THE ADVENTURE OF THE “TURKEYS PIN.”

The disappearance of Juliet Mitchell from Littlebourne Lock the second time did not surprise or frighten her relations nearly so much as her flight had done on the first occasion.

“Oh, she’ll come home,” said Mrs. Rowles; “never fear. When she is hungry she’ll turn up, or someone will bring her.”

But as the evening closed in, and neither meal-time nor bed-time brought the wanderer home, some alarm began to spread through the house. Philip had taken his boat to the place where he had left Juliet, but she was not there. He went again and shouted for her, but there was no reply. Then Mr. Rowles shouted from the lock in a voice that must have been heard at half a mile’s distance. Still no sign of Juliet.

“You should not have left her there, Phil,” said Mrs. Rowles.

“I’ve often set Emily down at the same place,” was Phil’s defence, “to gather king-cups or forget-me-nots.”

“Yes, I know; but Juliet is not Emily.”

This could not be denied. It accounted for Juliet’s absence, but it did not bring her home.

Dozens of boats went up the river, and dozens went down. Rowles said to the occupants of each of them, “If you should see a girl of thirteen what has got lost, be so good as to tell her to come home double-quick, or it will be worse for her.”

Some of the people laughed, and some said “Very well;” but evening deepened into night without bringing Juliet.

The last boat was that of the old gentleman’s butler, or valet, or whatever he liked to call himself. When Rowles made his speech about the missing girl, the man replied, “I know; that is the child whose father is a printer. Mr. Burnet takes an interest in that child, being himself a master-printer, and the son of a journeyman printer.”

“The son of a journeyman printer!” Rowles repeated. “You don’t say so, Mr. Robert?”

“Yes, I do say it. My Mr. Burnet’s father began life at the bottom of the ladder, and ended it near the top; and my Mr. Burnet began life near the top, and is ending it quite at the top. Hard work, Mr. Rowles, hard work, perseverance, honesty, and temperance; that’s what does it. Your little girl’s father may get to the top of the tree yet.”

“Not with his bad health,” replied Rowles, shaking his head; “and not without his proper night’s sleep.”

“They make up their sleep in the daytime,” said the other, beginning to push his boat out of the lock which was now full. “I’ve got relations of my own in the same line, so I know they can make up their sleep in the daytime. Well, good-night; if I see the girl I’ll hurry her home.”

“Good night, Mr. Robert. I’m glad you’ve learnt to manage your boat.”

As Roberts went off his voice was heard saying, “It is hard work, and perseverance, and honesty, and temperance that does it.” And he was not wrong.

Ten o’clock came. The lock-house was closed, and all its inmates went to bed. Mrs. Rowles had little sleep, watching all night for Juliet’s knock. But it did not come.

At six o’clock next morning Mr. Rowles went out to look up and down the river, and to prophesy the weather. It was still and cloudless and warm. While he was standing idly beside the running water, listening to the twitter of birds and the lowing of cows, he heard yet another cry, that of a man; and presently he saw on the far-off bank the figure of a big, burly man with a bushy beard.

“I do believe it’s Mrs. Bosher’s brother!”

“Over! over!” bawled the man, as if hailing a ferry-boat.

“Well, if that ain’t a joke! I ain’t the ferry. Here you, Phil, jump into the Fairy and go and see what that man wants.”

So Phil played the part of the ferry and brought Mrs. Bosher’s brother to the lock-eyot.

He told his story. The previous evening he had met a young girl in the wood, and as it was private property, he had warned her out of it. Afterwards he found that she had gone to his sister’s house, evidently a runaway, and had engaged herself as a general servant. But Mrs. Bosher, who was one that never took no rest, never even took off her bonnet, saw through that girl, and knew right well that she had come from the Littlebourne side of the river; and perhaps Mrs. Rowles could state what family had lost a little maid-servant.

Yes, Mrs. Rowles could tell him all about Juliet; and after giving him some breakfast sent him back in the Fairy to his own side of the river, with a request that Mrs. Bosher would take Juliet to the station, where someone would meet the tiresome girl and convey her to her home in London.

The big man promised to do all this, and went out with Rowles intending to have a pipe and a gossip with him, when down came a boat rowed by Leonard Burnet, and steered by the old master-printer; and so the gossip was cut short, though not the pipe.

“I am not going through,” said Mr. Burnet from the boat. “Help me to land, Rowles; I want to have a talk with you. Who is that man?” looking at the big person who had just gone off in the little Fairy.

“Oh, that is Mrs. Bosher’s brother. I hope you are well, sir, and the young gentleman; likewise Mr. Robert.”

“Yes, thanks, Leonard and I are very well; but Roberts has a smart touch of rheumatism, and will not come on the river to-day. May I sit here, Rowles?” added Mr. Burnet, pointing to a seat under some small trees.

“If you please, sir. Why, Emma, where are you a-going?”

Mrs. Rowles curtsied to Mr. Burnet. “I am going, Ned, to the vicarage. I heard say that Mr. and Mrs. Webster are going to London to-day, and if they would take charge of Juliet it would save my time and money.”

Mrs. Rowles hurried off, and caught Mrs. Webster, who most kindly undertook the charge of Juliet if Mrs. Bosher should bring her to the station, and to see her safe to her own home in London.

While Mrs. Rowles was absent on this errand, her husband was having a very important conversation with Mr. Burnet under the small trees. Neither Leonard nor Phil heard what passed, as they were not within earshot; but when they presently came near their fathers they caught these words from Mr. Burnet:

“I hope that he will consent to do as we suggest. It was really my boy who first thought that it would be a good move. These young people sometimes get hold of ideas which are worth carrying out. And then Roberts took it up, knowing as he does from his relations the difficulties of that kind of life in London.”

“I’m sure, sir,” said Rowles doubtfully, “it is very kind of you to think of doing such kindness to a stranger. But I’m much afeard that Thomas Mitchell is so used to his topsy-turvy way of living, that he will not fit in with the morning for getting up and the night for going to bed.”

“I will endeavour to get him to try it, at all events. I have taken a lease of the Bourne House; very likely you know it.”

“I should think I did! A good old gentleman used to live there when I was a boy, as like to you, sir, as one pea is to another; and, what is more, Mrs. Bosher’s brother farms all the arable land belonging to it.”

“Does he? Of course I know all about my future tenant, but I did not know he was Mrs. Bosher’s brother. Well, Rowles, there is a nice little cottage on the property which your brother-in-law can rent cheap from me; and I will put him on the Thames Valley Times and Post, which only comes out once a week, and does not keep the men up at night. We also do a good deal of handbill printing, and catalogues for sales, and that kind of work, which is easy enough. And I hope to see your friends settled down here by the beginning of the week after next.”

Rowles shook his head, feeling certain that the arrangement would not answer. But Mr. Burnet was determined to try it, and Leonard was delighted with the project.

“Your cousins,” said Leonard to Philip, “will have to learn all about country things. I don’t suppose they know a garden when they see one.”

“No, they don’t,” was Phil’s answer. “When Juliet saw the first of the country from the train window, she says to mother, ’It’s a pretty churchyard!’ says she.”

Mr. Burnet looked very sad for a few moments, then he stood up and said that he must be going back, as he had to meet Mrs. Bosher’s brother and talk over the barns and the stables and the farm-buildings. “And on Monday,” he added, “I think I shall go to town and see your brother-in-law, and offer him a place at my printing-office. I have already inquired his character of his present employers.”

Rowles’s head was shaking again; but he only held the boat for Mr. Burnet and Leonard to step into it, and his forebodings of failure on Mitchell’s part were for the moment kept to himself.

There were also forebodings of failure in the mind of Roberts, when his master talked so hopefully of what was going to happen to Juliet’s father.

“Don’t make too sure, Mr. Leonard, of anything. I daresay that Juliet’s father will have better health living in the country, but as for his getting to be foreman of your printing-office, I have my doubts.”

Perhaps Roberts’s doubts were due to his attack of rheumatism. He was at this time suffering so much from it that he was almost cross. He was laid up the very day that Mr. Burnet took possession of the Bourne House, and sat wrapped in flannel, though the weather was very warm.

“Don’t talk to me any more,” he said savagely when a tremendous twinge seemed to be piercing between his bones, “about your Juliet’s father and your Mrs. Bosher’s brother. If people have not got names of their own I don’t want to hear about such people.”

The housekeeper who was waiting on him began to say, “The name of Mrs. Bosher’s brother ”

“Hold your tongue, do! How this arm does ache, to be sure!”

Leonard was in the room. He got as far as, “The name of Juliet’s father ”

“I won’t hear it!” cried poor Roberts, kicking out his right foot, in which the pain was steely cold.

“We want you to go and see him on Monday,” said Leonard.

“Then you may want!” and he flung out the left foot in which the pain was red-hot.

The housekeeper signed to Leonard to leave the invalid to himself. When this attack was over Roberts would be himself again kind and gentle and polite.

But there was no chance of his being able to go to London to make arrangements for the move of the Mitchell family. Mr. Burnet was in the habit of leaving a great deal to Roberts, being himself old and ailing, and easily upset. On the Sunday, a lovely, sweet, clear day, it was plain that Roberts would not be of any use for another week or more.

Mr. Burnet and his son were walking back from evening service, and enjoying the calm of Sunday evening. Everything had been beautiful; the hymns, the sermon in church; the hymns of the birds and the sermons of the harvest, in the fields.

“Delicious!” said Mr. Burnet, pausing as he entered his own large grounds. “How I wish poor Roberts was well enough to enjoy it all. I am afraid his exertions at the oar, and his exposure to the evening damps, have brought on this painful attack. The only thing I can do is to go to town myself to see this Thomas Mitchell, and I really do not feel up to it.”

The father and son walked on side by side. Presently Leonard said, “Do you think I could go and make the arrangements with Mitchell?”

Mr. Burnet stopped in his walk, and leaning on his stick said, “Upon my word, Leonard, I do not see why you could not.”

“Then let me do it, father; and if you give me a note to the head of the press where Mitchell works, perhaps he would let me look round, and take a practical lesson in the business.”

“A good idea!” exclaimed Mr. Burnet.

It was settled in that way; and on the Monday, Mr. Burnet being very gouty, and Roberts very rheumatic, there was no one who could possibly go to town except Leonard. He went off, armed with directions and papers from his father.

Arrived in London he presented himself at the great printing-office where Mitchell worked; was courteously received by one of the heads of it, and was shown some of the type, the presses, the paper, and other things used for printing that morning journal which deprived Thomas Mitchell and many others of almost every night’s rest. Having seen as much as he could remember, he said to the gentleman who was explaining matters, “I think I must now speak to Mitchell, who is to leave you on Saturday, and to begin work with us on Monday next.”

“I will send for him,” replied the gentleman. “He is a good, steady fellow, and if his health becomes stronger will deserve your confidence and regard.”

Then, speaking down a telephone, “Send Thomas Mitchell to me.”

The answer came back: “Mitchell has this moment knocked off work and gone.”

“Provoking!” said the gentleman.

“It does not matter,” said Leonard. “I know his address, and I can go there and speak to him.”

He set off, having a vague notion of the neighbourhood in which the Mitchells lived. Leonard was not much used to London, especially that part of it, and as he went he saw many things to interest him. The day was hot and close, and the narrower streets were far from pleasant. He was struck by the number of small grocers’ shops, and the smell of paraffin which pervaded this part of London. He also noticed how dry the vegetables appeared, and how moist the fruits which were exposed for sale; further, how shabby and threadbare were the carpets floating at the pawnbrokers’ doors, and how fusty the odour from them. In a word, Leonard could not help seeing that this was a very poor region.

It did not strike him that poverty and crime are near neighbours; that the circumstances which make the honest man poor, make the lazy man a thief. Leonard was too young to be suspicious. He scarcely saw a shambling poorly-dressed rather wasted man whom he passed, and who afterwards stumbled along a very little way behind him. Nor did he specially notice two rather well-dressed but coarse-looking men who kept just ahead of him.

But when these two began to talk loud he did notice them. When they stood in the middle of the narrow pavement, quarrelling, Leonard paused and looked on.

“You did!” said the one.

“I did not!” said the other.

“I’ll make you confess it on your marrow-bones!”

“You shall have every bone in your body broke first!”

By this time a crowd had begun to collect. The two men seemed preparing for a fight.

“Part them, someone!” cried Leonard.

“Let them fight it out!” cried a costermonger, seating himself on his barrow.

“I’ll see fair play!” roared a great unwashed man.

A voice behind Leonard said in his ear, “You come out of this, young fellow!” and looking round the lad saw the shabby, sickly man who had been following him.

The crowd hemmed them all four in the midst of it.

“Hallo! The bobbies!” was whispered.

The crowd opened a way through which one of the disputants rushed, all eyes fixed upon him.

An arm came over Leonard’s shoulder, and a dirty hand clutched his turquoise breast-pin; another arm came over the other shoulder and another hand clutched the first one. At the same moment two policemen’s helmets peered over the crowd, and a stern voice said, “What’s up? What’s your game?”

Then in some mysterious way the first hand and arm vanished, and only the second remained, and Leonard found himself thus hugged by a stranger, and confronted by two stalwart policemen.

When an English man or boy finds himself in the hands (or, as in this case, in the arms) of a stranger, his first impulse is to show fight. Naturally Leonard began to plunge and to double his fists. But he could not keep this up, for the man whose arm was round him quickly retired and stood a few paces off, looking wan and haggard, and very unlike a thief or ruffian.

The crowd had melted away. The two policemen stood with faces fixed in something between a grin and a scowl.

“What are you all up to?” said Leonard, in astonishment at the suddenness of the whole affair.

“Just this, young man,” replied one of the policemen, “that if you want to walk about in this part of London you had better not wear such an enticing pin in your scarf.”

Leonard put up his hand, and found that his turquoise pin was pulled half-way out of his scarf. He said angrily, “Then why don’t you take the thief in charge?” And he pointed at the sickly-looking man who stood close by.

“Because he was too quick for us. He’s on the other side of the river long before this.”

“Why, there he stands!” cried Leonard, pointing again at the shabby figure.

“Begging your pardon, young sir, this is him that has saved your pin from them two thieves. You owe him many thanks, and something more substantial, in my humble opinion.”

Then Leonard understood the affair, and how the poor delicate man had prevented the smart colleagues from making off with the valuable pin given him by his late mother, and therefore very greatly precious to him. He turned to his defender with warm thanks.

The two policemen sauntered away.

“I am awfully obliged to you, I’m sure,” said Leonard. “You don’t look well.”

“No,” replied the poor man; “I have had sickness and sorrow lately, and a little thing upsets me. I shall be better in a few minutes. You put your pin in your pocket, sir; and do not show any jewellery when you come through these shady slums.”

“I think I must have come wrong.”

“What street do you want?”

Leonard named it.

“Well, you have not come wrong exactly; but you had better have stuck to the main thoroughfares, and not have taken these short cuts, which are all very well for some of us, but not for young gents with ‘turkeys’ breast-pins. If you are not ashamed of my company I can take you straight to the street you’ve named.”

After his late escape Leonard felt suspicious of every stranger in London; but as he really had reason to feel obliged to this man, he put aside that feeling and walked on for some time with his new acquaintance.