"Pray," said a sharp, shrill voice from the bottom step of the very narrow staircase which led into the still narrower passage, "pray, what is all this about?"
"Jack never came home last night," Patience said in a voice of repressed emotion. "He never came home. He is gone, and I shall never see him again."
"Oh, fiddlesticks!" was the reply. "Bad pennies always turn up. I never knew one in my life that was lost. Mark my words, you have not seen the last of him – worse luck."
"That's not a very pleasant way to talk, Miss Pinckney: you'll excuse me for saying so," said Mr. Paterson. "The boy was a good boy on the whole."
"A good boy!" Miss Pinckney was screaming now. "Well, George Paterson, your ideas of goodness and mine differ. You may please to take yourself off now, for I've no time to spend in gossip;" and Miss Pinckney began her operations by flapping with a duster the counter of the shop, and taking from the drawers certain boxes of small articles in which she dealt.
While she was thus engaged, she suddenly stopped short, and uttered an exclamation of horror, turning a white face to her sister, who was listening to the few words of comfort George had to bestow. "Look here!" she exclaimed; "look here! The secret's out. The little tin cash-box is gone, and the thief is out of reach. What do you say to your good boy now, eh, George Paterson?"
George Paterson took one step into the shop, and said —
"How do you know he took it? He is the last boy I could think of as a thief."
"Of course. Oh, he is a perfect boy – a good boy! I only wish he had never darkened my doors – the young villain!"
"Hush, now Miss Pinckney. Calm yourself, and let us have a look for the box. Where was it put?"
"Why, in the drawer, to be sure, under the counter. I keep the key of the drawer in my key basket. I always locked it – always. He got the key and opened it. There was four pounds and odd money in it – close on five pounds."
"I am certain," said Patience, "Jack did not steal your money, sister Amelia." Poor Patience was calm now. "It is impossible," she continued. "He was – he was as honest as the day, and as true as gold."
"All that's very fine – very fine indeed. He stole the money, and made off. If he didn't, who did?"
Patience stood wondering for a few moments, going over all that day – that last day. Jack had been at school and out till nearly tea-time; then he had sat with his books till supper; and then came the uproar with his aunt, and he had rushed away – straight out of the house. He could not have stopped in the shop on the way; besides, a plot must have been laid to get the key. It was impossible Jack could be guilty.
She looked at George, and read in his face deep sympathy, and also read there a reassuring smile.
"No," he said. "Whoever is the thief, Jack is innocent. Circumstances may be against him – his running off to sea, and his passion-fit against you – but I believe him to be innocent. You had better leave things as you found them, and I'll call in a policeman. There'll be one on his beat at the end of the row by this time. It is right and just all proper inquiries should be made."
The policeman – a stolid, sober individual, who never wasted words – came at George Paterson's bidding, and looked with a professional eye at the drawer whence the money had been abstracted.
"Box and all gone! That's queer. Key of box fastened to it by a string. Humph! Any servant in the house?"
"No."
"Boy that cleans up and takes down the shutters, eh?"
"No– that is – my nephew was in the house, and," said Miss Pinckney with emphasis, "he ran off to sea last night."
The policeman gave a prolonged "Ah!"
Then he proceeded to examine the lock of the drawer.
"Where's the key?"
"Here, in my key basket. I lock the drawer the last thing, and lock the shop-door myself. You know that, Patience. Speak up."
"Yes, I know it – I know it."
"Well, there seems no certain clue," the policeman said, twisting the key of the drawer round and round in the lock.
"There's this clue," Miss Pinckney said; "my nephew who ran off to sea stole the box. He and I had quarrelled a bit, for he was the most impudent and trying young vagabond. If you wish to know my thoughts, policeman, they are that he took the cash-box."
"There's no proof. We must have proof. But there's suspicion. We must try to track the youngster, find out what ship he sailed in; and when she comes into port, why, we'll keep an eye on the little chap."
The policeman had no more to say just then, and departed, saying to George, who shouldered his tools and followed him, "I know the boy. A sharp one, isn't he?"
"An honest one, if ever an honest boy lived," was the rejoinder, as George Paterson strode away.
CHAPTER IV.
HIS OWN WAY
Jack Harrison had no fixed purpose when he rushed out of his aunt's house, except to get away from the sound of her angry words, and from the sight of his mother's grieved face – that face, which bore the marks of so many storms, and which he loved better than any other in the world.
"I had better go," he reasoned with himself. "I may make a fortune. Suppose I go aboard a whaling ship, as my father did. I won't go aboard a smack or trawler; I should not care for that life – handling fish, and out all weathers, north of the Dogger trawling – no, that would not pay, but a good ship would; and I'll take a look round the quay as soon as it's light."
Jack had found the convenient shelter of an old boat on the beach, and there he curled himself up and fell asleep.
He was awoke by feeling something touching his face, and starting up, just distinguished in the dim light the shape of a dog, which began to whine piteously, and licked his hands.
"What, are you lost, or run away like me?" he asked. "Have you been treated ill, eh?"
Jack was now thoroughly awake, and crept out of his shelter on to the soft sand, which almost gave way under his feet.
The dog continued whining and jumping on him, and seemed to want to show him the way to some place.
"What do ye want, eh? I can't make you out," Jack said; but in the light of the strengthening dawn which was breaking over the sea he saw a dark mass of something at some distance on the sand, and towards this the dog was evidently trying to guide him.
There was not a creature to be seen on the level strand, and no sound but the gentle murmur of the tide just turning. Presently, however, another sound made Jack pause and listen.
The dog heard it also, and grew more and more frantic in his efforts to lead Jack on.
When he got near the dark mass, Jack found it was the figure of a man, and that the sounds came from him, for he was groaning and crying as if in great pain. The dog ran to him, and leaping on his prostrate figure, and then back again to Jack, showed that the place to which he had to bring him was reached. As plainly as a dog could speak, he was saying, "Help my master."
Jack bent down over the man, and said —
"What's the matter? Are you hurt?"
"Yes, I've sprained my leg; and if I don't get to the quay by four o'clock I am ruined. I'm mate of the Galatea. Look alive and help me to the ship; it's all right when I'm there, for the captain is a jolly fellow – but oh, this leg! – all along of my catching my foot in a net. Toby here and I were coming along the beach from my old step-mother's, over t'other side of the Monument, and I fell, and must have twisted my foot as I fell on that big stone. Now, I say, will you help me to limp to the quay? Doubt if I can do it, but I'll try all the same."
The light was momentarily increasing now, and as Jack bent over the man to take his arm and pull him into a sitting posture, he saw a sad, pensive face turned up to him. Evidently the impression that was mentally made was a good one, for the man said —
"Where