Cleg Kelly, Arab of the City 10

Cleg Kelly, Arab of the City 10

Mr. Somerville thereupon promptly lost his rightful and given name, and

became to all eternity—or so long, at least, as he remained at Hunker

Court—"Old One-in-the Eye."

 

But it so happened that, on this particular Sunday, Cleg's teacher

with the pugnacious title was absent; and, in despite of the notice

prominently placarded on the walls behind the superintendent's desk, he

was absent without having provided a substitute.

 

There was nothing for it, therefore, but that Samson Langpenny should

take the class himself. And he would as soon have faced a battery of

artillery as a class in which sat the Egyptian plague of his school,

Cleg Kelly. It was, indeed, on this particular day that there came to

Samson the resolution to try him with Miss Celie Tennant as a last

resource, previous to a second and final expulsion.

 

Indeed, he would have chosen the latter alternative long ago, but for a

well-grounded inward belief that, at the close of the hour after Cleg's

compulsory exit, there would not be a whole pane of glass in all the

many windows of Hunker Court Sunday school. He remembered well as a

teacher the awful scene which accompanied the first expulsion under the

reign of "Pund o' Cannles"—a scene which since his return had made Cleg

almost idolised by the scholars of Hunker Court.

 

Samson Langpenny sat down to teach the Border Ruffians of the Sooth

Back—Cleg Kelly's class. Now he was out of place, and knew it. His true

sphere in a Sunday school was in the infant department; where, with a

packet of butterscotch and "Hush-a-bye, Baby!" he might have been a

great and shining success.

 

Why the minister did not see this was a standing problem in Hunker

Court. But, as the teachers said one to another on their several ways

home:

 

"It is so hard to get the minister to see anything—_and as for his

wife_——"

 

"Can you say your Psalm—metrical version?" asked Samson Langpenny, as

though of a certainty they were all letter-perfect in the prose version.

 

"_I_ can," said Cleg Kelly promptly.

 

"Then," said Samson, smiling, well-pleased, "we will take you last."

 

With various hitches and shoves, the awkward and unruly class bored

its way through the Psalm—"metrical version." An impartial observer

might have noticed that the teacher contributed about ninety-five

per cent. of the recitation in the form of hints and suggestions.

Nevertheless, each boy, having completed his portion, sat back with

a proud consciousness that he had done his duty with even needless

promptitude and accuracy. Also it was an established canon of the place

that so soon as each boy was released from the eye of the teacher, he

instantly put his hand slyly under the bench. Then he either nipped his

neighbour in a place which made the sufferer take an instant interest

in the circumstance, or else he incontinently stuck a pin into him.

 

In either case the boy assaulted remarked: "OUCH! please, sir, Tam

Rogerson's nippin' me. Wull ye speak to him?"

 

But this was only the usual routine, and provoked no remark.

 

When, however, the superintendent came to Cleg Kelly, and that diligent

young student began at once to reel off the twenty-third Psalm with

vivacity and despatch—the psalm which the entire body of Scottish youth

learns long before the A, B, C—it was obviously time to interfere.

 

"If ye please, sir (or whether or no), that's no the richt yin!" said

Tam Rogerson, who ran Cleg close for the place of honour as the "warst

loon i' the schule!" This was a post of as great distinction at Hunker

Court as the position of clown in a circus.

 

Cleg's answer was twofold.

 

To Tam Rogerson he remarked—under his breath, it is true, but with

startling distinctness—

 

"Wait till I get you oot, ma man; I'll warm you."

 

And Tam Rogerson grew hot from head to foot, for he knew that he was as

good as warmed already.

 

On the other hand, Cleg gave the answer of peace to his teacher:

 

"Please, sir, Maister Langshanks—penny, I mean—my faither is

a Papish—an' he winna let me learn ony ither Psalm but the

three-an'-twunty. But I hae learned HER to richts!"

 

After this exhibition of the rights of the nonconforming conscience

in strange places, Cleg continued his lesson in Hunker Court under

the vague tutelage of Samson Langpenny. Now Samson was unaware of the

strong feeling of resentment which was gathering in the bosoms of

his scholars, owing to the length of his "introductory exercises."

The Psalm and the "questions" were all in the day's work, but Samson

introduced a prayer in the middle of the teaching hour, which Cleg

Kelly considered to be wholly uncalled for and indeed little short of

impious.

 

So, as soon as Samson shut his eyes, Cleg silently joined the class

nearest him, and the other scholars of the absent Mr. Somerville

did likewise. When Samson opened his eyes and awoke to the state of

the case, he found himself wholly without a single scholar to whom

instruction could be given.

 

Cleg had betaken himself to the class of Miss Robina Semple, an

excellent maiden lady of much earnestness and vigour. She was so busy

explaining the scripture lesson, that she did not at first observe the

addition to the number of her scholars in the wholly undesirable person

of Master Kelly.

 

The lesson was the parable of the lame man at the pool of Siloam.

 

Now in Miss Semple's class there was a lame boy named Chris Cullen. He

sat listening with strained attention and invincible eagerness to every

word which fell from his teacher. Cleg, to whom all lessons were much

alike, listened also—chiefly, it may be, because he saw the reflection

of an angel's smile on the face of the lame boy, Chris Cullen.

 

"What gars ye hearken like that, Chris?" whispered Cleg, with some

anxiety. Only the news of a prize fight would have brought such

an __EXPRESSION__ of interest to his own face, or (it might be) the

announcement that his father had got ten years.

 

"It's aboot a man that got a dook, an' then he could walk!" said Chris,

speaking hurriedly over his shoulder, being anxious not to miss a word.

 

"What hindered him to dook afore?" asked Cleg.

 

"He couldna get doon to the water-edge," said Chris.

 

"Was the bobby there?" persisted Cleg, to whom the limit of where he

might not go or might not do coincided with the beat of the officers of

Her Majesty's peace.

 

"_Wheesht!_" interjected Chris Cullen, "she's telling it the noo!"

 

For the lame boy, his teacher existed for this purpose alone.

 

The calm, high voice of Miss Robina Semple went on—Robina Semple, whom

some called "a plain old maid"—

 

"And so the poor man, who had no one to carry him down to the edge when

the angel troubled the water, had to stay where he was, and somebody

else got in before him! Are you not sorry for him?"

 

"Never heed, Chris Cullen," broke in Cleg, "I'll cairry ye doon on my

back mysel'! There's naebody will daur to hinder ye dookin' in ony dub

ye like, when I'm cairryin' ye!"

 

Cleg Kelly was certainly acquiring, by contact if in no other way,

certain Christian ideas. For the rest he was still frankly pagan.

 

Now at this particular date Hunker Court Sabbath school was run under

a misapprehension. It was the idea of the superintendent that a little

sugared advice would tame the young savages of the courts and wynds.

Hence the hour of instruction was largely taken up with confused

sound and fury. Samson would have been wiser if he had suborned a

prize-fighter of good moral principles to teach the young idea of

Hunker Court how to shoot head foremost out at the door. Under these

circumstances it is conceivable that some good might have been done.

But as it was, under the placid consulship of Samson Langpenny,

teachers and scholars alike had a good deal of physical exercise of an

interesting and healthful sort. But the moral and religious improvement

was certainly to seek.

 

Yet in the class of Miss Semple, that excellent woman and good teacher

of youth, there was one scholar who that Sunday had heard to profit. It

was Cleg Kelly. He carried home little Chris Cullen on his shoulders,

and if no angel stirred the waters of the gutter puddles as these two

went their way, and if no immediate healing resulted, both Chris and

Cleg were the better for the lesson of the troubling of the waters.

 

Even Samson Langpenny did not go to Hunker Court that day in vain,

for he went along with Chris and Cleg part of the way home. Pride was

not among Samson's failings, and, as we know, bashfulness was equally

absent from the black catalogue of the sins of our hero.

 

"What for are you carrying Chris?" asked Samson Langpenny, who, though

he had many weaknesses, had also large and sufficient virtues of

earnestness and self-sacrifice.

 

"Weel, ye see, sir," said Cleg, trotting alongside cheerily, his burden

upon his shoulders, "it's true that Chris can gang himsel'. But ye ken

yersel' gin the laddies are verra ceevil when they get oot o' schule.

They micht knock the wee yin ower. But when he is up on my shoothers,

they juist darena. My certes, but I wad like to fa' acquaint wi' the

yin that wad as muckle as lift a 'paver' to him. I wad 'paver' him!"

 

The superintendent smiled, though as a general rule he deprecated

an appeal to arms. Cleg had also a little sound advice to offer his

superior.

 

"Ye dinna lick aneuch in your schule, Maister!" continued Cleg, for he

was unselfishly desirous that everyone should succeed in the sphere of

life to which Providence had called him. He did not, it is true, see

any great reason for a man's having taken to keeping Sunday school.

Summer treats in the country might surely have been given without

them—likewise tea _soirées_. But since these things had been mixed up

together, the instruction part, however unnecessary, should certainly

be carried out in a workmanlike fashion.

 

"Not lick enough?" queried the superintendent, aghast. He thought

he could not have heard aright—the pest of Hunker Court counselling

corporal punishment!

 

"Aye, an' div ye ken," Cleg went on, "div ye ken I can tell ye, wha ye

could get to keep the laddies as quaite as pussy."

 

The superintendent looked at the rebel Head Centre of Hunker Court,

bending with the weight of Chris Cullen upon his shoulders. It did not

strike him that Cleg might also be able to support his own crippled

steps upon his willing heathen shoulders.

 

"What would you advise?" he asked at last, with a certain pathetic

humility.

 

"There's a maister at oor day schule that's awsome handy wi' the taws,

an a' the laddies are feared o' him. He comes to your kirk—I hae seen

him gang in the door. Ye micht get him for a teacher in yer Sabbath

schule! Then the boys wad hae to be quaite. His name's MacRobb."

 

"Why would the boys have to be quiet then?" said Samson Langpenny, who

did not yet understand what his ragged mentor was driving at.

 

"Dinna ye see, sir," said Cleg eagerly, "the boys daurna play their

capers on Sabbaths at Hunker Court, an' gang to his schule on Mondays.

Na, he wad fair skin them alive. It wad mak' an awfu' differ to you,

sir."

 

"But I do not know Mr. MacRobb," said Samson; "how can I get him to

give up his Sabbath afternoons to teach in such a noisy place? He will

say that he gets enough of teaching through the week."

 

"Gae 'way!" said Cleg in his vernacular, forgetting for the moment to

whom he spoke, "gae 'way, man! Get bonny Miss Tennant, the lass in

the yella frock, to speer him. He'll come fast aneuch then. He does

naething else in the kirk but glower at her a' the time the minister's

preaching."

 

Thus Cleg jested with love, and used its victims at his pleasure.

 

 

 

 

ADVENTURE XVII.

 

THE KNUCKLE DUSTERS.

 

 

Soon after this Cleg Kelly became a member of a young lady's class, in

a manner which has been elsewhere related.[3]

 

That young lady was Miss Cecilia Tennant, otherwise known as Celie—a

young lady much admired by all who knew her (and by some who did not,

but wanted to); and especially admired by Mr. Donald Iverach, junior

partner in the firm on whose premises the class was held. I have also

related the tragical events which preceded the formation of the boys'

class, organised under the guidance and tutelage of Cleg Kelly. But

it soon became evident that something more than a night class was

necessary, if any impression were to be made on the wild Arabs of the

Sooth Back.

 

"Ye see the way o' it is this, Miss Celie," Cleg explained. "Ye canna

keep a boy frae ill-doing by juist telling him aboot Jacob for an hour

in the week. There's a' day in the shop, wi' the gaffer swearin' blue

murder even on, an' ill-talk an' ither things that I juist canna tell

ye. Then there's every nicht, when we drap work. What can we do but

stand about the streets, or start the Gang an' look aboot us for a

bobby to chivvy, or else for something handy for 'liftin'?'"

 

"But, Cleg," cried Celie, much alarmed, "surely I do not understand you

to say that you _steal_?"

 

"Na," said Cleg, "we dinna steal. We only 'nick' things whiles!"

 

Celie had heard, indeed, of the "mobs," the "unions," the "gangs,"

the "crowds." But she thought them simply amiable and rather silly

secret societies, such as her own brothers used to make a great deal

of unnecessary secrecy about—calling themselves "Bloody Bill of the

Ranch," "Navajo Tommy," and other stupid names. She had remarked the

same mania in Cleg sometimes, and had some reason to believe that all

boys are alike, whatever may be their station in life.

 

But Cleg soon put his friend out of the danger of any such mistake.

 

"Mind, say '_As sure as daith_,' an' ye'll cut your throat gin ye

tell," said Cleg, very earnestly, "an' I'll tell ye, aye, an' make ye a

member!"

 

Cleg was about to reveal state secrets, and he did not want to run any

risks. Celie promised faithfully the utmost discretion.

 

"Weel, Miss Celie, I can see that ye are no gaun to do muckle guid

amang us boys, if I dinna tell ye. An' I want ye no to believe ony

lees, like what are telled to the ministers an' folk like them. There's

mair ill in the Sooth Back than can be pitten richt wi' a track. I

canna bide them tracks——"

 

The distribution of tracts was an old grievance of Cleg's. But Celie

earnestly and instantly put him on the plain way again, for if he once

began upon "tracks," there was no telling if ever she would get any

nearer to her promised lesson on the good and evil of the boys' unions.

 

Celie found herself as eager as ever was her first mother Eve, to eat

of the tree of the forbidden knowledge.

 

"Gie us your han', Miss Celie, I'll no hurt ye," said Cleg.

 

Celie drew off her dainty glove, and instantly extended a hand that was

white and small beyond all the boy's imagining. Cleg took it reverently

in his dirty, work-broadened paw. He touched the slender fingers as if

they were made of thistle-down and might blow away accidentally. So he

held his breath. Then he took out his knife, one with a point like a

needle, which had been used in a shoe factory.

 

Perhaps Celie winced a little as he opened the blade, but, if it were

so, it was very little indeed. Yet it was enough to be perceptible to

her very sincere admirer.

 

Cleg let her hand drop, and without a pause thrust the sharp point

into the ball of his own thumb, squeezing therefrom a single drop of

blood.

 

"It's no juist exactly richt, no to hae your ain blood, ye ken!" he

explained gravely; "but as ye dinna tell so mony lees as the boys,

maybe mine will do as weel this time to take the oath with."

 

With a clean new pen from Celie's desk, Cleg made on her palm the sign

of a cross, and for her life the initiated dared not so much as let her

hand quiver or her eyelid droop.

 

She knew that the occasion was an entirely critical one. But in a

moment it was over, and Celie Tennant was admitted a _bonâ fide_

acting member of the Sooth Back Gang, with full right in its secrets

and to the disposal of one full and undivided share of its profits. No

questions to be asked as to how these profits were come by. Indeed,

from that moment there is little doubt that Celie Tennant might have

been indicted for reset, conspiracy, and crimes infinitely various.

 

That night at Miss Tennant's class there was a full attendance, and the

opening was delayed owing to necessity arising for the expulsion of a

boy, apparently in no way offending against discipline.

 

Celie looked the question she dared not speak.

 

"_He's no yin o' us!_" explained Cleg in a whisper. "He belongs to the

Potter-raw gang—a low lot."

 

Celie felt morally raised by the consciousness of belonging to a gang

of the most high-toned "nickums" in the whole city.

 

Then Cleg, after the briefest opening exercises had been endured,

explained that there remained for that evening only the ceremony of

reception of a new member who had already been sworn in. In this Celie

had to concur with as good a grace as possible. She was then and there

appointed, with acclamation, a full member of the honourable (or

dishonourable, according to the point of view) society of the Knuckle

Dusters of the Sooth Back. It was generally felt after this, that Jacob

(the Patriarch of that name) could very well afford to wait over for a

little.

 

But, after the ceremony, when Celie looked again at her class, she

could hardly believe her eyes. Were these the lads who night after

night had stood before her with faces sleeked and smugged with arrant

hypocrisy, or had looked up at her after some bout of intolerable

mischief, as demure as kittens after spilling a saucer of milk?

 

A certain seriousness and comradeship pervaded the meeting. But Cleg

was not yet at the end of his surprises.

 

"I perpose," he said, "that we hae a Club a' for oorsels."

 

The meeting with unanimous palm and hoof signified its approval of this

grand proposal, obviously one which had been discussed before.

 

"We will hae it in here, and we'll pay to be members—an' that will do

for the coals, and we'll hae smokin'——"

 

Celie sat aghast. Events were precipitating themselves with a

vengeance. Indeed, surprise sat so manifest on her countenance that

Cleg thought it wise to point out its genuine character to his brother

members. It would never do for them to believe that the great idea of

the club had not originated with themselves.

 

"_She_ kens nocht aboot it, but I ken fine she's gaun to stan' in wi'

us!" he explained, putting her, as it were, on her honour and under the

solemn seal of the bloody cross of the Knuckle Dusters.

 

In this Celie, bound by her oath, had indeed no choice.

 

She must of a surety stand by them. But a serious difficulty occurred

to her.

 

"Lads," she said, "we have only the right to this place for one night

in the week. How can we occupy it every night?"

 

All the boys laughed loud. The question was mightily amusing. Indeed,

Celie was often most amusing to them when she had no intention of being

so.

 

"Of coorse, we ken, ye hae only to ask _him_!" they said, with one solid voice of general concurrence.