Frank Oldfield Part 21

"Ay," exclaimed one, "we must get the chap as takes photographs to come over on purpose. Eh, what a rare cart-der-wissit Tommy'll make arter the scratching. You must lay in a lot on 'em, Will, and sell 'em for sixpence a piece. You'll make your fortune by it, man."

"Martha," said Jones, turning to his wife, "mind, not a word to any living soul about what we've been saying."

"I've said I won't tell," replied his wife; "and in course I won't. But I'm sure you might find summat better to do nor scratching a poor fellow's face as has done you no harm. I'm not fond of your teetottal chaps; but Tommy's a quiet, decent sort of man, and their Betty's as tidy a wench as you'll meet with anywhere; and I think it's a shame to bring 'em any more trouble, for they've had more nor their share as it is. It'd be a rare and good thing if some of you chaps'd follow Tommy's example. There'd be more peace in the house, and more bra.s.s in the pocket at the week end."

"Hold your noise, and mind your own business," shouted her husband, fiercely. "You just blab a word of what we've been saying, and see how I'll sarve you out.--Come, mates, let's be off to the 'George;' we shall find better company there."

So saying, he strode savagely out of the cottage, followed by his companions. When they were fairly gone, the poor boy slipped from his hiding-place.

"Johnny," said his mother, "if you'll do what your mother bids you, I'll give your fayther the change for the s.h.i.+lling out of my own pocket, and he'll never know as you lost it."

"Well, mother, I'll do it if I can."

"You've heard what your fayther and t'other chaps were saying?"

"Yes, mother; every word on't."

"Well, John, I promised I wouldn't let out a word of it myself; but I didn't say that _you_ shouldn't."

"Eh, mother, if I split, fayther'll break every bone in my body."

"But how's your fayther to know anything about it? He knows nothing of your being under the couch-chair. I can swear as I haven't opened my lips to any one out of the house, nor to any one as has come into it.

You just slip down now to Thomas's, and tell their Betty you wants to speak with her by herself. Tell her she mustn't say a word to any one.

She's a good wench. She's sharp enough, too; she'll keep it all snug.

She were very good to me when our Moses were down with the fever, and I mustn't let her get into this trouble when I can lend her a helping hand to get her out."

"But, mother," said her son, "what am I to tell Betty?"

"Why, just tell her all you've heard, and how you were under the couch- chair, and how I promised myself as I wouldn't split. Tell her she must make no din about it, but just keep her fayther out of the way. He may go off to his brother d.i.c.k's, and come home in the morn, and who's to say as he's heard anything about the scratching."

"Well, mother," said John, "I'll do as you say. Betty's a good wench; she's given me many a kind word, and many a b.u.t.ter cake too, and I'd not like to see her fretting if I could help it."

"There's a good lad," said his mother; "be off at once. Fayther's safe in the 'George.' It'll be pretty dark in the lane. You can go in at the back, and you're pretty sure to find Betty at home. Be sharp, and I'll keep your tea for you till you come back again."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

FLITTING.

The twenty-second of November, the day before the total abstinence meeting, arrived in a storm of wind and rain. Everything was favourable to the conspirators. They had met several times to arrange their plans, but had always talked them over in the open air and in the dark, under a hedge, or at the end of a lane. Martha never alluded to the subject with her husband. He had once said to her himself--

"Mind what you've promised."

She replied,--

"Never fear. I said I wouldn't tell, and I haven't told. I haven't breathed a word to any one as wasn't in the house the night when you talked it over."

Her husband was satisfied.

Betty was gone to her aunt's, and it was positively ascertained that she was not to return that night. Johnson had clearly no intention of spending the night away from home, for, as he was leaving the pit-bank, when Will Jones stepped up to him and said,--

"Well, Thomas, I suppose you'll have a rare tale to tell about your old mates to-morrow; we must come all on us and hearken you."

He had quietly replied,--

"I hope, Will, you'll hear nothing as'll do any of you any harm, and I hope you wish me none, as I'm sure I don't wish any harm to you. I mustn't tarry now, for our Betty's off; and I've much to do at home, for to-morrow'll be a busy day for me."

A little later on, towards nine o'clock, one of the men in the plot pa.s.sed by Johnson's house, and heard his voice in conversation with some one else. All, therefore, was in a right train for their scheme to succeed. At ten o'clock the whole party met in a lane near Will Jones's.

"It's all right," said the man who had heard Johnson in conversation with another man a short time before. "Thomas'll be fast asleep afore long. The window's all right, too; I just slipped round to the back and looked at it."

"Well," said Jones, "now we must all on us go home. We mustn't be seen together. We're all to meet in the field when the church clock strikes two. Who's got the powder and the lamp-black?"

"I have," replied a voice.

"And who's got the ropes?"

"I have," whispered another.

"Well, that's all right," said Will, with a low, chuckling laugh. "I've got the lantern and furze. I've picked out some with a rare lot of p.r.i.c.ks on't. I reckon he'll not look so handsome in the morning."

Quietly and stealthily they separated, and shrunk off to their own houses.

A few hours later, and several dusky figures were slipping along with as little noise as possible towards the dwelling of the poor victim. It was still very boisterous, but the rain had almost ceased. Thick, heavy clouds, black as ink, were being hurried across the sky, while the wind was whistling keenly round the ends of the houses. There were gaslights which flickered in the gale along the main road; but everything was in the densest gloom at the rear of the buildings and down the side streets. As the church clock struck two, the first stroke loud and distinct, the next like its mournful echo--as the sound was borne away by the fitful breeze, the conspirators crept with the utmost caution to the back of Johnson's house. Not a sound but their own m.u.f.fled footsteps could be heard. Not a light was visible through any window.

No voice except that of the wailing wind broke the deep stillness. The black walls of the different dwellings rose up dreary and solemn, with spectral-looking pipes dimly projecting from them. The drip, drip of the rain, as it fell off the smoky slates, or streamed down the walls, giving them here and there a dusky glaze, intensified the mournful loneliness of the whole scene.

"Crouch you down under the water-b.u.t.t," whispered Ben Stone, the man who had proposed the scheme, and who now acted as leader.

"Will, give me your shoulder--where's the lantern?"

In another moment he was close to the window, which was gently raised, but at that instant something struck him on the back, he uttered a half- suppressed exclamation, and nearly loosed his hold.

"It's only a cat," whispered one of the men below. "All's right."

Stone again raised himself to the window, and pushed it farther up; then he drew himself down out of sight and listened. Not a sound came from the chamber to show that Johnson's sleep was disturbed. Again the man raised himself. He had previously taken off his clogs, as had also the others. Very gradually and warily, with suppressed breath, he lowered himself on to the floor. All was safe so far. Betty had slept here, but her bed was now empty; indeed, to Ben Stone's surprise, the bedstead was bare both of mattress and bedclothes. Johnson's was the inner chamber. Ben stole softly to the door, all was dark and quiet; he could just make out the bed, and that a figure lay upon it. He hastily caused the light of the lantern to flash on the rec.u.mbent form for a single moment, it seemed to him to move; he crouched down close to the floor, and listened--again all was still. He was now convinced that Johnson lay there in a deep sleep. Now was the time. Stepping back to the window on tiptoe, he put out his head, and whispered,--

"All's right; come up as quietly as you can."

They were all soon in the outer chamber.

"Now," said Stone in a low voice, "you give me the furze--there, that'll do. Will, have you got the pot with the powder and lamp-black?--that's your sort--where's the ropes?--all right--now then."

All reached the floor of the outer room without any mishap, and then, treading with the utmost caution, approached the bed in the inner room.

The sleeper did not stir. Ben Stone threw the light upon the prostrate figure, which lay coiled up, and apparently quite unconscious. A rope was now thrown loosely round, the men crawling along the floor, and just raising themselves on one elbow as they jerked it lightly across the bedstead; then another coil was made higher up, still the sleeper did not stir hand or foot.

"Now, then," cried Ben, half out loud, and throwing the full blaze of the lantern on the bed's head; in a moment the other men had drawn the ropes tight, and Jones leant over with his pot. But before Ben had time to plunge the furze upon the unhappy victim's face, a suppressed cry broke from the whole group. It was no living being that lay there, but only a bundle of old carpeting, with a dirty coverlid thrown over it.

The next instant the truth burst upon them all. Johnson was gone. They looked at one another the very picture of stupid bewilderment. A hasty flash of the lantern showed that there was no other bed in the chamber.

"Well, here's a go," whispered Jones; "the bird's flown, and a pretty tale we shall have to tell."