Part 19 (1/2)

”I wish it were!” said Tim. ”No, that's a place they call Monkhaven, but it's on the road to Sandle'ham. Did you never hear tell of Monkhaven, master and missy?--think now.”

But after ”thinking” for half a quarter of the second, the two fair heads gave it up.

”No; us had never heard of Monkhaven. What did it matter? Us would much rather go straight home.”

Then Tim had to enter upon an explanation. He did not know the nearest way to Sandle'ham, and they might wander about the country, losing their way. They had very little money, and it most likely was too far to walk.

He was afraid to ask unless sure it was of some one he could trust; for Mick might have sent word to some one at Monkhaven about them. Then after Sandle'ham, which way were they to go? There was but one thing to do--ask the police. The police would take care of them and set them on the way.

But oh, poor Tim! Little did he know the effect of that fatal word, and yet he had far more reason to dread the police than the twins could have. More than once he had only just escaped falling into its clutches, and all through his vagrant life he had of course come to regard its officers as his natural enemies. But he had put all that aside, and, strong in his good cause, was ready now to turn to them as the children's protectors. Duke and Pamela, on the contrary, who had no real reason for being afraid of the police, were in frantic terror; their poor little imaginations set to work and pictured ”prison” as where they were sure to be sent to. They would rather go back to the gipsies, they would rather wander about the fields with Tim till they died--rather _anything_ than go near the police. And they cried and sobbed and hung upon Tim in their panic of terror, till the poor boy was fairly at his wit's end, and had to give in so far as to promise to say no more about it at present. So they spent the early hours of the beautiful spring morning in a copse outside the little town, where they were quite happy, and ate the provisions Peter's wife had put up for them with a good appet.i.te, thinking no more of the future than the birds in the bushes; while poor Tim was grudging every moment of what he felt to be lost time, and wondering where they were to get their next meal or find shelter for the night!

It ended at last in a compromise. Tim received gracious permission himself to go to the police to ask the way, provided he left ”us” in the wood--”us” promising to be very good, not to stray out of a certain distance, to speak to no possible pa.s.sers-by, and to hide among the brushwood if any suspicious-looking people came near.

And, far more anxious at heart than if he could have persuaded them to come with him, but still with no real misgiving but that in half an hour he would be back with full directions for the rest of their journey, Tim set off at a run in quest of the police office of Monkhaven. He was soon in the main street of the town, which after all was more like a big village--except at the end where lay the ca.n.a.l wharf, which was dirty and crowded and bustling--and had no difficulty in finding the house he was in search of. On the walls outside were pasted up posters of different sizes and importance--notices of new regulations, and ”rewards” for various losses--but Tim, taking no notice of any of these, hastened to knock at the door, and eagerly, though not without some fear, stood waiting leave to enter.

Two or three policemen were standing or sitting about talking to each other. Tim's first knock was not heard, but a second brought one to the door.

”Please, sir,” said the boy without waiting to be asked what he wanted, ”could you tell me the nearest way to Sandle'ham? I'm on my way there--leastways to some place near-by there--there's two childer with me, sir, as has got strayed away from their home, and----”

”What's that he's saying?” said another man coming forward--he was the head officer evidently--”Tell us that again,”--”Just make him come inside, Simpkins, and just as well shut to the door,” he added in a low voice. Tim came forward unsuspiciously. ”Well, what's that you were saying?” he went on to Tim.

”It's two childer, sir,” repeated Tim--”two small childer as has got strayed away from their home--you may have heard of it?--and I'm a-taking them back, only I'm not rightly sure of the way, and I thought--I thought, as it was the best to ax you, seeing as you've maybe heard----” but here Tim's voice, which had been faltering somewhat, so keen and hard was the look directed upon him, came altogether to an end; and he grew so red and looked so uneasy that perhaps it was no wonder if Superintendent Boyds thought him a suspicious character.

”Ah indeed!--just so--you thought maybe we'd heard something of some children as had _strayed_--_strayed_; not been decoyed away--oh not at all--away from their home. And of course, young man, _you'd_ heard nothing. You, nor those that sent you, didn't know nothing of this here, I suppose?” and Boyds unfolded a yellow paper lying on the table and held it up before Tim's face. ”This here is new to you, no doubt?”

Tim shook his head. The yellow paper with big black letters told him nothing. Even the big figures, ”20 Reward,” standing alone at the top, had no meaning for him. ”I can't read, sir,” he said, growing redder than before.

”Oh indeed! and who was it then that told you to come here about the children to ask the way, so that you could take them home, you know, and get the reward all nice and handy? You thought maybe you'd get it straight away, and that we'd send 'em home for you--was that what father or mother thought?”

Tim looked up, completely puzzled.

”I don't know anything about a reward,” he said, ”and I haven't no father or mother. Di----” but here he stopped short. ”Diana told me to come to you,” he was going to have said, when it suddenly struck him that the gipsy girl had bid him beware of mentioning any names.

”Who?” said the superintendent sharply.

”I can't say,” said Tim. ”It was a friend o' mine--that's all I can say--as told me to come here.”

”A friend, eh? I'm thinking we'll have to know some more about some of your friends before we're done with you. And where is these same children, then? You can tell us that anyway!”

”No,” said Tim, beginning to take fright, ”I can't. They'd be afeared--dreadful--if they saw one o' your kind. I'll find my own way to Sandle'ham if you can't tell it me,” and he turned to go.

But the policeman called Simpkins, at a sign from his superior, caught hold of him.

”Not so fast, young man, not so fast,” said Boyds. ”You'll have to tell us where these there children are afore you're off.”

”I can't--indeed I can't--they'd be so frightened,” said Tim. ”Let me go, and I'll try to get them to come back here with me--oh do let me go!”

But Simpkins only held him the faster.

”Shut him up in there for a bit,” said Boyds, pointing to a small inner room opening into the one where they were,--”shut him in there till he thinks better of it,” and Simpkins was preparing to do so when Tim turned to make a last appeal. ”Don't lock me up whatever you do,” he said, clasping his hands in entreaty; ”they'll die of fright if they're left alone. I'd rather you'd go with me nor leave them alone. Yes, I'll show you where they are if you'll let me run on first so as they won't be so frightened.”

Simpkins glanced at Boyds--he was a kinder man than the superintendent and really sharper, though much less conceited. He was half inclined to believe in Tim.

”What do you say to that?” he asked.