ON THE SCENT, BUT PUZZLED.

It was a considerable time after the fire before my leg permitted me to resume my studies and my duties among the poor.  Meanwhile I had become a regularly-established inmate of Mr Dobson’s house, and was half-jocularly styled “Dr McTougall’s assistant.”

I confess that I had some hesitation at first in accepting such generous hospitality, but, feeling that I could not help myself till my leg should recover, I became reconciled to it.  Then, as time advanced, the doctor ­who was an experimental chemist, as well as a Jack-of-all-trades ­found me so useful to him in his laboratory, that I felt I was really earning my board and lodging.  Meanwhile Lilly Blythe had been sent to visit an aunt of Dr McTougall’s in Kent for the benefit of her health.

This was well.  I felt it to be so.  I knew that her presence would have a disturbing influence on my studies, which were by that time nearly completed.  I felt, also, that it was madness in me to fall in love with a girl whom I could not hope to marry for years, even if she were willing to have me at all, which I very much doubted.

I therefore resolved to put the subject away from me, and devote myself heartily to my profession, in the spirit of that Word which tells us that whatsoever our hands find to do we should do it with our might.

Success attended my efforts.  I passed all my examinations with credit, and became not only a fixture in the doctor’s family, but as he earnestly assured me, a very great help to him.

Of course I did not mention the state of my feelings towards Lilly Blythe to any one ­not being in the habit of having confidants ­except indeed, to Dumps.  In the snug little room just over the front door, which had been given to me as a study, I was wont to pour out many of my secret thoughts to my doggie, as he sat before me with cocked ears and demonstrative tail.

“You’ve been the making of me, Dumps,” said I, one evening, not long after I had reached the first round of the ladder of my profession.  “It was you who introduced me to Lilly Blythe, and through her to Dr McTougall, and you may be sure I shall never forget that!  Nay, you must not be too demonstrative.  When your mistress left you under my care she said, half-jocularly, no doubt that I was not to steal your heart from her.  Wasn’t that absurd, eh?  As if any heart could be stolen from her!  Of course I cannot regain your heart, Dumps, and I will not even attempt it ­`Honour bright,’ as Robin Slidder says.  By the way, that reminds me that I promised to go down to see old Mrs Willis this very night, so I’ll leave you to the tender mercies of the little McTougalls.”

As I walked down the Strand my last remark to Dumps recurred to me, and I could not help smiling as I thought of the “tender mercies” to which I had referred.  The reader already knows that the juvenile McTougalls were somewhat bloodthirsty in their notions of play.  When Dumps was introduced to their nursery ­by that time transferred from Dobson’s dining-room to an upper floor ­they at once adopted him with open arms.  Dumps seemed to be willing, and, fortunately, turned out to be a dog of exceptionally good-nature.  He was also tough.  No amount of squeezing, bruising, pulling of the ears or tail, or falling upon him, either accidentally or on purpose, could induce him to bite.  He did, indeed, yell hideously at times, when much hurt, and he snarled, barked, yelped, growled, and showed his teeth continually, but it was all in play, for he was dearly fond of romps.

Fortunately, the tall nurse had been born without nerves.  She was wont to sit serene in a corner, darning innumerable socks, while a tornado was going on around her.  Dumps became a sort of continual sacrifice.  On all occasions when a criminal was to be decapitated, a burglar hanged, or a martyr burned, Dumps was the victim; and many a time was he rescued from impending and real death by the watchful nurse, who was too well aware of the innocent ignorance of her ferocious charges to leave Dumps entirely to their tender mercies.

On reaching Mrs Willis’s little dwelling, I found young Slidder officiating at the tea-table.  I could not resist watching him a moment through a crack in the door before entering.

“Now then,” said he, “’ere you are!  Set to work, old Sneezer, with a will!”

The boy had got into a facetious way of calling Mrs Willis by any term of endearment that suggested itself at the moment, which would have been highly improper and disrespectful if it had not been the outflow of pure affection.

The crack in the door was not large enough to permit of my seeing Mrs Willis herself as she sat in her accustomed window with the spout-and-chimney-pot view.  I could only see the withered old hand held tremblingly out for the smoking cup of tea, which the boy handed to her with a benignant smile, and I could hear the soft voice say ­“Thank you, Robin ­dear boy ­so like!”

“I tell you what it is, granny,” returned Slidder, with a frown, “I’ll give you up an’ ‘and you over to the p’leece if you go on comparin’ me to other people in that way. ­Now, then, ’ave some muffins.  They’re all ’ot and soaked in butter, old Gummy, just the wery thing for your teeth.  Fire away, now!  Wot’s the use o’ me an’ Dr McTougall fetchin’ you nice things if you won’t eat ’em?”

“But I will eat ’em, Robin, thankfully.”

“That ain’t the way, old ’ooman,” returned the boy, helping himself largely to the viands which he so freely dispensed; “it’s not thankfully, but heartily, you ought to eat ’em.”

“Both, Robin, both.”

“Not at all, granny.  We asked a blessin’ fust, now, didn’t we?  Vell, then, wot we’ve to do next is to go in and win heartily.  Arter that it’s time enough to be thankful.”

“What a boy it is!” responded Mrs Willis.

I saw the withered old hand disappear with a muffin in it in the direction of the old mouth, and at this point I entered.

“The wery man I wanted to see,” exclaimed Slidder, jumping up with what I thought unusual animation, even for him.

“Come along, doctor, just in time for grub.  Mrs W hain’t eat up all the muffins yet.  Fresh cup an’ saucer; clean plate; ditto knife; no need for a fork; now then, sit down.”

Accepting this hearty invitation, I was soon busy with a muffin, while Mrs Willis gave a slow, elaborate, and graphic account of the sayings and doings of Master Slidder, which account, I need hardly say, was much in his favour, and I am bound to add that he listened to it with pleased solemnity.

“Now then, old flatterer, w’en you’ve quite done, p’raps you’ll tell the doctor that I wants a veek’s leave of absence, an’ then, p’raps you’ll listen to what him an’ me’s got to say on that p’int.  Just keep a stuffin’ of yourself with muffins, an’ don’t speak.”

The old lady nodded pleasantly, and began to eat with apparently renewed appetite, while I turned in some surprise.

“A week’s leave of absence?” said I.

“Just so ­a veek’s leave of absence ­furlow if you prefers to call it so.  The truth is, I wants a ‘oliday wery bad.  Granny says so, an’ I thinks she’s right.  D’you think my constitootion’s made o’ brass, or cast-iron, or bell-metal, that I should be able to york on an’ on for ever, black, black, blackin’ boots an’ shoes, without a ’oliday?  W’y, lawyers, merchants, bankers ­even doctors ­needs a ‘oliday now an’ then; ’ow much more shoeblacks!”

“Well,” said I, with a laugh, “there is no reason why shoeblacks should not require and desire a holiday as much as other people, only it’s unusual ­because they cannot afford it, I suppose.”

“Ah! `that’s just w’ere the shoe pinches’ ­as a old gen’leman shouted to me t’other day, with a whack of his umbreller, w’en I scrubbed ’is corns too hard. `Right you are, old stumps,’ says I, `but you’ll have to pay tuppence farden hextra for that there whack, or be took up for assault an’ battery.’  D’you know that gen’leman larfed, he did, like a ’iaena, an’ paid the tuppence down like a man.  I let ’im off the farden in consideration that he ‘adn’t got one, an’ I had no change. ­Vell, to return to the p’int ­vich was wot the old toper remarked to his wife every night ­I’ve bin savin’ up of late.”

“Saving up, have you?”

“Yes, them penny banks ‘as done it.  W’y, it ain’t a wirtue to be savin’ now-a-days, or good, or that sort o’ thing.  What between city missionaries, an’ Sunday-schools, an’ penny banks, an cheap wittles, and grannies like this here old sneezer, it’s hardly possible for a young feller to go wrong, even if he was to try.  Yes, I’ve bin an’ saved enough to give me a veek’s ‘oliday, so I’m goin’ to ’ave my ’oliday in the north.  My ’ealth requires it.”

Saying this, young Slidder began to eat another muffin with a degree of zest that seemed to give the lie direct to his assertion, so that I could not refrain from observing that he did not seem to be particularly ill.

“Ain’t I though?” he remarked, elongating his round rosy face as much as possible.  “That’s ’cause you judge too much by appearances.  It ain’t my body that’s wrong ­it’s my spirit.  That’s wot’s the matter with me.  If you only saw the inside o’ my mind you’d be astonished.”

“I thoroughly believe you,” said I, laughing.  “And do you really advise him to go, granny?”

“Yes, my dear, I do,” replied Mrs Willis, in her sweet, though feeble tones.  “You’ve no idea how he’s been slaving and working about me.  I have strongly advised him to go, and, you know, good Mrs Jones will take his place.  She’s as kind to me as a daughter.”

The mention of the word daughter set the poor creature meditating on her great loss.  She sighed deeply, and turned her poor old eyes on me with a yearning, inquiring look.  I was accustomed to the look by this time, and having no good news to give her, had latterly got into a way of taking no notice of it.  That night, however, my heart felt so sore for her that I could not refrain from speaking.

“Ah! dear granny,” said I, laying my hand gently on her wrist, “would that I had any news to give you, but I have none ­at least not at present.  But you must not despair.  I have failed up to this time, it is true, although my inquiries have been frequent, and carefully conducted; but you know, such a search takes a long time, and ­and London is a large place.”

The unfinished muffin dropped from the old woman’s hand, and she turned with a deep sigh to the window, where the blank prospect was a not inapt reflection of her own blank despair.

“Never more!” she said, “never more!”

“Hope thou in God, for thou shalt yet praise Him, who is the health of thy countenance, and thy God,” was all that I could say in reply.  Then I turned to the boy, who sat with his eyes cast down as if in deep thought, and engaged him in conversation on other subjects, by way of diverting the old woman’s mind from the painful theme.

When I rose to go, Slidder said he would call Mrs Jones to mount guard, and give me a convoy home.

No sooner were we in the street than he seized my hand, and, in a voice of unusual earnestness, said ­

“I’ve got on ’er tracks!”

“Whose tracks?  What do you mean?”

“On Edie’s, to be sure ­Edie Willis.”

Talking eagerly and fast, as we walked along, little Slidder told me how he had first been put on the scent by his old friend and fellow-waif, the Slogger.  That juvenile burglar, chancing to meet with Slidder, entertained him with a relation of some of his adventures.  Among others, he mentioned having, many months before, been out one afternoon with a certain Mr Brassey, rambling about the streets with an eye to any chance business that might turn up, when they observed a young and very pretty girl looking in at various shop windows.  She was obviously a lady, but her dress showed that she was very poor.  Her manner and colour seemed to imply that she was fresh from the country.  The two thieves at once resolved to fleece her.  Brassey advised the Slogger “to come the soft dodge over her,” and entice her, if possible, into a neighbouring court.  The Slogger, agreeing, immediately ran and placed himself on a doorstep which the girl was about to pass.  Then he covered his face with his hands, and began to groan dismally, while Mr Brassey, with native politeness, retired from the scene.  The girl, having an unsuspicious nature, and a tender heart, believed the tale of woe which the boy unfolded, and went with him to see “his poor mother,” who had just fallen down in a fit, and was dying at that moment for want of physic and some one to attend to her.  She suggested, indeed, that the Slogger should run to the nearest chemist, but the Slogger said it would be of no use, and might be too late.  Would she just run round an’ see her?  The girl acted on the spur of the moment.  In her exuberant sympathy she hurried down an alley, round a corner, under an archway, and walked straight into the lion’s den!

There Mr Brassey, the lion, promptly introduced himself, and requested the loan of her purse and watch!  The poor girl at once understood her position, and turned to fly, but a powerful hand on her arm prevented her.  Then she tried to shriek, but a powerful hand on her mouth prevented that also.  Then she fainted.  Not wishing to be found in an awkward position, Mr Brassey and the Slogger searched her pockets hastily, and, finding nothing therein, retired precipitately from the scene, taking her little dog with them.  As they did so the young girl recovered, sprang wildly up, and rushing back through the court and alley, dashed into the main thoroughfare.  The two thieves saw her attempt to cross, saw a cab-horse knock her down, saw a crowd rush to the spot and then saw no more, owing to pressing engagements requiring their immediate presence elsewhere.

“There ­that’s wot the Slogger told me,” said little Slidder, with flushed cheeks and excited looks, “an’ I made him give me an exact description o’ the gal, which was a facsimilar o’ the pictur’ painted o’ Miss Edie Willis by her own grandmother ­as like as two black cats.”

“This is interesting, very interesting, my boy,” said I, stopping and looking at the pavement; “but I fear that it leaves us no clew with which to prosecute the search.”

“Of course it don’t,” rejoined Robin, with one of his knowing looks; “but do you think I’d go an aggrawate myself about the thing if I ’adn’t more to say than that?”

“Well, what more have you to say?”

“Just this, that ever since my talk wi’ the Slogger I’ve bin making wery partikler inquiries at all the chemists and hospitals round about where he said the accident happened, an’ I’ve diskivered one hospital where I ‘appens to know the porter, an’ I got him to inwestigate, an’ he found there was a case of a young gal run over on the wery day this happened.  She got feverish, he says, an’ didn’t know what she was sayin’ for months, an’ nobody come to inquire arter her, an when she began to git well she sent to Vitechapel to inquire for ’er grandmother, but ’er grandmother was gone, nobody knowed where.  Then the young gal got wuss, then she got better, and then she left, sayin’ she’d go back to ’er old ’ome in York, for she was sure the old lady must have returned there.  So that’s the reason w’y I’m goin’ to recruit my ’ealth in the north, d’ye see?  But before I go wouldn’t it be better that you should make some inwestigations at the hospital?”

I heartily agreed to this, and went without delay to the hospital, where, however, no new light was thrown on the subject.  On the contrary, I found, what Slidder had neglected to ascertain, that the name of the girl in question was not Edie Willis, but Eva Bright, a circumstance which troubled me much, and inclined me to believe that we had got on a false scent; but when I reflected on the other circumstances of the case I still felt hopeful.  The day of Edie’s disappearance tallied exactly with the date of the robbing of the girl by Brassey and the Slogger.  Her personal appearance, too, as described by the Slogger, corresponded exactly with the description given of her granddaughter by Mrs Willis; and, above all, the sending of a messenger from the hospital by the girl to inquire for her “grandmother, Mrs Willis,” were proofs too strong to be set aside by the mystery of the name.

In these circumstances I also resolved to take a holiday, and join Robin Slidder in his trip to York.