THE WAY OF TRANSGRESSORS IS HARD.
AT breakfast time the next morning Tom's uncle took the shilling again
from his purse, and turned it about in his hand. "I hope you haven't
got yourself mixed up with any young thief, Master Tom?" he said. "I
saw one of your people yesterday, and he told me you were getting on
very well, and if this lad who has been away on account of his health
is not able to come back, you would stand a very good chance of getting
into the office altogether, and that would be a good lift for you."
"Yes, uncle," said Tom, in rather an absent tone, for he was wishing he
had never seen Jack, or had kept clear of having anything to do with
him.
He went to work feeling desperately miserable again, and wishing he had
never come to London, but had been content to be a blacksmith like his
father. But this last wish did not last long. Oh, he could not live in
the country all his life, he was quite sure, he said to himself.
The fuss his uncle had been making over the shilling being marked need
not frighten him. He had not stolen it. And even if anyone found out
that he had got it, they were not to know how it was Jack had to pay
him this money, unless he told, and he made up his mind he would not do
that.
He also decided that he would not go to meet Jack that evening, but
stay at home and write a letter to his mother and Dick to send with the
gloves.
On his way back he stopped to look into a shop window at the Christmas
cards displayed in tempting profusion, for he thought he might buy
one for his mother, without telling his uncle anything about it; for
if he knew he had more money than the eighteenpence he had paid for
the gloves, he might ask a good many inconvenient questions about the
matter.
It was some time, however, before he could make up his mind which one
to select, and at last when the choice was made, and he went into the
shop to buy it, he found to his dismay that he had got no money to pay
for it.
While the man was wrapping up the card, Tom was turning out his
pockets. There was a ball of string, sundry ends of blacklead-pencil,
his empty purse, but the pocket-handkerchief in which the whole of his
wealth was tied up in one corner was not to be found.
"What is it?" asked the man, after waiting for a minute or two, while
Tom searched through another pocket.
"I have lost my money," gasped Tom.
The man came round the counter to look on the floor, thinking he had
just dropped it. And Tom himself gazed round the shop in the hope of
seeing the familiar red handkerchief, for it seemed impossible that it
could have vanished since dinner time.
He tried to recollect whether he had taken it out since he had counted
over his treasure during the dinner hour, but he could not remember
doing so. He did not go out for a walk to-day, for fear Randall and
the rest of them should set upon him again to treat them to hot drinks
and cakes, for Tom had no notion of spending this money on anyone but
himself. He had enjoyed his visit to the music-hall, and meant to go
again with Jack, when this fuss about the marked shilling had blown
over a little.
He had thought of all this as he counted the money over at dinner time,
and to think that the whole of it had vanished, and with it all chance
of going to see the splendours of the place again was very hard.
"Was it sixpence or a shilling that you dropped?" asked the man, as
he searched among the toys and walking-sticks that stood about on the
floor.
"I had it all tied up in my handkerchief," replied Tom.
"Tied in a handkerchief," repeated the man; "then you can't have lost
it here, you must have dropped it before you came into the shop, or
else somebody took it out of your pocket for you."
But Tom shook his head to this suggestion. If he had walked home with
Bob Ronan, he would have thought this had been done, for Bob might do
it for a joke just to frighten him, but Bob had left him while he was
putting on his overcoat, and he had not seen him since.
But it was clear the pocket-handkerchief and all it contained was
beyond his reach now, and it was of no use waiting to look for it here.
"You can take the card and pay me for it when you go past in the
morning," said the shopkeeper as Tom was leaving.
Tom hesitated, but at last, thinking that he should have his week's
threepence the next day, and that his mother would expect him to send
her some remembrance of Christmas, he decided to take the card, saying
as he did so, "I may not be able to pay you until to-morrow evening,
but I suppose that will do?"
"Oh yes, that will do, you're riot a stranger about here, I know, for I
often see you pass in the morning. I hope you will find your money at
home," he added, as Tom took up the little paper parcel and went out of
the shop.
"I hope I shall," said Tom from the doorway, and just then a policeman
came from the window, where he had evidently been looking in, and
turned his attention to Tom as he sauntered past.
"I hope he'll know me next time," muttered Tom, with an uncomfortable
feeling, as he thought of the shilling his uncle had got secure in his
purse.
He wondered as he went along how much more annoyance he was to have
through this money. Certainly, he had got nothing but misery out of it
at present, it was time his "luck" changed in this respect, he thought.
As soon as he got home, he went to his own room, and looked round,
as we are all apt to do when we have missed anything that yet seems
impossible we can have lost entirely. Tom knew he had taken his money
out at dinner time, and counted it, and yet he searched round the room
at home, as though he expected to find it there.
This rushing off upstairs before he had thoroughly cleaned his boots
on the doormat vexed his aunt, who prided herself on the spotless
condition of her stair covers, which had just been laid down for
Christmas.
"Tom, Tom," she called, "what business have you to go upstairs until
after tea? I have just put down clean drugget, and it will not be fit
to be seen in a week, if you run up and down stairs as you like."
[Illustration: AN UNWELCOME VISITOR.]
Tom came slowly down, and went into the back parlour to his tea, but he
had only just seated himself when there came a knock at the door. Tom
did not as a rule trouble himself about who came to the street door,
and why this particular knock should make him start and tremble he
could not tell, but his hand shook so, as he lifted his teacup, that he
was obliged to put it down again, and listen to what was going on at
the end of the passage.
"Your name is Flowers, I believe?" he heard a gruff voice say.
And his aunt replied in her stiffest tones, "Yes, it is, what do you
want?"
"Well, it's a little business I have to see your husband about—has he
come in yet? The lad who lives here has, I know, for I saw him as I
came along."
"Yes, and you can see him again. Tom!" she called, coming down the
passage as she spoke.
Tom could have wished he was deaf just then, but it was of no use to
pretend that he did not hear, though he was only just dragging himself
out of the chair when his aunt appeared at the door.
"Did you hear me call you, Tom?" she said, looking at him very
suspiciously.
"Yes, I'm coming. Who wants me?" he said, trying to speak indifferently.
He knew before he rose from the tea table who he was likely to see
standing there on the doormat, and yet when his eyes fell on the
uniform of the policeman who stood just under the gaslight, his knees
threatened to give way under him.
"Yes, that's the lad; I thought I wasn't mistaken," said the man.
And Tom expected to be seized and carried off, but the man turned away
again as soon as he had identified him.
This gave Tom a little more courage. "What do you want me for?" he
ventured to ask.
"Oh, you'll know all in good time, my man," said the policeman, turning
to his aunt and whispering something to her.
"You can go back, Tom," she said, turning and speaking over her
shoulder.
Tom went back, but he had no more appetite for his tea. He listened
intently to what was being said at the street door.
But beyond hearing his aunt say, "Yes, he is sure to be in about ten,"
which Tom guessed referred to his uncle's return, he could hear nothing.
But he noticed that his aunt locked the street door before she came in,
and when he went out to wash himself, he looked and saw that the key
was not in the lock as usual, so he concluded that the door had been
fastened to keep him in.
He wondered whether they thought he would run away if he had the
chance, but turning things over in his mind, Tom decided that if he
only stuck to his tale that he had merely lent Jack a shilling, which
he repaid with a marked one, nothing else need be known, and surely he
could not be blamed for that.
So while he washed himself, he made up his mind what he would do and
say when the policeman came again, as he had no doubt he would as soon
as his uncle came home.
He wrote his letters during the evening, one to his mother into which
he put the Christmas card, and in which he told her how well he was
getting on, and how he expected to be permanently put into the office
soon. Then there was one to his aunt at the village school, and this
had to be carefully written, for he knew this would go to the rectory,
and so the same story was told to her, but in more carefully chosen
words.
Dick's letter to be sent with the gloves was written next, and in this
Tom gave a glowing account of his life in London and the splendid
streets, where people could walk at night as well as in the daytime.
The two last were left open for his uncle to see, but Tom fastened
up his mother's, for he did not want him to know he had bought the
Christmas card, for fear he should ask inconvenient questions, and he
had made up his mind to stick to the story that he had only lent Jack a
shilling.
He felt sleepy, but his aunt said he must stay until his uncle came
home, and so he had to sit yawning and gaping for nearly an hour.
But at last his uncle's key was heard turning in the lock. And then his
aunt ran along the passage, calling, "Wait a minute," while she found
the key of the larger lock and unfastened the door.
"What does this mean, Maria?" asked his uncle.
But instead of replying, uncle and aunt both went into the front
parlour, and a few minutes later there came the loud knock at the door
such as they had heard at tea time.
The policeman was asked into the front room, and then the door closed
and Tom could only hear the indistinct murmur of voices.
He wished he could know what was being said, but he firmly made up his
mind to say nothing about the betting, but stick to his tale about
lending Jack a shilling only.
Presently the door of the front room opened and his uncle came in,
followed by the policeman and his aunt.
"It's warmer here," remarked his uncle, taking no notice of Tom, but
motioning the policeman to a seat near the fire.
"No, thank you," said the man, seating himself so that he could have
the light of the lamp on Tom's face.
"Now, Tom," began his uncle, "we want you to tell us all about the
shilling you brought home last night."
"I told you, uncle, Jack gave it to me."
"Ah, but how was it this Jack came to be giving you shillings, that's
what I want to get at?" And if Tom had not been so pre-occupied in
resolving not to say a word that should reveal what really had taken
place, he must have noticed that there was an almost imploring ring in
his uncle's voice as he added, "Now, Tom, tell the truth, the whole
truth, and nothing but the truth."
"I have, uncle," said Tom, assuming an air of indignant protest.
"Do you mean to say you only lent this boy a shilling. When did you
lend it?" asked his uncle more severely.
"Oh, the other day," replied Tom indifferently.
"Yes, but what day?" persisted his uncle.
"Last week, I think, the day after I told you I'd got a shilling
towards Dick's gloves," answered Tom.
"Did this Jack ever say anything to you about betting or card-playing?"
asked the policeman, with a look that made Tom drop his eyes.
"No," he answered in a sullen tone.
"Now, Tom, if you know anything, tell us about it at once," implored
his uncle.
But Tom shook his head. "I've told you all about it," he said.
"And you've nothing more to say?" enquired the policeman.
"What more did you want me to say?" asked Tom, in a tone of insolence.
"Where did you get the money to buy the Christmas cards with?" The
policeman asked the question in a matter-of-course tone.
And Tom started, but recollecting that his mother's letter was fastened
up, he thought he might brave it out.
"I didn't buy any Christmas cards," he said; "you must be mistaken."
But the policeman shook his head. "I know my business too well for
that," he said. "Didn't you tell the man you had lost some money that
was tied up in a pocket-handkerchief?"
Tom hesitated, and turned rosy red, but thinking as the handkerchief
and money was gone, he might as well deny ever having it, he answered,
"No, I haven't lost any money."
Then the policeman turned to his uncle. "It's a bad business
altogether, I am afraid," he said. "I thought this lad might have been
led away by that artful young bookmaker, as several others have, but
it seems to me he can hold his own for artfulness and lying with Jack
himself. Just let him put on his coat and come with us, and I'll take
you to the shop where he bought this card, and you will hear that he
could not find his money, and the shopkeeper let him have the card, and
he promised to take the money to-morrow evening."
The policeman rose as he spoke, and at the same moment his eye fell on
the corner of a letter that had been pushed under a book, as they came
into the room. "What is this?" he said, pouncing upon it instantly.
"That's my mother's letter," said Tom, trying to snatch it from the
policeman's hand.
"Let me see it," interposed his uncle, and the next minute he had torn
open the letter, and drew out the Christmas card.
"Now, what do you say to him being a truthful boy?" exclaimed the
policeman as Mr. Flowers laid the Christmas card down on the table.
"Tom! Tom! What can have possessed you to tell such a lie?" he said.
Tom hung his head, but did not reply. Even now the foolish boy was
considering how much he might safely hide, and how much he had better
tell. At last he had made up his story.
"I had lent Jack more than one shilling," he said, "and he paid me
altogether, and gave me sixpence for interest."
"How much did you have altogether?" asked his uncle.
"Two shillings and sixpence," answered Tom.
"I don't believe it," said his aunt, now speaking for the first time.
The policeman made no comment, but he felt sure they had by no means
got to the bottom of the mystery yet, and after a few more questions,
the policeman and Mr. Flowers went into the next room to talk the
matter over.
What conclusion they arrived at Tom did not know, but when his uncle
came back he told him he might go to bed, and that he should go with
him to the warehouse in the morning, and see what he could find out
there that would throw light upon his doings.
Tom heard now that some lad had been robbing his master to pay his
betting debts to this Jack, and at last some marked money was paid to
him, and the very shilling Tom had given to his uncle for the gloves
was part of this marked money.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]