CHAPTER XVII
Clement did not let the grass grow under his feet. An hour later hewas rattling over the stony pavements and through the crowded streetsof the busy town, which had grown in a short hundred years fromsomething little more than a village, to be the second centre ofwealth and population, of poverty and crime, within the seas; a centreon which the eye of Government rested with unwinking vigilance, forwithout a voice in Parliament and with half of its citizens deprivedof civic rights--since half were Nonconformists--it was the focus ofall the discontent in the country. In Manchester, if anywhere,flourished the agitation against the Test Acts and the movement forReform. Thence had started the famous Blanketeers, there six yearsbefore had taken place the Peterloo massacre. Thence as by the millionfilaments of some great web was roused or calmed the vast industrialworld of Lancashire. The thunder of the power-loom that had createdit, the roar of the laden drays that shook it, deafened the wonderingstranger, but more formidable and momentous than either, had he knownit, was the half-heard murmur of an underworld striving to be free.
Clement had never visited the cotton-town before, and on a morecommonplace errand he might have allowed himself to be daunted by aturmoil and bustle as new to him as it was uncongenial. But with hismind set on one thing, he heeded his surroundings only as theythreatened to balk his aim, and he had himself driven directly to thePolice Office, over which the notorious Nadin had so lately presidedthat for most people it still went by his name. Fearless, resolute,and not too scrupulous, the man had through twenty troublous yearscombated the forces alike of disorder and of liberty; and beforeLondon had yet acquired an efficient police, he had gathered round hima body of men equal at least to the Bow Street Runners. He had passed,but his methods survived; and half an hour after Clement had enteredthe office he issued from it accompanied by a hard-bitten, sharp-eyedman in a tall beaver hat and a long wide-skirted coat.
"The Apple Tree? Oh, the Apple Tree's on the square," he informedClement. "And Jerry Stott? No harm in him, sir, either. He'll speakwhen he sees me."
"You don't think we need another man?"
"There's one following. No use to go in a bunch. He'll watch thefront, and we'll go in by the yard. Got a barker, sir?"
"Yes."
"'Fraid so. Well, don't use it--show it if you like. Law's law, and alive dog's worth more than its hide. Ay, that's Chetham's. Queer oldplace, and--sharp's the word, here we are," as they turned off LongMill Gate, and entered the yard of an old-fashioned house, over thedoor of which hung the sign of an apple-tree. The place was quiet, incomparison with the street they had left, and "Here's Jerry," theofficer added, as they espied a young fellow, who in a corner of theenclosure was striving to raise to his shoulder a truss of hay. Heceased his efforts when he saw them.
"We want a word with you," said the officer.
The man eyed them with dismay. "I never thout 'at he'd come to thee,"he said.
"The chap you brought in this morning?"
"Ay, sure."
"Happen yes and happen no," the policeman replied. "What's it allabout?"
"If he says I took his eauts he be a leear. I wurna wi' the sack, notto say alone 'at is, not five minutes, and yo' may look at t' sack andsee all's theer as ever was! Never a handfu' missing, tho' the chap hecursed and swore an' took on, the mout ha' been eauts o' gowd! He's aleear iv he says I tetched 'em, but I never thout he'd t' brass tocome to thee."
"Why not, lad?"
"'Cause i' the end he let up and steared at t' sack leek a steck pig,and then he fell a shriking 'i worse shap than ever, and away he goesas iv a dog had bit him and down t' Long Gate hell for leather!"
"Which way? I see. Did he take the oats?"
"Not he, nor t' bag. An after mekking setch a din about his eauts! Iwar no wi' 'em five minutes."
The officer declined to commit himself. "Let us see them," he said.
Jerry led them to a tumble-down, black and white building at the rearof the yard, with lattice work in its crazy windows and an old dateover the door. They followed him up a ladder and into a loft, wherewere a frowsy bed or two, some old pack-saddles, and two or threestools made out of casks sawn in two. On the floor in one place lay aheap of oats trampled this way and that, and beside the heap an emptysack. The officer picked up the sack, shook it and examined it.
"What do you make of it?" Clement asked.
"I don't know what to make of it. Here, you, Jerry, fetch me a cornmeasure!" And when he had thus rid them of the lad, "He may becarrying out orders and telling a flash tale to put us off. Or he maybe telling the truth, and in that case it looks as if someone had beena mite brighter than your man and cleared his stuff."
"But where is it?"
"Ah! Just so, I'd like to know," shaking his head. "Yes, Jerry,measure it back into the sack. How much is there?"
The lad began to gather up the oats and replace them in the bag, whilethe two men looked on, perplexed and undecided. Suddenly Clementstooped--a scrap of cord, doubtless the cord which had tied the neckof the sack, had caught his eye. He picked it up, looked at it, then,with a word, he handed it to the officer. "I think that settles it,"he said, his eyes shining. There was a tiny twist of straw-plait, likea rosette, knotted about the cord and still adhering to it.
Nadin's man looked at the plait and for a moment did not understand.Then his face cleared. "By Joseph! You're right, sir!" he exclaimed,and slapped his thigh. "And sharp, sharp too. You'd ought to be one ofus! That settles it, it's the backtrack we've to look to, but I'lltake no chances." And turning to the lad and addressing him in hisharshest voice, "See here, in an hour we shall know if you've told usthe truth. If you've not it will be the New Bailey and a pair of irongarters for you. So if you've aught to add, out with it! It's yourlast chance, Jerry Stott."
But the lad protested that he'd told all the truth. It had happenedjust as he had told them.
The officer turned to Clement. "I think he's on the square," he said,"but I'll have him watched." And he led the way down the ladder. Whenthey reached the street, he stepped out smartly, making nothing of thecrowd and bustle, the lumbering drays and over-hanging cranes throughwhich they had to thread their way. "We'll catch the Altringham stageat the Cross if we're sharp," he said. "It'll be quicker than gettingout a po'chay and a lot cheaper."
They caught the stage, and alighted in Altringham before five. A walkof as many minutes brought them to the Barley Sheaf, a wagoner's houseat the corner of a lane in the poorest part of the town. The ostler,from whom Clement had so lately parted, stood leaning against a postat the entrance to the yard, his hands still in his pockets and thestraw still in his mouth. When he saw them a grin broke up his uglyface. "He've been here," he cried, "but," triumphantly, "I've routedhim, mister! I sent him all ways!"
The officer did not respond. "Why, the devil, didn't you seize him?"he growled.
"What, me? And him double my size? And a desperate villain? 'Deed, I'dto save my skin, mister, and only yon lad and a couple of childer inthe yard when he come. I see him first, sneaking a look round thisyere post, and thinks I, it'll be a knife in the back or a punch inthe face for me if he's heard I've rapped. So, first's better thanlast, thinks I, and seeing as he hung back I up to him bold as brass,but with one eye on the lad too, and sez I, 'Can you read?' sez I. Helooked at me's if he'd have my blood, but there was the lad and thechilder a-staring, so 'Ay, I can,' says he, 'and can read you, youthieving villain!' 'Well, if you can read, read that,' sez I, andpointed to a bill as was posted on the gate. 'I can't,' sez he, 'and,happen you can tell me what 'tis all about.' He looks, and he sees'tis the bill about he, and painting him to the life. Anyways, heturns the color o' whey and he gives me a look as if he'd cut out myinwards, but he sees it's no good, for there was the lad and thechilder, and he slinks off. Ay, I routed him, I did, little as I be,mister!"
"Right!" said Nadin's man. "And now do you show us the sack as youchanged for his."
The man's face fell amazingly, b
ut Clement noted that he lookedsurprised rather than frightened. "Eh?" he exclaimed. "Lord, now, whotold you, mister? He didn't know."
"Never mind who told us. We know, and that's enough. There was a twisto' plait round the cord?"
"There were."
"You said nothing about it before. But out with it now, and do youtake care, my lad."
"Well, who axed me? Exchange is no robbery and I ain't afeard. 'Twasjust this way. He sold me three sacks, 's I told you, squire, and Iwas hauling 'em off to stable when 'Not that one!' says he sharp. Sothen I look at t' one he was so set on keeping, and when his back wasturned I hefted it sly-like, and it seemed to me a good bit heavierthan t' others. Then I spied the bit o' plait about the cord, andthinks I, being no fule, 'tis a mark. And when he went in for a squibo' cordial wi' Jerry Stott I shifted t' mark to another sack andloaded up, and off he goes and he none the wiser, and no harm done.Exchange is no robbery and you can't do nowt to me for that."
"I don't know," said the officer darkly. "Let us see the sack."
"You're not agoing----"
"Do you hear? Jump, unless you want to get into trouble. You show usthat sack, and be quick about it, my lad."
Grumbling, but not daring to refuse, the old man led the way into thestables, and there in an empty stall the three sacks stood upright."Which is the one you filched?" asked the man from Manchester.
Reluctantly the ostler pointed it out. "Then you get me ahorse-cloth."
"You're not going--well, a wilful man must have his way. Will thatserve you? But if my oats is spilled and spiled----"
Nadin's man paid no heed to his remonstrance, but in a trice cut thecord that tied the sack's mouth, tipped it on its side, and let thegrain pour out in a golden stream. A golden stream it proved to be,for in a twinkling something sparkled amid the corn, and here andthere a sovereign glittered. To Clement and the officer who had readthe riddle, this was no great surprise, though they viewed it withsmiling satisfaction. But the old man, stuck dumb by the sight of thetreasure that had been for a time in his power, turned a dirty white.He stood gazing at the vision of wealth, greed in his eyes, his handsworking convulsively; and presently in a choked voice, "O, Lord! O,Lord!" he muttered. "You'll not take t' all! You'll not take t' all! .It were mine. I bought it."
"You came nigh to buying a pair o' bracelets," the officer repliedgrimly. "You with stolen property in your possession to talk o'--thankyour stars your neck's not to answer for it! No, we don't need yourhelp. You sheer off. We can count it without you. You've done prettywell as it is. Sheer off, unless you want the handcuffs on you!"
The old ostler went, measuring the five pounds which he had made bythe treasure he had lost, and finding no comfort in the possession ofthat which only an hour before had been a fortune to gloat over. Butthere was no help for it. He had to swallow his rage. The officercalled after him to bring a sieve. He brought it sullenly, and hispart was done. All that was left to him was a vision of gold that grewmore dazzling with each telling of the tale. And very, very often hetold it.
When he was gone they gathered up the oats and riddled them throughthe sieve and recovered four hundred and thirty pounds. Thomas hadtaken a mere handful for his spending. As Clement counted it,sovereign by sovereign, into a knotted handkerchief which the otherheld, he, too, gloated over it, for it spelled success. But the moneyreckoned and the handkerchief knotted up, "And now for the man," hesaid.
But Nadin's man shook his head. "We'd be weeks and not get him," hesaid. "You'd best leave him to us, sir. We'll bill him in Manchesterand make the flash kens too hot for him. But there's no knowing whichway he'll turn. May be to Liverpool, or as like as not to Aldersbury.Chaps like him are pigeons for homing. Back they go, though they knowthey'll be taken."
In the end Clement decided to stand content, and having given hisassistant a liberal fee, he took his seat next morning on the Victorycoach, travelling by Chester to Aldersbury. He was not vain, but itwas with some exultation that he began his journey, that he facedagain the free-blowing winds and the open pastures, heard the cheerynotes of the bugle, and viewed the old-fashioned marketplaces androistering inns, some of which he had passed three days before. He hadnot failed. He had done something; and he thought of Jos, and hethought of the Squire, and he thanked Providence that had put itin his power to turn the tables on the old man. Surely after what hehad done the Squire must consider him. Surely after services sonotable--and Lord, what luck he had had--the Squire would be willingto listen to him? He recalled the desperate struggle in the road,and the old man's "At him, good lad! At him!" and he thought of thesum--no small sum, and the old man was avaricious--which hispromptness had recovered. His hopes ran high.
To be sure, there was another side to it. The Squire might notrecover, and then--but he refused to dwell on that contingency. No,the Squire must recover, must receive and reward him, must own thatafter all he was something better than a clerk or a shopboy. And allthings would be well, all roads be made smooth, all difficulties becleared away. And in time he and Jos--his eyes shone.
Of course in the elation of the hour and flushed by success, heignored facts which he would have been wiser to remember, andover-leapt obstacles which were not small. A little thought would havetaught him that the Squire was not the man to change his views in anhour, or to swallow the prejudices of a life-time because a young chaphad done him a service. To be beholden to a man, and to give him yourdaughter, are things far apart.
And this Clement in cooler moments would have seen. But he was youngand in love, and he had done something; and the sun shone and the airwas sweet, and if, as the coach swung gaily up the Foregate betweenSchool and Castle, his heart beat high and he already foresaw atriumphant issue, who shall blame him? At any rate his case wasaltered, and in comparison with his position a few days before, hestood well.
He alighted at the door of the Lion, and by a coincidence which was tohave its consequences the first person he met in the High Street wasArthur Bourdillon. "Hallo!" Arthur cried, his face lighting up. "Backalready, man? Have you done anything?"
"I've got the money," Clement replied. And he waved the bag.
"And Thomas?"
"No, he gave us the slip for the time. But I've got the money, excepta dozen pounds or so."
"The deuce you have!" the other answered--and it was not quite clearwhether he were pleased or not. "How did you do it? Tell us all aboutit." He drew Clement aside on to some steps at the foot of St.Juliana's church.
Clement ran briefly over his adventures. When he had done, "Deucedsharp of you," Arthur said. "Devilish sharp, I must say! Now, ifyou'll hand over I'll take it out to Garth. I am on my way there,I'm just starting, and I haven't a moment to spare. If you'll handover----"
But Clement made no move to hand over. Instead, "How is he?" he asked.
"Oh, pretty bad."
"Will he get over it?"
"Farmer thinks so. But there's no hope for the eye, and he doubtsabout the other eye. He's not to use it for six weeks at least."
"He's in bed?"
"Lord, yes, and will be in bed for heaven knows how long--if he evergets up from it. Why, man, he's had the deuce of a shake. The wonderis that he's alive, and it's long odds that he'll never be the sameman again."
"That's bad," Clement said. "And how is----" He was going to inquireafter Miss Griffin, but Arthur broke in on him.
"Ask the rest another time," he said. "I can't stay now. I'm takingout things that are wanted in a hurry and the curricle is waiting.This is the first day I've been in town, for there's no one there todo anything except my cousin and the old Peahen. So hand over, oldchap, and I'll take the stuff out. It will do the old man more goodthan all the doctor's medicine."
Clement hesitated. If he had not been carrying the money, he mighthave made an excuse. He might at any rate have delayed the act. Butthe money was the Squire's, he could give no reason for taking it tothe bank, and he had not that hardness of fibre, that indifference tothe feelings of others which
was needed if he was to say boldly thatit was he who had recovered the money and he who was going to hand itover. Still he did hesitate, something telling him that the demand wasunreasonable. Then Arthur's coolness, his assumption that what heproposed was the natural course did its work. Clement handed over thebag.
"Right," Arthur said, weighing it in his hand. "You counted it, Isuppose? Four hundred and thirty, or thereabouts?"
"That's it."
"Good! See you soon. Good-bye!" And well pleased with himself,chuckling a little--for Clement's discomfiture had not escapedhim--Arthur hurried away.
And Clement went his way. But reality had touched his golden dreams,and they had melted. The sun still shone, but it did not shine forhim, and he no longer walked with his head in the air. It was not onlythat, by resigning the money and entrusting its return to another, hehad lost the advantage on which he had counted, but he had beenworsted. He had failed, in the contest of wits and wills, and, abusehis ill-luck as he might, he owed the failure to himself--to his ownweakness. He saw it.
It was possible that Arthur had acted in innocence. But Clementdoubted this, and he doubted it the more the longer he thought of it.He fancied that he recognized a thing which had happened before: thatthis was not the first time that Arthur had taken the upper hand withhim and jockeyed him into the worse position. As he crossed thethreshold of the bank, his self-confidence fell from him, he felthimself slip into the old atmosphere, he became once more theinefficient.
Nor was it any comfort to him that his father saw the matter in thesame light, and after listening with an appreciative face and somesurprise to his earlier adventures, made no effort to hide the chagrinthat he felt at the _denouement_. "But why--why in the world did youdo that?" he exclaimed. "Give up the money after you had done thework? And to Bourdillon, who had no more right to it than you had?Good heavens, lad, it was the act of a fool! I'd not be surprised ifold Griffin never heard your name in connection with it!"
"Oh, I don't think Arthur----"
"Well, I do." The banker was vexed. "It's clear that Arthur is adeal sharper than you. As for the Squire, I hear that he is onlyhalf-conscious, and what he hears, if he ever hears the tale at all,will make little impression on him. Now if he had seen you, and you'dhanded over the money--if he had seen you, then the bank and you wouldhave got the credit."
"Still, Clem did recover it," Betty said.
"Ay, but who will ever know that he did?"
"Still he did, and I believe that he'll get a message from Garthto-morrow. Now, see if you don't, Clem. Or the next day."
But no message came on the morrow, or on the next day. No message cameat all; and though it was possible to attribute this to the Squire'scondition--for he was reported to be very ill--and Clement did hisbest to attribute it to that and to keep up his spirits, the tide oftime wears away even hope, and presently he began to see that he hadbuilt on the sand.
At any rate no message and no acknowledgment came, unless aperfunctory word of thanks dropped by Arthur counted as such. AndClement had soon to recognize that what he had done, he might as well,for any good it was likely to do him, have left undone. His father,who had no thought of anything but his son's credit, was merelychagrined. But with Clement, who had built high hopes upon the event,hopes of which his father and Betty little dreamed, the wound went fardeeper.