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In Honour's Cause: A Tale of the Days of George the First, a novel by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 38. Feeding The Ducks Again |
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_ CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. FEEDING THE DUCKS AGAIN "Go and feed the ducks," said Frank to himself, as he obtained some biscuits, and, in his readiness to obey his elder's wishes, went slowly toward the water-side; "how little he knows what a deal that means;" and, almost unconsciously, he strolled on down to the side of the canal, thinking of Mr George Selby and Drew, and of the various incidents connected with his walks out there, which, with the duel, seemed in his disturbed state of mind to have taken place years--instead of months-- ago, when he was a boy. He went slowly on, forgetting all about the biscuits, till he noticed that several of the water-fowl were swimming along, a few feet from the bank, and watching him with inquiring eyes. He stopped short, turned to face the water, which was sparkling brightly in the sunshine, and taking a biscuit out of his capacious "salt-box pocket," he began to break it in little bits and throw them to the birds. "Ah, what a deal has happened since we were here doing this that day," thought the boy; and his mind went back to his first meeting with Drew's father, the invitation to the dinner, and the scene that evening in the tavern. "Please give me a bit, good gentleman," said a whining voice at his elbow. "I'm so hungry, please, sir. Arn't had nothing since yes'day morning, sir." Frank turned sharply, to see that a ragged-looking street boy, whom he had passed lying apparently asleep on the grass a few minutes before, was standing close by, hugging himself with his arms, and holding his rags as if to keep them from slipping off his shoulders. He wore a dismally battered cocked hat which was a size too large for him, and came down to his ears over his closely cropped hair. His shirt was dirty and ragged, and his breeches and shoes were of the most dilapidated character, the latter showing, through the gaping orifices in front, his dirty, mud-encrusted toes. Frank saw all this at a glance; but the poor fellow's face took his attention most, for it was pitiable, thin, and careworn, and would have been white but for the dirt with which it was smudged. Frank looked at him with sovereign contempt. "So hungry that you can't stoop down by the water's edge to wash your filthy face and hands, eh?" "Wash, sir?" said the lad piteously; "what's the good? Don't matter for such as me. You don't know." "Miserable wretch!" thought Frank; "what a horribly degraded state for a poor fellow to be in." Then aloud: "Here, which will you have--the biscuit or this?" He held out a coin that would have bought many biscuits in one hand, the broken piece in the other. "Biscuit, please, gentleman," whined the lad. "I am so hungry, you don't know." "Take both," said Frank; and they were snatched from his hands. "Oh, thank you, gentleman," whined the lad, as some one passed. "You don't know what trouble is;" and he began to devour the biscuit ravenously. "Not know what trouble is!" cried Frank scornfully. "Do you think fine clothes will keep that out? Oh, I don't know that I wouldn't change places with you, after all." "Poor old laddie!" said the youth, looking at him in a peculiar way, and with his voice seeming changed by the biscuit in his mouth; "and I thought he was enjoying himself, and feeding the ducks, and not caring a bit." "What!" exclaimed Frank wildly. "Don't you know me, Frank?" "Drew!" "Then the disguise is as right as can be. Keep still. Nonsense! Don't try to shake hands. Stand at a distance. There's no knowing who may be watching you. Give me another biscuit. I am hungry, really. There, go on feeding the ducks. How useful they are. Sort of co-conspirators, innocent as they look. I'll sit down behind you as if watching you, and I can talk when there's no one near." Frank obeyed with his face working, and Drew Forbes threw himself on the grass once more. "Drew, old fellow, you make me feel sick." "What, because I look such a dirty wretch?" "No, no. I'm ill and faint, and it's horrible to see you like this." "Yes; not much of a macaroni now." "We--we were afraid you were dead." "No; but I had a narrow squeak for my life. I and two more officers escaped and rode for London. I only got here yesterday, dressed like this, hoping to see you; but you did not come out." "No; this is the first time I have been here since you left. How is the wound?" "Oh, pooh! that's well enough. Bit stiff, that's all. I say, is it all real?" "What?" "Me being here dressed like this." "Oh, it's horrible." "Not it. Better than being chopped short, or hung. I am glad you've come. I want to talk to you about your father and mine. They'll be in town to-morrow, I should say." "Yes, I know. Tell me, what are you going to do?" "Do? We're going to raise the mob, have a big riot, and rescue them. I want to know what you can do to help." "We are trying to help in another way," said Frank excitedly. "How?" "Petitioning the King through the Prince." "No good," said Drew shortly. "There's no mercy to be had. Our way is the best." "But tell me: you are in a terrible state--you want money." "No. We've plenty, and plenty of friends in town here. Don't think we're beaten, my good fellow." Frank's supply of biscuit came to an end, and to keep up appearances he began to delude the ducks by throwing in pebbles. "There's one of those spy fellows coming, Frank," said Drew suddenly. "Don't look round, or take any notice." Frank's heart began to beat, as he thrust his hand into his pocket, for his fingers to come in contact with one little fragment of biscuit passed over before, and, waiting till he heard steps close behind him, he threw the piece out some distance, and stood watching the rush made by the water-fowl, one conveying the bit off in triumph. Frank searched in vain for more, and he was regretting that he had been so liberal in his use of the provender, and racking his brains for a means of keeping up the conversation without risk to his companion, when about half a biscuit fell at his feet, and he seized it eagerly. "He's pretty well out of hearing, Frank; but speak low. I don't want to be taken. You'd better move on a bit, and stop again. I'll go off the other way after that spy, and work round and come back. You go and sit down a little way from the bushes yonder, and I'll creep in behind, and lie there, so as to talk to you. Got a book?" "No," said Frank sadly. "Haven't you a pocket-book?" "Oh yes." "Well, that will do. Take it out after you've sat down, and pretend to make a sketch of the trees across the water." "Ah, I shouldn't have thought of that." "You would if you had been hunted as I have. There, don't look round. I'm off." "But if we don't meet again, Drew? I want to do something to help you." "Then do as I have told you," said the lad sharply; and he shuffled away, limping slightly, while, after standing as if watching the water-fowl for about ten minutes, and wondering the while whether he was being watched, Frank strolled on very slowly in the opposite direction, making for a clump of trees and bushes about a couple of hundred yards away, feeling that this must be right, and upon reaching the end, going on about half its length, and then carelessly seating himself on the grass about ten feet from the nearest bush. After a short time, passed in wondering whether Drew would be able to get hidden behind him unseen, he took out his pocket-book and pencil, and with trembling fingers began to sketch. Fortunately he had taken lessons at the big Hampshire school, and often received help from his mother, who was clever with her pencil, so that to give colour to his position there he went on drawing, a tiny reproduction of the landscape across the water slowly growing up beneath his pencil-point. But it was done almost unconsciously, for he was trembling with dread lest his object there should be divined and result in Andrew being captured, now that a stricter watch than ever was kept about the surroundings of the Palace. One moment he felt strong in the belief that no one could penetrate his old companion's disguise; the next he was shuddering in dread of what the consequences would be, and wishing that Drew had not come. At the same time he was touched to the heart at the lad running such a risk when he had escaped to safety among his London friends. For Drew had evidently assumed this pitiful disguise on purpose to come and see him. There could be no other object than that of trying to see his friend. Would he be able to speak to him again? "I say, they're keeping a sharp look-out, Franky," came from behind in a sharp whisper, making him start violently. "Don't do that. Go on sketching," whispered Drew; and Frank devoted himself at once to his book. "That fellow went on, and began talking to another. I saw him, but I don't think he saw me. I say, I shall have to go soon." "Yes, yes; I want you to stay, Drew, but pray, pray escape!" "Why?" "Because I wouldn't for worlds have you taken." There was a few moments' pause, and then Drew spoke huskily. "Thank ye," he said. "I was obliged to come and see you again. I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry I didn't shake hands with you, Frank." "Ah!--I'll slip back to where you are and shake hands now," cried the boy excitedly. "No, no; pray don't move. It's too risky; I don't want to be caught. I must be with those who are going to rescue my father and yours to-morrow.--Think that you are shaking hands with me. Now, there's my hand, old lad. That's right. Yes, I can believe we have hold again. Perhaps I shall never see you again, Franky; perhaps I shall be taken. If I am, please think that I always looked upon you as a brother, and upon Lady Gowan as if I were her son." "Yes, Drew, yes, Drew," whispered Frank in a choking voice, as he bent over his open book. "Give my love to dear Lady Gowan, and tell her how I feel for her in her great trouble." "Yes, yes, I will," whispered Frank, as he shaded away vigorously at his sketch, but making some curious hatchings. "Tell her that there'll be a hundred good, true men making an effort to save Sir Robert to-morrow, and we'll do it. I'd like you to come and help, but you mustn't. It would be too mad." "No. I'll come," whispered the boy excitedly. "No, you will not come," said Drew. "You can't, for you don't know when and where it will be." "Then tell me," whispered Frank, with his face very close to his paper. "I'd die first, old lad," came back. "Lady Gowan has suffered enough from what has happened. She shan't have another trouble through me. I tried to get you away; but I'm sorry now, for her sake. You stop and take care of her. Your father said--" "Yes, what did he say?" "He told me it was his only comfort in his troubles to feel that his son was at his mother's side." "Ah!" sighed Frank; and then he uttered a warning, "Hist! Some one coming;" and he gazed across the water and went on sketching, for he had suddenly become aware of some one coming from his left over the grass, and he trembled lest his words should have been heard, for every one now seemed likely to be a spy. It was hard work to keep from looking up, and to appear engrossed with his task; but he mastered the desire, even when he was conscious of the fresh-comer being close at hand, his shadow cast over the paper, and he knew that he was passing between him and the clump of shrubs. Then whoever it was paused, and Frank felt that he was looking down at the drawing, while the boy's heart went on thumping heavily. "He must have heard me speaking," he thought; and then he gave a violent start and looked up, for a voice said: "Well done, young gentleman. Quite an artist, I see." The speaker's face was strange, and he had keen, searching eyes, which seemed as if they were reading the boy's inmost thoughts as he faltered: "Oh no, only a little bit of a sketch." Then he started again, for there was the sound of a blow delivered by a stick, a sharp cry, a scuffle, and Drew bounded out from the bushes, followed by Frank's old enemy whom he had trapped at the house. But Drew would have escaped if it had not been for the stranger, who, acting in collusion with Bagot, caught the lad by the arm and held him. Frank had sprung to his feet, to stand white and trembling, and drew sword ready to interfere on behalf of his old companion, who, however, began to act his part admirably. "Don't you hit me," he whined; "don't you hit me." "You young whelp!" cried Bagot. "What are you doing here?" "I dunno," whined Drew. "Must go somewheres. Only came to lie down and have a snooze." "A lie, sir, a lie. I've had my eye upon you for hours. I saw you here last night." "That you didn't, sir. It was too cold, and I went away 'fore eight o'clock." "Lucky for you that you did, or you'd have found yourself in the round house." "Don't you hit me; don't you hit me," cried Drew, writhing. "I'll cut you to pieces," snarled Bagot. "I watched him," he continued to the man who held the lad in a firm grip in spite of his struggles to get away. "He was sneaking up to this young gentleman, begging and trying to pick his pocket." "That I wasn't," whined Drew. "I was orfle 'ungry, and he was pitching away cake things to the ducks. I only arksed for a bit because I was so 'ungry--didn't I, sir?" "Yes," said Frank hoarsely. "I gave him a biscuit." "Then what's this?" said the man who held him, wrenching open Drew's hand, in spite of a great show of resistance, and seizing a shilling. "You managed to rob him, then." "No, no," said Frank. "I gave him the money." That disarmed suspicion. "But he'd sneaked round behind you. I watched him, and found him here where he had crawled, and lay pretending to be asleep. I wager you had not seen him." "No," said Frank sharply. "I had not seen him since he came up to beg;" and the boy drew a breath of relief, for he had shivered with the dread that the man was going to ask him if he knew that Drew was there. "Better take your shilling back, sir," said the man. "I? No," said Frank proudly. "Let the poor, shivering wretch go. He wants it badly enough." "Then thank your stars the young gentleman speaks for you," said Bagot sharply. "Off with you, and don't you show your face this way again." "Don't you hit me then," whimpered Drew. "Don't you hit me;" and he limped off, repeating the words as he went, while Frank stood looking after him, feeling as if he could not stir a step. "That was a clever trick of yours, young gentleman," said Bagot, with a broad grin. "But I don't bear any malice. King's service, sir. You see, I can take care of you as well as watch." "Yes. Thank you," said Frank coldly; and with a sigh of relief he tore the leaf bearing the sketch out of his pocket-book, and then turned cold, for he felt that he had made a false move. The other man was watching him. "Spoiled my sketch," he said, with a half laugh. "Made me start so that my pencil went right across it." Fortunately this was quite true, and it carried conviction. "Don't tear it up, sir," said the second man respectfully. "I should like to take that home to please my little girl. She'd know the place. She often comes to feed the ducks." The man was human, then, after all, even if he was a spy, and Frank's heart softened to him a little as he gave him the sketch. "Thank ye, sir," said the man, who looked pleased; and the lad stopped and listened to him, feeling that it was giving Drew time to get away. "I can tell her I saw a young gentleman drawing it. She's quite clever with her pencil, sir; but she can't, of course, touch this." Frank hesitated for a few moments as to which way he should go, inclination drawing him after his friend; but wisdom suggested the other direction, and he strolled off without looking back till he could do so in safety, making the excuse of throwing in the remains of the biscuit Drew had returned to the ducks. He had been longing intensely to look back before and see if the men were following his friend; but to his great relief he found that they were not very far from where he now stood. Then he walked quietly back toward the Palace gates with his head beginning to buzz with excitement at the news he had heard. "They're going to rescue him to-morrow," he thought. "Ought I to tell Captain Murray? No; impossible. He might feel that it was his duty to warn the King. It would be giving him a task to fight against duty and friendship. I dare not even tell my mother, for fear the excitement might do her harm. No, I must keep it to myself, and I shall be there--I shall be there." He did not see where he was going, for in his imagination he was on horseback, looking on at a mighty, seething crowd making a bold rush at the cavalry escort round some carriages. But he was brought to himself directly after by a bluff voice saying: "Don't run over me, Frank, my lad. But that's right; the walk has brought some colour into your cheeks." The colour deepened, as the speaker went on: "I've arranged for a quiet horse to be ready with mine, my lad, and I have a good hint or two as to where we ought to go so as to be in the route. It will not be till close on dusk, though." "Oh, if I could tell exactly the way they will come, and the time, and let Drew know, it might mean saving my father's life," thought Frank. "I must tell Captain Murray then. "No, it would not do," he mused; "for if I did, he would not move an inch. How to get the news, and go and find Drew! But where? Ah! I might hear of him from some one at the tavern where they have that club." "Why, Frank lad, what are you thinking about?" said the captain. "I've been talking to you for ever so long, and you don't answer." "Oh, Captain Murray," said the boy sadly, "you must know." "Yes, my lad," said the captain sadly, "of course I know." _ |
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