she was asked if her home was far off, and a constable was ordered to see her safely there.
“Ye needna fash,” said David carelessly, “I’m gawn that way mysel’, an’ if the puir lassie has nae objection I’ll be glad to—”
The abrupt stoppage in the youth’s speech was caused by his turning to Susy and looking full and attentively in her face, which, now that the colour was restored and the dishevelled hair rearranged, had a very peculiar effect on him. His mother’s idea of a “waux doll” instantly recurred to his mind, but the interest and intelligence in Susy’s pretty face was very far indeed removed from the vacant imbecility which usually characterises that fancy article of juvenile luxury.
“Of course if the girl wishes you to see her home,” said the inspector, “I have no objection, but I’ll send a constable to help you to take care of her.”
“Help me to tak’ care o’ her!” exclaimed David, whose pride was sorely hurt by the distrust implied in these words; “man, I could putt her in my pooch an’ you alang wi’ her.”
Of this remark Mr Inspector, who had resumed his pen, took no notice whatever, but went on writing while one of the constables prepared to obey his superior’s orders. In his indignation the young Scot resolved to fling out of the office and leave the police to do as they pleased in the matter, but, glancing at Susy as he turned round, he again met the gaze of her soft blue eyes.
“C’way, lassie, I wull gang wi’ ye,” he said, advancing quickly and offering his arm.
Being weak from the effects of her fall, Susy accepted the offer willingly, and was supported on the other side by a policeman.
In a short time the trio ascended the rookery stair and presented themselves to the party in the garret-garden just as Sam Blake and Tommy Splint were about to leave it.
It is impossible to describe adequately the scene that ensued—the anxiety of the poor seaman to be recognised by his long lost “babby,” the curious but not unnatural hesitancy of that “babby” to admit that he was her father, though earnestly assured of the fact by chimney-pot Liz; the surprise of David Laidlaw, and even of the policeman, at being suddenly called to witness so interesting a domestic scene, and the gleeful ecstasy of Tommy Splint over the whole affair—flavoured as it was with the smell and memory of recent “sassengers.”
When the constable at last bid them good-night and descended the stair, the young Scot turned to go, feeling, with intuitive delicacy, that he was in the way, but once again he met the soft blue eyes of Susy, and hesitated.
“Hallo, young man!” cried Sam Blake, on observing his intention, “you ain’t agoin’ to leave us—arter saving my gal’s life, p’raps—anywise her property. No, no; you’ll stop here all night an’—”
He paused: “Well, I do declare I forgot I wasn’t aboard my own ship, but—” again he paused and looked at old Liz.
“I’ve no room for any of you in the garret,” said that uncompromising woman, “there ain’t more than one compartment in it, and that’s not too big for me an’ Susy; but you’re welcome, both of you, to sleep in the garden if you choose. Tommy sleeps there, under a big box, and a clever sea-farin’ man like you could—”
“All right, old lady,” cried the seaman heartily. “I’ll stop, an’ thankee; we’ll soon rig up a couple o’ bunks. So you will stop too, young man—by the way, you—you didn’t give us your name yet.”
“My name is David Laidlaw; but I won’t stop, thankee,” replied the Scot with unexpected decision of manner. “Ye see, I’ve been lookin’ a’ this day for an auld freen’ an’ I must find him afore the morn’s mornin’, if I should seek him a’ nicht. But, but—maybe I’ll come an’ speer for ’ee in a day or twa—if I may.”
“If you mean that you will come and call, Mr Laidlaw,” said old Liz, “we will be delighted to see you at any time. Don’t forget the address.”
“Nae fear—I’ll putt it i’ my note-buik,” said David, drawing a substantial volume from his breast pocket and entering the address—‘Mrs Morley, Cherub Court’—therein.
Having shaken hands all round he descended the stair with a firm tread and compressed lips until he came out on the main thoroughfare, when he muttered to himself sternly:
“Waux dolls, indeed! there’s nane o’ thae dolls’ll git the better o’ me. H’m! a bonny wee face, nae doot but what div I care for bonny faces if the hairt’s no’ richt?”
“But suppose that the heart is right?”
Who could have whispered that question? David Laidlaw could not stop to inquire, but began to hum—
“Oh, this is no my ain lassie,
Kind though the lassie be,—”
In a subdued tone, as he sauntered along the crowded street, which by that time was blazing with gas-light in the shop-windows and oil-lamps on the hucksters’ barrows.
The song, however, died on his lips, and he moved slowly along, stopping now and then to observe the busy and to him novel scene, till he reached a comparatively quiet turning, which was dimly lighted by only one lamp. Here he felt a slight twitch at the bag which contained his little all. Like lightning he turned and seized by the wrist a man who had already opened the bag and laid hold of some of its contents. Grasping the poor wretch by the neck with his other hand he held him in a grip of iron.
Chapter Four.
Dangers Threaten
The man who had been thus captured by David was one of those wretched forlorn creatures who seem to reach a lower depth of wretchedness and degradation in London than in any other city in the world. Although young and strongly made he was pale, gaunt and haggard, with a look about the eyes and mouth which denoted the habitual drunkard. The meanness of his attire is indescribable.
He trembled—whether from the effects of dissipation or fear we cannot say—as his captor led him under the lamp, with a grip on the collar that almost choked him, but when the light fell full on his haggard face a feeling of intense pity induced the Scot to relax his hold.
“Oh, ye puir meeserable crater!” he said, but stopped abruptly, for the man made a sudden and desperate effort to escape. He might as well have struggled in the grasp of a gorilla!
“Na, na, my man, ye’ll no twust yersel’ oot o’ my grup sae easy! keep quiet noo, an’ I’ll no hurt ’ee. What gars ye gang aboot tryin’ to steal like that?”
“Steal!” explained the man fiercely, “what else can I do? I must live! I’ve just come out of prison, and am flung on the world to be kicked about like a dog and starve. Let me go, or I’ll kill you!”
“Na, ’ee’ll no kill me. I’m no sae easy killed as ’ee think,” returned David, again tightening the grasp of his right hand while he thrust his left into his trousers-pocket.
At that moment the bull’s-eye light of an advancing constable became visible, and the defiant air of the thief gave place to a look of anxious fear. It was evident that the dread of another period of prison life was strong upon the trembling wretch. Drawing out a handful of coppers, David thrust them quickly into the man’s hand, and said—
“Hae, tak’ them, an’ aff ye go! an’ ask the Lord to help ’ee to dae better.”
The strong hand relaxed, another moment and the man, slipping round the corner like an unwholesome spirit, was gone.
“Can ye direck me, polisman,” said the Scot to the constable, as he was about to pass, “t’ Toor Street?”
“Never heard of it,” said the constable brusquely, but civilly enough.
“That’s queer noo. I was telt it was hereaboots—Toor Street.”
“Oh, perhaps you mean Tower Street” said the constable, with a patronising smile.
“Perhaps