Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: "Mr. Harper was completely out of his depth." (Page
267.)]
THE SAILOR
BY
J. C. SNAITH
AUTHOR OF "ANNE FEVERSHAM," "BROKE OF COVENDEN,"
"ARAMINTA," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY
W. A. HOTTINGER
THOMAS LANGTON
TORONTO
1916
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"Mr. Harper was completely out of his depth." . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
"A nigger with rings in his ears came forward with a light."
"'I was a bit on last night,' she said with well assumed humility."
"'Mary,' he said, 'do you remember your words eleven months ago?'"
THE SAILOR
BOOK I
GESTATION
I
A large woman in a torn dress stood at the gate of a rag and bone
dealer's yard. The season was November, the hour midnight, the place a
slum in a Midland textile town.
Hanging from the wall of the house beyond was a dirty oil lamp round
which the fog circled in a hundred spectral shapes. Seen by its light,
she was not pleasant to look upon. Bare-armed, bare-headed, savage
chest half bare and sagging in festoons, she stood stayless and
unashamed, breathing gin and wickedness. A grin of quiet joy was upon
her alcoholic countenance. Nay, more than joy. It was a light of
inward ecstasy, and sprang from the fact that a heavy carter's whip was
in her hand.
Not many feet from the spot on which she stood was the wall of a
neighbor's house. Crouching against it so that he was scarcely visible
in the darkness was a boy of thirteen. Without stockings or shoes, he
wore only a filthy shirt, a thing that had once been a jacket, and a
tattered lower garment which left his thighs half naked.
His face was transfigured with terror.
"Enery Arper," said the woman with a shrill snigger not unlike the
whinny of a horse, "Auntie said she'd wait up for you, didn't she? And
she always keeps a promise, don't she, my boy?"
The figure six yards away the fog was doing its best to hide cowered
yet closer to the wall.
"And what was it, Enery, that Auntie promised you if you come 'ome
again with ninepence?" The wheeze of the voice had a note of humor.
The boy was wedged so close to the wall that he had barked the skin off
his bare knees. The woman, watching him intently, began to trail the
heavy lash on the cobbled yard.
"Said she'd make it up to a shillin' for you, didn't she? ... if you
come 'ome again with ninepence. Said she'd cut the heart out o' you
... same as if it was the eye of a pertater."
A powerful arm was already loose. The eye of an expert had the
distance measured to a nicety.
"Clean out."
A scream followed that was not human. The heavy whip had caught the
boy round the unprotected thighs.
"I'll do ye in this time."
Mad with pain and terror the boy dashed straight at her, charging like
a desperate animal, as with leisurely ferocity she prepared for a
second cut at him. The impact of his body was so unexpected that it
nearly knocked her down.
It was his only chance. Before she could recover her balance he was
out of the gate and away in the fog. A lane ran past the yard. He was
in it before the whip could reach him again; in it and running for his
life.
The lane was short, straight and very narrow, with high walls on both
sides. A turn to the right led through a small entry into a by-street
which gave access to one of the main thoroughfares of the city. A turn
to the left ended in a blank wall which formed a blind alley.
By the time the boy was halfway down the lane, he realized that in his
mad terror he had turned to the left instead of to the right. There
was no escape. He was in a trap.
A moment he hesitated, sick with fear. He could hear the heavy
footfalls of his pursuer; as she plowed through the fog he could hear
her wheezy grunts and alcoholic curses.
"Took the wrong turnin', eh?" She was within ten yards. "Hold on a
minute, that's all, young man!"
In sheer desperation the boy ran on again, well knowing he could not
get beyond the wall at the bottom of the lane. He could see it
already. A lamp was there, faintly revealing its grim outline with fog
around it.
"I'll do ye in, by God, I will!"
The voice was so near that his knees began to fail. Overcome with
terror he threw himself on the ground near the wall. He had neither
the strength nor the courage to try again the trick that had saved him
a minute ago.
He knew she was standing under the lamp, he knew she was looking for
him.
"Ah, Enery, I see yer," she said, with a savage laugh.
Content to know there was no escape for him she paused to get her
breath.
The boy began to wriggle along under the lea of the wall, while she
stood watching him. The wall was old, and all at once he made a
discovery. Close to his head was a small hole, where three or four
bricks had fallen out. It was a mere black space, leading he knew not
where. But he didn't hesitate. Hardly knowing what he did, he
squeezed his head through the hole. And then with the frenzied
desperation of a rat in a trap he dragged his body after it.
An oath came from the woman under the lamp, a short ten yards off. She
sprang at the wall. She lashed at it again and again, cursing
horribly. But it was no use. Her prey had escaped with one savage cut
across the heels. She continued to lash at the hole, but the boy was
out of her reach.
II
Where was he? He didn't know. Half dead with fear he could hear her
lashing at the wall, but she wouldn't be able to get at him.
With a great effort he rose from his hands and knees. He had hardly
strength to stand up. He seemed to be in a sort of garden. There was
mold under his feet. It was too dark to see it, but he knew by the
smell; also it was damp and sticky. He moved a few yards and his feet
became entangled among roots and bushes. And then suddenly a dog began
to bark and his heart stood still.
For quite a minute he dared not move another step. The dog sounded
very near, yet he could not return by the way he had come. No, in
spite of the dog he must find another outlet from this garden. Very
cautiously he moved a yard or two, and then stopped to listen. Shaking
with terror he then moved on again.
Groping about in the fog and darkness, his teeth chattering with cold,
his brain quite numb, it seemed that he would never be able to find a
way out. Where was he? He had no idea of anything except the ground
under his feet. Now it was a stretch of gravel, now a rubbish heap,
now moist earth, now roots and bushes, and then finally, after the
lapse of hours as it seemed, he came up against a wall.
It might be the wall through which he had crept. Of that he could not
be sure, but yet he did not think it was. He began to follow the line
of it, taking care to do so in the opposite direction to the dog whose
barking was incessant. As he walked he rubbed his hands along the
surface of the wall in the hope of finding a gate.
For a long time he groped through the darkness, but came upon nothing
in the least resembling a gate. Again he grew desperate. He would
have to wait there until daylight. But he simply dared not do that
with the dog straining at his chain, seemingly, only a very few yards
off.
Sick with cold and shaking in every limb he began to cry feebly. His
knees were knocking, he was at the end of his wits. There was no way
out of the garden, yet if he stayed in it the dog would kill him.
Suddenly he decided upon the only possible course; he must climb the
wall. Not knowing its height, or what there was beyond, or whether it
was merely the wall of a house, he began to "shin" up it for all he was
worth, grasping its rough surface as well as he could with his hands
and his knees and his bare toes. There must be some kind of a top to
it, and when the dog broke his chain, as every moment he threatened to
do, he might not be able to reach him.
Wild and precarious struggling, in the course of which he was several
times within an ace of toppling backwards into the garden, brought his
numb fingers at last to a kind of coping. He had just strength enough
to draw up his body on to the narrow ledge, only to find that he could
not possibly remain on it. The top of the wall was sown thickly with
broken glass.
He knew his hands and knees were cut, yet he could hardly feel
anything. There was only one thing to do now; he must jump for it--one
side or the other. He came to no deliberate decision; at that moment
he was completely unbalanced in body and mind, but a voice inside him
said suddenly:
"Chance it!"
Hands and knees instinctively gripping as hard as they could, he
slipped over the other side. But it was impossible to keep a hold. He
slipped and swayed and slipped again, and then he knew that he was
falling ... falling ... falling through space into the unknown.
III
Something hit him, something so hard that it seemed to crack him as if
he had been an egg. It was the earth. He lay a moment almost without
sensation, and then he realized that the dog was no longer barking.
Feeling reassured he made an effort to rise. He couldn't move. The
sensation was horrible. Perhaps he had broken his back.
He tried several times, and because he could feel no pain the thought
seemed to grow upon him. Presently, however, he found he could stand.
Still dazed and shaken in every bone, he knew now that he had had the
luck to fall upon soft earth. But as soon as he stood up there came a
savage grinding pain in his left leg, and he lay down whimpering
feebly. He then got up again, and then lay down again, and then
suddenly he wished he was dead.
If only he had had the luck to kill himself! But every moment now made
the wish seem more vain. He was conscious of one ache after another,
in every part of his body; his hands and feet were bleeding, he was
sick and sorry, but he seemed to know that death was a long way off.
Suddenly he stood up again. The cold, wet earth under him was
unendurable. Where was he? He set his teeth, and began to drag his
left leg after him in order to find out. Where was he? This place
seemed a sort of garden too. But there was no dog in it. The damp
soil was merged very soon in substances less gentle to the feet; old
crocks and scraps of metal and other debris, the prelude to a rubbish
heap. And then without in the least expecting it, he came upon water.
The question was answered. He was on the bank of the canal.
The knowledge chilled right through him. Here and now was his chance.
It wouldn't take more than a minute if he jumped straight in. But the
water looked still and cold and horrible. As he came to the edge he
found he couldn't face it. He simply hadn't the pluck.
He limped on a few yards. It might seem easier a bit lower down. But
when he came a bit lower down he couldn't face it either, and he stood
at the edge of the water crying miserably.
After a while he dragged himself away from the canal. He stumbled over
rubbish heaps and stones and brickbats, varied now and then with
nettles and twitch grass. He came to a low bridge and crossed it.
Nothing would have been easier than to slip over the side; it might
have been there for the purpose; but this was one of the places where
the fog had lifted a little, again he caught a glimpse of the water and
again he moved on.
At last he came to some wooden railings and got through a gap where one
or two had been broken. Here the fog was so thick that he lost his
bearings altogether. He didn't know in the least where he was, he
couldn't see his hand before him; and then he stumbled over something
which jarred his hurt foot horribly. The something was a wire.
Of course, it was the railway. He remembered, almost with a feeling of
excitement, that the railway was in the next field to the canal. A
moment he stood trying to make out things and noises in the fog. Yes,
he could hear, at least he thought he could hear, wagons being shunted
in the sidings. After he had moved a few yards towards the sound, he
was able to make out a red light in the distance.
For some odd reason which he couldn't explain, the feeling of
excitement began to grow with the certainty that he was on the line.
He could feel the metals, icy cold, smooth and slippery under his feet.
He limped along until a dim shape loomed ahead. It was a signal box.
By this time his excitement was almost terrible.
He stood a moment listening to the snortings of an engine which he
couldn't see, and the clang-clang-clang of the wagons as they were
being shunted in the sidings. And then all at once the signal under
which he was shivering dropped with a great clatter, and something very
deep down in him, a something he had not known existed until that
moment, gave a sort of little exultant cry and told him that now was
his chance.
Excited almost to the verge of joy he limped past the signal box in
order to get away from its lights. If the thing was done at all it
would have to be done in darkness. Presently he looked round, and with
a sensation of downright terror, found that the lights of the signal
box were no longer to be seen. Here the fog was quite thick again;
whichever way he looked there was not a single object he could make out
in the darkness. But under his bare feet he could feel the broad
metals icy, smooth, inexorable.
"Now's your chance," said a gentle voice deep down in himself.
Instantly he lay full length in the six-foot way.
"Set your head on the line," said the voice.
He did as he was told. The sensation of the icy metal under his right
ear was so horrible that his heart almost stopped inside him.
"Close your eyes," said the voice, and then it said a little more
gently as if it knew that already he was half dead with fear, "Stay
just as you are and you'll not know nothink about it."
He closed his eyes.
"Don't move," said the voice. "Stay there and it'll not hurt you."
If he had had a God to pray to, he would have prayed.
The engine seemed a long time on the way. He daren't move hand or
foot, he daren't stir a muscle of his body. But as the seconds passed
an intense desire came upon him to change the position of his head. It
felt so undefended sideways on. Surely it would be better if he turned
it round so that....
"Don't move," the voice commanded him. "Keep just like that. Quite
still."
He was bound to obey. The voice was stronger than he.
"Eyes shut, and you'll not know nothink."
It was as a mother would have spoken had he ever heard a mother speak.
... The engine was coming. He could hear it snorting and rattling in
the distance. He simply daren't listen. He tried to imagine he was
already dead. But a frightful crash suddenly broke in upon his brain,
and then another, and then another ... he had never realized how much
it took to...
"Fog signals," said the voice. "Keep just as you are ... eyes shut
... quite still ... quite still."
There it was, grunting and rattling.... Know nothink! ... there ...
now...
Grunting, rattling, snorting, what a time it took! In spite of himself
he opened his eyes, and found that he was still alive.
"You were on the wrong line after all."
The sound of the voice turned him faint.
IV
There was only one thing to be done now, and this he did without delay.
He took his head from the metals and stood up as well as he could. His
body was all numb and lifeless, but there was a queer excitement in him
somewhere that for the moment made him feel almost happy. After all,
he wasn't dead. And in that strange moment that was like a dream he
was almost glad he wasn't. Yes, almost glad. It was hard to believe
that he should wish to find himself alive, and yet as he stretched his
limbs and began to move he couldn't honestly say that after all he
wasn't just a little bit pleased.
He was not able to move very fast; he was so dreadfully cold for one
thing, and then his left foot was hurt. But now, as he walked along
the six-foot way, he felt somehow stronger than he had ever felt in his
life before. Of a sudden he crossed the metals and plunged recklessly
sideways into the fog. He stumbled over some signal wires and fell on
his knees, got up and stumbled over some more. What did it matter?
What did anything matter? After all, it was quite easy to die. He
must find the right line and make a job of it.
He stopped a moment, and turned this thought over in his mind. And
then he heard the voice again.
"_Henry Harper, you'll never be able to do that again as long as you
live._"
The words were gentle and composed, but they struck him like a curse.
He knew that they were true. Not as long as he lived would he be able
to do again as he had just done. It was as if the judge in his wig
whom he had seen that afternoon riding to the Assizes in his gilt
carriage had passed a life sentence upon him. His knees began to
crumble under him again; he could have shrieked with terror. Crying
miserably he limped along into the sidings. He came to a lamp. All
around were silent, grim shapes upon which its feeble light was cast.
They were loaded wagons, sheeted with tarpaulins. With the amazing
recklessness that had just been born in him he determined to find a way
into one of them in the hope of being able to lie down and sleep. It
was not very difficult to climb up and get under one of the sheets,
which happened to have been loosely tied. Also he had the luck to find
a bed that would have been more or less comfortable had the night not
been so bitterly cold. The wagon was loaded with sacks full of a
substance soft and yielding; as a matter of fact, it was flour.
Henry Harper lay down with a feeling of relief and burrowed among the
sacks as far as he could get. A mass of aches in body and soul,
anything was better than the darkness and damp fog and icy substances
cutting into his bare feet. Presently, with the sacks piled all round
him, he felt less miserable, and he fell asleep.
How long he slept he didn't know. But it must have been some little
time, and the sleep must have been fairly sound, for he was only
awakened by a great jolt of the wagon. And before he was fully awake
it had begun to move.
Hadn't he better jump out? No, let it move. Let it do anything it
liked. Let it go anywhere it pleased. What did it matter? Again he
fell asleep.
The next time he awoke he was shivering with cold and feeling very
hungry. But the wagon was moving now and no mistake. It was still
pitch dark, although the fog seemed to have lifted a bit, but the
detonators which had been placed on the line were going off now and
again with tremendous reports, signals flew past, and while he lay
wondering what he ought to do now, he passed through an array of lights
which looked like a station.
He soon came to the conclusion that it was useless to do anything. He
couldn't get out of the wagon now even if he wanted to, that was unless
he wanted to kill himself. Yes ... that was exactly what...
"Lie quiet. Go to sleep," a stern voice commanded him.
He tried to sleep again but soon found he couldn't. He was cold and
ill, but after an attack of vomiting he felt better. Meanwhile the
wagon rattled on and on through the night, and it seemed to go faster
the farther it went.
Where was it going? What did it matter where it went so long as he
went with it? But--the sudden thought was like a blow--that was just
what did matter! They would find him lying there, and they would give
him to the police, and the police would do something to him. He knew
all about that, because they had done something to him once already for
taking an apple off a stall in the market place. He had only taken
one, but they had given him six strokes, and in spite of the cold and
the pain in his left leg he still remembered just what they were like.
Perhaps he ought to jump for it. No, that was impossible with his leg
like that; the wagon was going too fast. He had better lie quiet and
slip out as soon as the wagon stopped at a station. He burrowed far
down into the sacks once more, for the sake of the warmth, and after a
while he went to sleep again.
And then he had a dream that filled him with terror. The police had
found him. The police had found him in the wagon.
He awoke with a start. Rough hands were shaking him. Yes, it was
perfectly true!
"Kim up ... you!"
It was the voice of the police.
He turned over with a whimper and lifted up his head, only to drop it
instantly. He had been blinded by the glare of a lantern held six
inches from his eyes.
"Well, damn me," a great, roaring voice surged into his ears. "Here,
Ike!"
"What's up now?" said a second voice, roaring like the first.
"Come and look at this."
The boy dug his head into the sacks.
"What's up?" said voice the second.
"What about it? Must ha' got in at Blackhampton."
"Well, damn me."
The boy burrowed deeper and deeper into the sacks.
"Here, come out of it." The owner of the first voice took him by the
ear and dragged him out of the wagon.
"What's yer name?"
No answer.
His captor shook him roughly.
"Enry Arper," whimpered the boy.
"Enry what?"
"Enry Arper."
"Enry Arper, is it? Well, you are going to have something to 'arp for,
you are, my lad."
"Ever had the birch rod, Mister Enry Arper?" inquired the first voice
with a kind of grim pleasantness.
The boy didn't answer.
"No? Not had that pleasure? The police are going to cut the skin off
o' you and sarve you right. They'll larn you to trespass on to the
railway. Fetch the foreman, Ike."
While the boy, securely held by the ear, stood shivering, Ike went
leisurely in search of the foreman shunter. It was six o'clock, and
that individual, who had been on duty since that hour the previous
evening, was on the point of going home. Ike found him in the
messroom, where he had gone to exchange his lantern for the small
wicker basket in which he brought his meals. His name was Job Lorimer,
and being large and fat and florid he sauntered up to the scene of
action with an air of frank acceptance of life as it is, that seems to
go as a rule with his type of physique and countenance.
"Why, blow me, Iggins, what's all this year?"
"Allow me to introjuice Mr. Enry Arper o' Blackhampton.--Mr. Job
Lorimer, foreman shunter, Kentish Town."
"'Owdy do, young man. Pleased to meet you." Mr. Lorimer winked
solemnly at both his subordinates. "What can we do for you?"
"Twelve strokes with the birch rod," said subordinate the first.
"Eight for the first offence," said subordinate the second.
Suddenly the boy fell down senseless at the foreman shunter's feet.
V
"Well, blow me," said the Foreman Shunter. "Show the light, Pearson."
The second subordinate maneuvered the lantern. "On'y a kid. And I
never see sich a state as he's in. No boots. No stockings. Just look
at them feet. And his hands all of a mush. Gawd!" said the Foreman
Shunter.
"What'll you do about it, Job?" said subordinate number one.
"Do about it?" said the Foreman Shunter sharply. "Do about what?"
"Might let him go this time?" said subordinate number two.
The boy opened his eyes.
"I'll take him 'ome to the missus and give him some breakfast," said
the Foreman Shunter with an air of asperity.
The odd thing was that both subordinates seemed silently to approve
this grave dereliction of a foreman shunter's duty.
"Can you walk, me lad?"
"O' course he can't, Iggins, not with them," said the Foreman Shunter.
"Can't stand on 'em, let alone walk on 'em. Here, catch holt o' the
bawsket."
The Foreman Shunter took the boy in his arms and carried him away from
the goods yard as he would have carried a baby.
"Leave the bawsket at No. 12 when you come off duty," he called back to
the first subordinate.
"Right, Job, I will," said the first subordinate rather respectfully,
and then as the Foreman Shunter passed out of hearing, the first
subordinate said to his mate, "Fancy taking a thing like that 'ome to
your missus."
In the meantime the boy was shivering and whimpering in what he felt to
be the strong arms of the police.
"Let me go, mister, this once," he whined as awful recollections surged
upon him. He had been getting terribly hurt all through the night, but
he knew that he was going to be hurt still more now that the police had
got hold of him.
But his faint whimpers and half-hearted wriggles were without effect
upon the majesty of the law.
"Lie still. Keep quiet," growled the Foreman Shunter, adding as quite
an impersonal afterthought, "Blast you!"
It seemed a very long time to the boy before he came to prison. Up one
strange street and down another he was carried. As he lay in the arms
of the police he could make out lamp after lamp and row after row of
houses in the darkness.
It was a long way to the station.
"Let me go this once, mister," he began to whine again. "I'll not do
it no more."
"Quiet, blast you," growled the large, rich voice of the police.
At last they came to a door, which in the uncertain light seemed
exactly similar to one he had passed through on an occasion he would
never forget to his dying day. He began to cry again miserably.
Perhaps they would give him something to eat--they did so before--but
he would not be able to eat anything this time if they offered it, not
until they had done what they had to do.
He could hear sounds a little way off ... inside the prison. He
gripped convulsively the rough overcoat of his captor. How vividly he
remembered it all! They gave it two other boys first. Again he could
hear their screams, again he could see the blood running down their
bare legs.
He must try to be a man ... he remembered that one of the other boys
had laughed about it afterwards ... he must try to be a man ... at
least that had been the advice of a fatherly policeman in spectacles
who had presided over the ceremony....
"Mother ... that you..." The terrific voice of his captor went right
through him. "Where are you, Mother? Show a light."
Suddenly a door at the end of the passage was flung open. There came a
blinding gush of gaslight.
"Why, Job ... whatever...!"
"I'll set him on the sophy."
"Yes, on the sophy. Goodness gracious me!"
The boy realized that he was on a horsehair sofa, and that a fine,
clean, handsome-looking lady was standing with her mouth open in front
of him.
"Goodness gracious, Job!"
"Come all the way from Blackhampton in a truck this morning. By the
5:40 Express."
"Well, I'm blessed if I ever see such a hobject. I'll give him some
tea and a bit o' bacon, and some bread and butter, and then I'll get
some o' that mud off him."
"Some of it's blood," said the Foreman Shunter.
"Yes, I see it is. Never ... did ... I ... see ... anythink ... like
him. I'll make the tea; the kettle's boiling." The voice of Mother
was the nearest thing to music the boy had ever heard. It was better
even than that of the ladies who sang in the bar of the Wheat Sheaf,
the Red Lion, and the Crown and Anchor, outside which places he had
always stayed to listen when he could conveniently do so. This room
was not in the least like the police station. And he was quite sure
that the lady called Mother had nothing whatever to do with....
"Set him a bit nearer to the fire, Job,"--yes, the voice was
music--"and put this round him."
"This" was an old coat.
VI
"I'll give it him in a saucer," said Mother. "It'll be cooler that
way."
A saucer of tea was offered to the boy.
"Can you hold it, me lad?"
"Yes, lady," he said, faintly.
"Lap it up, then. Better let me try it first." She sipped a little
out of the saucer. "Yes, that's right enough."
The tea was so perfectly delicious that he swallowed it at a gulp.
Mother and the Foreman Shunter watched him with surprise.
"Now for a bite o' bread and butter," said Mother, sawing away at a
quartern loaf.
The boy seized the bread and butter like a hungry dog. Mother and the
Foreman Shunter stood looking at him with queer, rather startled faces.
"I never see the likes o' that, Job."
"No, never," said the Foreman Shunter, solemnly. "Damn me."
"What's your name, boy?"
"Enry Arper, lady."
"Enry what?"
"Enry Arper, lady."
"Could you eat a bit o' bacon, do you think?"
The boy nodded with an eagerness that made the Foreman Shunter laugh.
"I see nothing to laugh at, Job Lorimer," said his wife sharply. Tears
had come into her eyes. She whisked them away with a corner of her
apron, and then gave a sniff of remarkable violence. "And they call
this a Christian land."
"You never heard me call it that, Mother," said the Foreman Shunter.
"More shame to you, then, Job Lorimer."
"I know this," said the Foreman Shunter, speaking in a slow and
decisive manner, "whatever this country is or whatever it ain't,
there's as much Christianity in it as there is in that hearthrug. And
there ain't a bit more."
"Shut your head," said his wife. "And hand me that knife and I'll cut
up this bit o' bacon for him."
She took a delicately browned rasher out of a hissing, delicious
smelling frying-pan on the fire, cut it into very small pieces, gave it
to the boy, and told him to eat it slowly.
After the boy's wants had been attended to, Mother spread a newspaper
on the sofa and told him to put up his legs and rest a bit. The
Foreman Shunter then passed through a door and performed wonders in the
way of blowing and splashing at the scullery sink. When he reappeared
his face was very red and shining and the boy was fast asleep.
"I'm thinking I'll have a bite meself," said Job, with a glance at the
sofa. "And then I suppose I had better take him along to the police
station."
Mother made no reply, but gave her husband a breakfast worthy of a
foreman shunter. She then examined carefully the boy's hands and feet.
"I never did see such a hobject," said she. And then with an imperious
air, "I'll give him a wash, that's what I'll do."
In order to carry out this resolve, she went into the scullery, filled
the copper, and lit the fire.
Presently the members of the family, three small boys and a smaller
girl, came down to breakfast _en route_ to school. They looked
wonderingly at the creature on the sofa, with great curiosity in their
half frightened eyes. Their father told them sternly to keep away from
it, to get on with their breakfasts, not to make a noise, and to clear
off to school.
"Is it a boy or a girl?" Alfie asked Johnnie, in a thrilling whisper as
soon as father had retired to help Mother in the scullery.
"A girl, o' course."
There was some excuse for Johnnie: there was something that looked
exactly like a girl in the sleeping face. The rest was hidden by the
coat.
The family was soon packed off to school, Johnnie "with a flea in his
ear" for having cleaned his boots imperfectly the night before. Mother
then cleared away the remains of breakfast, and the Foreman Shunter
fetched a fair-sized zinc bath out of the washhouse, pushed back the
table, and set it down before the fire. He filled it with warm water
from the copper, and then gave the sleeper a shake and said,
"Now, then, boy."
The boy roused himself with a little whimper of protest. He had not
been very fast asleep; the police in varying forms of their activity
were still hovering round the outskirts of his mind. He began to cry
miserably at the sight of the zinc bath, which supplied a forgotten
link in an awful chain of memories. Yes, this was the police station
after all. He remembered now quite well how they gave him a bath
before they ...
"What are you crying for?" asked Mother. "I'm not going to hurt you,
my boy. Nice warm bath. Bind up your feet. Then you can go to sleep
again."
Perhaps it wasn't the police station, after all. Certainly that
institution as he knew it had no Mother and no warm tea and no fried
bacon, and no sofa and no old coat.
Mother removed the filthy shirt and the tattered knickerbockers with
uncompromising but not indelicate hands.
"Them had better be burnt, Job," she said sharply, as she gave them to
the Foreman Shunter to throw into the back yard.
"Better ha' done this job in the scullery, Mother," said he.
"Too cold...." She took the temperature of the bath with an expert's
finger.... "I never did see anything like this poor child. There's
nothing to him. Look at his ribs. You can count 'em. Ugh!" The eye
of Mother had been arrested by a broad red mark across both thighs.
"That's been done with a whip," said the Foreman Shunter, grimly.
"Just look at those feet ... they are beginning to bleed again. And
these pore hands. I'll get some rags and some Friar's Balsam. And his
hair! Goodness gracious me! I'll have to go to the chemist's for
that, I'm thinking."
It was perfectly true that Mother had to pay a visit to the chemist for
the boy's hair. Nothing less than the chemist could meet the case.
In the meantime, the Foreman Shunter soaped and washed the boy
thoroughly, dried him with a coarse towel, rubbed the Friar's Balsam on
the mutilated hands and feet, which made them smart horribly, and bound
them in clean rags. Mother then returned to perform wonders with the
chemist's lotion. Afterwards she fetched a nightgown of Alfie's, put
it on the boy, wrapped him up in a couple of blankets, and made him
comfortable on the sofa, and the Foreman Shunter drew it a bit nearer
the fire. Then the boy was told he could sleep as long as he liked.
Presently he began to doze, his mind still running on the police; but
certainly this was not a bit like the station.
VII
"What'll you do with him, Mother?"
It was tea time, the kitchen blind was down, the gas was lit; and
mother was toasting a muffin for the Foreman Shunter, who was about to
go on duty.
"He can't stay here, you know. We've as many as we can manage already."
"I know that," snapped Mother.
Like most mothers who are worth their salt, she had rather a habit of
snapping at the Foreman Shunter.
The boy was feeling wonderfully comfortable. In fact, he had never
felt so comfortable in his life. And he was just sufficiently awake to
know that his fate was being decided upon.
"What'll you do with him, anyhow?"
"I don't know," snapped Mother.
"I don't neither. Seems to me there's nothing for it but to hand him
over to the police."
The boy was fully awake now. His heart stood still. It seemed an age
before mother spoke in answer to this terrible suggestion.
"Yes, of course, there's always that," she said, at last.
The boy's heart died within him.
"He can't stay here, that's a moral," said the Foreman Shunter.
"I never said he could," snapped Mother. "But I don't hold with the
police myself. It means the Work'us, and you'd better not be born at
all, Job Lorimer, than go to the Work'us."
"You are right there," said the Foreman Shunter.
"He wants a honest occipation," said Mother, buttering the muffin.
"He wants eddicatin' first," said the Foreman Shunter, beginning to eat
the muffin. "What can you do with a kid like that? Don't know A from
a bull's foot. Not fit for any decent society."
"You are right there," said Mother. "But I'm all against the Work'us,
and it's no use purtending I ain't."
"Same here," said the Foreman Shunter. "But he can't stay at No. 12,
Gladstone Villas, and you can lay to that."
"Did I say he could?" snapped Mother yet again.
"Very well, then."
And the Foreman Shunter went on duty.
It took five days for the _famille_ Lorimer to decide the fate of Henry
Harper. Five wonderful days in which he lay most of the time wrapped
in warm blankets on a most comfortable sofa in a warm room. Everybody
was remarkably good to him. He had the nicest things to eat and drink
that had ever come his way; he was spoken to in the only kind tones
that had ever been used to him in all his thirteen years of life. He
was given a clean shirt of Alfie's without a single hole in it; he was
given a pair of Johnnie's socks; a pair of the Foreman Shunter's
trousers were cut down for him; he was given boots (Alfie's), a
waistcoat (Alfie's), a jacket (Alfie's), a necktie (Johnnie's), a clean
linen collar (Alfie's), a red-spotted handkerchief (Percy's--by Percy's
own request). In fact, in those five days he was by way of being taken
to the bosom of the family.
He was really a very decent sort of boy--at least, Father said so to
Mother in Johnnie's hearing. That is, he had the makings of a decent
boy. And Johnnie knew that if Father said so it must be so, because
Johnnie also knew that Father was an extremely acute and searching
critic of boys in general. They were all very sorry for him, and Alfie
and Percy were also inclined to be sorry for Johnnie, who had made a
regular mug of himself by declaring that this poor street arab was a
girl. It would take Johnnie at least a year to live it down, but in
the meantime they were full of pity for this miserable waif out of the
gutter who could neither write nor read, who tore at his food, who
called Mother "lady" and Father "mister," and said "dunno" and used
strange terms of the streets in a way they could hardly understand.
This poor gutter-snipe, who had been so badly knocked about, who had
never had a father or a mother, or a brother or a sister, was whole
worlds away from the fine assurance, the complete freedom and security
of Selborne Street Higher Grade Schools. He was more like a dumb
animal than a boy; and sometimes as they watched his white, hunted face
and heard his strange mumblings--the nearest he got, as a rule, to
human speech--it would have taken very little to convince them that
such was the case, could they only have forgotten that his like was to
be found at every street corner selling matches and evening papers and
begging for coppers when the police were not about.
During those five days the boy's future was a sore problem for the
Foreman Shunter and his wife. And it was only solved at last by a god
out of a machine. Mr. Elijah Hendren was the deity in question.
That gentleman happened to look in upon the evening of the fatal fifth
day. A benign, cultivated man of the world, he came regularly once a
week to engage the Foreman Shunter in a game of draughts. It was also
Mr. Hendren's custom on these occasions to smoke a pipe of bacca and to
give expression to his views upon things in general, of which from
early youth he had been an accomplished critic.
Mr. Hendren, it seemed, had a relation by marriage who followed the
sea. He was a rough sort of man, in Mr. Hendren's opinion not exactly
what you might call polished. Still, he followed a rough sort of
trade, and this was a rough sort of boy, and Mr. Hendren didn't mind
having a word with Alec--the name of the relation--and see what could
be done in the matter.
"I don't know about that," said Mother. "They might ill-use him, and
he's been ill-used more than enough already."
"Quite so," said Mr. Hendren politely, "huffing" the Foreman Shunter.
"Quite so, M'ria"--Mr. Hendren was a very old friend of the family--"I
quite agree with you there. The sea's a rough trade--rough an' no
mistake--Alec can tell you tales that would make your hair rise--but as
I say, he's a rough boy--and even the 'igh seas is better than the
Work'us."
"Anything is better than that," said Mother. "All the same, I wouldn't
like the poor child to be knocked about. You see, he's not very
strong; he wants building up, and he's been used that crool by somebody
that he's frit of his own shadow."
"Ah," said Mr. Hendren impressively. Impressiveness was Mr. Hendren's
long suit. At that time, he was perhaps the most impressive man under
sixty in Kentish Town. "Ah," said Mr. Hendren, "I quite understand,
M'ria. I'll speak to Alec the first thing tomorrer and see what he can
do. Not to be knocked about--but the sea's the sea, you quite
understand?"
"My great-uncle Dexter sailed twelve times round the Horn," said Mother
with modesty.
"Did he so?" said Mr. Hendren. "Twelve times. Before the mast?"
"Before the mast?" was a little too much for Mother, as Mr. Hendren
intended it to be, having no doubt a reputation to keep up.
"I don't know about afore the mast," said Mother stoutly. "I only know
that great-uncle Dexter was terrible rough ... terrible rough."
"All sailors is terrible rough," said Mr. Hendren, politely "huffing"
the Foreman Shunter again. "Still, M'ria, I'll see what I can do with
Alec ... although, mind you, as I say, Alec's not as much polish as
some people."
"Great-uncle Dexter hadn't neither," said Mother. "Foulest-mouthed man
I ever heard in my life ... and that's saying a good deal." And Mother
looked volumes at the Foreman Shunter.
"That so?" said Mr. Hendren, tactfully, crowning his second king.
"However ... I'll see Alec ... first thing tomorrer...."
"Thank you, 'Lijah," said the Foreman Shunter.
VIII
"Alec's" real name was Mr. Thompson. He was a very hirsute man, with
whiskers all over him, and at first sight he seemed to bear a very
striking resemblance to his arboreal ancestors of the largest and most
terrifying species. His distinguished relation, upon introducing him
in the course of the next evening to the family circle of No. 12,
Gladstone Villas, seemed not in the least proud of him, and to tell the
truth about Mr. Thompson, he did appear to be lacking in the graces of
the town. His rough pea-jacket and huge, ungainly limbs, his gruff
voice and gibbon-like aspect might all have been forgiven on the ground
of his calling, but unfortunately he began by expectorating with really
extraordinary freedom and vehemence into the kitchen fire, and from
that moment it was quite impossible for Mother or any other responsible
person to render Mr. Thompson in terms of the higher humanity. This
was a pity, because Mr. Thompson had evidently a range of private
qualities.
Truth to tell, Mother did not take to Mr. Thompson as kindly as she
might have done, and it needed all Mr. Hendren's tact, which was very
remarkable even for one who was "wholesale," to enable her to have any
truck with "Alec" at all.
"You must be reasonable, M'ria," said Mr. Hendren, urbanely. "It's
either the Work'us for this boy or it's the 'igh seas. If it's the
latter, you couldn't have a better man than Alec to look after him; if
it's the former, of course I wash my hands of the matter."
This flawless logic was strongly approved by the Foreman Shunter.
"'Lijah speaks to the p'int," he affirmed, with a rather doubtful
glance in the direction of Mr. Thompson, who was again expectorating
into the fire with a display of virtuosity that was almost uncanny.
In the meantime, the boy stood white and trembling in the midst of
Johnnie and Alfie and Percy while his fate hung in the balance. Not
one of these had taken kindly to Mr. Thompson, in spite of the fact
that at frequent intervals the admired Mr. Hendren assured their father
and mother that "he was a first-rate seaman."
"Now, this is the crux of the matter," said Mr. Elijah Hendren,
bringing in the word "crux" as though he well knew it was only
"wholesale" people who were allowed to use such a word at all. "Either
the boy goes to sea with Alec, and he couldn't have no better to take
charge of him--Alec's a first-rate seaman--else he goes to the Work'us.
Now, my boy, which is it to be?" And Mr. Hendren fairly hypnotized the
poor waif in father's trousers cut down with the large and rolling eye
of an accepted candidate for the honorary treasurership of the Ancient
Order of Hedgehogs.
"Now, me lad, which is it to be?" Mr. Hendren's forefinger wagged so
sternly that the boy began to weep softly. "Alec'll not eat you, you
know. If he says he'll see you through, he'll see you through. Am I
right, Alec?"
"Yep," growled Alec, beginning to threaten a further assault upon the
kitchen fire.
"Very well, then," said Mr. Hendren. "There you are. What can you ask
fairer? You can either go with Alec--Mr. Thompson to you, my boy--else
you can be handed over to the police, and they'll send you to the
Work'us. Now, boy, which is it to be?" Mr. Hendren put the question
with awful impressiveness. "It's a free country, you know. You can
take your choice: Alec--Mr. Thompson--or the Work'us?"
If Henry Harper had had a doubt in his mind as to which was the less
grim of these alternatives, the casual mention of the police
undoubtedly laid it at rest. Mr. Thompson looked capable of eating a
boy of his age, but after all that was very little compared with what
the police, as Henry Harper knew them, took a pride in doing in the
ordinary discharge of their functions.
"I'll go wiv 'im, mister," said Henry Harper, in sudden desperation.
He then hid himself behind his friend Johnnie.
"With Mr. Thompson?"
"Yes, mister."
Henry Harper began to sob, and Alfie and Percy at least didn't blame
him. Mr. Thompson was the nearest thing to the wicked ogre in "Jack
and the Beanstalk" they had ever seen in their lives.
However, their mother who had the heart of a lion, who was afraid of
nothing so long as it was human--and even Mr. Thompson was apparently
that--took upon herself to have a little serious discourse with the man
of the sea.
"I suppose, Mr. Thompson, this is a decent ship to which you will be
taking the poor child?" said she.
It was necessary for Mr. Thompson to roll his eyes fearfully before he
could do justice to such a leading question. He was then understood to
say in his queer, guttural voice, which seemed to come out of his
boots, that the ship was right enough, although a bit hungry at times
as all ships were.
"Is the captain of the vessel a gentleman?" demanded Mother at
point-blank range.
Mr. Thompson was understood to say that when the Old Man was all right
he was all right, but when in drink he was a devil.
"All men are," said Mother, succinctly. "That's the worst of it. But
I understand you to say that at ordinary times the captain's a
gentleman."
"Yep," said Mr. Thompson, comprehensively.
In spite, however, of this valuable testimonial to the captain's
character and status, Mother seemed very loath to put her trust in him
or in Mr. Thompson either. For one thing that admirable seaman
expectorated again into the kitchen fire, but that apart, the note of
primeval extravagance in his outward aspect hardly commended itself to
Mother.
"The child is very young," she said, "to be going to sea. And you
sailors has rough ways--my great-uncle Dexter always said so. And he
was a rough man if you like--not as rough as you are, Mr. Thompson, but
still he was rough. And as I say, the boy is not grown yet, there's
nothing to him, as you might say; still, as it's you, Mr. Thompson, or
the Work'us, I suppose it'll have to be you."
"Quite so, M'ria," interposed Mr. Hendren with marked urbanity.
"Now you quite understand," said Mother. "Mr. Thompson, I hold you
responsible for this boy. You'll be good to him, and stand his friend,
and teach him seafaring ways, and you'll see that nobody ill-uses him.
You'll promise that now, Mr. Thompson. This boy's delicate, and as I
say, he's already been knocked about so crool, he's frit of his own
shadow."
Mr. Thompson promised with becoming solemnity that he would see no harm
came to the boy. Thereupon he seemed to go up a little in Mother's
estimation. Moreover, he suddenly took an odd fancy to Johnnie. He
produced a foreign penny from his pea-jacket, offered it to Johnnie and
asked him what he thought of it, and he seemed so gratified that
Johnnie--who had about as much imagination as the leg of a chair--was
not in the least afraid of him, that he told Johnnie to keep the penny,
and then he fairly took away the breath of everybody, Mother included,
by promising magnificently to bring Johnnie a parrot from the West
Indies.
Even Mr. Elijah Hendren was impressed by this princely offer on the
part of his kinsman by marriage.
"He's rough, o' course," whispered Mr. Elijah Hendren to the Foreman
Shunter, "but he means it about the parrot. That's the kind o' man he
is, although, mind you, I don't say he's polished."
Whatever doubts might have been entertained for the future of Henry
Harper, the parrot somehow seemed to soften them. Even Mother felt
that to express misgiving after that would be in bad taste. Mr.
Thompson promised that he would see the old man in the course of the
morrow, as the _Margaret Carey_ had to sail on Friday, but he had no
doubt it would be all right as they never minded a boy or two. And
then the Foreman Shunter sent Johnnie to the end of the street for a
quartern of rum, as there was only beer in the house, and that mild
beverage was not the slightest use to a sailor.
Johnnie walked on air. At every shop window he came to he stopped to
examine his foreign penny. But what was that in comparison with a real
live parrot all the way from the West Indies? That night, Johnnie was
the happiest boy in Kentish Town. He slept with the foreign penny
under his pillow, and his dreams were of unparalleled magnificence.
And on the sofa in the kitchen below, tossed and dozed the unhappiest
boy in Kentish Town. He had escaped the police by a miracle, he was
quit of Auntie, he was free of the selling of matches, but tomorrow or
the day after he was leaving the only friends he had ever known. As
for the sea and Mr. Thompson and the _Margaret Carey_, there was some
subtle but deadly instinct in him that had warned him already. There
would be no Mother to wash him and bind his wounds, or to give him
fried bacon and see that he came to no harm.
Twice he woke in the middle of the night, sweating with fear, and
wildly calling her name.
IX
The next day it rained incessantly from morning till night, and there
was just a faint hope in the boy's mind that it might prevent Mr.
Thompson coming to fetch him. He clung desperately to this feeble
straw, because it was the only one he had, but he was not such a fool
as to think that Mr. Thompson was the kind of man who stays at home for
the weather. Therefore it did not surprise him at all when he was
solemnly told that evening about six o'clock, just after he had had his
tea, that Mr. Thompson had come for him.
Sure enough Mr. Thompson had. Moreover, he had come in a cab. All the
same, he managed to enter the kitchen with the water running off his
pea-jacket on mother's spotless floor, and as he stood blinking
fiercely in the gas light, he looked bigger and hairier and less like a
human being than ever.
Henry Harper's one instinct was to take a tight hold of Mother's apron.
And this he did in spite of the fact that Johnnie and Alfie and Percy
were sitting round the table, drinking tea and eating bread and jam.
Mother told Henry Harper very gently he must be a man, whereupon he did
his best to meet Mr. Thompson boldly. But he made a very poor job of
it indeed.
Mr. Thompson, whose speech could only be followed with certainty by
specialists, was understood to ask whether the boy's sea chest was
ready.
"He has only the clothes he stands in," said Mother, tartly.
Mr. Thompson said that was a pity.
The boy hadn't even an overcoat, and Mother decided to give him quite a
good one of Johnnie's--Johnnie bravely saying he didn't mind, although
he minded a goodish bit, as he was rather proud of that particular
garment.
"Your father will buy you another," said Mother. "I couldn't think of
sending any boy to sea without an overcoat."
She also made up a bundle of odds and ends for the boy: a flannel
shirt, two much-darned pairs of drawers, a rather broken pair of boots,
a knitted comforter, and a pot of marmalade. She then gave him a kiss
and put an apple into his hand and told him to be a good boy, and then
he was gone.
X
Henry Harper followed Mr. Thompson into the cab that was waiting at the
street door. He sat all alone opposite that ogre in the darkness,
holding on desperately to the bundle and the apple that Mother had
given him. He didn't venture to speak; he hardly ventured to breathe
while the cab rumbled and tumbled through the rain. He didn't know
where he was going. He only knew that he was going to sea, and he
didn't even know what the sea was like, except that it was water and
people got drowned in it. There was no sea at Blackhampton.
Mr. Thompson had not much conversation. This may have been due to his
superior rank, or because he was one of those strong, silent men who
prefer actions to words after the manner of the heroes in the best
modern romances. Not that the boy was acquainted with any of these; he
could neither read nor write; indeed, it was quite true what the
Foreman Shunter had said, "that he didn't know A from a bull's foot,"
although, of course, that was speaking figuratively.
Mr. Thompson sat grim and silent as the tomb. But suddenly, by the
light of a passing lamp, the boy saw his right hand enter his pocket
and come out with a large clasp knife in it. This he opened at his
leisure. And then all at once a wave of terror swept over Henry
Harper. This man was Jack the Ripper.
That famous person was then at his zenith. He had lately committed his
fourth horrible murder in Whitechapel. The boy knew that as an
undoubted fact, because he had cried the crime in the streets of
Blackhampton, and had sold out twice in an hour. Moreover, he knew as
a fact--extremely well informed contemporaries had told him--that Jack
the Ripper was a sailor.
It was no use attempting to struggle or cry out. Besides, he was now
paralyzed with terror. The only thing there was to hope for was that
the Ripper would kill him before he started to mutilate.
They passed another street lamp, and the boy saw that Mr. Thompson had
something else in his hand. It was a fantastically shaped metal case.
The murderer opened it coolly and took out a queer, dark looking
substance. He cut a piece off with his knife, put it in his mouth,
then closed the blade and returned it to his pocket. The boy began to
breathe again. It was a plug of tobacco.
All the same, Henry Harper knew he was not yet out of the wood. He was
as sure as he was sitting in a four-wheeler--a thing he had never done
before in his life--that this large and hairy sailor with the clasp
knife was the murderer. Moreover, as he cast terrified glances through
the wet windows into the sodden streets, he was certain this was
Whitechapel itself. Everything looked so dark and mean and sullen,
with noisome alleys on every hand and hardly any lamps to see them by,
that full-grown women, let alone boys of thirteen, could be done to
death in them without attracting the police.
It was not a bit of use trying to escape. Jack the Ripper would cut
his throat if he moved hand or foot. The best thing he could do was to
keep still. That was all very well, but he was sick with fear. He was
being taken into the heart of Whitechapel to be done to death as Mary
Ann Nichols and Catherine Morton--he was always very good at
remembering names--and the other victims had been. He was familiar
with all the details; they had been enormously discussed; there wasn't
a newsboy in Blackhampton who hadn't his own private theory of these
thrilling crimes. For instance, Henry Harper himself had always
maintained that the sailor was a big sailor, and that he had a black
beard. He had little thought a week ago when he had presented this
startling theory to young Arris with a certain amount of intellectual
pride that he would so soon be in a position to prove it.
They came to some iron gates. The cab stopped under a lamp. Mr.
Thompson put his head out of the window. If the boy had not been
petrified with terror now would have been his chance. But he couldn't
move.
The Ripper began to roar like a bull at some unseen presence, and soon
the gates moved back and the cab moved on. And then about a minute
later, for the first time in his life, the boy saw the mast of a ship.
He knew it was a ship. He had seen pictures in shop windows. There
was one shop window in particular he frequented every Friday evening,
which always displayed the new number of the _'Lustrated London News_
and the _'Lustrated London News_ was great on ships. This was a kind
of glorified canal boat with masts, but according to the _'Lustrated
London News_, and there could be no higher authority, it was
undoubtedly a ship.
In his excitement at seeing it, he nearly forgot who was sitting
opposite. Perhaps he wasn't going to be mutilated in Whitechapel after
all. There might be yet a chance; the murderer had not again taken his
knife out of his pocket. But suddenly another special edition flashed
through his memory: "'Orrible crime on the 'Igh Seas. Revolting
Details." And then he knew that he was being decoyed to the high seas,
in order that this man could work his will upon him at his leisure in
circumstances of unspeakable ferocity.
The cab stopped again. Mr. Thompson opened the door and got out. It
was still raining very hard. There was a lamp close by, and the boy
could see the water falling in long, stealthy, narrow rods. The
murderer told him roughly to come out. He came out at once. Had he
had the pluck of a mouse, he would have run for it. But he was quaking
and trembling, his knees were letting him down.
The driver of the cab, a grotesque in an oilskin cape with a hat to
match it, dragged a large wooden box tied round with cord off the roof
of his machine and with the help of its owner lowered it to the ground.
By the time this was done there came out of the darkness three or four
strange men, who moved with the stealth of those used to the night.
They gathered round the box and its owner with humble offers of their
assistance.
The boy's first thought was that these scarecrows were confederates of
the eminent murderer. But this theory was soon shattered. At any
rate, if confederates they were, Mr. Thompson seemed to have little use
for them at the moment. Without a word of warning he suddenly ran boot
first at one of these wretches and sent him spinning into the mud. The
man fell with a howl and rose with a curse, and then made off into the
darkness muttering imprecations, in the wake of his companions who had
disappeared already.
The boy could only feel that murderers of Mr. Thompson's class act
according to their tastes in these little matters; but the cabman was
rather impressed. He had made up his mind to stand out for "eight and
a kick," but he now took what was given him without a word. As a
matter of fact, he was given five shillings, which was considerably
under his legal fare, but he did not venture to question Mr. Thompson's
arithmetic. He moved off at once, but proceeded to take it out of his
wretched horse as soon as he got through the dock gates.
In the meantime, Mr. Thompson was left standing beside his sea chest in
the rain, and Henry Harper stood beside it also, convulsively clutching
in one hand the bundle Mother had made up for him and in the other the
apple she had given him.
Should he run for it? What was the use? All at once Mr. Thompson
shouldered his sea chest with an air of quiet ferocity, and growled
something that sounded like, "Git forrard, bye."
XI
Expecting to be kicked into the sea if he didn't do as he was told, the
boy got forrard at once. Mr. Thompson and his sea chest followed close
upon his heels. Henry Harper crossed a couple of crazy planks with
water lying far down underneath them, Mr. Thompson and his sea chest
always just behind him, and then to his wonder and dismay he suddenly
realized that he was on the deck of a ship.
He hadn't time to take his bearings, or to make out at all clearly what
the deck of a ship was like, before he was descending a ladder into
total darkness which smelled like a sewer. A nigger with rings in his
ears came forward with a light, and Mr. Thompson asked if the Old Man
was in the cabin, and the nigger said, "Yessah."
[Illustration: "A nigger with rings in his ears came forward with a
light."]
Mr. Thompson led Henry Harper to the cabin, which was a kind of room,
about twelve feet by ten, miserably lit by a single dirty oil lamp.
Here the smell of sewage that pervaded the vessel was rather genteelly
mingled with an odor of rum. The Old Man was in the cabin right
enough. He was not a very prepossessing old man to look at; to begin
with, he hardly looked old at all. He was just a rough, middle-aged
seaman, with a sodden, half-savage face, with a peculiar light in it
that somehow reminded the boy of Auntie when she had been to the
public. It might almost have been taken for humor, had not humor some
little reputation as a Christian quality.
"Bye, sir," said Mr. Thompson, briefly.
"Bye," said the Old Man, with equal brevity. He then passed half a
bloodshot eye over the shrinking figure in Johnnie's overcoat and
father's trousers cut down, and said, "Git forrard, bye," in a tone
that no boy of judgment would ever hesitate for a single moment to obey.
Henry Harper got forrard at once, although he didn't know where. He
found his way out of the cabin somehow, and made ahead for a light that
was suspended in an iron bracket. Under this he stood a moment trying
to collect himself, or as much of himself as he had managed to bring
aboard the ship, when Mr. Thompson came along and led him through
various queer sorts of passages and up a flight of stairs to a place
which he called the cook's galley.
The cook, a fearful looking Chinaman, received Henry Harper with a
scowl, which, however, was merged at once in an extreme servility
towards Mr. Thompson who was clearly a person of high consequence
aboard the _Margaret Carey_. In deference to Mr. Thompson's wishes,
the cook, whose name was Sing, showed the boy a sort of small manhole
between the copper and the galley stairs where he could put his gear,
and also where he could creep in and rest whenever his duties permitted.
"All snuggee," said Sing, with an ingratiating grin for the exclusive
benefit of Mr. Thompson. Moreover, still further to impress Mr.
Thompson with his humanity, Sing kindly presented the boy with a piece
of moldy biscuit and a couple of scraps of broken meat. Mr. Thompson,
having formally started Henry Harper on his career, withdrew. Sing
resumed his scowl and pointed to an inverted bacon box on which his new
assistant could sit and eat his supper.
But Henry Harper found very little in the way of appetite. The biscuit
was so hard that it seemed to require a chisel, and the meat so salt
and tough that any expenditure of jaw power was unlikely to prove a
profitable investment. There still remained the apple that Mother had
given him. But not for a moment did he think of eating that. It would
have been sacrilege. Mother had her shrine already in his oddly
impressionable mind. No matter how long he might live, no matter where
his wanderings might take him, he never expected to come across such a
being again. He wrapped the apple reverently in Percy's red-spotted
handkerchief. He would always keep that apple in order that he might
never forget her.
Sing, like Mr. Thompson, was not a great hand at conversation.
Nevertheless, he had his share of natural curiosity. His wicked little
yellow eyes never left the boy's face. He seemed unable to make up his
mind about him, but what sort of a mind it was that he had to make up
greatly puzzled and perplexed Henry Harper, who had only once seen a
real live Chinaman before, and that was through the open door of the
worst public in Blackhampton. Sing looked capable of anything as he
sat scowling and smoking his pipe, but it was a subtler and deeper sort
of capability than the sheer Jack-the-Ripperishness of Mr. Thompson.
It was reasonably certain that Mr. Thompson would be content with a
knife, although he might do very fearful things with it in moments of
ecstasy; with Sing there might be every sort of horror known to the
annals of crime.
After Sing had gazed in silence at Henry Harper for about an hour, he
pointed to the manhole, which meant that the boy had better get to bed.
Henry Harper took the hint as quickly as possible, not in the least
because he wanted to get to a bed of that kind, but because the
Chinaman seemed of a piece with Mr. Thompson and the Old Man. Implicit
obedience was still the only course for a boy of judgment. Those
wicked little yellow eyes, about the size of a pig's, held a promise he
dared not put into words. Henry Harper had still a morbid dread of
being hurt, in spite of the fact that he had been hurt so often.
With a heart wildly beating, he crawled into the manhole and he knew at
once, oversensitive as he was, that it was full of things that crept.
He shuddered and nearly screamed, but fear of the Chinaman restrained
him. It was so dark in that chasm between the copper and the galley
stairs that he couldn't see his hand when he held it in front of him;
also it was so hot, in spite of the cold November rain he had left in
the good and great world outside this death trap, that he could hardly
breathe at first; yet as soon as he had got used to the temperature he
took off Johnnie's overcoat and wrapped his face in it in order to
prevent unknown things crawling over it.
He didn't cry himself to sleep. Tonight he was too far gone for tears.
If only he had had a bit of pluck he would have chosen the police. The
thing they did was awful, but after all it could not compare with a
'orrible crime on the 'igh seas. The police did one thing sure and you
knew the worst--but there were a thousand ways of murder, and very
likely more for Jack the Ripper and a Chinaman.
He hardly dared to breathe, indeed was scarcely able to do so, with
Johnnie's overcoat covering his eyes and mouth. But even as he lay
gasping in a sweat of fear, there was just one thing, and the only one
he had to which to cling. And he clung to it desperately. It was the
sacred apple he had had the luck to wrap in the red-spotted
handkerchief which Percy had given him.
Sleep was not to be thought of. Something was racing and hammering
upon his brain. After a lapse of time which seemed like hours, but was
only twenty minutes in point of fact, he began to understand that this
turmoil had a definite meaning. An idea was being born.
When at last it burst upon his mind it was nothing very remarkable.
"Henry Harper, you must find your way out of this before it's too late.
Never mind the police. You must find your way out of this, Henry
Harper."
He took Johnnie's overcoat from his face and sat up and listened. It
was absolutely pitch dark. At first there was not a sound. Then he
thought he could detect a gentle scratching, a noise made by a rat near
his head. But he could hear nothing of the Chinaman. No doubt he had
gone to bed. The boy rose with stealthy care, and well it was that he
did, otherwise he would have hit his head against the under side of the
galley stairs.