'd been able to do," said Phil, as soon as
he could get breath enough to speak.
"And what's that?" asked Tad.
"Warn the people at that house we went to rob, and let 'em know there
was burglars about," replied Phil. "I never thought of it till now, but
we might have set up a screech or a loud whistle just to wake folks,
and maybe frighten Paul and Jean and Foxy."
"Why, you silly, we'd only have been murdered if we'd done that," said
Tad.
"All the same," rejoined Phil the uncompromising, "I think we ought to
have done it."
"Well, we can't help ourselves now," remarked Tad, with a sigh of
relief, for his was not a martyr's spirit, and it had never occurred to
him to reproach himself until Phil suggested that they had neglected
their duty.
"No," he repeated, "we can't help ourselves now; it's hours since we
left them fellows, and any mischief as was to be done has been done
already. So it's no good goin' back, to say nothin' of our bein' sure
to meet Foxy."
Phil shuddered.
"We mustn't get into his hands no more, whatever happens," said he;
"but he'll try and catch us, you may be sure, Tad."
"Yes," assented Tad, "we know too much about him not to be dangerous
now we've run away. So of course he'll want to find us, and we'll have
to look out."
"We'd better not keep to the high roads in the daytime," said Phil; "if
we do, he's sure to track us sooner or later."
"The thing is, what can we do? Where can we go?" muttered Tad more to
himself than to his companion. "Have you any money, Phil?"
"Not a sou, Tad."
"Nor I. And how we're to get food and shelter, or find work to keep us,
goodness knows."
"God knows," corrected Phil gravely, "and it's a comfort He does know.
But now come on, Tad; we must put some miles between us and old Foxy
afore the next few hours is over."
For another half-hour they trudged along the road, talking busily, and
trying to form some plan of action for the future. By this time the sun
was rising, and the tardy winter morn had begun.
"We must take to the fields now," said Phil. "We mustn't be seen on the
road by any folks goin' to market, for old Foxy will be sure to ask
everybody he meets if they've seen us, and if they had, why, it would
end in our bein' nabbed. Come along, Tad!"
So the boys left the highway, and clambering over a gate, walked along
a strip of low marsh-land, which was, however, dry now with the frost.
Here, sheltered from view by the hedge, they followed the windings of
the road for some distance, feeling quite safe. But as the morning
advanced, and the excitement of their escape subsided, the pangs of
hunger and thirst became almost intolerable. And when they spied in the
distance a little house standing among trees, they resolved to go there
and beg for something to eat.
As they approached nearer, they saw that the house was not an ordinary
cottage, but a substantial and neatly built, though small, building of
two storeys. It had a stable and coach-house at the back, and a little
yard where cocks and hens were crowing and clucking over a feed of
grain just thrown out to them.
A pale, dark-eyed, sad-faced woman answered the timid knock at the door
which Tad gave.
"What would you, my children?" she asked gently. "You look weary and
ill. What ails you? Tell me!" And her kind eyes rested with a wondering
pity upon Phil, whose thin, patient, white little face appealed to her
motherly heart.
"We are starving, madame," said Tad, in the queer French he had picked
up during his short stay in France; "and we have not a sou to buy
bread. Will you, of your goodness, give us something to eat, that we
may have strength to pursue our journey?"
"Oui, certainement," replied the woman kindly. "Come into my kitchen,
children; there sit down by the hearth, and warm yourselves, while I
make ready for you."
Soon a plentiful meal of hot milk and bread, and thick pancakes of
buckwheat flour, was put before them. As the famished lads ate and
drank their fill, their hospitable hostess paused now and again in
her work, to smile at them approvingly, and heap their plates, and
replenish their cups with a fresh supply of food and drink.
At last the cravings of appetite were satisfied, and seeing how weary
and sleepy the boys looked, the good woman said:
"Listen, my children; I can see that you need rest; indeed one would
think you had had no sleep all night. Now there is clean straw laid on
the floor of my apple room, at the back of the house. Would you not
like to lie down there and rest—both of you—for a few hours?"
"Ah yes, indeed we should, madame!" cried Tad.
"And thank you, oh, thank you for your goodness!" said Phil, glancing
up gratefully with wistful, moistened eyes. For after all that the boys
had known of late of hardship, privation, and above all of cruelty—they
could hardly accept without tears, the motherly kindness of this
gentle-hearted stranger.
She led them to the back of the house, and opening a door, ushered
them into the little room where the winter fruit stores were kept. On
shelves round the walls were arranged, in tidy rows, on clean paper,
rosy-cheeked apples, and hard, sound, brownish-green baking pears,
while on the straw in one corner reposed several enormous golden
pumpkins. Dried herbs of many kinds hung in bunches from strings
carried across the room just below the rafters of the low roof, and
little lath boxes of various seeds had a small shelf all to themselves.
But on the floor, at the corner of the room furthest from the door, was
a thick mass of fresh straw and hay, dry and fragrant, and to this the
woman pointed.
"Lie down there, my children," she said, "and sleep as long as you
will."
As they crept thankfully into their cosy bed, she went and fetched
a horse-blanket and covered them carefully with such sweet, womanly
tenderness, that Phil caught her hand and kissed it, and Tad looked
up into the kind, sad face, his own softened and made beautiful by
gratitude. Then with a gentle "Sleep well, my children!" their new
friend left them to their repose.
The boys must have slept about eight hours, for when they awoke it
seemed to be late in the afternoon. The sun was no longer shining
in through the slats of the shutter window; indeed the daylight
appeared already to be on the wane. Moreover, a voice which somehow
was familiar, and dreamily associated in their minds with something
distinctly unpleasant, sounded in their ears, and presently roused them
to full consciousness.
"Hark!" whispered Tad. "What's that?"
And the boy sat up, the old, fearful, hunted look coming back into the
face just lately so serene in sleep.
"It's someone talkin' with the woman, ain't it?" said Phil.
"Yes—but don't you know the voice?" gasped Tad. "It's that man Paul,
one of them burglars."
"What shall we do?" cried Phil. "Has he come after us?"
"No, no," rejoined Tad; "but p'raps this is where he lives, and maybe
he's just got home. Listen, Phil; we'd better be quite sure it's he,
and if the woman's told him anything, afore we makes up our mind what
to do."
Still as mice, the lads lay buried in the straw under the blanket, and
listened breathlessly. Part of the talk they could not hear, only a low
murmur of two voices reaching their ears.
But at last the man's voice said distinctly:
"Enough, Claudine; why waste my time and patience with those
everlasting remonstrances of thine? See here, could all thy industry or
mine, year in, year out, win such a pretty bauble as this?"
Here there was a pause, as though the man were showing the woman
something. Then he went on:
"Let me put it about thy neck, my dear! Why dost thou draw back? It is
but a plain gold cross and chain such as any woman may wear; take it!"
"Never, Paul," replied the woman's voice passionately. "Never will I
wear stolen goods. Oh, my husband!—" And here her voice broke, and she
went on sobbingly, "thou art breaking my heart and spoiling my life
and thine own. Think how happy we were only a short time ago, before
the evil days of thy friendship with Jean Michel and his companions!
Why not be content with honest labour, instead of living in fear and
remorse as we must? For this is now the third time that thou hast
returned from a bad night's work, bringing me gifts which I can but
refuse as accursed things."
Paul laughed a little hard laugh.
"The things I bring home are but a little love-token for thee,
Claudine. The rest of our booty finds its way to the smelting-pot
of our Hebrew friends in the town, and thenceforth tells no tales.
And as for my safety, wife, no fears. We work in crape masks, and we
cover our tracks with skill. The only danger is now and then from our
accomplices."
"And how so?" questioned Claudine.
Then the man told his wife how he and Jean had been joined by Renard
and his lads on the previous night, and how, at the last moment, the
boys had refused to do their master's bidding, so that Renard and they
had been ordered off as worse than useless for the job they had in hand.
"And the danger is," added Paul, "lest that dirty old rascal or one of
the brats should carry some story about us to the police, just out of
spite. As it was, we had a great deal of needless trouble. Had the boys
been content to enter and open to us, all would have been so simple,
so easy. But since they refused, we were forced to break in, and this
made noise, and some of the household were roused, so that we could not
get all we had hoped; and this, after our precautions, and our clever
poisoning of the dog, was too bad! Ah!" added Paul fiercely. "Could
I but lay hands on those two little rascals, I would teach them to
disobey again!"
"Did they then refuse to enter and open to thee and thy companions,
Paul?" asked the woman.
"Yes, they said they would not go, and even the threats of their master
availed not; and we could not use force for fear of an outcry."
"Tell me, what like were the lads?" inquired Claudine. "Were they small
or big? French or—"
"Why, wife, what makes then so curious about a matter that, of a
truth, concerns thee not?" said Paul suspiciously. "Thou art never
likely to set eyes upon the young miscreants. That greedy old
bag-of-bones—Renard, the thief, mountebank, tailor, tinker, and what
not—has got the lads, body and soul, and he is not likely to let them
out of his sight."
"Are they French?" asked Claudine again.
"No, certainly not. With their master they spoke the English tongue,
and a hard, jaw-breaking, cursed language it is too. One of the boys
was little with a pale face, and the other taller, with a big round
head like one of thine own pumpkins, Claudine. Ah, let me but catch
them, the young monkeys! And in the space of ten minutes, no one should
know them for the same children."
To this the woman made no reply that the lads could hear; but they had
heard enough to make them look at each other in renewed fear and horror.
"We can't stay here another moment, Phil," whispered Tad. "We must go."
The slatted, wooden shutter which served as a window was only fastened
by a hook on one side. Tad stole across the straw-covered floor,
slipped the hook out of the ring, and the shutter swung open. Swiftly
and noiselessly the boys got out, and found themselves in a small back
garden communicating by a gate with the yard, and divided only by a low
fence from a lane, the tall, bare trees of which they could see rising
above the fence. To clamber over, and drop down into the lane on the
other side, was the work of a moment. Then away—away, in the fading
light, as though flying for their lives—sped the two poor lads, once
more fugitives and vagabonds in a strange land.