OUT OF THE FRYING-PAN INTO THE FIRE
There was a meeting in Trafalgar Square that day. Some people thought
they had a grievance, and resolved to air it. No matter what the
grievance was; the world is very full of them, and too many of them
are hard and stern, and old and deep, difficult to be removed. But the
authorities had decided that this particular grievance should not be
aired in this particular way; they would permit no meeting to be held
in Trafalgar Square. The result was, contests with the police. The
people with the grievance tried hard to air it; there were ugly
rushes, the excitement spread, and in the neighbourhood adjoining
there was something very like a riot.
One procession of the people with a grievance making for the Square,
had been met by the police and turned aside. Part of the processioners
had been turned into Piccadilly, and were being driven along that
thoroughfare, helter skelter, just as the procession which escorted
Bertie and his captor approached. The policeman saw his danger, and
tried to turn aside. It was too late. The fugitives coming
tumultuously along, and seeing only a single constable, made a rush in
his direction.
In a moment Bertie found himself the centre of a pushing, yelling,
struggling crowd, with the policeman holding on to him like grim
death. Above the tumult could be distinguished the accents of the
landlady of the "Rising Sun."
"I'm the landlady of the 'Rising Sun,' and I've kept the house
respectable these six-and-twenty years--ten long years a widow, and
sixteen years a respectable married woman--and it's a sin and a shame
that a respectable female----"
But the crowd was no respecter of persons; the lady was hustled on one
side, where her voice was heard no more. Bertie became conscious that
a contest was going on for the possession of himself. The policeman
stuck to him with extraordinary tenacity; with equal tenacity the
crowd endeavoured to drag him away. Bertie suffered. Without wasting
any time in inquiring as to the rights of the case, his new friends
did their best to deprive the law of its prey. But they directed their
efforts with misguided zeal. If they had left him to his fate, Bertie
could only have suffered imprisonment at the worst; now he ran a risk
of being drawn and quartered. They apparently did their best to drag
his arms and legs out of their sockets; he felt his clothes giving way
in all directions. Through all the heat and turmoil he felt that if
this was town he preferred the country.
In the unequal strife the constable, unsupported, was vanquished in
the end. It was well for Bailey the end came when it did; if he had
stuck to his prize much longer the pieces of a boy would have strewed
the street. Some one in the crowd struck the constable in the face
with a stick. Putting up his hand to ward off a second blow, Bertie
was instantly snatched from his grasp. His capture was so unsuspected,
that the two zealous friends who were doing their best to tear him
limb from limb, recoiling backwards, loosed their hold, and let him
fall upon the ground.
"Get up, youngster, and hook it! The peelers will have you again if
you don't look sharp; there's a lot of them coming down the street."
A workman stooped over the lad as he lay in the mud and assisted him
to rise. He regained his feet, feeling stunned and bewildered. His
friendly ally gave him a push, which sent him staggering into the
thick of the crowd. It was only just in time to prevent the constable
from catching hold of him again. The confusion suddenly became worse
confounded.
"The peelers! the peelers!" was the cry.
There was a trampling of hoofs; the crowd parted in all directions,
each seeking safety for himself. Half a dozen mounted constables went
galloping through.
"Now you cut and run! If you aren't quick about it they'll nail you
again as sure as eggs!"
It was the friendly workman urging Bertie to flight. He did not need
much urging, but made the best of his way through the crowd, the
memory of the policeman's grip still upon him. No one tried to stop
him. Every one, including apparently his original captor, was too much
engaged in his own affairs. He did not wait to see what became of the
landlady of the "Rising Sun," though he seemed to hear her indignant
accents above the tumult and the din. As fast as his wearied legs
would carry him he tore away.
All that day he had nothing to eat. He saw nothing again of the
policeman, nor of the crowd, nor of the lady who had lost her purse
with its thirty-seven pounds, fifteen shillings, and a threepenny bit.
But he had been in custody; he had signalized his entry into the Land
of Golden Dreams by being within an ace of jail; the thought was with
him all the day. Every policeman he saw he shrunk away from, and every
policeman seemed to follow his shrinking with suspicious eyes. He was
in continual expectation of feeling a hand upon his shoulder, and
another experience of how it felt to be dragged through the streets.
It never ceased to rain; yet the rain did not come down fast, but
always in the same slow, persistent drizzle. It was a cold rain, and
the wind, which every now and then became almost tempestuous, was
cold. Every one seemed to be in a bad temper; there were sour faces
everywhere. The drivers of the various vehicles quarrelled with one
another, and cursed and swore. Pedestrians hustled each other into the
gutter; each seemed to be persuaded that the other did his best to get
into his way.
Bertie had paid three previous visits to London,--this made the
fourth. On each of the previous occasions he had been accompanied by
his father; this was the first time he had come alone. Many a time
that day he wished that he had postponed his personal exploration till
a little later on; about the middle of the century after next, he was
persuaded, would have been time enough for him.
His first visit had been as one of a family party to see the
pantomime. There had been a morning performance; they had left home
early in the morning, returning late at night. That day was a
red-letter day in Bertie's calendar.
"When I went to see the pantomime," was the words which formed a
prelude to many a tale of the wondrous sights which he had seen.
The second time he came up with father alone. The doctor had had some
meeting to attend at the hospital at which he had spent his student
days, and Bertie bore him company. Afterwards a visit had been paid to
Madame Tussaud's and the Zoological Gardens. But the climax of the day
had been the dinner at the restaurant in the evening before returning
home. Bertie always thought that he had seen life when he looked
backwards at that dinner in the after days. Champagne had accompanied
that repast, and a band had played.
But the crowning visit had been the third. A certain
cousin--feminine--had been a member of the party, and she alone would
have canonized the day. They had gone to the exhibition and dined
there, and seen the illuminations, and he had told himself that London
was a city of delights, a paradise below, fairyland to-day.
This point of view did not occur to him with so much force on this,
the occasion of his fourth visit. As he struggled up and down the wet
and greasy streets, with his blistered feet and his empty stomach,
anything more unlike a city of delights it seemed to him that he had
never seen. He was continually getting into everybody's way, always
being hustled into the gutter, and once, when an irate elderly
gentleman sent him flying backwards to assume a sitting posture in the
centre of a heap of mud, everybody laughed. But it was no joke to him.
The elderly gentleman was a little sorry when he saw what he had done.
"You oughtn't to get in my way! The police didn't ought to allow boys
like you to hang about the streets!"
That was the way he expressed his penitence, and then passed on.
Bertie picked himself up at leisure. He was a sorry sight, and when
the people saw the spectacle he presented they laughed again.
"If I was you I'd sow seeds in that there mud you've got on you; it'd
be as good as 'arf a hacre of ground."
This was the comment of a paper-seller. He resumed his calling,
shouting, "Hecho! Fourth hedition! Hecho!" But some one else had a
word to say. This was a girl who was selling flowers for button-holes.
"You let me stick these 'ere flowers in that there sile you've just
picked up. They'll grow like winkin'!"
All this was hard enough to bear, but the worst was the hunger and
thirst. Although it rained all day, his thirst remained unquenched.
Toward evening he found himself in Covent Garden. As he looked shyly
round his hopes rose just a little. To begin with, there seemed
shelter. If he might only be allowed to stay in this place all night!
On the ground was vegetable refuse, ancient cabbage leaves, odds and
ends of garbage which littered the place. If he could only pick up one
or two of those cabbage leaves and see how far they would go towards
staying his appetite! Surely no one could object to that, since they
were placed there only to be thrown away. So he began picking up the
cabbage leaves.
"Now then, what are you doing there? None of that now! Clear out of
this, or I'll clear you out, and precious quick!"
At the sound of a strident voice Bertie trembled as though he had been
guilty of a heinous crime. He dropped the cabbage leaves out of his
hands again. A little man, who was apparently some one in authority,
had suddenly appeared from behind one of the pillars, and was shouting
at Bertie with the full force of his lungs. Like a frightened ewe the
hero of yesterday gave a look round and slunk away. He was
disappointed of his meal. The ground was evidently holy ground, and
the cabbage leaves were evidently sacred cabbage leaves. The
disappointment seemed to make his hunger worse. He had scarcely
strength enough to slink away. He put his arms around one of the
pillars, and, leaning his head against it, cried.
This was what had become of all his golden dreams! Of what stuff are
heroes made?
"I say, young one, what's in the wind? Any one trodden on your
precious toes? You don't seem so chirpy as some."
Bertie looked up through his tears to see who the speaker was. A
little time ago to have been caught crying would have covered him with
shame, now all shame of that sort seemed to have gone for ever. He
vaguely feared that this was some new Jack-in-office again bidding him
move on; but he was wrong.
The speaker was a boy about his own age; but there was something about
him which at a very first glance showed that he was different from
other boys. He was respectably dressed; the chief peculiarity about
his clothing being that it seemed to fit him like his skin. A tighter
pair of trousers surely never imprisoned human legs. His waistcoat
fitted him without a crease, and it seemed that he had been made for
his coat, and not his coat for him. He wore a billycock hat of a
particularly knowing pattern, set rakishly upon the side of his head;
a stand-up collar made it difficult for him to look anywhere except
straight in front of him; and an enormous pin, set in the centre of a
gorgeous blue necktie, made his costume quite complete.
Even more remarkable than his costume was his face. It has been said
of the famous Lord Chancellor, Lord Thurlow, that no one could be so
wise as Lord Thurlow looked; it was almost equally impossible that any
one could be so knowing as the expression of his countenance declared
this young gentleman to be. It was an unhealthy face, an unpleasant
face, with something in it which reminded you of how Methuselah might
have appeared in his green old age. It was never still; the eyes
seemed to be all over the place at once; it seemed to be continually
listening to catch the first sound of something or some one drawing
near.
"Down on your luck? What are you piping your eye for? Does that sort
of thing suit your constitution? Turn round to the light, and let's
have a look what you're like; don't keep hugging that pillar as though
it was your ma."
Through all his misery Bertie saw that this young gentleman was
centuries older than himself, though they had probably entered the
world within the same twelve months. Besides, he was too prostrated to
resist, even had he wished, and he allowed the other to drag him into
a position in which he might study his features at his leisure.
"I thought so,--directly I caught sight of your back I thought I knew
your size. Wasn't you in Sackville Street this morning?"
"In Sackville Street?" repeated Bertie vaguely.
"Yes, in Sackville Street, my bonny boy. Never heard tell of Sackville
Street before, I suppose? So I should think by the look of you. Wasn't
it you I pitched the old girl's purse to?"
A light was dawning upon Bertie's mind.
"Was it you who stole the purse?"
The other gave a quick look round, as though the question took him by
surprise--if anything so self-possessed could be said to be taken by
surprise.
"Stow your cackle! Do you want to have me put away? Where do you live
when you're at home? You must be a sharp one, though you do look so
jolly green! I thought you'd be buckled to a certainty! I never
expected to see you walking about as large as life. It gave me quite a
start when I saw you hugging that pillar as though you loved it. How
did you make tracks?"
Bertie was trying to collect his thoughts. This boy before him was a
thief, a miserable hound who tried to escape the consequences of his
own misdeeds by putting the odium of his crimes upon the innocent. But
Bertie was alone; alone in the great city, hungry, thirsty, tired,
wet, and cold. Human companionship was human companionship after all.
And this boy looked so much more prosperous than he himself was.
Yesterday he would have done great things; to-day he would have
welcomed a crust of bread coming even from this thief.
"The policeman wanted to lock me up."
"No! did he though? Funny ones those policemen are! they're always
wanting to go locking people up. And did he cop the purse?"
"He took the purse away from me."
"And how come you to be making love to that there pillar, instead of
enjoying yourself in a nice warm cell? I suppose you didn't give the
policeman one in the nose and knock him down?"
"We met some people in the street, and they made him let me go."
"Did they though? that was kind of them! When policemen was making
free with me I wish I was always meeting people in the streets who
would make them interfering bobbies let me go. And now, who are you
when you're at home? We're having quite a nice little conversation,
ain't we, you and I? Glad I met you, quite a treat!" He raised his hat
to express his sense of the satisfaction which he felt. "You don't
look as though you were raised in these 'ere parts."
Bertie hung his head; he was ashamed: ashamed of many things, but most
of all just then of the company he was in. And yet, if he turned this
thief adrift, where else should he find a friend? And he was so tired,
so hungry, so conscious of his own helplessness.
"You very nearly got me locked up this morning," was his answer.
"Well, my noble marquis, wasn't it better for you to be locked up than
me? It'll have to come, you know--if not to-morrow the day after."
To Bertie this view of the matter had not occurred before. It had not
entered into his calculations that a journey to the Land of Golden
Dreams would necessitate the process of locking-up.
"Are you on the cross, or only mouching around?"
This inquiry was Greek to Bertie, and his questioner perceived that he
failed to understand.
"You're a fly bloke, that you are! What's your little game? You
haven't got a fortune in your pocket, or a marquis for a pa? What do
you do to live? I suppose you ain't reckoning to die just yet awhile."
"I wish I could do something, but I can't."
"Oh, you wish you could do something, do you, but unfortunately you
can't! Well, you are a trial for the nerves! Have you got any money?"
Bertie hung his head still lower. To be despised by a thief! Was this
the result of all his dreams?
"No!"
"Got any friends?"
"I've run away from them."
And here the boy broke down. Turning, and leaning against a pillar, he
burst into a passion of tears. The other eyed him for a few moments,
whistling beneath his breath.
"That's the time of day, is it? I thought you were something of that
kind from the first, I did. What did you run away for?"
Bertie could not have told him to save his life. To have told this
thief that he had started on a journey to the Land of Golden Dreams;
that he had resolved to emulate the doings of his heroes, Dick Turpin,
Crusoe, Jack the Giant-Killer, and Robin Hood! Oh, ye gods! and now to
be crying against a post!
"Father living?"
No answer.
"Mother?"
No answer.
How well he knew that he loved his parents now! The mere mention of
the word "mother" made him hysterical with woe. To have come within
reach of his mother's loving arms, to have been folded to her breast!
If he could only come within reach of her again!
The other stood observing him with critical eyes, whistling all the
time.
"You seem to have had a considerable lot of water locked up tight. I
should think you would have bust if you hadn't had a chance to let it
go. What are you a-howling at? Crying for your mammy?"
For answer Bertie turned with a sudden ferocity and struck at him
savagely. But the blow was struck at random, and the other had no
difficulty in avoiding it by stepping aside.
"Hollo! don't you come that game again, or I'll show you how to use a
bunch of fives."
But Bertie showed no further signs of fight. It had only been an
almost childish display of passionate spite at the other's coarse
allusion to his "mammy"--the mother whom he was now so sure he loved
so well. Even the passion of his tears died away into a whimper. He
had not strength enough to continue in a passion long.
"Are you hungry?" asked the other.
"I'm starving!"
"Ah, I've been hungry, and more than once, and it isn't nice. I
shouldn't be surprised if you found it rather nasty, especially if you
aren't used to it. Now, look here; let's have a look at you."
He went close up to Bertie and looked him straight in the face with
his keen, restless eyes. Bertie returned the look as well as he could
with his tear-stained orbs.
"You look a game 'un, somehow; and you look grit. I suppose it's
feeling peckish you don't like. There's a lot of talk about courage
what's always the same, but I don't believe there ever was a chap who
kept up his pluck upon an empty belly. I've been hungry more than
once. Now, look here; if I take you to a crib I know of, and set you
up in vittles and a shake-down, will you keep your mouth shut fast?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Oh, yes, you do; you're not so soft as that. If I act square with
you, will you act square with me?"
"I always do act square," said Bertie.
"Very well, then, come along; if you do, then you're the sort for me.
I did you a bad turn this morning, now I'll do you a good one to make
up."