Fame and Fortune Part 37

"That's so. I wanted to borrer a shillin' of him last week, and he wouldn't lend it to me."

This Tom Wilkins was a boot-black like the two who were expressing so unfavorable an opinion of his character. He had a mother and two sisters partially dependent upon him for support, and faithfully carried home all his earnings. This accounts for his being unwilling to lend Limpy Jim, who had no one to look out for but himself, and never considered it necessary to repay borrowed money. Tom had reason to feel friendly to d.i.c.k, for on several occasions, one of which is mentioned in the first volume of this series, d.i.c.k had given him help in time of need. He was always ready to defend d.i.c.k, when reviled by Micky and his followers, and had once or twice been attacked in consequence. Limpy Jim was right in supposing that nothing would disturb Tom more than to hear that his friend had got into trouble.

Micky, who was in a generous mood, bought a couple of cheap cigars, of which he presented one to his satellite. These were lighted, and both boys, feeling more comfortable for the hearty meal of which they had partaken, swaggered out into the street.

They re-entered the park, and began to look out for patrons.

"There's Tom Wilkins now," said Limpy Jim.

Tom was busily engaged in imparting a scientific shine to the boots of an old gentleman who was sitting on one of the wooden seats to be found in the neighborhood of the City Hall.

When he had completed his task, and risen from his knees, Limpy Jim advanced towards him, and said, with a sneer, "I've heard fine news about your friend d.i.c.k."

"What's that?" asked Tom.

"He's got nabbed by a 'copp.'"

"I don't believe it," said Tom, incredulously.

"Isn't it so, Micky?" said Jim, appealing to his friend.

"Yes, it's true. I seed him hauled off for pickin' an old fellow's pocket in Chatham Street."

"I don't believe it," repeated Tom; but he began to feel a little uneasy. "I saw him and spoke to him yesterday mornin'."

"What if you did? It didn't happen till afternoon."

"d.i.c.k wouldn't steal," said Tom, stoutly.

"He'll find it mighty hard work provin' that he didn't," said Micky.

"You won't see him for the next three months."

"Why won't I?"

"Because he'll be at the Island. Maybe you'll go there yourself."

"If I do, it'll be for the first time," retorted Tom; "and that's more than either of you can say."

As this happened to be true, it was of course regarded as offensive.

"Shut up, Tom Wilkins!" said Micky, "if you don't want a lickin'."

"None of your impudence!" said Limpy Jim, emboldened by the presence and support of Micky, who was taller and stronger than Tom.

"I've only told the truth," said Tom, "and you can't deny it."

"Take that for your impudence!" said Micky, drawing off, and hitting Tom a staggering blow on the side of the head.

Limpy Jim was about to a.s.sist Micky, when there was a very unlooked-for interruption. Micky Maguire was seized by the collar, and, turning indignantly, found himself in the grip of a policeman.

"So you are fighting, are you, my fine fellow?" demanded the guardian of the public peace.

"He insulted me," said Micky, doggedly, not attempting resistance, which he knew would be ineffectual. "Didn't he, Jim?"

But Jim had already disappeared. He had a prejudice, easily accounted for, against the metropolitan police, and had as little communication with them as possible.

"I don't know anything about that," said the policeman. "All I know is that you're wanted."

"Just for hittin' him? I didn't hurt him any."

"He didn't hurt me much," said Tom, generously, not desiring to see Micky get into trouble on his account.

"He says I didn't hurt him," urged Micky. "Can't you let me go?"

"That isn't what I want you for," said the policeman.

Micky was astonished. The real cause of his arrest never once occurred to him, and he could not understand why he was "wanted."

"What is it, then?" he asked in some surprise. "What 'ave I been doin'?"

"Perhaps you don't remember relieving an old gentleman of his pocket-book yesterday in Chatham Street."

"'Twasn't me."

"Who was it then?"

"Ragged d.i.c.k,--the feller that was took at the time. I seed him pick the man's pocket."

"It seems that you remember something about it."

"But it was d.i.c.k that did it. If he says I did it, he lies."

"I've nothing to do with that. You must tell your story to the judge."

"Has he let d.i.c.k go?"

"Yes."

Micky received this intelligence with dismay. Somehow it had got out that he was the real thief, and he began to think that his chance of getting off was small. Just then, while in custody of the policeman, he saw advancing towards him the man who had inveigled him into the plot,--Gilbert, the book-keeper. His anger against Gilbert overcame his prudence, and he said, "Well, if I did take the pocket-book, I was paid for doin' it, and that was the man that hired me."

With some surprise, the policeman listened to this story.

"If you don't believe me, just wait till I speak to him."

"Mr. Gilbert!" called Micky.

Gilbert, who had not till now noticed his confederate, looked up, and, rapidly understanding what had happened, determined upon his course.

"Who speaks to me?" he said, quietly.