Cleg Kelly, Arab of the City 12

Cleg Kelly, Arab of the City 12

Celie sat all the while demure as a kitten and smoothed her gloves.

Several Knuckle Dusters passed Cleg the private wink of the society,

but none dared intrude on that awful dignity of responsibility.

Besides, none of them were "on the carpet," and Biddle of the Silver

Rings possessed a quick eye and a long arm.

 

The curtain went up. This time it was a haunted room. A haunted clock

ticked irregularly in the corner, and the villain sat alone in his

quite remarkable villainy, on a solitary chair in the middle of the

room. It was very dark, owing to the murky cast of crime all round.

Suddenly the gentleman on the chair shouted out the details of his

"croime" at the pitch of his voice, as if he had been the town crier.

He told how much he regretted having left his victim weltering in his

gore, whereupon the aforesaid victim abruptly appeared, "weltering," it

is true, but rather in a white sheet with the lower part of which his

legs appeared to be having a difficulty.

 

The villain hastened to rise to the occasion. Once more he drew his

sword, with which he had been making gallant play all the time. Again

he informed the next street of his "croime." Then he pulled a pistol

out of his belt and solemnly warned the spectre what would happen if he

did not clear out and take his winding-sheet with him.

 

But the spectre appeared to be wholly unimpressed, for he only gibbered

more incoherently and fluttered the bed-quilt (as Cleg called it) more

wildly. The villain continued to exhort.

 

"He's an awfu' blatherumskite!" said Cleg, contemptuously. He knew

something of real villains. He had a father.

 

Again the spectre was warned:

 

"Your blood be upon your own head!" shouted the villain, and fired the

pistol.

 

The ghost remarked, _Br-r-r-r-r! whoop!_—went up to the ceiling, came

down again wrong side up, and then set about gibbering in a manner

more freezing than ever. Whereupon the villain seized his crime-rusted

sword in both hands and puddled about in the spectre's anatomy, as if

it had been a pot, and he was afraid it would boil over. But soon he

satisfied himself that this was not the game to play with a spirit so

indifferent. And with a wild shriek of despair he cast the sword from

him on the floor.

 

"Ha, baffled! foiled!" he remarked, clasping his hand suddenly to his

brow: "COL-LD FIRE IS USELESS!"

 

This was summing up the situation with a vengeance, and tickled Celie

so much that she laughed joyously—as the audience clapped and cheered

with appreciation, and Cleg rose to come out.

 

"What comes after that?" said Celie, who was quite willing to stay to

the end.

 

"After that the devil got him. We needna wait for that!" said Cleg,

simply. He had an exceedingly healthy and orthodox belief in the

ultimate fate of ill-doers. But he did not choose that his goddess

should witness the details.

 

 

 

 

ADVENTURE XX.

 

THE DIFFICULTIES OF ADONIS BETWIXT TWO VENUSES.

 

 

But we must do our hero justice. After the spiriting away of Vara

Kavannah and the children from the burning house in Callendar's yard,

Cleg did not submit to their loss without making many attempts to find

them. His friend, the sergeant's wife, set the machinery of the police

in motion. But nothing could be heard of Vara or of Hugh, or of little

Gavin. Cleg went the round of the men who drive the rubbish-carts, each

man of whom was a personal and particular friend. Now a persevering

ash-man knows a lot—more than a policeman, having a wider beat, and not

so much encouragement officially to tell what he knows. But, as Cleg

could tell you, an ash-man's temper needs watching. Like the articles

of diet he empties out of the baskets into his great sheet-iron covered

carts, it is apt to go both bad and high. A policeman patrolling his

beat is, according to his personal deservings, stayed with flagons,

comforted with apples. But what maid in all the areas thinks upon the

poor dustman?

 

Nevertheless, Cleg went the round of the ash-cart men, and of each

he inquired circumspectly about the Kavannahs. Not one had seen them

in any part of the city. But, indeed, there were many people, even

women and children, awake and abroad that morning of the great fire

in Callendar's woodyard. Cleg next looked up the morning milkmen who

converge upon the city from every point, summer and winter. They have

risen to the milking of the cows during the small hours of the morning,

and thereafter they have set their barrels upon a light cart, before

spinning cityward between the hedges. The milkmen can tell as much of

the country roads as the dustmen of the city streets. But to none had

the vision of three pilgrim children, setting forth from the city of

persecution, been vouchsafed.

 

So Cleg had perforce to abide, with his heart unsatisfied and sore.

Perhaps, so he thought, one day hidden things would come to light, and

the shadows which had settled upon the fate of the Kavannahs break and

flee away.

 

In the meantime the ancient Society of the Knuckle Dusters flourished

exceedingly in its new incarnation of "The Club." The deputation

which approached Mr. Donald Iverach, having by the intervention of

the watchman chosen a good time for their visit, was most graciously

received. The watchman, a man of some penetration, gave Cleg the word

to come at six o'clock on a day when the junior partner had brought his

tennis shoes to the works.

 

"You want to use the old store-room every night?" said Donald Iverach,

looking at the shamefaced deputation, every man of whom itched to draw

triangles on the floor with his toe and yet dared not.

 

"Except Sundays," answered Cleg, who, as ever, was ready of speech, and

not at all shamefaced.

 

"What does Miss Tennant say?" asked the junior partner, who wished to

see where he was being led. He was not a selfish young man, but, like

the rest of us, he wanted to be sure what he was going to get out of a

thing before he committed himself.

 

"Miss Tennant's a memb—" began Tam Luke, who had no discretion.

 

Cleg kicked Tam Luke on the shin severely. Tam promptly coughed,

choked, and was led out by unsympathetic friends, who expressed their

opinion of him outside with pith and animation.

 

"Miss Celie wants us to look after this club oorsels," said Cleg.

"We are the commy-tee—except Tam Luke," he added. Tam had _de facto_

forfeited his position by his interruption.

 

The commy-tee hung its head, and looked about for possible exits.

 

"And who is responsible?" asked Mr. Donald Iverach, smiling a little

and shaking his head.

 

"Me an' Miss Celie," answered Cleg, promptly.

 

The junior partner stopped shaking his head, but continued to smile.

 

"Come away, chaps," said Cleg, who knew when the battle was won; "guid

nicht to ye, sir, an' thank ye. Miss Celie _wull_ be pleased!"

 

Thereafter the Knuckle Dusters' Club was formally organised. The

prominent feature in the management was the House Committee. Its powers

were unlimited, and were chiefly directed to "chucking out." This was

the club's sole punishment. Fines would certainly not be collected.

Privileges were so few that it was not easy to discriminate those which

pertained to members of the club in good standing. But the members of

the House Committee were chosen on the principle that any two of them,

being "in charge," should be qualified to "chuck" the rest of the

club—members of the House Committee itself being of course excepted. It

was a singularly able-bodied committee, and willing beyond all belief.

So long as it held together, the situation was saved. Its average

measurement round the forearm was eleven inches.

 

There were difficulties, of course. And, strange as it may seem, these

rose chiefly from the ravages of the tender sentiment of love. The

Knuckle Dusters had laid it down as a fundamental condition that no

girls were to be permitted, or even encouraged. Miss Celie had insisted

upon this. Perhaps, womanlike, she wished to reign alone, and could

brook no rivals near her throne. But in practice the rule was found

difficult of enforcement. For there was no maidenly backwardness about

the girls of the Sooth Back. It was indeed a rule that each Keelie,

beyond the condition of a schoolboy, should possess himself of a

sweetheart—that is, so soon as he was capable of "doing for himself."

Sometimes these alliances resulted in singularly early marriage.

Oftener they did not.

 

Cleg, of course, was much too young for "nonsense" of this kind, as he

described it. But Cleaver's boy, and Tam Luke, and indeed most of the

Knuckle Dusters, being "in places," were from the first equipped with

a complete working outfit of sweethearts, pipes, and navy revolvers.

They got them all about the same time, not because they wanted them,

but because it was the fashion. Yet I do them no more than justice when

I allow that they thought most highly of the pipes. They treated their

pipes with every consideration.

 

It is true that each Knuckle Duster spoke of his sweetheart as "my

young lady," but this was only between themselves. To the "young

ladies" themselves their words were certainly not the ordinary and

hackneyed terms of affection, such as generations of common lovers have

used.

 

But the girls were not to be daunted. With such cavalier and disdainful

knights, ordinary methods were put out of court. It was clearly

necessary that someone should do the wooing. If not the Knuckle Dusters

(haughty knaves), why, then the "young lady" herself. It was always

Leap Year in the Sooth Back. There were but two unforgivable crimes in

the bright lexicon of love, as it was consulted in the lower parts of

the Pleasance. On the side of the Knuckle Dusters the one unpardonable

fault was "going with a swell." On the part of the "young ladies" it

was "taking up with another girl." Blows, disdain, contumely, abuse,

all fell alike harmless—mere love-pats of the gentle god. "Another" is

the only fatal word in love.

 

So, then, it was quite in keeping with the nature of things, and

especially with the nature of untrammelled youth, that the Knuckle

Dusters' Club should have its amatorious difficulties. Part of each

evening at the club was now devoted to the sciences. Arithmetic and

writing were the favourites. There was also talk of forming a shorthand

class. For shorthand has a mysterious fascination for the uneducated.

It is universal matter of faith among them, that only the most gifted

of the human race can learn to write shorthand. This is strange enough,

for both observation and experience teach us that the difficulty lies

in reading the shorthand after it is written.

 

The entrance to the club-room of the Knuckle Dusters was through a

vaulted "pend," which, having no magistrate of the city resident within

it, was wholly unlighted. It was no uncommon thing, therefore, for the

solemn work of scientific instruction to be interrupted by the voice

of the siren outside—a siren with a towse of hair done up loosely in

a net, a shawl about her head, and elf locks a-tangle over her brow.

The siren did not sing. She whistled like a locomotive engine when the

signals are contrary and the engine-driver anxious to go off duty. At

first the Knuckle Dusters used to rise and quietly depart, when, in

this well-understood fashion, the voice of love shrilly breathed up

the store-room stair. But after a little, Celie, who, from an entirely

superfluous sense of delicacy, had hitherto suffered in silence, felt

that it was time to remonstrate.

 

It was Cleaver's boy who caused most trouble. Now this was by no means

the fault of Cleaver's boy, who, to do him justice, was far more

interested in the adventures of "Sixteen String Jack" or "Deadshot

Dick, the Cowboy of Coon County," than in a dozen Susies or Sallies.

But Cleaver's boy was a youth of inches. Besides, he had a curly head

and an imperious way with him, which took with women—who, gentle and

simple, like to be slighted and trodden upon when the right man takes

the contract in hand. Cleaver's boy was, in fact, just Lord Byron

without the title and the clubfoot. Cleaver's boy had also genius like

the poet. Here is one of his impromptus, written after a music-hall

model:

 

I met my Sal a-walkin' out, a-walkin' on the street,

I says to Sal, "Why do you walk upon them clumps of feet?"

Says Sal to me, "None of your lip. I've got another chap!"

_So I hits Sal a slap, and I sends her back

To her ain countrie._

 

Cleaver's boy could do any amount of this kind of thing. He modelled

himself upon the popular broadsheet of the day. But it was not

popular in the Sooth Back. The article in demand there was a song

about a little child who softly faded away after bidding farewell—a

long farewell, to all his friends so dear—in a verse apiece. Like

King Charles, this boy was quite an unconscionable time a-dying. But

he did not know it. He was a popular boy in the Sooth Back, and Tam

Luke warbled about him till the assembled Knuckle Dusters snivelled

secretly, and looked hard down between their knees so as to pretend

they were spitting on the floor. But Cleaver's boy, who in early youth

had come from Blackburn with his father, the slaughterman, said it was

"Bully-rot!" He swore that he could make a song about Sal Mackay that

would be worth a shopful of such "tripe." The verse quoted above is

part of the song he made. Cleaver's boy has repeated the whole poem

to me more than once, but the above is all that I can bring myself to

print. For Sal Mackay has able-bodied relatives, and, besides, there is

a law of libel in this country, which is provided for in my agreement

with my publishers.

 

Sal Mackay and Susy Murphy were rivals in the affections of the

handsome "boy" of Cleaver the butcher. But for long the swain was coy

and gave no final evidence of preference. So that day by day in the

factory where they worked side by side, neither could exult over the

other.

 

"Ye needna think he cares a buckie for you, ye tow-headed, crawlin'

ferlie!" said Sue, who was of the dark allure, to Sal who was fair.

 

"He wadna look the road ye are on, ye ill-grown, cankered-faced,

jaundice hospital!" was the retort elegant of Sal Mackay.

 

So it happened nightly that when Celie Tennant was at the most

impressive portions of the scripture lesson, or engaged in elucidating

the mysteries of compound division (and pardonably getting a little

tangled among the farthings), that there would come a long whistle at

the door, and then a smart rapping at the window. Another blast like

a steamer signal was blown before the dark tower, the Knuckle Dusters

would throw their heads back to laugh, and then look at Cleaver's

boy. He would stand it a little while, and then, to escape from their

meaning looks, he would throw down his slate and books and go quietly

out at the door.

 

At last Celie plucked up courage to speak to him.

 

"It is not so much that I mind," said Celie, for she had been learning

many things since she came down to the Sooth Back, things that she did

not mention when she went home to Aurelia Villa, or even repeat to the

Junior Partner.

 

"It is not that I mind so much myself," she said, "but it is a very bad

example for Cleg and the younger boys."

 

"I ken, I ken, but faith, I canna help it, Miss Celie," said Cleaver's

boy, in desperation. "As sure as daith, it is no my faut. Thae twa

lasses will juist no let me alane. I canna gang alang the street for

them."

 

And Celie, blushing for her sex, believed him and condoled. For, next

to Cleg, she had a weakness for Cleaver's boy. He was so good-looking.

 

"Wait till they come the nicht!" said Cleaver's boy, darkly.

 

It was the hour of the vesper writing lesson. Cleaver's boy was

seated at the long desk which Mr. Donald Iverach had found, as he

said, "about the premises"—but for which he had, curiously enough,

previously paid out of his own pocket. Cleaver's boy had his head

close down to the paper. His elbows were spread-eagled over the table.

His shoulders were squared with determination, and his whole pose gave

token of the most complete absorption and studious intentness. He was

writing the line, "Kindness to dumb animals is a sign of nobility of

character." As his pen traced the curves, his tongue was elaborating

the capitals, so exactly that you could almost tell by watching the tip

whether Cleaver's boy was writing a K or an N. This kind of expressive

caligraphy has not been sufficiently studied. But Cleaver's boy was

undoubtedly a master of it.

 

There came angry voices at the door.

 

"What are you doin' here? I tell ye he's my chap!" said a voice sharp

and shrill.

 

"It's a black lee. I tell ye he's naething o' the kind!" said another,

yet louder and rougher.

 

Sue Murphy and Sal Mackay were at it again. So said the Society of the

Knuckle Dusters as it winked amicably and collectively to itself. Celie

Tennant was just looking over the copybook of Cleaver's boy. As she

stood behind him, she could see the scarlet swiftly rising to his neck

and brow. Adonis was becoming distinctly annoyed. It was going to be a

rough night for Venuses.

 

"I tell ye it was only on Saturday nicht that he knocked my bonnet off

my head an' kickit it alang the street—an' ye will hae the impidence to

say after that that he is your lad!"

 

It was the voice of Sue Murphy which made this proud declaration.

 

"That nocht ava', ye Irish besom," retorted Sal Mackay; "yestreen nae

farther gane, he pu'ed a handfu' o' the hair oot o' my heid. Aye, and

rubbit my face wi' a clabber o' glaur, forbye!"

 

It was the last straw. Cleaver's boy rose to his feet with a look of

stern and righteous determination on his face. The assembled Knuckle

Dusters watched him eagerly. Celie stood aghast, fearing that murder

might be done, in the obvious endeavour Cleaver's boy was now about to

make, to excel all his previous records in the art of love-making, as

practised in the Sooth Back and the Tinklers' Lands.

 

He walked slowly to the corner of the store room, where on a little

bench stood two very large water cans of tin, painted a dark blue. They

were the property of the club and contained the drinking water for the

evening. They had just been filled.

 

Cleaver's boy took one in his hand and opened the door. Then he swung

the heavy can, and tilting it up with the other hand, he arched the

contents solidly and impartially upon the waiting Juliets. Returning,

he seized the other, and from the shrieking down the passage it was

obvious to Celie, that he had been equally successful in cooling the

ardour of the rivals with that.

 

Cleaver's boy came back with the empty cans in his hand, panting a

little as with honest toil, but there was no shamefacedness in his eyes

now. He looked straight at Celie like a man who has done his full duty,

and perhaps a little over.

 

"I pit it to yoursel', Miss Celie, can a man do mair than that?"

 

And with no further word, Cleaver's boy dusted the drops from the knees

of his breeches, and sat down to write six more lines of "Kindness to

dumb animals is a sign of nobility of character."

 

But next night he came to Celie in the blackness of despair.

 

"I will hae to resign, after all, Miss Celie," he said, "I canna bide

here to be a disgrace to ye a'."

 

"Why, what's the matter, James?" said Miss Tennant, who did not yet

know everything; "are the girls going to prosecute you in the police

court for throwing the water over them last night?"

 

Cleaver's boy opened his mouth in astonishment and kept it so for some

time.

 

"Prosecute me?—I wish to peace they wad!" cried he, after he got his

breath. "Na, faith, Miss Celie; will ye believe me, they are fonder

o' me than ever. They were baith waitin' for me at the stairfit this

mornin' when I cam doon to gang to the shop."

 

And Miss Celie again believed him.