Читать книгу Charles Peace, or The Adventures of a Notorious Burglar - Anonymous - Страница 72

The name of the young man who came so opportunely to the rescue of Nelly was Philip Jamblin. The reader will doubtless remember the two visitors to Farmer Ashbrook’s house on the night of the burglary at Oakfield. These personages, Messrs. Cheadle and Jamblin, gave chase to Peace after his escape over the fields described in the opening chapters of this work. The Jamblins and Ashbrooks were old friends.

Philip’s father was the owner of a large farm situated at about a couple of miles’ distance from Broxbridge; he held this under a lease from Lord Ethalwood. The place was known as Stoke Ferry Farm.

Mr. Jamblin, senior, was a farmer of the old school, who had worked his way up in the world by dint of skill and industry. He it was who paid for the plentiful supply of beer to the occupants of the parlour of the “Carved Lion,” on the night when Peace first became acquainted with the establishment.

Mr. Jamblin had in his service a ne’er to-do-well, wayward, good-for-nothing sort of lad, called Alfred Purvis, whose parentage was not clearly established. A gentleman of independent means, residing in the neighbourhood, had paid for his support during the earlier years of his childhood, and when he became old enough he had placed him with Mr. Jamblin to learn the farming business, if it can, with propriety, be so termed.

But the lad Alfred was a sore trouble to the farmer. He was mischievously disposed, and was for ever getting into scrapes.

As he is destined to play a secondary part in this drama, it will be necessay to introduce him to the reader.

Some few days after Peace’s departure from Broxbridge, Mr. Jamblin became furious at a discovery he had made.

He was striding up and down the great stone kitchen of Stoke Ferry Farm, with his arms swinging round his head like the sails of a windmill, and his face growing redder and redder every moment.

He was a kindly-disposed man enough, and was greatly esteemed by his workpeople, but he did not like anything under-handed.

His youngest daughter Patty was leaning against the table, and trying to pacify him as best she could.

“Don’t lose your temper, father,” she murmured, in a soft low voice. “After all it’s only one, and surely that’s no great matter.”

“Only one!” cried the indignant agriculturist. “That be true enough, lass; but how are we to know if he aint killed twenty—​the young warmint?”

A dead hare, which was lying on the dresser with a wire round its neck, explained the subject of their conversation.

Mr. Jamblin glanced at it with a look of rage and disgust.

“He’ll never come to any good—​never, as sure as I’m a born man,” he ejaculated; “there beant no manner of doubt about that.”

“Haven’t you often said that boys wouldn’t be boys if they weren’t a little mischievous?” said his daughter.

“Don’t talk nonsense, gell. Boys’ meescheef be boys’ meescheef, that be true enough; but it doesn’t do to ha’ too much of it at one time. I tell ’ee he won’t come to any good. He aint a common boy—​he’s a changeling, that’s what he be; there’s something remarkable about him. Ever since he’s bin here he’s bin a sore trouble to all on us, and I wish I’d never set eyes on the young bastard. After he had bin with me a little time and I sent him out in the fields bird-keepin’, he begged and prayed of me to take the long gun with him, and I did let un take it. ‘You won’t know how to use it now you’ve got it,’ sed I. ‘Oh yes, I shell,’ sed he; and I’m blessed if he warn’t right, for directly he got into the fields he let fly at a flock of my house pigeons and brought down four, and took ’em into the veeledge and sold ’em. He’ll never come to any good, Patty, you mark my words. Them as commence being bad as early as he did seldom find the right road arterwards.”

“Oh, he’ll know better as he gets older,” said Patty.

“Not a bit on it; not a morsel of improvement will be found in him. I tell ee what makes me most afraid on him,” said the farmer, sinking his voice to a whisper, “it’s the way he’s got of reading a durned lot o’ books. It’s my belief as they puts him up to no end of things as he’d never ha’ thort on without.”

“Oh, father, there aint any harm in reading.”

“I tell ee there is, I aint no ’’pinion of that printed stuff, Patty. When I opens a book it reads all black to me, and whatever’s black’s bad, so folks say, and it arnt that only, this lad is so clever with’ut. I sent him to a day school to get a little scholarship because the vicar wished me to do so, but he soon beat the lot on un, missus inclooded.”

His daughter laughed outright at this speech.

“It be all very well for you to make merry over it, gell; he’s allers got a book in his hand now, arter his day’s work, or what he calls his day’s work, is over.”

“He’s read all I’ve got in the best parlour, and there’s a frightful sight on ’em there, so he gets about borrowin’ books from the neighbours. Blessed if I don’t think he would swallow the biggest library that ever was, and think nuffin of it.”

“Well, he’d better be reading than be getting into mischief.”

“Sam seed him busy about the hedge last evening, and this morning he bein’ fust in the ground went to look at the place, where he found this big leveret ketched in a wire as dead as a door nail.”

“Here he comes,” said Patty, looking through the window.

The farmer gave a sort of a grunt of displeasure, and a tall, light-haired boy ran into the room.

He was full of life and spirits, and as audacious in his manner.

He wore no coat or smock, but a waistcoat with long sleeves and a pair of fustian trousers bound below the knee with leather straps to prevent them from dragging in the mire.

His boots were of the usual clodhopping description, in weight about four pounds, and studded with nails like the door of a prison.

Although his costume was not particularly becoming, there was something in his voice and manner which showed that he was of a different race to the other labourers on the farm.

Nevertheless there was something in his countenance that betokened an absence of moral principle; a restlessness, and an expression of cunning seemed to pervade it.

There was something in his grey eyes which to a physiognomist would have afforded food for speculation and inquiry.

Mr. Jamblin sprang forward and seized the youngster by the collar, at which he did not appear to be surprised.

“You audacious circumventing young wagabond,” shouted out the farmer; “I’ve been a waitin’ for you, my pretty manakin. I’ll teach you to put metal collars round my hares’ necks, you rascal.”

“Will you, master?”

“Yes, I will. What have you to say for yourself?”

“What have I say? Well, if you will listen I’ll tell you, sir.”

“Go on, and look sharp about it, then.”

“Aint hares wild animals, the same as rats, foxes, and such like?” said the boy. “When I made a new sort of trap and caught the rats for you, which nobody else could do, didn’t you praise me and acknowledge it was a clever contrivance?”

“You young rascal!” cried Jamblin. “Don’t ’ee think to shield yourself by your book larning. Wild animals, indeed. I’ll flay ’ee alive, you viper.”

The farmer seized hold of a stout stick which was lying on the table.

“There was a farmer lagged the other day for killing a boy,” said the lad, in an insolent tone. “So don’t lay it on too strong, master, for fear of your own precious life.”

“You insolent ruffian!” exclaimed Jamblin. “Hang me if I ever met with your like, and hope I never shall for the matter o’ that.”

He rained a heavy shower of blows upon the boy’s back and shoulders, which he bore without flinching or even uttering a cry.

The farmer was surprised.

“He’s a hardened callous rascal that no mortal man can mek anything on, and that be the solemn truth.”

“He won’t do it again—​I’m sure he won’t, father,” pleaded the girl.

“Won’t he? I’ll wager he will. Good words or bad blows are wasted on such as he.”

Then, turning to Alf, Jamblin said—

“I tell ’ee, my lad, I’ll serve ’ee in the same way as we serve a dog who runs out and eats his game. To-morrow I will tie this leveret under your nose and your hands behind your back, and let ’ee nose at it for a day or two—​that’s what I’ll do.”

And, with these words, the indignant agriculturist stalked out of the kitchen.

The boy watched him across the yard, and when the farmer was lost to sight he unbuttoned his waistcoat, and passing his hand round his back produced a quantity of napkins with which he had padded himself.

He had been expecting some such castigation, and like an old soldier had recourse to stratagem.

The heavy blows fell harmless upon his back and shoulders.

No wonder he bore all with such patience and equanimity.

In cunning he was more than a match for his master, or indeed the whole of the establishment.

Patty could not refrain from laughing when she beheld the artifice resorted to by her companion in the kitchen.

“You are a sharp one, Alf, and no mistake,” she cried.

“But you won’t peach—​won’t tell the governor?” said he.

“No—​no. Let us hope his anger is all over by this time.”

“He won’t forget his promise about the hare, I daresay, but what of that? It won’t hurt me.”

The lad was quite right—​Jamblin did not forget the promise he had made.

“Look here, men, just pinion this young scoundrel. We’ll teach him a lesson he won’t easily forget,” cried the farmer to his labourers in the yard on the following morning.

The men obeyed and the boy’s arms were fastened firmly, so that there was no possibility of his raising them.

The hare was then slung under his chin.

“Now, my lad, see how that suits you,” said Jamblin. “It shall hang there till you promise never to do the same thing again.”

He was driven out of the yard by the farm labourers, who one and all detested him for his mischievous ways, and therefore they enjoyed the fun immensely.

“Now then, youngster, go and make a sight o’ yourself till noontime,” cried the carter, thrusting young Purvis forcibly through the open gate into the high road.

“Who cares for a pack of fools like you?” exclaimed the lad, walking rapidly away from the scene. A chorus of laughter reached his ears as he took his way along the road.

He was certainly under the impression that he cut a most ridiculous figure, adorned as he was with his furry companion, but there was no help for it; he was constrained to hear the sneering remarks passed on him by the passengers, equestrian and pedestrian, he met with on the road.

He had also to endure the jocose and playful cuts with the whip with which the carters saluted him as they went by with their long teams of horses. But he bore all these indignities with the greatest fortitude; nevertheless a burning spirit of revenge smouldered within his breast—​a spirit which some day or other would burst into a flame.

He walked on without deigning to offer any reply to the vexatious and sneering observations with which he was greeted.

An hour or more had passed over without his meeting with anyone who would take compassion on him. Presently he espied, at some little distance ahead of him, a little boy coming in the opposite direction.

It suddenly occurred to him that he might make a friend of the urchin, but the latter, believing him to be one of those fabulous animals he had read of in children’s good story books, or fables, as they are sometimes termed, screamed, and attempted to fly.

“Come here. I want to speak to you,” cried Alfred Purvis. “Don’t run away. Come.”

But the little fellow was too much alarmed by the extraordinary appearance of the speaker to approach any nearer, and, after hesitating for a few seconds, he made off in the opposite direction.

“Don’t run away, you little fool,” cried the farmer’s boy; “I only want to speak to you for one moment—​something of the utmost importance. Don’t run away, there’s a good fellow; you have no call to be frightened of me.”

But the little fellow was frightened, and all the other could do in the way of persuasion failed to restore his confidence.

Alf Purvis said no more in the way of remonstrance, but ran after the fugitive as hard as his legs would carry him.

Encumbered with the hare, and pinioned as he was, he managed to get within a few yards’ distance of his younger and less agile companion.

The latter screamed with fright, and, turning out of the high road, flew into an adjoining meadow.

His pursuer followed fast on his heels. In another moment, Alf had overtaken the boy, with whom he came in collision, both falling on the grass together.

“Oh, mercy! What shall I do? Oh, oh!” sobbed the urchin.

Alf held him down by one knee, and then said, in a most conciliatory tone—

“You’ve no occasion to be a snivelin’. Nobody will hurt you. I want you to do me a favour. Come, there’s a good fellow; you won’t refuse, I’m sure. Don’t you know me?”

“No I don’t.”

“I work at Stoke Ferry Farm, and they’ve tied my hands behind me; that’s what they’ve been and done. Now you get up, and I’ll tell you what I want you to do.”

The speaker rose to his feet.

“Now, then, we’re all right. Get up, young un, and come behind this hedge.”

His companion after a little hesitation obeyed, with a show of reluctance. His large eyes opened to their fullest extent when he had a full and closer view of Parvis, and he was evidently still in a state of wonderment.

“Now, then,” said Alf, “I want you to cut the ropes which fasten my arms. Have you got a knife?”

“No.”

“Well, put your hand in my pocket, and there you’ll find one.”

“In your pocket?”

“Yes; lift up my frock on the right hand side, and drive your hand in my pocket. Why do you hesitate?”

“I’m afraid.”

“But you must not be afraid. You’re a dear good little fellow; anyone can see that, and I dare say are your mother’s pet,” cried Alf, stooping down and giving his companion a kiss.

The latter plucked up courage and drew out a knife from the other’s pocket.

“Open it,” said Alf.

This was not an easy task to one of his tender years, but after one or two efforts he succeeded.

“Excellent. Now go behind me and cut through the rope. Don’t be afraid, you won’t hurt me. Hack away as hard as ever you can. Ah, ah, we’ll show them a trick or two. That’s right—​hack away.”

The celebrated rope trick, as practised by the Davenport brothers, and other impostors, was not known at this time—​hence it was that the pinioned lad was powerless without assistance.

“Perseverance overcomes all obstacles,” is an old saying, and in the due course of time the rope was severed.

Young Purvis was once more free. He seemed to breathe again with fresh life. He threw the cords scornfully on the ground, unfastened the hare, and shook himself in a satisfactory sort of way.

“You’re a jolly good little fellow,” he exclaimed, giving his companion a penny by way of reward.

“I’m sorry I haven’t in my power to give you more, but I shan’t forget you. I’ll make it up some other time.”

The boy took the penny and looked wonderingly at the speaker, who presented altogether a different appearance.

“Now, youngster,” said Alf, “you’ve done all I have required of you, and so good-bye. You’ve made a free man of me.”

The little urchin scampered off, and Alf Purvis found himself alone.