Читать книгу The Garret and the Garden; Or, Low Life High Up - Robert Michael Ballantyne - Страница 4

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 I div,” returned the Scot, with that touch of cynicism which is occasionally seen in his race. “Can ’ee direck me tilt?”

“Yes, but it is on the other side of the river.”

“Na—it’s on this side o’ the river,” said David quietly yet confidently.

The conversation was here cut short by the bursting on their ears of a sudden noise at some distance. The policeman turned quickly away, and when David advanced into the main street he observed that there was some excitement among its numerous and riotous occupants. The noise continued to increase, and it became evident that the cause of it was rapidly approaching, for the sound changed from a distant rumble into a steady roar, in the midst of which stentorian shouts were heard. Gradually the roar culminated, for in another moment there swept round the end of the street a pair of apparently runaway horses, with two powerful lamps gleaming, or rather glaring, above them. On each side of the driver of the galloping steeds stood a man, shouting like a maniac of the boatswain type. All three were brass-helmeted, like antique charioteers. Other helmets gleamed behind them. Little save the helmets and the glowing lamps could be seen through the dark and smoky atmosphere as the steam fire-engine went thundering by.

Now, if there was one thing more than another that David Laidlaw desired to see, it was a London fire. Often had he read about these fires, for he was a great reader of books, as well as newspapers, and deeply had his enthusiasm been stirred (though not expressed) by accounts of thrilling escapes and heroic deeds among the firemen. His eyes therefore flashed back the flame of the lamps as the engine went past him like a red thunderbolt, and he started off in pursuit of it.