Personal Reminiscences in Book Making by Robert Michael Ballantyne (i am malala young readers edition .TXT) 📖

low, an' the catches ain't overstrong, an there's no bells on the shutters, an' it lies handy to the wall o' the back lane."

To this Robin made no response, for Robin was young and phlegmatic. He was also strong.

The gardener, Simon by name, was not one of the prophets--though in regard to the weather and morals he considered himself one--but if any person had chanced to overhear the conversation of two men seated in a neighbouring public-house that morning, that person would have inclined to give the gardener credit for some sort of second sight.

"Bill," growled one of the said men, over his beer, in a low, almost inaudible tone, "I've bin up to look at the 'ouse, an' the dinin'-room winder'll be as easy to open as a door on the latch. I had a good look at it."

"You are the man for cheek an' pluck," growled the other man, over his beer, with a glance of admiration at his comrade. "How ever did you manage it, Dick?"

"The usual way, in course. Comed it soft over the 'ousemaid; said I was a gardener in search of a job, an' would she mind tellin' me where the head-gardener was? You see, Bill, I had twigged him in front o' the 'ouse five minutes before. `I don't know as he's got any odd jobs to give 'ee,' says she; `but he's in the front garden at this minute. If you goes round, you'll find him.' `Hall right, my dear,' says I; an' away I goes right round past the dinin'-room winder, where I stops an' looks about, like as if I was awful anxious to find somebody. In coorse I glanced in, an' saw the fastenin's.

"They couldn't keep out a babby! Sideboard all right at the t'other end, with a lookin'-glass over it--to help folk, I fancy, to see what they look like w'en they're a-eatin' their wittles. Anyhow, it helped me to see the gardener comin' up one o' the side walks; so I wheels about double quick, an' looked pleased to see him.

"`Hallo!' cries he.

"`I was lookin' for you,' says I, quite easy like.

"`Did you expect to find me in the dinin'-room?' says he.

"`Not just that,' says I, `but it's nat'ral for a feller to look at a 'andsome room w'en he chances to pass it.'

"`Ah,' says he, in a sort o' way as I didn't quite like. `What d'ee want wi' me?'

"`I wants a job,' says I.

"`Are you a gardener?' he axed.

"`Yes--leastwise,' says I, `I've worked a goodish bit in gardings in my time, an' can turn my 'and to a'most anythink.'

"`Oh,' says he. `Look 'ere, my man, what d'ee call that there tree?' He p'inted to one close alongside.

"`That?' says I. `Well, it--it looks uncommon like a happle.'

"`Do it?' says he. `Now look 'ere, you be off as fast as your legs can take you, or I'll set the 'ousedog at 'ee.'

"W'en he said that, Bill, I do assure you, lad, that my experience in the ring seemed to fly into my knuckles, an' it was as much as ever I could do to keep my left off his nob and my right out of his breadbasket. But I restrained myself. If there's one thing I'm proud of, Bill, it's the wirtue o' self-restraint in the way o' business. I wheeled about, held up my nose, an' walked off wi' the air of a dook. You see, I didn't want for to have no more words wi' the gardener,--for why? because I'd seen all I wanted to see--d'ee see? But there was one--no, two--things I saw which it was as well I did see."

"An' what was they?" asked Bill.

"Two statters."

"An' what are statters?"

"Man alive I don't ye know? It's them things that they make out o' stone, an' marable, an' chalk--sometimes men, sometimes women, sometimes babbies, an' mostly with no clo'es on to speak of--"

"Oh! I know; but _I_ call 'em statoos. Fire away, Dick; what see'd you about the statoos?"

"Why, I see'd that they wasn't made in the usual way of stone or chalk, but of iron. I have heerd say that sodgers long ago used to fight in them sort o' dresses, though I don't believe it myself. Anyhow, there they was, the two of 'em, one on each side of the winder, that stiff that they could stand without nobody inside of 'em, an' one of 'em with a big thing on his shoulder, as if he wor ready to smash somebody over the head. I thought to myself if you an' me, Bill, had come on 'em unbeknown like, we'd ha' got such a start as might have caused us to make a noise. But I hadn't time to think much, for it was just then I got sight o' the gardener."

"Now my plan is," continued Dick, swigging off his beer, and lowering his voice to a still more confidential tone, as he looked cautiously round, "my plan is to hang about here till dark, then take to the nearest plantation, an' wait till the moon goes down, which will be about two o'clock i' the mornin'--when it will be about time for us to go in and win."

"All right," said Bill, who was not loquacious.

But Bill was mistaken, for it was all wrong.

There was indeed no one in the public at that early hour of the day to overhear the muttered conversation of the plotters, and the box in which they sat was too remote from the bar to permit of their words being overheard, but there was a broken pane of glass in a window at their elbow, with a seat outside immediately below it. Just before the burglars entered the house they had observed this seat, and noticed that no one was on it; but they failed to note that a small, sleepy-headed pot-boy lay at full length underneath it, basking in the sunshine and meditating on nothing--that is, nothing in particular.

At first little Pat paid no attention to the monotonous voices that growled softly over his head, but one or two words that he caught induced him to open his eyes very wide, rise softly from his lair and sit down on the seat, cock one ear intelligently upward, and remain so absolutely motionless that Dick, had he seen him, might have mistaken him for a very perfect human "statter."

When little Pat thought that he had heard enough, he slid off the seat, crawled close along the side of the house, doubled round the corner, rose up, and ran off towards the parsonage as fast as his little legs could go.

The Reverend Theophilus Stronghand was a younger son of a family so old that those families which "came over with the Conqueror" were mere moderns in comparison. Its origin, indeed, is lost in those mists of antiquity which have already swallowed up so many millions of the human race, and seem destined to go on swallowing, with ever-increasing appetite, to the end of time. The Stronghands were great warriors--of course. They could hardly have developed into a family otherwise. The Reverend Theophilus, however, was a man of peace. We do not say this to his disparagement. He was by no means a degenerate son of the family. Physically he was powerful, broad and tall, and his courage was high; but spiritually he was gentle, and in manner urbane. He drew to the church as naturally as a duck draws to the water, and did not by any means grudge to his elder brothers the army, the navy, and the Bar.

One of his pet theories was, to overcome by love, and he carried this theory into practice with considerable success.

Perhaps no one put this theory to the test more severely or frequently than his only son Harry. War had been that young gentleman's chief joy in life from the cradle. He began by shaking his fat fists at the Universe in general. War-to-the-knife with nurse was the chronic condition of a stormy childhood. Intermittent warfare with his only sister Emmie chequered the sky of his early boyhood, and a decided tendency to disobey wrung the soul of his poor mother, and was the cause of no little anxiety to his father; while mischief, pure and simple for its own sake, was the cherished object of his life. Nevertheless, Harry Stronghand was a lovable boy, and love was the only power that could sway him.

The lad grew better as he grew older. Love began to gain the day, and peace began--slowly at first--to descend on the parsonage; but the desire for mischief--which the boy named "fun"--had not been quite dislodged at the time we write of. As Harry had reached the age of fifteen, feared nothing, and was quick-witted and ingenious, his occasional devices not only got him into frequent hot water, but were the source of some amusement to his people--and he still pretty well ruled his easy-going father and the house generally with a rod of iron.

It was to Harry Stronghand that little Pat directed his steps, after overhearing the conversation which we have related. Pat knew that the son of the parsonage was a hero, and, in his opinion, the most intelligent member of the family, and the best fitted to cope with the facts which he had to reveal. He met the object of his search on the road.

"Plaze yer honour," said Pat--who was an Irishman, and therefore "honoured" everybody--"there's two tramps at the public as is plottin' to break into your house i' the mornin'."

"You don't mean it, do you?" returned Harry, with a smile and raised eyebrows.

"That's just what I do, yer honour. I heard 'em reel off the whole plan."

Hereupon the boy related all that he knew to the youth, who leaned against a gate and nodded his curly head approvingly until the story was finished.

"You've not mentioned this to any one, have you, Pat?"

"Niver a sowl but yersilf, sir."

"You're a sensible boy, Pat. Here's a shilling for you--and, look here, Pat, if you keep dark upon the matter till after breakfast to-morrow and don't open your lips to a living soul about it, I'll give you half a crown."

"Thank yer honour."

"Now mind--no hints to the police; no remarks to your master. Be dumb, in fact, from this moment, else I won't give you a penny."

"Sure I've forgot all about it already, sir," said the boy, with a wink so expressive that Harry felt his word to be as good as his bond, and went back to the parsonage laughing.

Arrived there, he went in search of his sister, but found that she was out.

"Just as well," he muttered, descending to the dining-room with his hands deep in his pockets, a pleased expression on his handsome mouth, and a stern frown on his brows. "It would not be safe to make a confidant of her in so delicate a matter. No, I'll do it all alone. But how to do it? That is the question. Shall I invite the aid of the police? Perish the thought! Shall I consult the Pater? Better not. The dear, self-devoted man might