Fighting the Flames, R. M. Ballantyne [spiritual books to read .TXT] 📗

you put the lights out. You’re uncommon careful about that, I hope?”

It is worthy of remark, in reference to Gorman’s anxiety about putting out lights, that he had been burned out of several sets of premises in the course of a few years. He was quite a martyr, as it were, to fire. Unaccountably worried, pursued, and damaged by it—no, not damaged, by the way; because Gorman was a prudent man, and always insured to the full amount. His enemies sometimes said above it; but neither they nor we have any means of proving or disproving that.

The deputy protested that he always exercised the utmost precaution in putting everything out every night—from the last beery lingerer, to the gas—and that he felt quite put out himself at being asked the question, as it implied a doubt of his care and attention to business. Hereupon Gorman said “Good-night,” and the deputy returned to the counter, where besotted men and drunken women awaited his attendance.

Three-quarters of an hour sufficed to convey Gorman from the east to the west end of London. Here he sought the well-known precincts of Poorthing Lane, and entered the shop of Mr David Boone.

That worthy received him with a look of glad surprise; but with a feeling of the deepest misery.

“Anyone inside?” asked Gorman.

“No,” said Boone, “’cept the boy. I’ll call him to mind the shop, and then we can be alone.”

As Gorman did not vouchsafe a reply, but walked straight into the little room behind the shop, Boone called the boy, and bade him mind the shop, while he held private consultation with his friend.

The shop-boy enjoyed the name of Robert Roddy. He was a soft-faced, washed-out youth, with a disposition to wink both eyes in a meek manner. Rough-spoken people called him an idiot, but Roddy was not quite such an idiot as they took him for. He obeyed his master’s mandate by sitting down on a tall stool near the window, and occupied himself in attempting to carve a human face on the head of a walking-stick.

“Glad to see you, Mr Gorman,” said Boone, seating his tall body on a low stool at the side of his friend, who, with his hat on, had thrown himself into an armchair, and spread out both legs before the fire. “Very glad to see you, indeed, in my—little sanctum, my withdrawing room, if I may venture to use the name, to which I retire during the intervals of business.”

Boone said this with an air of pleasantry, and smiled, but his visitor did not encourage him.

“Pretty long intervals, I should suppose,” he growled, pulling out his pipe and lighting it.

Boone admitted, with a sigh, that they were, and observed that trade was extremely dull—astonishingly dull.

“Why, would you believe it, sir, I have not sold twenty shillings’ worth o’ goods all last week, and only one wax-doll within the month, although it’s gettin’ well on for Christmas-time? One would a’most fancy the childr’n was about to give up such vanities an’ devote themselves to serious business. It’s a serious business for the like of us, anyhow.”

Again Mr Boone smiled, and again failed to make an agreeable impression on his visitor, who demanded in a surly tone if he had been thinking over it, and made up his mind to do it.

Boone’s face changed at this indefinite question, and became a shade paler than it was by nature, as he replied, hesitatingly, that he had been thinking over it, and that he had made up his mind not to do it.

“Oh, you have, have you?” said Gorman in a tone of irony. “Very good; then I’ll trouble you to pay me the three hundred pounds you owe me by this day next week, and the rent of this here tenement for last half.”

Boone’s face became still paler.

“You’re a hard landlord,” said he.

“You’re a soft tenant,” retorted Gorman.

“You know what the punishment is by law,” continued Boone.

“Yes—death,” said the other drily; “but you know as well as I do that it’s never carried out nowadays.”

“But penal servitude for ten or twenty years ain’t much better.”

“Some men think it’s worse,” replied Gorman, with a savage grin; “but you’ve no need to fear. If you only take the right precautions it’s impossible to find it out, an’ I’ll engage to put ye up to doin’ it in such a way that there won’t be a scrap the size of a sixpence left to convict you. Only put a bold face on it and the thing’s done, and your fortune made as well as mine.”

The man’s voice and manner softened a little as he said this, for he thought he perceived symptoms of wavering in his tenant, who covered his face with his large thin hands and sighed deeply.

“Come, don’t be hard on me,” he said at length; “I really haven’t got courage to go through with this. Only give me a little more time, and I’ll—”

“Very good,” interrupted Gorman, with an oath, as he rose and dashed his pipe into fragments on the hearth; “if you won’t burn yourself out o’ this scrape.”

“Hush! hush, man!” said Boone in a hoarse whisper; “not so loud; my lad will hear you. Come, I’ll think of it.”

“Will you do it?” demanded the other fiercely. “You know the alternative if you don’t?”

“Ruination?”

“Exactly so; and that without delay.”

“Ruination either way,” murmured Boone sadly to himself, as though he were counting the cost.

“Tut, man,” said his landlord, becoming more gentle, “it’s nothing of the sort. If you only take my advice, it’ll be a jolly blaze, which, instead of ending in smoke will end in some thousands of pounds and commencing business again on fresh capital. Come, I’ve not got time to waste with you. There’s no escape for you, so you’d better say yes, else I’ll go and have a talk with a legal friend of mine who is used to screwing gold out of most unpromising mines.”

David Boone’s face had by this time become so pale that it could not become paler, so it turned somewhat green instead. His teeth, too, had a tendency to chatter when he spoke, but by a strong mental effort he prevented this, and said in a subdued voice that he was willing to do whatever his landlord pleased to command.

“That’s all right,” said Gorman, resuming his seat in front of the fire; “now you speak like a man. Sit down and I’ll go over the matter with you, and make your mind easy by showing you that it ain’t either a difficult or risky piece of work. Bless you, it ain’t the first time I’ve been up to that sort o’ thing.”

It did not require the diabolical leer that accompanied this remark to convince his hearer of its truth.

“Now, then,” said Gorman, with a business air, “first of all, how stands the stock in the shop?”

“Rather low,” answered Boone, who had reseated himself on the stool; “in fact, I’ve got little or nothing more than what is visible. I’ve bin so hard-up of late that I’ve had to crowd everything into view an’ make the most of appearances. All the dressed dolls has got their frocks spread out, and the undressed ones their arms an’ legs throwed about to make ’em take up as much room as possible. The lids of all the work boxes is open, the slates and puzzle boxes stuck up in single rows, with their broadsides to the front, and the collapsin’ worlds is all inflated. Everything in the front is real, but all behind is sham dummies an’ empty boxes.”

Gorman opened his eyes a little on hearing this.

“Good,” he said, after a pause; “you’re a cleverer fellow than I took you for. I thought you was well off, and I’m sure the neighbours think the same, for the place looks pretty full an’ thrivin’. I suppose, now, if it was all sold off you wouldn’t have enough to pay up my loans?”

“Nothink like it,” said Boone earnestly. “I’ve slaved night and day, an’ done my best, but luck’s again’ me.”

“Ah, that’s ’cause you’ve bin faint-hearted in time past; you’re goin’ to be bold in time to come, my good fellow; you’ll have to be bold, you will. Come, I’ll explain how. But first, let me ask how much you think the stock is worth.”

“Not much above fifty pounds.”

“Hum! it looks like more.”

“That’s true, an’ the people about think it’s worth two or three hundred, for you see I have a lot o’ cheap jewellery, and some of the inquisitive ones have been trying to pump me of late. They all think I’m thriving,” said Boone, shaking his head sorrowfully.

“So you are, so you are, man,” said Gorman jocosely, “and you’re going to make your fortune soon, and so am I, though at present I’m poor enough. However, that don’t matter. Here’s your course for the future, which you’re to steer by. You’ll go an’ begin chatting with your neighbours at odd times, and your conversation, curiously enough, will always be about the times bein’ better than usual, an’ about the approach of Christmas, an’ the stock you mean to lay in against that festive season. After that you’ll lay in the stock—fifty pounds’ worth; and it won’t be sham; it’ll be real—”

“But where is the money to come from?” asked Boone.

“Oh, don’t you trouble about the money; I’ll provide that. I’ve a curious power of raisin’ the wind on easy terms. Fifty pounds’ worth of real goods will be bought by you, my thriving shopman, and you’ll let some of the neighbours, partiklerly these same inquisitive ’uns, see the goods and some of the invoices, and you’ll tell them that you’ve laid in 150 pounds worth of stock, and that you think of layin’ in more. On the strength of the press o’ business you’ll get another shop-lad, and you’ll keep ’em employed a good deal goin’ messages, so that they won’t get to know much about the state o’ things, and I’ll take care to send you a rare lot o’ customers, who’ll come pretty often for small purchases, and give the shop an uncommon thrivin’ look. Oh, we’ll make a splendid appearance of doin’ business, and we’ll have lots of witnesses ready to bother these sharp lawyers if need be—won’t we, Boone?”

Poor Boone, whose colour had not yet improved much, smiled in a ghastly way, but said nothing.

“Well, then,” resumed Gorman, after a few minutes’ meditation, “when this thriving trade is in full swing we’ll get it insured. You know it would never do to risk the loss of such valuable stock by fire—eh, Boone? common prudence pints that out! You say what you have is worth fifty, and what you’ll lay in is fifty more, makin’ a hundred, so we’ll insure for five hundred; there’s a clear gain of four hundred per cent, only think of that! Well, the house I have already insured for five hundred, that makes nine hundred, and we’ll insure the furniture and fixings for fifty; that’ll look business-like, you know. Then the goods laid in will be carefully removed in the night at various times before the fire, so you had better see that they are small and portable objects; that’ll make another fifty pounds, if not more. So I see my way to a thousand pounds. That’s a neat sum, ain’t it, Boone?”

Still Boone made no reply, but favoured his visitor with another ghastly smile.

“Well, then,” pursued Gorman, “all you’ve got to do is, on a certain night that I will fix, to set the shop alight, and the thing’s done quite easy. But that’s not all. You’ve got an old mother, I believe; well, it would be very unnatural in you to run the risk of being burned to death, an’ leaving her penniless; so you’ll insure your life for five hundred pounds, and I’ll pay the first premium on it, and then you’ll die—”

“Die!” exclaimed Boone, with a start.

“Ay; why not, if you’re to get a