look of awe in his face as if he had been listening to blasphemy. "And
what did you say to him?"
"Faith! I only said, 'I hope ye'll like the oakum, faither!'"
ADVENTURE XII.
VARA KAVANNAH OF THE TINKLERS' LANDS.
Cleg having finished his dispositions, shut to his door, and barred it
with a cunning bolt, shot with string, which he had constructed till
he should be able to find an old lock to manipulate with the craft
inherited from his father. Then he set forth for the Tinklers' Lands,
to visit his friends the Kavannahs. He had delivered his papers in
the early morning, and now he was free till the evening. For since a
threatened descent of the police, Mistress Roy, that honest merchant,
had discouraged Cleg from "hanging round" after his work was finished.
She attempted to do the discouraging with a broomstick or anything
else that came handy. But Cleg was far too active to be struck by a
woman. And, turning upon his mistress with a sudden flash of teeth like
the grin of a wild cat, he sent that lady back upon the second line
of her defences—into the little back shop where that peculiar company
assembled which gave to Roy's paper-shop its other quality of shebeen.
Cleg had just reached the arched gateway which led into the builder's
yard, when he saw, pottering along the sidewalk twenty yards before
him the squat, bandy-legged figure of his late landlord, Mr. Nathan.
He had been going the round of the builders, endeavouring to discover
which of them would effect the repairs of Tim Kelly's mansion at the
least expense, and at the same time be prepared to satisfy the fiery
Inspector of Sanitation.
Without a moment's hesitation, and as a mere matter of duty, Cleg
bent his head, and, running full-tilt between his late landlord's
legs, he overset him on the pavement and shot ahead on his way to make
his morning call on the Kavannahs. The fulfilment of healthy natural
function required that a well-conducted boy of good principles should
cheek a policeman and overset a Jew landlord whenever met with. In such
a war there could be no truce or parley.
Tinklers' Lands was in one of the worst parts of the city. Davie
Dean's Street goes steeply down hill, and has apparently carried all
its inhabitants with it. Tinklers' Lands is quite at the foot, and the
inhabitants have come so low that they can fear no further fall. The
Kavannahs, as has been said, dwelt in the cellar of the worst house in
Tinklers' Lands.
Cleg ran down into the area and bent over the grating.
"Vara!" he cried, making a trumpet of the bars and his hands.
"Aye, Cleg, is that you?" said Vara. "She's oot; ye can come in."
So Cleg trotted briskly down the slimy black steps, from which the top
hand-rail had long since vanished. The stumpy palings themselves would
also have disappeared if they had been anything else than cast metal, a
material which can neither be burned nor profitably disposed of to the
old junk man.
Vara met him at the foot. She was a pleasant, round-faced, merry-eyed
girl of ten—or, rather, she would have been round-faced but for the
pitiful drawing about the mouth and the frightened look with which she
seemed to shrink back at any sudden movement near her. As Cleg arrived
at the door of the cellar a foul, dank smell rose from the depths to
meet him; and he, fresh from the air and cleanliness of his own new
abode among the shavings and the chips, noticed it as he would not have
done had he come directly from the house by the brickfield.
"She gaed awa' last nicht wi' an ill man," said Vara, "and I hae seen
nocht o' her since."
Vara Kavannah spoke of Sheemus Kavannah as "faither," but always of her
mother as "she." To-day the girl had her fair hair done up in a womanly
net and stowed away on the top of her head. When one has the cares of
a house and family, it is necessary to dress in a grown-up fashion.
Indeed, in some of her moods, when the trouble of Hugh and the baby lay
heavy on her, Vara looked like a little old woman, as if she had been
her own fairy godmother fallen upon evil times.
But to-day she had her head also tied in a napkin, rolled white
and smooth about her brows. Cleg glanced at it with the quick
comprehension which comes from a kindred bitterness.
"Her?" he queried, as much with his thumb and eyebrow as with his voice.
"Aye," said Vara, looking down at the floor, for in the Lands such
occurrences were not spoken of outside the family; "yestreen."
Hearing the voices at the door, little Hugh, Vara's brother of four,
came toddling unevenly upon legs which ought to have been chubby, but
which were only feeble and uncertain. He had one hand wrapped in a
piece of white rag; and, whenever he remembered, he carried it in his
other hand and wept over it with a sad, wearying whimper.
Cleg again looked his query at Vara.
"Aye," said the girl, her eyes lighting this time with a glint of
anger; "the bairn toddled to her when she cam' hame, and he asked for
a bit piece. And wi' that she took him and gied him a fling across the
floor, and he hurt his airm on the corner of the bed."
And Cleg, though he had given up swearing, swore.
"The wean's asleep!" said Vara; "speak quietly."
And upon tiptoe she led the way. The dusk of the cellar was so dense
and the oppression of the foul air so terrible that had not Cleg been
to the manner born, he could hardly have reached the little crib where
the baby lay huddled among swathings of old petticoats and bits of
flannel, while underneath was a layer of hay.
Vara stood gazing with inexpressible rapture at the babe.
"Isna he bonny—bonny?"
She clasped her hands as she spoke, and looked for the answering
admiration in Cleg's face.
"Aye," said Cleg, who knew what was demanded of him if he expected to
remain Vara Kavannah's friend; "he's juist terrible bonny—elegant as a
pictur'!"
He had heard his father say that of a new "jemmy."
In truth, the babe was but skin and bone, with the drawn face of a
mummy of five thousand years—and tiny hands, prehensile like those of a
monkey.
"Vara," said Cleg, "ye canna bide here. I maun get ye awa'. This is no
to be tholed. What hae ye had to eat the day?"
"We had some broth that a neighbour brocht in yesterday, and some fish.
But the fish was bad," said Vara, flushing and hesitating even to say
these things to Cleg.
The badness of the fish, indeed, sufficiently advertised itself.
At the mention of something to eat little Hugh sharpened his croon of
pain into a yell.
"Hugh's awsome hungry! Hugh boy wants his dinner!"
Vara went to him and knelt beside him.
"Hush thee, Hugh boy!" she said, speaking with a fragrance of
motherliness which must have come to her from some ancestor, for
certainly never in her life had she experienced anything like it.
"Hush! Hugh boy shall have his dinner if he is a good boy! Poor handie!
Poor, poor handie!"
And the girl took the swollen wrist and torn hand into hers and rocked
to and fro with the boy on her knee.
"Hugh is gaun to be a man," she said. "He wadna greet. Na, he will wait
till faither comes hame. And then he will get ham, nice ham, singing
in the pan; aye, and red herring brandering on the fire, and salmon in
tins, an' aipples, an' oranges, an' cancellaries."
"Losh, aye, but that wull be guid!" said Hugh, stopping his crying to
listen to the enthralling catalogue.
"Aye," said Vara, "and when faither comes hame, he will tak' us away
to a bonny hoose to leeve where the ships sail by. For dadda has gane
to the seaside to look for wark. It will be a bonny hoose wi' swings
at every door, and blacky men that dance in braw, striped claes, and
shows. And Hugh boy shall gang to them a'. We'll howk holes in the
sand, and fill the dirt into buckets, and row our girds, Hughie. And we
shall paidle in the tide, and splash the bonny water aboon oor heids!"
"Oh, oh," cried the child, "Hugh boy wants to gang noo. He wants to
paidle in the bonny water and eat the oranges!"
"Bide ye, bonny man," said Vara, fondling him, "that's a' to be when
dadda comes hame."
"Hugh boy is gangin' to the door to look for dadda!" said the boy as he
moved off with his bandaged hand clutched to his side.
The baby in the bunk among the old clouts set up a crying, and Cleg
went to it, for he was touched to the heart by the voice of dumb things
in pain, whether babes or beasts.
But little Gavin (called for a comrade of Sheemus Kavannah's who had
been kind to him) was wrinkling all his face into a myriad crinkles.
Then, lifting up the tiniest shrill pipe, he cried with the cry
of underfed and ill-used childhood—a cry that breaks off sharp in
the middle and never attains to the lusty roar of the healthy and
well-grown malcontent.
Vara flew to Gavin and, taking the babe in her arms, she hushed him
back again to sleep, making a swift gesture of command for silence.
She kept her eyes fondly upon the peaked little face, till the wailing
ceased, the tiny clenched hand fell back from the puckered face, and
the infant dropped again to sleep, clasping the frill of Vara's
pinafore with fingers like bird claws.
"I was feared he wad waken an' I had nocht to gie him," she explained,
simply.
"God!" said Cleg; "I canna stand this."
And without a word he skimmed up the cellar steps and out. He went
straight to his mistress of the paper-shop, and with her he had a
loud-voiced and maledictory interview, in which he endeavoured to
uplift his week's wage before it was due. There were threats and
recriminations on both sides before a compromise was effected. It ended
in the half, which had already been worked for, being paid over in view
of instant necessities—which, it is to be regretted, Cleg did not quite
truthfully represent to Mistress Roy.
Then, with two silver shillings in his hand, Cleg went and bought
twopence worth of meat from the neck and a penny bone for boiling, a
penny worth of carrots, a halfpenny cabbage, a large four-pound loaf,
and twopence worth of the best milk. To this he added two apples and an
orange for Hugh, so that he might have a foretaste of the golden time
when dadda should come home.
It was as good as a circus procession when Cleg went back laden like a
bee, and no humble bee either, to the cellar in Tinklers' Lands. He had
his head in the air, and his chest out, just as he used to march when
he heard the regiments coming down the High Street from the Castle, and
caught a glimpse of their swinging tartans and towering plumes.
Vara met him at the door. She raised her hands in amaze, but
mechanically checked the cry of gladness and admiration on her lips
as Cleg came scrambling down, without ever minding his feet on the
slippery stairs.
"Cleg Kelly!" said she, speaking under her breath, "what are ye doin'
wi' a' that meat?"
"Oh, it's nocht ava," said Cleg lightly; "it's juist some things that
I had nae use for this week. Ye ken I'm watchman noo at Callendar's as
weel as working at the paper-shop!"
"Save us!" said Vara, "this is never a' for us. I canna tak' it. I
canna!"
"Aye, is it!" said Cleg, "an' you tak' it for the bairns' sake. Sheemus
will pay me when he comes back, gin ye like!"
Vara's heart broke out in a cry, "O Cleg, I canna thank ye!" And her
tears fairly rained down while she sobbed quickly and freely.
"Dinna, Vara, dinna, lassie!" said Cleg, edging for the door; "ye maun
stop that or I declare I'll hae to rin!"
From within came the babe's cry. But it had no terrors for Vara now.
"Greet, Gavin, greet," she cried; "aye, that is richt. Let us hear
something like a noise, for I hae gotten something to gie ye at last."
So she hasted and ran for the baby's bottle—which, as in all poor
houses, was one of Maw's best. She mixed rapidly the due proportions of
milk and water, and tested the drawing of the tube with her mouth as
she ran to the cot. At first the babe could not be brought to believe
in the genuineness of the nourishment offered, so often had the cold
comfort of the empty tube been offered. It was a moment or two before
he tasted the milk; but, as soon as he did so, his outcry ceased as if
by magic, the puckers smoothed out, and the big solemn baby eyes fixed
themselves on the ceiling of the cellar with a stare of grave rapture.
Then Cleg took himself off, with a hop and a skip up the steps,
having seen Hugh settled to his bread and butter, eating eagerly and
jealously, but never for a moment letting the orange, earnest of the
Promised Land of his father's return, out of his other hand. Vara was
putting away the great store of provision in the empty cupboard when
Cleg looked his last down the grating which admitted the scanty light
to the Kavannahs' home.
There had been few happier days in Cleg Kelly's life than this on which
he spent the half of his week's wage for the benefit of the Kavannahs.
So altogether happy did he feel that he went and cuffed the ears of
two well-dressed boys for looking at him. Then he threw their new
bonnets into the gutter and departed in a perfect glow of happiness and
philanthropy.
ADVENTURE XIII.
CLEG'S SECOND BURGLARY.
Cleg slept soundly on his bed within the whitewashed hut. The last
thing he did the night before was to go to the bench where the men
had been working, and bring an armful of the fragrant pine shavings
for a bouquet to scent his chamber. And never did boy sleep better.
It must be confessed, however, that the position of night-watchman at
Callendar's, of which he had boasted to Vara Kavannah, was entirely
a sinecure. For it was not until he heard the gruff voices of the
men clicking their tools and answering one another in pre-breakfast
monosyllables that he realized he had changed his abode. Then he
stirred so sharply that the mattress fell off the trestles, and Cleg
was brought up all standing against the side of the hut.
All that day he went about his duties as usual. He trotted to the
newspaper office and distributed his roll of papers mechanically; but
his mind was with the Kavannahs, and he longed for the time to come
when he could, with some self-respect, go and gloat over the effects of
his generosity. Doubtless there was a touch of self-glorification in
this, which, however, he kept strictly to himself. But who will grudge
it to a boy, who for the sake of a lassie has spent nearly half of his
week's wage, and who knows that he will have to live on bread and water
for ten days in consequence?
Cleg judged that it would not be advisable for him to go to Tinklers'
Lands before noon. So in the meanwhile he betook himself to Simon
Square to "lag for" Humpy Joe, who had called him "Irishman" the
previous evening, at a time when, with his papers under his arm, Cleg
was incapacitated for warfare, being, like Martha, much cumbered with
serving.
But Humpy Joe proved unattainable. For he had seen his enemy's
approach, and as soon as Cleg set foot within the square, he saluted
him with a rotten egg, carefully selected and laid aside for such an
emergency. And had it not been for the habitual watchfulness of Cleg,
Joe's missile would have "got him." But as it was, a sudden leap into
the air like that of a jack-in-the-box just cleared the danger, and
the egg, passing between Cleg's bare feet, made a long yolky mark of
exclamation on the ground.
Being defeated in this, Humpy Joe looked forth from an end window,
and entertained the neighbourhood with a gratuitous and wholly
untrustworthy account of Cleg's ancestors. And Cleg, in reply, devised
ingenious tortures, which he declared would be the portion of Humpy
Joe, when next he caught him "out."
Thus, after tiring of this, the embattled belligerents separated
in high delight and with mutual respect and good feeling, vowing
sanguinary vengeances when next they should meet at Sunday school.
At last the time came for Cleg to feast his happy eyes upon the table
which had been spread by his means for his friends the Kavannahs.
But first he lingered awhile about the end of Davie Dean's Street,
ostentatiously looking for a boy to lick, and throwing stones over the
wall at the baker's fat watch-dog to make it bark. In reality he was
making sure that none of his companions were in the neighbourhood,
lest, with some colour of truth, they should cast up at him the capital
offence of "speaking to a lassie."
At last the coast was clear. The only boy within half a mile had been
chased under the protection of the great guns of his own fortress,
being the vicinity of his mother's wash-tubs. Then Cleg dived quickly
down to the cellar beneath Tinklers' Lands.
For the first time in his experience, the door was shut. Cleg had set
his ear to the keyhole and listened. Then he put his eye there. But
neither sense told him anything.
"Vara!" he cried softly, and set his ear against the floor. Cleg knew
that the place to hear behind a door (if there is no danger of its
being hastily opened) is not at the keyhole, but close to the floor. He
listened, holding his breath. At first he could hear nothing; but in a
little, a low sob at stated intervals detached itself from the cursory
noises made by the other tenants of Tinklers' Lands and from the steady
growl of the streets above.
"Vara!" he cried a little louder; "Vara Kavannah, are ye in? What's
wrang?"
Still nothing came back to him but the mechanical sob, which wore his
patience suddenly to the breaking point.
"They're a' killed," said Cleg, who had once been at the opening of a
door, and had seen that which was within. "I'll break open the door."
And with that he dashed himself against it. But the strength of the
bolt resisted his utmost strength.
"Cleg," said a voice from within, very weak and feeble, "gang awa' like
a guid lad. Dinna come here ony mair——"
It was Vara's voice, speaking through pain and tears.
"Vara," said Cleg, "what's wrang? What for wull ye no open the door?"
"I canna, Cleg; she's here, lyin' on the floor in the corner. I canna
turn the key, for she has tied me to the bed-foot."
Cleg instantly understood the circumstances. They were none so
unprecedented in the neighbourhood of Tinklers' Lands. Sal Kavannah had
come home drunk, singly or in company. She had abused the children, and
ended by tying up Vara, lest she should go out while she lay in her
drunken sleep. Such things had been done within Cleg's knowledge—aye,
things infinitely worse than these. And with his unchildish wisdom Cleg
feared the worst.
But he was not Tim Kelly's son for nothing. And it did not cost him a
moment to search in his pocket for a fine strong piece of twine, such
as all shoemakers use. He always carried at least ten sorts of cord
about with him. This cobbler's string was a special brand, so wonderful
that Cleg had made friends with the shoemaker's boy (whom he loathed)
solely in order to obtain it.
Cleg knew that the key was in the lock, but that the wards were turned
clear, for his eyes, growing accustomed to the gloom, could now look
into the cellar. He also knew that nine door-keys out of ten have a
little groove at the end of the shank just below the wards. So he made
a noose of the fine, hard cobbler's twine, and slipped it into the
keyhole just as if he had been "girning" sticklebacks and "bairdies" in
the shallow burns about the Loch of Lochend.
After a failure or two the loop caught and tightened. Then Cleg shook
the string about with a cunning see-sawing motion, learned from his
father, till he felt the wards of the key drop down perpendicularly.
Then he took a long piece of stick, and, thrusting it into the keyhole,
he had the satisfaction of feeling the key drop inside the door, and
hang by the cobbler's twine. He eased it down to the floor, and found
that, as is the case with most doors, the bottom of that of the cellar
of Tinklers' Lands did not come quite close to the floor. It was,
therefore, easy for Cleg to dangle the key a little till he could bring
the end of it to the place where the arch was worn widest. Then he took
his hooked wire and pulled the key towards him. It was in itself a
pretty trick, and was executed by Cleg in far less time than it takes
to tell about it.
With the key in his hand, and in the other an open clasp-knife, Cleg
turned the bolt back and stepped within. A terrible enough sight met
his eyes, though not that which he dreaded. In the corner lay Sal
Kavannah, with a pair of empty bottles tossed at her side, her black
hair over her face, lying drawn together in a heap. Tied to the bed
was Vara, bleeding from a cut on the head, and trying to cover her
arms and hands from his sight. But Hugh and the baby lay in the bunk
together, sleeping peacefully. It was upon poor Vara that the brunt of
the woman's maniac fury had fallen.
Cleg stood stricken; but the sight of Vara bound with cords aroused
him. He had the knife in his hand, and it did not take a moment to free
her. But she was so stiff and exhausted that she fell forward on her
face as soon as the straps were removed. Then, after Cleg had lifted
her, he turned upon the sodden heap in the corner, and, with his knife
glittering in his hand and the wild-cat grin on his face, he said,
with a deep indrawing of his breath, "Oh, if ye had only been my ain
faither!"
And it was as well that it was Sal Kavannah and not Tim Kelly that had
done this thing.
Now, in an emergency Cleg always acted first and asked leave afterwards.
"Come awa' oot o' this, Vara, and I'll bring the bairn and Hugh," said
he to the girl, when she was somewhat recovered.
"But, Cleg, where are we to gang?" said Vara, starting back.
"Never you heed, Vara; there maun be nae mair o' this frae this time
oot."
His manner was so positive that the girl gave way. Anything rather than
abide with the thing which lay in the corner.
"Hae ye ocht that ye wad like to bring wi' ye?" Cleg asked of Vara, as
he shouldered Hugh, and took up the baby on his other arm.
"Aye," said Vara, "wee Gavin's feedin' bottle."
And she had to step over the sodden face of her mother to get it.
So the four went out into the noonday streets, and Cleg marched forth
like the pipe-major of the Black Watch—than whom no king on earth
walks with more dignity and pomp, when there is a big parade and the
full band of pipers leads the regiment.
Cleg almost wished that Humpy Joe might see him and taunt him, so that
on Sunday he might beat him to a jelly. But, as it chanced, the streets
were deserted, for it was the very middle of the workmen's dinner-hour.
So that the streams that went and came a quarter of an hour sooner and
a quarter of an hour later were for the moment all safely housed; while
those who had brought their dinners with them sat on benches in the
shade, and took no notice of the small forlorn company passing along
the causeway.
There was another way to the old construction hut at the back of
Callendar's yard which did not lead through the main gateway, but
entered from some waste ground, where only broken bottles and old tin
cans dwelt.
The children passed safely and unobserved by this way, and in a little
while Cleg had them safely housed in his own city of refuge. But Vara
was in great fear lest some of the men should see them and turn them
out upon the street. So Cleg shut the door upon them with the lock of
his own devising, and started at a run to find Mr. Callendar.
ADVENTURE XIV.
CLEG TURNS DIPLOMATIST.
James Callendar, honest man and pillar of the Seceder Kirk, was sitting
down to his dinner when Cleg came to his door. The one servant lass
whom the Callendars kept was "tidying" herself for the afternoon, and
very much resented having to answer the door for a ragged boy with
bare legs.
"Gae 'way, we hae nocht for the likes o' you here!" said she, and would
have shut the door upon him.
"No even ceevil mainners," said Cleg, stepping lightly past her into
the little side room, where he knew that Mr. Callendar ordinarily took
his meals. The builder was just putting a potato into his mouth. He
was so surprised to see Cleg enter unannounced, that the fork with the
round, well-buttered, new potato remained poised in mid-air.
Cleg plunged into his affairs without preamble, lest he should be
captured from behind and ignominiously expelled. But the trim servant
merely listened for a moment at the back of the door, to make sure
that the intruder had some genuine business with her master, and then
returned to the graver duties of her own toilet. It was her evening
out, and her "young man" had hinted at a sail to Aberdour on the
pleasure-boat, if they could get to the West Pier in time.
"Oh, Maister Callendar," Cleg began, eager and breathless, "ye hae been
a kind man to me, and I want ye to help me noo——"
"What's this, Cleg?" said the builder; "surely the police are not after
you?"