Jack Harkaway's Boy Tinker Among The Turks Part 109

Figgins had not remained in Ma.r.s.eilles like the others, and therefore, had escaped being arrested for counterfeit coining.

He reached London in safety, and having taken the upper part of a house within half a mile of St. Paul's Cathedral, resolved never more to trust himself beyond the City boundaries.

Yet, in his retirement, his conscience p.r.i.c.ked him for having left so hurriedly the friends who had rescued him from many a danger.

And Mole, too, his own particular travelling companion.

"I must go and see him once more," thought the orphan.

So one fine day he plucked up courage to venture a short journey on an English railway, and knowing where the elder Harkaway lived, was speedily instructed how to find Mole.

So now behold him shaking hands all round.

"I thought I must see you once more," said he, "but it is a great undertaking, you know, for my travels made me more timid than ever I was."

"Timid?" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Mole; "why, on one or two occasions you displayed bravery almost equal to my own."

"Mildly, Mr. Mole," said Jack.

"Ah, Mr. Harkaway, you three gentlemen are brave men, but I am only a poor timid orphan."

"That need not make you timid."

"But it does. So I have resolved never to trust myself out of London again."

"Then I am afraid we shall not meet very often, Mr. Figgins," said Mole, "for I, you know, hate town life."

"If you do come to town, though, you will call?"

"Certainly."

"Then, gentlemen, I will wish you farewell. I am deeply grateful for all you did when we were abroad----"

"Don't mention it."

"Mr. Mole, farewell. You know I feel more like an orphan than ever now I am parting from you."

"Don't talk like that, Figgins," said Mole.

"I can't help it, indeed, I can't. Farewell, my dear friend, farewell!"

And Figgins retired to his City home, where he still lives, though he is getting very feeble.

Still, he brightens up whenever he speaks of his old friend and travelling companion, Mole.

It is hard to part with old friends, but the decrees of fate cannot be avoided, so we must conclude our story.

It will be hardly necessary, we fancy, to inform our readers that young Jack eventually married little Emily, and Harry Girdwood led Paquita to the altar.

And as weddings are very much alike, we will not describe the ceremony, but content ourselves with saying that as much happiness as this world can afford was and is theirs.

Jack and Harry have extensive farms near each other, and are wealthy country gentlemen.

They are fond of outdoor sports, and have recently established a pack of harriers, Tinker and Bogey being respectively first and second whips. In each establishment there was formerly a room kept always ready for Mr. Mole, who went from one to the other as it pleased him, sure of a hearty welcome always.

But, alas! poor Mole is now no more.

Age preyed on his shaken body, and at length laid him on his deathbed.

Even then he could not help referring to the matrimonial portion of his life.

"I have been too much married, Jack. I am 'a wictim to connubiality,'

if I may be allowed to quote Sam Weller; but never again, dear boy."

And when only half conscious, he would repeat--"Never again, dear boy,"

expressing his firm determination not to marry again.

Poor Mole!

After all, he ended his days in peace, and died regretted by all his friends, who, if they had laughed at his failings, also remembered his kindly disposition.

He left behind him sufficient of this world's goods to enable his faithful Chloe to give the twins a good education.

They are now rollicking schoolboys, but will have a fair start when their guardians, Jack and Harry, fancy they are fitted to begin their battle with life.

Old Jack--he is getting old now--lives with Emily not far from his son, and with them, of course, is d.i.c.k Harvey.

Often on a fine day Old Jack will lead his grandchildren to the village churchyard, and while the youngsters deck poor old Mole's grave with flowers, will relate to them the best incidents of the old man's life.

Not far from poor Mole's grave is another tomb, in which rest the earthly remains of Monday, Prince of Limbi, who had grown grey in the service of Mr. Harkaway.

A much severer winter than usual laid the seeds of a complaint which speedily carried him off.

Sunday, whose head is fast becoming white as snow, took his death much to heart, and even now frequently strolls into the quiet churchyard to indulge in pensive recollections of his old friend by the side of his grave--aye, and perchance to reflect on his own end, which he knows full well must be fast approaching.

Monday had been thrifty, and when the days of mourning were over, his widow retired to Oxford to pa.s.s the remainder of her days with many good presents from Jack Harkaway, given in remembrance of his faithful servant Monday, the Prince of Limbi.

Readers, our tale is told; and we leave Harkaway to the repose he has so well earned.

But if you would prosper as he has done, be like him, truthful, brave, and generous.

In bringing to a conclusion the long series of Harkaway stories, Mr.

Edwin J. Brett cannot let the occasion pa.s.s without thanking the readers for the patience with which they have followed the hero's career, and the praise they have always bestowed upon the story or stories.