Archie's Mistake Part 2

"Why, I saw him come away this evening, just before I came back here, and Stephen Bennett went in instead. I can't say he looks quite the sort of fellow to be in charge of a big place like that all night--a fellow of his habits, too."

"What do you know about his habits?"

"Oh, nothing particular. But, of course, one can't help suspecting there's something wrong about a chap who draws the pay he does, and goes staggering about the streets with his arms full of children's clothes, and his own things looking like a beggar's."

"Do you mean you think the lad drinks, or is dishonest? Speak out, Archie, like a man, and don't throw stones in the dark."

"I don't want to do the fellow any harm," responded Archie, who felt that, in spite of his watching, he knew far too little to speak definitely; "but what I have seen of him I don't like, and that's a fact. I can't help thinking there's something behind. What business has he to be at the mill to-night, when the regular man's away?"

"None at all, of course. Most likely Lingard has gone off on some errand of his own, and paid Bennett to take his place. But it is not regular or right, by any means; I don't like the idea of it at all....

I think I shall go round myself presently, and find out all about it."

By the time Stephen got back from his round it was nearly nine o'clock. He sank into a chair, and leaning his elbows on the table, rested his head in his hands.

"I'm a deal weaker than I was last week," he murmured; "but I must try and last out till father's back. I'll write to him now, and tell him how fast I'm going. If there was any one a bit friendly, I'd tell 'em about it all, and ask 'em to look after the little 'uns if I go quicker; but there isn't. They all seem against me and my rags. I thought Mr. Archie looked so kind at first, but I can see now he thinks worse of me than any."

He got out some sheets of paper he had in his pocket, and pulled the pens and ink on the table towards him.

He did not write very fast, and as he had a good deal to say, he was some time over his letter. About twenty minutes had pa.s.sed, when the room seemed to get very misty. The pen dropped out of Stephen's hand, and he fell back, with his eyes shut, and his head against the rail of the chair.

He had remained thus, asleep from very weakness, for about an hour, when he was suddenly aroused by a rough voice in his ear.

"Wake up, skulker! your time's come at last."

He opened his eyes, his heart throbbing violently, and there stood the burly form of Simon Bond. He looked bigger than ever in the dimly-lighted room; and as his great grimy face came nearer, and his strong hands grasped Stephen's ear and collar, he felt that his last moment had come, and even sooner than he had expected.

"Get up!" said his enemy, giving him a kick, and dragging him roughly from the chair. "Now," he went on, "I think you refused to answer my questions last time I asked 'em. You'll please to alter your ways from to-night, or you'll get more o' _these_ than you'll quite like."

As he spoke he let go of the lad's collar with his right hand, and brought it swinging down with all his force on the side of Stephen's head.

Instantly the boy dropped like one dead at his feet.

At the same moment the office-door opened, and the appalling sight appeared of Mr. Fairfax's tall form, followed closely by his son Archie.

Not a second did Simon lose. He turned to the door, and was off like a flash of lightning.

Archie made a rush, as though to follow him.

"Cowardly lout!" he cried.

"No; stop, Archie," said his father. "You couldn't catch him; and if you did, you couldn't keep him. We'll examine him to-morrow--we both saw who it was. Now let us look after this poor lad."

"See, father, he was writing a letter," said Archie.

Mr. Fairfax took up the paper. This is what it said:--

"DEAR FATHER,--The little 'uns is all well, and I've got money now to last 'em till you are out, if I'm took before, which I'm that bad and low I can't hardly creep along. I've give Polly the money to use when wanted. She's been a good girl all along. Come to the above address as soon as you are out. I done my best, father, as you told me. And now good-bye, if I'm gone.--Your loving son,

"STEPHEN BENNETT.

"_P.S._--I never believed as you did it, father, and I don't now. G.o.d will make it right, so don't fret."

The envelope lay by the letter. It was directed to--

_Ambrose Bennett, No. 357,_ _Eastwood Jail._

Mr. Fairfax gave them both to his son. "There, Archie," he said; "read these, and see if you still think you were right."

Then he went to Stephen, and did what he could to restore him to consciousness. But he was in such a weak state that nothing seemed of any use.

"Father, I've been a suspicious _brute_," cried Archie, flinging down the letter. "But for my cold looks and constant spying, which I daresay he's noticed, he might have told me all this, and I might have helped him. Now he's starving and friendless. But I'll try to make up now, if it isn't too late. Do let me carry him home, father--may I?"

"No," said Mr. Fairfax; "I'll go back and order some brandy, and send for the doctor. You stay here and take care of him and the mill."

He went away, and very long did the time seem to Archie before the doctor arrived. Now he had time to think over his own unkind--nay, cruel--suspicions, founded on nothing but Stephen's shabby appearance.

"It's my way, I know, to make up my mind too quickly, and by a fellow's outside," he thought. Then, somehow, the words of the last Sunday's epistle came into his mind--"Charity thinketh no evil." He knew that charity means love.

"No," he said to himself, "I shouldn't have thought evil of him, and I certainly had no right to say what I did to father and Mr. Munster.

Poor fellow! how lonely and miserable he must have been; and I might have stood his friend, if I'd only given him the chance of speaking about his troubles, instead of glaring at him as I did. Is it too late now to make up?"

Just then the doctor came in; but for a long, long time he could not restore Stephen to consciousness.

He was trying still when three o'clock struck.

"Now he is really coming to--look, Dr. Grey," cried Archie, who had watched all the doctor's efforts with breathless anxiety.

Just then Stephen gave a great sigh, and opened his eyes.

"Where am I?" he asked feebly.

"All among friends," said Archie, "and going to have a jolly time, and be nursed up, and made as strong as a horse.--Now, Dr. Grey, let's get a cab. I'll go and call one," and he bustled off.

Outside he met a disgusting sight. It was Timothy Lingard, staggering towards the mill, very much the worse for what he had been drinking.

"You can't go there; go home at once," said Archie.

"Night-watch--caretaker--said I'd be here," mumbled Timothy, trying to brush past him; and then finding Archie still stood as a hindrance in front of him, he tried to strike him--of course not knowing who it was--only he missed his aim, and fell down into the gutter.

There Archie left him, to seek a cab, which is not an easy thing to find at three o'clock in the morning. However, before long he did succeed in procuring one, and in it Stephen was conveyed to the nearest hospital.

Mr. Fairfax was just starting for his office the next morning when he was accosted by a respectable-looking working-man.

"Do I speak to Mr. Fairfax, sir?" he asked, touching his hat.

"Yes, that is my name. Can I do anything for you?"