The Story of Antony Grace. Fenn George Manville

he were going to take an inventory of my small person. “Now, look here,” he repeated, moistening the point of his pencil, “you told Joe Smith you knowed me, and I never set eyes on you afore.”

      “Please, sir,” I said hastily, “I told him I know Mr Revitts, who’s in the police.”

      “Yes, and you said you had run away from Rowford and a Mr Blake – Blake – What’s his name?”

      “Blakeford, sir,” I said despondently, for it seemed that this was not my Mr Revitts.

      “Blakeford. That’s right; and he ill-used you?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “He’s a little fair man, ain’t he, with blue eyes?” And he rustled the leaves of his notebook as if about to take down my answer.

      “No, sir,” I cried eagerly; “he’s tall and dark, and has short hair, and very white teeth.”

      “Ho! Tall, is he?” said the constable, making believe to write, and then holding out his pencil at me. “He’s a nice, kind, amiable man, ain’t he, as wouldn’t say an unkind word to a dorg?”

      “Oh no, sir,” I said, shuddering; “that’s not my Mr Blakeford.”

      “Ho! Now, then, once more. There’s a servant lives there at that house, and her name’s Jane – ain’t it?”

      “No, sir, Mary.”

      “And she’s got red hair and freckles, and she – she’s very little and – ”

      “No, no,” I cried excitedly, for after my heart had seemed to sink terribly low, it now leaped at his words. “That isn’t Mary, and you are saying all this to try me, sir. You – you are Mr William Revitts, I know you are;” and I caught him eagerly by the arm.

      “Which I don’t deny it, boy,” he said, still looking at me suspiciously, and removing my hand. “Revitts is my name. P.C. Revitts, VV 240; and I ain’t ashamed of it. But only to think of it. How did you know of me, though?”

      “I wrote Mary’s letters for her, sir.”

      “Whew! That’s how it was she had so improved in her writing. And so you’ve been living in the same house along a her?”

      “Yes, sir,” I said, “and she was so good and kind.”

      “When she wasn’t in a tantrum, eh?”

      “Yes, sir, when she wasn’t in a – ”

      “Tantrum, that’s it, boy. We should ha’ been spliced afore now if it hadn’t been for her tantrums. But only to think o’ your being picked up in the street like this. And what am I to do now? You’ve absconded, you have; you know you’ve absconded in the eyes of the law.”

      “Write to Mary, please, sir, and ask her if it wasn’t enough to make me run away.”

      “Abscond, my lad, abscond,” said the constable.

      “Yes, sir,” I said, with a shiver, “abscond.”

      “You didn’t – you didn’t,” he said in a half hesitating way, as he felt and pinched my bundle, and then ran his hand down by my jacket-pocket. “You didn’t – these are all your own things in this, are they?”

      “Oh yes, sir!” I said.

      “Because some boys when they absconds, makes mistakes, and takes what isn’t theirs.”

      “Do they, sir?”

      “Yes, my lad, and I’m puzzled about you. You see, it’s my duty to treat you like a runaway ’prentice, and I’m uneasy in my mind about what to do. You see, you did run away.”

      “Oh yes, sir, I did run away. I was obliged to. Mr Blakeford wanted me to tell lies.”

      “Well, that seems to come easy enough to most people,” he said.

      “But I am telling the truth, sir,” I said. “Write down to Rowford, and ask Mary if I’m not telling the truth.”

      “Truth! Oh, I know that, my boy,” he said kindly. “Here, give’s your hand. Come along.”

      “But you won’t send me back, sir?”

      “Send you back? Not I, boy. He’s a blackguard, that Blakeford. I know him, and I only wish he’d do something, and I had him to take up for it. Mary’s told me all about him, and if ever we meets, even if it’s five pounds or a month, I’ll punch his head: that’s what I’ll do for him. Do yer hear?”

      “Yes, sir,” I said.

      “Now, what’s to be done with you?”

      I shook my head and looked at him helplessly.

      He stood looking at me for a few moments and then went into another room, where there was a policeman sitting at a desk, like a clerk, with a big book before him. I could see him through the other doorway, and they talked for a few minutes; and then Mr Revitts came back, and stood staring at me.

      “P’r’aps I’m a fool,” he muttered. “P’r’aps I ain’t. Anyhow, I’ll do it. Look here, youngster, I’m going to trust you, though as you’ve absconded I ought to take you before a magistrate or the inspector, but I won’t, as you’re a friend of my Mary.”

      “Thank you, sir,” I said.

      “And if you turn out badly, why, woe betide you.”

      “Please, sir, I won’t turn out badly if I can help it; but Mr Blakeford said I was good for nothing.”

      “Mr Blakeford be blowed! I wouldn’t ask him for a character for a dorg; and as for Mary, she don’t want his character, and he may keep it. I’ll take her without. I wouldn’t speak to any one like this, youngster; but you know that gal’s got a temper, though she’s that good at heart that – that – ”

      “She’d nurse you so tenderly if you were ill,” I said enthusiastically, “that you wouldn’t wish to be better.”

      He held out his hand and gave mine a long and solemn shake.

      “Thankye, youngster,” he said, “thankye for that. You and I will be good friends, I see. I will trust your word, hang me if I don’t. Here, come along.”

      “Are you – are you going to take me up, sir?” I faltered, with a shiver of apprehension.

      “I’m a-going to give you the door-key where I lodges, my lad. I’m on night duty, and shan’t be home till quarter-past six, so you may have my bed and welcome. Now, look here,” he said, “don’t you go and let anybody fool you. I’m going to show you the end of a long street, and you’ll go right to the top, then turn to the right along the road till you come to the fourth turning, and on the right-hand side, number twenty-seven, is where I lodges. Here’s the key. You puts it in the lock, turns it, shuts the door after you, and then goes gently upstairs to the second-pair back.”

      “Second-pair back, sir?” I said dubiously.

      “Well there, then, to the back room atop of the house, and there you may sleep till I come. Now then, this way out.”

      It was a change that I could not have believed in, and I accompanied the constable wonderingly as he led me out of the police-station and through several dark-looking streets, till he stopped short before a long dim vista, where straight before me two lines of gaslights stretched right away till they seemed to end in a bright point.

      “Now, then,” he said, “you can’t make any mistake there.”

      “No, sir.”

      “Off you go then to the top, and then you’ll find yourself in a big road.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Turn to the right, and then count four streets on the right-hand side. Do you understand?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Go down that street about halfway, till you see a gaslight shining on a door with number twenty-seven