The Adventures of Harry Revel Part 9

The question knocked the wind out of me, and I felt my face whitening under the clergyman's eyes.

"Soldier--S.O.L.D.I.E.R," I managed to answer, but scarce above a whisper.

"Very good: now make a rhyme to it."

"I--please, sir, I don't know any rhymes."

"Well, that's honest, anyway. Now I'll tell you why I asked."

He turned and addressed Mr. Whitmore. "I'm Cornish born, sir; from Saltash, up across the river. Afore I went to sea there was a maid livin' next door to us that wanted to marry me. Well, when she found I wasn't to be had, she picked up with a fellow from the Victualling Yard and married he, and came down to Dock to live. Man's name was Babbage, and they hadn't been married six months afore he tumbled into a brine-vat and was drowned. 'That's one narrow escape to me,'

I said. Next news I had was a letter telling me she'd a boy born, and please would I stand G.o.dfather? I didn't like to say no, out of respect to her family. So I wrote home from Gibraltar that I was agreeable, only it must be done by proxy and she mustn't make it no precedent. That must be ten years back; and what with one thing and another I never set eyes 'pon mother or child till yesterday when-- having to run down to Dock to order Bill's grave--I thought 'twould be neighbourly to drop 'em a visit. I found the boy growed to be a terrible plain child, about the size of this youngster. I didn't like the boy at all. So I says to his mother, 'I s'pose he's clever?'--for dang it! thinks I, he must be clever to make up for being so plain-featured as all that. 'Benjy'--she'd a-called him Benjamin after me--'Benjy's the cleverest child for his age that ever you see,' she says. 'Why,' says she, 'he'll pitch-to and make up a rhyme 'pon anything!' 'Can he so?' I says, pulling a great crown-piece out of my pocket (not that I liked the cut of his jib, but the woman had been hinting about my being his G.o.dfather): 'Now, my lad, let's see if you're so gifted as your mother makes out.

There's a sojer now pa.s.sin' the window. Make a rhyme 'pon he, and you shall have the money.' What d'ye think that ghastly boy did?

'Aw, that's easy,' he says--"

'Sojer, sojer, Diddy, diddy, dodger!'

"'Now hand me over the money,' he says. I could have slapped his ear."

Almost as he ended his simple story, the procession came to a halt: the strains of _Tom Bowling_ changed into noisy--and, on the part of the ladies, very unladylike--expostulations. Mr. Jope started forward and leaned out of the window.

"I think," said the Rev. Mr. Whitmore, "we have arrived at the toll-gate."

"D'ye mean to say the sharks want to take toll on Bill?"

"Likely enough."

"On Bill? And him a-going to his long home? Here--hold hard!"

Mr. Jope leapt out into the roadway and disappeared.

Upon us two, left alone in the coach, there fell a dreadful silence.

Mr. Whitmore leaned forward and touched my knee; and I met his eye.

The face I looked into was thin and refined; clean-shaven and a trifle pale as if with the habit of study. A slight baldness by the temples gave the brow unusual height. His eyes I did not like at all: instead of soothing the terror in mine they seemed to be drinking it in and tasting it and calculating.

"I pa.s.sed by the Barbican just now," said he; "and heard some inquiries about a small chimney-sweep."

He paused, as if waiting. But I had no speech in me.

"It was a very strange story they were telling--a very dreadful and strange story: still when I came upon you I saw, of course, it was incredible. Boys of your size"--he hesitated and left the sentence unfinished. "Still, you may have seen something--hey?"

Again I could not answer.

"At any rate," he went on, "I gave you the benefit of the doubt and resolved to warn you. It was a mistake to run away: but the mischief's done. How were you proposing to make off?"

"You--you won't give me up, sir?"

"No, for I think you must be innocent--of what they told me, at least. I feel so certain of it that, as you see, my conscience allows me to warn you. In the first place, avoid the Torpoint Ferry.

It will without doubt be watched. I should make for the docks, hide until night, and try to stow myself on s.h.i.+pboard. Secondly"--he put out a hand and softly unfastened the coach door--"I am going to leave you. Our friend Mr. Jope is engaged, I see, in an altercation with the toll-keeper. He seems a good-natured fellow. The driver (it may help you to know) is drunk. Of course, if by ill-luck they trace me out, to question me, I shall be obliged to tell what I know.

It amounts to very little: still--I have no wish to tell it.

One word more: get a wash as soon as you can, and by some means acquire a clean suit of clothes. I may be then unable to swear to you: may be able to say that your face is as unfamiliar to me as it was--or as mine was to you--when Mr. Jope introduced us. Eh?"

His look was piercing.

"Thank you, sir."

He picked up his valise, nodded, and after a swift glance up the street and around at the driver, to make sure that his head was turned, stepped briskly out upon the pavement and disappeared around the back of the coach.

CHAPTER IX.

SALTASH FERRY.

Apparently the hackney coachman was accustomed to difficulties with the toll-gate; for he rested on the box in profoundest slumber, rec.u.mbent, with his chin sunk on his chest; and only woke up--with a start which shook the vehicle--when a black hea.r.s.e with plumes waving went rattling by us and back towards Plymouth.

A minute later Mr. Jope reappeared at the coach door, perspiring copiously, but triumphant.

"Oh, it's been heavinly!" he announced. "Why, hallo! Where's his Reverence?"

"He couldn't wait, sir. He--he preferred to walk."

"Eh? I didn't see 'en pa.s.s the toll-bar. That's a pity, too; for I wanted to take his opinion. Oh, my son, it's been heavinly!

First of all I tried argyment and called the toll-man a son of a b.i.t.c.h; and then he fetched up a constable, and, as luck would have it, Nan--she's in the second coach--knew all about _him_; leastways, she talked as if she did. Well, the toll-man stuck to his card of charges and said he hadn't made the law, but it was threepence for everything on four wheels. 'Four wheels?' I said. 'Don't talk so weak! We brought nothing into the world and we can't take it out; but you'd take the breeches off a Highlander,' I says. 'He's on four wheels,' says the fellow, stubborn as ever. 'So was Elijah,' says I; 'but if you're so mighty particular, we'll try ye another way.'

I paid off the crew of the hea.r.s.e, gave the word to cast loose, and down we dumped poor Bill slap in the middle of the roadway.

'Now,' says I, 'we'll leave talking of wheels. What's your charge for 'en on the flat?' 'Eight bearers at a ha'penny makes fourpence,'

he says. 'No, no, my son,' I says, 'there ain't a-going to be no bearers. _He's_ happy enough if he stops here all night. You may charge 'en as a covered conveyance, as I see you've a right to; but the card says nothing about rate of drivin', except that it mustn't be reckless; and, you may lay to it, Bill won't be that.' At first the constable talked big about obstructing the traffic: but Nan was telling the crowd such terrible things about his past that for very shame he grew quiet, and the pair agreed that, by las.h.i.+n' Bill a-top of the first coach, we might pa.s.s him through _gratis_ as personal luggage--Why, what's the boy cryin' for? It's all over now; and a principle's a principle."

But still, as the squadron got under way again and moved on amid the cheers of the populace, I sat speechless, dry-eyed, shaken with dreadful sobs.

"Easy, my lad--don't start the timbers. In trouble--hey?"

I nodded.

"I thought as much, when I s.h.i.+pped ye. Sit up, and tell me; but first listen to this. All trouble's big to a boy, but one o' your age don't often do what's past mendin', if he takes it honest.

That's comfort, hey? Very well: now haul up and inspect damages, and we'll see what's to be done."

"It's about a Jew, sir," I stammered at length.

He nodded. "Now we're making headway."

"He--he was murdered. I saw him--"

"Look here," said Mr. Jope, very grave but seemingly not astonished: "hadn't you best get under the seat?"

"I--I didn't do it, sir. Really, I didn't."

"I'm not suggestin' it," said Mr. Jope. "Still, all circ.u.mstances considered, I'd get under the seat."

"If you wish it, sir."