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Title: The Garret and the Garden

Author: R.M. Ballantyne

Release Date: June 7, 2007 [EBook #21737]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

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THE GARRET AND THE GARDEN, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE.



CHAPTER ONE.

THE GARRET AND THE GARDEN OR LOW LIFE HIGH UP.

SUDDEN FRIENDSHIPS.

In the midst of the great wilderness--we might almost say the wilds--of
that comparatively unknown region which lies on the Surrey side of the
Thames, just above London Bridge, there sauntered one fine day a big
bronzed seaman of middle age.  He turned into an alley, down which,
nautically speaking, he rolled into a shabby little court.  There he
stood still for a few seconds and looked around him as if in quest of
something.

It was a miserable poverty-stricken court, with nothing to commend it to
the visitor save a certain air of partial-cleanliness and
semi-respectability, which did not form a feature of the courts in its
neighbourhood.

"I say, Capting," remarked a juvenile voice close at hand, "you've bin
an sailed into the wrong port."

The sailor glanced in all directions, but was unable to see the owner of
the voice until a slight cough--if not a suppressed laugh--caused him to
look up, when he perceived the sharp, knowing, and dirty face of a small
boy, who calmly contemplated him from a window not more than a foot
above his head.  Fun, mischief, intelligence, precocity sat enthroned on
the countenance of that small boy, and suffering wrinkled his young
brow.

"How d'ee know I'm in the wrong port--monkey?" demanded the sailor.

"'Cause there ain't no grog-shop in it--gorilla!" retorted the boy.

There is a mysterious but well-known power of attraction between kindred
spirits which induces them to unite, like globules of quicksilver, at
the first moment of contact.  Brief as was this interchange of
politenesses, it sufficed to knit together the souls of the seaman and
the small boy.  A mutual smile, nod, and wink sealed, as it were, the
sudden friendship.

"Come now, younker," said the sailor, thrusting his hands into his
coat-pockets, and leaning a little forward with legs well apart, as if
in readiness to counteract the rolling of the court in a heavy sea,
"there's no occasion for you an' me to go beatin' about--off an' on.
Let's come to close quarters at once.  I haven't putt in here to look
for no grog-shop--"

"W'ich I didn't say you 'ad," interrupted the boy.

"No more you did, youngster.  Well, what I dropped in here for was to
look arter an old woman."

"If you'd said a young 'un, now, I might 'ave b'lieved you," returned
the pert urchin.

"You _may_ believe me, then, for I wants a young 'un too."

"Well, old salt," rejoined the boy, resting his ragged arms on the
window-sill, and looking down on the weather-beaten man with an
expression of patronising interest, "you've come to the right shop,
anyhow, for that keemodity.  In Lun'on we've got old women by the
thousand, an' young uns by the million, to say nuffin o' middle-aged uns
an' chicks.  Have 'ee got a partikler pattern in yer eye, now, or d'ee
on'y want samples?"

"What's your name, lad?" asked the sailor.

"That depends, old man.  If a beak axes me, I've got a wariety o' names,
an' gives 'im the first as comes to 'and.  W'en a gen'leman axes me, I'm
more partikler--I makes a s'lection."

"Bein' neither a beak nor a gentleman, lad, what would you say your name
was to _me_?"

"Tommy Splint," replied the boy promptly.  "Splint, 'cause w'en I was
picked up, a small babby, at the work'us door, my left leg was broke,
an' they 'ad to putt it up in splints; Tommy, 'cause they said I was
like a he-cat; w'ich was a lie!"

"Is your father alive, Tommy?"

"'Ow should _I_ know?  I've got no father nor mother--never had none as
I knows on; an' what's more, I don't want any.  I'm a horphing, _I_ am,
an' I prefers it.  Fathers an' mothers is often wery aggrawatin';
they're uncommon hard to manage w'en they're bad, an' a cause o' much
wexation an' worry to child'n w'en they're good; so, on the whole, I
think we're better without 'em.  Chimleypot Liz is parent enough for
me."

"And who may chimney-pot Liz be?" asked the sailor with sudden interest.

"H'm!" returned the boy with equally sudden caution and hesitancy.  "I
didn't say _chimney-pot_ but _chimley-pot_ Liz.  W'at is she?  W'y,
she's the ugliest old ooman in this great meetropilis, an' she's got the
jolliest old 'art in Lun'on.  Her skin is wrinkled equal to the
ry-nossris at the Zoo--I seed that beast once at a Sunday-school treat--
an' her nose has been tryin' for some years past to kiss her chin, w'ich
it would 'ave managed long ago, too, but for a tooth she's got in the
upper jaw.  She's on'y got one; but, my, that _is_ a fang! so loose that
you'd expect it to be blowed out every time she coughs.  It's a reg'lar
grinder an' cutter an' stabber all in one; an' the way it works--
sometimes in the mouth, sometimes outside the lip, now an' then straight
out like a ship's bowsprit--is most amazin'; an' she drives it about
like a nigger slave.  Gives it no rest.  I do declare I wouldn't be that
there fang for ten thousand a year.  She's got two black eyes, too, has
old Liz, clear an' bright as beads--fit to bore holes through you w'en
she ain't pleased; and er nose is ooked--.  But, I say, before I tell
you more about 'er, I wants to know wot you've got to do with 'er?  An'
w'at's your name?  I've gave you mine.  Fair exchange, you know."

"True, Tommy, that's only right an' fair.  But I ain't used to lookin'
up when discoorsin'.  Couldn't you come down here an' lay alongside?"

"No, old salt, I couldn't; but you may come up here if you like.  You'll
be the better of a rise in the world, won't you?  The gangway lays just
round the corner; but mind your sky-scraper for the port's low.  There's
a seat in the winder here.  Go ahead; starboard your helm, straight up,
then 'ard-a-port, steady, mind your jib-boom, splice the main-brace,
heave the main-deck overboard, and cast anchor 'longside o' me!"

Following these brief directions as far as was practicable, the sailor
soon found himself on the landing of the stair, where Tommy was seated
on a rickety packing-case awaiting him.

"Now, lad," said the man, seating himself beside his new friend, "from
what you tells me, I think that chimney-pot--"

"Chimley," remarked the boy, correcting.

"Well, then, chimley-pot Liz, from your account of her, must be the very
woman I wants.  I've sought for her far an' wide, alow and aloft, an'
bin directed here an' there an' everywhere, except the right where,
'till now.  But I'll explain."  The man paused a moment as if to
consider, and it became evident to the boy that his friend was labouring
under some degree of excitement, which he erroneously put down to drink.

"My name," continued the sailor, "is Sam Blake--second mate o' the
_Seacow_, not long in from China.  I didn't ship as mate.  Bein' a
shipwrecked seaman, you see--"

"Shipwrecked!" exclaimed the boy, with much interest expressed in his
sharp countenance.

"Ay, lad, shipwrecked; an' not the first time neither, but I was keen to
get home, havin' bin kep' a prisoner for an awful long spell by
pirates--"

"Pints!" interrupted the boy again, as he gazed in admiration at his
stalwart friend; "but," he added, "I don't believe you.  It's all barn.
There ain't no pints now; an' you think you've got hold of a green un."

"Tommy!" said the sailor in a remonstrative tone, "did I ever deceive
you?"

"Never," replied the boy fervently; "leastwise not since we 'come
acquaint 'arf an hour back."

"Look here," said Sam Blake, baring his brawny left arm to the elbow and
displaying sundry deep scars which once must have been painful wounds.
"An' look at this," he added, opening his shirt-front and exposing a
mighty chest that was seamed with similar scars in all directions.
"That's what the pirates did to me an' my mates--torturin' of us afore
killin' us."

"Oh, I say!" exclaimed the urchin, in a tone in which sympathy was
mingled with admiration; "tell us all about it, Sam."

"Not now, my lad; business first--pleasure arterwards."

"I prefers pleasure first an' business arter, Sam.  'Owever, 'ave it yer
own way."

"Well, you see," continued the sailor, turning down his, "w'en I went to
sea _that_ time, I left a wife an' a babby behind me; but soon arter I
got out to China I got a letter tellin' me that my Susan was dead, and
that the babby had bin took charge of by a old nurse in the family where
Susan had been a housemaid.  You may be sure my heart was well-nigh
broke by the news, but I comforted myself wi' the thought o' gittin'
home again an' takin' care o' the dear babby--a gal, it was, called
Susan arter its mother.  It was at that time I was took by the pirates
in the Malay Seas--now fifteen long years gone by."

"W'at! an' you ain't bin 'ome or seed yer babby for fifteen years?"
exclaimed Tommy Splint.

"Not for fifteen long year," replied his friend.  "You see, Tommy, the
pirates made a slave o' me, an' took me up country into the interior of
one o' their biggest islands, where I hadn't a chance of escapin'.  But
I did manage to escape at last, through God's blessin', an' got to
Hong-Kong in a small coaster; found a ship--the _Seacow_-about startin'
for England short-handed, an' got a berth on board of her.  On the
voyage the second mate was washed overboard in a gale, so, as I was a
handy chap, the cap'en he promoted me, an' now I'm huntin' about for my
dear little one all over London.  But it's a big place is London."

"Yes; an' I suspect that you'll find your little un raither a big un too
by this time."

"No doubt," returned the seaman with an absent air; then, looking with
sudden earnestness into his little companion's face, he added, "Well,
Tommy Splint, as I said just now, I've cruised about far an' near after
this old woman as took charge o' my babby without overhaulin' of her,
for she seems to have changed her quarters pretty often; but I keep up
my hopes, for I do feel as if I'd run her down at last--her name was
Lizbeth Morley--"

"Oho!" exclaimed Tommy Splint with a look of sharp intelligence; "so you
think that chimleypot Liz may be your Lizbeth and our Susy your babby!"

"I'm more than half inclined to think that, my boy," returned the
sailor, growing more excited.

"_Is_ the old woman's name Morley?"

"Dun know.  Never heard nobody call her nothin' but Liz."

"And how about Susan?"

"That's the babby?" said the boy with a grin.

"Yes--yes," said Sam anxiously.

"Well, that babby's about five fut four now, without 'er boots.  You see
'uman creeturs are apt to grow considerable in fifteen years--ain't
they?"

"But is her name Blake?" demanded the seaman.  "Not as I knows of.
Susy's wot we all calls 'er--so chimley-pot Liz calls 'er, an' so she
calls 'erself, an' there ain't another Susy like her for five miles
round.  But come up, Sam, an' I'll introduce ee--they're both over'ead."

So saying the lively urchin grasped his new friend by the hand and led
him by a rickety staircase to the "rookeries" above.



CHAPTER TWO.

FLOWERS IN THE DESERT.

Beauty and ugliness form a contrast which is presented to us every day
of our lives, though, perhaps, we may not be much impressed by the fact.
And this contrast is presented in ever-varying aspects.

We do not, however, draw the reader's attention to one of the striking
aspects of the contrast--such as is presented by the hippopotamus and
the gazelle, or the pug with the "bashed" nose and the Italian
greyhound.  It is to one of the more delicate phases that we would
point--to that phase of the contrast wherein the fight between the two
qualities is seen progressing towards victory, and ugliness is not only
overborne but overwhelmed by beauty.

For this purpose we convey the reader to a scene of beauty that might
compare favourably with any of the most romantic spots on this fair
earth--on the Riviera, or among the Brazilian wilds, or, for that
matter, in fairyland itself.

It is a garden--a remarkably small garden to be sure, but one that is
arranged with a degree of taste and a display of fancy that betokens the
gardener a genius.  Among roses and mignonette, heliotrope, clematis and
wallflower, chrysanthemums, verbenas and sweet-peas are intertwined, on
rustic trellis-work, the rich green leaves of the ivy and the graceful
Virginia creeper in such a manner that the surroundings of the miniature
garden are completely hidden from view, and nothing but the bright blue
sky is visible, save where one little opening in the foliage reveals the
prospect of a grand glittering river, where leviathans of the deep and
small fry of the shallows, of every shape and size, disport themselves
in the blaze of a summer sun.

Beauty meets the eye wherever turned, but, let the head of the observer
be extended ever so little beyond the charmed circle of that garden, and
nearly all around is ugliness supreme!  For this is a garden on the roof
of an old house; the grand river is the Thames, alive with the shipping
of its world-wide commerce, and all around lies that interminable forest
of rookery chimneys, where wild ungainly forms tell of the insane and
vain efforts of man to cope with smoke; where wild beasts--in the form
of cats--hold their nightly revels, imitating the yells of agonised
infants, filling the dreams of sleepers with ideas of internal thunder
or combustion, and driving the sleepless mad!

Susy--our Susy--is the cause of this miracle of beauty in the midst of
misery; this glowing gem in a setting of ugliness.  It is her modest
little head that has bent over the boxes of earth, which constitute her
landed property; her pretty little fingers which have trained the stems
and watered the roots and cherished the flowers until the barren
house-top has been made to blossom like the rose.  And love, as usual,
has done it all--love to that very ugly old woman, chimney-pot Liz, who
sits on the rustic chair in the midst of the garden enjoying it all.

For Liz has been a mother to that motherless bairn from her earliest
years.  She has guarded, fed, and clothed her from infancy; taught her
from God's Book the old, old story of redeeming love, and led her to the
feet of Jesus.  It would be strange indeed if Susy did not love the ugly
old woman, until at last she came to regard the wrinkles as veritable
lines of beauty; the nut-cracker nose and chin as emblems of persistent
goodness; the solitary wobbling tooth as a sign of unconquerable
courage; and the dark eyes--well, it required no effort of imagination
to change the character of the old woman's eyes, for they had always
been good, kindly, expressive eyes, and were at that date as bright and
lively as when she was sweet sixteen.

But chimney-pot Liz was poor--desperately poor, else she had not been
there, for if heaven was around and within her, assuredly something very
like pandemonium was underneath her, and it not unfrequently appeared as
if the evil spirits below were surging to and fro in a fierce endeavour
to burst up the whole place, and hurl the old woman with her garden into
the river.

Evil spirits indeed formed the dread foundation of the old woman's
abode; for, although her own court was to some extent free from the
curse, this particular pile of building, of which the garden formed the
apex, had a grog-shop, opening on another court, for its
foundation-stone.  From that sink of iniquity, literal and unmitigated--
though not unadulterated--spirits of evil rose like horrid fumes from
the pit, and maddened the human spirits overhead.  These, descending to
the foundation-den, soaked themselves in the material spirit and carried
it up, until the whole tenement seemed to reek and reel under its malign
influence.

But, strange to say, the riot did not rise as high as the garden on the
roof--only the echoes reached that little paradise.

Now it is a curious almost unaccountable fact, which no one would ever
guess, that a teapot was the cause of this--at least a secondary cause--
for a teapot was the chief instrument in checking, if not turning, the
tide of evil.  Yes, chimney-pot Liz held her castle in the very midst of
the enemy, almost single-handed, with no visible weapon of offence or
defence but a teapot!  We say visible, because Liz did indeed possess
other and very powerful weapons which were not quite so obvious--such
as, the Word of God in her memory, the love of God in her heart, and the
Spirit of God in her soul.

To the outside world, however, the teapot was her weapon and shield.

We have read of such a weapon before, somewhere in the glorious annals
of city missions, but just now we are concerned only with the teapot of
our own Liz of chimney-pot notoriety.

Seated, as we have said, in a rustic chair, gazing through the foliage
at the busy Thames, and plying her knitting needles briskly, while the
sun seemed to lick up and clear away the fogs and smoke of the great
city, chimney-pot Liz enjoyed her thoughts until a loud clatter
announced that Susy had knocked over the watering-pot.

"Oh! granny" (thus she styled her), "I'm _so_ sorry!  So stupid of me!
Luckily there's no water in it."

"Never mind, dear," said the old woman in a soft voice, and with a smile
which for a moment exposed the waste of gums in which the solitary fang
stood, "I've got no nerves--never had any, and hope I never may have.
By the way, that reminds me--Is the tea done, Susy?"

"Yes, not a particle left," replied the girl, rising from her floral
labours and thereby showing that her graceful figure matched well with
her pretty young face.  It was a fair face, with golden hair divided in
the middle and laid smooth over her white brow, not sticking confusedly
out from it like the tangled scrub on a neglected common, or the frontal
locks of a Highland bull.

"That's bad, Susy," remarked old Liz, pushing the fang about with her
tongue for a few seconds.  "You see, I had made up my mind to go down
to-night and have a chat with Mrs Rampy, and I wouldn't like to visit
her without my teapot.  The dear old woman is so fond of a cup of tea,
and she don't often get it good, poor thing.  No, I shouldn't like to go
without my teapot, it would disappoint her, you know--though I've no
doubt she would be glad to see me even empty-handed."

"I should just think she would!" said Susy with a laugh, as she stooped
to arrange some of the fastenings of her garden, "I should just think
she would.  Indeed, I doubt if that _dear_ old woman would be alive now
but for you, granny."

The girl emphasised the "dear" laughingly, for Mrs Rampy was one of
those middle-aged females of the destitute class whose hearts have been
so steeled against their kind by suffering and drink as to render them
callous to most influences.  The proverbial "soft spot" in Mrs Rampy's
heart was not reached until an assault had been made on it by
chimney-pot Liz with her teapot.  Even then it seemed as if the softness
of the spot were only of the gutta-percha type.

"Perhaps not, perhaps not my dear," returned old Liz, with that pleased
little smile with which she was wont to recognise a philanthropic
success a smile which always had the effect of subduing the tooth, and
rendering the plain face almost beautiful.

Although bordering on the lowest state of destitution--and that is a
remarkably low state in London!--old Liz had an air of refinement about
her tones, words, and manner which was very different from that of the
poor people around her.  This was not altogether, though partly, due to
her Christianity.  The fact is, the old woman had "seen better days."
For fifty years she had been nurse in an amiable and wealthy family, the
numerous children of which seemed to have been born to bloom for a few
years in the rugged garden of this world, and then be transplanted to
the better land.  Only the youngest son survived.  He entered the army
and went to India--that deadly maelstrom which has swallowed up so much
of British youth and blood and beauty!  When the old couple became
bankrupt and died, the old nurse found herself alone and almost
destitute in the world.

It is not our purpose to detail here the sad steps by which she
descended to the very bottom of the social ladder, taking along with her
Susan, her adopted daughter and the child of a deceased fellow-servant.
We merely tell thus much to account for her position and her partial
refinement--both of which conditions she shared with Susan.

"Now then," said the latter, "I must go, granny.  Stickle and Screw are
not the men to overlook faults.  If I'm a single minute late I shall
have to pay for it."

"And quite right, Susy, quite right.  Why should Stickle and Screw lose
a minute of their people's work?  Their people would be angry enough if
they were to be paid a penny short of their wages!  Besides, the firm
employs over two hundred hands, and if every one of these was to be late
a minute there would be two hundred minutes gone--nigh four hours, isn't
it?  You should be able to count that right off, Susy, havin' been so
long at the Board-school."

"I don't dispute it, granny," said the girl with a light laugh, as she
stood in front of a triangular bit of looking-glass tying on her poor
but neatly made hat.  "And I am usually three or four minutes before my
time, but Stickle and Screw are hard on us in other ways, so different
from Samson and Son, where Lily Hewat goes.  Now, I'm off.  I'll be sure
to be back by half-past nine or soon after."

As the girl spoke, footsteps were heard ascending the creaky wooden
stair.  Another moment and Tommy Splint entering with a theatrical air,
announced--

"A wisitor!"

He was closely followed by Sam Blake, who no sooner beheld Susy than he
seemed to become paralysed, for he stood gazing at her as if in eager
but helpless amazement.

Susy was a good deal surprised at this, but feeling that if she were to
wait for the clearing up of the mystery she would infallibly be late in
reaching the shop of the exacting Stickle and Screw, she swept lightly
past the seaman with a short laugh, and ran down-stairs.

Without a word of explanation Sam sprang after her, but, although smart
enough on the shrouds and ladders of shipboard, he failed to accommodate
himself to the stairs of rookeries, and went down, as he afterwards
expressed it, "by the run," coming to an anchor at the bottom in a
sitting posture.  Of course the lithe and active Susy escaped him, and
also escaped being too late by only half a minute.

"Never mind, she'll be back again between nine and ten o'clock, unless
they keep her late," said old Liz, after Sam had explained who he was,
and found that Susy was indeed his daughter, and chimney-pot Liz the
nurse who had tended his wife to her dying day, and afterwards adopted
his child.

"I never was took aback so in all my life," said the seaman, sitting
down beside the old woman, and drawing a sigh so long that it might have
been likened to a moderate breeze.  "She's the born image o' what her
dear mother was when I first met her.  _My_ Susy!  Well, it's not every
poor seaman as comes off a long voyage an' finds that he's fallen heir
to a property like _that_!"

"You may well be proud of her," said old Liz, "and you'll be prouder yet
when you come to know her."

"I know it, and I'm proud to shake your hand, mother, an' thankee kindly
for takin' such care o' my helpless lassie.  You say she'll be home
about ten?"

"Yes, if she's not kep' late.  She always comes home about that time.
Meanwhile you'll have something to eat.  Tommy, boy, fetch out the loaf
and the cheese and the teapot.  You know where to find 'em.  Tommy's an
orphan, Cap'n Blake, that I've lately taken in hand.  He's a good boy is
Tommy, but rather wild."

"Wot can you expect of a horphing?" said the boy with a grin, for he had
overheard the latter remark, though it was intended only for the
visitor's ear.  "But I say, granny, there ain't no cheese here, 'cept a
bit o' rind that even a mouse would scorn to look at."

"Never mind, bring out the loaf, Tommy."

"An' there ain't no use," continued the boy, "o' bringin' out the
teapot, 'cause there ain't a grain o' tea nowheres."

"Oh!  I forgot," returned old Liz, slightly confused; "I've just run out
o' tea, Cap'n Blake, an' I haven't a copper at _present_ to buy any,
but--"

"Never mind that old girl; and I ain't quite captain yet, though
trendin' in that direction.  You come out along wi' me, Tommy.  I'll
soon putt these matters to rights."

Old Liz could not have remonstrated even if she had wished to do so, for
her impulsive visitor was gone in a moment followed by his extremely
willing little friend.  They returned in quarter of an hour.

"There you are," said the seaman, taking the articles one by one from a
basket carried by Tommy; "a big loaf, pound o' butter, ditto tea, three
pound o' sugar, six eggs, hunk o' cheese, paper o' salt--forgot the
pepper; never mind."

"You've bin an' forgot the sassengers too--but here they are," said
Tommy, plucking the delectable viands from the bottom of the basket with
a look of glee, and laying them on the table.

Chimney-pot Liz did not look surprised; she only smiled and nodded her
head approvingly, for she felt that Sam Blake understood the right thing
to do and did it.

Soon the celebrated teapot was going the round, full swing, while the
air was redolent of fried sausage and cheese mingled with the perfume of
roses and mignonette, for this meal, you must know, was eaten in the
garden in the afternoon sunshine, while the cooking--done in the attic
which opened on the garden--was accomplished by Sam assisted by Tommy.

"Well, you _air_ a trump," said the latter to the former as he sat down,
greasy and glowing, beside the seaman at the small table where old Liz
presided like a humble duchess.

We need hardly say that the conversation was animated, and that it bore
largely on the life-history of the absent Susy.

"You're quite sure that she'll be here by ten?" asked the excited father
for the fiftieth time that afternoon.

"Yes, I'm sure of it--unless she's kep' late," answered Liz.

But Susy did _not_ return at the usual hour, so her impatient father was
forced to conclude that she _had_ been "kep' late"--too late.  In his
anxiety he resolved to sally forth under the guidance of Tommy Splint to
inquire for the missing Susy at the well-known establishment of Stickle
and Screw.

Let us anticipate him in that quest.  At the usual hour that night the
employes of Stickle and Screw left work and took their several ways home
ward.  Susy had the company of her friend Lily Hewat as far as Chancery
Lane.  Beyond that point she had to go alone.  Being summer-time, the
days were long, and Susy was one of those strong-hearted and
strong-nerved creatures who have a tendency to fear nothing.

She had just passed over London Bridge and turned into a labyrinth of
small streets on the Surrey side of the river, when a drunken man met
her in a darkish and deserted alley through which she had to pass.  The
man seized her by the arm.  Susy tried to free herself.  In the struggle
that ensued she fell with a loud shriek, and struck her head on the
kerb-stone so violently that she was rendered insensible.  Seeing this,
the man proceeded to take from her the poor trinkets she had about her,
and would have succeeded in robbing her but for the sudden appearance on
the scene of a lowland Scot clad in a homespun suit of shepherd's
plaid--a strapping ruddy youth of powerful frame, fresh from the braes
of Yarrow.



CHAPTER THREE.

A VISITOR FROM THE NORTH.

How that Lowland Scot came to the rescue just in the nick of time is
soon told.

"Mither," said he one evening, striding into his father's dwelling--a
simple cottage on a moor--and sitting down in front of a bright old
woman in a black dress, whose head was adorned with that frilled and
baggy affair which is called in Scotland a mutch, "I'm gawin' to
Lun'on."

"Hoots! havers, David."

"It's no' havers, mither.  Times are guid.  We've saved a pickle siller.
Faither can spare me for a wee while--sae I'm aff to Lun'on the morn's
mornin'."

"An' what for?" demanded Mrs Laidlaw, letting her hands and the sock on
which they were engaged drop on her lap, as she looked inquiringly into
the grave countenance of her handsome son.

"To seek a wife, maybe," replied the youth, relaxing into that very
slight smile with which grave and stern-featured men sometimes betray
the presence of latent fun.

Mrs Laidlaw resumed her sock and needle with no further remark than
"Hoots! ye're haverin'," for she knew that her son was only jesting in
regard to the wife.  Indeed nothing was further from that son's
intention or thoughts at the time than marriage, so, allowing the ripple
to pass from his naturally grave and earnest countenance, he continued--

"Ye see, mither, I'm twunty-three noo, an' I _wad_ like to see something
o' the warld afore I grow aulder an' settle doon to my wark.  As I said,
faither can spare me a while, so I'll jist tak' my fit in my haund an'
awa' to see the Great Bawbylon."

"Ye speak o' gaun to see the warld, laddie, as if 'ee was a gentleman."

"Div 'ee think, mother, that the warld was made only for _gentlemen_ to
travel in?" demanded the youth, with the gentlest touch of scorn in his
tone.

To this question the good woman made no reply; indeed her stalwart son
evidently expected none, for he rose a few minutes later and proceeded
to pack up his slender wardrobe in a shoulder-bag of huge size, which,
however, was well suited to his own proportions.

Next day David Laidlaw took the road which so many men have taken before
him--for good or ill.  But, unlike most of his predecessors, he was
borne towards it on the wings of steam, and found himself in Great
Babylon early the following morning, with his mother's last caution
ringing strangely in his ears.

"David," she had said, "I ken ye was only jokin', but dinna ye be ower
sure o' yersel'.  Although thae English lassies are a kine o' waux
dolls, they have a sort o' way wi' them that might be dangerous to lads
like you."

"H'm!"  David had replied, in that short tone of self-sufficiency which
conveys so much more than the syllable would seem to warrant.

The Scottish youth had neither kith nor kin in London, but he had one
friend, an old school companion, who, several years before, had gone to
seek his fortune in the great city, and whose address he knew.  To this
address he betook himself on the morning of his arrival, but found that
his friend had changed his abode.  The whole of that day did David spend
in going about.  He was sent from one place to another, in quest of his
friend, and made diligent use of his long legs, but without success.
Towards evening he was directed to a street on the Surrey side of the
Thames, and it was while on his way thither that he chanced to enter the
alley where poor Susan was assaulted.

Like most Scotsmen of his class and size David Laidlaw was somewhat
leisurely and slow in his movements when not called to vigorous
exertion, but when he heard the girl's shriek, and, a moment later, saw
her fall, he sprang to her side with one lithe bound, like that of a
Bengal tiger, and aimed a blow at her assailant, which, had it taken
effect, would have interrupted for some time--if not terminated for
ever--that rascal's career.  But the thief, though drunk, was young,
strong, and active.  It is also probable that he was a professional
pugilist for, instead of attempting to spring back from the blow--which
he had not time to do--he merely put his head to one side and let it
pass.  At the same instant David received a stinging whack on the right
eye, which although it failed to arrest his rush, filled his vision with
starry coruscations.

The thief fell back and the Scot tripped over him.  Before he could
recover himself the thief was up like an acrobat and gone.  At the same
moment two policemen, rushing on the scene in answer to the girl's
shriek, seized David by the collar and held him fast.

There was Highland as well as Lowland blood in the veins of young
Laidlaw.  This sanguinary mixture is generally believed to possess
effervescing properties when stirred.  It probably does.  For one moment
the strength of Goliath of Gath seemed to tingle in David's frame, and
the vision of two policemen's heads battered together swam before his
eyes--but he thought better of it and restrained himself!

"Tak' yer hands aff me, freens," he said, suddenly unclosing his fists
and relaxing his brows.  "Ye'd better see after the puir lassie.  An'
dinna fear for me.  I'm no gawn to rin awa'!"

Perceiving the evident truth of this latter remark, the constables
turned their attention to the girl, who was by that time beginning to
recover.

"Where am I?" asked Susy, gazing into the face of her rescuer with a
dazed look.

"Yer a' right, puir bairn.  See, tak' ha'd o' my airm," said the Scot.

"That's the way, now, take hold of mine," said one of the constables in
a kindly tone; "come along--you'll be all right in a minute.  The
station is close at hand."

Thus supported the girl was led to the nearest police station, where
David Laidlaw gave a minute account of what had occurred to the rather
suspicious inspector on duty.  While he was talking, Susan, who had been
provided with a seat and a glass of water, gazed at him with profound
interest.  She had by that time recovered sufficiently to give her
account of the affair, and, as there was no reason for further
investigation of the matter, she was asked if her home was far off, and
a constable was ordered to see her safely there.

"Ye needna fash," said David carelessly, "I'm gawn that way mysel', an'
if the puir lassie has nae objection I'll be glad to--"

The abrupt stoppage in the youth's speech was caused by his turning to
Susy and looking full and attentively in her face, which, now that the
colour was restored and the dishevelled hair rearranged, had a very
peculiar effect on him.  His mother's idea of a "waux doll" instantly
recurred to his mind, but the interest and intelligence in Susy's pretty
face was very far indeed removed from the vacant imbecility which
usually characterises that fancy article of juvenile luxury.

"Of course if the girl wishes you to see her home," said the inspector,
"I have no objection, but I'll send a constable to help you to take care
of her."

"Help _me_ to tak' care o' her!" exclaimed David, whose pride was sorely
hurt by the distrust implied in these words; "man, I could putt her in
my pooch an' _you_ alang wi' her."

Of this remark Mr Inspector, who had resumed his pen, took no notice
whatever, but went on writing while one of the constables prepared to
obey his superior's orders.  In his indignation the young Scot resolved
to fling out of the office and leave the police to do as they pleased in
the matter, but, glancing at Susy as he turned round, he again met the
gaze of her soft blue eyes.

"C'way, lassie, I _wull_ gang wi' ye," he said, advancing quickly and
offering his arm.

Being weak from the effects of her fall, Susy accepted the offer
willingly, and was supported on the other side by a policeman.

In a short time the trio ascended the rookery stair and presented
themselves to the party in the garret-garden just as Sam Blake and Tommy
Splint were about to leave it.

It is impossible to describe adequately the scene that ensued--the
anxiety of the poor seaman to be recognised by his long lost "babby,"
the curious but not unnatural hesitancy of that "babby" to admit that he
_was_ her father, though earnestly assured of the fact by chimney-pot
Liz; the surprise of David Laidlaw, and even of the policeman, at being
suddenly called to witness so interesting a domestic scene, and the
gleeful ecstasy of Tommy Splint over the whole affair--flavoured as it
was with the smell and memory of recent "sassengers."

When the constable at last bid them good-night and descended the stair,
the young Scot turned to go, feeling, with intuitive delicacy, that he
was in the way, but once again he met the soft blue eyes of Susy, and
hesitated.

"Hallo, young man!" cried Sam Blake, on observing his intention, "you
ain't agoin' to leave us--arter saving my gal's life, p'raps--anywise
her property.  No, no; you'll stop here all night an'--"

He paused: "Well, I do declare I forgot I wasn't aboard my own ship,
but--" again he paused and looked at old Liz.

"I've no room for any of you in the garret," said that uncompromising
woman, "there ain't more than one compartment in it, and that's not too
big for me an' Susy; but you're welcome, both of you, to sleep in the
garden if you choose.  Tommy sleeps there, under a big box, and a clever
sea-farin' man like you could--"

"All right, old lady," cried the seaman heartily.  "I'll stop, an'
thankee; we'll soon rig up a couple o' bunks.  So you will stop too,
young man--by the way, you--you didn't give us your name yet."

"My name is David Laidlaw; but I won't stop, thankee," replied the Scot
with unexpected decision of manner.  "Ye see, I've been lookin' a' this
day for an auld freen' an' I _must_ find him afore the morn's mornin',
if I should seek him a' nicht.  But, but--maybe I'll come an' speer for
'ee in a day or twa--if I may."

"If you mean that you will come and call, Mr Laidlaw," said old Liz,
"we will be delighted to see you at any time.  Don't forget the
address."

"Nae fear--I'll putt it i' my note-buik," said David, drawing a
substantial volume from his breast pocket and entering the
address--`Mrs Morley, Cherub Court'--therein.

Having shaken hands all round he descended the stair with a firm tread
and compressed lips until he came out on the main thoroughfare, when he
muttered to himself sternly:

"Waux dolls, indeed! there's nane o' thae dolls'll git the better o' me.
H'm! a bonny wee face, nae doot but what div _I_ care for bonny faces
if the hairt's no' richt?"

"But suppose that the heart _is_ right?"

Who could have whispered that question?  David Laidlaw could not stop to
inquire, but began to hum--

  "Oh, this is no my ain lassie,
  Kind though the lassie be,--"

In a subdued tone, as he sauntered along the crowded street, which by
that time was blazing with gas-light in the shop-windows and oil-lamps
on the hucksters' barrows.

The song, however, died on his lips, and he moved slowly along, stopping
now and then to observe the busy and to him novel scene, till he reached
a comparatively quiet turning, which was dimly lighted by only one lamp.
Here he felt a slight twitch at the bag which contained his little all.
Like lightning he turned and seized by the wrist a man who had already
opened the bag and laid hold of some of its contents.  Grasping the poor
wretch by the neck with his other hand he held him in a grip of iron.



CHAPTER FOUR.

DANGERS THREATEN.

The man who had been thus captured by David was one of those wretched
forlorn creatures who seem to reach a lower depth of wretchedness and
degradation in London than in any other city in the world.  Although
young and strongly made he was pale, gaunt and haggard, with a look
about the eyes and mouth which denoted the habitual drunkard.  The
meanness of his attire is indescribable.

He trembled--whether from the effects of dissipation or fear we cannot
say--as his captor led him under the lamp, with a grip on the collar
that almost choked him, but when the light fell full on his haggard face
a feeling of intense pity induced the Scot to relax his hold.

"Oh, ye puir meeserable crater!" he said, but stopped abruptly, for the
man made a sudden and desperate effort to escape.  He might as well have
struggled in the grasp of a gorilla!

"Na, na, my man, ye'll no twust yersel' oot o' my grup sae easy! keep
quiet noo, an' I'll no hurt 'ee.  What gars ye gang aboot tryin' to
steal like that?"

"Steal!" explained the man fiercely, "what else can I do?  I _must_
live!  I've just come out of prison, and am flung on the world to be
kicked about like a dog and starve.  Let me go, or I'll kill you!"

"Na, 'ee'll no kill me.  I'm no sae easy killed as 'ee think," returned
David, again tightening the grasp of his right hand while he thrust his
left into his trousers-pocket.

At that moment the bull's-eye light of an advancing constable became
visible, and the defiant air of the thief gave place to a look of
anxious fear.  It was evident that the dread of another period of prison
life was strong upon the trembling wretch.  Drawing out a handful of
coppers, David thrust them quickly into the man's hand, and said--

"Hae, tak' them, an' aff ye go! an' ask the Lord to help 'ee to dae
better."

The strong hand relaxed, another moment and the man, slipping round the
corner like an unwholesome spirit, was gone.

"Can ye direck me, polisman," said the Scot to the constable, as he was
about to pass, "t' Toor Street?"

"Never heard of it," said the constable brusquely, but civilly enough.

"That's queer noo.  I was telt it was hereaboots--Toor Street."

"Oh, perhaps you mean _Tower_ Street" said the constable, with a
patronising smile.

"Perhaps I div," returned the Scot, with that touch of cynicism which is
occasionally seen in his race.  "Can 'ee direck me tilt?"

"Yes, but it is on the other side of the river."

"Na--it's on _this_ side o' the river," said David quietly yet
confidently.

The conversation was here cut short by the bursting on their ears of a
sudden noise at some distance.  The policeman turned quickly away, and
when David advanced into the main street he observed that there was some
excitement among its numerous and riotous occupants.  The noise
continued to increase, and it became evident that the cause of it was
rapidly approaching, for the sound changed from a distant rumble into a
steady roar, in the midst of which stentorian shouts were heard.
Gradually the roar culminated, for in another moment there swept round
the end of the street a pair of apparently runaway horses, with two
powerful lamps gleaming, or rather glaring, above them.  On each side of
the driver of the galloping steeds stood a man, shouting like a maniac
of the boatswain type.  All three were brass-helmeted, like antique
charioteers.  Other helmets gleamed behind them.  Little save the
helmets and the glowing lamps could be seen through the dark and smoky
atmosphere as the steam fire-engine went thundering by.

Now, if there was one thing more than another that David Laidlaw desired
to see, it was a London fire.  Often had he read about these fires, for
he was a great reader of books, as well as newspapers, and deeply had
his enthusiasm been stirred (though not expressed) by accounts of
thrilling escapes and heroic deeds among the firemen.  His eyes
therefore flashed back the flame of the lamps as the engine went past
him like a red thunderbolt, and he started off in pursuit of it.

But, as many people know, and all may believe, running in a crowded
London street is difficult--even to an expert London thief.  Our Scot
found that out after a sixty-yards' run; then he had the wisdom to stop,
just as a little boy leaped out of his way exclaiming--

"'Ullo, Goliah! mind w'ere you're a-goin' to.  I wonder yer mother let
you hout all alone!"

"Whar's the fire, laddie?" demanded David, with some impatience.

"'Ow should _I_ know, Scotty!  I ain't a pleeceman, ham I? that I should
be expected to know heverythink!"

As the engine had by that time vanished, no one could tell where the
fire was, and as the street had reverted to its normal condition of
noise and bustle, David Laidlaw gave up the search for it.  He also gave
up as hopeless further search for his friend that night, and resolved to
avail himself of one of those numerous establishments in the windows of
which it was announced that "good beds" were to be had within.

Entering one, the landlord of which had a round jovial countenance, he
ordered tea, toast, and sausages, with pen, ink, and paper.  Having
heartily consumed the former, he devoted himself to the latter and
proceeded to write a letter.  Here is the epistle:--

"BAWBYLON, I dinna ken where.

"_5th July_ 18--.

"DEAR MITHER--Here I am, in Lun'on, an' wow! but it _is_ an awfu' place!
'Ee'll no believe me, but I've been lost twa or three times a'ready,
an' I've had a kine o' fecht an' a rescue, an' been taen to the polis
office, an' made some freens, an' catched a thief (an' latten 'im aff
wi' a caution an' a wheen bawbees), an' seen a fire-engine that lookit
as if it was gawn full gallop to destruction.  Ay, wumin, an' I've fawn
in a'ready wi' a waux doll!  But dinna ye fear, mither, I'm ower teugh
to be gotten the better o' by the likes o' them.  An' noo I'm gawn to my
bed, sae as to be ready for mair adventurs the mornin'.  Ye'll admit
that I've done gey 'n' weel for the first day.  At this rate I'll be
able to write a story-buik when I git hame.  Respecks to faither.  Yer
affectionate son, DAVID.

"_P.S._--The lan'lord's just been in, an' I've had a lang crack wi' him
aboot the puir folk an' the thieves o' this Great Bawbylon.  Wow, but I
_am_ wae for them.  Seems to me they have na got a chance i' the battle
o' life.  He says he'll tak' me to see ane o' their low lodgin'-hooses
the morn.  Guid-nicht."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

We turn now to a very different scene--to a West End drawing-room, in
which is to be found every appliance, in the way of comfort and
luxurious ease, that ingenuity can devise or labour produce.  An
exceedingly dignified, large, self-possessed yet respectful footman,
with magnificent calves in white stockings, has placed a silver tray,
with three tiny cups and a tiny teapot thereon, near to the hand of a
beautiful middle-aged lady--the mistress of the mansion.  She is reading
a letter with evident interest.  A girl of seventeen, whose style of
beauty tells of the closest relationship, sits beside her, eagerly
awaiting the news which is evidently contained in the letter.

"Oh, I am _so_ glad, Rosa! they have found traces of her at last."

"Of who, mother--old nurse?" asked Rosa.

"Yes, your father's old nurse; indeed I may say mine also, for when I
was a little girl I used to pay long visits to your grandfather's house.
And it seems that she is in great poverty--almost destitute.  Dear,
_dear_ old nurse! you won't be long in poverty if I can help it!"

As she spoke, a handsome man of middle age and erect carriage entered
the room.  There was an expression of care and anxiety on his
countenance, which, however, partly disappeared when the lady turned
towards him with a triumphant look and held up the letter.

"Didn't I tell you, Jack, that your lawyer would find our old nurse if
any one could?  He writes me that she has been heard of, living in some
very poor district on the south side of the Thames, and hopes to be able
to send me her exact address very soon.  I felt quite sure that Mr
Lockhart would find her, he is such an obliging and amiable man, as well
as clever.  I declare that I can't bear to look at all the useless
luxury in which we live when I think of the good and true creatures like
old nurse who are perishing in absolute destitution."

"But being disgusted with our luxury and giving it all up would not mend
matters, little wife," returned Jack with a faint smile.  "Rich people
are not called upon to give up their riches, but to _use_ them--to spend
well within their means, so as to have plenty to spare in the way of
helping those who are willing to help themselves, and sustaining those
who cannot help themselves.  The law of supply and demand has many
phases, and the profits resulting therefrom are overruled by a Higher
Power than the laws of Political Economy.  There are righteous rich as
well as poor; there are wicked poor as well as rich.  What you and I
have got to do in this perplexing world is to cut our particular coat
according to our cloth."

"Just so," said the lady with energy.  "Your last remark is to the
point, whatever may be the worth of your previous statements, and I
intend to cut off the whole of my superfluous skirts in order to clothe
old nurse and such as she with them."

Rosa laughingly approved of this decision, for she was like-minded with
her mother, but her father did not respond.  The look of care had
returned to his brow, and there was cause for it for Colonel Brentwood
had just learned from his solicitor that he was a ruined man.

"It is hard to have to bring you such news, darling," he said, taking
his wife's hand, "especially when you were so happily engaged in
devising liberal things for the poor, but God knows what is best for us.
He gave us this fortune, when He inclined uncle Richard to leave it to
us, and now He has seen fit to take it away."

"But how--what do you mean by taking it away?" asked poor Mrs
Brentwood, perceiving that her husband really had some bad news to tell.

"Listen; I will explain.  When uncle Richard Weston died, unexpectedly,
leaving to us his estate, we regarded it you know, as a gift from God,
and came to England resolving to spend our wealth in His service.  Well,
yesterday Mr Lockhart informed me that another will has been found, of
later date than that which made me uncle Richard's heir, in which the
whole estate is left to a distant connection of whose very existence I
had become oblivious."

"Well, Jack," returned the lady, with a valiant effort to appear
reconciled, "but that is not _ruin_, you know.  Your pay still remains
to us."

"I--I fear not.  That is to say, believing the estate to be mine, I have
come under obligations which must be met and, besides, I have spent
considerable sums which must be refunded--all of which, if I understand
the law of the land rightly, means ruin."

For some moments Mrs Brentwood sat in silent meditation.  "Well," she
said at length, with the air of one who has made up her mind, "I don't
understand much about the law of the land.  All I know is that my purse
is full of gold just now, so I will snap my fingers at the law of the
land and go right off to visit and succour our dear old Liz."



CHAPTER FIVE.

A NIGHT OF ADVENTURES.

According to arrangement, David Laidlaw was taken the following evening
by his landlord, Mr Spivin, to see one of the low lodging-houses of
London.

Our adventurous Scot had often read and heard that some of the low
quarters of London were dangerous for respectable men to enter without
the escort of the police, but his natural courage and his thorough
confidence in the strength of his bulky frame inclined him to smile at
the idea of danger.  Nevertheless, by the advice of his new friend the
landlord, he left his watch and money, with the exception of a few
coppers, behind him--carefully stowed under the pillow of his bed in his
shoulder-bag.  For further security the door of his room was locked and
the key lung on a nail in an out-of-the-way corner, known only, as Mr
Spivin pointed out, to "their two selves."

"But hoo dis it happen, Mr Speevin," asked David, as they walked along
the streets together, "that _ye_ can gang safely amang the thieves
withoot a polisman t' proteck ye?"

"Oh, as to that," replied the jolly landlord, "I'm connected with a
religious society which sends agents down among them poor houtcasts to
convert 'em.  They hall knows me, bless you.  But I ain't a-goin' with
you myself.  You see, I'm a very busy man, and engagements which I 'ad
forgotten prevents me, but I've made an arrangement with one o' the
converted thieves to take you to a few of the worst places in London.
Of course he can pass you hevery where as one of his friends."

To this David made no reply, save with a slight "Humph!" as he looked
earnestly at his companion.  But Mr Spivin wore an expression of
seraphic candour.

"Here he is," added the landlord, as they turned a corner and drew near
to a man in mean attire, who seemed to be waiting for some one.  "He's
rather disreputable to look at, only just been converted, an' not 'avin'
'ad the chance yet to better himself.--But--hallo!--you seem to know
him."

The last exclamation and remark were called forth by the look of
surprise on Laidlaw's face, and the air almost of alarm on that of the
mean-looking man--alarm which was by no means unnatural, seeing that he
was none other than the fellow who had attempted to rob our Scotsman the
previous night.

David, however, was quick to recover himself.  "Know him!" he cried,
with a hearty laugh, "ay, I ken him weel.  I lent him a helpin' haund
last nicht, no' far frae here."

"Surely he was not beggin'?" exclaimed Mr Spivin in tones of virtuous
reproof, "for a noo convert to go a-beggin', you know, would be
houtrageous!"

"Na, na," answered David, with a quiet and somewhat cynical smile, "he
wasna beggin', puir lad, but I took peety on 'im, an' gee'd 'im some
bawbees.  So this is yer new convert, is he? an' he's to be my guide?
He'll do.  He'll do.  Sae I'll bid ye guid-nicht, Mr Speevin."

As the Scot held out his hand in a very decided manner the landlord was
obliged to depart without further enlightenment, after cautioning the
"converted" thief to take good care of his friend.

When he was gone the Scotsman and the ex-convict stood looking silently
at each other, the first with an earnest yet half-sarcastic smile, the
other with a mingled expression of reckless amusement, in which,
however, there was a trace of anxiety.

"Weel noo," said the former, "aren't ye an oot-an'-oot blagyird?"

"If you mean by that an out-and-out blackguard," answered the thief,
"you're not far wrong."

"Ye're honest the noo, ony way," remarked the Scot, with a nod.  "Noo,
my man, look ye here.  Ye are nae mair convertit than yer freen' Speevin
is, though I took him for a rale honest man at first.  But bein' a
blagyird, as ye admit, I'm wullin' t' hire ye in that capacity for the
nicht.  Noo, what I want is t' see low life in Lun'on, an' if ye'll tak'
me to what they may ca' the warst haunts o' vice, I'll mak' it worth yer
while--an' I've got mair siller than ye think for, maybe."

A stern frown settled on the thief's face as David spoke.

"I suppose," he said, "that you want me to show you the misery and
destitootion among the poor of London, that you may return to your 'ome
in the North and boast that you 'ave `done the slums!'"

"Na--na, ye're quite mista'en, man," returned David quickly; "but I want
t' see for mysel' what I've heard sae muckle aboot--to see if it's a'
true, for I'm wae--I'm" (correcting himself) "sorry--for the puir
craturs, an' wud fain help some o' them if I could.  Noo, freen'," he
continued, laying his huge hand gently on the man's shoulder, "if ye
want to earn something, an'll tak' me t' where I want t' gang--guid.  If
no'--I'll bid ye guid-nicht."

"Do you know," said the man, with a furtive glance at David's kindly
face, "the risk you run from the men who live in such places if you go
alone and unprotected?"

"I ken the risk _they_ run if they daur t' meddle wi' _me_!  Besides,
I'll be naether alane nor unproteckit if I've _you_ wi' me, for I can
trust ye!"

A peculiar smile played for a moment on the haggard features of the
thief.

"Scotchman," he said, "whatever your name may be, I--"

"My name is David Laidlaw, an' I've nae cause t' be ashamed o't."

"Well, Mr Laidlaw," returned the thief, in vastly improved language and
tone, "I'm indebted to you for a good supper and a warm bed last night.
Besides, yours is the first friendly touch or kind voice that has
greeted me since I was discharged, and you've said you can _trust_ me!
So I'll do my best for you even though you should not give me a penny.
But remember, you will go among a rough lot whom I have but little power
to control."

"Hoots! c'way, man, an' dinna waste time haverin'."

Saying this, he grasped his guide by the arm in a friendly way and
walked off, much to the surprise of a policeman with an aquiline nose,
who turned his bull's-eye full on them as they passed, and then went on
his way, shaking his head sagaciously.

As the ill-assorted pair advanced, the streets they traversed seemed to
grow narrower and dirtier.  The inhabitants partook of the character of
their surroundings, and it struck our Scotsman that, as ordinary shops
became fewer and meaner, grog-shops became more numerous and
self-assertive.  From out of these dens of debauchery there issued loud
cries and curses and ribald songs, and occasionally one or two of the
wretched revellers, male or female, were thrust out, that they might
finish off a quarrel with a fight in the street, or because they
insisted on having more drink without having the means to pay for it.

At one particular point a woman "in unwomanly rags" was seen leaning up
against a lamp-post with an idiotical expression on her bloated face,
making an impassioned speech to some imaginary person at her elbow.  The
speech came to an abrupt end when, losing her balance, she fell to the
ground, and lay there in drunken contentment.

At the same moment the attention of our explorer was drawn to a riot
close at hand, occasioned by two men engaged in a fierce encounter.
They were loudly cheered and backed by their friends, until all were
scattered by two powerful constables, who swooped suddenly on the scene
and captured one of the combatants, while the other almost overturned
David as he ran against him in passing, and escaped.

"Come down here," said the thief, turning sharp to the left and passing
under a low archway.

It led to a narrow alley, which seemed to terminate in total darkness.
Even Laidlaw's stout heart beat somewhat faster as he entered it, but he
did not hesitate.

At the end of the passage a dim light appeared.  It was thrown by a very
dirty lamp, and disclosed a small court of unutterable meanness and
inconceivable smells.  One or two men had brushed past them, and David
observed that his guide accosted these in a language, or slang, which he
did not understand.

"I've got a friend in here," said his guide, opening a door and
disclosing an extremely dirty room of about ten feet square.  A woman
with her back towards the door was busy at a wash-tub.  Ragged clothes
were drying on a clothes-line.  A shattered bed, on which lay a bundle
of straw and a torn blanket, stood in one corner; a rickety table in
another.  Water and soapsuds blotched the broken floor, amongst which
played two little boys, absolutely naked.

"That's a woman that tries to keep respectable," whispered the thief,
with something like a bitter laugh.  "Hallo, Molly! here's a gen'lem'n
as wants to bid 'ee good-night."

Molly raised herself, cleared the soapsuds from her thin arms, and
turned a haggard but not dissipated face towards her visitor, who was
almost choked, not only by the smell of the place, but by an
uncontrollable gush of pity.

"My puir wumin!" he exclaimed, hastily thrusting his ever-ready hand
into his pocket, "I didna mean t' come in on 'ee unawears.  Hae, ye'll
no' objec' to a wheen bawbees?"

He put all the coppers he possessed into the woman's hand and hurried
out of the room.

"Weel, weel," muttered David, as they continued their walk through the
miserable region, "I've gane an' gie'd her a' the siller I had i' my
pouch.  Pair thing!  She'll need it, but I've naething left for onybody
else!"

"It's just as well, for there's nothing left now for any one to steal,"
said his companion.

"Whar are 'ee gaun noo?" asked Laidlaw.

The question put was not answered, for his guide, bidding him wait a
minute, turned into a doorway and engaged in a low-toned conversation
with a man.  Returning to his friend with an air of indecision about
him, the thief was on the point of speaking when a small party of men
and women--evidently of the better classes--came round the corner and
approached.

"Oho!" exclaimed the thief, drawing his companion into the shade of the
opposite doorway, "we're in luck.  You see, this is what they call a low
lodging-house, and the door-keeper thought that, respectable as you are
in dress and looks, it might not be wise to take you in.  But we'll go
in now at the tail o' this lot, and nobody will take notice of you.
Only follow close to me."

Two of the "lot" who approached appeared to be respectably-dressed young
men, carrying something like a large box between them.  There were five
altogether in the party, two of whom seemed to be plainly-dressed
ladies.

They entered the house at once with a quiet "good-night" to the
door-keeper, and were followed by the thief and David.  Entering a very
large irregularly-formed room, they proceeded to the upper end, where a
huge coal fire blazed.  The room was crowded with men and boys of varied
appearance and character.  From every rank in society they had
gravitated--but all were stamped with the same brand--destitution!  They
were not, however, destitute of lungs, as the babel of sounds proved--
nor of tobacco, as the clouds of smoke demonstrated.

Little notice was taken of the visitors.  They were well known in that
haunt of crime and woe.  Angels of mercy they were, who, after the
labours of each day, gave their spare time to the work of preaching
salvation in Jesus to lost souls.  To the surprise of Laidlaw, the box
before referred to became a harmonium when opened up, and soon the
harmony of praise to God ascended from the reeking den.  Then followed
prayer--brief and to the point--after which an earnest appeal was made
to the sorrowing, the suffering, and the criminal to come and find
deliverance and rest in the Saviour.

We may not dwell on this.  Some listened carelessly, some earnestly,
others not at all.

"Come now," whispered the thief to his friend, towards the close,
"they'll have spotted you, and will want to have a talk.  We've no time
for that.  Follow me."

David, who had been deeply interested, also wanted to have a talk with
these servants of the King of kings, but his guide being already halfway
down the room he was constrained to follow.  Another moment and they
were in the street.



CHAPTER SIX.

ENEMIES TURNED TO FRIENDS.

"You want to see as much as you can, I suppose?" remarked the thief as
he hastened along.  "Come, I'll take you to our den."

It seemed as if the man were leading his companion into deeper and
deeper depths, for the dark passage into which they finally turned, and
along which they groped their way, seemed to be the very vestibule of
Pandemonium; cries as of fierce and evil spirits being heard at the
farther end of it.

"Now," said the thief, stopping, "whatever you do here, don't show
fight.  This is a thieves' den."

The passage at its farther end became absolutely dark, so that the thief
had to lead our hero by the hand.  Turning abruptly to the right, they
came upon a door through which there issued sounds of terrible revelry.
A knock produced no effect.  A second and louder knock resulted in dead
silence.  Then a female voice was heard inside.  To it our thief replied
in the language of the slums.  Immediately the door was opened just
enough to let the two men glide in; then it was shut with a bang and
bolted.

"Hallo, Trumps, who 'ave you got here?"  "W'ere did you pick 'im up?"
"Is he a noo member?" shouted several voices, amid general laughter.

The speakers were among a company of men and women whose general
appearance and reckless expressions of countenance seemed to indicate
that they were past redemption.  The den in which they sat drinking,
smoking, and gambling consisted of a dirty room fitted with narrow
tables, out of which opened an inner apartment.  The door of this had
been removed--probably for firewood in a time of scarcity.  Both rooms
were lighted with dim oil-lamps.  Some of the company were beggars and
tramps of the lowest type, but most were evidently of the vicious and
criminal order.  There was a tendency to unpleasant curiosity in regard
to the stranger, but the thief, whom we may now call Trumps, put an end
to this with a few slang words, and led his friend to a seat in the
inner room, whence he could observe nearly the whole party and all that
went on.

Some of the more intoxicated among them objected to be snubbed by
Trumps, and were beginning to scowl at the visitor, no doubt with
sinister intentions, when the outer door was again opened, and a young
thief, obviously familiar with the place, entered, closely followed by a
respectable-looking man in a surtout and a light topcoat.  It required
no second look to tell that the new-comer was a city missionary.  Like
our Scot, he had gained admission to the place through the influence of
a friendly thief.

"Hullo, _more_ visitors!" growled a big savage-looking man with an
apron, who proved to be the landlord of the den.

Advancing quickly to this man, the missionary said, in a quiet gentle
tone--

"You supply coffee, I see.  May I have a cup?"

"No you mayn't, you spy!  I know you, you canting wretch!"

He locked the door as he spoke, and then, striding forward in a towering
rage, threatened vengeance on the intruder.  The company, expecting a
scene, rose _en masse_ to their feet, while those in the inner room
crowded to the front.  Laidlaw, who was for the moment forgotten in this
new excitement, followed them.  He was well enough informed in reference
to the work of the London City Missionaries to understand at a glance
that one of those fearless men had managed to worm his way into the
thieves' den, and was perhaps in danger of his life.  That the man
realised his danger was apparent from the fact that he stood erect and
closed his eyes for a moment--evidently in silent prayer for help in the
hour of need.  The act probably saved him, for the ferocious landlord,
although ready enough to crush defiance with a savage blow, did not
quite see his way to dash his great fist into a mild, manly face with
shut eyes!  It was such an unusual way of receiving his onset that he
hesitated and lowered his fist.  Suddenly the missionary drew out a
pocket-Bible, and, pointing upwards with it, said, in loud solemn tones,
"A great white throne will be set up among the stars above us.  The
Saviour who died for sinners will sit upon it, and the dead that are in
their graves shall hear His voice and live.  _We_ shall be there!"

At this the people were silenced, apparently under a spell--some gazing
upwards as if to see the throne; others staring into the missionary's
face in wonder.

"And I and you and you," he continued, pointing to one and another,
"shall be there: `We must all stand before the judgment-seat of Christ.'
I am not an enemy, or a spy, but a servant of the Lord Jesus, who will
be your judge at the last day.  He is now the Saviour of the ruined and
lost, and in His name I offer you mercy through the blood He shed for
you upon the Cross.  In His blessed Book it is written, `Whosoever
believeth on Him shall be saved.'  I hope to come again before long to
see you, friends.  Now, landlord, open that door and let me out."

The landlord, who seemed to be thoroughly taken aback, unlocked the door
with a trembling hand, and the missionary passed out.  But that was not
the end of this remarkable visit.  It was only the beginning of a grand
work for Christ which afterwards took place in and around that thieves'
den.  On this, however, we may not do more than touch here.  Smitten in
conscience, that landlord hurried out after the missionary and actually
begged of him to repeat his visit.  Then he returned to the den and
found his people recovering somewhat from their surprise.

But, touched though the landlord was, he had by no means changed his
character.

"Now, then," he demanded, going up to David Laidlaw, "are _you_ a
missionary too?"

"Na, freen', I am not; but I 'maist wush that I was, for it's a graund
wark t' carry help t' the destitute."

"Well, guv'nor," cried one fellow with a crushed nose and a huge black
eye, "if that's wot you're a-'ankerin' arter you can go a-'ead 'ere an'
'elp us to yer 'eart's content, for we're all destitoot in this 'ere
den.  So, come along, table down all the cash you've got about you."

"I'll dae that wi' pleasure," said David, rising promptly, and turning
all his pockets inside out.  "Ye shall hae every bodle I possess."

A general laugh greeted this proceeding, and one young thief shouted,
"Well done, checkers," (referring to his garments); "but 'ow comes it
that you've bin cleaned out?"

"Plain as pea-soup," cried another.  "Don't you see?  He's bin keepin'
company with Trumps!"

Here Trumps rose to explain.  "No, pals, that's not the reason; but just
before comin' here he gave away every rap he had to poor widow Grain."

"He's a brick!" cried one man, with a fierce oath.

"He's a fool!" shouted another, with a fiercer oath.  Regardless of the
interruption, Trumps went on to explain how he had attempted to rob our
hero, and been caught by him, and let off with a mild reproof and a lot
of coppers.  He also explained how that black-hearted villain Tandy
Spivin (meaning David's landlord) had hired him--Trumps--to take this
"gen'lem'n" (pointing to David) "down into the den _for a purpus_--ahem!
Of course, on bein' introdooced to him," continued Trumps, "I at once
recognised the Scotchman I had tried to rob, and expected he would
refuse to go with me; but I soon found that Scotty was a deep as well as
a plucky cove, and wasn't to be done out of his fun by trifles, for he
said he would go to the slums with me because he could _trust me--trust
me_, pals--note that!"

A loud explosion of laughter interrupted the speaker at this point.

"What!" exclaimed several voices, "said 'e could trust _you_, Trumps?"

"Ay," cried the thief, looking suddenly fierce, "and why not?  Isn't it
said, `There's honour among thieves?'"

"Thrue for ye," cried a big burglarious-looking Irishman, "sure there's
honour 'twixt the likes o' you an' me, Trumps, but that gen'lem'n an't a
thief!"

"That's so, Bill," exclaimed another man, with bloodshot eyes and
beetling brows; "an' it's my opinion that as the cove hain't got no
browns 'e ought to contribute 'is checker suit to the good o' the 'ouse.
It would fetch summat."

The interest in the missionary's words seemed to be passing away, for at
this point the language and looks of some of the company made David
Laidlaw feel that he was indeed in a ticklish position.  The threats and
noise were becoming louder and more furious, and he was beginning to
think of the hopeless resource of using his fists, when a loud
exclamation, followed by a dead silence, drew every eye to the door.

The girl to whom the keeping of it had been intrusted had neglected her
duty for a moment.  In letting one of the company out she incautiously
stood looking through the open chink into the dark passage.  That
instant was seized by two tall and powerful limbs of the law, in cloth
helmets and with bull's-eye lanterns, who pushed quietly but quickly
into the room.  Shutting the door, one of the constables stood with his
back against it, while the other advanced and examined the faces of the
company one by one.

There was dead silence, for the constables were men of business, not of
words, while the criminals, some of whom became grave as well as silent,
seemed very anxious not to attract undue attention.

The particular person "wanted," however, was not there at that time.  On
coming to David, who met the glare of the bull's-eye with his grave
smile, the constable looked surprised.

"I think, young man," he said in a low voice, "you've come to the wrong
shop here."

"That's _my_ business," replied David coolly.

"Well, you know best of course, but if you'll take my advice you'll come
out of this place along with us."

"Na.  I'll bide where I am.  I'll _trust_ them."

"Brayvo! well done, Scotty!" burst from the company, whose courage
quickly revived when they found that no one there was "wanted."

The policemen laughed and went out.

"Noo, freen's, I want to say a word," said David, rising.  "I'm gaun
awa', an' it's ower late t' mak' a speech the nicht, but I want t' ask
leave t' come back here again an' hae a crack wi' ye.  I want t' ask 'ee
some questions, an' gie ye some guid advice.  May I come?"

"Of course you may, Scotty," said the landlord, grasping David's hand
and receiving a good-humoured squeeze that made him wince.  "You're a
trump, and we'll give you the freedom of the 'ouse.  Won't we, pals?"

"Agreed, agreed," shouted the whole company; "and we've got two Trumps
now!" added a wag, amid much laughter and staves of, "He's a jolly good
fellow," during the singing of which Laidlaw and his friend took their
departure.

Having marked the position of the den well and taken its bearings they
said good-night cordially and separated, the thief to his lair, and the
Scotsman to his lodging, where he fully expected that the "villain"
Tandy Spivin had availed himself of the opportunity to rob him.

But he was wrong.  He found his bag, with his watch and money and his
little all, intact as he had left it.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

MISCHIEF BREWING.

David Laidlaw was one of those comfortably constituted men who eat
heartily, sleep profoundly, and lie thinking in bed in the mornings--
when awake--with philosophic intensity.

On the morning after his first day in London our hero's mind had to
grapple with the perplexing question, whether it was possible that a man
with a jovial face, a hearty manner, well-off to all appearance in a
worldly point of view, and who chanced to have a man's money at his
mercy yet did not take it, _could_ be a deceiver and in league with
thieves.  Impossible!  Yet there were the damaging facts that Mr Spivin
had introduced a thief to him as a true and converted man, and that this
thief, besides denying his own conversion, had pronounced him--Spivin--a
black-hearted villain!

"It bothers me!" said David at length, getting over the side of the bed,
and sitting there for some time abstractedly stroking his chin.

Pondering the subject deeply, he dressed, called for breakfast, met
Spivin with a quiet "guid-mornin', freen," said that he had had "a
pleesant time o't i' the slums," and then went out to visit his friends
in Cherub Court.  Before going, however, he removed his money from his
bag, put it in an inner breast-pocket, and paid his bill.

"You won't be back to dinner, I suppose," said the landlord in his
genial manner.

"Na.  I'm gaun to plowter aboot a' day an' see the toon.  I may be late
o' comin' in, but ye'll keep my bed for me, an' tak' care o' my bag."

Spivin said he would do so with such hearty goodwill that David said,
mentally, "He's innocent."

At the moment a tall dark man with a sharp intelligent expression
entered the house and bade the landlord good-morning.  The latter
started, laughed, winked, glanced expressively at the Scotsman, and
returned the stranger's salute in a tone that induced David to say,
mentally, "He's guilty."

Gravely pondering these contradictory opinions, our hero walked along
until he found himself close to the alley which led into Cherub Court.
A female yell issued from the alley as he came up, and Mrs Rampy
suddenly appeared in a state of violent self-assertion.  She was a
strong, red-faced woman, who might have been born a man, perhaps, with
advantage.  She carried a broken-lipped jug, and was on her way to the
shop which was at least the second cause of all her woes.

Standing aside to let the virago pass, Laidlaw proceeded to the court,
where, to his great surprise, he found Tommy Splint sitting on a
doorstep, not exactly in tears, but with disconsolation deeply impressed
on his dirty young face.

"Eh, laddie, what's wrang?" exclaimed the Scot, his mind reverting
anxiously, and strangely enough, to the "waux doll."

"O, Mr Laidlow" exclaimed the boy.

"Na, na," interrupted David, "I'm no laid _low_ yet, though the Lun'on
folk hae done their best to bring me t' that condeetion.  My name's
Laid-law, laddie.  Freen's ca' me David, an' ye may do the same; but for
ony sake dinna use that English D_ai_vid.  I canna thole that.  Use the
lang, braid, Bible a.  But what's the maitter wi' ye?"

"Well, Mr Da-a-a-vid," returned the boy, unable to resist a touch of
fun even in his distress, "they've bin an' dismissed our Susy, wot's as
good as gold; so she's hout o' work, and chimley-pot Liz she's fit to
break 'er hold 'art, 'cause she ain't able to earn enough now to pay the
rent of 'er room, an' the landlord, what's a lawyer, 'e is, says two
weeks' rent is overdue, and 'e'll turn 'er hout into the street
to-morrer if it's not paid."

"That's bad news, Tammy," said Laidlaw, thrusting both hands into his
pockets, and looking meditatively at the ground.  "But why doesna Sam
Blake, the waux--, I mean Susy's faither, lend them the siller?"

"'Cause he's gone to Liverpool for somethink or other about 'is wessel,
an' left no address, an' won't be back for two or three days, an' the
old ooman ain't got a friend on 'arth--leastwise not a rich 'un who can
'elp 'er."

"Hoots, laddie, ye're wrang!  _I_ can help her."

"Ah, but," said the boy, still in tones of disconsolation, "you don't
know chimley-pot Liz.  She's proud, she is, an' won't take nuffin from
strangers."

"Weel, weel, but I'm no'--a stranger, callant."

"I rather think you are!" replied the boy, with a knowing look.

"Ye may be richt.  Weel, I'll no' gi'e them the chance to refuse.
What's the name of the lawyer-body that's their landlord?"

"Lockhart.  John would be 'is Christian name if 'e _wos_ a Christian.
But a cove with a Christian name as is _not_ a Christian do seem an
absurdity--don't it?  They say 'e's about the greatest willian out o'
Newgate.  An' 'is office is somewhere near Chancery Lane."

"Weel, Christian or no Christian, I'll gi'e him a ca'," said David; "are
they up there enow?" he added, with a significant motion of his head
towards the garden on the roof.

"Yes, both of 'em--'owling.  I couldn't stand it, so came down 'ere to
veep alone."

"Weel, ye better stop where ye are, an' veep--as ye say--a wee while
langer.  I'll gang up to see them."

A minute more and David, tapping at the garret door, was bidden to enter
by a sweet voice which caused the slightest imaginable sensation in his
heart!  Susan was there alone--not 'owling, as Tommy had expressed it,
but with the traces of tears obviously about her eyes.  She blushed
deeply and looked a little confused as David entered, probably because
of being caught with the signs aforesaid on her cheeks.

"Guid-mornin', Miss Blake," said David earnestly, giving the girl a warm
shake of the hand.  "O lassie, but I am sorry to hear that ye're in
trouble!  I do assure ye that if a pund or twa would help yer granny--"

"'Sh, Mr Laidlaw!" said Susan, looking furtively round and speaking
low.  "Granny will hear!  You must not offer her money.  From father,
indeed, if he were here, she would accept it, but not from a--a
stranger."

"Am I, then, such a stranger?" asked David in a peculiar tone, for the
word sounded cold and disagreeable.

Again Susan blushed, yet felt a tendency to laugh, as she replied,
"Well, you know, although you _have_ helped me in trouble, it is not
_very_ long since we met.  But come and see granny; she's in the
garden--and, please, don't speak of our troubles."

"Weel, weel, please yersel', lassie," returned the Scot, almost sternly,
as he followed Susan into the garden on the roof, where old Liz sat in
her rustic chair resting her head on her hand, and looking sadly at the
sunlight, which flickered through the foliage on to the zinc floor.
Despite Susan's caution Laidlaw sat down beside the old woman and took
her hand.

"Noo, Mrs Morley," he said, "it's o' no use me tryin' to haud my tongue
whan I want to speak.  I'm a plain north-country man, an' I canna thole
to see a puir auld body in trouble withoot offerin' t' help her.  I've
been telt o' Susy's misfortin' an' aboot the rent, and if ye'll
accep'--"

"No, sir, no," said old Liz firmly, but without any look of that pride
with which she had been credited.  "I will not accept money from--"

"But I'm no' askin' ye," interrupted David, "to accep' money as a
_gift_--only as a loan, ye ken, withoot interest of course."

"Not even as a loan," said the old woman.  "Besides, young man, you must
not fancy that I am altogether penniless.  I 'appen to 'ave shares in an
American Railway, which my landlord advised me to buy with my small
savings.  No doubt, just at present the dividend on the shares of the
Washab and Roria Railway have fallen off terribly, but--"

"What railway?" asked Laidlaw quickly.

"The Washab and Roria.  Somewhere in the United States," said Liz.

"H'm!  I was readin' the papers yestreen," said David.  "Ye see, I'm
fond o' fishin' aboot odd corners o' the papers--the money market, an'
stocks, an' the like--an' I noticed that vera railway--owin' to its
daft-like name, nae doot--an' its deevidends are first-rate.  Ye could
sell oot enow at a high profit gin ye like."

"Indeed?  You must be mistaken, I think," replied the old woman, "for I
'ave 'ad almost nothink for a year or two.  You see, my landlord, who
takes charge of these matters for me--"

"That's Mr Lockhart the lawyer, ye mean?"

"Yes.  He says they're losing money now, and there was no dividend at
all last half-year."

"H'm! that _is_ strange," said David, stroking his chin, "uncommon--
strange!"

"D'you think Mr Lockhart has made a mistake, Mr Laidlaw?" asked Susan
hopefully.

"Ay, I think he _hes_ made a mistake.  But 'oo'll see.  An' noo, to
change the subjec', I'll tell 'ee aboot some o' the adventur's I had
last nicht."

From this point David Laidlaw entertained old Liz and Susy and Tommy
Splint, who had by that time joined them, with a graphic account of his
adventures in the slums, in the telling of which he kept his audience in
fits of laughter, yet spoke at times with such pathos that Susan was
almost moved to tears.

"Noo, I must away," he said at length, rising.  "I've got partikler
business in haund.  Come wi' me, Tammy.  I'll want 'ee, and I'll come
back sune to see ye, auld Liz.  Dinna ye tak' on aboot losin' yer place,
Su--, Miss Blake, lass.  Ye'll git a better place afore lang--tak' my
word for 't."

On the way down-stairs Laidlaw and his little companion passed a tall
gentleman and two ladies who were ascending.  Ere the foot of the stair
was reached, loud exclamations of recognition and joy were heard in the
regions above.

"I say!" exclaimed Tommy Splint, with wide-open eyes, "ain't they
a-goin' of it up there?  Let's go back an' listen."

"Na, ye wee rascal, we'll no' gang back.  If ye want to be freen's wi'
me ye'll no daur to putt yer lug to keyholes.  Come awa'.  It's nae
business o' yours or mine."

They had not gone far in the direction of Chancery Lane when, to their
surprise, they met Sam Blake, who had changed his mind about the visit
to Liverpool.  David at once seized him by the arm, and made him walk
with them, while he explained the circumstances in which his daughter
and old Liz had been so suddenly placed.

"Wouldn't it be better for me," said Sam, "to steer straight for the
garden than to go along with you?"

"Na--ye'll gang wi' me.  It's plain that they hae auld freen's veesitin'
them at the gairden, sae we'd better lat them alane.  Besides, I want ye
for a wutness; I'm no much o' a polis man, nevertheless I'm gaun to try
my haund at a bit o' detective business.  Just you come wi' me, and
niver say a word till ye're spoken to."

"Heave ahead then, skipper; you're in command," returned the sailor with
a quiet laugh.  It was echoed by little Tommy, who was hugely pleased
with the semi-mysterious looks and nods of his Scottish friend, and
regarded the turn affairs seemed to be taking as infinitely superior to
mere ordinary mischief.

Arrived at Chancery Lane, they soon discovered the office of John
Lockhart, Esquire, Solicitor.  Entering, they found the principal seated
at a table covered with papers and legal documents of all kinds.  Both
the lawyer and the farmer felt, but did not show, some surprise on
looking at each other.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

DARK DESIGNS.

The lawyer was first to speak.  "It strikes me I have seen you before,"
he said, looking at Laidlaw with a sharp steady gaze.

"Ay, sir, an' I've seen _you_ before," returned the latter with an
extremely simple look.  "I saw ye whan I was comin' oot o' the hoose o'
Mr Speevin, whar I'm lodgin'."

"Oh, exactly!" returned the lawyer with a bland smile; "pray be seated,
gentlemen, and let me know your business."

They obeyed,--Sam Blake with an expression of stolid stupidity on his
countenance, which was powerfully suggestive of a ship's figurehead--
Tommy with an air of meekness that was almost too perfect.

It would be tedious to detail the conversation that ensued.  Suffice it
to say that David said he was a Scotch farmer on a visit to London; that
he possessed a good lot of spare cash, for which, at the time being, he
got very small interest; that he did not understand business matters
very well, but what he wanted to know was, how he should go about
investing funds--in foreign railways, for instance, such as the Washab
and Roria line.

At this point he was interrupted by Mr Lockhart who asked what had put
that particular railway into his head, and was informed that the
newspapers had done so by showing it to be the line whose shares
produced very high dividends at that time.

"I'm richt I fancy?" said David.

"Yes, you are right, and I could easily put you in the way of investing
in that railway."

"Have the shares been lang at this high figure?" asked Laidlaw.

"Yes; they have improved steadily for several years back."

"What say ye to that freend?" demanded David, turning to Sam with a
triumphant look.

Sam turned on his friend a look as expressionless as that of a Dutch
clock, and said sententiously, "_I_ says, go in an' win."

"_I_ says ditto!" thought Tommy Splint, but he meekly and wisely held
his tongue.

Meanwhile the lawyer went into another room, from which, returning after
a short absence, he produced a bundle of Reports which fully bore out
his statement as to the flourishing condition of the Washab and Roria
Railway.

"Weel, I'll see aboot it," said David, after a few moments'
consideration, with knitted brows.  "In the meantime, sir, what have I
to pay to you for yer information?"

Mr Lockhart said he had nothing to pay, and hoped he would have the
pleasure of seeing him soon again.

"Noo, isn't _that_ a blagyird?" demanded Laidlaw, when they were again
in the street.

"No doubt he is," replied Sam; "but how will you manage to haul him up
and prove that he has been swindling the old woman?"

"Hoo can I tell?  Am I a lawyer?  But I'll fin' oot somehoo."

"Well, mate, while you are finding out," returned the sailor, "I'll go
to Cherub Court.  So, Tommy, will you go with Mr Laidlaw or with me?"

The boy looked first at one and then at the other with a curious
"how-happy-could-I-be-with-either" expression on his sharp countenance,
and then elected to accompany the sailor.  On the way he told Sam of the
"swell visitors" to the garret, whom Laidlaw had prevented him from
going back to see.

"Quite right he was, Tommy, my boy," said his friend.  "It is easy to
see that you have not profited as much as you might from the example and
teaching of my dear Susy an' chimney-pot Liz."

"Chimley-pot," murmured the boy, correcting him in a low tone.  "Vell,
you could 'ardly expect," he added, "that a child of my age should git
the profit all at once.  I suppose it's like a bad ease o' waxination--
it ha'n't took properly yet."

"Then we must have you re-vaccinated, my boy.  But tell me, what were
the swells like?"

The description of the swells occupied Tommy all the rest of the walk to
Cherub Court, where they found old Liz and Susan in a state of great
excitement about the visitors who had just left.

"Why, who d'ye think they was?" exclaimed the old woman, making the fang
wobble with a degree of vigour that bid fair to unship it altogether,
"it was my dear sweet little boy Jacky--"

"Little boy!  Granny!" cried Susan, with a merry laugh.

"Of course, child, I mean what he was and ever will be to me.  He's a
tall middle-aged gentleman now, an' with that nice wife that used to
visit us--an' their sweet daughter--just like what the mother was,
exceptin' those hideous curls tumblin' about her pretty brow as I detest
more than I can tell.  An' she's goin' to be married too, young as she
is, to a clergyman down in Devonshire, where the family was used to go
every summer (alongside o' their lawyer Mr Lockhart as they was so fond
of, though the son as has the business now ain't like his father); the
sweet child--dear, dear, how it do call up old times!"

"And didn't they," broke in Tommy, "never say a word about 'elpin' you,
granny, to git hout of your troubles?"

"'Ow could they offer to 'elp me," returned old Liz sternly, "w'en they
knew nothink about my troubles? an' I'm very glad they didn't, for it
would have spoiled their visit altogether if they'd begun it by offerin'
me assistance.  For shame, Tommy.  You're not yet cured o' greed, my
dear."

"Did I say I _was_?" replied the urchin, with a hurt look.

Lest the reader should entertain Tommy's idea, we may here mention that
Colonel Brentwood and his wife, knowing old Liz's character, had
purposely refrained from spoiling their first visit by referring to
money matters.

After a full and free discussion of the state of affairs--in which,
however, no reference was made to the recent visit to the lawyer, or to
the suspected foul play of that gentleman--the sailor went off to
overhaul Messrs. Stickle and Screw in the hope of inducing that firm to
retain Susy on its staff.  Failing which, he resolved to pay a visit to
Samson and Son.  As for Tommy, he went off in a free-and-easy sort of
way, without any definite designs, in search of adventures.

That evening old Liz filled her teapot, threw her apron over it, and
descended to the court to visit Mrs Rampy.

"Well, you _are_ a good creetur," said that masculine female, looking up
as her friend entered.  "Come away; sit down; I was wantin' some one to
cheer me up a bit, for I've just 'ad a scrimidge with Mrs Blathers, an'
it's bin 'ard work.  But she 'ave comed off second best, _I_ knows."

As a black eye, dishevelled hair, and a scratched nose constituted Mrs
Rampy's share in the "scrimidge," Mrs Blathers's condition could not
have been enviable.  But it was evident from Mrs Rampy's tone and
manner that a more powerful foe than Mrs Blathers had assaulted her
that afternoon.

"Ah, Mrs Rampy," said her visitor, pouring out a cup of tea with a
liberal allowance of sugar, "if you'd only give up that--"

"Now, old Liz," interrupted her friend impressively, "don't you go for
to preach me a sermon on drink.  It's all very well to preach religion.
That's nat'ral like, an' don't much signify.  You're welcome.  But,
wotiver you do, old Liz, keep off the drink."

"Well, that's just what I do," replied Liz promptly, as she handed her
friend a cup of hot tea, "and that's just what I was goin' to advise
_you_ to do.  Keep off the drink."

Feeling that she had slightly committed herself, Mrs Rampy gave a short
laugh and proceeded to drink with much gusto, and with a preliminary
"Here's luck!" from the force of habit.

"But what's the matter with you to-day, Liz?" she asked, setting her cup
down empty and looking, if not asking, for more; "you looks dull."

"Do I?  I shouldn't ought to, I'm sure, for there's more blessin's than
sorrows in _my_ cup," said Liz.

"Just you put another lump o' sugar in _my_ cup, anyhow," returned her
friend.  "I likes it sweet, Liz.  Thank 'ee.  But what 'as 'appened to
you?"

Old Liz explained her circumstances in a pitiful tone, yet without
making very much phrase about it, though she could not refrain from
expressing wonder that her railway dividends had dwindled down to
nothing.

"Now look 'ee here, chimley-pot Liz," cried Mrs Rampy in a fierce
voice, and bringing her clenched fist down on the table with a crash
that made the tea-cups dance.  "You ain't the only 'ooman as 'as got a
tea-pot."

She rose, took a masculine stride towards a cupboard, and returned with
a tea-pot of her own, which, though of the same quality as that of her
friend, and with a similarly broken spout, was much larger.  Taking off
the lid she emptied its contents in a heap--silver and copper with one
or two gold pieces intermixed--on the table.

"There!  Them's my savin's, an' you're welcome to what you need, Liz.
For as sure as you're alive and kickin', if you've got into the 'ands of
Skinflint Lockhart, 'e'll sell you up, garding an' all!  _I_ know 'im!
Ah--I know 'im.  So 'elp yourself, Liz."

Tears rose to the eyes of old Liz, and her heart swelled with joy, for
was there not given to her here unquestionable evidence of her success
in the application of loving-kindness?  Assuredly it was no small
triumph to have brought drunken, riotous, close-fisted, miserly, fierce
Mrs Rampy to pour her hard-won savings at her feet, for which on her
knees she thanked God that night fervently.  Meanwhile, however, she
said, with a grave shake of her head--

"Now, Mrs Rampy, that _is_ uncommon good of you, an' I would accept it
at once, but I really won't require it, for now that Susy's father 'as
returned, I can borrow it from him, an' sure he's better able to lend it
than you are.  Now, don't be angry, Mrs Rampy, but--'ave some more
tea?"

While she was speaking her friend shovelled the money back into the
teapot with violence, and replaced it in her cupboard with a bang.

"You won't git the hoffer twice," she said, sitting down again.  "Now,
Liz, let's 'ave another cup, an' don't spare the sugar."

"That I won't" said Liz, with a laugh, as she poured out her cheering
but not inebriating beverage.

On the second day after the tea-party just described, John Lockhart,
Esquire, and Mr Spivin met in a low public-house not far from Cherub
Court.  They drank sparingly and spoke in whispers.  It may seem strange
that two such men should choose a low tavern in such a neighbourhood for
confidential intercourse, but when we explain that both were landlords
of numerous half-decayed tenements there, the choice will not seem so
peculiar.  Lockhart frowned darkly at his companion.

"From what you have told me of his inquiries about me," he said, "this
man's suspicions had certainly been roused, and he would not have rested
until he had made undesirable discoveries.  It is lucky that you managed
to get the job so well done."

They put their heads together and whispered lower.  From time to time
Lockhart gave vent to a grim laugh, and Spivin displayed his feelings in
a too-amiable smile.



CHAPTER NINE.

THE PLOT THICKENS.

In his remarkably eager and somewhat eccentric pursuit of pleasure--that
pursuit which is so universal yet so diverse among men, to say nothing
about boys--Tommy Splint used to go about town like a jovial lion-cub
seeking whom he might terrify!

To do him justice, Tommy never had any settled intention of being
wicked.  His training at the hands of chimney-pot Liz and the gentle
Susy had so far affected his arab spirit that he had learned, on the
whole, to prefer what he styled upright to dishonourable mischief.  For
instance, he would not steal, but he had no objection to screen a thief
or laugh at his deeds.  His natural tenderness of heart prevented his
being cruel to dogs or cats, but it did not prevent his ruffling some of
the former into furious rage, and terrifying many of the latter into
cataleptic fits.

One afternoon, having roved about for some time without aim, sometimes
howling in at open doors and bolting, frequently heaping banter upon
good-natured policemen, occasionally asking of mild old ladies the way
to places he had never heard of, or demanding what o'clock it was of
people who did not possess watches, and whistling most of the time with
irritating intensity--our little hero at last came to the conclusion
that felicity was not to be obtained by such courses--not at least, at
that time.  He was out of sorts, somehow, so he would return to the
garden and comfort Susy and the old woman, i.e. find comfort to himself
in their society.  He went whistling along, therefore, until his steps
were suddenly and violently arrested.

To account for this we must tell how, about this time, it chanced that a
very drunk man of the very lowest London type, as far as appearance
went, awoke from a heavy slumber which he had been enjoying under the
seat of a compartment in a certain low gin-palace.  He was about to
stretch himself and give vent to a noisy yawn when the word "Laidlaw"
smote his ear.  Pale, worn-out, cadaverous, threadbare, inexpressibly
mean, the man gently raised his dissolute form on one elbow and listened
to two men in a box beside him.  Their heads met almost over the spot
where his own head rested.  The men were Lockhart and Spivin, and the
occasion was that on which we have already described them as engaged in
plotting, or referring to, the downfall of the man from Scotland.

Trumps (for he was the listener), though well practised in the art of
eavesdropping, could not gather the gist of the plotters' discourse.
Only this he made out, that, in some way or other, they meant to do, or
had done, mischief to the man who had spared and helped, and, above all,
had _trusted him_!  It was tantalising to hear so little, though so
near, for, from his position under the seat, he could have grasped Mr
Lockhart's ankles.  But the plotters were much too knowing to speak in
tones that could be easily overheard.  Besides, other noisy people were
arguing in the neighbouring and opposite compartments, so that the
confusion of tongues rendered them, they thought, safe.  Even the man
under the seat although so very near, would have failed to catch the
drift of a single sentence had not the name of Laidlaw sharpened his
ears and faculties.  One that he did catch, however, was suggestive,
viz., "put the 50 pound note in his bag," or something to that effect.

When the two friends rose to depart, Trumps sank noiselessly on the
ground like a filthy shadow, but the quick eye of the lawyer caught
sight of his leg.

Lockhart started, turned aside, and gave Trumps a kick in the ribs.  It
was a sharp painful kick, but drew from him only a heavy snore.  To make
quite sure the man of law administered another kick.  This caused the
recumbent man to growl forth a savage oath which terminated in a snore
so very natural that the lawyer fell into the trap, and went off with
the contemptuous remark--"Dead drunk!"

Trumps, however, was very much the reverse.  He was indeed all alive and
greatly sobered by his nap as well as by what he had heard.  He rose and
followed the plotters, but missed them in the crowd outside.  In his
anxiety to overtake them he ran somewhat violently against Tommy Splint,
and thus arrested him, as we have said, in the pursuit of pleasure.

"Hallo, Thunderbolt!" exclaimed the boy sternly, as he started back and
doubled his fists, "who let _you_ out o' Noogate?"

The thief was about to pass without deigning a reply, when, glancing at
the small questioner, he suddenly stopped and held out his hand.

"I say, Splint, is it _you_ I've run into?"

"Well, it's uncommon like me.  Any'ow, not a twin brother, I s'pose it
must be myself.  But I hain't got the pleasure o' _your_ acquaintance as
I knows on."

"What!  Don't you remember Trumps?"

"No, I don't remember Trumps, an', wot's more, I don't b'lieve from the
look of 'im that any of Trumps's family or friends wants to remember
'im."

The possibility that the boy might remember Trumps was not so unlikely
after all, for, being of a highly social disposition, Tommy was pretty
well acquainted with, and known to, nearly all the thieves and
pickpockets of the locality.  Indeed he would certainly have been one of
themselves but for garret-garden influences.

"Well, Tommy," said the thief confidentially, "I remember _you_, an' I
wants a little conversation with you."

"No, you don't" returned the boy, retreating; "you wants my wipe, or
puss, or ticker, you do--or suthin' o' that sort--but you've come to the
wrong shop, you have."

"But really, Tommy, I've got summat to say to 'ee about your noo friend
from Scotland, David Laidlaw."

"How d'ee know he's _my_ friend?" asked Tommy, becoming suddenly
interested.

"'Cause I've seen you jawin' with 'im; an' I've seen you go up together
to visit chimney-pot Liz an' Susy; an'--"

"Oh! you knows chimley-pot Liz an' Susy, do ye?  But of course you does.
Everybody as knows anythink knows _them_."

"Ay, lad, an' I knows lawyer Lockhart too," said Trumps, with a peculiar
look; "him that owns the 'ouses 'ereabouts, an' draws the rents--"

"_Draws_ the rents!" interrupted the boy, with a look of scorn;
"_screws_ the rents, you mean."

"Jus' so, boy--screws 'em.  Ah, 'e _is_ a thief, is lawyer Lockhart."

"Come, if that's so, you've no occasion to be 'ard on 'im, Trumps, for
you're in the same boat, you know."

"No, I ain't," replied Trumps, with virtuous indignation, "for 'e's a
_mean_ thief!"

"Oh, an' you're a 'ighminded one, I s'pose," returned the boy, with a
hearty chuckle; "but come along, young man.  If you've suthin' to tell
me about Da-a-a-vid Laidlaw I'm your man.  This way."

He led the man down the alley, across the court, round the corner, and
up the stair to the landing.

"There you are," he said, "this is my snuggery--my boodwar, so to speak.
Sot down, an' out with it."

Seated there, the thief, in low confidential and solemn tones, related
what he had seen and heard in the public-house, and told of his own
acquaintance with and interest in Laidlaw.

"The willains!" exclaimed Tommy.  "An' wot d'ee think they're agoin' to
do?"

"Screw 'im some'ow, an' git 'im out o' the way."

"But w'y?"

"That's wot I wants to ask _you_, lad.  I knows nothing more than I've
told 'ee."

"We must save Da-a-a-vid!" exclaimed Tommy in a tragic manner, clutching
his hair and glaring.

Tommy's sense of the ludicrous was too strong for him, even in the most
anxious times, and the notion of him and Trumps saving anybody
overwhelmed him for a moment; nevertheless, he really was excited by
what he had heard.

"Come--come with me," he cried, suddenly seizing Trumps by the sleeve of
his shabby coat and half dragging him up to the garret, where he found
old Liz and Susy in the garden on the roof.

"Allow me to introdooce a friend, granny.  'E ain't much to look at, but
never mind, 'e's a good 'un to go."

Old Liz and Susy had become too much accustomed to low life in its worst
phases to be much troubled by the appearance of their visitor, and when
he had explained the object of his visit they became deeply interested.

"You think, then," said Liz, after listening to the whole story, "that
lawyer Lockhart intends to hide a 50 pound note in Mr Laidlaw's
travelling bag, and say he stole it?"

"Yes, ma'am; that's what I think."

"And for what purpose?" asked Susy with some anxiety.

"To git him convicted an' sent to prison, miss," replied Trumps
promptly.  "I know lawyer Lockhart--we call 'im liar Lockhart in the--
well, ahem! an' as I was sayin', 'e's a villain as'll stick at nothing.
If 'e sets 'is 'art on gittin' Mr Laidlaw into prison 'e'll git 'im in;
for what purpus, of course, _I_ don't know."

After further discussion of the subject it was finally arranged that
Tommy Splint should go straight to the house of Mr Spivin, where the
Scotsman lodged, and reconnoitre.

"And be sure, Tommy," whispered Susan at the head of the stair when he
was about to leave, "that you find out all about this horrid plot.  We
_must_ save him.  He saved _me_, you know," she added, with a blush.

"Yes, we _must_ save 'im," said the boy in a tone of determination that
inspired confidence in the girl, even though it made her laugh.

Trumps accompanied Tommy part of the way, and told him that he knew some
ugly things about lawyer Lockhart that might get that gentleman into
difficulties if he could only prove them, but he couldn't quite see his
way to that, not being learned enough in the law.

"You see, Tommy--"

"Thomas, if you please," interrupted the urchin with dignity.  "My
hintimates calls me Tommy, but you ain't one o' _them_ yet, Mr Trumps.
You ain't even on my wisitin' list.  P'r'aps I may promote yer to that
some day, but--it depends.  Now, look 'ere, slimey-coat--if any one
larned in the law was inclined to pump you, could you be pumped?"

With a remarkably sly look Trumps replied, "Yes--for a consideration!"

"All right, young man.  Give me your card; or, if you hain't got one,
let me know w'ere you 'ang hout."

Having been satisfied on this point, Tommy told the thief that he had no
further use for him, and as he wished to cross London Bridge alone, he
(Trumps) was free to make himself scarce.



CHAPTER TEN.

DETECTIVE DOINGS.

For a considerable time the boy prowled about the house of Mr Spivin in
the hope of seeing David Laidlaw go out or in; but our Scot did not
appear.  At last a servant-girl came to the open door with a broom in
her hand to survey the aspect of things in general.  Tommy walked
smartly up to her, despite the stern gaze of a suspicious policeman on
the opposite side of the street.

"My sweet gal," he said affably touching his cap, "is Capting Laidlaw
within?"

"There's no _Captain_ Laidlaw here," answered the girl sharply; "there
_was_ a Daivid Laidlaw, but--"

"Da-a-a-vid, my dear, not Daivid.  The gen'l'm'n hisself told me, and
surely 'e knows 'ow to prenounce 'is own name best."

"You've a deal of cheek, boy--anyway, Laidlaw 'as bin took up, an' 'e's
now in prison."

The sudden look of consternation on the boy's face caused the girl to
laugh.

"D'ee know w'ere they've took 'im to?"

"No, I don't."

"But surely you don't b'lieve 'e's guilty?" said the boy, forgetting
even his humorous tendencies in his anxiety about his friend.

"No, I don't" said the girl, becoming suddenly earnest, "for Mary an' me
saw--"

"Martha-a-a!" shouted a female voice from the interior of the house at
that moment.

The girl ran in.  At the same time the suspicious policeman came up
with, "Now then, youngster, move on."

"Move off you mean, bobby.  Hain't you been to school yet, stoopid?"
cried the boy, applying his thumb to his nose and moving his fingers in
what he styled a thumbetrical manner as he ran away.

But poor Tommy Splint was in no jesting mood.  He had been impressed
with the idea from infancy--rightly or wrongly--that once in the
clutches of the law it was no easy matter to escape from them; and he
was now utterly incapable of deciding what his next step should be.  In
this difficulty he was about to return disconsolate to Cherub Court when
it occurred to him that it might be worth while to pay a visit to the
good ship _Seacow_, and obtain the opinion of Sam Blake.

Although it was broad day and the sun was glowing gloriously in an
unclouded sky, he found Sam down in a dark hole, which he styled his
bunk, fast asleep.

Sam did not move when Tommy shook and woke him.  He merely opened his
eyes quietly and said, "All right, my lad; what's up?"  After hearing
the boy's story to the end he merely said, "Mind your helm--clear out!"
flung off his blankets, and bounded to the floor like an acrobat.

Being already in his shirt, short drawers, and stockings, it did not
take quite a minute to don trousers, vest and coat.  Another minute
sufficed for the drawing on of boots, fastening a necktie, running a
broken comb through his front locks, and throwing on a glazed hat.  Two
minutes all told!  Men whose lives often depend on speed acquire a
wonderful power of calmly-rapid action.

"What d'ee say to it, Sam?" asked Tommy as they hurried along the
streets.

"Hold on! avast! belay!  I'm thinkin'!" said Sam.  The boy accordingly
held on, avasted, and belayed until his companion had thought it out.

"Yes, that's it," said the sailor at last.  "I'll go an' see Colonel--
Colonel--what's 'is name? old Liz's friend--Burntwood, is it, or--"

"Brentwood," said Tommy.

"That's it--Brentwood.  You don't know his address, do you?  No?  Never
mind; we'll go to Cherub Court an' get it, and then make sail for the
Colonel's.  I've no more notion which way to steer, lad, than the man in
the moon; but the Colonel will be sure to know how to lay our course,
an' he'll be willin', I've no doubt first for his own sake, seein' that
this Lockhart is his own lawyer; second, for old Liz's sake, seein' that
her affairs are involved in it; and third, for the sake of his country,
if he's a good and true man."

The sailor was not disappointed.  Colonel Brentwood did not indeed
himself know exactly how to act but he knew that the best thing to do in
the circumstances was to seek aid from those who did know.  He therefore
went straight to Scotland Yard--that celebrated centre of the London
Police Force--and put the matter before the authorities there.  A
detective, named Dean, was appointed to take the job in hand.

"John," observed Mrs Brentwood to her husband, prophetically, after an
interview with the detective at their own house, "you may depend upon it
that Mr Dean will discover that more things are amiss than this affair
of the Scotsman and dear old nurse."

"Possibly--indeed probably," returned the Colonel; "but what makes you
think so?"

"The fact that no thorough scoundrel ever yet confined himself to one or
two pieces of villainy."

"But Lockhart is not yet proved to be a thorough scoundrel.  You have
condemned the poor man, my dear, without trial, and on insufficient
evidence."

"Insufficient evidence!" echoed Dora indignantly.  "What more do you
want?  Has he not systematically robbed dear old Liz?  Are not the
Railway Share Lists and Reports open to inspection?"

"True, Dora, true.  Be not indignant.  I have admitted that you may be
right.  Our detective will soon find out.  He has the calm,
self-confident, penetrating look of a man who could, if possible, screw
something out of nothing."

Whether or not Mr Dean possessed the power ascribed to him is yet to be
seen.  We have not space to follow him through the whole of the
serpentine sinuosities of his investigations, but we will watch him at
one or two salient points of his course.

First of all he visited Tommy Splint, who, in the privacy of his
"boodwar" revealed to him, as he thought, every scrap of information
about the affair that he possessed.  To all of this Mr Dean listened in
perfect silence, patiently, and with a smile of universal benevolence.
He not only appreciated all the boy's commentaries and jests and
prophecies on the situation, but encouraged the full development of his
communicative disposition.  Tommy was charmed.  Never before had he met
with such an audience--except, perhaps, in Susy.

When the boy had fairly run himself out Mr Dean proceeded to pump and
squeeze, and the amount of relevant matter that he pumped and squeezed
out of him, in cross-questioning, was so great, that Tommy was lost in a
mixture of admiration and humility.  You see, up to that time he had
thought himself rather a knowing fellow; but Mr Dean managed to remove
the scales from his eyes.

"Now, my boy," said the detective, after having squeezed him quite flat,
and screwed the very last drop out of him, "you are quite sure, I
suppose, as to Mr Trumps's words--namely, that he knew Mrs Morley--
chimney-pot Liz, as you call her--"

"Parding.  I never called her that--chimley-pot is her name."

"Well, chimley-pot be it--and that he had formerly known Mr Lockhart
but did not say when or where he had first become acquainted with
either; yet Trumps's peculiar look and manner when speaking of the
lawyer led you to think he knew more about him than he chose to tell?"

"Right you air, sir.  That's 'ow it stands."

"Good; and in reference to the servant-girl--you are sure that she
became suddenly very earnest when she said she believed Laidlaw was not
guilty, and that she and some one named Mary had `seen something,' but
you don't know what, owing to a sudden interruption?"

"Right again, sir."

"Now, then," said Mr Dean, rising, "we will go up and see Mrs Morley."

They found the old woman alone, knitting in her rustic chair in her
floral bower on the roof.  Mr Dean sat down to have a chat and Tommy
seated himself on a stool to gaze and listen, for he was fascinated,
somehow, by the detective.

It was really interesting to observe the tact with which the man
approached his subject and the extreme patience with which he listened
to the somewhat garrulous old woman.

Being a Briton he began, of course, with the weather, but slid quickly
and naturally from that prolific subject to the garden, in connection
with which he displayed a considerable knowledge of horticulture--but
this rather in the way of question than of comment.  To slide from the
garden to the gardener was very easy as well as natural; and here Mr
Dean quite won the old woman's heart by his indirect praise of Susy's
manipulation of plants and soils.  To speak of Susy, without referring
to Susy's early history, would have been to show want of interest in a
very interesting subject.  Mr Dean did not err in this respect.  From
Susy's mother he naturally referred to the family in which she and old
Liz had been in service, and to the return of the only surviving member
of it to England.

All this was very interesting, no doubt, but it did not throw much light
into the mind of Mr Dean, until old Liz mentioned the fact that Mr
Lockhart, besides being solicitor to the Brentwoods, was also solicitor
to old Mr Weston, who had left his property to Colonel Brentwood.  She
also said that she feared, from what Mrs Brentwood had recently said to
her, there was some difficulty about the will, which was a pity, as the
only people she knew besides Mr Lockhart who knew anything about it
were a footman named Rogers and a butler named Sutherland, both of whom
had been witnesses to the will; but the footman had gone to the bad, and
the butler had gone she knew not where.

Then Mr Dean began to smell another rat, besides that which he was just
then in pursuit of, for the Colonel had incidentally mentioned to him
the circumstance of the estate passing away from him, owing to a new
will having been recently discovered.  Although the matter was not the
detective's present business, he made a mental note of it.

After quitting the garden, and promising soon to return, the detective
had an interview with Mr Trumps in the parlour of the thieves'
missionary.  Many a fallen and apparently lost man and woman had been
brought to the Saviour in that parlour by that missionary--the same whom
we have introduced to the reader in the thieves' den.  Through the
medium of Tommy Splint the interview was brought about, and no sooner
did Trumps ascertain the object that Dean had in view than he became
suddenly confidential.

"Now, look here," he said, when he found himself alone with Mr Dean, "I
knows more about them Brentwoods and Westons than you think for."

"No doubt you do; and I suppose you wish to sell your knowledge at the
highest possible figure," said Dean, with a very slight smile.

"You're wrong for once," returned Trumps.  "If you'd said that to me two
days ago, I'd 'ave said `yes;' but I've 'eard things in this blessed
room w'ich 'as made me change my mind.  You're welcome to all I knows
for nothing."

Mr Dean did not believe in sudden conversion, nevertheless he expressed
gratification.  Being what the Yankees call 'cute, he avoided anything
like eagerness in gaining information.

"My business here, however," he said, "is to get information about that
Scotsman, you know, and the charge of theft by Mr Lockhart.  We believe
Laidlaw to be innocent and, understanding that you think as we do, and
that you know something about him, we hope you may be able to help us."

From this point Mr Dean began to pump and squeeze, and Trumps proved
worthy of his name in the way he submitted to both processes.  At last,
when nothing more was to be got Mr Dean said, in a somewhat careless
way, "You are acquainted, I believe, with old Mrs Morley--chimney-pot
Liz, they call her--are you not?"

"Yes, I am.  I've known her long.  Knew her when I was footman in a
family connected with the Brentwoods."

"Oho!" thought Mr Dean with sudden surprise, for he began to smell more
of his second rat, but he looked stolid; said nothing; did not move a
muscle; merely nodded his head gently as if to say, go on.

"Now I know what you're driving at," continued Trumps, with a very
knowing wink, "an' I'll help you.  First place, my name ain't Trumps."

"I know that--it's Rodgers," said the detective.

"Whew! how d'ee know _that_?" exclaimed the thief in extreme surprise.

"We detectives know everything," said Dean.

"Oh! then there's no need for me to tell you anything more," returned
Trumps, _alias_ Rodgers, with a grin.

"Well, I don't know exactly everything," returned Dean; "but I do know--
at least I guess--that you were a footman in the service of Richard
Weston, Esquire, of Weston Hall, in Kent; that the butler's name was
Sutherland, and that you and he were witnesses to Mr Weston's will."

"Just so.  You're right."

"Now, are you aware," said Mr Dean, "that Colonel Brentwood has lost,
or is going to lose, his estate because a new will by Richard Weston has
been found, leaving it to another man?"

"No, I did not know that, but that clears up to me the mystery of the
will that I witnessed.  You must know that when we were witnessing the
will, Sutherland and me both noticed that it was eight pages of big
paper, and that it seemed to have two beginnings--one bein' in the
middle.  Master couldn't see well, an' was very weak at the time--so
weak that when he came to the last page the pen fell out of his hand and
only half of the last name was signed.  Mr Lockhart said that would do,
however, an' we witnessed it.  Master never completed the signature, for
he took to his bed that very day, and no one ever saw him put pen to
paper again.  Sutherland often spoke to me about that, and wondered if a
will with an imperfect signature would pass.  Hows'ever, it was none of
our business, so we forgot about it, and soon after Sutherland went to
stay with a family in Pimlico as butler, where I think he is now.  As
for me--"

"Yes, I know," said Dean significantly; "you need not recall that just
now.  Can you give me the name and address of the family in Pimlico?"

"Good; now then," said Mr Dean after booking his information, "I'll
want to see you again, so don't get yourself into scrapes, and keep your
tongue quiet.  Your missionary will help you, I have no doubt.
Meanwhile, I will go and pay a visit to a certain Martha who lives on
the other side of the river."



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

PUMPING AND SQUEEZING--THE GARRET CLASS, ETCETERA.

When Mr Dean succeeded, with some difficulty, in obtaining a private
interview with Mr Spivin's servant Martha, he proceeded with much
politeness and subtlety to pump and squeeze her.

And it may be remarked here that Mr Dean had what Martha afterwards
styled "a way with him" that was quite irresistible, insomuch that she
was led, somehow, to speak of things she never meant to mention, and to
reveal things she never intended to confess.

"You see, sir," she said, "it's the dooty of me an' Mary to do the
bedrooms w'en the family's at breakfast.  Well, that morning we went as
usual to Mr Laidlaw's room first, because 'e's quick with 'is meals an'
wants 'is boots put in 'is room so as he may get out immediately.  Mr
Laidlaw 'as no luggage, sir, only a shoulder-bag, an' it was lyin' open
on the table, so me an' Mary looked into it just to--to--"

"To see that nothing had tumbled out," suggested Mr Dean.  "I
understand."

"Just so, sir," assented Martha; "and there was nothink in it but a
spare shirt rolled up, and a pair of socks, and a small Bible--no money
or watch or anythink that would break even if it did tumble out,--'is
shavin' things and all that being on the dressin'-table--so--"

"So your mind was relieved, Martha--well, go on."

"But as we was agoin' to close the bag," continued the girl, "we
observed an inner pocket, an' Mary says, p'raps there was a love-letter
in it!  I laughed an' said, `Let's look an' see.'  So we looked an' saw
nothink."

"You both looked and were quite sure of that?" asked Mr Dean.

"Yes, quite sure, for we both felt the pocket all round as well as
looked into it."

"Well, go on."

"Then we shut the bag, and after we had finished the room, we was just
goin' out, when master he ran up-stairs as if he was in a hurry.  He
came into the room with a bit of paper in 'is 'and, somethink like a
bank note, but he started on seein' us, an' crumpled up the paper an'
stuffed it in 'is pocket.  At the same time 'e got very angry, scolded
us for being so slow, and ordered us off to the other rooms.  Not ten
minutes after that in comes Mr Lockhart, the lawyer, with two
policemen, an' seizes Mr Laidlaw, who was still at 'is breakfast.  At
first he got very angry an' shoved one policemen over the sofa and the
other into the coal-scuttle, at the same time sayin' in a growly voice,
`I think--'ee've--aw--geen--mad--thee--gither'--oh, I can't speak
Scotch!" exclaimed Martha, bursting into a laugh.

"Better not try, my dear," said Dean, with a peculiar smile.

"Well, then," continued Martha, on recovering herself, "when the
policemen got up again Mr Laidlaw said he had no intention of running
away (only 'e said rinnin' awa'), and that he would go with them quietly
if they'd only be civil ('e called it seevil!), and assured them they
had made a mistake.  They _was_ more civil after that, for Mr Laidlaw
'ad doubled 'is fists an' looked, oh my! like a Bengal tiger robbed of
its young ones.  So they all went straight to the bedroom, and me an'
Mary followed with master and missis and the waiters, an' they searched
all round the room, coming to the bag last though it was the only thing
on the table, and right under their noses, an sure enough they found a
50 pound note there in the little pocket!"

"And what said the Scotsman to that?" asked Mr Dean, with a slight
grin.

"He said, turning to master, `It was you did that--'ee--blagyird!'"
cried Martha, again bursting into laughter at her Scotch.  "And then,"
continued Martha, "one of the policemen said 'e 'ad seen Mr Laidlaw not
long ago in company with a well-known thief, and the other one swore 'e
'ad seen 'im the same night in a thieves' den, and that 'e was
hevidently on a friendly footin' wi' them for 'e 'ad refused to quit the
place, and was hinsolent.  At this lawyer Lockhart shook 'is 'ead and
said 'e thought it was a bad case, an' the poor Scotsman seemed so took
aback that 'e said nothink--only stared from one to another, and went
off quietly to prison."

After investigating the matter a little further, and obtaining, through
Martha, a private interview with Mary, who corroborated all that her
fellow-servant had said, Mr Dean went straight to Pimlico, and
interviewed the butler who had been in the service of the Weston family.
Thereafter he visited Colonel Brentwood, and, in the presence of his
wife and daughter discussed the whole affair from beginning to end.  We
will spare the reader that discussion, and turn towards Newgate.

On the evening of that day poor David Laidlaw found himself in durance
vile, with massive masonry around him, and a very Vesuvius of
indignation within him.  Fortunately, in the afternoon of the following
day, which chanced to be Sunday, a safety valve--a sort of crater--was
allowed to him in the shape of pen, ink, and paper.  Using these
materials, he employed his enforced leisure in writing to that
receptacle of his early and later joys and woes--his mother.

"Whar d'ye think I've gotten t' noo, mither?" the letter began.  "I'm in
Newgate!  It's an auld gate noo-a-days, an' a bad gate onyway, for it's
a prison.  Think o' that!  If onybody had said I wad be in jail maist as
soon as I got to Bawbylon I wad have said he was leein'!  But here I am,
hard an' fast, high and dry--uncom'on dry!--wi' naething but stane
aroond me--stane wa's, stane ceilin', stane floor; my very hairt seems
turned to stane.  Losh, woman, it bates a'!

"It's no maner o' use gaun into the hale story.  A buik wad scarce ha'd
it a'.  The details'll keep till you an' I meet again on the braes o'
Yarrow--if we iver meet there, which is by no means sure, for thae
Englishers'll be the death o' me afore I git hame, if they gang on as
they've begood.  Here's the ootline:--

"I've been thick wi' thieves, burglars, pickpockets, an' the like.
Veesitin' at their dens, an' gaun aboot the streets wi' them, an' I've
stolen a fifty-pun' note, an' it's been fund i' the pouch inside my bag.
That's the warst o't; but it seems that I've also resistet the poliss
in the dischairge o' their duty, which means that I flang ane ower a
sofa an' stappit anither into a coal-scuttle--though I didna mean it,
puir falla, for his breeks suffered in the way that ye've aften seen
mine whan I was a wee laddie.  But I was roused to that extent whan they
first gruppit me that I couldna help it!

"I wadna mind it muckle if it wasna that I've no a freend to help me--

"I was interruptit to receive a veesiter--an' a rebuik at the same time,
for he turned oot to be a freend, though a stranger, a Colonel Brentwud,
wha's been cheetit by that blagyird lawyer that's tryin' to play the
mischief wi' _me_.  But he'll fin' that I'm teuch!  The Colonel says
they'll hae nae diffeeculty in clearin' me, so let that comfort ye,
mither.--Yer ill-doin' son, DAVID.

"P.S.--There's a wee laddie I've faw'n in wi' since I cam' to Bawbylon,
they ca' him Tammy Splint.  O woman, but he _is_ a queer bairn.  He's
jist been to see me i' my cell, an' the moment he cam' in, though he was
half greetin', he lookit roond an' said, `_Isn't_ this a sell!'  Eh, but
he _is_ auld-farrant! wi' mair gumption than mony full-grown men, to say
naething o' women."

But David Laidlaw had more friends in London than he was aware of.  At
the very time that he was penning the foregoing epistle to his mother, a
number of disreputable-looking men were bewailing his fate and
discussing his affairs in the thieves' den, and two equally disreputable
women were quarrelling over the same subject in a wretched dwelling in
the presence of a third woman, who presided over a teapot.

One of the women, whose visage exhibited marks of recent violence,
struck her fist on the table and exclaimed, "No, Mrs Rampy, you are
wrong, as usual.  The story I 'eard about 'im was quite different an' I
believes it too, for them Scotsmen are a rough lot--no better than they
_should_ be."

"Mrs Blathers," remarked Mrs Rampy, in a soft sarcastic tone which she
was wont to assume when stung to the quick, and which her friend knew
from experience was the prelude to a burst of passion, "I may be wrong
_as usual_, but as you have never seen or conwersed with this Scotsman,
an' don't know nothink about 'im, _perhaps_ you will condescend to give
me an' Liz the kreckt wershion."

"Now, Mrs Rampy," interposed old Liz, grasping her teapot, "don't be
angry, for Mrs Blathers _is_ right.  Scotsmen _are_ no better than they
_should_ be.  Neither are English nor Irish nor Welshmen.  In fact,
there's none of us--men or women--nearly as good as we should be.  Now,
I am sure it won't be denied," continued Liz, in an argumentative tone,
"that Mrs Blathers _might_ be better--"

"Ha!  _I_ won't deny it," said Mrs Rampy, with emphasis.

"Nor," continued Liz, hastening to equalise her illustration, "nor that
Mrs Rampy might be better--"

"Right you are," said Mrs Blathers, with sarcasm.  "And I'm still
surer," said Liz hurriedly--a little put out at the ready reception of
her propositions--"that _I_ might be better--"

"Not at all," interrupted both ladies at once; "you're a trump, Liz,
you're a dear creetur!"

"Come, then," cried old Liz, with a laugh that set the fang wobbling,
"you are at all events agreed upon _that_ point so--have another cup,
Mrs Rampy."

"Thankee, Liz, and _plenty_ of sugar."

"H'm! you need it!" muttered Mrs Blathers; "no sugar at all for _me_,
Liz."

"Well, now," cried Liz, rendered bold by desperation, "I do wonder that
two such strong, warm-hearted women as you should so often fall out.
Each of you loves _some_ one--don't I know!--with powerful affection,
so, why couldn't you love each other?"

This tribute to their feelings so tickled the women that they set down
their tea-cups and laughed prodigiously.

"Now, do,--there's a couple of dears!--shake hands over your tea, an'
let's have a pleasant talk," said old Liz, following up her advantage.

The mollified women did not shake hands, but each raised her tea-cup to
her lips and winked.

"Your 'ealth, Blathers."

"Same to you, Rampy."

"And now, Liz," said the latter, as she pushed in her cup for more,
"let's 'ear all about it."

"Yes," said Mrs Blathers also pushing in her cup, "let's 'ave _your_
wersion, Liz."

While Liz gives her version of Laidlaw's misfortunes we will return to
the garden, where, being Sunday afternoon, Susy Blake was busy with a
small class of the most disreputable little ragged boys that the
neighbourhood produced.

The boys were emphatically bad boys.  They feared neither God nor man.
The property of other people was their chief source of livelihood, and
the streets, or the jails, were their homes.  Nevertheless, when in the
garden class, those boys were patterns of good behaviour, because each
boy knew that if he did not behave and keep quiet he would infallibly be
dismissed from the class, and this was a punishment which none of them
could endure.  Unlike many other teachers, Susy had not to go about
enticing boys to her Sabbath class.  Her chief difficulty was to prevent
them coming in such numbers as would have overflowed the garden
altogether.

And the secret of this was that Susy Blake possessed much of an
unconscious influence called loving-kindness.  No weapon of the
spiritual armoury is equal to this.  In the hands of a man it is
tremendous.  In those of a pretty girl it is irresistible.  By means of
it she brought the fiercest little arabs of the slums to listen to the
story of Jesus and His love.  She afterwards asked God, the Holy Spirit,
to water the good seed sown, and the result was success.

But loving-kindness was not her only weapon.  She had in addition quite
a glittering little armoury in which were such weapons as play of fancy,
lively imagination, fervent enthusiasm, resolute purpose, fund of
anecdote, sparkling humour, intense earnestness, and the like, all of
which she kept flashing around the heads of her devoted worshippers
until they were almost beside themselves with astonishment, repentance,
and good resolves.  Of course, when away from her influence the
astonishment was apt to diminish, the repentance to cease, and the good
resolves to vanish away; but resolute purpose had kept Susy at them
until in the course of time there was a perceptible improvement in the
environment of Cherub Court, and a percentage of souls rescued from the
ranks of the ragamuffins.

On this particular Sunday Tommy Splint, who was a regular attendant at
the garden class, arrived late.

"Why, Tommy," said the teacher, turning herself from a little boy on
whom she had been trying specially to impress some grand eternal truth,
"this is not like you.  Has anything happened to detain you?"

"No, Susy," answered the boy, slipping into his place--with a compound
expression in which the spirit of fun, whom no one doubted, gave the lie
to the spirit of penitence, in whom no one believed--"but I've bin to a
sort o' Sunday class a'ready."

"Indeed, where have you been?"

"At Mrs Rampy's, w'ere I see'd a most hedifyin' spectacle--granny
tryin' to bring Mrs Rampy an' Mrs Blathers to a 'eavenly state of mind
over a cup of tea, an' them both resistin' of 'er like one o'clock!"

"Ah! my boy," said Susy, shaking her head and a finger at the urchin,
"you've been eavesdropping again!"

"No, indeed, Susy, I ha'n't," returned the boy quite earnestly, "not
since the time you nabbed me with my ear to the key-'ole of quarrelsome
Tim's door.  I was a-sittin' at Mrs Rampy's open door quite openly
like--though not quite in sight, I dessay--an' they was pitchin' into
each other quite openly too, an' granny a-tryin' to pour ile on the
troubled waters!  It was as good as a play.  But w'en Mrs Rampy takes
up her cup to drink the 'ealth of Mrs B an' says, with _sitch_ a look,
`Your 'ealth, Blathers,' I could 'old on no longer.  I split and bolted!
That's wot brought me 'ere a little sooner than I might 'ave bin."

There was a tendency to laugh at this explanation, which Susy did not
check, but after a few moments she held up a finger, which produced
instant silence, while she drew a letter from her pocket.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you to-day, Tommy," she said, handing him the
letter, "but I must send you with this to my father.  Mr Brentwood
called with it not half an hour since, saying it was of importance to
have it delivered soon, as it was connected with the case of Mr
Laidlaw.  So be off with it as fast as you can.  You know where to find
father--on board the _Seacow_."

Tommy Splint was indeed disappointed at having to leave the garden class
thus abruptly.  He consoled himself, however, with the reflection that
he was perhaps doing important service to his friend Da-a-a-vid Laidlaw.
He further consoled himself, on reaching the court below, by uttering a
shriek which sent a cat that chanced to be reposing there in rampant
alarm into the depths of a convenient cellar.  Thereafter he went into a
contemplative frame of mind to the docks, and found Sam Blake as usual
in his bunk.

"I say, Sam, d'ee spend all yer time--night and day--in yer bunk?"

"Not exactly, lad," answered the seaman, with a smile, but without
showing any intention to rise.  "You see we sea-dogs have a hard time of
it.  What with bein' liable to be routed out at all hours, an' expected
to work at any hour, we git into a way of making a grab at sleep when an
where we gits the chance.  I'm makin' up lee-way just now.  Bin to
church in the forenoon though.  I ain't a heathen, Tommy."

"You looks uncommon like one, anyhow--with your 'air an' 'ead an' beard
an' blankits mixed up together all of a mush.  There's a letter for 'ee,
old man."

Without a word the sailor took the epistle, read it slowly, while the
boy watched him keenly, then thrust it under his pillow.

"You ain't agoin' to clear for action at once, then?" said the boy.

"No, not just yet."

"Any message for me?" asked Tommy.

"None wotsomedever."

Seeing that his friend did not intend to be communicative the boy wisely
changed the subject.

"Now, Sam, about them pirits.  W'ere was it they fust got 'old of you?"

"Down somewheres among the Philippine Islands," replied Sam, drawing the
blankets more comfortably round him, "but to tell you the truth, lad,
after they'd taken our ship an' made every man o' the crew walk the
plank except me an' the skipper, they putt us in the hold, tied up hand
an' futt so as we could scarce move.  Why they spared us was a puzzle to
me at the time, but I afterwards found out it was because somehow they'd
got it into their heads that the skipper an' mate of our ship knew
somethin' about where some treasure that they were after had been
buried.  Hand me that there pipe, Tommy--not the noo one; the short
black fellow wi' the Turk's head on the bowl.  Thankee."

"An' _did_ you know about the treasure?" asked Tommy, handing the pipe
in question.

"Bless you, no," returned the seaman, proceeding to render the confined
air of the bunk still more unbearable; "we know'd of no treasure.  If we
had we'd have bin arter it ourselves, double quick.  As it was, they
burnt us wi' hot irons an' tortered us in various ways to make us
confess, but we had nothin' to confess, so had to grin an' bear it--
sometimes to yell an' bear it!  You see, lad, they mistook me for the
mate, so that's how I came to escape.  He was a fine man was that mate,"
continued the seaman in a lower tone, "a strong, handsome, kind young
officer, an' a great favourite.  I've often wondered why he was taken
an' me spared."

"P'raps it was for Susy's sake!" suggested Tommy.

Sam looked at the boy--a quick half-surprised glance.  "Not a bad notion
that, my lad.  I shouldn't wonder if it _was_ for Susy's sake.  I never
thought o' that before.  Anyhow I comfort myself sometimes when I think
o' the poor mate that he was saved a deal o' torterin'; which, let me
tell you, ain't easy to bear."

"But go a'ead, Sam, with more about the pirits," said Tommy.

"No, lad, no--not just now.  I wants to snooze.  So--you clap on all
sail an' you'll be in time yet for the tail end o' Susy's lesson."



CHAPTER TWELVE.

THROUGH FIRE AND SMOKE TO FELICITY.

Free once more, David Laidlaw naturally directed his steps towards
Cherub Court.

His freedom was the result of Mr Dean's labours, for with the
information which he had ferreted out that sedate individual found no
difficulty in proving the innocence of our Scotsman, and the guilt, in
more matters than one, of Mr John Lockhart.  The latter was, however,
too wide-awake for our detective, for when a warrant was obtained for
his apprehension, and Mr Dean went to effect the capture, it was found
that the bird had flown with a considerable amount of clients' property
under his wing!

Although Laidlaw's period of incarceration had been unusually brief, it
had afforded ample time for meditation.  David's powers of meditation
were strong--his powers of action even stronger.  While in his cell he
had opened his little Bible--the only book allowed him--and turned to
the passage which states that, "it is not good that man should be
alone."  Then he turned to that which asserts that, "a good wife is from
the Lord," after which he sat on his bench a long time with his eyes
closed--it might be in meditation, perhaps in prayer.  The only words
that escaped him, however, were in a murmur.

"Ay, mither, ye're right.  Ye've been right iver since _I_ kent ye.  But
ye'll be sair putt aboot, woman, whan ye hear that she's a waux doll!
Doll, indeed! angel wad be mair like the truth.  But haud ye there,
David, ye've no gotten her yet."

With some such thoughts in his brain, and a fixed resolve in his heart,
he presented himself in the garden on the roof, where he found old Liz,
Susy, and Sam Blake assembled.  They all seemed as if oppressed by some
disappointment, but their looks changed instantly on the entrance of the
visitor.  Susy, especially, sprang up with a bright smile, but observing
the readiness and the look with which Laidlaw advanced to meet her, she
checked herself, blushed, and looked as well as felt confused.

"My poor little girl is greatly put about" said Sam Blake in
explanation, "because she's just heard from Samson and Son that they've
too many hands already, an' don't want her."

"Don't _want_ her?" exclaimed the Scot; "they're born eediots!"

The emphasis with which this was said caused Susy to laugh, and to
discover that her skirt had been caught by a nail in one of the
flower-boxes.  At the same time a vague suspicion for the first time
entered the head of old Liz, causing her to wobble the fang with vigour
and look at Laidlaw with some anxiety.

At this critical moment feet were heard clattering and stumbling up the
stair as if in tremendous haste.  Next moment Tommy burst upon their
vision in a full suit of superfine blue with brass buttons!

"Tommy!" exclaimed Susy in amazement.

"No, madam--no.  Tummas, if _you_ please," said the boy with dignity,
though almost bursting with suppressed excitement.  "I'm man-servant to
Colonel John Brentwood, Esquire, M.P., F.R.Z.Q.T., Feller of the Royal
Society--an' good society, an' every other society.  Salary not yet
fixed; lodgin', washin', an' wittles found.  Parkisites warious."

"But why didn't you tell us of this before?" asked Liz, patting the
urchin's head and smiling benignantly.

"'Cause I wanted to screw you up vith surprise, an' I've done it too!
But I've on'y jest entered on my dooties, and 'ave bin sent immedingtly
with a message that you an Susy are expected to pay us a wisit, which is
now doo, an' Mr Da-a-a-vid Laidlaw is to go there right away--vithout
delay--as we say in the poetical vest end."

"And when are Susy and I expected?" asked Liz.

"To-morrer."

"But what _are_ you, Tommy?  What are you engaged to do?" asked Susy.

"Play wi' the knives, amoose myself wi' the boots and shoes of a
mornin', entertain wisitors at the door with brief conversations, take
occasional strolls with messages, be a sorter companion to Miss Rosa,
wots to be married in a veek or two, and, ginerally, to enjoy myself.
I'm a tiger, I is, but I don't growl--oh no!  I only purr.  My name is
Tummas, an' my 'ome is marble 'alls!"

Our Scotsman went off without delay in response to the message, and was
thus prevented from carrying out his "fixed resolve" just then.
However, he wouldn't give in, not he! he would soon find a more
convenient opportunity.

Meanwhile Tommy Splint having particularly requested and obtained leave
to spend the night--his last night before going to service--with his
"granny," he and Sam set to work in the garden to rig up temporary
sleeping arrangements _a la_ Robinson Crusoe, for it was arranged that
they should have a grand supper in the garret in honour of the rescue of
Laidlaw--the returned convict, _alias_ ticket-of-leave man, as Tommy
called him--and that the males of the party should thereafter sleep in
the garden.

Need we say that the supper-party was jovial?  We think not.  The
"ticket-of-leave man" and the "tiger" were inimitable in their own
lines, and Sam came out so strong on the "pirits" of the Philippine
Islands that the tiger even declared himself to be satiated with blood!
As for Susy--she would have been an amply sufficient audience for each
of the party, had all the others been away, and the fang of old Liz
became riotously demonstrative, though she herself remained silent
gazing from one face to another with her glittering black eyes.

Finally the ladies retired to rest in the garret, and the gentlemen went
to sleep in the garden.

Ah! how very old, yet ever new, is the word that man "knows not what an
hour may bring forth!"  Forces unseen, unthought of, are ever at work
around us, from the effects of which, it may be, human strength is
powerless to deliver.

That night, late--or rather, about the early hours of morning--a spark,
which earlier in the night had fallen from the pipe of a drunkard in the
public-house below, began to work its deadly way through the boarding of
the floor.  For a long time there was little smoke and no flame.
Gradually, however, the spark grew to a burning mass, which created the
draught of air that fanned it.

It chanced that night that, under the influence of some irresistible
impulse or antagonistic affinity like a musical discord, Mrs Rampy and
Mrs Blathers were discussing their friends and neighbours in the abode
of the former, without the softening influence of the teapot and old
Liz.

"I smells a smell!" exclaimed Mrs Rampy, sniffing.

"Wery likely," remarked Mrs Blathers; "your 'ouse ain't over-clean."

But the insinuation was lost on Mrs Rampy, who was naturally keen of
scent.  She rose, ran to the window, opened it, thrust out her
dishevelled head, and exclaimed "_Fire_!"

"No, it ain't," said her friend; "it's on'y smoke."

Unfortunately the two women wondered for a few precious minutes and ran
out to the court, into which, from a back window of the public-house,
smoke was slowly streaming.  Just then a slight glimmer was seen in the
same window.

"Fire! fire!" yelled Mrs Rampy, now thoroughly alarmed.

"Smoke! smo-o-o-oke!" shrieked Mrs Blathers.  The two women were gifted
with eminently persuasive lungs.  All the surrounding courts and streets
were roused in a few minutes, and poured into the lanes and alleys which
led to Cherub Court.

That extremely vigilant body, the London Fire Brigade, had their nearest
engines out in two minutes.  Many of the more distant men were roused by
telegraph.  Though in bed, partially clad and asleep, at one moment, the
next moment they were leaping into boots and pantaloons which stood
agape for them.  Brass-helmeted, and like comets with a stream of fire
behind them, they were flying to the rescue five minutes after the yell
and shriek of "Fi-i-ire!" and "Smo-o-o-oke!"

Owing to the great elevation of the garden, and its being surrounded by
stacks of chimneys, it was some minutes before the sleepers there were
aroused.  Then, like giants refreshed, David and Sam leapt from their
bunks, and, like Jack-in-the-box, Tommy Splint shot from his kennel.
There was no occasion to dress.  In the circumstances the three had
turned in, as Sam expressed it, "all standing."

They rushed at the door of the garret, but it was bolted on the inside.
Susy, who had been awake, had heard the alarm and drawn the bolt so as
to give time for hastily throwing on a few garments.  The men thundered
violently and tried to force the door, but the door was strong, and an
instinctive feeling of delicacy restrained them for a few seconds from
bursting it open.

"Susy!  Susy!" roared the father; "open!  Quick!  Fire!"

"One moment, father.  I'm dressing granny, and--"

A loud shriek terminated the sentence, for the flames, gathering headway
with wild rapidity, had burst-up some part of the liquor den at the
basement and went roaring up the staircase, sending dense clouds of
smoke in advance.

This was enough.  Laidlaw threw his heavy bulk against the door, burst
lock and hinge, and sent it flat on the garret floor.  Blinding smoke
met and almost choked him as he fell, and Sam, tumbling over him, caught
up the first person his hands touched and bore her out.  It was old
Liz--half dressed, and wrapped in a blanket!  Susy, also half dressed,
and with a shawl wrapped round her shoulders, was carried out by
Laidlaw.  Both were unhurt, though half stifled by smoke, and greatly
alarmed.

"Ye ken the hoose, Tammy; hoo shall we gang?"

"There's _no_ way to escape!" cried the poor boy, with a distracted
look.

One glance at the staircase convinced Laidlaw that escape in that
direction was impossible.  Plunging into the garret again he seized the
door and jammed it into its place, thus stopping the gush of black
smoke, and giving them a few minutes breathing space.

"Is there a rope in the garret?" asked Sam eagerly.

"No--nothink o' the kind," gasped Tommy.

"No sheets,--blankets?" asked the Scot.

"Only two or three," replied Susan, who supported Liz in the rustic
chair.  "They're much worn, and not enough to reach _near_ the ground."

It was no time for useless talk.  The two men said no more, but sprang
on the parapet outside the garden, to find, if possible, a way of escape
by the roofs of the neighbouring houses.  The sight they beheld was
sufficiently appalling.  The fire which raged below them cast a noonday
glare over the wilderness of chimney-stacks around, revealing the awful
nature of their position, and, in one direction, thousands of upturned
faces.  The men were observed as they ran along the parapet, and a deep
hoarse cry from the sympathetic multitude rose for a few moments above
the roaring of the flames.

On two sides the walls of the building went sheer down, sixty feet or
more, without a break, into a yard which bristled with broken wood and
old lumber.  Evidently death faced them in that direction.  The third
side was the gable-end of the garret.  On the fourth side there was a
descent of twelve feet or so on to the roof of the next block, which
happened to be lower--but that block was already in flames.

"There is our chief hope," said the sailor, pointing to it.

"Nay," responded Laidlaw in a low voice, pointing upwards--"oor main
hope is _there_!  I thocht they had fire-escapes here," he added,
turning to Tommy, who had joined them.

"So they 'ave, but no escape can be got down the yards 'ere.  The
halleys is too narrer."

"Come, I'll git a blankit to lower Susan and auld Liz," said Laidlaw,
hastening back to the garden, where the trembling women awaited the
result of their inspection.

While the Scotsman removed the door and dashed once again into the
smoke-filled garret, the sailor hurriedly explained to the women what
they were going to attempt, and impressed upon them the necessity of
submitting entirely to whatever was required of them, "which will be,"
he said, "chiefly to shut your eyes an' keep quiet."

Laidlaw quickly returned with a couple of sheets and a blanket.  Sam
knotted the sheets together in sailor-like fashion, while his friend
made a secure bundle of old Liz with the blanket.  Sam was lowered first
to the roof of the tenement which we have said was already on fire, and
stood ready to receive Liz.  She was safely let down and the sheet-rope
was detached.

"We'll no mak' a bundle o' _you_," said David, turning to Susy; "jist
putt it roond yer waist."

When she was safely lowered, Tommy was grasped by an arm and let down
till his feet rested on Sam's head, whence he easily leaped to the roof,
and then David let himself drop.  To reach a place of temporary safety
they had now to walk on the top of a partition of old brick, about eight
inches wide, a fall from which, on one side, meant death, on the other
side, broken bones at the least.  They knew that a loose brick or a
false step might be fatal, but there was no alternative.

Sam turned to his daughter: "Ye could never cross that, Susy?" he said.

Although no coward, the poor girl shrank from the giddy ledge, which was
rendered more dangerous and terrible by being now surrounded by
occasional puffs of smoke and clouds of steam from the water of a dozen
hydrants which by that time were playing into the raging flames.  To add
to the horrors of the situation, beams and masses of masonry were heard
occasionally crashing in the interior of the building.

Sam advanced to take Susy in his arms, but Laidlaw stepped between them.

"Leave her t' me," he said; "the auld woman's lichter, an' ye're no sae
strong as me."

Saying which, he lifted the girl in his left arm as if she had been but
a little child, and mounted the parapet keeping his right arm free to
balance himself or cling to anything if need be.  Sam, who was quite
equal to the emergency, took old Liz into his arms and followed, but
cast one glance back at Tommy.

"Never mind me, Sam," cried the boy, who, having got over his first
panic, rose heroically to the occasion.

The crowd below saw what they were attempting, and gave them a cheer of
encouragement, yet with bated breath, as if they dreaded the issue.

A few seconds and they were past that danger, but still stood on the
burning house at another part of the roof.  Here, being suddenly
drenched by spray from one of the engines, Sam and Tommy made for the
shelter of a chimney-stack.  As there was not room behind it for more,
Laidlaw carried his light burden to another stack, and looked hastily
round to see what next could be done.  Just at that moment there was a
wild cheer below, in the midst of which a stentorian voice came to them,
as it were, on the wings of fire and smoke--"Stay where you are a
minute--the escape is coming!"

"Thank God!" exclaimed Laidlaw, looking down at the fair head which
rested on his shoulder.  The cheeks were deadly white and the eyes
closed, but the pressure of her arms showed that the girl clung to him
for very life.  A bright shower of sparks at the moment flew around
them.  "Heeven an' pandemonium brought thegither!" he thought as he bent
over to protect her.  His face was very near to hers!

"My puir wee doo!" he muttered, and placed a timid kiss upon the pale
cheek, which instantly coloured as if the fires around had suddenly
kindled them.

"O lassie, forgi'e me!  I didna mean to do _tha_--I railly--did--not,--
but I couldna help it!  I wad hae waited till ye gie'd me leave.  But
after a'--what for no?  I thought t' ask ye t' gie me the right this
very day.  And O lassie! if I might only hope that--"

He stopped, and _something_ induced him to do _that_ again.  At the same
moment another mighty roar ascended from the crowd, and the head of the
great fire-escape rose like a solemn spectre through smoke, fire, and
steam, not ten yards from where he stood.

"Hooray!" shouted Tommy, for he felt that they were saved.  Laidlaw said
nothing, but sprang to the head of the ladder, got carefully upon it,
and began steadily to descend with Susy.  Sam was about to follow with
old Liz, but glanced at Tommy.

"Go first, lad."

"Arter you, mate," said the boy, stepping politely back; "you see,
tigers, like captings, are always last to leave a sinkin' ship."

It was neither the time nor place for ceremony.  With something
approaching almost to a laugh, the seaman got on the ladder as smartly
as he would have taken to the shrouds of a ship, and Tommy followed.

Half-way down they met a swirl of smoke, with an occasional tongue of
flame shooting through it from a shattered window.  At the same moment
they encountered a brass-helmeted fellow springing boldly up through the
same to the rescue.

"Gang doon again, freen'," shouted Laidlaw, when his heel came in
contact with the helmet.  "We're a' safe here."

He paused just a moment to draw the shawl completely over Susy's head
and arms, and to pull her dress well round her feet.  Then, burying his
face in the same shawl and shutting his eyes, he descended steadily but
swiftly.  For a moment or two the rounds of the ladder felt like heated
iron bars, and there was a slight frizzling of his brown curly locks at
the back.  Then a fresh draught of air and a tremendous stream of water
that nigh washed him off the ladder.

Next moment they were safe on the ground, in the midst of the
wildly-cheering crowd, through which burst Mrs Rampy in a flood of
joyful tears, and seized old Liz in her arms.  Mrs Blathers followed
close at her heels.

"My!" she exclaimed in sudden amazement, staring at old Liz's, "it's
gone!"

"So it is," cried Mrs Rampy, for once agreeing.

And so it was!  The last fang belonging to chimney-pot Liz had perished
in that great conflagration!

Many were the offers that old Liz received of house accommodation that
night, from the lowest of washerwomen to the highest of tradesmen, but
Sam Blake, in her behalf, declined them all, and proceeded to the main
street to hail a cab.

"She ain't 'urt, is she?  You're not takin' 'er to a hospital?" cried
one of the crowd.  "You'll come back agin to stay with us, Liz--won't
you?"

"No, we won't," cried a boy's voice.  "We've come into our fortins, an'
are a-goin' to live in the vest end for ever an' ever."

"Who's that blue spider?" asked a boy; "w'y--no--surely it ain't--yes--I
do b'lieve it's Tommy Splint!"

"Don't believe Tommy, friends," said old Liz, as she was about to get
into the cab.  "I'll soon be back again to see you.  Trust me!"

This was received with a tremendous cheer, as they all got inside except
Laidlaw, who mounted the box.

"Stop!" said the latter, as the coachman was about to drive off.  He
pointed to the burning house, where the raging fire had reached the
roof-tree.  The crowd seemed awed into silence as they gazed.

One swirl more of the flaming tongues and the Garret was consumed--
another swirl, and the Garden was licked from the scene as effectually
as though it had never been.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE LAST.

How that wonderful man Detective Dean managed it all is best known to
himself and those myrmidons of the law who aided and abetted him in his
investigations, but certain it is that he prepared as pretty a little
thunderbolt for John Lockhart, Esquire, as any man could wish to see.

He not only ferreted out all the details of the matter involving the
Washab and Roria railway and chimney-pot Liz, but he obtained proof,
through a clerk in the solicitor's office, and a stain in a sheet of
paper, and a half-finished signature, that the will by which Mr
Lockhart intended to despoil Colonel Brentwood was a curiously-contrived
forgery.  As men in search of the true and beautiful frequently stumble
by accident on truths for which they did not search, and beauties of
which they had formed no conception, so our detective unearthed a
considerable number of smaller crimes of which the lawyer had been
guilty--to the satisfaction of all concerned and the establishment of
Mrs Brentwood's character as a prophetess, so that "didn't I tell you
so, Jack?" became a familiar arrangement of household words in the ears
of the poor Colonel for some time afterwards.

But the man of law did not await the discharge of the thunderbolt.  As
Mr Dean expressed it, he was too 'cute for that.  By some occult means,
known only to legal men, he discovered what was in the air, took time by
the forelock, and retired into privacy--perhaps to the back settlements
of Peru--with all the available cash that he could righteously, or
otherwise, scrape together.  By so doing, however, he delivered Colonel
Brentwood from all hindrance to the enjoyment of his rightful property,
and opened the eyes of chimney-pot Liz to the true value of shares in
the Washab and Roria railway.

A few days after the culminating of these events--for things came
rapidly to a head--Mrs Rampy of Cherub Court issued invitations for a
small tea-party.  This was the more surprising that Mrs Rampy was
extremely poor, and had hitherto been economical to an extent which
deprived her of a sufficiency of food even for herself.  But the
neighbours soon came to know that a line of telegraph had been recently
set up between Cherub Court and the West End, through which flowed
continuously a series of communications that were more or less
astounding and agreeable to the inhabitants.  The posts of this
telegraph were invisible, the wires passed high overhead, very high, and
the particular kind of electricity used was--sympathy.

It must be explained here that it was the northern side of the court
which had been burned, so that Mrs Rampy, inhabiting the south side,
still occupied her suite of apartments--a parlour and a coal-hole.  The
parlour, having once been a ware-room, was unusually large and well
adapted for a tea-party.  The coal-hole, having been a mere recess, was
well adapted for puzzling the curious as to what had been the object of
its architect in contriving it.

The party was not large, but it was select.  It included a washerwoman
with very red arms; a care-taker who had obviously failed to take care
of herself; a couple of chimney-sweeps with partially washed faces; a
charwoman with her friend the female greengrocer, who had been burned
out of the opposite side of the court; two or three coster-mongers, a
burglar, several thieves, a footman in resplendent livery, a few noted
drunkards, and chimney-pot Liz with her teapot--not the original teapot
of course--that had perished in the flames--but one indistinguishably
like it, which had been presented to her by Colonel Brentwood.  She had
insisted on carrying it with her to Cherub Court on that occasion, on
the ground that they would hardly recognise her without it, especially
now that the fang was gone.

The resplendent footman had been the first guest to arrive, along with
Liz, and was welcomed by the hostess and Mrs Blathers--who aided and
abetted her friend on that occasion--with effusive demonstrations of
goodwill and surprise.  Thereafter the footman, who seemed to be
eccentric, sat in a corner with his face buried in his hands, and did
not move while the other guests were assembling.  When the room was full
and the tea poured out, Mrs Rampy looked at Liz with a sly awkward air
which was quite foreign to her nature.

"Ah, Mrs Rampy," said Liz, "don't be ashamed."

"Lord, bless us--an' our wittles," said Mrs Rampy, suddenly shutting
her eyes as she opened her mouth, to the intense surprise of her guests.
"Now then," she added, in a tone of great relief, "go a-'ead w'en
you've got the chance.  There's more w'ere that come from.  'And about
the cake, Mrs Blathers, like a good creetur.  An' it ain't much o' this
blow-hout you owes to me.  I on'y supplied the sugar, 'cause that was in
the 'ouse anyways."

"It is a good deed, Mrs Rampy," said old Liz, with a smile, "if you've
supplied all the sweetness to the feast."

"That's a lie!" cried the hostess sharply.  "It was _you_ that supplied
it.  If it 'adn't bin for you, Liz, I'd never 'ave--"

Mrs Rampy broke down at this point and threw her apron over her head to
conceal her feelings.  At the same moment the eccentric footman raised
his head, and something like a pistol-shot was heard as the burglar
brought his palm down on his thigh, exclaiming--

"I know'd it!  Trumps--or his ghost!"

"'E's too fat for a ghost," remarked a humorous thief.

"No, mate, I _ain't_ Trumps," said the resplendent man, rising before
the admiring gaze of the party.  "My name is Rodgers, footman to Colonel
Brentwood of Weston 'All.  I'm a noo man, houtside an' in; an' I've come
ere a-purpuse to surprise you, not only wi' the change in my costoom,
but wi' the noos that my master's comin' down 'ere to see arter you a
bit, an' try if 'e can't 'elp us hout of our difficulties; an' e's
agoin' to keep a missionary, hout of 'is own pocket, to wisit in this
district an' they're both comin' 'ere this wery night to take tea with
us.  An' 'e's bringin' a lord with 'im--a live lord--"

"Wot better is a live lord than any other man?" growled a thief with
radical proclivities.

"Right you are, Jim Scroodger," said Trumps, turning sharply on the
speaker; "a live lord is no better than any other man unless 'e _is_
better!  Indeed, considerin' 'is circumstances, 'e's a good deal wuss if
'e's no better; but a live lord is better than a dead thief, w'ich
you'll be soon, Jim, if you don't mend yer ways."

"Hear! hear!" and a laugh from the company.

"Moreover," continued Trumps, "the lord that's a-comin' _is_ better than
most other men.  He's a trump--"

"Not a brother o' yourn--eh?" murmured the burglar.  "W'y, Trumps, I
thought you was a detective!"

"Not in _plain_ clo'es, surely," remarked the humorous thief.

"'Ave another cup o' tea, man, and shut up," cried Mrs Blathers,
growing restive.

"Well, ladies and gen'lemen all," resumed Trumps, with a benignant
smile, "_you_ know this lord that's a-comin'.  Some o' you made 'im a
present of a barrow an' a hass once--"

"_I_ know 'im!  Bless 'is 'eart," cried a coster-monger through a
mouthful of cake.

At that moment the expected guests arrived.

But reader, we must not dwell upon what followed.  There is no need.  It
is matter of history.

While the inhabitants of the slums were thus enjoying a social evening
together, David Laidlaw was busy with one of his numerous epistles to
that repository of all confidences--his mother.

"The deed is done, mither," he wrote, "an' the waux doll is mine, for
better or waur, till death us do pairt.  Of course I dinna mean that
we're mairried yet.  Na, na!  That event must be celebrated on the Braes
o' Yarrow, wi' _your_ help an' blessin'.  But we're engaged, an' that's
happiness enough the now.  If I was to describe my state o' mind in ae
word, I wud say--thankfu'.  But losh, woman, that gies ye but a faint
notion o' the whirligigs that hae been gaun on i' my heed an' hairt
since I came to Bawbylon.  Truly, it's a wonderfu' place--wi' its
palaces and dens; its rich an' its puir; its miles upon miles o' hooses
an' shops; its thoosands on thoosands o' respectable folk, an' its
hundred o' thoosands o' thieves an' pickpockets an' burglars--to say
naething o' its prisons an' lawyers an' waux dolls!

"But I'm haverin'.  Ye'll be gled t' hear that Colonel Brentwood--him
that befreended me--is a' richt.  His lawyer turned oot to be a leear
an' a swindler.  The will that was to turn the Colonel oot o' a' his
possessions is a forgery.  His bonny bairn Rosa, is, like mysel', gaun'
to be mairried; an' as the Colonel has nae mair bairns, he's gaun' to
devote himsel'--so his wife says--to `considerin' the poor.'  Frae my
personal observation o' Lunnon, he'll hae mair than enough to consider,
honest man!

"In my last letter I gied ye a full accoont o' the fire, but I didna
tell 'e that it was amang the chimley-pots and bleezes that I was moved
to what they ca' `pop the question' to my Susy.  It was a daft-like
thing to do, I confess, especially for a sedate kin' o' man like me;
but, woman, a man's no jist himsel' at sik a time!  After a', it was a
graund climax to my somewhat queer sort o' coortin'.  The only thing I'm
feart o' in Bawbylon is that the wee crater Tammy Splint should come to
ken aboot it, for I wad niver hear the end o't if he did.  Ye see,
though he was there a' the time, he didna ken what I was about.
Speakin' o' that, the bairn has been made a flunkey by the Colonel--a
teeger they ca' him.  What's mair surprisin' yet is, that he has ta'en
the puir thief Trumps--alias Rodgers--into his hoosehold likewise, and
made _him_ a flunkey.  Mrs Brentwood--Dory, as he ca's her--didna quite
like the notion at first; but the Colonel's got a wonderfu' wheedlin'
wey wi' him, an' whan he said, `If you an' I have been redeemed an'
reinstated, why should not Rodgers?'  Dory, like a wise woman, gied in.
The argement, ye ken, was unanswerable.  Onywie, he's in plush now, an
white stockin's.

"An' that minds me that they've putt the wee laddie Splint into blue
tights wi' brass buttons.  He just looks like an uncanny sort o'
speeder!  It's a daft-like dress for onything but a puggy, but the
bairn's as prood o't as if it was quite reasonable.  It maitters little
what he putts on, hooiver, for he wad joke an' cut capers, baith
pheesical an' intellectual, I verily believe, if he was gaun to be
hanged!

"My faither-in-law to be, Sam Blake, says he'll come to Scotland for the
wadd'n, but he'll no' stop.  He's that fond o' the sea that he canna
leave 't.  It's my opeenion that he'll no' rest till he gits a pirit's
knife in his breed-baskit.  Mair's the peety, for he's a fine man.  But
the best news I've got to tell 'e, mither, is, that Colonel Brentwood
an' his wife an' daughter an' her guidman--a sensible sort o' chiel,
though he _is_ English--are a' comin' doon to spend the autumn on the
Braes o' Yarrow.

"Noo, I'll stop.  Susy's waitin' for me, an' sends her love.--Yer
affectionate son, DAVID LAIDLAW."

We must take the liberty now, good reader, of directing your attention
to another time and place.

And, first, as regards time.  One day, three weeks after the events
which have just been narrated, Mrs Brentwood took Susan Blake through a
stained glass door out upon a leaded roof and bade her look about her.
The roof was not high up, however.  It only covered the kitchen, which
was a projection at the back of the Colonel's mansion.

Susan, somewhat surprised, looked inquiringly in the lady's face.

"A fine view, is it not?" asked Mrs Brentwood.

"Very fine indeed," said Susy, and she was strictly correct, for the
back of the house commanded an extensive view of one of the most
beautiful parts of Hampstead Heath.

"Does it not remind you, Susan, a little, a very little, of the views
from the garret-garden?" asked the lady, with a curious expression in
her handsome eyes.

"Well, hardly!" replied Susan, scarce able to repress a smile.  "You
see, there is no river or shipping, and one misses the chimney-pots!"

"Chimney-pots!" exclaimed Mrs Brentwood, "why, what do you call these?"
pointing to a row of one-storey stables not far off, the roofs of which
were variously ornamented with red pots and iron zigzag pipes.  "As to
the river, don't you see the glimmer of that sheet of water through the
trees in the distance, a pond or canal it is, I'm not sure which, but
I'm quite sure that the flag-staff of our eccentric naval neighbour is
sufficiently suggestive of shipping, is it not?"

"Well, madam, if one tries to make believe _very_ much--"

"Ah, Susan, I see you have not a powerful imagination!  Perhaps it is as
well!  Now, I have brought you here to help me with a plot which is to
be a great secret.  You know it is arranged that dear old nurse is to
spend the summer on the Braes of Yarrow with the Laidlaws, and the
winter in London with me.  So I want you to fit up this roof of the
kitchen _exactly_ in the way you arranged the garden on the roof at
Cherub Court.  I will send a carpenter to measure the place for
flower-boxes, and our gardener will furnish you with whatever seeds you
may require.  Now, remember, _exactly_ the same, even to the rustic
chair if you can remember it."

You may be very sure that Susy entered with right goodwill into this
little plot.  She had been temporarily engaged by Mrs Brentwood as
lady's-maid, so that she might have present employment and a home before
her marriage, and then travel free of expense with the family to
Scotland, where she should be handed over to her rightful owner.  The
office of lady's-maid was, however, a mere sinecure, so the bride had
plenty of time to devote to the garden.  Old Liz, meanwhile, was
carefully confined to another part of the house so that she might not
discover the plot, and the tiger, from whom no secrets could by any
possibility be kept, was forbidden to "blab" on pain of instant death
and dismissal.

"Now, Da-a-a-vid," remarked that Blue Spider, when he communicated the
secret to _him_, "mum's the word.  If you mentions it, the kernel's
family will bu'st up.  I will return to the streets from vich I came.
Trumps, _alias_ Rodgers, to the den hout of vich 'e was 'auled.  Susan
will take the wail and retire to a loonatic asylum, an' Da-a-a-vid
Laidlaw will be laid low for the rest of 'is mortial career."

"Ne'er fash yer heed about me, Tammy, my man, I'm as close as an
eyster."

We pass now from the far south to the other side of the Borderland.

Great Bawbylon is far behind us.  The breezy uplands around tell that we
have reached the Braes of Yarrow.  A huge travelling carriage is slowly
toiling up the side of a hill.  Inside are Colonel and Mrs Brentwood,
Rosa and chimney-pot Liz.  Beside the driver sits Trumps in travelling
costume.  In the rumble are Susan Blake and Tommy Splint.  Rosa's
husband and Sam Blake are to follow in a few days.

"Oh, what a lovely scene!" exclaimed Susy, as the carriage gained the
summit of an eminence, and pulled up to breathe the horses.

"Yaas.  Not so bad--for Scotland," said the tiger languidly.

"And what a pretty cottage!" added Susan, pointing to an eminence just
beyond that on which they had halted, where a long low whitewashed
dwelling lay bathed in sunshine.

"Yaas.  And, I say, Susy, yonder is a native," said Tommy, becoming
suddenly animated, "and--well--I do believe, _without_ a kilt!  But he's
got the reg'lar orthodox shepherd's--whew!"

A prolonged whistle ended the boy's sentence, as he glanced quickly in
Susan's face.  The flushed cheeks told eloquently that she also had made
a discovery; and the rapid strides of the "native" showed that he was
likewise affected in a similar way.

The Colonel's head,--thrust out at the carriage window, and exclaiming,
"Why, Dora, we've arrived!  Here is Mr Laidlaw himself!"--completed, as
it were, the _tableau vivant_.

Another moment and hands were being heartily shaken with the insides.
But David did not linger.  Nodding pleasantly to the tiger, he held up
both hands.  Being so tall, he just managed to reach those of Susan, as
she stood up in the rumble.

"Jump!" he said; "ye needna fear, my lassie."

Susan jumped, and was made to alight on Scottish soil like a feather of
eider-down.  Laidlaw stooped, apparently to whisper something in the
girl's ear, but, to the unspeakable delight of the observant tiger, he
failed to get past the mouth, and whispered it there!

"Go it, Da-a-a-vid!" exclaimed the urchin, with a patronising wink and a
broad smile.

"Look there, Susy," said Laidlaw, pointing to the sun-bathed cottage.

"Home?" asked the maiden, with an inquiring glance.

"Hame!" responded David.  "Mither is waiting for 'e there.  Do ye see
the track across the field where the burn rins?  It's a short cut.  The
coach'll have to gang roond by the brig.  Rin, lassie!"

He released Susy, who sprang down the bank, crossed the streamlet by a
plank bridge, and ran into the cottage, where she found Mrs Laidlaw in
the passage, with eager eyes, but labouring under powerful
self-restraint.

"Mother!" exclaimed Susy, flinging her arms round the stout old woman's
neck.

"Eh!--my bonnie wee doo!" said Mrs Laidlaw, as she looked kindly down
on the little head and stroked the fair hair with her toil-worn hands,
while a venerable old man stood beside her, looking somewhat imbecile,
and blowing his nose.

Just then the carriage rolled up to the door, and Mrs Laidlaw, leaving
her "auld man" for a few minutes to do the honours of the house, retired
to her chamber, and there on her knees confessed, thankfully, that she,
like her son, had been effectually conquered by a "waux doll!"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Reader, what more can we say?  Is it necessary to add that, the two
principals in the business being well pleased, everybody else was
satisfied?  We think not.  But it may not be uninteresting to state
that, from that auspicious day, a regular system of annual visitation
was established between Bawbylon and the Braes of Yarrow, which held
good for many a year; one peculiarity of the visitation being that the
Bawbylonians and their progeny revelled on the braes chiefly in summer,
while the Yarrowites, with their bairns, always took their southern
flight in winter.  Thus our two old women, Mrs Laidlaw and chimney-pot
Liz--who fought rather shy of each other at first, but became mutual
admirers at last--led, as it were, a triple life; now on the sunny
slopes and amid the sweet influences of the braes, anon in the smoke and
the unsavoury odours of the slums, and sometimes amid the refinements
and luxury of the "West End," in all of which situations they were fain
to confess that "the ways of God are wonderful and past finding out."

Of course David Laidlaw did not fail to redeem his promise to revisit
the thieves' den, and many a man and youth was he the means of plucking
from the jaws of spiritual death during his occasional and frequent
visits to London--in which work he was ably seconded by Tommy Splint,
when that volatile spirit grew up to manhood.  And among their
coadjutors none were more helpful in the work of bringing souls to
Christ than Mrs Rampy and her bosom-friend Mrs Blathers.

Strange to say, Liz came to her end in a garret after all.  On a raw
November day she went, under the care of Susy, to visit an old friend
near Cherub Court, in a garret not very unlike her old home.  While
there she was struck down.  There was no pain--apparently no disease;
simply a sudden sinking of the vital powers.  They laid the dear old
woman on her friend's bed, and in half-an-hour she had passed away,
while the faithful Susy held her hand and whispered words from the
Master in her ear.  Thus old Liz, having finished her grand work on
earth, was transplanted from the Garret in the slums to the Garden of
the Lord.

THE END.






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