The Poacher Part 22

"Yes, ma'am," replied Joey; "that's the sum total of the account, exactly."

"Poor fellow!" continued Mrs Chopper, with a sigh, "he went to his long account without paying me my short one. Never mind; I wish he was alive, and twice as much in my debt. There's another--I recollect that well, Peter, for it's a proof that sailors are honest; and I do believe that, if they don't pay, it's more from thoughtlessness than anything else; and then the women coax all their money from them, for sailors don't care for money when they do get it--and then those Jews are such shocking fellows; but look you, Peter, this is almost the first bill run up after I took up the business. He was a nice fair-haired lad from Shields; and the boy was cast away, and he was picked up by another vessel, and brought here; and I let him have things and lent him money to the amount of a matter of 20 pounds, and he said he would save all and pay me, and he sailed away again, and I never heard of him for nine years. I thought that he was drowned, or that he was not an honest lad; I didn't know which, and it was a deal of money to lose; but I gave it up; when one day a tall, stout fellow, with great red whiskers, called upon me, and said, 'Do you know me?' 'No,' said I, half-frightened; 'how should I know you? I never see'd you before.'--'Yes, you did,'

says he, 'and here's a proof of it;' and he put down on the table a lot of money, and said, 'Now, missus, help yourself: better late than never.

I'm Jim Sparling, who was cast away, and who you were as good as a mother to; but I've never been able to get leave to come to you since.

I'm boatswain's mate of a man-of-war, and have just received my pay, and now I've come to pay my debts.' He would make me take 5 pounds more than his bill, to buy a new silk gown for his sake. Poor fellow! he's dead now. Here's another, that was run up by one of your tall, lanky sailors, who wear their knives in a sheath, and not with a lanyard round their waists; those fellows never pay, but they swear dreadfully. Let me see, what can this one be? Read it, Peter; how much is it?"

"4 pounds, 2 shillings, 4 pence," replied our hero.

"Yes, yes, I recollect now--it was the Dutch skipper. There's murder in that bill, Peter: it was things I supplied to him just before he sailed; and an old man was pa.s.senger in the cabin: he was a very rich man, although he pretended to be poor. He was a diamond merchant, they say; and as soon as they were at sea, the Dutch captain murdered him in the night, and threw him overboard out of the cabin-window; but one of the sailors saw the deed done, and the captain was taken up at Amsterdam, and had his head cut off. The crew told us when the galliot came back with a new captain. So the Dutch skipper paid the forfeit of his crime; he paid my bill, too, that's certain. Oh, deary me!" continued the old lady, turning to another page. "I shan't forget this in a hurry. I never see poor Nancy now without recollecting it. Look, Peter; I know the sum--8 pounds, 4 shillings 6 pence--exactly: it was the things taken up when Tom Freelove married Nancy,--it was the wedding dinner and supper."

"What, Nancy who was here just now?"

"Yes, that Nancy; and a sweet, modest young creature she was then, and had been well brought up too; she could read and write beautifully, and subscribed to a circulating library, they say. She was the daughter of a baker in this town. I recollect it well: such a fine day it was when they went to church, she looking so handsome in her new ribbons and smart dress, and he such a fine-looking young man. I never seed such a handsome young couple; but he was a bad one, and so it all ended in misery."

"Tell me how," said Joey.

"I'll tell all you ought to know, boy; you are too young to be told all the wickedness of this world. Her husband treated her very ill; before he had been married a month he left her, and went about with other people, and was always drunk, and she became jealous and distracted, and he beat her cruelly, and deserted her; and then, to comfort her, people would persuade her to keep her spirits up, and gave her something to drink, and by degrees she became fond of it. Her husband was killed by a fall from the mast-head; and she loved him still and took more to liquor, and that was her ruin. She don't drink now, because she don't feel as she used to do; she cares about nothing; she is much to be pitied, poor thing, for she is still young, and very pretty. It's only four years ago when I saw her come out of church, and thought what a happy couple they would be."

"Where are her father and mother?"

"Both dead. Don't let's talk about it any more. It's bad enough when a man drinks; but if a woman takes to it, it is all over with her; but some people's feelings are so strong, that they fly to it directly to drown care and misery. Put up the book, Peter; I can't look at it any more to-night; we'll go to bed."

Joey every day gave more satisfaction to his employer, and upon his own responsibility, allowed his friend the sailor lad to open an account as soon as his money was all gone. Finding that the vessel was going up the river to load, Joey determined to write a few lines to the McShanes, to allay the uneasiness which he knew his absence must have occasioned, Jim Paterson promising to put the letter in the post as soon as he arrived at London.

Our hero simply said, "My dear sir, I am quite well, and have found employment, so pray do not grieve about me, as I never shall forget your kindness.--Joey McShane."

On the following Sunday Joey was dressed in his sailor's suit, and looked very well in it. He was not only a very good-looking, but a gentlemanlike boy in his manners. He went to church, and after church he walked out to the abode of his little friend, Emma Phillips. She ran out to meet him, was delighted with his new clothes, and took him by the hand to present him to her mother. Mrs Phillips was a quiet-looking, pleasing woman, and the old lady was of a very venerable appearance.

They made many inquiries about his friends, and Joey continued in the same story, that he and his father had been poachers, that he had been discovered and obliged to go away, and that he went with the consent of his parents. They were satisfied with his replies, and prepossessed in his favour; and as Joey was so patronised by her little daughter, he was desired to renew his visits, which he occasionally did on Sundays, but preferred meeting Emma on the road from school; and the two children (if Joey could be called a child) became very intimate, and felt annoyed if they did not every day exchange a few words. Thus pa.s.sed the first six months of Joey's new life. The winter was cold, and the water rough, and he blew his fingers, while Mrs Chopper folded her arms up in her ap.r.o.n; but he had always a good dinner and a warm bed after the day's work was over. He became a great favourite with Mrs Chopper, who at last admitted that he was much more useful than even Peter; and William, the waterman, declared that such was really the case, and that he was, in his opinion, worth two of the former Peter, who had come to such an untimely end.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

IN WHICH THE BITER IS BIT.

The disappearance of Joey from the school was immediately communicated to McShane by the master, who could not imagine how such an incident could have occurred in such a decent establishment as his preparatory seminary; it was an epoch in his existence, and ever afterwards his chronology was founded upon it, and everything that occurred was so many months or weeks before or after the absconding of young Master McShane.

The letter had, of course, been produced, and as soon as the schoolmaster had taken his departure, McShane and his wife were in deep council. "I recollect," said Mrs McShane, who was crying in an easy chair--"I recollect, now, that one day the boy came up and asked me the meaning of wilful murder, and I told him. And now I think of it, I do also remember the people at Number 1 table, close to the counter, some time ago, talking about a murder having been committed by a mere child, and a long report of it in the newspapers. I am sure, however (as Joey says in his letter), that he is not guilty."

"And so am I," replied McShane. "However, bring up the file of newspapers, dear, and let me look over them. How long back do you think it was?"

"Why, let me see; it was about the time you went away with Captain O'Donahue, I think, or a little before--that was in October."

McShane turned over the file of newspapers, and after a quarter of an hour's search found the report of the coroner's inquest.

"Here it is, my dear, sure enough," said McShane.

As soon as he had read it over, and came to the end, he said, "Yes; wilful murder against Joseph Rushbrook the younger, and 200 pounds for his apprehension. This it was that drove the boy away from home, and not poaching, although I have no doubt that poaching was the cause of the murder. Now, my dear," continued McShane, "I think I can unravel all this; the murder has been committed, that's evident, by somebody, but not by Joey, I'll be sworn; he says that he is not guilty, and I believe him. Nevertheless, Joey runs away, and a verdict is found against him. My dear wife, I happen to know the father of Joey well; he was a fine, bold soldier, but one who would stick at nothing; and if I could venture an opinion, it is, that the murder was committed by Rushbrook, and not by the boy, and that the boy has absconded to save his father."

The reader will acknowledge that McShane was very clear-sighted.

"That's my opinion," continued McShane. "How it has been managed to make the boy appear as the party, I cannot tell; but knowing the father, and knowing the son, I'd stake my commission that I've guessed at the truth."

"Poor boy!" exclaimed Mrs McShane; "well, the Commandments say that the sins of the father shall be visited upon the children. What can be done, McShane?"

"Nothing at present; it would injure Joey to raise a hue and cry after him; for, you see, if he is apprehended, he must either be tried for his life, and convicted himself, or prove that he did not do it, which probably he could not do without convicting his father; I will, however, make some inquiries about Rushbrook himself, and if I can I will see him."

The same evening the schoolmaster again called upon McShane, to say that two persons had come to the school in the afternoon and asked to see him; that one of them, shabbily dressed, but evidently a person who was not of so low a cla.s.s in life as the other, had accosted him, when he came into the parlour, with, "I believe I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr Slappum; if so, may I request the favour to see my little friend Joey, whom I met yesterday walking out with the other young gentlemen under your care, as I have a message to him from his father and mother?

The dear boy was once under my tuition, and did me much credit, as I have no doubt that he has done you."

Now, the usher had told Mr Slappum that Joey had been addressed by this person the day before, and the schoolmaster presuming, of course, that it was Joey McShane, replied,--"I am sorry to say that he left this house last night, and has absconded we know not where. He left a letter for Major McShane, which I have this day delivered to him, acquainting him with the unpleasant circ.u.mstance."

"Bolted, by all that's clever!" said the second personage to the first, who looked very much surprised and confounded.

"You really have astonished me, my dear sir," replied the first person, whom the reader will of course recognise to be Furness; "that a lad brought up by me in such strict moral principles, such correct notions of right and wrong, and, I may add, such pious feelings, should have taken such a step, is to me incomprehensible. Major McShane, I think you said, lives at ---?"

"Major McShane lives at Number --- in Holborn," replied the schoolmaster.

"And the lad has not gone home to him?"

"No, he has not; he left a letter, which I took to Major McShane; but I did not break the seal, and am ignorant of its contents."

"I really am stupefied with grief and vexation," replied Furness, "and will not intrude any longer. Bless the poor boy! what can have come of him?"

So saying, Furness took his departure with the peace-officer, whom he had intrusted with the warrant, which he had taken out to secure the person of our hero.

McShane heard the schoolmaster's account of this visit without interruption, and then said, "I have no doubt but that this person who has called upon you will pay me a visit; oblige me, therefore, by describing his person particularly, so that I may know him at first sight."

The schoolmaster gave a most accurate description of Furness, and then took his leave.

As the eating-house kept by Mrs McShane had a private door, Furness (who, as McShane had prophesied, came the next afternoon), after having read the name on the private door, which was not on the eating-house, which went by the name of the Chequers, imagined that it was an establishment apart, and thought it advisable to enter into it, and ascertain a little about Major McShane before he called upon him.

Although McShane seldom made his appearance in the room appropriated for the dinners, it so happened that he was standing at the door when Furness entered and sat down in a box, calling for the bill of fare, and ordering a plate of beef and cabbage. McShane recognised him by the description given of him immediately, and resolved to make his acquaintance incognito, and ascertain what his intentions were; he therefore took his seat in the same box, and winking to one of the girls who attended, also called for a plate of beef and cabbage. Furness, who was anxious to pump any one he might fall in with, immediately entered into conversation with the major.

"A good house this, sir, and well attended apparently?"

"Yes, sir," replied McShane; "it is considered a very good house."

"Do you frequent it much yourself?"

"Always, sir; I feel much interested in its success," replied McShane; "for I know the lady who keeps it well, and have a high respect for her."

"I saw her as I pa.s.sed by--a fine woman, sir! Pray may I ask who is Major McShane, who I observe lives in the rooms above?"

"He is a major in the army, sir--now on half-pay."

"Do you know him?"

"Remarkably well," replied McShane; "he's a countryman of mine."

"He's married, sir, I think? I'll trouble you for the pepper."