Reginald Cruden, Talbot Baines Reed [best black authors txt] 📗

tones of genuine entreaty; “this is his brother, and we’ve only just heard of it.”

The policeman for a moment turned a curious eye on Horace, as if to convince himself of the truth of the story. Then, apparently satisfied, and weary of the whole business, he said,—

“Let off. Will you keep back, please? Stand back. Court’s full.”

Let off. Horace’s heart gave a bound of triumph as he heard the words. Of course he was! Who could even suspect him of such a thing as fraud? Unjustly accused he might be, but Reg’s character was proof against that any day.

Harker shared his friend’s feelings of relief and thankfulness at the good news, but his face was still not without anxiety.

“We had better try to find him,” said he.

“Oh, of course. He’ll probably be back at Shy Street.”

But no one was at Shy Street. The dingy office was deserted and locked, and a little street urchin on the doorstep glowered at them as they peered up the staircase and read the name on the plate.

“Had we better ask in the shop? they may know,” said Horace.

But the chemist looked black when Reginald’s name was mentioned, and hoped he should never see him again. He’d got into trouble and loss enough with him as it was—a hypocritical young—

“Look here,” said Horace, “you’re speaking of my brother, and you’d better be careful. He’s no more a hypocrite than you. He’s an honest man, and he’s been acquitted of the charge brought against him.”

“I didn’t know you were his brother,” said the chemist, rather sheepishly, “but for all that I don’t want to see him again, and I don’t expect I shall either. He won’t come near here in a hurry, unless I’m mistaken.”

“The fellow’s right, I’m afraid,” said Harker, as they left the shop. “He’s had enough of this place, from what you tell me. It strikes me the best thing is to go and inquire at the police-station. They may know something there.”

To the police-station accordingly they went, and chanced to light on one no less important than Mr Sniff himself.

“We are interested in Reginald Cruden, who was before the magistrate to-day,” said Harker. “In fact, this is his brother, and I am an old schoolfellow. We hear the charge against him was dismissed, and we should be much obliged if you could tell us where to find him.”

Mr Sniff regarded the two boys with interest, and not without a slight trace of uneasiness. He had never really suspected Reginald, but it had appeared necessary to arrest him on suspicion, not only to satisfy the victims of the Corporation, but on the off chance of his knowing rather more than he seemed to know about the doings of that virtuous association. It had been a relief to Mr Sniff to find his first impressions as to the lad’s innocence confirmed, and to be able to withdraw the charge against him. But the manner in which the magistrate had dismissed the case had roused even his phlegmatic mind to indignation, and had set his conscience troubling him a little as to his own conduct of the affair. This was why he now felt and looked not quite happy in the presence of Reginald’s brother and friend.

“Afraid I can’t tell you,” said he. “He left the court as soon as the case was over, and of course we’ve no more to do with him.”

“He is not back at his old office,” said Horace, “and I don’t know of any other place in Liverpool he would be likely to go to.”

“It struck me, from the looks of him,” said Mr Sniff, quite despising himself for being so unprofessionally communicative—“it struck me he didn’t very much care where he went. Very down in the mouth he was.”

“Why, but he was acquitted; his character was cleared. Whatever should he be down in the mouth about?” said Horace.

Mr Sniff smiled pityingly.

“He was let off with a caution,” he said; “that’s rather a different thing from having your character cleared, especially when our friend Fogey’s on the bench. I was sorry for the lad, so I was.”

This was a great deal to come from the lips of a cast-iron individual like Mr Sniff, and it explained the state of the case forcibly enough to his two hearers. Horace knew his brother’s nature well enough to imagine the effect upon him of such a reprimand, and his spirits sank within him.

“Who can tell us now where we are to look for him?” said he to Harker. “Anything like injustice drives him desperate. He may have gone off, as the detective says, not caring where. And then Liverpool is a fearfully big place.”

“We won’t give it up till we have found him,” said Harker; “and if you can’t stay, old man, I will.”

“I can’t go,” said Horace, with a groan. “Poor Reg!”

“Well, let us call round at the post-office and see if Waterford has remembered to telegraph about your mother.”

They went to the post-office and found a telegram from Miss Crisp: “Good day. Better, decidedly. Knows you are in Liverpool, but nothing more. Any news? Do not telegraph unless all right.”

“It’s pretty evident,” said Horace, handing the message to his friend, “we can’t telegraph to-day. I’ll write to Waterford and get him to tell the others. But what is the next thing to be done?”

“We can only be patient,” said Harker. “We are bound to come across him or hear of him in time.”

“He’s not likely to have gone home?” suggested Horace.

“How could he with no money?”

“Or to try to get on an American ship? We might try that.”

“Oh yes, we shall have to try all that sort of thing.”

“Well, let’s begin at once,” said Horace impatiently, “every minute may be of consequence.”

But for a week they sought in vain—among the busy streets by day and in the empty courts by night, among the shipping, in the railway-stations, in the workhouses, at the printing-offices.

Mr Sniff did them more than one friendly turn, and armed them with the talisman of his name to get them admittance where no other key would pass them. They inquired at public-houses, coffee-houses, lodging-houses, but all in vain. No one had seen a youth answering their description, or if they had it was only for a moment, and he had passed from their sight and memory.

False scents there were in plenty—some which seemed to lead up hopefully to the very last, and then end in nothing, others too vague even to attempt to follow.

Once they heard that the body of a youth had been found floating in the Mersey—and with terrible forebodings they rushed to the place and demanded to see it. But he was not there. The dead upturned face they looked on was not his, and they turned away, feeling more than ever discouraged in their quest.

At length at the end of a week a man who kept an early coffee-stall in one of the main streets told them that a week ago a ragged little urchin had come to him with a pitiful tale about a gentleman who was starving, and had begged for a can of coffee and a slice of bread to take to him, offering in proof of his good faith his own coat as payment. It was a bitterly cold morning, and the man trusted him. He had never seen the gentleman, but the boy brought back the empty can in a few minutes. The coffee man had kept the jacket, as it was about the size of a little chap of his own. But he had noticed the boy before parting with it take two ragged little books out of its pockets and transfer them to the bosom of his shirt. That was all he remembered, and the gentleman might take it for what it was worth.

It was worth something, for it pointed to the possibility of Reginald not being alone in his wanderings. And putting one thing and another together they somehow connected this little urchin with the boy they saw crouching on the doorstep of Number 13, Shy Street the day of their arrival, and with the office-boy whom Mr Sniff described as having been Reginald’s companion during his last days at the office.

They would neither of them believe Reginald was not still in Liverpool, and cheered by the very feeble light of this discovery they resumed their search with unabated vigour and even greater thoroughness.

Happily the news from home continued favourable, and, equally important, the officials at the Rocket made no demur to Horace’s prolonged stay. As for Harker, his hopefulness and pocket-money vied with one another in sustaining the seekers and keeping alive within them the certainty of a reward, sooner or later, for their patience.

Ten days had passed, and no fresh clue. Once or twice they had heard of the pale young gentleman and the little boy, but always vaguely, as a fleeting vision which had been seen about a fortnight ago.

On this day they called in while passing to see Mr Sniff, and were met by that gentleman with a smile which told them he had some news of consequence to impart.

“I heard to-day,” said he, “that a patient—a young man—was removed very ill from a low lodging-house near the river—to the smallpox hospital yesterday. His name is supposed to be Cruden (a common name in this country), but he was too ill to give any account of himself. It may be worth your while following it up.”

In less than half an hour they were at the hospital, and Horace was kneeling at the bedside of his long-lost brother.