_The Transition._
It was four o'clock in the afternoon of a fine, but chilly March day
when Philip regained Holborn with fifty pounds making a lump in his
pocket, and Isaacstein's letter safely lodged in his coat. The mere
weight of the gold suggested an unpleasant possibility. His clothes were
so worn that the frail calico might give way and every golden coin
rattle forth to the pavement.
So with one of Mr. Abingdon's shillings he made his first purchase, a
capacious tobacco pouch with a snap mouth, for which he paid ninepence.
Then he adjourned to an aërated bread shop and ordered some
refreshments. While the waitress was bringing his cup of tea and piece
of cake he contrived to slip all the sovereigns but one into the tobacco
pouch.
He did this with his hand in the pocket itself, and more than once there
was a pleasant clink as the coins fell into their novel receptacle.
A man sitting near caught the sound, and looked up suspiciously. Philip,
whose senses were very much on the alert to-day, realized that his
action was somewhat careless. Without even glancing at his neighbor, he
took out his remaining couple of shillings and the three pennies, and
affected to count them with a certain degree of astonishment, as if some
were missing. The ruse was satisfactory. The man gave him no further
heed, and soon quitted the restaurant.
Philip tendered the odd sovereign in payment of his bill. The girl
cashier seemed to be surprised that such a ragged youth should own so
large a sum.
"All silver, please," said Philip, when she began to count his change.
He would take no more risks if he could avoid them. Not a single
policeman in London would have failed to arrest him at that moment were
his store of gold revealed by any chance. Yet Philip was rich honestly,
and there were men driving away from the city at that hour whose banking
accounts were plethoric with stolen money. For their carriages the
policemen would stop the traffic. In neither instance could the
guardians of the peace be held blameworthy; such is the importance of
mere appearances.
The boy, during his short and terribly sharp tussle with London life,
had already grasped this essential fact, and with great skill and method
he set about the task of altering his own shabby exterior.
In a side street leading out of Gray's Inn Road, he found a secondhand
clothes shop. Here he purchased a worn, but decent, blue serge suit for
eight shillings six pence, a pair of boots for five shillings, a cap for
ninepence, a woolen shirt for two shillings, and a linen collar for
threepence.
He haggled sufficiently over the bargain to suit the needs of a scanty
purse.
"I've cut 'em dahn low enough," said the shopkeeper, mournfully. "Things
isn't wot they was in the ole clo' line, let me tell yer. Not but what
you do want a new rig-aht."
"Yes," said Philip. "I've got a job, and can't keep it unless I look
decent."
For the life of him he could not burlesque the Cockney accent, and
although he used the simplest phraseology, the man glanced at him
sharply.
"Where are yer workin'?" he said.
"At Isaacstein's in Hatton Garden." The words had not left his lips ere
he regretted them.
"Wot is 'e?"
"A Jew," and Philip laughed. This quip atoned for the error of the
admission.
"Bli-me, you won't get a lot aht of 'im."
"No. It cost me some trouble to get an advance, I can assure you."
Philip rattled all his silver and coppers onto the counter. He counted
out sixteen shillings sixpence.
"Not much left, is there?" he said.
"Well, look 'ere," said the man. "Gimme fifteen bob. You're a sharp lad.
You'll myke yer w'y all right. Nex' time you want some duds come to me
an' I'll treat you fair."
"Thank you very much," said Philip, considerably surprised by this
generous act. "I certainly will not forget you."
"You can change in my little back room if you like. That lot you've got
on ain't worth tykin' 'ome."
"I am obliged for your kindness, but I must be off now. It is late, and
I have a long way to go."
"Where to? Holloway?"
"No, cityward."
The clothes and boots were made up in a parcel by this time. Philip
hurried away, glad to escape further questioning.
"Queer sort o' kid, that," mused the shopkeeper. "My, but 'e must ha'
bin 'ard up afore 'e took on wiv' a Jew. Wot did 'e s'y 'is nyme was?
Isaacstein? I've seen that somewhere or other. Now where was it?"
He knew two hours later, for he, too, read the evening paper.
Philip sprang into a 'bus for the Bank. At the Royal Exchange he would
catch a green 'bus for the Mile End Road.
It was almost dark when he reached the Bank. Thus far the omnibuses
going east were not crowded. Now the situation had changed.
The human eddy in that throbbing center of life was sending off its
swirls to all points of the compass, and the eastbound vehicles were
boarded by an eager crowd almost before the passengers arriving at the
terminus could descend.
A poor woman, greatly hampered by a baby, was struggling with others to
obtain a seat in the Mile End Road 'bus. Philip, coming late on the
scene, saw her swept ruthlessly aside by a number of men and boys. The
conductor jerked the bell-rope several times. There was no more room.
The woman, white-faced and disappointed, looked around with a woe-begone
expression. Philip, who would have gladly paid for a cab to take her to
her destination, dared do nothing of the sort. But he said:
"Keep close to me. I will get you a seat in the next 'bus."
"Oh, I wish you would," she said, with a wan smile. "I am so tired. I
have walked here from Shepherd's Bush."
"That's a long way to carry a baby."
"What could I do? People won't take care of children without payment. I
heard I could get work in a laundry there, so I went to look after it.
There's nothing to be had down our way, is there?"
"Things turn up suddenly," said Philip.
"Not for the poor, my lad. I fear you know that without my telling you.
But you are young, and will soon be a man."
Her wistful tone went to his heart.
"Didn't you succeed at the laundry?" he inquired.
"Yes; I ought to be thankful. I can earn nine shillings a week there. I
start on Monday."
"Isn't your husband at work?"
"He is dead. Poor fellow, he caught cold last Christmas, and was buried
in January. God only knows how I have lived since. If it wasn't for the
kindness of neighbors, baby and I would have starved. I can ill afford
this tuppence, but I can't walk any further."
"Well, look out now," he said, cheerily. "Here's our 'bus."
As the vehicle drew up he caught the brass rail with his left hand, and
warded off assailants with the bundle under his right arm.
"Quick," he said to the woman, as soon as the people inside had
descended. "Jump in."
She essayed to do so, but was rudely thrust aside by a young man who had
paused on the roof to light a cigarette. Philip sprang onto the step and
butted the young gentleman in the stomach with his parcel, causing the
other to sit down heavily on the stairs. The boy caught the woman's arm
with his disengaged hand and pulled her up. He dived in after her.
"You young----" roared the discomfited smoker.
"'Ere! Come orf of it," said the conductor. "Why didn't ye git dahn
before? D'ye want a lift?"
Others hustled the protesting one out of the way.
"Confound the East End, I say," he growled, as he crossed to the Mansion
House. "What the deuce Lady Louisa Morland wants to keep on sending me
to that wretched mews for I can't imagine. Anyway, I can tell her this
time that the place is empty, and will be pulled down next week."
And thus it was that Philip collided with Messrs. Sharpe & Smith's
clerk, detailed by the anxious Lady Morland to discover his whereabouts.
They met and bumped into each other in the whirlpool of London just as
two ships might crash together by night in mid-Atlantic, and draw apart
with ruffled feelings, or scraped paint, which is the same thing,
without the slightest knowledge of each other's identity.
Within the omnibus the woman was volubly grateful. She had a kindly
heart, and timidly essayed questions as to Philip's relatives, hoping
that she might make their acquaintance.
"I'll be bound, now," she said, "that you have a good mother. You can
always tell what the parents are like when you see the children."
"My mother was, indeed, dear to me," he replied sadly, again driven out
of himself by the mournful recollections thus suddenly induced, "but she
is dead, lost to me forever."
Some people in the 'bus ceased talking. They were attracted by the
strong, clear voice of this unkempt boy, whose diction and choice of
words were so outrageously opposed to his garments. Luckily, the
silence warned him, or his new friend's sympathy might have brought
about an embarrassing position.
"Poor thing! And is your father dead, too?"
"Yes. He died long ago."
"Where do you live now?"
"Oh," he said, "I have been staying in North London, but will leave
there soon, and I have not settled anything definitely at present. Where
is the laundry you spoke of? I will call some day, if I may, and learn
how you are getting on."
"I will be so pleased. It is a little place in James Street--the only
one there. Ask for Mrs. Wrigley."
"It is lucky you understand laundry work, or things might go hard with
you."
She laughed pitifully.
"I don't! They asked me if I was a washer or an ironer. I thought
washing required least experience, so I said I was a washer. I am quick
to learn, and will watch the other women. If they find me out I may be
discharged."
"Oh, cheer up," he said, pleasantly. "I don't suppose you'll find it
very hard."
Her voice sank almost to a whisper.
"It is not the work I dread, but the surroundings. I was a school
teacher before my marriage. My husband was an electrical engineer. We
put all our savings into a little business, and then--the end came."
"Not quite the end. I am only a boy, but I've had ups and downs enough
to know that the beginning of next week may be a very different affair
to the end of this. Good-by."
They were passing the London Hospital, and he thought it prudent to
alight at some distance from Johnson's Mews.
"Well, God bless you, anyhow," she said, earnestly.
"'E's got 'is 'ead screwed on tight, that lad," commented a man sitting
next to her.
"Better than that, he has a good heart," said Mrs. Wrigley. Most
fortunate Mrs. Wrigley--to have encountered Philip in that hour, which
she deemed the blackest in her life.
He hastened through the familiar bustle of the busy thoroughfare with
heightened expectancy, it is true, but devoid of the least fear that his
meteor had been discovered. His mother would take good care of it. Why,
the mere chance remark of the woman he had befriended showed that her
gentle spirit watched over him wherever he went. Here was a stranger, a
sad toiler among the millions, who went out of her way to praise the
goodness of one she had never seen. He laughed joyously. Mrs. Wrigley
should have further cause to bless his mother's memory.
He passed O'Brien's shop. He saw the old man seated behind the counter.
Should he go in? No. Better keep wholly to himself at present. Yet he
hesitated. Which was the more judicious course--to remain hidden,
unknown, or to drop quietly into the groove where he was recognized?
With rare perspicacity for one so young, he reflected that only five
days had elapsed since he last saw the old pensioner. The period bulked
largely in Philip's life; in O'Brien's it would be as naught.
Yielding to the second thought, he entered the shop.
"Glory be to God, Phil, but it's miself is glad to see ye," cried his
old friend. "Where have ye bin to, at all at all? Have yez heard what
the murtherin' War Office is afther doin' to me? I haven't had a sowl to
sphake to about the throuble they've put on me in me owld age."
This was not strictly accurate. O'Brien had pestered the whole
neighborhood with the story of his withheld pension and the preposterous
claim made on him by some red-tape enthusiast in Pall Mall. But his
plaint effectually stopped all further reference to Philip's
disappearance. As to the "bit o' shtone," that was "naythur alum nor
lime," he hadn't a word to say.
Philip borrowed a spade, a small sweeping brush and a strong sack
without evoking the slightest comment from the pensioner, who discoursed
incessantly on the iniquity of the "Govermint," and whose farewell
remark dealt with the attempt to rob him of "a hundred gowlden
sov'rins."
Decidedly the boy was in luck's way. He had secured some necessary
implements without attracting any attention. Watching a favorable
opportunity, he slipped unseen into the gloom of Johnson's Mews. He
tried the door of No. 3. It was locked. He inserted the key and entered.
The darkness within was that of utter blindness, but he dumped his
impedimenta on the floor and locked the door behind him.
Then he groped his doubtful path to the mantelpiece where he had left a
candle and a box of matches. His boots crunched, as he went, on what he
knew to be mostly diamonds, and he stumbled over the mattress in front
of the fireplace. Yes, the candle was there. Soon he had a light. The
tiny gleam lifted the black curtain, and he surveyed his domain. A
single glance showed him that all things remained exactly as he left
them on Saturday morning. The packet of letters rested on the broken
chair, the old sack was stuffed into the window, and the rope--that
never-to-be-forgotten rope--dangled from the hook to which he had
fastened it.
The sight brought a lump into his throat. He sank to his knees, pressed
down, he felt, by some superior power.
"Mother!" he said, humbly, "forgive me, and ask God to forgive me, for
what I would have done were you not watching over me."
In the spiritual exaltation of the moment he almost expected to find
that sweet face peering at him benignantly from out the dim background.
But he could not see her, and he rose, revivified by this spoken
communion with her. He had no shadow of doubt as to her presence. God to
him was the universe, and his mother the unquestionable means of
communication with the Providence that governed his life. He would die
rather than abandon that belief. Were it dispelled from his mind he was
quite certain that his wealth would vanish with it. It was no haphazard
accident which had sent the diamond-laden meteor headlong from the sky.
He was despairing, dying; his mother appealed for him; and, behold! the
very elements that control the world obeyed a mighty behest.
He began to work methodically. In the first place, he lit a fire, for
the evening was chilly. Then he shook his mattress and swept the floor,
gathering into a heap all the tiny particles with which it was littered.
These he collected in a piece of newspaper, and folded them into a
parcel, which again he inclosed in a stouter sheet of brown paper,
finally tying the whole with a yard of string he carried in his pocket.
There were hundreds of tiny diamonds in that insignificant package, and
not a few the size of small peas. As a matter of fact, he discovered
subsequently that the net result of his sweeping brought him in over a
thousand pounds.
Having examined every nook and crevice of the apartment by the aid of
the candle, he satisfied himself that naught remained which would
indicate to the most curious eye any event out of the common having
occurred in that humble dwelling.
It was typical of Philip's implicit faith that he did not unlock the
back door until his interior task was ended. He knew that his meteor was
untouched.
There was no wind without. The candle, feeble as its rays were,
illuminated the small yard sufficiently to reveal its débris of white
stones and darker lumps of metal. Beginning at the doorway, he swept
vigorously but with minutest care, until he had formed four good-sized
piles on the flagstones.
He could not afford to differentiate between the débris of the damaged
pavement and the fragments of the meteor. It was easy to distinguish the
larger pieces of broken glass from the window inside the house--in the
yard he had neither the time nor the light to select the bits of
shattered stone. All must go together, to be sorted with leisured care
subsequently.
He scrutinized the external window sills, the door posts, the chinks of
the small coal-house door at the further end of the yard, even the rough
surfaces of the walls, and removed every speck of loose material. More
newspaper was requisitioned, but, after utilizing the twine on his
parcel of clothing, he ran short of string.
He coolly went up the stairs, unfastened the rope with which he had
intended to hang himself and loosened its stiff strands. Soon he had an
abundance of strong cord, and four bulky packages were added to the
first small one.
They were heavy, too, weighing several pounds each. In placing them side
by side close to the wall beneath the front window, he suddenly realized
an unforeseen difficulty.
If these shreds of matter--the mere husk, as it were, of the
meteor--were so ponderous, what would be the weight of the meteor
itself? How could he hope to lift it from the hole in which it lay--how
convey it from Johnson's Mews to a new and safer habitation? He might as
well endeavor to move an unwilling elephant.
The thought chilled him. For the first time since his parting interview
with Mr. Abingdon, Philip experienced a dread of failure. With something
of panic in his blood, he snatched the candle and ran hastily into the
yard. He knelt and held the light low in the excavation. Then he cried
aloud:
"What! Am I so ready to lose faith in mother?"
For the huge metallic mass--so big that it would not enter the bore of
the largest cannon known to modern gunnery--was split asunder in all
directions. Its fissures gaped widely as if to mock at him. The rain and
steam had done their work well. It was even possible that he would not
need the spade, but would be able to pick out each separate chunk with
his hand.
Instantly he put the thought into execution, and succeeded in lifting
several pieces to the yard level. He noted that they were gorged with
the dull white pebbles, some being the size of pigeon's eggs. He could
not help comparing them in his mind's eye with the collection now lodged
in Isaacstein's safe. If those were worth fifty thousand pounds, these
must be of fabulous value.
Any other person in the wide world might have been excused if he pinched
himself, or winked furiously, or took out the gold-filled tobacco pouch
for careful inspection, to assure himself that he was not dreaming. Not
so, Philip. The only dominant feeling in his brain was one of annoyance
that he should have doubted, for one single instant, that means would be
given him to secure absolute and undisputed control of his treasure.
But there remained the problem of weight. His original idea was to wrap
the actual body of the meteor in the stout sack he obtained from
O'Brien, and then inclose all his valuables in a tin trunk which he
would purchase next morning. Any ordinary trunk would certainly be
spacious enough, but its phenomenal weight would unquestionably evoke
more comment than he desired, and it would need two strong men to lift
it.
This portion of his plan needed to be entirely remodeled, and he was now
more than ever thankful that the Jew's fifty pounds, save one expended,
reposed in his pocket. With money, all things, or nearly all things,
were possible.
Owing to the cramped space in which the meteor lay it was no small task
to bring it to the surface in sections. But he persevered. By strenuous
endeavor he accumulated an astonishing pile of iron ore studded with
diamonds, looking not unlike almonds in a brown cake, and the guttering
candle held low down failed to reveal anything else in the hole. There
was a good deal of débris at the bottom, and the depth was now over four
feet. To reach to its full extent he was compelled to jam his head and
shoulders into the excavation and feel blindly with one hand, so he
rightly concluded that a final examination might be left until daylight.
By this time he was hot and covered with dirt. He stripped, washed
himself in front of the fire, and changed into his new clothes.
He did not possess a looking-glass, but he felt sure that he presented a
remarkably different appearance when attired in a neat serge suit, a
clean shirt and reputable boots. His first impulse was to thrust his
discarded garments into the fire, but sentiment prevailed, and he folded
them into a parcel.
Then he extinguished his candle and went out. To his exceeding surprise
he discovered that it was nearly nine o'clock--time had indeed flown.
The shops in the Mile End Road open early and close late. He entered a
restaurant where he was unknown, passing, as a matter of policy, the
coffee stall of his kindly helper of those former days now so remote in
his crowded memories. After eating a hearty meal, for which he was
thoroughly prepared, he tendered a sovereign in payment.
The proprietor barely glanced at him. Philip was now well dressed,
according to local ideas, and his strong, erect figure, his resolute
face, added two or three years to his age when contrasted with the puny
standard of fifteen as set by the poverty-stricken East End.
He had forgotten to buy a necktie and a new pair of stockings. These
omissions he now rectified, and he also purchased a warm, dark-gray
traveling rug, several yards of drugget, a ball of twine and a pair of
scissors. A couple of stout but worn leather portmanteaux caught his
eye.
"Those are cheap," said the salesman, quickly, "only fifteen shillings
each."
"I'm not sure I can afford so much," said Philip, hesitatingly, for the
rug alone cost one pound six shillings.
"They're a rare bargain--real leather--they were never made under three
pounds each."
"Oh, very well. I will take them."
He produced three pounds, got his change, and walked away with his goods
without causing any wonderment. The shopman was only too glad to have
such a customer at that late hour.
Philip now knew that he was fairly safe, but he decided that a
billy-cock hat gave him a more mature appearance than a cap. This
alteration being effected, he hurried off to Johnson's Mews and
re-entered his domicile without incident worthy of note.
Very quickly, with the help of drugget, scissors and twine, the two
small portmanteaux were packed with pieces of the meteor, and the
paper-covered parcels already prepared. When each bag weighed about
forty pounds he stuffed the remaining space with rolled-up newspapers,
closed and locked them. He estimated that three larger leather
bags--these being less noisy than tin--would hold the remainder of the
meteor.
As the next morning would find him occupation enough, he decided to do
as much as possible that night. Three times he sallied forth and
returned with a good-sized valise. He paid prices varying from two
pounds ten shillings to three pounds fifteen shillings, and always
bought secondhand goods.
He had locked and strapped the fourth of his goodly array of traveling
bags when he fancied he heard a footstep in the mews. Such an occurrence
would have troubled him not a jot a week ago. To-night it was extremely
disconcerting.
Notwithstanding the weight of the packed portmanteaux, especially the
larger one, he lifted each bodily in his arms and ran with it into the
tiny scullery. On the front window there was no blind, only a small,
much-worn curtain covering the lower panes, and he did not want any
stray loafer to gaze in at him and discover a large quantity of luggage
in such a disreputable hovel.
When the fourth bag was disposed of in the dark recess of the scullery
he paused for an instant to listen. There was not a sound. Through the
window he could dimly discern the roof of the deserted stables opposite.
He bent again to the task of packing the fifth portmanteau, and was
placing in it the last parcel of ore and diamonds when some of the heavy
contents fell through one end where the drugget wrapping had been
hastily folded.
Shaking the package on the floor as a grocer beats down the contents of
a sugar bag, he picked up the fallen specimens and put them in, one by
one. A large lump of ore had fallen apart when it dropped. Inside there
was a huge kernel, a rough diamond quite as large as a hen's egg.
Philip smiled as he recalled his boast to Isaacstein. He examined the
stone critically, and realized that if it were flawless it must be one
of the marvels of creation. Without experiencing any positive motive he
slipped this unique specimen into his pocket, and went on with the
reconstruction of the damaged parcel.
At last he finished. The portmanteau was lying open on the floor, when
the thought occurred to him that he might have avoided the flurry and
trouble of carrying these heavy articles into the scullery if he had
nailed a couple of yards of his drugget across the window.
It was not too late even now to rectify this defect. He glanced at the
window to ascertain how much material he should cut off, and saw a
face--an evil, brutal, suspicious face--peering at him over the top of
the curtain.