A DASH FOR FREEDOM.
"Here, you young rascal, I'll teach you to meddle with my tools! What
have you done with my knife?"
"I haven't had it," said Dick, looking up from the stocking he was
awkwardly trying to darn by the firelight.
His hands were quite healed now, but still stiff and scarred from the
burns, though the doctor had said the marks would get less as time went
on.
"None of your tales, now. Tim said he saw you with it to-day. Give it
me back this minute, or you shall have a dressing you won't forget in a
hurry!"
"But I haven't seen it even," cried Dick earnestly. "Tim must have
made a mistake."
"Oh, of course! Putting it on Tim, as usual," sneered Mrs. Fowley.
"Your impudence is getting past bearing. Just go and get the knife
this minute."
Dick stood up uncertainly, not knowing how to prove his innocence.
Everything that went wrong in that ill-managed household, was always in
some mysterious way due to his shortcomings, but nothing had ever yet
made him tell a lie, and in their hearts they knew it.
"I haven't seen it," he repeated, and there was absolute truth in the
clear brown eyes, and Mrs. Fowley shifted her own uneasily as he looked
at her.
But she said aloud, "He wants something to break down his spirit,
Fowley, he ain't half so biddable as he used to be, and now he's passed
the standard and can go to work, we shan't live for his pride and
upstartness."
Now, Dick had not once refused to obey her commands, but since Paddy
had told him about his uncle, and the possibility of going next year to
find him and independence at the same time, the new hope had given him
a bolder bearing.
There were times when he quite forgot to be afraid of blows and short
rations, and when sharp words passed over him almost unheard. He was
so sure the way would be made plain for him, and that his bondage would
soon be at an end.
"Impudent, is he?" said Fowley, with an ugly scowl on his face, as he
turned to the corner where the cruel strap was hung, to be the terror
of all the children.
"I'll teach you manners, you young thief that we've kep' out of the
workhouse and supported for nothing all these years."
"Not for nothing!" said Dick, with a sudden flash of passionate
indignation. "You had all father's money and kept it, and I've worked
just like a slave besides. It's not I that am a thief."
For a moment Fowley looked confounded, while his wife turned pale and
shivered. Then, with a brutal laugh, he clutched the strap and reached
forward.
But the table was between them, and Dick had never felt more like a
Lionheart than at that moment.
"You shall never beat me again, or call me names, never!" he cried, as
he opened the door and dashed out into the November night.
There was a dense fog outside that seemed to swallow him instantly, and
by the time Fowley got to the door the boy had vanished.
"He's escaped me this time, but he shall have a double dose when I set
eyes on him again," said the man grimly, as he hung up the strap; "I'll
let him know about father's money!"
"But who could have told him?" asked his wife, in a frightened tone.
"What if he goes with his tale to the police, or to that meddling
doctor, that took such notice of him. He's never been the same boy
since then."
"Police! not he, but if he should, 'mum's' the word, mind. We never
had naught but just enough to pay for the buryin'. He'll be back
again, meek enough, come bedtime, and then you can find out."
And flinging the tools back into the box, the man, who had already
drunk too much on his way home, lurched off to the "Blue Dragon," where
all his evenings now were spent. But his wife sat over the fire and
looked at the grate Dick had laboriously black-leaded that morning, and
her thoughts were busy with the past. And her long sleeping conscience
was awake, and she heard again the feeble voice of a dying man, "Send
this letter to brother Richard at once. We quarrelled before he went
off to Ironboro', but he'll come and see to things and take charge of
little Dick. And there'll be enough to pay for his upbringing, when
all's said and done." But the letter was conveniently forgotten, and
presently thrust into the flames, and the leathern pouch with its store
of gold greedily taken possession of, as soon as the lodger was dead.
And like all ill-gotten gains, the gold rapidly melted away.
"Who could have knowed about it, and told the boy?" she muttered with
growing anxiety, as she went to the door to look out for the runaway.
But there was nothing but the murky gloom, with a faint reflection of
light from the lamps far down the road, and a noise of rough play in
the distance. The children of the row--her own among them--were having
their usual street games in spite of the fog and chill, but Dick would
not be there, she knew. For he was different from the rest, and hated
the rough horse-play and bad language with all his might.
"I must have a sup to make me forget it," she muttered again. "He
looked for all the world like his father. I told Fowley at the time it
would come home to us, and it will."
Noisily the children came in, clamoured for supper, and took it in
their dirty hands, and then went to bed.
Their father was helped home at closing time, too far gone to remember
what had happened, but no Dick came in.
Bareheaded he had run away through the fog, his thin jacket and broken
boots a poor protection from the biting cold, but in his excitement he
scarcely felt it.
In a hiding place in the lining of his old jacket he had the little
pocket Bible that had been his mother's gift, with his name, Richard
Hart Crosby, on the fly leaf.
Folded small within it were the torn remains of a once handsome crimson
and blue silk handkerchief, the only memento of his father he
possessed. Somehow it had escaped the utter destruction that visited
all good things in Mrs. Fowley's keeping, and Dick treasured it more
than words could tell.
Feeling with his hand to be sure his treasures were safe, he ran
breathlessly on to Paddy's lodgings, in a back street not far from the
tin works.
Paddy had good work and fair wages, and might have been comfortably
off, but, alas, the "Blue Dragon" was not the only evil beast in
Venley, and much of Paddy's money went to the till of the "Brown Bear"
at the corner. Not that he drank deeply himself, but he loved the
warmth and company, and was too generous to others in the matter of
treating. There was always a chorus of welcome for Paddy when he
entered the bar.
But to-night he was at home, busily engaged in putting a clumsy patch
on his blue "slop" jacket, and he answered Dick's timid knock with a
boisterous welcome.
"And have ye railly left the wretches entirely and going off to
Ironboro' to seek your fortin? Shure, and its could weather for the
job. And of course ye want Pat. But ye can't have him to-night. Come
and have a bite and a sup and share me cot, and ye can be off in the
mornin' before anybody's astir, if ye like. Down then, me beauty;
shure and ye needn't' be so glad at the prospect of leaving Paddy!"
For Pat was wagging his short tail and barking and jumping in a storm
of delight, while Dick hugged him with the blissful thought that now he
would have him for always.
"You're so good to me," he cried gratefully, "but I'm afraid they'll
find me if I wait till morning."
"Not they. Let me look at your boots."
Dick held up a shabby foot, and Paddy sniffed in disdain. Two of the
Fowley's had worn the boots in turn, and they were now falling apart
from stress of wear and weather.
"They're no good for the road, me boy. We'll see." And soon a supper
of herrings and bread and butter and tea smoked invitingly on the
table, and when this had been disposed of Paddy went out, locking the
door.
In a surprisingly short time he came back with a stout pair of boots
and some warm stockings, and a half-worn cloth overcoat and cap.
"Shure, and ye won't mind their coming from the second-hand shop with
the three yallow balls put up for ornyment. Me uncle lives there and
he's very obligin'."
Dick flushed with a mixture of gratitude and shrinking. All his
experiences at the Fowley's had not made him _like_ to wear other
people's clothes. But the boots were such a good fit. And the jacket
would keep him so warm and be such a grand bed quilt if he and Pat had
to sleep out.
But how could he take so much from Paddy? The Irishman's quick eyes
saw and understood, and he said easily, "You can pay me back when
you're Lord Mayor of Ironboro', with a gold chain round your neck and
Pat with a leather collar and a brass plate to tell his name and
nation."
"I'll pay long before that, if I live," cried Dick earnestly. "I don't
mean to beg my way, either, if I can only get work going along."
"That's right, lad, work your passage out; but anyways this half-crown
won't come amiss--we'll put it down in the ledger with the rest of the
good debt accounts. You'll look out for your uncle--a foine dark man
with brown eyes like your own, only maybe not so shiny. Give my best
respecks to him, and tell him I persuaded you to get clear away from
the villains."
Dick took out his pocket Bible to read his chapter with a glad feeling
of security. He would never need to hide it from the Fowley's again.
"Read it out, me boy, read it. There's good words in it, whatever the
praste may say." And Dick read the first chapter of Joshua, and his
voice rang out triumphantly in the words, "Be strong and of a good
courage, be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed, for the Lord thy God
is with thee, whithersoever thou goest."
"Shure, them's good marching orders," said Paddy thoughtfully. "A body
could even get past the 'Brown Bear' o' nights if he thought of them."
"It's easy to be Lionheart when the Lord God is along," said Dick
wistfully. "I _wish_ you wouldn't go in any more, Paddy, because I
love you so, and God wouldn't maybe care to go into such places, and
you'd have to leave Him outside."
"Just hark to the boy," said Paddy lightly, jumping up and making ready
for bed.
But long after Dick's gentle breathing told of peaceful sleep Paddy lay
wide awake, thinking of wasted money and worse than wasted health and
time, and he _almost_ resolved to leave the drink alone for ever.