down on its luck. Cleg was among them only intermittently. They had had
a fight with Bob Sowerby's gang, which frequented the Pleasance lands,
and had been ignominiously defeated.
Worse than all, they had come across "Big" Smith, the athletic
missionary of the Pleasance. He was so called to distinguish him
from "Little" Smith, a distinguished predecessor of the same name,
who was popularly understood to have read every book that was. Big
Smith was not distinguished in the same way. All the same, he was both
distinguished and popular.
On this occasion he was addressing his weekly meeting underneath one of
the great houses. The Knuckle Dusters thought it good sport to ascend
to the window of the common stair, and prepare missiles both fluid and
solid. This was because they belonged to the Sooth Back, and did not
know Big Smith.
Big Smith's mode of exhortation was the prophetic denunciatory. He
was no Jeremiah—a Boanerges of the slums rather. He dealt in warm
accusations and vigorous personal applications. He was very decidedly
no minor prophet, for he had a black beard like an Astrakhan rug, and a
voice that could outroar a Gilmerton carter. Also he was six feet high,
and when he crossed his arms it was like a long-range marker trying to
fold his arms round a target.
"Sinners in Number Seventy-three!" cried Big Smith, and his voice
penetrated into every den and corner of that vast rabbit warren, "you
will not come out to hear me, but I'll make ye hear me yet, if I
scraich till the Day of Judgment. Sinners in Number Seventy-three, ye
are a desperate bad lot. I hae kenned ye this ten year—but——"
Clash!—came a pail of dirty water out of the stair window where the
Knuckle Dusters, yet completely unregenerate, were concealed.
Big Smith was taking breath for his next overwhelming sentence, but
he never got it delivered. For as soon as he realised that the insult
was meant for him, Big Smith pushed his hat firmly down on the back of
his head and started up the stair. He had his oak staff in his hand, a
stick of fibre and responsibility, as indeed it had need to be.
The first he got his hands upon was Tam Luke.
Tam was standing at the back of a door, squeezing himself against the
wall as flat as a skate.
"Come oot!" said Big Smith, in commanding tones.
"It wasna me!" said Tam Luke, who very earnestly wished himself
elsewhere.
"Come oot!" said Big Smith, missionary.
Tam Luke came—not wholly by his own will, but because the hand of Big
Smith seemed to gather up most of his garments at once. And he grasped
them hard too. Tam Luke's toes barely touched the ground.
"It wasna me!" repeated Tam Luke.
"What's a' this, then?" queried Big Smith, shaking him comprehensively,
as the coal-man of the locality empties a hundredweight sack into the
bunker. Half a dozen vegetables, more or less gamey in flavour, dropped
out of his pockets and trotted irregularly down the stair.
Then Tam Luke, for the first time in his life, believed in the power of
the Church militant. The Knuckle Dusters on the landing above listened
with curious qualms, hearing Tam singing out his petitions in a kind of
inappeasable rapture. Then, suddenly, they bethought them that it was
time they got out of their present invidious position, and they made a
rush downstairs.
But Big Smith stood on the steps, still holding Tam Luke, and with a
foot like a Sutton's furniture van, he tripped each one impartially as
he passed, till quite a little haycock of Knuckle Dusters was formed at
an angle of the stair.
Then Big Smith, in a singularly able-bodied way, argued with the heap
in general for the good of their souls; and the noise of the oak
stick brought out all the neighbours to look on with approbation.
They had no sympathy with the Knuckle Dusters whatever. And though
they continually troubled the peace of mind of Big Smith with their
goings on, yet they were loyal to him in their own way, and rejoiced
exceedingly when they saw him "dressing the droddums" of the youths of
the Sooth Back Gang.
"Lay on till them, Maister Smith!—bringin' disgrace on oor stair,"
cried a hodman's wife from the top landing, looking over with the brush
in her hand. And Maister Smith certainly obeyed her. Each Knuckle
Duster crawled hurriedly away as soon as he could disentangle himself.
And as each passed the lower landings the wives harassed his retreat
with brushes and pokers for bringing shame on the unstained good name
of Number Seventy-three in the Pleasance.
"It'll learn them no to meddle wi' oor missionary," they said, as they
retired to drink tea syrup, which had been stewing on the hearth since
morning.
For they felt proud of Big Smith, and told their husbands, actual and
attached, of the great doings upon their return at night. It became
a standing taunt as far as the Arch of Abbeyhill for a month, "I'll
send Big Smith till ye!" And there was not a Knuckle Duster that did
not hang his head at the remembrance. The Pleasance was naturally very
proud of its missionary, and offered long odds on him as against any
missionary in the town. "He could lick them a' wi' his hand tied ahint
his back," said the Pleasance in its wholly reasonable pride.
Now this was the cause of the depression which for a long time had
rested upon the Knuckle Dusters and tarnished the glory of their name.
So low had they sunk that it was more than a month since any of them
had been up for assaulting the police. So that, as you may see, things
were indeed coming to a pretty pass. From all this the new Club was to
save them.
First of all, it re-established them in their own self-esteem, which is
a great point. Then it gained them the respect of others as well, for
Miss Tennant was a much honoured person in the Sooth Back. Lastly, the
Club fire burned a half a ton of coals in the fortnight, and the fact
was fame in itself.
So the Knuckle Dusters squared themselves up, and for the first time
since the affair of Big Smith they looked a bobby in the face. More
than that, they actually began to show some of their old spirit again.
Specially did they delight to tell the story of the Leith chief of
police and the apples. It was, indeed, enough to gild any "mob" with a
permanent halo of glory.
This is the tale at its briefest. But it took four nights to tell in
the Club, working three hours a night.
The chief, in the plainest of plain clothes, was hastening down the
shore to catch the Aberdour boat, for he was a family man, and also a
most douce and home-loving citizen. He had taken a cottage near the
shore at Aberdour, where he could have his bairns under his eye upon
the beach, and at the same time be able to note how badly the Fife
police did their duty in the matter of the Sunday excursionists.
But for all that he ought to have had that packet of apples better tied
up, for he had bought a whole shilling'sworth on his way down. The
chief was rather partial to a good apple himself; and, in any case, it
is always advisable to be on the safe side of one's wife, even if you
are a chief of police.
Now the chief reckoned without the Knuckle Dusters. These valiant
youths were on the war-path, and as he was passing a point where the
houses are few, along by the dock gates, Tam Luke came alongside and
pulled the string of his parcel with a sharp and knowing twitch.
Instantly it came undone, and the apples rolled every way upon the
street. Thereupon every Knuckle Duster seized as many as he could
reach, and the Club scattered like hunted hares down alleys and over
fences.
For a moment the chief stood thunderstruck. Then he gave chase,
selecting Cleaver's boy for his prey. But he found that he was not
quite so supple as when he was a young constable fresh from the
country. And besides, he heard the warning whistle blow from the "Lord
Aberdour." He pictured his bairns on the quay and his wife looking
out for him. After all, was it worth it? So he darted into a shop and
bought chocolate instead, and took his anger out by saying, "I'll wager
I'll make it warm for these young vagabonds." He said it as many as
forty times on the way over. He never minded the scenery one single
bit. Among the Knuckle Dusters there was great jubilation. That night
they told the whole to Celie Tennant, who was horrified; but she could
only advise them to "restore fourfold," an unknown idea to the Club.
It was, however, a proposition ably advocated by Cleg Kelly, who,
owing to absence, not honesty, had taken no part in the larceny. And,
strictly as a humorous conception, the idea of fourfold restitution
caught on wonderfully.
This is why a very dirty paper containing two shillings came to the
chief of the Leith police, with the inscription thereon: "FOR TO BUY
MAIR AIPPLES."
Celie wanted them to send four shillings, but the Club unanimously
declined, because the grocer's boy said that the chief's apples were
only second quality.
And the Club had every confidence in the grocer's boy being
well-informed on the point.
[Illustration: "Our roads separate here."]
ADVENTURE XIX.
THE PILGRIMS OF THE PENNY GAFF.
The junior partner was, as he expressed it, "down on his luck." He was
heartily sorry for himself, and indeed the fault was not all his own.
It was now some considerable time since he began regularly to see home
the lady member of the Knuckle Dusters' Club, and perhaps he had begun
to some extent to presume upon his standing. He had, in fact, taken it
upon him to warn her as to the difficulties of her position.
"It is not right for a young lady to be about in this district at
night—no girl ought to do it, whatever be her motive."
He was sometimes a very short-sighted junior partner.
Celie Tennant fired up.
"And pray, Mr. Iverach, who made you my guardian? I am quite of age to
judge where it is right for me to go, and what it is proper for me to
do!"
The junior partner assumed a lofty attitude.
"I consider," he began, "that it is highly improper."
But this was as far as he got. The pose judicial was not one to which
Miss Cecilia Tennant was accustomed, even from her own father. She
dropped her companion a very pretty courtesy.
"_I_ consider that our roads separate here," she said; "and I wish you
a very good evening, Mr. Iverach!"
And she gave the junior partner a look at once so indignant and so
admirably provocative, that he turned away righteously incensed, but
at the same time miscalling himself for more kinds of idiot than his
father had ever called him, even on his most absent-minded days in the
office.
Nevertheless he endeavoured, by a dignified manner as he walked away,
to express his wounded feelings, his unquenchable sense of injustice,
the rectitude of his aims and intentions, and the completeness with
which he washed his hands of all consequences. It is not easy to
express all this by simply taking off one's hat, especially when you
have a well-grounded belief that you are being laughed at privately by
one whom you—well, respect. And saying "silly girl" over and over does
not help the matter either. For the junior partner tried, and did not
improve the situation so much as the value of a last evening's paper.
On the other hand, there was a sense of exhilaration about Celie
Tennant's heart and a certain lightness in her head, when she had
thus vindicated her independence. She stopped and looked into the
window of a shop in which nothing was displayed but a large model
of a coal-waggon, loaded with something "Jewels," and bearing the
sympathetic announcement that Waldie's Best Household Coal was down
this week one penny a bag.
It is a curious thing, when you come to think of it, that the prettiest
girls often stop opposite dark shop fronts where there is apparently
nothing to interest them, and pass by others all aglow with the
blanched whiteness of female frilleries. There is some unexplained
optical problem here. The matter has been mentioned to Miss Tennant,
but she says that she does not know the reason. She adds that it is all
nonsense. Perhaps, after Professor Tait has found out all about the
flight of the golf-ball, he will give some attention to this question.
He can obtain statistics and facts on any well-frequented street by
keeping to the shady side.
So Celie stood a moment—only a moment, and was then quite ready to
turn away, assured in mind and at peace with all men—with the doubtful
exception of Mr. Donald Iverach.
Her bonnet was indeed "straight on." But she gave her foot a little
stamp when she thought of the junior partner.
"The idea!" she said.
But she did not condescend to expound the concept which troubled her,
so that an idea it has ever since remained, and indeed must be left as
such.
Then Celie became conscious that some one was gazing at her—not a
woman, of course. She turned. It was only Cleg Kelly. But she was glad
to see even him, for, after all, one does need some support even in
well-doing. It is so difficult to be independent all by one's self.
"Where are you going, Cleg?" she said.
"To the penny shows aff o' the Easter Road," replied Cleg.
"Will you take me, Cleg?" said Celie, with a sudden clearing of her
face, her eyes beginning to blaze with excitement.
A great thought took possession of her. This appeared to be a
providential chance to prove all that she had been advancing to Mr.
Donald Iverach, who, indeed, had nothing whatever to do with the matter.
"Take you, Miss Celie?" stammered Cleg aghast. "Ye wadna gang to the
shows?"
And he laughed a little laugh of wonderment at the jest of his goddess,
for of course it could only be a joke.
"I _will_ come with you, Cleg, if you will take me!" said Celie.
"But ye ken, Miss Celie, it's no for the like o' you. It's a' weel
aneuch for boys and common fowk, but no for you!"
Thus Cleg urged prudence, even against the wild hope which took
possession of him.
"Come on, Cleg!" said Celie Tennant, rushing into rebellion at the
thought of having her independence called in question, even by one of
the Knuckle Dusters.
"It's all _his_ fault!" she said to herself.
Which it very clearly was—Cleg's, of course, for he ought not to have
followed her home.
Now along the Easter Road, then only a somewhat muddy country track,
there was a small quarry which is now filled up, and a vacant acre or
two of land where the show-folk took up their stances, and waged mimic
but not bloodless wars in the mornings for the best positions.
Great sheets of canvas were stretched above, flaring cressets were
being lighted below, for some of the largest shows were dark inside,
being those where the mysteries of "Pepper's Ghost" were shortly to be
unveiled.
Celie Tennant was greatly excited by the prospect of eating of the tree
of knowledge.
"Let us go in here," she said, pointing to the wondrous "Ghost
Illusion" bearing the name and style of Biddle. She drew out her
purse to pay, but Cleg stopped her with his hand. He had grown quite
dignified.
"Na," he said, "ye canna do that. It's my treat the nicht, when ye are
walkin' oot wi' me."
Then it dawned upon Celie that she was assisting at a well-understood
function—no less than the solemn treating of a lady fair upon the
evening of a pay-day. The thought nearly overcame her, but she only
said, "Thank you, Cleg," and was discreetly silent.
For the time being she was Cleg Kelly's "young woman."
They went in. A fat woman, with large silver rings in her ears of the
size of crown pieces, took Cleg's money and looked with great sharpness
at them both. Cleg paid for the best places in the house. They cost him
sixpence, and were carpeted—the seats, not the floor. To such heights
of extravagance does woman lead man! The play was already proceeding
as they sat down. Presently, after some very moral observations from
an old gentleman in trouble with a dying child (he said "choild"), the
curtain dropped and the roof of canvas was drawn aside, in order to let
in the struggling daylight and save the flaring naphtha cressets.
Instantly Celie and Cleg became the sole centre of attraction—a
doubleted courtier in tights, with an unruly sword which scraped the
curtain, having no chance whatever by comparison with their grandeur.
Cleg folded his arms with a proud disdain and sat up with a back as
straight as an arrow.
"Glory be—if 'tisn't Cleg Kelly wid the Quane of Shaeba!" said a
compatriot in the pit. (The house was divided into pit and carpet.)
And this was the general opinion. It was the proudest moment of Cleg's
existence—to date, as he himself said.
Celie sat all the while demure as a kitten and smoothed her gloves.
Several Knuckle Dusters passed Cleg the private wink of the society,
but none dared intrude on that awful dignity of responsibility.
Besides, none of them were "on the carpet," and Biddle of the Silver
Rings possessed a quick eye and a long arm.
The curtain went up. This time it was a haunted room. A haunted clock
ticked irregularly in the corner, and the villain sat alone in his
quite remarkable villainy, on a solitary chair in the middle of the
room. It was very dark, owing to the murky cast of crime all round.
Suddenly the gentleman on the chair shouted out the details of his
"croime" at the pitch of his voice, as if he had been the town crier.
He told how much he regretted having left his victim weltering in his
gore, whereupon the aforesaid victim abruptly appeared, "weltering," it
is true, but rather in a white sheet with the lower part of which his
legs appeared to be having a difficulty.
The villain hastened to rise to the occasion. Once more he drew his
sword, with which he had been making gallant play all the time. Again
he informed the next street of his "croime." Then he pulled a pistol
out of his belt and solemnly warned the spectre what would happen if he
did not clear out and take his winding-sheet with him.
But the spectre appeared to be wholly unimpressed, for he only gibbered
more incoherently and fluttered the bed-quilt (as Cleg called it) more
wildly. The villain continued to exhort.
"He's an awfu' blatherumskite!" said Cleg, contemptuously. He knew
something of real villains. He had a father.
Again the spectre was warned:
"Your blood be upon your own head!" shouted the villain, and fired the
pistol.
The ghost remarked, _Br-r-r-r-r! whoop!_—went up to the ceiling, came
down again wrong side up, and then set about gibbering in a manner
more freezing than ever. Whereupon the villain seized his crime-rusted
sword in both hands and puddled about in the spectre's anatomy, as if
it had been a pot, and he was afraid it would boil over. But soon he
satisfied himself that this was not the game to play with a spirit so
indifferent. And with a wild shriek of despair he cast the sword from
him on the floor.
"Ha, baffled! foiled!" he remarked, clasping his hand suddenly to his
brow: "COL-LD FIRE IS USELESS!"
This was summing up the situation with a vengeance, and tickled Celie
so much that she laughed joyously—as the audience clapped and cheered
with appreciation, and Cleg rose to come out.
"What comes after that?" said Celie, who was quite willing to stay to
the end.
"After that the devil got him. We needna wait for that!" said Cleg,
simply. He had an exceedingly healthy and orthodox belief in the
ultimate fate of ill-doers. But he did not choose that his goddess
should witness the details.
ADVENTURE XX.
THE DIFFICULTIES OF ADONIS BETWIXT TWO VENUSES.
But we must do our hero justice. After the spiriting away of Vara
Kavannah and the children from the burning house in Callendar's yard,
Cleg did not submit to their loss without making many attempts to find
them. His friend, the sergeant's wife, set the machinery of the police
in motion. But nothing could be heard of Vara or of Hugh, or of little
Gavin. Cleg went the round of the men who drive the rubbish-carts, each
man of whom was a personal and particular friend. Now a persevering
ash-man knows a lot—more than a policeman, having a wider beat, and not
so much encouragement officially to tell what he knows. But, as Cleg
could tell you, an ash-man's temper needs watching. Like the articles
of diet he empties out of the baskets into his great sheet-iron covered
carts, it is apt to go both bad and high. A policeman patrolling his
beat is, according to his personal deservings, stayed with flagons,
comforted with apples. But what maid in all the areas thinks upon the
poor dustman?
Nevertheless, Cleg went the round of the ash-cart men, and of each
he inquired circumspectly about the Kavannahs. Not one had seen them
in any part of the city. But, indeed, there were many people, even
women and children, awake and abroad that morning of the great fire
in Callendar's woodyard. Cleg next looked up the morning milkmen who
converge upon the city from every point, summer and winter. They have
risen to the milking of the cows during the small hours of the morning,
and thereafter they have set their barrels upon a light cart, before
spinning cityward between the hedges. The milkmen can tell as much of
the country roads as the dustmen of the city streets. But to none had
the vision of three pilgrim children, setting forth from the city of
persecution, been vouchsafed.
So Cleg had perforce to abide, with his heart unsatisfied and sore.
Perhaps, so he thought, one day hidden things would come to light, and
the shadows which had settled upon the fate of the Kavannahs break and
flee away.
In the meantime the ancient Society of the Knuckle Dusters flourished
exceedingly in its new incarnation of "The Club." The deputation
which approached Mr. Donald Iverach, having by the intervention of
the watchman chosen a good time for their visit, was most graciously
received. The watchman, a man of some penetration, gave Cleg the word
to come at six o'clock on a day when the junior partner had brought his
tennis shoes to the works.
"You want to use the old store-room every night?" said Donald Iverach,
looking at the shamefaced deputation, every man of whom itched to draw
triangles on the floor with his toe and yet dared not.
"Except Sundays," answered Cleg, who, as ever, was ready of speech, and
not at all shamefaced.
"What does Miss Tennant say?" asked the junior partner, who wished to
see where he was being led. He was not a selfish young man, but, like
the rest of us, he wanted to be sure what he was going to get out of a
thing before he committed himself.
"Miss Tennant's a memb—" began Tam Luke, who had no discretion.
Cleg kicked Tam Luke on the shin severely. Tam promptly coughed,
choked, and was led out by unsympathetic friends, who expressed their
opinion of him outside with pith and animation.
"Miss Celie wants us to look after this club oorsels," said Cleg.
"We are the commy-tee—except Tam Luke," he added. Tam had _de facto_
forfeited his position by his interruption.
The commy-tee hung its head, and looked about for possible exits.
"And who is responsible?" asked Mr. Donald Iverach, smiling a little
and shaking his head.
"Me an' Miss Celie," answered Cleg, promptly.
The junior partner stopped shaking his head, but continued to smile.
"Come away, chaps," said Cleg, who knew when the battle was won; "guid
nicht to ye, sir, an' thank ye. Miss Celie _wull_ be pleased!"
Thereafter the Knuckle Dusters' Club was formally organised. The
prominent feature in the management was the House Committee. Its powers
were unlimited, and were chiefly directed to "chucking out." This was
the club's sole punishment. Fines would certainly not be collected.
Privileges were so few that it was not easy to discriminate those which
pertained to members of the club in good standing. But the members of
the House Committee were chosen on the principle that any two of them,
being "in charge," should be qualified to "chuck" the rest of the
club—members of the House Committee itself being of course excepted. It
was a singularly able-bodied committee, and willing beyond all belief.
So long as it held together, the situation was saved. Its average
measurement round the forearm was eleven inches.