Part 32 (1/2)

Bones looked inquiringly and with some suspicion at his captor. He evidently thought there was a touch of insanity about her. This was confirmed when Miss Stivergill, seizing a carving-knife from the dresser, advanced with masculine strides towards him. He made a desperate effort to burst his bonds, but they were too scientifically arranged for that. ”Don't fear,” said the lady, severing the cord that bound the burglar's wrists, and putting the knife in his hands. ”Now,”

she added, ”you know how to cut yourself free, no doubt.”

”Well, you _are_ a trump!” exclaimed Bones, rapidly touching his bonds at salient points with the keen edge.

In a few seconds he was free.

”Now, go away,” said Miss Stivergill, ”and don't let me see you here again.”

Bones looked with admiration at his deliverer, but could only find words to repeat that she _was_ a trump, and vanished through the back-door, just as a band of men, with pitchforks, rakes, spades, and lanterns, came clamouring in at the front garden gate from the neighbouring farm.

”What is it?” exclaimed the farmer.

”Only a burglar,” answered Miss Stivergill.

”Where is he?” chorussed everybody.

”That's best known to himself,” replied the lady, who, in order to give the fugitive time, went into a minute and slow account of the whole affair--excepting, of course, her connivance at the escape--to the great edification of her audience, among whom the one who seemed to derive the chief enjoyment was a black boy. He endeavoured to screen himself behind the labourers, and was obviously unable to restrain his glee.

”But what's come of 'im, ma'am?” asked the farmer impatiently.

”Escaped!” answered Miss Stivergill.

”Escaped!” echoed everybody, looking furtively round, as though they supposed he had only escaped under the dresser or into the keyhole.

”Escaped!” repeated the policeman, who entered at the moment with two comrades; ”impossible! I tied 'im so that no efforts of his own could avail 'im. Somebody _must_ 'ave 'elped 'im.”

”The carving-knife helped him,” said Miss Stivergill, with a look of dignity.--”Perhaps, instead of speculating how he escaped, policeman, it would be better to pursue him. He can't be very far off, as it is not twenty minutes since he cut himself free.”

In a state of utter bewilderment the policeman rushed out of the cottage, followed by his comrades and the agriculturists. Peter Pax essayed to go with them, but was restrained by an iron grip on his collar. Pulling him back, Miss Stivergill dragged her captive into a parlour and shut the door.

”Come now, little Pax,” she said, setting the boy in a chair in front of her, ”you needn't try to deceive _me_. I'd know you among a thousand in any disguise. If you were to blacken your face with coal-tar an inch thick your impertinence would s.h.i.+ne through. You know that the burglar is little Bones's father; you've a pretty good guess that I let him off.

You have come here for some purpose in connection with him. Come--out with it, and make a clean breast.”

Little Pax did make a clean breast then and there, was washed white, supped and slept at The Rosebud, returned to town next day by the first train, and had soon the pleasure of informing Tottie that the intended burglary had been frustrated, and that her father wasn't ”took” after all.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

SHOWS HOW ONE THING LEADS TO ANOTHER, AND SO ON.

It is a mere truism to state that many a chain of grave and far-reaching events is set in motion by some insignificant trifle. The touching of a trigger by a child explodes a gun which extinguishes a valuable life, and perhaps throws a whole neighbourhood into difficulties. The lighting of a match may cause a conflagration which shall ”bring down”

an extensive firm, some of whose dependants, in the retail trade, will go down along with it, and cause widespreading distress, if not ruin, among a whole army of greengrocers, b.u.t.termen, and other small fry.

The howling of a bad baby was the comparatively insignificant event which set going a certain number of wheels, whose teeth worked into the cogs which revolved in connection with our tale.

The howling referred to awoke a certain contractor near Pimlico with a start, and caused him to rise off what is popularly known as the ”wrong side.” Being an angry man, the contractor called the baby bad names, and would have whipped it had it been his own. Going to his office before breakfast with the effects of the howl strong upon him, he met a humble labourer there with a surly ”Well, what do you want?”

The labourer wanted work. The contractor had no work to give him. The labourer pleaded that his wife and children were starving. The contractor didn't care a pinch of snuff for his wife or children, and bade him be off. The labourer urged that the times were very hard, and he would be thankful for any sort of job, no matter how small. He endeavoured to work on the contractor's feelings by referring to the premature death, by starvation, of his pet parrot, which had been for years in the family, and a marvellous speaker, having been taught by his mate Bill. The said Bill was also out of work, and waiting for him outside. He too would be thankful for a job--anything would do, and they would be willing to work for next to nothing. The contractor still professed utter indifference to the labourer's woes, but the incident of the parrot had evidently touched a cord which could not be affected by human suffering. After a few minutes' consideration he said there _was_ a small job--a pump at the corner of a certain street not far off had to be taken down, to make way for contemplated alterations. It was not necessary to take it down just then, but as the labourers were so hard up for a job they were at liberty to undertake that one.

Thus two wheels were set in motion, and the result was that the old pump at the corner of Purr Street was uprooted and laid low by these labourers, one of whom looked into the lower end of the pump and said ”Hallo!”