Spivin with a quiet "guid-mornin', freen," said that he had had "a
pleesant time o't i' the slums," and then went out to visit his friends
in Cherub Court. Before going, however, he removed his money from his
bag, put it in an inner breast-pocket, and paid his bill.
"You won't be back to dinner, I suppose," said the landlord in his
genial manner.
"Na. I'm gaun to plowter aboot a' day an' see the toon. I may be late
o' comin' in, but ye'll keep my bed for me, an' tak' care o' my bag."
Spivin said he would do so with such hearty goodwill that David said,
mentally, "He's innocent."
At the moment a tall dark man with a sharp intelligent expression
entered the house and bade the landlord good-morning. The latter
started, laughed, winked, glanced expressively at the Scotsman, and
returned the stranger's salute in a tone that induced David to say,
mentally, "He's guilty."
Gravely pondering these contradictory opinions, our hero walked along
until he found himself close to the alley which led into Cherub Court.
A female yell issued from the alley as he came up, and Mrs Rampy
suddenly appeared in a state of violent self-assertion. She was a
strong, red-faced woman, who might have been born a man, perhaps, with
advantage. She carried a broken-lipped jug, and was on her way to the
shop which was at least the second cause of all her woes.
Standing aside to let the virago pass, Laidlaw proceeded to the court,
where, to his great surprise, he found Tommy Splint sitting on a
doorstep, not exactly in tears, but with disconsolation deeply impressed
on his dirty young face.
"Eh, laddie, what's wrang?" exclaimed the Scot, his mind reverting
anxiously, and strangely enough, to the "waux doll."
"O, Mr Laidlow" exclaimed the boy.
"Na, na," interrupted David, "I'm no laid _low_ yet, though the Lun'on
folk hae done their best to bring me t' that condeetion. My name's
Laid-law, laddie. Freen's ca' me David, an' ye may do the same; but for
ony sake dinna use that English D_ai_vid. I canna thole that. Use the
lang, braid, Bible a. But what's the maitter wi' ye?"
"Well, Mr Da-a-a-vid," returned the boy, unable to resist a touch of
fun even in his distress, "they've bin an' dismissed our Susy, wot's as
good as gold; so she's hout o' work, and chimley-pot Liz she's fit to
break 'er hold 'art, 'cause she ain't able to earn enough now to pay the
rent of 'er room, an' the landlord, what's a lawyer, 'e is, says two
weeks' rent is overdue, and 'e'll turn 'er hout into the street
to-morrer if it's not paid."
"That's bad news, Tammy," said Laidlaw, thrusting both hands into his
pockets, and looking meditatively at the ground. "But why doesna Sam
Blake, the waux--, I mean Susy's faither, lend them the siller?"
"'Cause he's gone to Liverpool for somethink or other about 'is wessel,
an' left no address, an' won't be back for two or three days, an' the
old ooman ain't got a friend on 'arth--leastwise not a rich 'un who can
'elp 'er."
"Hoots, laddie, ye're wrang! _I_ can help her."
"Ah, but," said the boy, still in tones of disconsolation, "you don't
know chimley-pot Liz. She's proud, she is, an' won't take nuffin from
strangers."
"Weel, weel, but I'm no'--a stranger, callant."
"I rather think you are!" replied the boy, with a knowing look.
"Ye may be richt. Weel, I'll no' gi'e them the chance to refuse.
What's the name of the lawyer-body that's their landlord?"
"Lockhart. John would be 'is Christian name if 'e _wos_ a Christian.
But a cove with a Christian name as is _not_ a Christian do seem an
absurdity--don't it? They say 'e's about the greatest willian out o'
Newgate. An' 'is office is somewhere near Chancery Lane."
"Weel, Christian or no Christian, I'll gi'e him a ca'," said David; "are
they up there enow?" he added, with a significant motion of his head
towards the garden on the roof.
"Yes, both of 'em--'owling. I couldn't stand it, so came down 'ere to
veep alone."
"Weel, ye better stop where ye are, an' veep--as ye say--a wee while
langer. I'll gang up to see them."
A minute more and David, tapping at the garret door, was bidden to enter
by a sweet voice which caused the slightest imaginable sensation in his
heart! Susan was there alone--not 'owling, as Tommy had expressed it,
but with the traces of tears obviously about her eyes. She blushed
deeply and looked a little confused as David entered, probably because
of being caught with the signs aforesaid on her cheeks.
"Guid-mornin', Miss Blake," said David earnestly, giving the girl a warm
shake of the hand. "O lassie, but I am sorry to hear that ye're in
trouble! I do assure ye that if a pund or twa would help yer granny--"
"'Sh, Mr Laidlaw!" said Susan, looking furtively round and speaking
low. "Granny will hear! You must not offer her money. From father,
indeed, if he were here, she would accept it, but not from a--a
stranger."
"Am I, then, such a stranger?" asked David in a peculiar tone, for the
word sounded cold and disagreeable.
Again Susan blushed, yet felt a tendency to laugh, as she replied,
"Well, you know, although you _have_ helped me in trouble, it is not
_very_ long since we met. But come and see granny; she's in the
garden--and, please, don't speak of our troubles."
"Weel, weel, please yersel', lassie," returned the Scot, almost sternly,
as he followed Susan into the garden on the roof, where old Liz sat in
her rustic chair resting her head on her hand, and looking sadly at the
sunlight, which flickered through the foliage on to the zinc floor.
Despite Susan's caution Laidlaw sat down beside the old woman and took
her hand.
"Noo, Mrs Morley," he said, "it's o' no use me tryin' to haud my tongue
whan I want to speak. I'm a plain north-country man, an' I canna thole
to see a puir auld body in trouble withoot offerin' t' help her. I've
been telt o' Susy's misfortin' an' aboot the rent, and if ye'll
accep'--"
"No, sir, no," said old Liz firmly, but without any look of that pride
with which she had been credited. "I will not accept money from--"
"But I'm no' askin' ye," interrupted David, "to accep' money as a
_gift_--only as a loan, ye ken, withoot interest of course."
"Not even as a loan," said the old woman. "Besides, young man, you must
not fancy that I am altogether penniless. I 'appen to 'ave shares in an
American Railway, which my landlord advised me to buy with my small
savings. No doubt, just at present the dividend on the shares of the
Washab and Roria Railway have fallen off terribly, but--"
"What railway?" asked Laidlaw quickly.
"The Washab and Roria. Somewhere in the United States," said Liz.
"H'm! I was readin' the papers yestreen," said David. "Ye see, I'm
fond o' fishin' aboot odd corners o' the papers--the money market, an'
stocks, an' the like--an' I noticed that vera railway--owin' to its
daft-like name, nae doot--an' its deevidends are first-rate. Ye could
sell oot enow at a high profit gin ye like."
"Indeed? You must be mistaken, I think," replied the old woman, "for I
'ave 'ad almost nothink for a year or two. You see, my landlord, who
takes charge of these matters for me--"
"That's Mr Lockhart the lawyer, ye mean?"
"Yes. He says they're losing money now, and there was no dividend at
all last half-year."
"H'm! that _is_ strange," said David, stroking his chin, "uncommon--
strange!"
"D'you think Mr Lockhart has made a mistake, Mr Laidlaw?" asked Susan
hopefully.
"Ay, I think he _hes_ made a mistake. But 'oo'll see. An' noo, to
change the subjec', I'll tell 'ee aboot some o' the adventur's I had
last nicht."
From this point David Laidlaw entertained old Liz and Susy and Tommy
Splint, who had by that time joined them, with a graphic account of his
adventures in the slums, in the telling of which he kept his audience in
fits of laughter, yet spoke at times with such pathos that Susan was
almost moved to tears.
"Noo, I must away," he said at length, rising. "I've got partikler
business in haund. Come wi' me, Tammy. I'll want 'ee, and I'll come
back sune to see ye, auld Liz. Dinna ye tak' on aboot losin' yer place,
Su--, Miss Blake, lass. Ye'll git a better place afore lang--tak' my
word for 't."
On the way down-stairs Laidlaw and his little companion passed a tall
gentleman and two ladies who were ascending. Ere the foot of the stair
was reached, loud exclamations of recognition and joy were heard in the
regions above.
"I say!" exclaimed Tommy Splint, with wide-open eyes, "ain't they
a-goin' of it up there? Let's go back an' listen."
"Na, ye wee rascal, we'll no' gang back. If ye want to be freen's wi'
me ye'll no daur to putt yer lug to keyholes. Come awa'. It's nae
business o' yours or mine."
They had not gone far in the direction of Chancery Lane when, to their
surprise, they met Sam Blake, who had changed his mind about the visit
to Liverpool. David at once seized him by the arm, and made him walk
with them, while he explained the circumstances in which his daughter
and old Liz had been so suddenly placed.
"Wouldn't it be better for me," said Sam, "to steer straight for the
garden than to go along with you?"
"Na--ye'll gang wi' me. It's plain that they hae auld freen's veesitin'
them at the gairden, sae we'd better lat them alane. Besides, I want ye
for a wutness; I'm no much o' a polis man, nevertheless I'm gaun to try
my haund at a bit o' detective business. Just you come wi' me, and
niver say a word till ye're spoken to."
"Heave ahead then, skipper; you're in command," returned the sailor with
a quiet laugh. It was echoed by little Tommy, who was hugely pleased
with the semi-mysterious looks and nods of his Scottish friend, and
regarded the turn affairs seemed to be taking as infinitely superior to
mere ordinary mischief.
Arrived at Chancery Lane, they soon discovered the office of John
Lockhart, Esquire, Solicitor. Entering, they found the principal seated
at a table covered with papers and legal documents of all kinds. Both
the lawyer and the farmer felt, but did not show, some surprise on
looking at each other.
CHAPTER EIGHT.
DARK DESIGNS.
The lawyer was first to speak. "It strikes me I have seen you before,"
he said, looking at Laidlaw with a sharp steady gaze.
"Ay, sir, an' I've seen _you_ before," returned the latter with an
extremely simple look. "I saw ye whan I was comin' oot o' the hoose o'
Mr Speevin, whar I'm lodgin'."
"Oh, exactly!" returned the lawyer with a bland smile; "pray be seated,
gentlemen, and let me know your business."
They obeyed,--Sam Blake with an expression of stolid stupidity on his
countenance, which was powerfully suggestive of a ship's figurehead--
Tommy with an air of meekness that was almost too perfect.
It would be tedious to detail the conversation that ensued. Suffice it
to say that David said he was a Scotch farmer on a visit to London; that
he possessed a good lot of spare cash, for which, at the time being, he
got very small interest; that he did not understand business matters
very well, but what he wanted to know was, how he should go about
investing funds--in foreign railways, for instance, such as the Washab
and Roria line.
At this point he was interrupted by Mr Lockhart who asked what had put
that particular railway into his head, and was informed that the
newspapers had done so by showing it to be the line whose shares
produced very high dividends at that time.
"I'm richt I fancy?" said David.
"Yes, you are right, and I could easily put you in the way of investing
in that railway."
"Have the shares been lang at this high figure?" asked Laidlaw.
"Yes; they have improved steadily for several years back."
"What say ye to that freend?" demanded David, turning to Sam with a
triumphant look.
Sam turned on his friend a look as expressionless as that of a Dutch
clock, and said sententiously, "_I_ says, go in an' win."
"_I_ says ditto!" thought Tommy Splint, but he meekly and wisely held
his tongue.
Meanwhile the lawyer went into another room, from which, returning after
a short absence, he produced a bundle of Reports which fully bore out
his statement as to the flourishing condition of the Washab and Roria
Railway.
"Weel, I'll see aboot it," said David, after a few moments'
consideration, with knitted brows. "In the meantime, sir, what have I
to pay to you for yer information?"
Mr Lockhart said he had nothing to pay, and hoped he would have the
pleasure of seeing him soon again.
"Noo, isn't _that_ a blagyird?" demanded Laidlaw, when they were again
in the street.
"No doubt he is," replied Sam; "but how will you manage to haul him up
and prove that he has been swindling the old woman?"
"Hoo can I tell? Am I a lawyer? But I'll fin' oot somehoo."
"Well, mate, while you are finding out," returned the sailor, "I'll go
to Cherub Court. So, Tommy, will you go with Mr Laidlaw or with me?"
The boy looked first at one and then at the other with a curious
"how-happy-could-I-be-with-either" expression on his sharp countenance,
and then elected to accompany the sailor. On the way he told Sam of the
"swell visitors" to the garret, whom Laidlaw had prevented him from
going back to see.
"Quite right he was, Tommy, my boy," said his friend. "It is easy to
see that you have not profited as much as you might from the example and
teaching of my dear Susy an' chimney-pot Liz."
"Chimley-pot," murmured the boy, correcting him in a low tone. "Vell,
you could 'ardly expect," he added, "that a child of my age should git
the profit all at once. I suppose it's like a bad ease o' waxination--
it ha'n't took properly yet."
"Then we must have you re-vaccinated, my boy. But tell me, what were
the swells like?"
The description of the swells occupied Tommy all the rest of the walk to
Cherub Court, where they found old Liz and Susan in a state of great
excitement about the visitors who had just left.
"Why, who d'ye think they was?" exclaimed the old woman, making the fang
wobble with a degree of vigour that bid fair to unship it altogether,
"it was my dear sweet little boy Jacky--"
"Little boy! Granny!" cried Susan, with a merry laugh.
"Of course, child, I mean what he was and ever will be to me. He's a
tall middle-aged gentleman now, an' with that nice wife that used to
visit us--an' their sweet daughter--just like what the mother was,
exceptin' those hideous curls tumblin' about her pretty brow as I detest
more than I can tell. An' she's goin' to be married too, young as she
is, to a clergyman down in Devonshire, where the family was used to go
every summer (alongside o' their lawyer Mr Lockhart as they was so fond
of, though the son as has the business now ain't like his father); the
sweet child--dear, dear, how it do call up old times!"
"And didn't they," broke in Tommy, "never say a word about 'elpin' you,
granny, to git hout of your troubles?"
"'Ow could they offer to 'elp me," returned old Liz sternly, "w'en they
knew nothink about my troubles? an' I'm very glad they didn't, for it
would have spoiled their visit altogether if they'd begun it by offerin'
me assistance. For shame, Tommy. You're not yet cured o' greed, my
dear."
"Did I say I _was_?" replied the urchin, with a hurt look.
Lest the reader should entertain Tommy's idea, we may here mention that
Colonel Brentwood and his wife, knowing old Liz's character, had
purposely refrained from spoiling their first visit by referring to
money matters.
After a full and free discussion of the state of affairs--in which,
however, no reference was made to the recent visit to the lawyer, or to
the suspected foul play of that gentleman--the sailor went off to
overhaul Messrs. Stickle and Screw in the hope of inducing that firm to
retain Susy on its staff. Failing which, he resolved to pay a visit to
Samson and Son. As for Tommy, he went off in a free-and-easy sort of
way, without any definite designs, in search of adventures.
That evening old Liz filled her teapot, threw her apron over it, and
descended to the court to visit Mrs Rampy.
"Well, you _are_ a good creetur," said that masculine female, looking up
as her friend entered. "Come away; sit down; I was wantin' some one to
cheer me up a bit, for I've just 'ad a scrimidge with Mrs Blathers, an'
it's bin 'ard work. But she 'ave comed off second best, _I_ knows."
As a black eye, dishevelled hair, and a scratched nose constituted Mrs
Rampy's share in the "scrimidge," Mrs Blathers's condition could not
have been enviable. But it was evident from Mrs Rampy's tone and
manner that a more powerful foe than Mrs Blathers had assaulted her
that afternoon.
"Ah, Mrs Rampy," said her visitor, pouring out a cup of tea with a
liberal allowance of sugar, "if you'd only give up that--"
"Now, old Liz," interrupted her friend impressively, "don't you go for
to preach me a sermon on drink. It's all very well to preach religion.
That's nat'ral like, an' don't much signify. You're welcome. But,
wotiver you do, old Liz, keep off the drink."
"Well, that's just what I do," replied Liz promptly, as she handed her
friend a cup of hot tea, "and that's just what I was goin' to advise
_you_ to do. Keep off the drink."
Feeling that she had slightly committed herself, Mrs Rampy gave a short
laugh and proceeded to drink with much gusto, and with a preliminary
"Here's luck!" from the force of habit.
"But what's the matter with you to-day, Liz?" she asked, setting her cup
down empty and looking, if not asking, for more; "you looks dull."
"Do I? I shouldn't ought to, I'm sure, for there's more blessin's than
sorrows in _my_ cup," said Liz.
"Just you put another lump o' sugar in _my_ cup, anyhow," returned her
friend. "I likes it sweet, Liz. Thank 'ee. But what 'as 'appened to
you?"
Old Liz explained her circumstances in a pitiful tone, yet without
making very much phrase about it, though she could not refrain from
expressing wonder that her railway dividends had dwindled down to
nothing.
"Now look 'ee here, chimley-pot Liz," cried Mrs Rampy in a fierce
voice, and bringing her clenched fist down on the table with a crash
that made the tea-cups dance. "You ain't the only 'ooman as 'as got a
tea-pot."
She rose, took a masculine stride towards a cupboard, and returned with
a tea-pot of her own, which, though of the same quality as that of her
friend, and with a similarly broken spout, was much larger. Taking off
the lid she emptied its contents in a heap--silver and copper with one
or two gold pieces intermixed--on the table.
"There! Them's my savin's, an' you're welcome to what you need, Liz.
For as sure as you're alive and kickin', if you've got into the 'ands of
Skinflint Lockhart, 'e'll sell you up, garding an' all! _I_ know 'im!
Ah--I know 'im. So 'elp yourself, Liz."
Tears rose to the eyes of old Liz, and her heart swelled with joy, for
was there not given to her here unquestionable evidence of her success
in the application of loving-kindness? Assuredly it was no small
triumph to have brought drunken, riotous, close-fisted, miserly, fierce
Mrs Rampy to pour her hard-won savings at her feet, for which on her
knees she thanked God that night fervently. Meanwhile, however, she
said, with a grave shake of her head--
"Now, Mrs Rampy, that _is_ uncommon good of you, an' I would accept it
at once, but I really won't require it, for now that Susy's father 'as
returned, I can borrow it from him, an' sure he's better able to lend it
than you are. Now, don't be angry, Mrs Rampy, but--'ave some more
tea?"
While she was speaking her friend shovelled the money back into the
teapot with violence, and replaced it in her cupboard with a bang.
"You won't git the hoffer twice," she said, sitting down again. "Now,
Liz, let's 'ave another cup, an' don't spare the sugar."
"That I won't" said Liz, with a laugh, as she poured out her cheering
but not inebriating beverage.
On the second day after the tea-party just described, John Lockhart,
Esquire, and Mr Spivin met in a low public-house not far from Cherub
Court. They drank sparingly and spoke in whispers. It may seem strange
that two such men should choose a low tavern in such a neighbourhood for
confidential intercourse, but when we explain that both were landlords
of numerous half-decayed tenements there, the choice will not seem so
peculiar. Lockhart frowned darkly at his companion.
"From what you have told me of his inquiries about me," he said, "this
man's suspicions had certainly been roused, and he would not have rested
until he had made undesirable discoveries. It is lucky that you managed
to get the job so well done."
They put their heads together and whispered lower. From time to time
Lockhart gave vent to a grim laugh, and Spivin displayed his feelings in
a too-amiable smile.
CHAPTER NINE.
THE PLOT THICKENS.
In his remarkably eager and somewhat eccentric pursuit of pleasure--that
pursuit which is so universal yet so diverse among men, to say nothing
about boys--Tommy Splint used to go about town like a jovial lion-cub
seeking whom he might terrify!
To do him justice, Tommy never had any settled intention of being
wicked. His training at the hands of chimney-pot Liz and the gentle
Susy had so far affected his arab spirit that he had learned, on the
whole, to prefer what he styled upright to dishonourable mischief. For
instance, he would not steal, but he had no objection to screen a thief
or laugh at his deeds. His natural tenderness of heart prevented his
being cruel to dogs or cats, but it did not prevent his ruffling some of
the former into furious rage, and terrifying many of the latter into
cataleptic fits.
One afternoon, having roved about for some time without aim, sometimes
howling in at open doors and bolting, frequently heaping banter upon
good-natured policemen, occasionally asking of mild old ladies the way
to places he had never heard of, or demanding what o'clock it was of
people who did not possess watches, and whistling most of the time with
irritating intensity--our little hero at last came to the conclusion
that felicity was not to be obtained by such courses--not at least, at
that time. He was out of sorts, somehow, so he would return to the
garden and comfort Susy and the old woman, i.e. find comfort to himself
in their society. He went whistling along, therefore, until his steps
were suddenly and violently arrested.
To account for this we must tell how, about this time, it chanced that a
very drunk man of the very lowest London type, as far as appearance
went, awoke from a heavy slumber which he had been enjoying under the
seat of a compartment in a certain low gin-palace. He was about to
stretch himself and give vent to a noisy yawn when the word "Laidlaw"
smote his ear. Pale, worn-out, cadaverous, threadbare, inexpressibly
mean, the man gently raised his dissolute form on one elbow and listened
to two men in a box beside him. Their heads met almost over the spot
where his own head rested. The men were Lockhart and Spivin, and the
occasion was that on which we have already described them as engaged in
plotting, or referring to, the downfall of the man from Scotland.
Trumps (for he was the listener), though well practised in the art of
eavesdropping, could not gather the gist of the plotters' discourse.
Only this he made out, that, in some way or other, they meant to do, or
had done, mischief to the man who had spared and helped, and, above all,
had _trusted him_! It was tantalising to hear so little, though so
near, for, from his position under the seat, he could have grasped Mr
Lockhart's ankles. But the plotters were much too knowing to speak in
tones that could be easily overheard. Besides, other noisy people were
arguing in the neighbouring and opposite compartments, so that the
confusion of tongues rendered them, they thought, safe. Even the man
under the seat although so very near, would have failed to catch the
drift of a single sentence had not the name of Laidlaw sharpened his
ears and faculties. One that he did catch, however, was suggestive,
viz., "put the 50 pound note in his bag," or something to that effect.
When the two friends rose to depart, Trumps sank noiselessly on the
ground like a filthy shadow, but the quick eye of the lawyer caught
sight of his leg.
Lockhart started, turned aside, and gave Trumps a kick in the ribs. It
was a sharp painful kick, but drew from him only a heavy snore. To make
quite sure the man of law administered another kick. This caused the
recumbent man to growl forth a savage oath which terminated in a snore
so very natural that the lawyer fell into the trap, and went off with
the contemptuous remark--"Dead drunk!"