The Story of Antony Grace. George Manville Fenn
There were several men and lads seated about, but they were all, to my great relief, reading papers or periodicals, and I was recovering my equanimity somewhat, when it was upset by a bustling maid, who came as I thought fiercely up to me with a sharp “What’s for you?”
“A cup of coffee, if you please,” I stammered out.
“And roll and butter?”
“Yes, please,” I said, somewhat taken aback that she should, as I felt, have divined my thoughts; and then, in an incredibly short space of time, a large cup of steaming coffee and a roll and pat of butter were placed on the table.
After timidly glancing round to find that it was no novel thing for any one to enter a coffee-house and partake of the fare before me, I proceeded to make my meal, wishing all the while that Jack had been there to share it, and wondering where he was, till at last the coffee was all drunk, the roll and butter eaten, and after paying what was due I stole off once more into the streets. I went on and on in a motiveless way, staring at the wonders ever unfolding before me, till, utterly wearied out, the thought struck me that I must find a resting-place somewhere, for there were no haystacks here, there was no friendly tarpaulin to share with Jack, and, look where I would, nothing that seemed likely to suggest a bed.
I had wandered on through wide, well-lighted streets, and through narrow, poverty-stricken places, till I was in a busy, noisy row, along the pavement of which were broad barrows with flaming lamps, and laden with fish, greengrocery, and fruit. There was noise enough to confuse anyone used to London; to me it was absolutely deafening.
I had seen by a clock a short time before that it was nearly ten, and my legs ached so that I could scarcely stand; and yet, in the midst of the busy throng of people hurrying here and there, I alone seemed to be without friend or home.
I had been wandering about in a purposeless way for a long time, trying to see some one who would win my confidence enough to make me ask where I could obtain a night’s lodging, when I suddenly became aware that a big lad with a long narrow face and little eyes seemed to be watching me, and I saw what seemed to me so marked a resemblance to the young scoundrel who had stolen my bundle, that I instinctively grasped it more tightly and hurried away.
On glancing back, I found that the boy was following, and this alarmed me so that I hastened back into the big street, walked along some distance, then turned and ran as hard as I could up one street and down another, till at last I was obliged to stop and listen to make sure whether I was pursued.
To my horror I heard advancing steps, and I had just time to shrink back into a doorway before, by the dim light of the gas, I saw the lad I sought to avoid run by, and as soon as his heavy boots had ceased to echo, I crept out and ran in the other direction, till, completely worn out, I sat down upon a doorstep in a deserted street, and at last dropped off fast asleep.
I was startled into wakefulness by a strange glare shining in my face, and, looking up, there was a round glowing eye of light seeming to search me through and through.
For a few moments I could do nothing but stare helplessly and then started nervously as a gruff voice exclaimed—“Here; what’s in that bundle?”
“My clothes and clean shirt, sir,” I faltered. “Let’s look.”
My hands shook so that I was some time before I could get the handkerchief undone; but in the meantime I had been able to make out that the speaker was a policeman, and in my confusion at being awakened out of a deep sleep, I associated his coming with instructions from Mr. Blakeford.
At last, though, I laid my bundle open on the step, and my questioner seemed satisfied.
“Tie it up,” he said, and I hastened to obey. “Now, then, young fellow,” he continued, “how is it you are sitting here asleep? Why don’t you go home?”
“Please, sir, I came up from the country to-day, and I ran away from a boy who wanted to steal my bundle, and then I sat down and fell asleep.”
“That’s a likely story,” he said, making the light of the lantern play upon my face. “Where were you going?”
“I don’t know, sir. Yes I do—to Mr. Rowle.”
“And where’s Mr. Rowle’s?”
“It’s—it’s—stop a minute, sir. I’ve got the address written down. It’s at a great printing-office.”
As I spoke I felt in my pockets one after the other for the address of Mr. Rowle’s brother, but to my dismay I found that it was gone, and, search how I would, there was no sign of it in either pocket. At last I looked up full in the policeman’s face, to exclaim pitifully—“Please, sir, it’s gone.”
“Is it now?” he said in a bantering, sneering tone. “That’s a wonder, that is: specially if it warn’t never there. Look here, young fellow, what have you come to London for?”
“Please, sir, I’ve come to seek my fortune.”
“Oh, you have, have you? Now look here, which are you, a young innocent from the country, or an artful one? You may just as well speak out, for I’m sure to find out all about it.”
“Indeed I’ve come up from the country, sir, to try and get a place, for I was so unhappy down there.”
“Then you’ve run away from your father and mother, eh?”
“No, sir; they are both dead.”
“Well, then, you’ve run away from home, eh?”
“No, sir,” I said sadly; “I haven’t any home.”
“Well, what’s got to be done? You can’t stop here all night.”
“Can’t I, sir?”
“Can’t you, sir? Why, what a young gooseberry it is! Have you been to London before?”
“No, sir.”
“When did you come up?”
“Only this evening, sir.”
“And don’t you know that if I leave you here some one’ll have your bundle, and perhaps you too, before morning?”
“I was so tired, sir, I fell asleep.”
“Come along o’ me. The best thing I can do for you’s to lock you up till morning.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He burst out into a roar of laughter as he turned off the light of his bull’s-eye.
“Come along, youngster,” he said, “it’s all right, I see. Why, you are as green as a gooseberry.”
“Am I, sir?” I said piteously, for I felt very sorry that I was so green, as he called it, but I was too much confused to thoroughly understand what he meant.
“Greener, ever so much. Why, if you’d gone down Covent Garden to sleep amongst the baskets you’d have got swept up for cabbage leaves.”
“Covent Garden Market, sir? Is that close here?” I said.
“As if you didn’t know,” he replied, returning to his doubting vein.
“I’ve heard my papa speak of it,” I said, eager to convince him that I was speaking the truth. “He said the finest of all the fruit in the country went there, and that the flowers in the central—central—”
“Avenue?” suggested the constable.
“Yes, central avenue—were always worth a visit.”
“That’s so. And that’s what your papa said, eh?”
“Yes, sir, I have heard him say so more than once.”
“Then don’t you think, young fellow, as it looks very suspicious for a young gent as