Читать книгу Son of a Hundred Kings - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 22

The head of Chief Jarvis appeared with the suddenness of a jack-in-the-box in the stairway down which Abel Padner had just disappeared. He was sandy of complexion and rather amiable of expression. His uniform was a quiet one and absolutely devoid of brass buttons, a black serge with strips of black ribbon by way of decoration.

He stepped up beside the magistrate, and for several minutes the two chief custodians of the law in Balfour conferred in low tones. Then Mr. Jenkinson nodded his head with an air which suggested a reluctance for the task ahead of him.

“The present problem, then,” he said, “is to make arrangements for the temporary keep of this boy.”

“Yes,” said Chief Jarvis. “I’ve already taken steps to locate the relatives in England, but there may be some delay about getting the information.”

“There shouldn’t be any delay,” protested the old man. “The cable was laid across the Atlantic a great many years ago. Have you heard of it?”

The chief of police smiled as though accustomed to the irascible humors of the old man. “I’ve already cabled the steamship offices in London,” he said. “But there is a difficulty. A very real one. I have reason to believe that Prentice is an assumed name. It’s certain from some letters we’ve found in the man’s things that he belonged to a good family, and it’s probable he assumed the name of Prentice when he came out to Canada. Perhaps he was in some kind of trouble and was running away. Or it may have been through some quirk of pride. In either case, it may take the shipping people a while to get to the bottom of things.”

Magistrate Jenkinson tapped his knuckles thoughtfully on the cork top of his desk. “What, then, do you want me to do, Chief? Issue authorization for the boy to be kept at the Orphans’ Home until he can be sent back home?”

There was reluctance also in the nod given by the police head. “I’m afraid that’s the solution, Your Honor.”

William Christian was listening to every word, but he was not watching the two figures on the raised platform. His eyes were fixed instead on the small boy snuggled up close beside him as though seeking protection. He was a nice-looking boy, he said to himself, just the kind of son he would have liked if Tilly had been able to have one. The little English boy had fair hair with the slightest touch of gold in it and a natural wave across the forehead. His features were rather delicate, and his eyes were a light blue. “He’s going to make a fine man,” thought the carpenter. “And he’s smart. As smart as they make ’em at that age.”

The formidable pair on the platform had turned their eyes in the direction of the three watchers in the front row, although the magistrate would not be able to see anything of them, if what Bates had said of him was true. It may have crossed the mind of the chief that there was a similarity between the man and the boy, the kindly, diffident man and the small waif whose immediate fate rested in their hands. It was clear, at any rate, that both were very much disturbed over what would come out of this conference.

Without looking up Ludar whispered, “Are they talking about me, sir?”

“Yes, Ludar. They’re trying to decide where you’re to stay.”

“Couldn’t I—couldn’t I stay with you, sir?”

William Christian had considered this solution but had put it away because of the opposition which could be anticipated from Tilly. It would be pleasant, he thought wistfully, to have a youngster about the house for a while. He found himself marshaling arguments in his mind which could be used to convince his strong-minded spouse. The Reverend George Grantly would approve, and Tilly was one of his most devoted supporters. The dead Vivien Prentice had belonged to a good English family; and Tilly, being a Hull of Coldwater, would be impressed by that. It would not be very expensive.

“You!” said the magistrate suddenly, waving a hand in the general direction of the group of three. “Sitting beside the boy. Come up here and tell me what you have to do with the case.”

William Christian looked more diffident than usual, if such a thing were possible, as he pushed his way through the swinging gate in the railing and walked up beside the table where the clerk sat.

“I’ve nothing to do with the case, Your Honor,” he said. “I was on the train from T’ronto, and Mr. Milner asked me to—to sort of look after the little fellow until it had been decided what was to be done.”

“And what’s your name?”

“William Christian. I live at 138 Wilson Street.”

“I’ve heard of you, Mr. Christian, but I’m sure you couldn’t have been born in Balfour. I fail to recall any family of that name.”

“I was born on the Isle of Man, and my father brought me to Canada when I was two years old. He settled on a farm near Woodstock, and I never saw Balfour until I came here to learn my trade.”

“A Manxman, eh?” Magistrate Jenkinson placed the palm of one hand over his eyes and, opening a space between two fingers, stared down at Christian through this triangular opening, an aid to vision which he employed often. “There was a great Manxman once named William Christian. Are you a descendant of his?”

William’s face flushed with pride. “I often heard my father say he was sure there was a connection.”

The magistrate had fallen into an amiable mood. “A descendant of William Christian should be of some help to us in a matter like this. What do you advise we do with the boy?”

And then William Christian found himself taking a stand without any fear of consequences at all. In a lifetime of striving to please other people there had been few occasions when he had been so rash. “Let him stay with me,” he heard himself say. “I’m sure my wife would be glad to take care of him.”

But would she be glad? Immediately he had spoken he began to have doubts. Suppose he took the boy home with him and Tilly put her foot down with that unshakable determination of hers? What could he do then? At the very least he would have made a fool of himself publicly.

“Now this is a solution I confess to liking much more than the other,” declared the magistrate. “Whenever I inspect the orphanage I come away depressed with the ills of the world. It would be with a reluctant hand that I would sign an order sending this boy to that den of hopeless childhood.” He closed his eyes and gave the matter some thought, snuffling as he did so, for he had a bad cold. “It’s certain I could get the other police commissioners to agree that we should pay for the boy’s keep until he can be sent back: for, say, a space of time not to exceed two months. Would a dollar and a half a week suffice? Perhaps two dollars would be a fairer amount.”

The chief of police had been watching the carpenter while this conversation went on. He now asked a question. “Mr. Christian, didn’t you marry a Miss Matilda Hull?”

William bobbed his head in response. “Yes, Chief.”

“I remember her. A tall, dark girl. In fact, I knew several of the Hulls of Coldwater.” Perhaps an association of ideas prompted his next remark, which was addressed to the man on the bench. “I’m inclined to think, Your Honor, that the weekly payment should be fixed at two dollars.”

William felt a wave of intense relief sweep over him. Now he could see his way clearly. The chance to have this additional income would appeal to Tilly so much that it would be a relatively easy matter to reconcile her to this step he had taken without consulting her. She was a Hull of Coldwater through and through when it came to money. How fortunate that Chief Jarvis had known some of the Hulls. Well, he didn’t know a tenth of what he, Billy Christian, knew about these hardheaded, grasping people who had developed such a reputation for themselves in the country above Balfour and who, moreover, had such a belief in their own importance. Did the chief know Uncle James Hull, for instance, who saved nine hundred dollars out of the first thousand he earned? Had he heard that Cousin Abimelech had been so outraged by his mother’s will that he had gone to her grave on the night after the funeral and destroyed all the flowers, pounding them into the earth with his heels?

The old magistrate was speaking. “Then we may consider that we have settled this matter on the best possible basis.” He waved a hand in dismissal of the matter and then blinked his eyes in the direction of the cause of all this discussion. “Perhaps now I may be allowed a closer look at this most unfortunate young gentleman.”

William walked back to the front row to bring Ludar up for inspection. Although tongue-tied and self-conscious himself in all his dealings with people, he had a way with children, and in a few moments he had succeeded in calming the fears of the boy. “Now, my fine big fellow,” he whispered, “it has all been arranged that you’re to come home with me, just as you wanted. Yes siree, you’re going to live with me and we’ll have lots of fun. I’ve a fine gray cat——”

“I love cats,” said Ludar. “But I’ve never had one of my own.”

“This Old Cat of mine has had seventy-nine kittens in her day. What do you think of that?”

The boy’s interest was now completely won away from the ordeal of going up to be inspected by the fierce old man. “Have you all of the kittens still, sir?” he asked.

William patted his head. “No, there isn’t a single one left. They’ve all gone out into the world, those grays and blacks and tortoise-shells of Old Cat’s, and most of them are grandparents themselves by this time. But we’re making the kind judge wait. See, you take my hand and come up with me to get everything settled.”

Ludar walked to the front and was lifted up to a standing position on the table of the clerk. Mr. Jenkinson repeated his habit of squinting down between his fingers in order to get a clearer view. Christian saw that Ludar’s knees trembled while he underwent this trying inspection, but otherwise the boy made no sign. “There’s a little soldier for you,” thought the carpenter proudly.

“A regular young Saxon, this boy,” said the magistrate. “I can see he’s of the right stock, descended straight from the men who marched with Alfred and died with Harold at Hastings. I think he may grow into a useful citizen, Mr. Christian.”

William made an attempt at a joke. “I don’t think, Your Honor, that he’ll grow up to be a hod carrier.”

The attempt was a success as far as the magistrate was concerned. He indulged in a rumble of laughter. “No, this boy won’t be a hod carrier. With a head shaped like that, he might become a schoolteacher, or even an artist or musician. But not a man who carries bricks for other men. And now, turn the boy around if you please.”

The sight of the placard gave the old man another moment of amusement. “What an idea! This sign brought the boy safely from England, across the ocean, and to my court. But now, I think, the time has come to relieve him of it.”

Chief Jarvis took a jackknife from his pocket and ripped out the threads holding the square of oilcloth to the boy’s coat. “Here we have Exhibit A,” he said.

“What are you going to do with Exhibit A?” asked the magistrate.

“If I might make a suggestion,” said William, “I think it should be kept for the boy. When he grows up he’s going to be proud of what’s happened to him. No other boy’s been sent out all alone to go halfway around the world. He’ll want to talk about it and he should always have the sign to show.”

The magistrate nodded his head in complete approval. “An excellent idea. You are a man of discernment, Mr. Christian. Our young man here will grow up, and he’ll want to show this sign to his own children and grandchildren. And now, gentlemen, I believe I may take it on myself to seek the comfort of my fireside. Will you permit me, Mr. Christian, to send you and your tired charge home in a hack at my personal expense? You see—ha, ha!—we are all under direct orders in this matter.” He pointed at the sign. “We must be kind to him.”