The Story of Antony Grace

Jack stared in a dull, stolid way for a moment, the idea being so novel to him. Then his face lit up and he checked the horses.

“Hold on, fey-ther,” he shouted; and as if it was quite right to obey his son’s words, the great fellow steered the long barge so that it came close in.

“There’s a beer-shop,” said Jack, pointing to a place close by the towing-path, all glorious with blue and gold announcements of Barclay, Perkins and Co.’s Entire. “You go and get a pot o’ porter – it’s threepence ha’penny, mind – and give it the old man; we’ll wait.”

I ran up to the door of the public-house and asked the man in shirt-sleeves and white apron for a pot of porter, which he drew in the bright pewter vessel, and I paid for it with one of my sixpences, received my change, and then had to make solemn assurance that I would bring back the pot before I was allowed to take it down to the canal-side, where Jack and his father were waiting.

The latter’s face was as stolid as ever as I went up to him; but there was a little extra opening of his eyes as he saw the foaming liquid in the bright pewter and stretched out his hand.

“Beer ain’t good for boys,” he said gruffly; and then, blowing off the froth, he put the vessel to his lips, and slowly poured it all down, without stopping, to the very last drop; after which he uttered a heavy sigh of either pleasure or regret, and brought his eyes to bear on me.

“Feyther likes a drop o’ beer,” said Jack.

“Ketch!” said “father,” and he threw the empty pot to me, which luckily I caught, and stood watching him as he went to the tiller. “Go on!”

Jack gave me a nod, cracked his whip, and the horses drew the slack rope along the cindery tow-path till it was tight. Jack’s father paused in the act of refilling his pipe and gave me another nod, and Jack’s mother’s head came above the hatchway to stare at me as the barge moved, and I stood watching it with my bundle under my arm and the bright pewter vessel in my hand.

My reverie was interrupted by a shout from the public-house door, and I took the pot back, to return once more to the towing-path, sick at heart and despondent, as I thought of the pleasant days of my short vagabond career.

It was like parting with very good friends, and I sat down at last upon a log, one of a pile of timber, full of regrets; for these rough people had in their way been very kind to me, and I thought that perhaps I should never see them any more.

Chapter Twelve.

My First Night in Town

I did not sit thinking long, for I felt that I must be up and doing. The long barge had crept silently away and was out of sight, but I felt that after my dismissal I ought not to follow it; so I crossed a bridge over the canal and went on and on between rows of houses and along streets busy with vehicles coming and going, and plenty of people.

For the first half-hour I felt that everybody knew me and was staring at the boy who had run away from Mr Blakeford’s office; but by degrees that idea passed off and gave place to another, namely, that I was all alone in this great city, and that it seemed very solitary and strange.

For above an hour I walked on, with the streets growing thicker and the noise and bustle more confusing. I had at last reached a busy thoroughfare; gas was burning, and the shops looked showy and attractive. The one, however, that took my attention was a coffee-shop in a side street, with a great teapot in the window, and a framed card on which I read the list of prices, and found that a half-pint cup of coffee would be one penny, and a loaf and butter twopence.

My money was getting scarce, but I was tired and hungry, and after staring at that card for a long time I thought I would venture to go in, and walked right up to the door. I dared, however, go no farther, but walked straight on, turned, and came back, and so on several times, without being able to make up my mind; but at last, as I was still hovering about the place, I caught sight of a policeman advancing in the distance, and, fully assured that it must be Mary’s friend, Mr Revitts, in search of me, I walked breathlessly into the coffee-house and sat down at the nearest table.

There were several men and lads seated about, but they were all, to my great relief, reading papers or periodicals, and I was recovering my equanimity somewhat, when it was upset by a bustling maid, who came as I thought fiercely up to me with a sharp “What’s for you?”

“A cup of coffee, if you please,” I stammered out.

“And roll and butter?”

“Yes, please,” I said, somewhat taken aback that she should, as I felt, have divined my thoughts; and then, in an incredibly short space of time, a large cup of steaming coffee and a roll and pat of butter were placed on the table.

After timidly glancing round to find that it was no novel thing for any one to enter a coffee-house and partake of the fare before me, I proceeded to make my meal, wishing all the while that Jack had been there to share it, and wondering where he was, till at last the coffee was all drunk, the roll and butter eaten, and after paying what was due I stole off once more into the streets. I went on and on in a motiveless way, staring at the wonders ever unfolding before me, till, utterly wearied out, the thought struck me that I must find a resting-place somewhere, for there were no haystacks here, there was no friendly tarpaulin to share with Jack, and, look where I would, nothing that seemed likely to suggest a bed.

I had wandered on through wide, well-lighted streets, and through narrow, poverty-stricken places, till I was in a busy, noisy row, along the pavement of which were broad barrows with flaming lamps, and laden with fish, greengrocery, and fruit. There was noise enough to confuse anyone used to London; to me it was absolutely deafening.

I had seen by a clock a short time before that it was nearly ten, and my legs ached so that I could scarcely stand; and yet, in the midst of the busy throng of people hurrying here and there, I alone seemed to be without friend or home.

I had been wandering about in a purposeless way for a long time, trying to see some one who would win my confidence enough to make me ask where I could obtain a night’s lodging, when I suddenly became aware that a big lad with a long narrow face and little eyes seemed to be watching me, and I saw what seemed to me so marked a resemblance to the young scoundrel who had stolen my bundle, that I instinctively grasped it more tightly and hurried away.

On glancing back, I found that the boy was following, and this alarmed me so that I hastened back into the big street, walked along some distance, then turned and ran as hard as I could up one street and down another, till at last I was obliged to stop and listen to make sure whether I was pursued.

To my horror I heard advancing steps, and I had just time to shrink back into a doorway before, by the dim light of the gas, I saw the lad I sought to avoid run by, and as soon as his heavy boots had ceased to echo, I crept out and ran in the other direction, till, completely worn out, I sat down upon a doorstep in a deserted street, and at last dropped off fast asleep.

I was startled into wakefulness by a strange glare shining in my face, and, looking up, there was a round glowing eye of light seeming to search me through and through.

For a few moments I could do nothing but stare helplessly and then started nervously as a gruff voice exclaimed – “Here; what’s in that bundle?”

“My clothes and clean shirt, sir,” I faltered. “Let’s look.”

My hands shook so that I was some time before I could get the handkerchief undone; but in the meantime I had been able to make out that the speaker was a policeman, and in my confusion at being awakened out of a deep sleep, I associated his coming with instructions from Mr Blakeford.

At last, though, I laid my bundle open on the step, and my questioner seemed satisfied.

“Tie it up,” he said, and I hastened to obey. “Now, then, young fellow,” he continued, “how is it you are sitting here asleep? Why don’t you go home?”

“Please, sir, I came up from the country to-day, and I ran away from a boy who wanted to steal my bundle, and then I sat down and fell asleep.”

“That’s a likely story,” he said, making the light of the lantern play upon my face. “Where were you going?”

“I don’t know, sir. Yes I do – to Mr Rowle.”

“And where’s Mr Rowle’s?”

“It’s – it’s – stop a minute, sir. I’ve got the address written down. It’s at a great printing-office.”

As I spoke I felt in my pockets one after the other for the address of Mr Rowle’s brother, but to my dismay I found that it was gone, and, search how I would, there was no sign of it in either pocket. At last I looked up full in the policeman’s face, to exclaim pitifully – “Please, sir, it’s gone.”

“Is it now?” he said in a bantering, sneering tone. “That’s a wonder, that is: specially if it warn’t never there. Look here, young fellow, what have you come to London for?”

“Please, sir, I’ve come to seek my fortune.”

“Oh, you have, have you? Now look here, which are you, a young innocent from the country, or an artful one? You may just as well speak out, for I’m sure to find out all about it.”

“Indeed I’ve come up from the country, sir, to try and get a place, for I was so unhappy down there.”

“Then you’ve run away from your father and mother, eh?”

“No, sir; they are both dead.”

“Well, then, you’ve run away from home, eh?”

“No, sir,” I said sadly; “I haven’t any home.”

“Well, what’s got to be done? You can’t stop here all night.”

“Can’t I, sir?”

“Can’t you, sir? Why, what a young gooseberry it is! Have you been to London before?”

“No, sir.”

“When did you come up?”

“Only this evening, sir.”

“And don’t you know that if I leave you here some one’ll have your bundle, and perhaps you too, before morning?”

“I was so tired, sir, I fell asleep.”

“Come along o’ me. The best thing I can do for you’s to lock you up till morning.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He burst out into a roar of laughter as he turned off the light of his bull’s-eye.

“Come along, youngster,” he said, “it’s all right, I see. Why, you are as green as a gooseberry.”

“Am I, sir?” I said piteously, for I felt very sorry that I was so green, as he called it, but I was too much confused to thoroughly understand what he meant.

“Greener, ever so much. Why, if you’d gone down Covent Garden to sleep amongst the baskets you’d have got swept up for cabbage leaves.”

“Covent Garden Market, sir? Is that close here?” I said.

“As if you didn’t know,” he replied, returning to his doubting vein.

“I’ve heard my papa speak of it,” I said, eager to convince him that I was speaking the truth. “He said the finest of all the fruit in the country went there, and that the flowers in the central – central – ”

“Avenue?” suggested the constable.

“Yes, central avenue – were always worth a visit.”

“That’s so. And that’s what your papa said, eh?”

“Yes, sir, I have heard him say so more than once.”

“Then don’t you think, young fellow, as it looks very suspicious for a young gent as talks about his papa to be found sleeping on a doorstep?”

“Yes, sir, I suppose it does,” I said, “but I have no friends now.”

“Well, you’d better come along o’ me, and tell your tale to the inspector. I’m not going to leave you here. He’ll soon get to know the rights of it. You’ve run away, that’s what you’ve done.”

“Yes, sir,” I said; “I did run away, but – ”

“Never mind the buts, youngster. You’ll have to be sent back to your sorrowing friends, my absconding young sloper.”

“No, no, no?” I cried wildly, as he took hold of my cuff. “Don’t send me back, pray don’t send me back.”

“None o’ that ’ere now,” he said, giving me a rough shake. “You just come along quietly.”

“Oh, I will, sir, indeed I will!” I cried, “but don’t, pray don’t send me back.”

“Why not? How do you know but it won’t be best for yer? You come along o’ me sharp, and we’ll soon physic your constitution into a right state.”

The agony of dread that seized me at that moment was more than I could bear. In imagination I saw myself dragged back to Mr Blakeford, and saw the smile of triumph on his black-looking face, as he had me again in his power, and, boy as I was then, and full of young life and hopefulness, I believe that I would gladly have jumped into the river sooner than have had to trust to his tender mercies again.

In my horror, then, I flung myself on my knees before the policeman, and clasped his leg as I appealed wildly to him to let me go.

“If you sent me back, sir,” I cried piteously, “he’d kill me.”

“And then we should kill him,” he said, laughing. “Not as that would be much comfort to you. Here, get up.”

“You don’t know what I suffered, sir, after poor papa and mamma died. He used me so cruelly, and he beat me, too, dreadfully. And now, after I have run away, if he gets me back he will be more cruel than before.”

“Well, I s’pose he wouldn’t make it very pleasant for you, youngster. There, come: get up, and you shall tell the inspector, too, all about it.”

“No, no, no,” I cried wildly, as in spite of his efforts to get me up I still clung to his leg.

“Come, none of that, you know. I shall have to carry you. Get up.”

He seized me more roughly, and dragged me to my feet, when with a hoarse cry of dread, I made a dash to escape, freed my arm and ran for freedom once again, as if it were for my life.

Chapter Thirteen.

P.C. Revitts

In my blind fear of capture I did not study which way I went, but doubling down the first turning I came to, I ran on, and then along the next, to stop short directly afterwards, being sharply caught by the constable from whom I had fled, and who now held me fast.

“Ah! you thought it, did you?” he said coolly, while, panting and breathless, I feebly struggled to get away. “But it won’t do, my lad. You’ve got to come along o’ me.”

“And then I shall be sent back,” I cried, as I tried to wrestle myself free. “I’ve never done any harm, sir; and he’ll half kill me. You don’t know him. Pray let me go.”

“I know you to be a reglar young coward,” he said roughly. “Why, when I was your age, I shouldn’t have begun snivelling like this. Now, then, look here. You ain’t come to London only to see your Mr Hot Roll, or whatever you call him. Is there any one else you know as I can take you to? I don’t want to lock you up.”

“No, sir, nobody,” I faltered. “Yes, there is – there’s Mr Revitts.”

“Mr who?”

“Mr Revitts, sir,” I said excitedly. “He’s a policeman, like you.”

“Ah, that’s something like a respectable reference!” he said. “What division?”

“What did you say, sir?”

“I said what division?”

“Please, sir, I don’t know what you mean.”

“Do you know P.C. Revitts, VV division?”

“No, sir,” I said, with my heart sinking. “It’s Mr William Revitts I know.”

“Which his name is William,” he muttered. Then, aloud, “Here, come along.”

“No, no, sir,” I cried in alarm. “Don’t send me back.”

“Come along, I tell yer.”

“What’s up?” said a gruff voice; and a second policeman joined us.

“Don’t quite know yet,” said the first man; and then he said something in a low voice to the other, with the result that, without another word, I was hurried up and down street after street till I felt ready to drop. Suddenly my guide turned into a great blank-looking building and spoke to another policeman, and soon, after a little shouting, a tall, burly-looking constable in his buttoned-up greatcoat came slowly towards us in the whitewashed room.

“Here’s a lad been absconding,” said my guide, “and he says he’ll give you for a reference.”

“Eh! me?” said the newcomer, making me start as he stared hard in my face. “Who are you, boy. I don’t know you.”

“Antony Grace, please, sir,” I faltered.

“And who’s Antony Grace?”

“There, I thought it was a do,” said the first constable roughly. “What d’yer mean by gammoning me in this way? Come along.”

“No, sir, please. Pray give me time,” I cried. “Don’t send me back. Please, Mr Revitts, I have run away from Mr Blakeford, and if I am sent back to Rowford he’ll kill me. I know he will.”

“’Old ’ard, Smith,” said the big constable. “Look here, boy. What did you say? Where did you come from?”

“Rowford, sir. Pray don’t send me back.”

“And what’s the name of the chap as you’re afraid on?”

“Mr Blakeford, sir.”

“I’m blest!”

“What did you say, sir?”

“I said I’m blest, boy.”

“Then you do know him?” said the first constable.

“I don’t quite know as I do, yet,” was the reply.

“Well, look here, I want to get back. You take charge of him. I found him on a doorstep in Great Coram Street. There’s his bundle. If he don’t give a good account of himself, have it entered and lock him up.”

“All right,” said the other, after a few moments’ hesitation.

“Then I’m off,” said the first man; and he left me in charge of the big constable, who stood staring down at me so fiercely, as I thought, that I looked to right and left for a way of escape.

“None o’ that, sir,” he said sharply, in the words and way of the other, whose heavy footsteps were now echoing down the passage. “Lookye here, if you try to run away, I’ve only got to shout, and hundreds of thousands of pleecemen will start round about to stop yer.”

As he spoke he pushed me into a Windsor arm-chair, where I sat as if in a cage, while he held up one finger to shake in my face.

“As the Clerkenwell magistrate said t’other day, the law’s a great network, and spreads wide. You’re new in the net o’ the law, young fellow, and you can’t get out. Just look here, we knows a deal in the law and police, and I can find out in two twos whether you are telling me the truth or doing the artful.”

“Please, sir – ”

“Hold your tongue, sir! You can make your defence when your time comes; and mind this, it’s my dooty to tell you that what you says now may be used in evidence again you.”

Thus silenced, I stood gazing up in his big-whiskered face, that seemed to loom over me, in the gaslight, and wondered why there should be so much form and ceremony over taking my word.

“Now look here,” he said pulling out a notebook and pencil, like the auctioneer’s, only smaller, and seeming as if he were going to take an inventory of my small person. “Now, look here,” he repeated, moistening the point of his pencil, “you told Joe Smith you knowed me, and I never set eyes on you afore.”

“Please, sir,” I said hastily, “I told him I know Mr Revitts, who’s in the police.”

“Yes, and you said you had run away from Rowford and a Mr Blake – Blake – What’s his name?”

“Blakeford, sir,” I said despondently, for it seemed that this was not my Mr Revitts.

“Blakeford. That’s right; and he ill-used you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He’s a little fair man, ain’t he, with blue eyes?” And he rustled the leaves of his notebook as if about to take down my answer.

“No, sir,” I cried eagerly; “he’s tall and dark, and has short hair, and very white teeth.”

“Ho! Tall, is he?” said the constable, making believe to write, and then holding out his pencil at me. “He’s a nice, kind, amiable man, ain’t he, as wouldn’t say an unkind word to a dorg?”

“Oh no, sir,” I said, shuddering; “that’s not my Mr Blakeford.”

“Ho! Now, then, once more. There’s a servant lives there at that house, and her name’s Jane – ain’t it?”

“No, sir, Mary.”

“And she’s got red hair and freckles, and she – she’s very little and – ”

“No, no,” I cried excitedly, for after my heart had seemed to sink terribly low, it now leaped at his words. “That isn’t Mary, and you are saying all this to try me, sir. You – you are Mr William Revitts, I know you are;” and I caught him eagerly by the arm.

“Which I don’t deny it, boy,” he said, still looking at me suspiciously, and removing my hand. “Revitts is my name. P.C. Revitts, VV 240; and I ain’t ashamed of it. But only to think of it. How did you know of me, though?”

“I wrote Mary’s letters for her, sir.”

“Whew! That’s how it was she had so improved in her writing. And so you’ve been living in the same house along a her?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, “and she was so good and kind.”

“When she wasn’t in a tantrum, eh?”

“Yes, sir, when she wasn’t in a – ”

“Tantrum, that’s it, boy. We should ha’ been spliced afore now if it hadn’t been for her tantrums. But only to think o’ your being picked up in the street like this. And what am I to do now? You’ve absconded, you have; you know you’ve absconded in the eyes of the law.”

“Write to Mary, please, sir, and ask her if it wasn’t enough to make me run away.”

“Abscond, my lad, abscond,” said the constable.

“Yes, sir,” I said, with a shiver, “abscond.”

“You didn’t – you didn’t,” he said in a half hesitating way, as he felt and pinched my bundle, and then ran his hand down by my jacket-pocket. “You didn’t – these are all your own things in this, are they?”

“Oh yes, sir!” I said.

“Because some boys when they absconds, makes mistakes, and takes what isn’t theirs.”

“Do they, sir?”

“Yes, my lad, and I’m puzzled about you. You see, it’s my duty to treat you like a runaway ’prentice, and I’m uneasy in my mind about what to do. You see, you did run away.”

“Oh yes, sir, I did run away. I was obliged to. Mr Blakeford wanted me to tell lies.”

“Well, that seems to come easy enough to most people,” he said.

“But I am telling the truth, sir,” I said. “Write down to Rowford, and ask Mary if I’m not telling the truth.”

“Truth! Oh, I know that, my boy,” he said kindly. “Here, give’s your hand. Come along.”

“But you won’t send me back, sir?”

“Send you back? Not I, boy. He’s a blackguard, that Blakeford. I know him, and I only wish he’d do something, and I had him to take up for it. Mary’s told me all about him, and if ever we meets, even if it’s five pounds or a month, I’ll punch his head: that’s what I’ll do for him. Do yer hear?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Now, what’s to be done with you?”

I shook my head and looked at him helplessly.

He stood looking at me for a few moments and then went into another room, where there was a policeman sitting at a desk, like a clerk, with a big book before him. I could see him through the other doorway, and they talked for a few minutes; and then Mr Revitts came back, and stood staring at me.

“P’r’aps I’m a fool,” he muttered. “P’r’aps I ain’t. Anyhow, I’ll do it. Look here, youngster, I’m going to trust you, though as you’ve absconded I ought to take you before a magistrate or the inspector, but I won’t, as you’re a friend of my Mary.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

“And if you turn out badly, why, woe betide you.”

“Please, sir, I won’t turn out badly if I can help it; but Mr Blakeford said I was good for nothing.”

“Mr Blakeford be blowed! I wouldn’t ask him for a character for a dorg; and as for Mary, she don’t want his character, and he may keep it. I’ll take her without. I wouldn’t speak to any one like this, youngster; but you know that gal’s got a temper, though she’s that good at heart that – that – ”

“She’d nurse you so tenderly if you were ill,” I said enthusiastically, “that you wouldn’t wish to be better.”

He held out his hand and gave mine a long and solemn shake.

“Thankye, youngster,” he said, “thankye for that. You and I will be good friends, I see. I will trust your word, hang me if I don’t. Here, come along.”

“Are you – are you going to take me up, sir?” I faltered, with a shiver of apprehension.

“I’m a-going to give you the door-key where I lodges, my lad. I’m on night duty, and shan’t be home till quarter-past six, so you may have my bed and welcome. Now, look here,” he said, “don’t you go and let anybody fool you. I’m going to show you the end of a long street, and you’ll go right to the top, then turn to the right along the road till you come to the fourth turning, and on the right-hand side, number twenty-seven, is where I lodges. Here’s the key. You puts it in the lock, turns it, shuts the door after you, and then goes gently upstairs to the second-pair back.”

“Second-pair back, sir?” I said dubiously.

“Well there, then, to the back room atop of the house, and there you may sleep till I come. Now then, this way out.”