Robert Michael Ballantyne
Dusty Diamonds Cut and Polished: A Tale of City Arab Life and Adventure
Chapter Twenty Two.
Ned Frog’s Experiences and Sammy Twitter’s Woes
But Ned Frog, with strong drink combined, rendered fruitless all the efforts that were put forth in his behalf at that time.
When discharged with a lot of other jail-birds, none of whom, however, he knew, he sauntered leisurely homeward, wondering whether his wife was alive, and, if so, in what condition he should find her.
It may have been that better thoughts were struggling in his breast for ascendency, because he sighed deeply once or twice, which was not a usual mode with Ned of expressing his feelings. A growl was more common and more natural, considering his character.
Drawing nearer and nearer to his old haunts, yet taking a roundabout road, as the moth is drawn to the candle, or as water descends to its level, he went slowly on, having little hope of comfort in his home, and not knowing very well what to do.
As he passed down one of the less frequented streets leading into Whitechapel, he was arrested by the sight of a purse lying on the pavement. To become suddenly alive, pick it up, glance stealthily round, and thrust it into his pocket, was the work of an instant. The saunter was changed into a steady businesslike walk. As he turned into Commercial Street, Ned met Number 666 full in the face. He knew that constable intimately, but refrained from taking notice of him, and passed on with an air and expression which were meant to convey the idea of infantine innocence. Guilty men usually over-reach themselves. Giles noted the air, and suspected guilt, but, not being in a position to prove it, walked gravely on, with his stern eyes straight to the front.
In a retired spot Ned examined his “find.” It contained six sovereigns, four shillings, threepence, a metropolitan railway return ticket, several cuttings from newspapers, and a recipe for the concoction of a cheap and wholesome pudding, along with a card bearing the name of Mrs Samuel Twitter, written in ink and without any address.
“You’re in luck, Ned,” he remarked to himself, as he examined these treasures. “Now, old boy you ’aven’t stole this ’ere purse, so you ain’t a thief; you don’t know w’ere Mrs S.T. lives, so you can’t find ’er to return it to ’er. Besides, it’s more than likely she won’t feel the want of it—w’ereas I feels in want of it wery much indeed. Of course it’s my dooty to ’and it over to the p’lice, but, in the first place, I refuse to ’ave any communication wi’ the p’lice, friendly or otherwise; in the second place, I ’ad no ’and in makin’ the laws, so I don’t feel bound to obey ’em; thirdly, I’m both ’ungry an’ thirsty, an’ ’ere you ’ave the remedy for them afflictions, so, fourthly—’ere goes!”
Having thus cleared his conscience, Ned committed the cash to his vest pocket, and presented the purse with its remaining contents to the rats in a neighbouring sewer.
Almost immediately afterwards he met an Irishman, an old friend.
“Terence, my boy, well met!” he said, offering his hand.
“Hooroo! Ned Frog, sure I thought ye was in limbo!”
“You thought right, Terry; only half-an-hour out. Come along, I’ll stand you somethin’ for the sake of old times. By the way, have you done that job yet?”
“What job?”
“Why, the dynamite job, of course.”
“No, I’ve gi’n that up,” returned the Irishman with a look of contempt. “To tell you the honest truth, I don’t believe that the way to right Ireland is to blow up England. But there’s an Englishman you’ll find at the Swan an’ Anchor—a sneakin’ blackguard, as would sell his own mother for dhrink—he’ll help you if you wants to have a hand in the job. I’m off it.”
Notwithstanding this want of sympathy on that point, the two friends found that they held enough in common to induce a prolonged stay at the public-house, from which Ned finally issued rather late at night, and staggered homewards. He met no acquaintance on the way, and was about to knock at his own door when the sound of a voice within arrested him.
It was Hetty, praying. The poor wife and daughter had given up hope of his returning at so late an hour that night, and had betaken themselves to their usual refuge in distress. Ned knew the sound well, and it seemed to rouse a demon in his breast, for he raised his foot with the intention of driving in the door, when he was again arrested by another sound.
It was the voice of little Matty, who, awaking suddenly out of a terrifying dream, set up a shrieking which at once drowned all other sounds.
Ned lowered his foot, thrust his hands into his pockets, and stood gazing in a state of indecision at the broken pavement for a few minutes.
“No peace there,” he said, sternly. “Prayin’ an’ squallin’ don’t suit me, so good-night to ’ee all.”
With that he turned sharp round, and staggered away, resolving never more to return!
“Is that you, Ned Frog?” inquired a squalid, dirty-looking woman, thrusting her head out of a window as he passed.
“No, ’tain’t,” said Ned, fiercely, as he left the court.
He went straight to a low lodging-house, but before entering tied his money in a bit of rag, and thrust it into an inner pocket of his vest, which he buttoned tight, and fastened his coat over it. Paying the requisite fourpence for the night’s lodging, he entered, and was immediately hailed by several men who knew him, but being in no humour for good fellowship, he merely nodded and went straight up to his lowly bed. It was one of seventy beds that occupied the entire floor of an immense room. Police supervision had secured that this room should be well ventilated, and that the bedding should be reasonably clean, though far from clean-looking, and Ned slept soundly in spite of drink, for, as we have said before, he was unusually strong.
Next day, having thought over his plans in bed, and, being a man of strong determination, he went forth to carry them into immediate execution. He went to a lofty tenement in the neighbourhood of Dean and Flower Street, one of the poorest parts of the city, and hired a garret, which was so high up that even the staircase ended before you reached it, and the remainder of the upward flight had to be performed on a ladder, at the top of which was a trap-door, the only entrance to Ned’s new home.
Having paid a week’s rent in advance he took possession, furnished the apartment with one old chair, one older table, one bundle of straw in a sack, one extremely old blanket, and one brand-new pipe with a corresponding ounce or two of tobacco. Then he locked the trap-door, put the key in his pocket, and descended to the street, where at Bird-fair he provided himself with sundry little cages and a few birds. Having conveyed these with some food for himself and the little birds to his lodging he again descended to the street, and treated himself to a pint of beer.
While thus engaged he was saluted by an old friend, the owner of a low music-hall, who begged for a few minutes’ conversation with him outside.
“Ned,” he said, “I’m glad I fell in with you, for I’m uncommon ’ard up just now.”
“I never lends money,” said Ned, brusquely turning away.
“’Old on, Ned, I don’t want yer money, bless yer. I wants to give you money.”
“Oh! that’s quite another story; fire away, old man.”
“Well, you see, I’m ’ard up, as I said, for a man to keep order in my place. The last man I ’ad was a good ’un, ’e was. Six futt one in ’is socks, an’ as strong as a ’orse, but by ill luck one night, a sailor-chap that was bigger than ’im come in to the ’all, an’ they ’ad a row, an’ my man got sitch a lickin’ that he ’ad to go to hospital, an’ ’e’s been there for a week, an’ won’t be out, they say, for a month or more. Now, Ned, will you take the job? The pay’s good an’ the fun’s considerable. So’s the fightin’, sometimes, but you’d put a stop to that you know. An’, then, you’ll ’ave all the day to yourself to do as you like.”
“I’m your man,” said Ned, promptly.
Thus it came to pass that the pugilist obtained suitable employment as a peacemaker and keeper of order, for a time at least, in one of those disreputable places of amusement where the unfortunate poor of London are taught lessons of vice and vanity which end often in vexation of spirit, not only to themselves, but to the strata of society which rest above them.
One night Ned betook himself to this temple of vice, and on the way was struck by the appearance of a man with a barrow—a sort of book-stall on wheels—who was pushing his way through the crowded street. It was the man who at the temperance meeting had begun with “bah!” and “pooh!” and had ended by putting on the Blue Ribbon. He had once been a comrade of Ned Frog, but had become so very respectable that his old chum scarcely recognised him.
“Hallo! Reggie North, can that be you?”
North let down his barrow, wheeled round, and held out his hand with a hearty, “how are ’ee, old man? W’y you’re lookin’ well, close cropped an’ comfortable, eh! Livin’ at Her Majesty’s expense lately? Where d’ee live now, Ned? I’d like to come and see you.”
Ned told his old comrade the locality of his new abode.
“But I say, North, how respectable you are! What’s come over you? not become a travellin’ bookseller, have you?”
“That’s just what I am, Ned.”
“Well, there’s no accountin’ for taste. I hope it pays.”
“Ay, pays splendidly—pays the seller of the books and pays the buyers better.”
“How’s that?” asked Ned, in some surprise, going up to the barrow; “oh! I see, Bibles.”
“Yes, Ned, Bibles, the Word of God. Will you buy one?”
“No, thank ’ee,” said Ned, drily.
“Here, I’ll make you a present o’ one, then,” returned North, thrusting a Bible into the other’s hand; “you can’t refuse it of an old comrade. Good-night. I’ll look in on you soon.”
“You needn’t trouble yourself,” Ned called out as his friend went off; and he felt half inclined to fling the Bible after him, but checked himself. It was worth money! so he put it in his pocket and went his way.
The hall was very full that night, a new comic singer of great promise having been announced, and oh! it was sad to see the youths of both sexes, little more than big boys and girls, who went there to smoke, and drink, and enjoy ribald songs and indecent jests!
We do not mean to describe the proceedings. Let it suffice to say that, after one or two songs and a dance had been got through, Ned, part of whose duty it was to announce the performances, rose and in a loud voice said—
“Signor Twittorini will now sing.”
The Signor stepped forward at once, and was received with a roar of enthusiastic laughter, for anything more lugubrious and woe-begone than the expression of his face had never been seen on these boards before. There was a slight look of shyness about him, too, which increased the absurdity of the thing, and it was all so natural, as one half-tipsy woman remarked.
So it was—intensely natural—for Signor Twittorini was no other than poor Sammy Twitter in the extremest depths of his despair. Half-starved, half-mad, yet ashamed to return to his father’s house, the miserable boy had wandered in bye streets, and slept in low lodging-houses as long as his funds lasted. Then he tried to get employment with only partial success, until at last, recollecting that he had been noted among his companions for a sweet voice and a certain power of singing serio-comic songs, he thought of a low music-hall into which he had staggered one evening when drunk—as much with misery as with beer. The manager, on hearing a song or two, at once engaged him and brought him out. As poor Sammy knew nothing about acting, it was decided that he should appear in his own garments, which, being shabby-genteel, were pretty well suited for a great Italian singer in low society.
But Sammy had over-rated his own powers. After the first burst of applause was over, he stood gazing at the audience with his mouth half open, vainly attempting to recollect the song he meant to sing, and making such involuntary contortions with his thin visage, that a renewed burst of laughter broke forth. When it had partially subsided, Sammy once more opened his mouth, gave vent to a gasp, burst into tears, and rushed from the stage.
This was the climax! It brought down the house! Never before had they seen such an actor. He was inimitable, and the people made the usual demand for an encore with tremendous fervour, expecting that Signor Twittorini would repeat the scene, probably with variations, and finish off with the promised song. But poor Sammy did not respond.
“I see,—you can improvise,” said the manager, quite pleased, “and I’ve no objection when it’s well done like that; but you’d better go on now, and stick to the programme.”
“I can’t sing,” said Sammy, in passionate despair.
“Come, come, young feller, I don’t like actin’ off the stage, an’ the audience is gittin’ impatient.”
“But I tell you I can’t sing a note,” repeated Sam.
“What! D’ye mean to tell me you’re not actin’?”
“I wish I was!” cried poor Sam, glancing upward with tearful eyes and clasping his hands.
“Come now. You’ve joked enough. Go on and do your part,” said the puzzled manager.
“But I tell you I’m not joking. I couldn’t sing just now if you was to give me ten thousand pounds!”
It might have been the amount of the sum stated, or the tone in which it was stated—we know not—but the truth of what Sam said was borne so forcibly in upon the manager, that he went into a violent passion; sprang at Sam’s throat; hustled him towards a back door, and kicked him out into a back lane, where he sat down on an empty packing case, covered his face with his hands, bowed his head on his knees, and wept.
The manager returned on the stage, and, with a calm voice and manner, which proved himself to be a very fair actor, stated that Signor Twittorini had met with a sudden disaster—not a very serious one—which, however, rendered it impossible for him to re-appear just then, but that, if sufficiently recovered, he would appear towards the close of the evening.
This, with a very significant look and gesture from Ned Frog, quieted the audience to the extent at least of inducing them to do nothing worse than howl continuously for ten minutes, after which they allowed the performances to go on, and saved the keeper of order the trouble of knocking down a few of the most unruly.
Ned was the first to quit the hall when all was over. He did so by the back door, and found Sam still sitting on the door-step.
“What’s the matter with ye, youngster?” he said, going up to him. “You’ve made a pretty mess of it to-night.”
“I couldn’t help it—indeed I couldn’t. Perhaps I’ll do better next time.”
“Better! ha! ha! You couldn’t ha’ done better—if you’d on’y gone on. But why do ye sit there?”
“Because I’ve nowhere to go to.”
“There’s plenty o’ common lodgin’-’ouses, ain’t there?”
“Yes, but I haven’t got a single rap.”
“Well, then, ain’t there the casual ward? Why don’t you go there? You’ll git bed and board for nothin’ there.”
Having put this question, and received no answer, Ned turned away without further remark.
Hardened though Ned was to suffering, there was something in the fallen boy’s face that had touched this fallen man. He turned back with a sort of remonstrative growl, and re-entered the back lane, but Signor Twittorini was gone. He had heard the manager’s voice, and fled.
A policeman directed him to the nearest casual ward, where the lowest stratum of abject poverty finds its nightly level.
Here he knocked with trembling hand. He was received; he was put in a lukewarm bath and washed; he was fed on gruel and a bit of bread—quite sufficient to allay the cravings of hunger; he was shown to a room in which appeared to be a row of corpses—so dead was the silence—each rolled in a covering of some dark brown substance, and stretched out stiff on a trestle with a canvas bottom. One of the trestles was empty. He was told he might appropriate it.
“Are they dead?” he asked, looking round with a shudder.
“Not quite,” replied his jailer, with a short laugh, “but dead-beat most of ’em—tired out, I should say, and disinclined to move.”
Sam Twitter fell on the couch, drew the coverlet over him, and became a brown corpse like the rest, while the guardian retired and locked the door to prevent the egress of any who might chance to come to life again.
In the morning Sam had a breakfast similar to the supper; was made to pick oakum for a few hours by way of payment for hospitality, and left with a feeling that he had at last reached the lowest possible depth of degradation.
So he had in that direction, but there are other and varied depths in London—depths of crime and of sickness, as well as of suffering and sorrow!
Aimlessly he wandered about for another day, almost fainting with hunger, but still so ashamed to face his father and mother that he would rather have died than done so.
Some touch of pathos, or gruff tenderness mayhap, in Ned Frog’s voice, induced him to return at night to the scene of his discreditable failure, and await the pugilist’s coming out. He followed him a short way, and then running forward, said—
“Oh, sir! I’m very low!”
“Hallo! Signor Twittorini again!” said Ned, wheeling round, sternly. “What have I to do with your being low? I’ve been low enough myself at times, an’ nobody helped—”
Ned checked himself, for he knew that what he said was false.
“I think I’m dying,” said Sam, leaning against a house for support.
“Well, if you do die, you’ll be well out of it all,” replied Ned, bitterly. “What’s your name?”
“Twitter,” replied Sam, forgetting in his woe that he had not intended to reveal his real name.
“Twitter—Twitter. I’ve heard that name before. Why, yes. Father’s name Samuel—eh? Mother alive—got cards with Mrs Samuel Twitter on ’em, an’ no address?”
“Yes—yes. How do you come to know?” asked Sam in surprise.
“Never you mind that, youngster, but you come along wi’ me. I’ve got a sort o’ right to feed you. Ha! ha! come along.”
Sam became frightened at this sudden burst of hilarity, and shrank away, but Ned grasped him by the arm, and led him along with such decision, that resistance he felt would be useless.
In a few minutes he was in Ned’s garret eating bread and cheese with ravenous satisfaction.
“Have some beer!” said Ned, filling a pewter pot.
“No—no—no—no!” said Sam, shuddering as he turned his head away.
“Well, youngster,” returned Ned, with a slight look of surprise, “please yourself, and here’s your health.”
He drained the pot to the bottom, after which, dividing his straw into two heaps, and throwing them into two corners, he bade Sam lie down and rest.
The miserable boy was only too glad to do so. He flung himself on the little heap pointed out, and the last thing he remembered seeing before the “sweet restorer” embraced him was the huge form of Ned Frog sitting in his own corner with his back to the wall, the pewter pot at his elbow, and a long clay pipe in his mouth.
Chapter Twenty Three.
Hopes revive
Mr Thomas Balls, butler to Sir Richard Brandon, standing with his legs wide apart and his hands under his coat tails in the servants’ hall, delivered himself of the opinion that “things was comin’ to a wonderful pass when Sir Richard Brandon would condescend to go visitin’ of a low family in Whitechapel.”
“But the family is no more low than you are, Mr Balls,” objected Jessie Summers, who, being not very high herself, felt that the remark was slightly personal.
“Of course not, my dear,” replied Balls, with a paternal smile. “I did not for a moment mean that Mr Samuel Twitter was low in an offensive sense, but in a social sense. Sir Richard, you know, belongs to the hupper ten, an’ he ’as not been used to associate with people so much further down in the scale. Whether he’s right or whether he’s wrong ain’t for me to say. I merely remark that, things being as they are, the master ’as come to a wonderful pass.”
“It’s all along of Miss Diana,” said Mrs Screwbury. “That dear child ’as taken the firm belief into her pretty ’ead that all people are equal in the sight of their Maker, and that we should look on each other as brothers and sisters, and you know she can twist Sir Richard round her little finger, and she’s taken a great fancy to that Twitter family ever since she’s been introduced to them at that ’Ome of Industry by Mr Welland, who used to be a great friend of their poor boy that ran away. And Mrs Twitter goes about the ’Ome, and among the poor so much, and can tell her so many stories about poor people, that she’s grown quite fond of her.”
“But we ain’t all equal, Mrs Screwbury,” said the cook, recurring, with some asperity, to a former remark, “an’ nothink you or anybody else can ever say will bring me to believe it.”
“Quite right, cook,” said Balls. “For instance, no one would ever admit that I was as good a cook as you are, or that you was equal to Mrs Screwbury as a nurse, or that any of us could compare with Jessie Summers as a ’ouse-maid, or that I was equal to Sir Richard in the matters of edication, or station, or wealth. No, it is in the more serious matters that concern our souls that we are equal, and I fear that when Death comes, he’s not very particular as to who it is he’s cuttin’ down when he’s got the order.”
A ring at the bell cut short this learned discourse. “That’s for the cab,” remarked Mr Balls as he went out.
Now, while these things were taking place at the “West-End,” in the “East-End” the Twitters were assembled round the social board enjoying themselves—that is to say, enjoying themselves as much as in the circumstances was possible. For the cloud that Sammy’s disappearance had thrown over them was not to be easily or soon removed.
Since the terrible day on which he was lost, a settled expression of melancholy had descended on the once cheery couple, which extended in varying degree down to their youngest. Allusion was never made to the erring one; yet it must not be supposed he was forgotten. On the contrary, Sammy was never out of his parents’ thoughts. They prayed for him night and morning aloud, and at all times silently. They also took every possible step to discover their boy’s retreat, by means of the ordinary police, as well as detectives whom they employed for the purpose of hunting Sammy up: but all in vain.
It must not be supposed, however, that this private sorrow induced Mrs Twitter selfishly to forget the poor, or intermit her labours among them. She did not for an hour relax her efforts in their behalf at George Yard and at Commercial Street.
At the Twitter social board—which, by the way, was spread in another house not far from that which had been burned—sat not only Mr and Mrs Twitter and all the little Twitters, but also Mrs Loper, who had dropped in just to make inquiries, and Mrs Larrabel, who was anxious to hear what news they had to tell, and Mr Crackaby, who was very sympathetic, and Mr Stickler, who was oracular. Thus the small table was full.
“Mariar, my dear,” said Mr Twitter, referring to some remarkable truism which his wife had just uttered, “we must just take things as we find ’em. The world is not goin’ to change its course on purpose to please us. Things might be worse, you know, and when the spoke in your wheel is at its lowest there must of necessity be a rise unless it stands still altogether.”
“You’re right, Mr Twitter. I always said so,” remarked Mrs Loper, adopting all these sentiments with a sigh of resignation. “If we did not submit to fortune when it is adverse, why then we’d have to—have to—”
“Succumb to it,” suggested Mrs Larrabel, with one of her sweetest smiles.
“No, Mrs Larrabel, I never succumb—from principle I never do so. The last thing that any woman of good feeling ought to do is to succumb. I would bow to it.”
“Quite right, ma’am, quite right,” said Stickler, who now found time to speak, having finished his first cup of tea and second muffin; “to bow is, to say the least of it, polite and simple, and is always safe, for it commits one to nothing; but then, suppose that Fortune is impolite and refuses to return the bow, what, I ask you, would be the result?”
As Mrs Loper could not form the slightest conception what the result would be, she replied with a weak smile and a request for more sausage.
These remarks, although calculated to enlist the sympathies of Crackaby and excite the mental energies of Twitter, had no effect whatever on those gentlemen, for the latter was deeply depressed, and his friend Crackaby felt for him sincerely. Thus the black sheep remained victorious in argument—which was not always the case.
Poor Twitter! He was indeed at that time utterly crestfallen, for not only had he lost considerably by the fire—his house having been uninsured—but business in the city had gone wrong somehow. A few heavy failures had occurred among speculators, and as these had always a row of minor speculators at their backs, like a row of child’s bricks, which only needs the fall of one to insure the downcome of all behind it, there had been a general tumble of speculative bricks, tailing off with a number of unspeculative ones, such as tailors, grocers, butchers, and shopkeepers generally. Mr Twitter was one of the unspeculative unfortunates, but he had not come quite down. He had only been twisted uncomfortably to one side, just as a toy brick is sometimes seen standing up here and there in the midst of surrounding wreck. Mr Twitter was not absolutely ruined. He had only “got into difficulties.”
But this was a small matter in his and his good wife’s eyes compared with the terrible fall and disappearance of their beloved Sammy. He had always been such a good, obedient boy; and, as his mother said, “so sensitive.” It never occurred to Mrs Twitter that this sensitiveness was very much the cause of his fall and disappearance, for the same weakness, or cowardice, that rendered him unable to resist the playful banter of his drinking comrades, prevented him from returning to his family in disgrace.
“You have not yet advertised, I think?” said Crackaby.
“No, not yet,” answered Twitter; “we cannot bear to publish it. But we have set several detectives on his track. In fact we expect one of them this very evening; and I shouldn’t wonder if that was him,” he added, as a loud knock was heard at the door.
“Please, ma’am,” said the domestic, “Mr Welland’s at the door with another gentleman. ’E says ’e won’t come in—’e merely wishes to speak to you for a moment.”
“Oh! bid ’em come in, bid ’em come in,” said Mrs Twitter in the exuberance of a hospitality which never turned any one away, and utterly regardless of the fact that her parlour was extremely small.
Another moment, and Stephen Welland entered, apologising for the intrusion, and saying that he merely called with Sir Richard Brandon, on their way to the Beehive meeting, to ask if anything had been heard of Sam.
“Come in, and welcome, do,” said Mrs Twitter to Sir Richard, whose face had become a not unfamiliar one at the Beehive meetings by that time. “And Miss Diana, too! I’m so glad you’ve brought her. Sit down, dear. Not so near the door. To be sure there ain’t much room anywhere else, but—get out of the way, Stickler.”
The black sheep hopped to one side instantly, and Di was accommodated with his chair. Stickler was one of those toadies who worship rank for its own sake. If a lamp-post had been knighted Stickler would have bowed down to it. If an ass had been what he styled “barrow-knighted,” he would have lain down and let it walk over him—perhaps would even have solicited a passing kick—certainly would not have resented one.
“Allow me, Sir Richard,” he said, with some reference to the knight’s hat.
“Hush, Stickler!” said Mrs Twitter.
The black sheep hushed, while the bustling lady took the hat and placed it on the sideboard.
“Your stick, Sir Richard,” said Stickler, “permit—”
“Hold your tongue, Stickler,” said Mrs Twitter.
The black sheep held his tongue—between his teeth,—and wished that some day he might have the opportunity of punching Mrs Twitter’s head, without, if possible, her knowing who did it. Though thus reduced to silence, he cleared his throat in a demonstratively subservient manner and awaited his opportunity.
Sir Richard was about to apologise for the intrusion when another knock was heard at the outer door, and immediately after, the City Missionary, John Seaward, came in. He evidently did not expect to see company, but, after a cordial salutation to every one, said that he had called on his way to the meeting.
“You are heartily welcome. Come in,” said Mrs Twitter, looking about for a chair, “come, sit beside me, Mr Seaward, on the stool. You’ll not object to a humble seat, I know.”
“I am afraid,” said Sir Richard, “that the meeting has much to answer for in the way of flooding you with unexpected guests.”
“Oh! dear, no, sir, I love unexpected guests—the more unexpected the more I—Molly, dear,” (to her eldest girl), “take all the children up-stairs.”
Mrs Twitter was beginning to get confused in her excitement, but the last stroke of generalship relieved the threatened block and her anxieties at the same time.
“But what of Sam?” asked young Welland in a low tone; “any news yet?”
“None,” said the poor mother, suddenly losing all her vivacity, and looking so pitifully miserable that the sympathetic Di incontinently jumped off her chair, ran up to her, and threw her arms round her neck.
“Dear, darling child,” said Mrs Twitter, returning the embrace with interest.
“But I have brought you news,” said the missionary, in a quiet voice which produced a general hush.
“News!” echoed Twitter with sudden vehemence. “Oh! Mr Seaward,” exclaimed the poor mother, clasping her hands and turning pale.
“Yes,” continued Seaward; “as all here seem to be friends, I may tell you that Sam has been heard of at last. He has not, indeed, yet been found, but he has been seen in the company of a man well-known as a rough disorderly character, but who it seems has lately put on the blue ribbon, so we may hope that his influence over Sam will be for good instead of evil.”
An expression of intense thankfulness escaped from the poor mother on hearing this, but the father became suddenly much excited, and plied the missionary with innumerable questions, which, however, resulted in nothing, for the good reason that nothing more was known.
