Charlie to the Rescue by Robert Michael Ballantyne (hardest books to read TXT) 📖

Mrs Brute?" said Mace inquiringly.

"So 'e--_was_," answered the perplexed lady, looking round the room; "didn't I 'ear 'im a-shakin' 'ands wi' you, an' a-shoutin' for 'am?"

"Well, Mrs Brute, I dun know what you 'eard; all I know is that I've not seed 'im yet."

"'E must be in the bedroom," said Mrs Butt, with a dazed look.

"No 'e ain't there," returned the prize-fighter; "I've bin all over it-- looked under the bed, into the cupboard, through the key'ole;--p'r'aps," he added, turning quickly, "'e may be up the chimbly!"

The expression on poor Mrs Butt's face now alarmed Charlie, who instantly doffed his billycock and resumed his natural voice and manner.

"Forgive me, Mrs Butt, if I have been somewhat reckless," he said, "in testing my disguise on you. I really had no intention till a few minutes ago of playing such a practical--"

"Well, well, Mr Brooke," broke in the amazed yet amiable creature at this point, "I do assure you as I'd never 'ave know'd you from the worst character in W'itechapel. I wouldn't have trusted you--not with a sixpence. You was born to be a play-actor, sir! I declare that Jem Mace have given me a turn that--But why disguise yourself in this way, Mr Brooke?"

"Because I am going to haunt the low lodging-houses, Mrs Butt and I could not well do that, you know, in the character of a gentleman; and as you have taken it so amiably I'm glad I tried my hand here first, for it will make me feel much more at ease."

"And well it may, sir. I only 'ope it won't get you into trouble, for if the p'leece go lookin' for a burglar, or murderer, or desprit ruffian, where you 'appen to be, they're sure to run you in. The only think I would point out, sir, if I may be so free, is that your 'ands an' face is too clean."

"That is easily remedied," said Charlie, with a laugh, as he stooped and rubbed his hands among the ashes; then, taking a piece of cinder, he made sundry marks on his countenance therewith, which, when judiciously touched in with a little water and some ashes, converted our hero into as thorough a scoundrel as ever walked the streets of London at unseasonable hours of night.


CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.


FAILURE AND A NEW SCENT.

Although our hero's plan of search may seem to some rather Quixotic, there was nothing further from his thoughts than merely playing at the game of amateur detective. Being enthusiastic and sanguine, besides being spurred on by an intense desire to rescue the father of May Leather, Charlie Brooke was thoroughly in earnest in his plan. He knew that it would be useless to attempt such a search and rescue in any other capacity than that of a genuine pauper, at least in appearance and action. He therefore resolved to conduct the search in character, and to plunge at once into the deepest pools of the slums.

It is not our intention to carry the reader through the Arabian-night-like adventures which he experienced in his quest. Suffice it to say that he did not find the lost man in the pools in which he fished for him, but he ultimately, after many weeks, found one who led him to the goal he aimed at.

Meanwhile there were revealed to him numerous phases of life--or, rather, of living death--in the slums of the great city which caused him many a heartache at the time, and led him ever afterwards to consider with anxious pity the condition of the poor, the so-called lost and lapsed, the depraved, degraded, and unfortunate. Of course he found--as so many had found before him--that the demon Drink was at the bottom of most of the misery he witnessed, but he also learned that whereas many weak and vicious natures dated the commencement of their final descent and fall from the time when they began to drink, many of the strong and ferocious spirits had begun a life of wickedness in early youth, and only added drink in after years as a little additional fuel to the already roaring flame of sin.

It is well known that men of all stamps and creeds and classes are to be found in the low lodging-houses of all great cities. At first Charlie did not take note of this, being too earnestly engaged in the search for his friend, and anxious to avoid drawing attention on himself; but as he grew familiar with these scenes of misery and destitution he gradually began to be interested in the affairs of other people, and, as he was eminently sympathetic, he became the confidant of several paupers, young and old. A few tried to draw him out, but he quietly checked their curiosity without giving offence.

It may be remarked here that he at once dropped the style of talk which he had adopted when representing Jem Mace, because he found so many in the lodging-houses who had fallen from a good position in society that grammatical language was by no means singular. His size and strength also saved him from much annoyance, for the roughs, who might otherwise have bullied him, felt that it would be wise to leave him alone.

On one occasion, however, his pacific principles were severely tested as well as his manhood, and as this led to important results we must recount the incident.

There was a little lame, elderly man, who was a habitual visitor at one of the houses which our hero frequented. He was a humorous character, who made light of his troubles, and was a general favourite. Charlie had felt interested in the man, and in ordinary circumstances would have inquired into his history, but, as we have said, he laid some restraint on his natural tendency to inquire and sympathise. As it was, however, he showed his goodwill by many little acts of kindness--such as making way for Zook--so he was called--when he wanted to get to the general fire to boil his tea or coffee; giving him a portion of his own food on the half pretence that he had eaten as much as he wanted, etcetera.

There was another _habitue_ of the same lodging, named Stoker, whose temperament was the very opposite to that of little Zook. He was a huge, burly dock labourer; an ex-prize-fighter and a disturber of the peace wherever he went. Between Stoker and Zook there was nothing in common save their poverty, and the former had taken a strong dislike to the latter, presumably on the ground of Zook's superiority in everything except bulk of frame. Charlie had come into slight collision with Stoker on Zook's account more than once, and had tried to make peace between them, but Stoker was essentially a bully; he would listen to no advice, and had more than once told the would-be peacemaker to mind his own business.

One evening, towards the close of our hero's search among the lodging-houses, little Zook entered the kitchen of the establishment, tea-pot and penny loaf in hand. He hastened towards the roaring fire that might have roasted a whole sheep, and which served to warm the entire basement storey, or kitchen, of the tenement.

"Here, Zook," said Charlie, as the former passed the table at which he was seated taking his supper, "I've bought more than I can eat, as usual! I've got two red-herrings and can eat only one. Will you help me?"

"It's all fish that comes to my net, Charlie," said the little man, skipping towards his friend, and accepting the herring with a grateful but exaggerated bow.

We omitted to say that our hero passed among the paupers by his Christian name, which he had given as being, from its very universality, the best possible _alias_.

A few minutes later Stoker entered and went to the fire, where loud, angry voices soon told that the bully was at his old game of peace-disturber. Presently a cry of "shame" was heard, and poor Zook was seen lying on the floor with his nose bleeding.

"Who cried shame?" demanded the bully, looking fiercely round.

"_I_ did not," said Charlie Brooke, striding towards him, "for I did not know it was you who knocked him down, but I _do_ cry shame on you now, for striking a man so much smaller than yourself, and without provocation, I warrant."

"An' pray who are _you_?" returned Stoker, in a tone that was meant to be witheringly sarcastic.

"I am one who likes fair play," said Charlie, restraining his anger, for he was still anxious to throw oil on the troubled waters, "and if you call it fair play for a heavy-weight like you to attack such a light-weight as Zook, you must have forgotten somehow that you are an Englishman. Come, now, Stoker, say to Zook you are sorry and won't worry him any more, and I'm sure he'll forgive you!"

"Hear! hear!" cried several of the on-lookers.

"Perhaps I _may_ forgive 'im," said Zook, with a humorous leer, as he wiped his bleeding nose--"I'd do a'most anything to please Charlie!"

This was received with a general laugh, but Stoker did not laugh; he turned on our hero with a look of mingled pity and contempt.

"No, Mister Charlie," he said, "I won't say I'm sorry, because I'd tell a big lie if I did, and I'll worry him just as much as I please. But I'll tell 'e what I'll do. If you show yourself as ready wi' your bunches o' fives as you are wi' yer tongue, and agree to fight me, I'll say to Zook that I'm sorry and won't worry 'im any more."

There was dead silence for a minute after the delivery of this challenge, and much curiosity was exhibited as to how it would be taken. Charlie cast down his eyes in perplexity. Like many big and strong men he was averse to use his superior physical powers in fighting. Besides this, he had been trained by his mother to regard it as more noble to suffer than to avenge insults, and there is no doubt that if the bully's insult had affected only himself he would have avoided him, if possible, rather than come into conflict. Having been trained, also, to let Scripture furnish him with rules for action, his mind irresistibly recalled the turning of the "other cheek" to the smiter, but the fact that he was at that moment acting in defence of another, not of himself, prevented that from relieving him. Suddenly--like the lightning flash-- there arose to him the words, "Smite a scorner and the simple will beware!" Indeed, all that we have mentioned, and much more, passed through his troubled brain with the speed of light. Lifting his eyes calmly to the face of his opponent he said--"I accept your challenge."

"No, no, Charlie!" cried the alarmed Zook, in a remonstrative tone, "you'll do nothing of the sort. The man's a old prize-fighter! You haven't a chance. Why, I'll fight him myself rather than let you do it."

And with that the little man began to square up and twirl his fists and skip about in front of the bully in spite of his lameness--but took good care to keep well out of his reach.

"It's a bargain, then," said Charlie, holding out his hand.

"Done!" answered the bully, grasping it.

"Well, then, the sooner we settle