The captain had come home with honours—that is, he had saved the
ship and a very valuable cargo under his care by sheer bravery and
indomitable energy, and been presented with the chronometer by the
combined owners in token of their appreciation of his labours. That
pleasing memento he carried in his pocket, enclosed in a little
chamois leather cover to keep it from dust and wear. It was a ship
chronometer, and therefore not meant for use on land or carrying in
the pocket; but the captain was proud of his present, and especially
of the flattering inscription engraved on the back of the case, and
had carried it home to show to his wife and family and any friends he
might meet during his short stay.
His ship was at Tynemouth, but his home was in Leith Walk, and
about a week of his furlough had gone when he one forenoon met an
old friend, and with that gentleman entered a big and respectable
public-house in Leith Walk to drink and have a chat over old times.
The place was divided into boxes by wooden partitions about six feet
high; so customers, though enjoying a certain degree of privacy,
could never be certain that their words were not being listened to by
others in the adjoining compartments.
Captain Hosking and his friend were too much overjoyed at meeting
to think of that, and chatted away in the loudest tones, while a
nimble little thief named Tommy Tait, seated at the other side of the
partition, swallowed every word. One of the topics was the recent
storm and the dangers through which the captain had successfully
struggled, and, as a natural result, the chronometer was brought out
and displayed to every advantage. The heads of the two friends were
close over the valuable present when that of Tommy Tait cautiously
rose over the partition.
“It must have cost a good round sum?” said the friend, as he returned
the chronometer, and it was carefully encased in the chamois leather
cover and returned to the captain’s vest pocket.
“Sixty pounds, at least,” returned the captain, proudly; “perhaps a
good bit more. I know they wouldn’t give me a shabby present.”
Sixty pounds! Tommy Tait’s mouth fairly watered as he prudently
withdrew his head, and rubbed his hands in gloating anticipation.
Such a prize had not come in his way for many a day. But would the
captain be an easy victim to manipulate? There was the rub. Had Tommy
Tait’s line been one of violence he would have had not the ghost of
a chance against the captain, who was six feet two in his stockings,
broad in proportion, and strong as a lion. But Tommy’s was the
delicate art of the pick-pocket, and had the time been night instead
of day, and the captain only sufficiently befogged with drink, Tommy
would have felt as sure of his prey as if the chronometer already lay
in his clutches. Everything was against him. The captain was drinking
only lemonade, and had the look of an exceedingly wide-awake customer
besides; the sun was shining brightly, and the streets, he knew, were
crowded with passengers. Tommy uttered a few strong imprecations
under his breath, coupled with a wish that all temperance captains
might come to a bad end for creating extra risks and dangers to
hard-working fellows like himself. Still the chance was there and
must not be missed; and what was a thief worth if his genius could
not rise to an occasion like that?
The captain was going towards Edinburgh, as Tommy learned from the
conversation, while the friend was going to Leith. So much the
better. Tommy would have one pair of eyes less to trouble him. He
waited patiently till they had talked their fill, and then followed
them out of the shop. They stood for five minutes at the door; but
that interval Tommy filled up ingeniously by lighting his pipe at
the bar. When the friends fairly parted, Tommy lost all interest in
the barman and his dogs, and abruptly closed the conversation and
left. As the captain moved on before him with firm and giant-like
strides Tommy’s heart sank within him. He was a bit of a coward, and
he felt certain that if he bungled, and got into the clutches of that
powerful man, he would not have to wait long for a sore punishment.
Sea captains are accustomed to administer law for themselves, and
Tommy’s body tingled all over at the very thought of those boots and
fists playing about his diminutive person.
The captain wore a pilot coat, the top button of which was fastened.
The chronometer, as Tommy knew, was in the right-hand pocket of the
vest, with no chain or guard attached. There was both a watch and
chain in the opposite pocket, but that was only of silver, and had no
attraction for Tommy.
The captain gave no chance till Greenside was reached. There a
tobacconist’s window had been done out with fountains and grottoes,
and real flowing water, as a Christmas decoration, and the crowd
around it attracted the captain, and drew a sigh of profound
thankfulness from the breast of Tommy Tait. The captain was amused
and interested, and pressed closer; Tommy helped him diligently.
Looking hard at the window and laughing consumedly, Tommy got his
fingers under the pilot coat and touched the chronometer. The absence
of a chain was a sore trial to his skill, but at length he got the
chamois leather cover between his fingers, and had the whole out and
into his own pocket like lightning. But, alas, the thing had been so
roughly done, that Tommy was actually ashamed of his own clumsy work.
He felt that the captain had started suspiciously and looked him full
in the face, and he concluded that it was time to go.
He moved off as unconcernedly as possible for about twenty yards,
when the thrilling shout of the captain fell on his ears, and almost
stopped the beating of his heart—
“Hi! you! thief!—stop thief!”
Tommy heard no more. Whatever he lacked, he could run with great
swiftness, and that wild cry, and the thought of the powerful limbs
of the man who emitted the words, made him put on his most desperate
pace.
He dived for the Low Calton, in which he managed to burrow
successfully, while the crowd, led by the captain and a policeman
who had joined, ran on and did not halt till the foot of Leith Wynd
was reached. Not a trace of the fugitive was to be found, and the
captain, quite breathless with the race, exclaimed resignedly—
“Oh, what a fool I’ve been! Well, that’s the last I’ll see of my
chronometer.”
The policeman, by a question or two, elicited the fact that the
captain had got a good look at the thief, and promptly advised him to
go up to the Central Office and report the case, assuring him that
it was by no means uncommon, when a case was thus quickly reported,
for us to recover the stolen property in a few hours. This friendly
exaggeration sent the captain up to the Central, when it became
necessary for me to tone down his hopes a little. By the description
given of the thief, I recognised Tommy Tait unmistakably, for Tommy
had certain peculiarities of ugliness about his figure-head which,
once seen, were always remembered, and I firmly assured the captain
that I could easily lay hands on the nimble pickpocket in an hour’s
time; but as to recovering the watch, that was altogether a different
matter. I could not pledge myself to that.
“Why, it’s the chronometer I want,” exclaimed the bluff seaman,
looking quite aghast. “I’ll give twenty pounds this minute to the
man who puts it into my hands safe and sound. What do I care for the
blessed thief? Though you got him and gave him twenty years on the
treadmill, that wouldn’t do me a bit of good.”
“There’s a chance of getting the chronometer, too, if we get the
man,” I quietly observed. “Just leave your name and address, and all
particulars, while I go and see if I can lay hands on Tommy.”
I fully expected that I should get Tommy at some of his usual haunts,
and return within the hour, but I was giving Tommy credit for far
less ability than he possessed. I chanced to know his favourite
hiding-place, and went to that direct. He was not there, and had not
been near it for days. All his haunts were tried with a like result.
Then, a little annoyed, I “tried back,” and discovered the entry and
common stair in the Low Calton in which he had burrowed while his
pursuers rushed by. Two boys had seen him there, and they testified
that he had turned back towards Greenside as soon as it was safe to
venture forth; and from that point all trace of him disappeared.
I hunted for him high and low, for days on end, in vain; and what
added to my mystification was the fact that Tommy’s relatives and
acquaintances were as puzzled and distressed at his disappearance
as I could possibly be. At first I thought it possible that he had
left the city, but in a day or two had reason to believe that such
was not the case. Tommy never went farther than Glasgow or Paisley,
and as he had not been heard of or seen in either of these places, a
queer thought came into my mind. Could it be possible that Tommy had
wandered into bad company and got knocked on the head—in other words,
murdered—for the valuable treasure he carried? I note the strange
suspicion, not because it turned out to be correct in regard to the
loss of Tommy’s valuable life, but because the treasure he carried
was to bring him trouble quite as unexpected as his disappearance
had been sudden. While I had thus been hunting in vain, and Tommy’s
friends had been almost mourning him as dead, and even ungenerously
hinting that I had had a hand in his slaughter, Tommy was enjoying
the sweets of a well-earned repose in—of all places in the world
the last I should have thought of—the Infirmary! He had got hurt,
then—run over with a cab or something—in his flight? Not at all.
Seized with a fever, then? Neither. He was as sound in body and limb
as myself. It was simply this. Before the chronometer had come in his
way, Tommy, who was lazy and hard-up, had gone once or twice to the
Infirmary complaining of some imaginary trouble, which the doctors
could not understand. His object was to get admitted as a patient,
and have a month or two’s rest and retirement from the uncertainties
of the thieving profession—to be coddled up in bed and tended night
and day, and fed up with wine and other delicacies too often denied
to the most ingenious malingerer in prison. Tommy was one of those
clever malingerers, but he preferred to practise the art in a
place where he could at any moment gain his liberty by ending the
distressing symptoms of disease.
That was the position. The thought of making the Infirmary his
hiding-place came to him as an inspiration. In Greenside he caught
a ’bus which took him up to the head of Infirmary Street for a
penny. He just managed to get within the gate of the Infirmary when
he was seized with such a paroxysm of his trouble that he dropped
almost insensible at the feet of the janitor. The house surgeon was
summoned, and, as Tommy was then too far gone to be removed with
safety to his home, he was borne in an invalid’s chair to the nearest
ward, and there put to bed. Close to the head of this bed, and below
the sash of one of the windows, was a little shelved cupboard, in
which was stowed some of the other patients’ clothing—tied up in
bundles till they should be needed again. Tommy’s agony was never
so bad but that he could look after the folding up of his clothes,
and more especially his trousers, in the pocket of which now reposed
a gold chronometer worth at least £60. Such tender solicitude did
he evince for the safety of these worn and shabby articles that the
attention of more than one person was attracted, and the surgeon
sharply demanded whether he had not any tobacco concealed about the
pockets, to which Tommy gaspingly replied that he never used tobacco
or snuff—a pathetic lie. As soon as the clothes were bundled up and
put away in the little cupboard, Tommy had a relapse which occupied
the surgeon and nurses for an hour at least, and effectually banished
from their minds all remembrance of the little incident of the
clothes.
Next forenoon, when the time arrived for the professors and students
to make their round, it was found that Tommy’s trouble had all
settled in his back and neck, for in the one he had such dreadful
pains that he could scarcely lie in bed, and in the other a chronic
stiffness which a year or two’s rheumatism could hardly have
equalled. There was much grave consultation around his bed, and Tommy
tried hard to learn the result of the deliberations, for he had a
wholesome dread of being scarified on the nape of the neck with hot
irons, or cupped on the shoulders, as he had been in the prison
hospital for a similar attack, but all that passed was spoken in
whispers, and sometimes in a language which Tommy did not understand.
Tommy was left ill at ease on two points. He feared some surgical
appliance of a painful nature, and he had fidgetty feeling regarding
the safety of his hard-earned chronometer. He never took his eyes
off the door of the little cupboard except in sleep, and even then
the slightest footfall roused him to wakefulness. Then there was a
danger of some patient recovering and needing his clothes, and taking
out those of Tommy by mistake. Tommy fidgetted himself almost into
a fever over that possibility, the more so as he had on one side of
him an evil-looking cabman, with a face as bloated as a Christmas
pudding, who he was sure was a thorough rascal. In the bed on the
other side was an innocent-looking Irishman, named Teddy O’Lacey, who
sympathised with him very heartily, and whom Tommy set down as a born
idiot and simpleton.
He had no fear of the fool of an Irishman; it was the bloated cabman
he watched and dreaded. After considering the whole matter, Tommy
decided that the chronometer was not in a safe place, and that night
waited till every one in the ward was sound asleep, and the night
attendant out of the way. Then he nimbly slipt out of bed, opened
the cupboard, took out his clothes, and hid the chronometer under
his pillow. He could there feel it with his hand almost constantly,
and, if any nurses came to make his bed, could conceal it in his hand
till they were gone. At all events he felt more comfortable with
it beside him, and acutely reasoned that, even if it were seen, in
its chamois leather cover it would excite no suspicion, as several
patients had watches hanging by their beds or under their pillows.
Another day passed away, and all Tommy’s fears had subsided. The
professors ordered nothing but harmless physic, and the chronometer
was safe under his pillow, so Tommy settled himself to the full
enjoyment of his well-earned repose. He slept soundly that night,
and was so refreshed in the morning that he did not immediately
think of his chronometer. After breakfast, when he did thrust in his
hand, the treasure was gone! Tommy could scarcely believe his own
senses. He grabbed wildly under the pillow, over the bed, under the
sheet—everywhere; he even forgot in his sweat of mortal agony that
he had a stiff neck, and stooped over the edge of the bed to see if
haply it had fallen to the floor.
All in vain. The prize had vanished. Worse and worse, he dared not
report the loss, for if the chronometer were hunted for and found, no
matter who should be the thief, a police case would certainly follow,
and Tommy get seven years at least. He looked around. The Irishman
was sleeping, as was his wont; the cabman, on the contrary, was
eyeing Tommy in a manner that convinced the latter of his guilt.
“You’ve got it then?” was Tommy’s savage thought. “I’ll see if I
can’t take it back from you. I always know’d that cabmen was thieves,
but I hardly think they’ll match a professional.”
The day passed away, and the hour for visitors arrived, bringing
Teddy O’Lacey’s wife, who spent an hour with her husband, and was
introduced to Tommy, and departed, hoping that he would soon be well.
Tommy paid little attention to her kind words, for all his powers
were concentrated on the cabman. He watched the man till his very
eyes became telescopic, and gloated over the fact that the scrutiny
was evidently painful to the suspected one. After the gases were lit
his patience was rewarded by seeing the cabman furtively take from
under his pillow something in shape of a watch enclosed in a chamois
leather cover. The sight was too much for Tommy.
He sprang out of bed, forgetful alike of pains in his back and
stiffness of neck, and pounced on the watch with a cry of joy.
“That’s my watch, you plunderer!” he shouted; but to his surprise
the cabman resisted stoutly, and stuck to the watch, dealing Tommy
at the same time several blows, which sent him reeling back on his
bed. The man was big-bodied and strong; such an unequal contest could
never be maintained by Tommy; so he snatched up a kind of tin flagon,
which stood handily near, and hurled it at the cabman’s head, closing
up one of that patient’s eyes and scattering the contents all over
his bed. Up sprang the cabman, and the next moment Tommy knew what a
real pain in his back meant, for his breast bone had nearly driven
the spine out of him through a tremendous blow from his opponent.
The din of the battle, the shouts and imprecations, and the cries
of the other patients, brought a number of nurses and attendants
to the spot; and at length the combatants were torn apart and some
explanation offered. Each accused the other of being a dastardly
robber in attempting to steal a watch.
The cabman stated his case, and proved beyond question that the
watch he held was his own—a silver lever, with his initials engraved
on the case. Tommy had then very little to say, except that he had
been robbed of a watch, which no one had ever seen, and which was
certainly not in his possession when he entered the Infirmary. On
the whole, Tommy looked and felt rather foolish, and not even the
sympathy of Teddy O’Lacey, who warmly took his part, could quite
convince him that he had not done a rash thing. This fear was
confirmed when the house surgeon came round and audibly commented
on Tommy’s astonishing agility and freedom from pain during the
encounter, and ended in saying—
“I’m afraid you’re an impostor and malingerer, but we’ll see
to-morrow when the professors come round.”
Morning came, and Tommy was sternly asked whether he would rise and
put on his clothes and depart, or wait till a policeman was sent for
to assist him from the place. With a deep groan Tommy chose to leave
the building unaided. It cut him to the heart to make the decision,
for had he not been robbed of the chronometer, and was he not thus
putting himself farther than ever from the thief? O’Lacey, the simple
Irishman, almost wept in sympathy with him, and hoped they would
meet again when Tommy was free from all such persecutions and wicked
conspiracies. They wrung hands pathetically, while the cabman, with a
bread poultice on his eye, audibly wished that he might be present
at Tommy’s execution.
While this affectionate adieu was taking place, I was entering the
gate of the Infirmary with no thought of Tommy in my mind, but
intending to see a miserable girl in another part of the building.
I wished to see this girl, with the chaplain by my side, and had to
get that gentleman before going farther. When this had been arranged,
we crossed the quadrangle together, so intent on the subject of
conversation that, when Tommy appeared before me, I looked him full
in the face without seeing him, and should have passed on had he but
been as inattentive as myself. He made sure I had come for him, and
dashed away down the steps towards the Surgical Hospital. A high wall
surrounded the building, covered with iron spikes, and facing the
High School Yard. A ladder left by some workmen stood near, and Tommy
pounced on that as a godsend, bore it to the wall, and was up like a
monkey before I could reach the spot. The ladder was short, and he
had to reach up and grasp the iron spikes to hoist himself up. As he
did so, the rotten and rusted iron gave way, and down he flopped at
my feet with a sprained ankle, a broken leg, and many more pains and
aches than he had simulated for the past few days. He was carried
into the building, and his leg set, and then I told him to be ready
to accompany me as soon as he was able to leave the establishment.
He would say nothing regarding the captain’s chronometer; but one of
the nurses chanced to speak of the battle, and his strange accusation
against the cabman, and I gradually pieced the facts together well
enough to clear up all mystifications but one. That was—where was the
chronometer?
The cabman had it not; and every other patient and crevice in the
ward was searched with a like result. I firmly believed that the
chronometer had never been in the place, and that the charge against
the cabman was only some eccentric ruse on Tommy’s part to draw our
attention from the real hiding-place. I visited him occasionally
during his stay in the Infirmary, and at length, when he was able to
move, took him with me and had him charged with the theft. But here
an awkward circumstance arose, apparently to defeat justice. Captain
Hosking had gone off to sea again before my capture of Tommy, and
was not returned, so that Tommy’s identification could not be made.
There was nothing for it but to remand him, when he kindly came to
our help by confessing all that I have put down. But he declared
most positively that he had been robbed of the chronometer during his
sleep, and, as one of the nurses had been discharged on suspicion of
having pilfered from a dead patient, I lost a deal of good time in
ferreting after her. She proved to be innocent, having been out of
the building on that particular night, and I was left as far from
success as ever. A chance remark of Tommy’s about the “simplicity” of
Teddy O’Lacey drew my attention to that patient, and one day when I
was in the building I walked to the old ward to have a talk with him.
He was gone, and his bed occupied by a new patient. I got an outline
of his address, and began hunting for him in the West Port. While
making this tour through one of the worst rookeries in the place I
met a Roman Catholic priest well known to me, and hailed him at once
with the question—
“Do you know one Teddy O’Lacey?”
The face of the priest became grave in a moment, and he appeared to
me to _think well_ before he answered.
“Who are you after now? and what do you want with O’Lacey?” he slowly
asked, when he had done thinking.
He was a keen-eyed, intelligent man, beloved as much for his
acuteness as for his benevolence, and I saw that his eyes were
reading every line and expression of my face—much as I have seen
those of an anxious mother do when I have asked for her son.
“Never mind what I want, but tell me where he lives,” I laughingly
replied. “I want to see him, if you will know.”
The priest made no answer for a full minute.
“Mr M^cGovan,” he said at last, with a tremor of deep feeling in his
tones, “perhaps I know what you’re seeking, and perhaps I don’t. But
answer me one question—do you believe me? can you depend on my word
of honour as a Christian gentleman?”
“From my soul I can!” I warmly responded, grasping his proffered hand.
“Well, then, take my advice, and don’t show your face in that land
to-day. If you do, _I think_ what you seek will be destroyed. Wait
another day, and I will try to help you all I can. The man O’Lacey
has been very ill, and he believes it is the visitation of God, which
I do myself,” and he lifted his hat and looked reverently upwards.
“Will you have patience for another day, especially when I assure
you, on my soul’s salvation, that by going there now you will not
get, and never see, what you’re after?”
“I will,” I answered, after revolving the proposition for a moment or
two, and so we parted.
Next day a starch box, wrapped in brown paper and addressed to me,
was handed into the office. Inside, in many folds of paper, was
the captain’s chronometer, in its chamois leather cover, bright,
beautiful, and perfect as when it left the maker’s hands. Pinned to
it was a paper, on which were badly written these words—
“A contrite sinner restores what was wickedly stolen, and lifts a
mighty load off his mind.”
I smiled, and though I made some inquiries after O’Lacey, they never
came to anything. Tommy Tait was duly identified by the captain,
and sentenced to seven years’ retirement, the captain getting back
his chronometer, and saying and doing some handsome things on the
occasion.