Dusty Diamonds Cut and Polished, Robert Michael Ballantyne [best free e book reader .txt] 📗

not washed his face, having no soap of her own, and not caring to borrow from neighbours who were in the same destitute condition. Besides, she had too hard a battle to fight with an ever-present and pressing foe, to care much about dirt, and no doubt deemed a wash of tears now and then sufficient. Lumpy himself seemed to agree with her as to this, for he washed himself in that fashion frequently.

Having sought for his parents in vain, with the aid of the police, Mrs Lumpy quietly kept the boy on; gave him her surname, prefixed that of Timothy, answered to the call of mother, and then left him to do very much as he pleased.

In these circumstances, it was not surprising that little Tim soon grew to be one of the pests of his alley. Tim was a weak-eyed boy, and remarkably thin, being, as his friend had said, composed chiefly of legs and arms. There must have been a good deal of brain also, for he was keen-witted, as people soon began to find out to their cost. Tim was observant also. He observed, on nearing the age of ten years, that in the great river of life which daily flowed past him, there were certain faces which indicated tender and kindly hearts, coupled with defective brain-action, and a good deal of self-will. He became painfully shrewd in reading such faces, and, on wet days, would present himself to them with his bare little red feet and half-naked body, rain water, (doing duty for tears), running from his weak bloodshot eyes, and falsehoods of the most pitiable, complex, and impudent character pouring from his thin blue lips, whilst awful solemnity seemed to shine on his visage. The certain result was--coppers!

These kindly ones have, unwittingly of course, changed a text of Scripture, and, for the words "_consider_ the poor," read "throw coppers to the poor!" You see, it is much easier to relieve one's feelings by giving away a few pence, than to take the trouble of visiting, inquiring about, and otherwise _considering_, the poor! At all events it would seem so, for Tim began to grow comparatively rich, and corrupted, still more deeply, associates who were already buried sufficiently in the depths of corruption.

At last little Tim was met by a lady who had befriended him more than once, and who asked him why he preferred begging in the streets to going to the ragged school, where he would get not only food for the body, but for the soul. He replied that he was hungry, and his mother had no victuals to give him, so he had gone out to beg. The lady went straight to Mrs Lumpy, found the story to be true, and that the poor half-blind old woman was quite unable to support the boy and herself. The lady prevailed on the old woman to attend the meetings for poor, aged, and infirm women in Miss Macpherson's "Beehive," and little Tim was taken into the "Home for Destitute Little Boys under ten years of age."

It was not all smooth sailing in that Home after Tim Lumpy entered it! Being utterly untamed, Tim had many a sore struggle ere the temper was brought under control. One day he was so bad that the governess was obliged to punish him by leaving him behind, while the other boys went out for a walk. When left alone, the lady-superintendent tried to converse with him about obedience, but he became frightfully violent, and demanded his rags that he might return again to the streets. Finally he escaped, rushed to his old home in a paroxysm of rage, and then, getting on the roof, declared to the assembled neighbours that he would throw himself down and dash out his brains. In this state a Bible-woman found him. After offering the mental prayer, "Lord, help me," she entreated him to come down and join her in a cup of tea with his old mother. The invitation perhaps struck the little rebel as having a touch of humour in it. At all events he accepted it and forthwith descended.

Over the tea, the Bible-woman prayed aloud for him, and the poor boy broke down, burst into tears, and begged forgiveness. Soon afterwards he was heard tapping at the door of the Home--gentle and subdued.

Thus was this waif rescued, and he now discussed with his former comrade the prospect of transferring themselves and their powers, mental and physical, to Canada. Diverging from this subject to Bobby's father, and his dark designs, Tim asked if Ned Frog had absolutely decided to break into Sir Richard Brandon's house, and Bobby replied that he had; that his father had wormed out of the butler, who was a soft stupid sort of cove, where the plate and valuables were kept, and that he and another man had arranged to do it.

"Is the partikler night fixed?" asked Tim.

"Yes; it's to be the last night o' this month."

"Why not give notice?" asked Tim.

"'Cause I won't peach on daddy," said Bob Frog stoutly.

Little Tim received this with a "quite right, old dosser," and then proposed that the meeting should adjourn, as he was expected back at the Home by that time.

Two weeks or so after that, Police-Constable Number 666 was walking quietly along one of the streets of his particular beat in the West-end, with that stateliness of step which seems to be inseparable from place, power, and six feet two.

It was a quiet street, such as Wealth loves to inhabit. There were few carriages passing along it, and fewer passengers. Number 666 had nothing particular to do--the inhabitants being painfully well-behaved, and the sun high. His mind, therefore, roamed about aimlessly, sometimes bringing playfully before him a small abode, not very far distant, where a pretty woman was busy with household operations, and a ferocious policeman, about three feet high, was taking into custody an incorrigible criminal of still smaller size.

A little boy, with very long arms and legs, might have been seen following our friend Giles Scott, until the latter entered upon one of those narrow paths made by builders on the pavements of streets when houses are undergoing repairs. Watching until Giles was half way along it, the boy ran nimbly up and accosted him with a familiar--

"Well, old man, 'ow are you?"

"Pretty bobbish, thank you," returned the constable, for he was a good-natured man, and rather liked a little quiet chaff with street-boys when not too much engaged with duty.

"Well, now, are you aweer that there's a-goin' to be a burglairy committed in this 'ere quarter?" asked the boy, thrusting both hands deep into his pockets, and bending his body a little back, so as to look more easily up at his tall friend.

"Ah! indeed, well no, I didn't know it, for I forgot to examine the books at Scotland Yard this morning, but I've no doubt it's entered there by your friend who's goin' to commit it."

"No, it ain't entered there," said the boy, with a manner and tone that rather surprised Number 666; "and I'd advise you to git out your note-book, an' clap down wot I'm a-goin' to tell ye. You know the 'ouse of Sir Richard Brandon?"

"Yes, I know it."

"Well, that 'ouse is to be cracked on the 31st night o' this month."

"How d'you know that, lad?" asked Giles, moving towards the end of the barricade, so as to get nearer to his informant.

"No use, bobby," said Tim, "big as you are, you can't nab me. Believe me or not as you like, but I advise you to look arter that there 'ouse on the 31st if you valley your repitation."

Tim went off like a congreve rocket, dashed down a side street, sloped into an alley, and melted into a wilderness of bricks and mortar.

Of course Giles did not attempt to follow, but some mysterious communications passed between him and his superintendent that night before he went to bed.


CHAPTER ELEVEN.


SIR RICHARD AND MR. BRISBANE DISCUSS, AND DI LISTENS.

"My dear sir," said Sir Richard Brandon, over a glass of sherry one evening after dinner, to George Brisbane, Esquire of Lively Hall, "the management of the poor is a difficult, a very difficult subject to deal with."

"It is, unquestionably," assented Brisbane, "so difficult, that I am afraid some of our legislators are unwilling to face it; but it ought to be faced, for there is much to be done in the way of improving the poor-laws, which at present tend to foster pauperism in the young, and bear heavily on the aged. Meanwhile, philanthropists find it necessary to take up the case of the poor as a private enterprise."

"Pardon me, Brisbane, there I think you are in error. Everything requisite to afford relief to the poor is provided by the state. If the poor will not take advantage of the provision, or the machinery is not well oiled and worked by the officials, the remedy lies in greater wisdom on the part of the poor, and supervision of officials--not in further legislation. But what do you mean by our poor-laws bearing heavily on the aged?"

"I mean that the old people should be better cared for, simply because of their age. Great age is a sufficient argument of itself, I think, for throwing a veil of oblivion over the past, and extending charity with a liberal, pitying hand, because of present distress, and irremediable infirmities. Whatever may be the truth with regard to paupers and workhouses in general, there ought to be a distinct refuge for the aged, which should be attractive--not repulsive, as at present-- and age, without reference to character or antecedents, should constitute the title to enter it. `God pity the aged poor,' is often my prayer, `and enable us to feel more for them in the dreary, pitiful termination of their career.'"

"But, my dear sir," returned Sir Richard, "you would have old paupers crowding into such workhouses, or refuges as you call them, by the thousand."

"Well, better that they should do so than that they should die miserably by thousands in filthy and empty rooms--sometimes without fire, or food, or physic, or a single word of kindness to ease their sad descent into the grave."

"But, then, Brisbane, as I said, it is their own fault--they have the workhouse to go to."

"But, then, as _I_ said, Sir Richard, the workhouse is rendered so repulsive to them that they keep out of it as long as they can, and too often keep out so long that it is too late, and their end is as I have described. However, until things are better arranged, we must do what we can for them in a private way. Indeed Scripture teaches distinctly the necessity for private charity, by such words as--`the poor ye have always with you,' and, `blessed are they who consider the poor.' Don't you agree with me, Mr Welland?"

Stephen Welland--who, since the day of his accident, had become intimate with Mr Brisbane and Sir Richard--replied that although deeply interested in the discussion going on, his knowledge of the subject was too slight to justify his holding any decided opinion.

"Take another glass of sherry," said Sir Richard, pushing the decanter towards the young man; "it will stir your brain and enable you to see your way