“He seemed friendly to me,” Laurence said meekly.
“Faith, you can’t trust them at all,” Patrick insisted. “Back home, people would say it’s better to hold your tongue in your head—else they’ll use it to strangle you.”
“I suppose,” Laurence said, though he did not truly understand.
In a few moments Laurence heard Patrick murmuring his prayers. Then came silence, followed by the soft breath of sleep.
Though very tired, Laurence lay awake thinking about all that had happened to him. Yesterday he was living in one of the best homes in London. Now he was flat upon the floor of a floating church in the city of Liverpool without so much as a penny in his pocket. What will happen to me? he kept saying to himself. What will happen?
Weary of fruitless meandering, Mr. Clemspool felt an urgent need to rest. Looking about where he stood, he spied a tavern called the Iron Duke and entered. There, in the farthest corner of the crowded room, he sat at a table, ordered himself a drink, and sat in gloomy isolation. The darkness of the spot matched his mood.
As Mr. Clemspool sat and sulked, a group of eight boisterous fellows ranging in age from ten to sixteen burst into the tavern. They were bubbling over with gibes and jokes, slapping backs, and punching shoulders.
Their leader appeared to be sixty years of age with gray hair tied back into an old-fashioned pigtail. Short and stout, he was wearing—from younger, slimmer days—a red military coat marked with sergeant stripes. The face was fleshy, with a plenitude of chins and jowls and a pendulous lower lip. Many rings adorned his fingers, which were long and strong, but almost delicate in appearance. In these hands he carried a small chest, its latch secured with a massive padlock.
The sergeant marched directly to an empty table at the rear of the tavern, not far from Mr. Clemspool. There he sat, placing the chest just so on the table before him. No sooner did his young fellows sit than a waiter arrived and set a large roasted chicken—brown and greasy—before the man. He tore off a leg with some savagery and began to chew upon it. The boys paid no mind but continued their chatter.
“Very well, gentlemen!” the sergeant barked with a booming military voice. “I herewith call the muster of the Lime Street Runners Association.” So saying, he wiped one hand on a pants leg, produced a key, and with elaborate authority sprung the padlock on the chest and threw back its lid.
Immediately, the boys quieted themselves and gave full attention to their leader.
“Roll call,” the sergeant announced even as he finished the chicken leg and began attacking the plump breast. “Mr. Young!”
“Here!” one of the young fellows replied.
“Mr. Spofford! Mr. Jones! Mr. Orkin! Mr. Thomas! Mr. Morris! Mr. Neal! Mr. Fred! Mr. Toggs!”
For each name called, there was a response of “Here!” until he reached Toggs. No one replied.
“And where is Mr. Ralph Toggs?” inquired the sergeant, wrenching off the chicken’s second leg. “Absent without leave!” he pronounced. “Does anyone know his whereabouts?”
“Sergeant Rumpkin, sir,” Spofford called out, “I saw him working earlier today. Had a couple of Paddies in tow as came right off the Queen of the West. That was this morning.”
“Anyone else seen him?” Sergeant Rumpkin demanded.
“I did, sir,” cried Orkin. “He had a twosome on the hook. Also Paddies. Late in the day, it was. Heading for Mrs. Sonderbye’s, I think.”
“Well then, at least he was in action,” Sergeant Rumpkin said. “Perhaps he’ll show up yet.” He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and with a flourish wiped some of the grease from his mouth.
“Now, gentlemen, let’s see how the field looked today. Your reports, please. Advances. Retreats. Stratagems. And, not least, your victories.” He looked about benevolently, his eye fastening on Fred.
Fred was a weasel-faced, sharp-nosed boy, with freckled cheeks and red hair. The youngest and newest member of the group, he had no last name.
In the association Fred and Ralph Toggs were well-known rivals. The fact rather amused Sergeant Rumpkin, brash Fred No-name (as he was called) against the cocky Toggs.
During the past few weeks, Toggs had seemed rather off his work. It had been the sergeant’s policy deliberately to overpraise Fred so as to goad the older boy back to his former level of competence.
“Ah, yes, Mr. Fred,” he said, “let’s hear your report to begin.” He sat back, poking randomly at the chicken carcass with his long fingers.
Fred stood, saluted crisply, and, in a high-pitched, almost squeaky voice, said, “All told, Sergeant, I brought in five pigeons.”
“Five, Mr. Fred! Well done. Well done! I commend you.”
The other boys chimed in with cries of “Hear, hear!” and “Good go, Fred!”
Young Fred’s cheeks glowed almost as brightly as his hair.
“Proceed,” the sergeant said.
“Soon as they came off the boat,” Fred went on, “I nabbed them. They were so bewildered, they gave me no lip. Brought ’em in easy. Like fish on a hook, they were.”
“Any unusual circumstances, Mr. Fred?”
Fred grinned. “One old lady lost her bundle in the water. I jumped in, swum after to get it. She so took to me, I set her down at Grundy’s.”
There was much laughter.
“Mr. Fred,” Sergeant Rumpkin cried approvingly, waving his handkerchief as if it were a flag, “I didn’t know swimming was one of your many accomplishments.”
“Like a fish, Sergeant. A bloody fish.”
The burst of laughter this sally brought forth caused Fred’s cheeks to glow even more brightly.
“And where, Mr. Fred, did you stash the rest of your brood?”
“Like you’re always telling us to do, Sergeant. As far apart as possible.” Fred reached into his pocket and hauled out a fistful of coins. “I made six shillings, four pence and a half today.” He leaned forward and dumped the coins with a great rattle into the chest. That done, he stepped back and again saluted crisply.
“Very fine, Mr. Fred!” Sergeant Rumpkin cried. “You will go far. A credit to your family.”
“I don’t have no family,” returned young Fred with smirking satisfaction. “That’s why I’ve got no last name.”
“Yes, well then, you’re a credit to the Lime Street Runners Association, which I have the honor to command.” Another wave of the flag.
This remark caused so much applause from his comrades that a beaming Fred felt obliged to stand up and bow.
“All right, who’s next?” Sergeant Rumpkin asked as the waiter set before him a sizzling beefsteak. “Mr. Morris, may I have your report, sir?”
With Mr. Clemspool watching and listening from his table, each of the young men reported in. Whatever the amount they had collected—some more, some less—each one dropped it into the sergeant’s chest.
At times there was a setting forth of singular problems or difficulties. For these, Sergeant Rumpkin offered specific strategies and finished off a plate of mutton. Sometimes the handkerchief flag was waved; sometimes it was not.
When the reports were done and the money gathered, Sergeant Rumpkin made a rapid calculation, announcing the total and how much each boy had earned. Then he distributed the runners’ equal shares, keeping a large percentage for himself.
“Sergeant, sir,” one lad piped up to ask, “what about Toggs?”
“You know the rules, Mr. Neal. If Mr. Toggs is absent, he misses his pay,” Sergeant Rumpkin explained patiently. “Of course, when he does come, we’ll consider the matter on its own merits. I am fair, lads, nothing but fair. As for now, gentlemen, may I offer you something to drink?”
A waiter was hailed. Orders were placed. At this opportune moment, Mr. Clemspool approached the table.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. “May I have the pleasure of paying for your refreshment when it arrives?”
The entire membership of the Lime Street Runners Association swiveled about to look at t
he intruder.
“My name is Matthew Clemspool, Esquire, of London. A stranger here in Liverpool. I was sitting nearby and could not but overhear your conversation. To make my point precisely, I admire your venturesome spirits. Most enterprising.”
The eight young men contemplated Mr. Clemspool with strict, silent neutrality.
“We are a charitable organization, sir,” Sergeant Rumpkin said smoothly after a pat of his mouth with the handkerchief. “We offer to the confused and troubled traveler advice and accommodation, and we do this, moreover, without charging any fees whatsoever to the persons assisted.”
“An admirable occupation,” Mr. Clemspool hastened to agree. “With much to commend it as a charity. Indeed, it is not entirely unlike the kind of service my own business provides. But come now, shall I pay for your drinks? Then I will tell you of my need. Perhaps we may be of mutual benefit to one another.”
The young runners looked to Sergeant Rumpkin. The older soldier motioned that a place for Mr. Clemspool be made at the table.
When they were all seated, Sergeant Rumpkin clasped his hands before him. “Well then, Mr. Clemspool, what might be your business?”
“Ever read the Bible, sir?” Mr. Clemspool began.
“I should hope every man reads his Bible,” came the somber reply. For emphasis the sergeant looked around at his troops and nodded sagely.
“Genesis,” Mr. Clemspool said, plucking his invisible harp. “Chapter four. Verses five through nine. Cain and Abel. Older and younger brothers. I’m concerned with both, with a particular inclination toward the older.”
“The taller ground, sir,” Sergeant Rumpkin approved. “Easier to defend and … that’s usually where the money is.”
“You take my point precisely,” Mr. Clemspool agreed amiably. “Indeed, I am here in Liverpool on just such business. A certain young man—these days he goes by the name of Laurence Worthy—wishes to depart our green and pleasant shores for America. It is my desire to help him in the fulfillment of his wishes as quickly and as efficiently as possible.”
“The truth is, sir,” Sergeant Rumpkin cut in, “it’s England’s interest we serve. On one hand, we encourage the failures amongst us to leave. Let America have the rabble! At the same time, we help the better sorts to remain. I dare say, before the year is out, I’d be surprised if we weren’t commended by the queen herself”—Sergeant Rumpkin saluted his monarch—“for doing our public duty.”
“You are a true patriot, sir,” Mr. Clemspool allowed. “Alas, for reasons best known to himself, this boy has escaped my kindly ministrations. Alas again, he is bereft of friends—saving myself. Alas a third time, he has no money, though, I wish to assure you”—Mr. Clemspool raised a plump finger—“he is connected to a great deal of money. Sir, I want him back that I may speed him across the sea.”
Sergeant Rumpkin clasped his long fingers together so that they looked like a locked trap. “And how, sir, do you imagine we humble foot soldiers might be of help?”
“The members of your organization seem to know the streets of Liverpool exceedingly well.”
“They know the terrain, sir, every nook and cranny.”
Mr. Clemspool asked, “Might they be willing, for a substantial fee, all being professionals in matters of business—might they be willing to conduct a search for this unfortunate young Laurence Worthy? If they found him and could return him to my protection, I would be most appreciative.”
Sergeant Rumpkin looked around at his charges. “Well, sir, we’re strictly military in organization. Here are the soldiers. I am, sir, their commander. I issue orders. They enact them. They trust me as their father. I treat them as my sons. No, sir, there are no democratic tendencies lurking here.
“If you will tell me what this boy—this Laurence Worthy—looks like, and assuming you and I can come to a satisfactory financial agreement, which I don’t doubt, we can enlist the entire Lime Street Runners Association in single-minded pursuit of your young man.”
“Excepting Ralph Toggs, Sergeant,” Fred put in.
“Ah, yes, one of our lads is missing in action. But I harbor no doubts that when he returns, he will accept his marching orders like the rest.”
Mr. Clemspool leaned forward on the table and provided a detailed description of Laurence. Then he made his offer: Four pounds to the association for locating the boy. A special bonus—two pounds—to the enterprising youth discovering him first. An additional two pounds to the organization once Mr. Clemspool had Laurence in hand. With such liberal terms, agreement was quickly reached. Drinks were raised all around, and the deal was done.
It was late that evening when Mr. Clemspool—once again feeling himself the master of his fate—entered the lobby of the Royalton Hotel. So absorbed was he in self-congratulatory thoughts that he entirely failed to note the nervous agitation his entry provoked upon Mr. Hudson at the reception desk. With candle in hand to light his way, and already looking forward to a good night’s sleep, he mounted the steps to his room. Slipping his key into the lock of his door, Mr. Clemspool turned the catch and stepped inside. That was when he realized that a man was sitting in the darkness, a man wearing a bowler.
“Mr. Clemspool, I presume?” inquired Mr. Phineas Pickler.
Pacing the floor in his quarters, Mr. Bartholomew tried to make up his mind about the boys. Patrick presented no great problem. There were hundreds, thousands of such beggarly Irish boys in Liverpool. They were not bad boys, merely abandoned, hungry ones. Impoverished when they arrived, they were hungry, and there was no employment for them. Hardly a wonder they took to thieving. And while the boys didn’t say that’s what they were doing on the docks, Mr. Bartholomew had little doubt on that score. In his heart he could not judge them harshly.
Fortunately, he knew of a fine place in Liverpool for such cases, the Catholic Society for the Protection of Abandoned Irish Boys. There, youths like Patrick were taken in, fed, protected, and taught a trade. The society was the making of many of them. Mr. Bartholomew resolved to bring Patrick to its door.
As for young Laurence, if that indeed was his name, he was another matter. Runaway English boys were common and came from any number of troubled situations. Many, in fact, did go off to America. In such cases, the question the minister always worried over was, Did the parents want them back? From his experience all too often they did not.
From Laurence’s speech and bearing, the minister deduced he came from a family of considerable means. Now, upon further examination of the boy’s discarded clothing, it was evident that the tailoring was of a very high quality indeed. Yet both jacket arms and back revealed long rips, almost as if they had been sliced. Mr. Bartholomew recalled the severe welt upon the boy’s right cheek. The minister sighed. He was all too familiar with the evidence. The child had been beaten.
What, the man asked himself, were his responsibilities in the matter? Did Laurence’s family want him or not? How could he be most helpful?
After further thought, Mr. Bartholomew went to his desk, placed a sheet of paper upon it, dipped pen into black ink, and wrote:
Inspector Knox
Metropolitan Police
Great Russell Street
Liverpool
Sir,
I feel obliged to inform you that a boy—answering only to the name of Laurence—has come aboard my chapel. He was dressed in rags, is without any money, and has informed me he has run away from home.
While I am aware that such cases number in the thousands, and you would not, therefore, ordinarily be concerned, this boy’s speech and manner suggest that he comes from a family of means. I therefore wish to make you aware of the situation and await your advice, if any.
I remain, sir, your esteemed friend,
The Reverend Gideon Bartholomew,
aboard the chapel ship Charity,
Queen’s Dock, Liverpool
After reading over his words and blotting the paper, Mr. Bartholomew folded the letter, sealed it with a bit of sealing wax, ad
dressed it, and put it aside until morning, when he would seek to find someone to deliver it.
At last the minister blew out the lantern, said his prayers, and retired to enjoy the sleep of the righteous.
I beg your pardon!” cried a startled Mr. Clemspool when he stepped into his hotel room and found Mr. Pickler sitting in the shadows. “Who are you, and what are you doing in my rooms?”
“My name, sir,” the investigator returned quietly, “is Phineas Pickler, of London.”
“London, eh?” Mr. Clemspool growled, perusing the small man before him in the candlelight, the round eyes, the jacket, the checked trousers, and the bowler. “Then I beg to inform you,” he said, “your sense of geography is decidedly wanting. Out with you!” He held the candle high and the door open.
Mr. Pickler remained seated. “I am here,” he went on calmly, “because I represent the Kirkle family.”
Mr. Clemspool flinched, but in an effort to recover himself, he lifted his candle a little higher and considered Mr. Pickler, so to speak, in a new light. “Kirkle, eh?” he said, professing ignorance so as to collect his thoughts. “What’s that to me?”
“Have you,” Mr. Pickler inquired patiently, “some association with any member of that illustrious family?”
Mr. Clemspool, even as he tried to guess why this Pickler fellow was there, considered the question. “Look here,” he blustered, “you have no right to be interrogating me. Or do you have some legal authority that gives you leave?” He puffed himself up. “To make my point precisely, I have my rights, and you are an intruder in my rooms.”
Mr. Pickler removed his hat, stared into it for a moment, then looked up. “Mr. Clemspool, as an English citizen, I have the equal right to set forth certain information before the police.”
Mr. Clemspool absorbed the remark in silence. Feeling the need to weigh his situation carefully, he set the candle upon a table and took a seat opposite Mr. Pickler. Only then did he say, “And pray tell, sir, what kind of information would that be?”
“It would appear that Lord Kirkle’s son …”