IN TROUBLE
Through the Broadway, along the Hammersmith Road, on, and on, and on.
Every step he took made the next seem harder. He was conscious that he
could hardly walk much more. The crowd, the lights, the strangeness of
the place, confused him. He wondered where he was. Was this London?
and was it nothing else but streets? and was this the Land of Golden
Dreams?
When he reached the Cedars, where the great pile of school buildings
is now standing, he saw, peering through the railings, a little arab
of the streets. To him he applied for information.
"Is this London?"
The urchin withdrew his head from between the two iron rails through
which he had managed to squeeze it, and eyed his questioner. He was a
little lad, smaller than Bertie, hatless, shoeless, in a ragged pair
of trousers which were several sizes too large for him, and which were
rolled up in a bunch about his ankles to enable him to put his feet
far enough through to touch the ground.
"What, this? this 'ere? no, this ain't London."
"How far is it then?"
"How far is it? what, London? It just depends what part of London
might you be wanting?"
"Any part; I don't care."
The urchin whistled. His small, keen eyes had been reading his
questioner all the time, and Bertie was conscious of a sense of
discomfort as he observed the curious gaze. In some odd way he felt
that this little lad was bigger and stronger, and older than himself;
that he looked down at him, as it were, from a height.
"Say, matey, where might you be going to? You don't look as though you
knowed your way about, not much, you don't."
The cool tone of superiority irritated Bertie. Tired and weary as he
was, and a little sick at heart, he was not going to allow a little
shrimp like this to look down on him.
"If you won't tell me the way, why, that's enough. I don't want any of
your cheek."
Bertie moved on, but the other called after him.
"You needn't turn rusty, you needn't; I didn't mean no harm. I'm going
to London, I am, and if you like you can come along o' me."
The urchin was by his side again. Bertie looked at him with disgusted
eyes. He had not set out upon his journey with the intention of
travelling with such tag-rag and bobtail as this lad. So far the
society into which he had fallen had been of an unfortunate kind; he
had had enough of Sam Slater, and of Sam Slater's sort.
"I'm not going with you; I'm going by myself."
"Alright, matey, every bloke's free to choose his pals."
The urchin turned a series of catherine-wheels right under Bertie's
nose. Then, with a whistle of unearthly shrillness, he set off
running, and disappeared into the night. Bertie was left no wiser than
before.
He dragged along till he reached Addison Road A gentleman in evening
dress came across the road, smoking a cigar. He was of middle age,
irreproachably attired, with nothing of Sam Slater about him.
"If you please, sir, can you tell me how far it is to London?"
The gentleman stopped short, puffing at his cigar.
"What's that?"
Bertie repeated his inquiry. For answer, the gentleman took him by the
shoulder, led him to a neighbouring lamp-post, and looked him in the
face.
"What are you doing here? You look respectable; you're from the
country, aren't you?"
Bertie hesitated; he remembered the effect produced by his incautious
frankness on Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins.
"Speak up; you have got a tongue, haven't you? What are you doing
here? run away from home?"
The lad, giving a sudden twist, freed himself from the gentleman's
grasp, and ran off as fast as his legs could carry him. The stranger,
puffing at his cigar as he stood under the lamp-post, laughed as he
peered after the retreating boy. But Bertie, despite his weariness,
still ran on. He dimly wondered, whether he bore about with him some
outward sign by which any one could tell he was a runaway. He made up
his mind that he would ask no more questions if he ran the risk of
meeting such home thrusts in reply.
He wandered onwards till he reached Kensington Gardens, and then the
Albert Hall. There was a concert going on, and the place was all lit
up. He stared with amazement at the enormous building, imperfectly
revealed in the darkness of the night. Carriages and cabs were going
to and fro. Some one touched him on the shoulder. It was a gorgeous
footman, with powdered hair, in splendid livery. His magnificence
dazzled him.
"I say, you boy, do you know Thurloe Square?"
"No, sir."
"What do you mean? are you gettin' at me? You take a message for me to
Thurloe Square, and there'll be a bob when you get there."
"But I don't know Thurloe Square; I'm a stranger, sir."
"A stranger, are you? Then what do you mean by standing there, as
though you was born just over the way? Get on out of it! I shouldn't
be surprised if you was after pockethandkerchiefs;--what's your little
lay? I'll tell the policeman to keep an eye on you, telling me you
don't know Thurloe Square;--oh yes, I jest dersay!"
The footman appeared to be angry; Bertie slunk away. He crossed the
road to the park; a gate was open; people were going in and out. He
entered too. It looked quiet inside; perhaps there was grass to sit
upon. He went up towards the Serpentine, and had not gone far when he
came to a seat. On this he sat. Never was seat more welcome; it was
ecstasy to rest. He was dimly conscious of what was going on; before
he knew it he was fast asleep.
Time passed; still he slept. A perfect sleep untroubled by dreams.
Some one else approached the seat, some one in the last stage of
raggedness, so exhausted that he seemed hardly able to drag one foot
behind the other. He, too, sat down; he, too, fell fast asleep.
Some one else approached,--a woman with a baby and a watercress
basket. The baby was crying faintly; the woman tried to comfort it,
speaking to in a droning monotone:
"I've nothing to give you, bairn," she said; "I've nothing to give
you, bairn! God help us all!"
A policeman came along. When he reached the seat he stopped, and
flashed the bull's-eye lantern in the faces of the sleepers. The woman
woke up instantly, perhaps used to such a visitation.
"I'm going, sir; I only sat down for a moment to rest awhile."
The baby began to cry again.
"I've nothing to give you, bairn," she said; "I've nothing to give
you, bairn! God help us all!"
It seemed to be a stereotyped form of speech. She got up, with the
baby and her basket, and walked away, the baby crying as she went. The
policeman remained behind, flashing his bull's-eye.
"Now then, this won't do, you know; wake up, you two."
He took the ragged sleeper by the shoulder, and shook him; he seemed
to wake in a kind of stupor, and staggered off without a word. The
policeman turned to Bertie.
"Now then!"
The lad woke with a start; he thought some one was playing tricks with
him.
"What do you want?"
"I want you to clear out of this, that's what I want."
Opening his eyes Bertie was for a moment dazzled by the glaring light;
then he saw at the back the policeman's form, looming grim and awful.
Possessed by a sudden fear, he sprang to his feet, and ran as for his
life.
"Now I wonder what you've been up to?" murmured the policeman. "I
don't remember seeing your face before; I should say you was a new
hand, you was."
Bertie ran, without knowing where he was running to; across the road,
under a rail. He found himself upon the grass. It was quite dark,
mysterious, strange. He could hardly be followed there, so he thought
at least, and strolled more slowly on. But he was very tired still,
and, yielding to his weariness, when he had gone a little farther, he
sat down upon the grass to rest.
And this was the Land of Golden Dreams! this was his entrance into the
promised land! A gentle breeze murmured through the night; there was a
sound as of rippling grass and of rustling leaves; he could see no
stars; a heavy dew was falling; the grass was damp; it was chilly; the
breeze blew cold; he shivered with hunger and with cold. His head was
nodding on his breast; almost unconsciously he lay full length upon
the sodden grass, and again fell fast asleep.
But this time it was not a dreamless slumber; it was a continued
nightmare. He was oppressed with horrid visions, with continuous
strugglings against hideous forms of terror. Unrefreshed he woke. It
was broad day; but there had come a sudden change of weather, the
skies were overcast and dull. His limbs were aching; he was stiff, and
wet, and cold; he was soaked to the skin; his clothes stuck to his
body. Shivering, he struggled to his feet, rising with pain. The place
was deserted. Three was a solitary horseman in the distance; the
horseman and the lad were the only living things in sight.
It began to drizzle; the wind had risen; it whistled in the air. The
fine weather had departed as though never to return. Bertie's teeth
were chattering; he felt dull and stupid, ignorant of what he ought to
do.
He began walking through the rain across the grass. How cold he was,
and oh! how hungry. He must have something to eat, and something warm
to drink. He thought of his money; he felt for his fourpence; it was
gone!
The discovery stunned him. He could not realize the fact at once, but
searched in each of his pockets laboriously, one after the other. He
turned them inside out; felt for holes through which it might have
fallen. He remembered that he had put it in the right hand pocket of
his trousers; he examined it again and again, in a sort of stupor. In
vain; it was gone!
He retraced his steps. It might have fallen out of his pockets in the
night; he fell upon his knees and searched. There was no sign of it
about. He was without a sou, and he was so hungry and so cold, and it
was raining, and he was wet to the skin.
He could not realize his loss. He wandered stupidly on, stopping at
times, feeling in his pockets again and again. It could not be gone.
But there was no money there. This was his Land of Golden Dreams; this
was the object of his journey; this was the result of his dash into
the world; he was cold, and he was hungry, and he saw no signs of
anything to eat.
At last he left the park behind. He went out by the Piccadilly gate,
as miserable a figure as any to be seen, stained with mud, soaked with
wet, hungry and forlorn. It was early. The early omnibuses were
bringing crowds of business men to town. The drivers were muffled in
their mackintoshes, the outside passengers crouched beneath their
umbrellas. Everything and every one looked cold, and miserable, and
wet; Bertie looked worst of all, for he looked hungry too.
How hungry! There had been moments at Mecklemburg House when hunger
had made itself felt, but never hunger such as this. The very worst
meal Mr. Fletcher had ever set before his pupils--and his system of
dietary was not his strongest point--Bertie would have welcomed as a
feast. Even a dry crust of stale bread would have been welcome; a cup
of the wishy-washiest tea would have been nectar of the gods.
He was footsore too. As he wandered by the Piccadilly mansions and
approached the shops, he became conscious that his feet were
blistered. It was a discomfort to be obliged to put them to the
ground. His right foot, in particular, had a blister on the heel, and
another on the ball of the foot. It seemed to him that every moment
these were getting larger. He would have liked to have taken his boot
and sock off and examine his injuries. He was aware, too, that he was
dirty; more than two days had passed since he had come in contact with
soap and water. Once upon a time he had had a vague idea that it was a
glorious sport of the heroic character to be dirty; now he would have
liked to have had a wash. But he could neither wash nor examine his
feet in the middle of Piccadilly.
The presence of the shops caused him an additional pang. The display
of costly goods in their windows seemed to add to his misery. Even the
possession of his fourpence, as compared to the value of such
treasures, would have placed him at a disadvantage.
But without it he was poor indeed. He was fascinated by the fruit
shops; all the fruits of the earth, those in season and those out,
seemed gathered there. He glued his nose to the window and looked and
longed.
"Now then, what are you doing there? move on out of that!"
A policeman, in a shiny cape, from which the wet was dripping, roughly
shouldered him on. He was not even allowed to look. This was not at
all the sort of thing he had expected. His idea of his entry into the
great city had been altogether different. He was to come as the king
of boys, if not of men; as something remarkable, as a heaven-born
conqueror; something to be talked of; the centre of all eyes directly
he was seen. To sleep upon the sodden grass, to be penniless, cold,
wet, and hungry, to be shouldered by policemen, to be bidden to move
on, these things had not entered into his calculations when that night
at Mecklemburg House he had dreamed those golden dreams.
He struggled on; his feet became more painful; he was limping; rest he
must. He turned down a bye-street, and then down a friendly entry, and
leaned against the wall. Was this what he had come for, to lean in the
rain against a wall, and to be thankful for the chance of leaning? He
had not read in lives of Robin Hood, and Turpin, and Crusoe, and Jack
the Giant-Killer, of episodes like this. But then, perhaps, his
acquaintance with the histories of those gentlemen was not so perfect
as it might have been.
Suddenly he heard the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. Some one
was coming along the side-street as though racing for his life. A lad
about his own age came darting round the corner in such terrific haste
that he almost ran into Bertie's arms.
"Catch hold! here's a present for you."
The runner gasped out the words, without pausing in his flight. Like
an arrow from a bow he darted on, leaving Bertie standing there. To
his amazement Bailey found that he had thrust something in his hand;
his surprise was intensified when he discovered what it was,--it was a
purse. The runner had turned another corner and was already out of
sight.
Bertie, in his bewilderment, could do nothing else but gaze. Such
unexpected generosity, coming at such a moment, was so astonishing
that it was almost as though the gift had fallen from the skies. A
good fat purse! It was like the stories after all. He could feel that
it was heavy; he almost thought that he could feel that it was full.
Suppose it were full of gold! Had it fallen from the skies?
All this occupied an instant. The next he was conscious that some one
else was coming up the street; apparently some one else in equal
haste; apparently more than one. Cries rang in his ears; he could not
quite distinguish the words which were shouted, but at their sound,
for some reason, a cold chill went down his back.
Some one came round the corner; some one who seized him as though he
were some wild thing.
"Got you, have I! thought you'd double, did you, and slip out when I'd
run past? Artful, but it didn't quite do,--not this time, at any
rate."
His captor shook him as a terrier shakes a rat. It was a policeman, a
huge, bearded fellow, six feet high. Bertie was like a plaything in
his hands. On hearing some one coming, the boy, without any thought of
what he was doing, had slipped the hand which held the purse behind
his back. The policeman was down on it at once.
"What's that you've got there?"
He twisted the boy round, revealing the hand which held the purse. He
took it away.
"Oh, that's it, is it? You hadn't got time to throw it away, I
suppose, or perhaps you thought it was too good to lose--worth running
a little risk for, eh? Well, you've run the risk just once too often."
By this time others had come into the entry, and now Bertie recognised
the words which he had heard. What they had been shouting was, "Stop
thief!"
The new comers showed a lively interest in the captive. A man, who
looked like a respectable mechanic, reckoned him up.
"That's not the boy," he said.
"Oh, isn't it? It doesn't look like it, not when he was hiding here,
and holding the purse in his hand!"
The policeman held up the purse with an air of smiling scorn.
"Had he got the purse? Well, whether he had or whether he hadn't, all
I can say is he isn't the boy who took it; I'm willing to take my oath
to that. He was a different-looking sort of boy altogether, and I was
standing as close to him as I am to you."
"I never took the purse," said Bertie, with dogged lips and dogged
eyes. He realized that great trouble had come upon him, as he writhed
and twisted in the policeman's hand. "It was given to me."
"Yes, I daresay, and by a particular friend, no doubt. You come along
with me, my lad, and tell that tale elsewhere."
The policeman began to drag the lad along the entry.
"The boy will go quietly, I daresay, if you give him a chance,"
observed the man who had previously spoken. "However it may be about
the purse being found upon him, I'm prepared to prove that that's not
the boy who took it."
"Well, you can come and give your evidence, can't you? It's no good
standing arguing here; the lad had got the purse, and I've got the
lad, and that's quite enough for me."
"Where are you going to take him to?"
"Marlborough Street Police Court."
"All right, I'll come round and say what I've got to say. My name's
William Standing,--I'm a picture framer; I'll go and tell my governor
where I'm off to, and I'll be there as soon as you are."
The man walked away. The policeman proceeded to haul Bertie off with
him again. The boy was speechless. He was tired, his feet were sore;
the policeman's pace was almost more than he could manage. In
consequence, every now and then he received a jerk, which all but
pitched him forward on his nose.
"Why don't you leave the boy alone?" inquired a man in the little
crowd, which walked alongside in a sort of procession, whose ideas of
a policeman's duty were apparently vague. "He ain't done no 'arm to
you."
"Why, bless yer, if it wasn't for them little 'uns them policemen
would have no one to collar; they daren't lay a finger on a man of
your build, old pal."
This remark, from another member of the crowd, produced a laugh. The
original speaker was a diminutive specimen of his kind, whom the
policeman could have carried in his arms with the greatest of ease.
When they regained Piccadilly they came upon the victim of the
robbery. This was a portly, middle-aged female, who was a pleasant
combination of mackintoshes and agitation. She was the centre of an
interested circle, into whose sympathetic ears she was pouring her
tale of woe. The arrival of the policeman with his captive created a
diversion.
"Is this the boy?" inquired the constable.
"Have you got my purse?" replied the lady. "It contained thirty-seven
pounds, fifteen shillings, and threepence, in two ten pound notes, two
fives,--I've got the numbers in my purse,--seven pounds in gold, four
of them half-sovereigns, fifteen shillings in silver, and a threepenny
bit; and whatever I shall do without it I don't know. I'm the landlady
of the 'Rising Sun,' and I was going to pay my wine-merchant's bill,
and I said to my daughter only this morning, 'Take all that money
loose I didn't ought to do. No, Mary Ann, a cheque it ought to be.'
But Mary Ann's that flighty, though she's in her thirties, though
twenty-two she tries to pass herself to be----"
The policeman endeavoured to stop the lady's flood of eloquence.
"You can tell us all that when we get to the station. You'll have to
come with me to identify the purse and charge the boy."
"I don't want to charge the boy, all I want is to identify the purse.
As for the young limb of a boy, I'd like to give him a good banging
with my unbrella, that I would!"
The lady shook her umbrella at the boy in a way which caused the crowd
to laugh. But there was no laughter left in Bertie.
"We can't have any banging here," said the policeman, who was anxious
to get on. "If you take my advice, you'll call a cab and let us all go
comfortably together."
"Me go in a cab with a policeman and that there limb of a boy; not if
I know it! I've kept the 'Rising Sun' respectable these six-and-twenty
years,--sixteen years in my husband's time,--as respectable a man as
ever breathed, though cherry brandy was his failing,--and ten long
years a widow, and go to prison with a policeman and that there limb
of a boy in a cab----"
"Nobody's asked you to go to prison," said the policeman, whose
patience was beginning to fade. "I can't stand talking here all day.
Now then, boy, best foot forward, march!"
Bertie's poor best foot was blistered, so that the policeman had to
assist him, with occasional awkward jerks, to march to jail.