Cleg Kelly, Arab of the City 11

Cleg Kelly, Arab of the City 11

Celie felt herself beginning to burn low down on her neck, and it made

her angry to think that in a minute more she would blush like a great

baby just out of the senior class of the Ladies' College. The boys

watched her maliciously till she looked really distressed, and then

Cleg struck gallantly into the breach.

 

"Chaps," he cried, "I think we should ask for oorsels. We are gaun to

elec' a commy-tee and run the show. Dinna let us begin by troublin'

Miss Tennant. We'll gang an' ask oorsels. Gin ye are feared, I'm no!"

 

Crash! came a stone through the window. All leapt to their feet in a

moment.

 

"It's that dirty scoondrel frae the Potter-raw. Oot after him!" cried

Cleg.

 

Whereupon the newly constituted Knuckle Dusters' Club tumultuously

detached itself for police duty. There was a scurry along the

highway, a fight at a street corner. Two boys got a black eye apiece.

A policeman was assaulted in the half-humorous way peculiar to the

district. A letter-deliverer sat down suddenly on the pavement, to

the delay of Her Majesty's mails, and after five well-spent and happy

minutes, the Club re-entered, wiping its brow, and Cleg cried:

 

"Three cheers for the Knuckle Dusters' Club! Miss Celie to be the

president for ever an' ever. We'll meet the morn's nicht to elec' the

commy-tee. _And there's twenty meenits left for Jacob!_"

 

And so the Knuckle Dusters' Club sat patiently down to endure its

scripture lesson.

 

 

 

 

ADVENTURE XVIII.

 

BIG SMITH SUBDUES THE KNUCKLE DUSTERS.

 

 

The reader of this random chronicle has not forgotten the

Troglodytes—the Cave Dwellers, the Railing Roosters—alien to the race

of men, with manners and customs darkly their own.

 

These are they with whom Cleg had to do, when he amused himself all

that summer day opposite the house of the sergeant. Of the Troglodytes

the chief were Tam Luke, who for a paltry consideration gave his

time during the day to furthering the affairs of Tamson, the baker;

Cleaver's boy, who similarly conducted the butcher's business next

door; and the grocer's boy, who answered to the name of "Marg"—that is,

if he who used it was very much bigger and stronger than himself. In

other circumstances "Marg" chased and hammered according to his ability

the boy who called the name after him—for it was contracted from

"margarine," and involved a distinct slur upon his line of business.

 

But each man of the Troglodytes was a Knuckle Duster. In the Club they

were banded together for offence and defence. In the days before Cleg

took in hand to reorganise the club, they had a good many things in

common besides the fear of the constable.

 

Now, each boy was most respectable during his hours of business. There

was no "sneaking" the goods of their own masters. The till was safe,

and they did not carry away the stock-in-trade to sell it. But that was

pretty much all the way their honour went. Their kind of honesty, it

is to be feared, was chiefly of the "best policy" sort. Fun was fun,

and "sneaking" was the breath of life; but it was one thing to "fake an

apple," and altogether another to be "nicked" for stealing from one's

master. The latter meant the loss of situation without a character. Now

a character is a valuable asset. It is negotiable, and must be taken

care of. To steal does not hurt one's character—only to be found out.

To break a plate-glass window with a stone does not harm a character as

much as it damages the window; but to be an hour late three mornings

running is fatal. So Cleaver's boy had a character; "Marg" had a

character, and even Tam Luke had a character. They were all beauties.

Our own Cleg had half a dozen different characters—most of them,

however, rather indifferent.

 

But there is no mistake that, under the influence of Celie Tennant and

the new Knuckle Dusters' Club, they were all in the way of improvement.

The good character of their hours of work already began to lap over

into their play-time. But thus it was not always.

 

Just before its re-inauguration the Sooth Back "mob" had been rather

down on its luck. Cleg was among them only intermittently. They had had

a fight with Bob Sowerby's gang, which frequented the Pleasance lands,

and had been ignominiously defeated.

 

Worse than all, they had come across "Big" Smith, the athletic

missionary of the Pleasance. He was so called to distinguish him

from "Little" Smith, a distinguished predecessor of the same name,

who was popularly understood to have read every book that was. Big

Smith was not distinguished in the same way. All the same, he was both

distinguished and popular.

 

On this occasion he was addressing his weekly meeting underneath one of

the great houses. The Knuckle Dusters thought it good sport to ascend

to the window of the common stair, and prepare missiles both fluid and

solid. This was because they belonged to the Sooth Back, and did not

know Big Smith.

 

Big Smith's mode of exhortation was the prophetic denunciatory. He

was no Jeremiah—a Boanerges of the slums rather. He dealt in warm

accusations and vigorous personal applications. He was very decidedly

no minor prophet, for he had a black beard like an Astrakhan rug, and a

voice that could outroar a Gilmerton carter. Also he was six feet high,

and when he crossed his arms it was like a long-range marker trying to

fold his arms round a target.

 

"Sinners in Number Seventy-three!" cried Big Smith, and his voice

penetrated into every den and corner of that vast rabbit warren, "you

will not come out to hear me, but I'll make ye hear me yet, if I

scraich till the Day of Judgment. Sinners in Number Seventy-three, ye

are a desperate bad lot. I hae kenned ye this ten year—but——"

 

Clash!—came a pail of dirty water out of the stair window where the

Knuckle Dusters, yet completely unregenerate, were concealed.

 

Big Smith was taking breath for his next overwhelming sentence, but

he never got it delivered. For as soon as he realised that the insult

was meant for him, Big Smith pushed his hat firmly down on the back of

his head and started up the stair. He had his oak staff in his hand, a

stick of fibre and responsibility, as indeed it had need to be.

 

The first he got his hands upon was Tam Luke.

 

Tam was standing at the back of a door, squeezing himself against the

wall as flat as a skate.

 

"Come oot!" said Big Smith, in commanding tones.

 

"It wasna me!" said Tam Luke, who very earnestly wished himself

elsewhere.

 

"Come oot!" said Big Smith, missionary.

 

Tam Luke came—not wholly by his own will, but because the hand of Big

Smith seemed to gather up most of his garments at once. And he grasped

them hard too. Tam Luke's toes barely touched the ground.

 

"It wasna me!" repeated Tam Luke.

 

"What's a' this, then?" queried Big Smith, shaking him comprehensively,

as the coal-man of the locality empties a hundredweight sack into the

bunker. Half a dozen vegetables, more or less gamey in flavour, dropped

out of his pockets and trotted irregularly down the stair.

 

Then Tam Luke, for the first time in his life, believed in the power of

the Church militant. The Knuckle Dusters on the landing above listened

with curious qualms, hearing Tam singing out his petitions in a kind of

inappeasable rapture. Then, suddenly, they bethought them that it was

time they got out of their present invidious position, and they made a

rush downstairs.

 

But Big Smith stood on the steps, still holding Tam Luke, and with a

foot like a Sutton's furniture van, he tripped each one impartially as

he passed, till quite a little haycock of Knuckle Dusters was formed at

an angle of the stair.

 

Then Big Smith, in a singularly able-bodied way, argued with the heap

in general for the good of their souls; and the noise of the oak

stick brought out all the neighbours to look on with approbation.

They had no sympathy with the Knuckle Dusters whatever. And though

they continually troubled the peace of mind of Big Smith with their

goings on, yet they were loyal to him in their own way, and rejoiced

exceedingly when they saw him "dressing the droddums" of the youths of

the Sooth Back Gang.

 

"Lay on till them, Maister Smith!—bringin' disgrace on oor stair,"

cried a hodman's wife from the top landing, looking over with the brush

in her hand. And Maister Smith certainly obeyed her. Each Knuckle

Duster crawled hurriedly away as soon as he could disentangle himself.

And as each passed the lower landings the wives harassed his retreat

with brushes and pokers for bringing shame on the unstained good name

of Number Seventy-three in the Pleasance.

 

"It'll learn them no to meddle wi' oor missionary," they said, as they

retired to drink tea syrup, which had been stewing on the hearth since

morning.

 

For they felt proud of Big Smith, and told their husbands, actual and

attached, of the great doings upon their return at night. It became

a standing taunt as far as the Arch of Abbeyhill for a month, "I'll

send Big Smith till ye!" And there was not a Knuckle Duster that did

not hang his head at the remembrance. The Pleasance was naturally very

proud of its missionary, and offered long odds on him as against any

missionary in the town. "He could lick them a' wi' his hand tied ahint

his back," said the Pleasance in its wholly reasonable pride.

 

Now this was the cause of the depression which for a long time had

rested upon the Knuckle Dusters and tarnished the glory of their name.

So low had they sunk that it was more than a month since any of them

had been up for assaulting the police. So that, as you may see, things

were indeed coming to a pretty pass. From all this the new Club was to

save them.

 

First of all, it re-established them in their own self-esteem, which is

a great point. Then it gained them the respect of others as well, for

Miss Tennant was a much honoured person in the Sooth Back. Lastly, the

Club fire burned a half a ton of coals in the fortnight, and the fact

was fame in itself.

 

So the Knuckle Dusters squared themselves up, and for the first time

since the affair of Big Smith they looked a bobby in the face. More

than that, they actually began to show some of their old spirit again.

 

Specially did they delight to tell the story of the Leith chief of

police and the apples. It was, indeed, enough to gild any "mob" with a

permanent halo of glory.

 

This is the tale at its briefest. But it took four nights to tell in

the Club, working three hours a night.

 

The chief, in the plainest of plain clothes, was hastening down the

shore to catch the Aberdour boat, for he was a family man, and also a

most douce and home-loving citizen. He had taken a cottage near the

shore at Aberdour, where he could have his bairns under his eye upon

the beach, and at the same time be able to note how badly the Fife

police did their duty in the matter of the Sunday excursionists.

 

But for all that he ought to have had that packet of apples better tied

up, for he had bought a whole shilling'sworth on his way down. The

chief was rather partial to a good apple himself; and, in any case, it

is always advisable to be on the safe side of one's wife, even if you

are a chief of police.

 

Now the chief reckoned without the Knuckle Dusters. These valiant

youths were on the war-path, and as he was passing a point where the

houses are few, along by the dock gates, Tam Luke came alongside and

pulled the string of his parcel with a sharp and knowing twitch.

Instantly it came undone, and the apples rolled every way upon the

street. Thereupon every Knuckle Duster seized as many as he could

reach, and the Club scattered like hunted hares down alleys and over

fences.

 

For a moment the chief stood thunderstruck. Then he gave chase,

selecting Cleaver's boy for his prey. But he found that he was not

quite so supple as when he was a young constable fresh from the

country. And besides, he heard the warning whistle blow from the "Lord

Aberdour." He pictured his bairns on the quay and his wife looking

out for him. After all, was it worth it? So he darted into a shop and

bought chocolate instead, and took his anger out by saying, "I'll wager

I'll make it warm for these young vagabonds." He said it as many as

forty times on the way over. He never minded the scenery one single

bit. Among the Knuckle Dusters there was great jubilation. That night

they told the whole to Celie Tennant, who was horrified; but she could

only advise them to "restore fourfold," an unknown idea to the Club.

 

It was, however, a proposition ably advocated by Cleg Kelly, who,

owing to absence, not honesty, had taken no part in the larceny. And,

strictly as a humorous conception, the idea of fourfold restitution

caught on wonderfully.

 

This is why a very dirty paper containing two shillings came to the

chief of the Leith police, with the inscription thereon: "FOR TO BUY

MAIR AIPPLES."

 

Celie wanted them to send four shillings, but the Club unanimously

declined, because the grocer's boy said that the chief's apples were

only second quality.

 

And the Club had every confidence in the grocer's boy being

well-informed on the point.

 

[Illustration: "Our roads separate here."]

 

 

 

 

ADVENTURE XIX.

 

THE PILGRIMS OF THE PENNY GAFF.

 

 

The junior partner was, as he expressed it, "down on his luck." He was

heartily sorry for himself, and indeed the fault was not all his own.

It was now some considerable time since he began regularly to see home

the lady member of the Knuckle Dusters' Club, and perhaps he had begun

to some extent to presume upon his standing. He had, in fact, taken it

upon him to warn her as to the difficulties of her position.

 

"It is not right for a young lady to be about in this district at

night—no girl ought to do it, whatever be her motive."

 

He was sometimes a very short-sighted junior partner.

 

Celie Tennant fired up.

 

"And pray, Mr. Iverach, who made you my guardian? I am quite of age to

judge where it is right for me to go, and what it is proper for me to

do!"

 

The junior partner assumed a lofty attitude.

 

"I consider," he began, "that it is highly improper."

 

But this was as far as he got. The pose judicial was not one to which

Miss Cecilia Tennant was accustomed, even from her own father. She

dropped her companion a very pretty courtesy.

 

"_I_ consider that our roads separate here," she said; "and I wish you

a very good evening, Mr. Iverach!"

 

And she gave the junior partner a look at once so indignant and so

admirably provocative, that he turned away righteously incensed, but

at the same time miscalling himself for more kinds of idiot than his

father had ever called him, even on his most absent-minded days in the

office.

 

Nevertheless he endeavoured, by a dignified manner as he walked away,

to express his wounded feelings, his unquenchable sense of injustice,

the rectitude of his aims and intentions, and the completeness with

which he washed his hands of all consequences. It is not easy to

express all this by simply taking off one's hat, especially when you

have a well-grounded belief that you are being laughed at privately by

one whom you—well, respect. And saying "silly girl" over and over does

not help the matter either. For the junior partner tried, and did not

improve the situation so much as the value of a last evening's paper.

 

On the other hand, there was a sense of exhilaration about Celie

Tennant's heart and a certain lightness in her head, when she had

thus vindicated her independence. She stopped and looked into the

window of a shop in which nothing was displayed but a large model

of a coal-waggon, loaded with something "Jewels," and bearing the

sympathetic announcement that Waldie's Best Household Coal was down

this week one penny a bag.

 

It is a curious thing, when you come to think of it, that the prettiest

girls often stop opposite dark shop fronts where there is apparently

nothing to interest them, and pass by others all aglow with the

blanched whiteness of female frilleries. There is some unexplained

optical problem here. The matter has been mentioned to Miss Tennant,

but she says that she does not know the reason. She adds that it is all

nonsense. Perhaps, after Professor Tait has found out all about the

flight of the golf-ball, he will give some attention to this question.

He can obtain statistics and facts on any well-frequented street by

keeping to the shady side.

 

So Celie stood a moment—only a moment, and was then quite ready to

turn away, assured in mind and at peace with all men—with the doubtful

exception of Mr. Donald Iverach.

 

Her bonnet was indeed "straight on." But she gave her foot a little

stamp when she thought of the junior partner.

 

"The idea!" she said.

 

But she did not condescend to expound the concept which troubled her,

so that an idea it has ever since remained, and indeed must be left as

such.

 

Then Celie became conscious that some one was gazing at her—not a

woman, of course. She turned. It was only Cleg Kelly. But she was glad

to see even him, for, after all, one does need some support even in

well-doing. It is so difficult to be independent all by one's self.

 

"Where are you going, Cleg?" she said.

 

"To the penny shows aff o' the Easter Road," replied Cleg.

 

"Will you take me, Cleg?" said Celie, with a sudden clearing of her

face, her eyes beginning to blaze with excitement.

 

A great thought took possession of her. This appeared to be a

providential chance to prove all that she had been advancing to Mr.

Donald Iverach, who, indeed, had nothing whatever to do with the matter.

 

"Take you, Miss Celie?" stammered Cleg aghast. "Ye wadna gang to the

shows?"

 

And he laughed a little laugh of wonderment at the jest of his goddess,

for of course it could only be a joke.

 

"I _will_ come with you, Cleg, if you will take me!" said Celie.

 

"But ye ken, Miss Celie, it's no for the like o' you. It's a' weel

aneuch for boys and common fowk, but no for you!"

 

Thus Cleg urged prudence, even against the wild hope which took

possession of him.

 

"Come on, Cleg!" said Celie Tennant, rushing into rebellion at the

thought of having her independence called in question, even by one of

the Knuckle Dusters.

 

"It's all _his_ fault!" she said to herself.

 

Which it very clearly was—Cleg's, of course, for he ought not to have

followed her home.

 

Now along the Easter Road, then only a somewhat muddy country track,

there was a small quarry which is now filled up, and a vacant acre or

two of land where the show-folk took up their stances, and waged mimic

but not bloodless wars in the mornings for the best positions.

 

Great sheets of canvas were stretched above, flaring cressets were

being lighted below, for some of the largest shows were dark inside,

being those where the mysteries of "Pepper's Ghost" were shortly to be

unveiled.

 

Celie Tennant was greatly excited by the prospect of eating of the tree

of knowledge.

 

"Let us go in here," she said, pointing to the wondrous "Ghost

Illusion" bearing the name and style of Biddle. She drew out her

purse to pay, but Cleg stopped her with his hand. He had grown quite

dignified.

 

"Na," he said, "ye canna do that. It's my treat the nicht, when ye are

walkin' oot wi' me."

 

Then it dawned upon Celie that she was assisting at a well-understood

function—no less than the solemn treating of a lady fair upon the

evening of a pay-day. The thought nearly overcame her, but she only

said, "Thank you, Cleg," and was discreetly silent.

 

For the time being she was Cleg Kelly's "young woman."

 

They went in. A fat woman, with large silver rings in her ears of the

size of crown pieces, took Cleg's money and looked with great sharpness

at them both. Cleg paid for the best places in the house. They cost him

sixpence, and were carpeted—the seats, not the floor. To such heights

of extravagance does woman lead man! The play was already proceeding

as they sat down. Presently, after some very moral observations from

an old gentleman in trouble with a dying child (he said "choild"), the

curtain dropped and the roof of canvas was drawn aside, in order to let

in the struggling daylight and save the flaring naphtha cressets.

 

Instantly Celie and Cleg became the sole centre of attraction—a

doubleted courtier in tights, with an unruly sword which scraped the

curtain, having no chance whatever by comparison with their grandeur.

Cleg folded his arms with a proud disdain and sat up with a back as

straight as an arrow.

 

"Glory be—if 'tisn't Cleg Kelly wid the Quane of Shaeba!" said a