Cleg Kelly, Arab of the City 8

Cleg Kelly, Arab of the City 8

There had been few happier days in Cleg Kelly's life than this on which

he spent the half of his week's wage for the benefit of the Kavannahs.

 

So altogether happy did he feel that he went and cuffed the ears of

two well-dressed boys for looking at him. Then he threw their new

bonnets into the gutter and departed in a perfect glow of happiness and

philanthropy.

 

 

 

 

ADVENTURE XIII.

 

CLEG'S SECOND BURGLARY.

 

 

Cleg slept soundly on his bed within the whitewashed hut. The last

thing he did the night before was to go to the bench where the men

had been working, and bring an armful of the fragrant pine shavings

for a bouquet to scent his chamber. And never did boy sleep better.

It must be confessed, however, that the position of night-watchman at

Callendar's, of which he had boasted to Vara Kavannah, was entirely

a sinecure. For it was not until he heard the gruff voices of the

men clicking their tools and answering one another in pre-breakfast

monosyllables that he realized he had changed his abode. Then he

stirred so sharply that the mattress fell off the trestles, and Cleg

was brought up all standing against the side of the hut.

 

All that day he went about his duties as usual. He trotted to the

newspaper office and distributed his roll of papers mechanically; but

his mind was with the Kavannahs, and he longed for the time to come

when he could, with some self-respect, go and gloat over the effects of

his generosity. Doubtless there was a touch of self-glorification in

this, which, however, he kept strictly to himself. But who will grudge

it to a boy, who for the sake of a lassie has spent nearly half of his

week's wage, and who knows that he will have to live on bread and water

for ten days in consequence?

 

Cleg judged that it would not be advisable for him to go to Tinklers'

Lands before noon. So in the meanwhile he betook himself to Simon

Square to "lag for" Humpy Joe, who had called him "Irishman" the

previous evening, at a time when, with his papers under his arm, Cleg

was incapacitated for warfare, being, like Martha, much cumbered with

serving.

 

But Humpy Joe proved unattainable. For he had seen his enemy's

approach, and as soon as Cleg set foot within the square, he saluted

him with a rotten egg, carefully selected and laid aside for such an

emergency. And had it not been for the habitual watchfulness of Cleg,

Joe's missile would have "got him." But as it was, a sudden leap into

the air like that of a jack-in-the-box just cleared the danger, and

the egg, passing between Cleg's bare feet, made a long yolky mark of

exclamation on the ground.

 

Being defeated in this, Humpy Joe looked forth from an end window,

and entertained the neighbourhood with a gratuitous and wholly

untrustworthy account of Cleg's ancestors. And Cleg, in reply, devised

ingenious tortures, which he declared would be the portion of Humpy

Joe, when next he caught him "out."

 

Thus, after tiring of this, the embattled belligerents separated

in high delight and with mutual respect and good feeling, vowing

sanguinary vengeances when next they should meet at Sunday school.

 

At last the time came for Cleg to feast his happy eyes upon the table

which had been spread by his means for his friends the Kavannahs.

But first he lingered awhile about the end of Davie Dean's Street,

ostentatiously looking for a boy to lick, and throwing stones over the

wall at the baker's fat watch-dog to make it bark. In reality he was

making sure that none of his companions were in the neighbourhood,

lest, with some colour of truth, they should cast up at him the capital

offence of "speaking to a lassie."

 

At last the coast was clear. The only boy within half a mile had been

chased under the protection of the great guns of his own fortress,

being the vicinity of his mother's wash-tubs. Then Cleg dived quickly

down to the cellar beneath Tinklers' Lands.

 

For the first time in his experience, the door was shut. Cleg had set

his ear to the keyhole and listened. Then he put his eye there. But

neither sense told him anything.

 

"Vara!" he cried softly, and set his ear against the floor. Cleg knew

that the place to hear behind a door (if there is no danger of its

being hastily opened) is not at the keyhole, but close to the floor. He

listened, holding his breath. At first he could hear nothing; but in a

little, a low sob at stated intervals detached itself from the cursory

noises made by the other tenants of Tinklers' Lands and from the steady

growl of the streets above.

 

"Vara!" he cried a little louder; "Vara Kavannah, are ye in? What's

wrang?"

 

Still nothing came back to him but the mechanical sob, which wore his

patience suddenly to the breaking point.

 

"They're a' killed," said Cleg, who had once been at the opening of a

door, and had seen that which was within. "I'll break open the door."

And with that he dashed himself against it. But the strength of the

bolt resisted his utmost strength.

 

"Cleg," said a voice from within, very weak and feeble, "gang awa' like

a guid lad. Dinna come here ony mair——"

 

It was Vara's voice, speaking through pain and tears.

 

"Vara," said Cleg, "what's wrang? What for wull ye no open the door?"

 

"I canna, Cleg; she's here, lyin' on the floor in the corner. I canna

turn the key, for she has tied me to the bed-foot."

 

Cleg instantly understood the circumstances. They were none so

unprecedented in the neighbourhood of Tinklers' Lands. Sal Kavannah had

come home drunk, singly or in company. She had abused the children, and

ended by tying up Vara, lest she should go out while she lay in her

drunken sleep. Such things had been done within Cleg's knowledge—aye,

things infinitely worse than these. And with his unchildish wisdom Cleg

feared the worst.

 

But he was not Tim Kelly's son for nothing. And it did not cost him a

moment to search in his pocket for a fine strong piece of twine, such

as all shoemakers use. He always carried at least ten sorts of cord

about with him. This cobbler's string was a special brand, so wonderful

that Cleg had made friends with the shoemaker's boy (whom he loathed)

solely in order to obtain it.

 

Cleg knew that the key was in the lock, but that the wards were turned

clear, for his eyes, growing accustomed to the gloom, could now look

into the cellar. He also knew that nine door-keys out of ten have a

little groove at the end of the shank just below the wards. So he made

a noose of the fine, hard cobbler's twine, and slipped it into the

keyhole just as if he had been "girning" sticklebacks and "bairdies" in

the shallow burns about the Loch of Lochend.

 

After a failure or two the loop caught and tightened. Then Cleg shook

the string about with a cunning see-sawing motion, learned from his

father, till he felt the wards of the key drop down perpendicularly.

Then he took a long piece of stick, and, thrusting it into the keyhole,

he had the satisfaction of feeling the key drop inside the door, and

hang by the cobbler's twine. He eased it down to the floor, and found

that, as is the case with most doors, the bottom of that of the cellar

of Tinklers' Lands did not come quite close to the floor. It was,

therefore, easy for Cleg to dangle the key a little till he could bring

the end of it to the place where the arch was worn widest. Then he took

his hooked wire and pulled the key towards him. It was in itself a

pretty trick, and was executed by Cleg in far less time than it takes

to tell about it.

 

With the key in his hand, and in the other an open clasp-knife, Cleg

turned the bolt back and stepped within. A terrible enough sight met

his eyes, though not that which he dreaded. In the corner lay Sal

Kavannah, with a pair of empty bottles tossed at her side, her black

hair over her face, lying drawn together in a heap. Tied to the bed

was Vara, bleeding from a cut on the head, and trying to cover her

arms and hands from his sight. But Hugh and the baby lay in the bunk

together, sleeping peacefully. It was upon poor Vara that the brunt of

the woman's maniac fury had fallen.

 

Cleg stood stricken; but the sight of Vara bound with cords aroused

him. He had the knife in his hand, and it did not take a moment to free

her. But she was so stiff and exhausted that she fell forward on her

face as soon as the straps were removed. Then, after Cleg had lifted

her, he turned upon the sodden heap in the corner, and, with his knife

glittering in his hand and the wild-cat grin on his face, he said,

with a deep indrawing of his breath, "Oh, if ye had only been my ain

faither!"

 

And it was as well that it was Sal Kavannah and not Tim Kelly that had

done this thing.

 

Now, in an emergency Cleg always acted first and asked leave afterwards.

 

"Come awa' oot o' this, Vara, and I'll bring the bairn and Hugh," said

he to the girl, when she was somewhat recovered.

 

"But, Cleg, where are we to gang?" said Vara, starting back.

 

"Never you heed, Vara; there maun be nae mair o' this frae this time

oot."

 

His manner was so positive that the girl gave way. Anything rather than

abide with the thing which lay in the corner.

 

"Hae ye ocht that ye wad like to bring wi' ye?" Cleg asked of Vara, as

he shouldered Hugh, and took up the baby on his other arm.

 

"Aye," said Vara, "wee Gavin's feedin' bottle."

 

And she had to step over the sodden face of her mother to get it.

 

So the four went out into the noonday streets, and Cleg marched forth

like the pipe-major of the Black Watch—than whom no king on earth

walks with more dignity and pomp, when there is a big parade and the

full band of pipers leads the regiment.

 

Cleg almost wished that Humpy Joe might see him and taunt him, so that

on Sunday he might beat him to a jelly. But, as it chanced, the streets

were deserted, for it was the very middle of the workmen's dinner-hour.

So that the streams that went and came a quarter of an hour sooner and

a quarter of an hour later were for the moment all safely housed; while

those who had brought their dinners with them sat on benches in the

shade, and took no notice of the small forlorn company passing along

the causeway.

 

There was another way to the old construction hut at the back of

Callendar's yard which did not lead through the main gateway, but

entered from some waste ground, where only broken bottles and old tin

cans dwelt.

 

The children passed safely and unobserved by this way, and in a little

while Cleg had them safely housed in his own city of refuge. But Vara

was in great fear lest some of the men should see them and turn them

out upon the street. So Cleg shut the door upon them with the lock of

his own devising, and started at a run to find Mr. Callendar.

 

 

 

 

ADVENTURE XIV.

 

CLEG TURNS DIPLOMATIST.

 

 

James Callendar, honest man and pillar of the Seceder Kirk, was sitting

down to his dinner when Cleg came to his door. The one servant lass

whom the Callendars kept was "tidying" herself for the afternoon, and

very much resented having to answer the door for a ragged boy with

bare legs.

 

"Gae 'way, we hae nocht for the likes o' you here!" said she, and would

have shut the door upon him.

 

"No even ceevil mainners," said Cleg, stepping lightly past her into

the little side room, where he knew that Mr. Callendar ordinarily took

his meals. The builder was just putting a potato into his mouth. He

was so surprised to see Cleg enter unannounced, that the fork with the

round, well-buttered, new potato remained poised in mid-air.

 

Cleg plunged into his affairs without preamble, lest he should be

captured from behind and ignominiously expelled. But the trim servant

merely listened for a moment at the back of the door, to make sure

that the intruder had some genuine business with her master, and then

returned to the graver duties of her own toilet. It was her evening

out, and her "young man" had hinted at a sail to Aberdour on the

pleasure-boat, if they could get to the West Pier in time.

 

"Oh, Maister Callendar," Cleg began, eager and breathless, "ye hae been

a kind man to me, and I want ye to help me noo——"

 

"What's this, Cleg?" said the builder; "surely the police are not after

you?"

 

Cleg shook his head.

 

"Nor your faither gotten off?"

 

Again and more vigorously Cleg shook his head, smiling a little as he

did so.

 

"Oh, then," said the builder, much relieved, carrying the suspended

potato to his mouth, "it can be naething very dreadfu'. But when ye

came in like that on me, I declare that I thocht the wood-yaird was on

fire!"

 

Then Cleg proceeded with his tale. He told how the Kavannahs had been

deserted by their father, who had gone to look for work in Liverpool.

He sketched with the inevitable realism of the street-boy the career

of Sal Kavannah. He stated in plain language the fate that threatened

Vara. He described Sal's treatment of Hugh.

 

"And she battered her ain bairn till the blood ran on the floor. She

tossed the bairn against the wall till its arm was near broke. She

never hears her wee bit wean greetin' for the milk without cursing it.

Will ye turn them away to gang back to a' that?"

 

This was Cleg's climax, and very artfully he had worked up to it. The

builder, good man, was troubled. The tale spoiled the relish of his

new potatoes, and it was the first time he had had them that year. He

turned with some little asperity upon Cleg.

 

"But I dinna see what I can do," he said; "I canna tak' them here into

my house. The mistress wadna alloo it."

 

It was the first time he had referred to the ruler of his fortunes,

who at that moment was declaring to an acquaintance that she paid two

shillings a week less for her rooms than her friend in the next pew at

church. "And how she can afford it is mair than I can tell." It was no

wonder that honest Mr. Callendar said that his wife would not allow him

to bring the Kavannahs within his door.

 

"But," said Cleg, "if you will let them bide in the auld hut at the

back o' the yaird, where naebody gangs, I can easy get ither lodgings.

They'll meddle wi' naething, and I ken whaur to get wark for the

lassie, when she's fit for it."

 

Mr. Callendar considered. It was a good deal to ask, and he had no

guarantee for the honesty of his new tenants but the good word of the

son of a thief who had squatted on his property.

 

"Weel, Cleg," he said at last, with his quiet humorsome smile coming

back to his lips, "they can bide, gin ye are willing to come surety for

them."

 

Cleg jumped up with a shout and a wave of his bonnet, which brought the

trim servant to the back of the door in consternation.

 

"I kenned ye wadna turn them awa'—I kenned it, man!" he cried.

 

Then Cleg realised where he was, and his enthusiasm subsided as

suddenly as it rose.

 

"I shouldna behave like this on a carpet," he said, looking

apologetically at the dusty pads his bare feet had left on the good

Kidderminster.

 

He was on the eve of departing when the builder called him back. He had

been turning things over in his mind.

 

"I hae anither wood-yard doon by Echo Bank," he said. "There's a

cubby-hole there you could bide in, gin ye had a blanket."

 

"That's nocht," answered Cleg, "in this weather. And thank ye kindly. I

can do brawly withoot a blanket."

 

And he sped out as he came, without troubling the maid, who was

wearying for her master to be done with his dinner and take himself

away to his office.

 

The good news was conveyed directly to Vara, and then she set Cleg's

hut in order with a quieter heart. Cleg showed them where to get water,

and it was not long before the bairns were established in a safety and

comfort they had been strangers to all their lives.

 

But Cleg was not done with his day's work for the Kavannahs. He

went down to the Hillside Works and saw the watchman, after he had

delivered his tale of evening papers.

 

"D'ye think," he said diplomatically, "that there's ony chance for a

lassie to get wark here?"

 

The watchman shook his head.

 

"There's nae room for ony but the relations o' them that's workin' here

already."

 

The watchman could be as diplomatic as Cleg. He had daughters of his

own growing up, and, though he was willing to be a friend to Cleg, it

was against his principles to encourage the introduction into "our

works" of alien blood. There was a tradition at Hillside that every

old servant got his daughters "in" as a matter of course. Indeed,

matrimonial alliances were often arranged on that basis, and the

blessing of children was looked upon as equivalent to the supreme

blessing of money in the bank.

 

"But I dare say ye micht see Maister Donald," said the watchman,

relenting. He remembered that he had no daughters that could be ready

for a few years yet; and besides, Cleg was a good friend of his. "But

what ken ye aboot lassies? My sang, but ye are early begun, my lad.

Ye'll rue it some day."

 

Cleg smiled, but disdained an answer. He was not argie-bargiein' at

present, as he would have said. He was waiting to get a job for Vara

Kavannah. In another minute he found himself in the presence of Mr.

Donald Iverach, junior partner in the firm of Iverach & Company, whose

position in the paper trade and special eminence in the production

of the higher grades of foreign correspondence were acknowledged

even by rivals—as the senior partner wrote when he was preparing the

advertisement for the firm's yearly almanack.

 

Mr. Donald Iverach was not in the best of humours. He had hoped to

be playing "pocket-handkerchief tennis," of which he had grown

inordinately fond, upon the lawn of Aurelia Villa. But it so happened

that he had been required to supply his father upon the morrow with

important data concerning the half-yearly balance. For this reason he

had to remain in the dreary office in the South Back. This jumped ill

with the desires of the junior partner, who was at present so very

junior a partner that his share of the profits was only a full and

undivided fiftieth—"amply sufficient, however," as his father said many

times over, "and much more than ever I had at your age, with a wife and

family to keep."

 

"I wish I had!" said the reckless Donald, when he had heard this for

the twentieth time, not knowing what he said.

 

"Donald, you are a young fool!" said his father. Which, of course,

materially helped things.

 

Now the temper of Mr. Donald Iverach was specially tried on this

occasion, for he had good reason to believe that a picturesque cousin

of Cecilia's from London, who had been invalided home from some

ridiculous little war or other, was playing pocket-handkerchief tennis

at Aurelia Villa that evening in place of himself.

 

So his greeting to Cleg was curt indeed, as he looked up with his pen

in his fingers from the last estimate of "goods returned damaged"—an item which always specially annoyed his father.