"Indeed, he never did," replied Jane; "I am sure he never would do such a thing."

"Well, I must wish you good-bye now, my poor people; I will go down to the Cat and Fiddle, and hear what they say," cried the pedagogue, quitting the cottage.

"Jane, be careful," said Rushbrook; "our great point now is to say nothing. I wish that man would not come here."

"Oh, Rushbrook!" cried Jane, "what would I give if we could live these last three days over again."

"Then imagine, Jane, what I would give!" replied Rushbrook, striking his forehead; "and now say no more about it."

At twelve o'clock the next day the magistrates met, and the coroner's inquest was held upon the body of the pedlar. On examination of the body, it was ascertained that a charge of small shot had passed directly through the heart, so as to occasion immediate death; that the murder had not been committed with the view of robbing, it was evident, as the pedlar's purse, watch, and various other articles were found upon his person.

The first person examined was a man of the name of Green, who had found the gun in the ditch. The gun was produced, and he deposed to its being the one which he had picked up, and given into the possession of the keeper; but no one could say to whom the gun might belong.

The next party who gave his evidence was Lucas, the game-keeper. He deposed that he knew the pedlar, Byres, and that being anxious to prevent poaching, he had offered him a good sum if he would assist him in convicting any poacher; that Byres had then confessed to him that he had often received game from Rushbrook, the father of the boy, and still continued to do so, but Rushbrook had treated him ill, and he was determined to be revenged upon him, and get him sent out of the country; that Byres had informed him on the Saturday night before the murder was committed, that Rushbrook was to be out on Monday night to procure game for him, and that if he looked out sharp he was certain to be taken. Byres had also informed him that he had never yet found out when Rushbrook left his cottage or returned, although he had been tracking the boy, Joey. As the boy was missing on Monday morning, and Byres did not return to the ale-house, after he went out on Saturday night, he presumed that it was on the Sunday night that the pedlar was murdered.

The keeper then farther deposed as to the finding of the body, and also of a bag by the side of it; that the bag had evidently been used for putting game in, not only from the smell, but from the feathers of the birds which were still remaining inside of it.

The evidence as to the finding of the body and the bag was corroborated by that of Martin and Dick, the underkeepers.

Mr Furness then made his appearance to give voluntary evidence, notwithstanding his great regard expressed for the Rushbrooks. He deposed that, calling at the cottage, on Monday morning, for his pupil, he found the father and mother in great distress at the disappearance of their son, whom they stated to have left the cottage some time during the night, and to have taken away his father's gun with him, and that their son had not since returned; that he pointed out to Rushbrook the impropriety of his having a gun, and that Rushbrook had replied that he had carried one all his life, and did not choose to be without one; that they told him they supposed that he had gone out to poach, and was taken by the keepers, and had requested him to go and ascertain if such was the fact. Mr Furness added that he really imagined that to be the case now that he saw the bag, which he recognised as having been once brought to him by little Joey with some potatoes, which his parents had made him a present of; that he could swear to the bag, and so could several others as well as himself. Mr Furness then commenced a long flourish about his system of instruction, in which he was stopped by the coroner, who said that it had nothing to do with the business.

It was then suggested that Rushbrook and his wife should be examined. There was a demur at the idea of the father and mother giving evidence against their child, but it was over-ruled, and in ten minutes they both made their appearance.

Mrs Rushbrook, who had been counselled by her husband, was the first examined; but she would not answer any question put to her. She did nothing but weep; and to every question her only reply was, "If he did kill him, it was by accident; my boy would never commit murder." Nothing more was to be obtained from her; and the magistrates were so moved by her distress, that she was dismissed.

Rushbrook trembled as he was brought in and saw the body laid out on the table; but he soon recovered himself, and became nerved and resolute, as people often will do in extremity. He had made up his mind to answer some questions, but not all.

"Do you know at what time your son left the cottage?"

"I do not."

"Does that gun belong to you?"

"Yes, it is mine."

"Do you know that bag?"

"Yes, it belongs to me."

"It has been used for putting game into—has it not?"

"I shall not answer that question. I'm not on trial."

Many other questions were put to him, but he refused to answer them; and as they would all more or less have criminated himself as a poacher, his refusals were admitted. Rushbrook had played his game well in admitting the gun and bag to be his property, as it was of service to him, and no harm to Joey. After summing up the whole evidence, the coroner addressed the jury, and they returned a unanimous verdict of Wilful Murder against Joseph Rushbrook the younger; and the magistrates directed the sum of 200 pounds to be offered for our hero's apprehension.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

A FRIEND IN NEED IS A FRIEND INDEED.

Rushbrook and Jane returned to their cottage. Jane closed the door, and threw herself into her husband's arms. "You are saved at least," she cried: "thank Heaven for that! You are spared. Alas! we do not know how much we love till anger comes upon us."

Rushbrook was much affected: he loved his wife, and had good reason to love her. Jane was a beautiful woman, not yet thirty; tall in her person, her head was finely formed, yet apparently small for her height her features were full of expression and sweetness. Had she been born to a high station, she would have been considered one of the greatest belles. As it was, she was loved by those around her; and there was a dignity and commanding air about her which won admiration and respect. No one could feel more deeply than she did the enormity of the offence committed by her husband; and yet never in any moment since her marriage did she cling so earnestly and so closely by him as she did now. She was of that bold and daring temperament, that she could admire the courage that propelled to the crime, while the crime itself she abhorred. It was not, therefore, anything surprising that, at such a moment, with regard to a husband to whom she was devoted, she thought more of the danger to which he was exposed than she did of the crime which had been committed.

To do Rushbrook himself justice, his person and mind were of no plebeian mould. He was a daring, venturous fellow, ready at any emergency, cool and collected in danger, had a pleasure in the excitement created by the difficulty and risk attending his nocturnal pursuits, caring little or nothing for the profits. He, as well as his wife, had not been neglected in point of education: he had been born in humble life, and had, by enlisting, chosen a path by which advancement became impossible; but had Rushbrook been an officer instead of a common soldier, his talents would probably have been directed to more noble channels, and the poacher and pilferer for his captain might have exerted his dexterity so as to have gained honourable mention. His courage had always been remarkable, and he was looked upon by his officers—and so he was by his companions—as the most steady and collected man under fire to be found in the whole company.

We are the creatures of circumstances. Frederick of Prussia had no opinion of phrenology; and one day he sent for the professor, and dressing up a highwayman and a pickpocket in uniforms and orders, he desired the phrenologist to examine their heads, and give his opinion as to their qualifications. The savant did so, and turning to the king, said, "Sire, this person," pointing to the highwayman, "whatever he may be, would have been a great general, had he been employed. As for the other, he is quite in a different line. He may be, or, if he is not, he would make, an admirable financier." The king was satisfied that there was some truth in the science; "for," as he very rightly observed, "what is a general but a highwayman, and what is a financier, but a pickpocket?"

"Calm yourself, dear Jane," said Rushbrook; "all is well now."

"All well!—yes; but my poor child—200 pounds offered for his apprehension! If they were to take him!"

"I have no fear of that; and if they did, they could not hurt him. It is true that they have given their verdict; but still they have no positive proof."

"But they have hanged people upon less proof before now, Rushbrook."

"Jane," replied Rushbrook, "our boy shall never be hanged—I promise you that; so make your mind easy."

"Then you must confess, to save him; and I shall lose you."

A step at the door interrupted their colloquy. Rushbrook opened it, and Mr Furness, the schoolmaster, made his appearance.

"Well, my good friends, I am very sorry the verdict has been such as it is, but it cannot be helped; the evidence was too strong, and it was a sad thing for me to be obliged to give mine."

"You!" exclaimed Rushbrook; "why, did they call you up?"

"Yes, and put me on my oath. An oath, to a moral man, is a very serious responsibility; the nature of an oath is awful; and when you consider my position in this place, as the inculcator of morals and piety to the younger branches of the community, you must not be surprised at my telling the truth."

"And what had you to tell?" inquired Rushbrook, with surprise.

"Had to tell—why, I had to tell what you told me this morning; and I had to prove the bag as belonging to you; for you know you sent me some potatoes in it by little Joey, poor fellow. Wilful Murder, and two hundred pounds upon apprehension and conviction!"

Rushbrook looked at the pedagogue with surprise and contempt.

"Pray, may I ask how they came to know that anything had passed between us yesterday morning, for if I recollect right, you desired me to be secret."

"Very true, and so I did; but then they knew what good friends we always were, I suppose, and so they sent for me, and obliged me to speak upon my oath."

"I don't understand it," replied Rushbrook; "they might have asked you questions, but how could they have guessed that I had told you anything?"

"My dear friend, you don't understand it; but in my situation, looking up to me, as every one does, as an example of moral rectitude and correctness of conduct—as a pattern to the juvenile branches of the community,—you see—"

"Yes, I do see that, under such circumstances, you should not go to the ale-house and get tipsy two days, at least, out of the week," replied Rushbrook, turning away.

"And why do I go to the ale-house, my dear friend, but to look after those who indulge too freely—yourself, for instance? How often have I seen you home?"

"Yes, when you were drunk and I was—" Jane put her hand upon her husband's mouth.

"And you were what, friend?" inquired Furness, anxiously.

"Worse than you, perhaps. And now, friend Furness, as you must be tired with your long evidence, I wish you a good night."

"Shall I see you down at the Cat and Fiddle?"

"Not for some time, if ever, friend Furness, that you may depend upon."

"Never go to the Cat and Fiddle! A little wholesome drink drowns care, my friend; and, therefore, although I should be sorry that you indulged too much, yet, with me to look after you—"

"And drink half my ale, eh? No, no, friend Furness, those days are gone."

"Well, you are not in a humour for it now but another time. Mrs Rushbrook, have you a drop of small beer?"

"I have none to spare," replied Jane, turning away; "you should have applied to the magistrates for beer."

"Oh, just as you please," replied the pedagogue; "it certainly does ruffle people's temper when there is a verdict of wilful murder, and two hundred pounds for apprehension and conviction of the offender. Good night."

Furness banged the cottage door as he went out.

Rushbrook watched till he was out of hearing, and then said, "He's a scoundrel."

"I think so too," replied Jane; "but never mind, we will go to bed now, thank God for his mercies, and pray for his forgiveness. Come, dearest."

The next morning Mrs Rushbrook was informed by the neighbours that the schoolmaster had volunteered his evidence. Rushbrook's indignation was excited, and he vowed revenge.

Whatever may have been the feelings of the community at the time of the discovery of the murder, certain it is that, after all was over, there was a strong sympathy expressed for Rushbrook and his wife, and the condolence was very general. The gamekeeper was avoided, and his friend Furness fell into great disrepute, after his voluntarily coming forward and giving evidence against old and sworn friends. The consequence was, his school fell off, and the pedagogue, whenever he could raise the means, became more intemperate than ever.

One Saturday night, Rushbrook, who had resolved to pick a quarrel with Furness, went down to the ale-house. Furness was half drunk, and pot-valiant. Rushbrook taunted him so as to produce replies. One word brought on another, till Furness challenged Rushbrook to come outside and have it out. This was just what Rushbrook wished, and after half an hour Furness was carried home beaten to a mummy, and unable to leave his bed for many days. As soon as this revenge had been taken, Rushbrook, who had long made up his mind so to do, packed up and quitted the village, no one knowing whither he and Jane went; and Furness, who had lost all means of subsistence, did the same in a very few days afterwards, his place of retreat being equally unknown.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

IN WHICH WE AGAIN FOLLOW UP OUR HERO'S DESTINY.

After the resolution that Major McShane came to, it is not to be surprised that he made, during the journey home, every inquiry of Joey relative to his former life. To these Joey gave him a very honest reply in everything except that portion of his history in which his father was so seriously implicated; he had the feeling that he was bound in honour not to reveal the circumstances connected with the murder of the pedlar. McShane was satisfied, and they arrived in London without further adventure. As soon as McShane had been embraced by his wife, he gave a narrative of his adventures, and did not forget to praise little Joey as he deserved. Mrs McShane was all gratitude, and then it was that McShane expressed his intentions towards our hero, and, as he expected, he found his amiable wife wholly coincide with him in opinion. It was therefore decided that Joey should be put to a school, and be properly educated, as soon as an establishment that was eligible could be found.

Their full intentions towards him, however, were not communicated to our hero; he was told that he was to go to school, and he willingly submitted: it was not, however, for three months that McShane would part with him: a difficulty was raised against every establishment that was named. During this time little Joey was very idle, for there was nothing for him to do. Books there were none, for Mrs McShane had no time to read, and Major McShane no inclination. His only resort was to rummage over the newspapers which were taken in for the benefit of the customers, and this was his usual employment. One day, in turning over the file, he came to the account of the murder of the pedlar, with the report of the coroner's inquest. He read all the evidence, particularly that of Furness, the schoolmaster, and found that the verdict was wilful murder, with a reward of 200 pounds for his apprehension. The term, wilful murder, he did not exactly comprehend; so, after laying down the paper, with a beating heart he went to Mrs McShane, and asked her what was the meaning of it.

"Meaning, child?" replied Mrs McShane, who was then very busy in her occupation, "it means, child, that a person is believed to be guilty of murder, and, if taken up, he will be hanged by the neck till he is dead."

"But," replied Joey, "suppose he has not committed the murder?"

"Well then, child, he must prove that he has not."

"And suppose, although he has not committed it, he cannot prove it?"

"Mercy on me, what a number of supposes! why, then he will be hanged all the same, to be sure."

A fortnight after these queries, Joey was sent to school; the master was a very decent man, the mistress a very decent woman, the tuition was decent, the fare was decent, the scholars were children of decent families; altogether, it was a decent establishment, and in this establishment little Joey made very decent progress, going home every half year. How long Joey might have remained there it is impossible to say; but having been there for a year and a half, and arrived at the age of fourteen, he had just returned from the holidays with three guineas in his pocket, for McShane and his wife were very generous and very fond of their protege, when a circumstance occurred which again ruffled the smooth current of our hero's existence.

He was walking out as all boys do walk out in decent schools, that is, in a long line, two by two, as the animals entered Noah's Ark, when a sort of shabby-genteel man passed their files. He happened to cast his eyes upon Joey, and stopped. "Master Joseph Rushbrook, I am most happy to see you once more," said he extending his hand. Joey looked up into his face; there was no mistake; it was Furness, the schoolmaster. "Don't you recollect me, my dear boy? Don't you recollect him who taught the infant idea how to shoot? Don't you recollect your old preceptor?"

"Yes," replied Joey, colouring up, "I recollect you very well."

"I am delighted to see you; you know you were my fairest pupil, but we are all scattered now; your father and mother have gone no one knows where; you went away, and I also could no longer stay. What pleasure it is to meet you once more!"

Joey did not respond exactly to the pleasure. The stoppage of the line had caused some confusion, and the usher, who had followed it, now came up to ascertain the cause. "This is my old pupil, or rather I should say, my young pupil; but the best pupil I ever had. I am most delighted to see him, sir," said Furness, taking off his hat. "May I presume to ask who has the charge of this dear child at this present moment?"

The usher made no difficulty in stating the name and residence of the preceptor, and, having gained this information, Furness shook Joey by the hand, bade him farewell, and, wishing him every happiness, walked away.

Joey's mind was confused during the remainder of his walk, and it was not until their return home that he could reflect on what had passed. That Furness had given evidence upon the inquest he knew, and he had penetration, when he read it, to feel that there was no necessity for Furness having given such evidence. He also knew that there was a reward of two hundred pounds for his apprehension; and when he thought of Furness's apparent kindness, and his not reverting to a subject so important as wilful murder having been found against him, he made up his mind that Furness had behaved so with the purpose of lulling him into security, and that the next day he would certainly take him up, for the sake of the reward.

Now, although we have not stopped our narrative to introduce the subject, we must here observe that Joey's love for his parents, particularly his father, was unbounded; he longed to see them again; they were constantly in his thoughts, and yet he dared not mention them, in consequence of the mystery connected with his quitting his home. He fully perceived his danger: he would be apprehended, and being so, he must either sacrifice his father or himself. Having weighed all this in his mind, he then reflected upon what should be his course to steer. Should he go home to acquaint Major McShane? He felt that he could trust him, and would have done so, but he had no right to intrust any one with a secret which involved his father's life. No, that would not do; yet, to leave him and Mrs McShane after all their kindness, and without a word, this would be too ungrateful. After much cogitation, he resolved that he would run away, so that all clue to him should be lost; that he would write a letter for McShane, and leave it. He wrote as follows:—

"DEAR SIR,—Do not think me ungrateful, for I love you and Mrs McShane dearly, but I have been met by a person who knows me, and will certainly betray me. I left my father's home, not for poaching, but a murder that was committed; I was not guilty. This is the only secret I have held from you, and the secret is not MINE. I could not disprove it, and never will. I now leave because I have been discovered by a bad man, who will certainly take advantage of having fallen in with me. We may never meet again. I can say no more, except that I shall always pray for you and Mrs McShane, and remember your kindness with gratitude.

"Yours truly, JOEY MCSHANE."

Since his return from Saint Petersburg, Joey had always, by their request, called himself Joey McShane, and he was not sorry when they gave him the permission, although he did not comprehend the advantages which were to accrue from taking the name.

Joey, having finished his letter, sat down and cried bitterly—but in a school there is no retiring place for venting your feelings, and he was compelled to smother his tears. He performed his exercise, and repeated his lessons, as if nothing had happened and nothing was about to happen, for Joey was in essence a little stoic. At night he went to his room with the other boys; he could only obtain a small portion of his clothes, these he put up in a handkerchief, went softly downstairs about one o'clock in the morning, put his letter, addressed to McShane, on the hall-table, opened the back door, climbed over the play-ground wall, and was again on the road to seek his fortune.

But Joey was much improved during the two years since he had quitted his father's house. Before that, he was a reflective boy; now, he was more capable of action and decision. His ideas had been much expanded from the knowledge of the world gained during his entry, as it were, into life; he had talked much, seen much, listened much, and thought more; and naturally quiet in his manner, he was now a gentlemanlike boy. At the eating-house he had met with every variety of character; and as there were some who frequented the house daily, with those Joey had become on intimate terms. He was no longer a child, but a lad of undaunted courage and presence of mind; he had only one fear, which was that his father's crime should be discovered.

And now he was again adrift, with a small bundle, three guineas in his pocket, and the world before him. At first, he had but one idea—that of removing to a distance which should elude the vigilance of Furness, and he therefore walked on, and walked fast. Joey was capable of great fatigue; he had grown considerably, it is true, during the last two years; still he was small for his age; but every muscle in his body was a wire, and his strength, as had been proved by his school-mates, was proportionate. He was elastic as india-rubber, and bold and determined as one who had been all his life in danger.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

THE SCENE IS AGAIN SHIFTED, AND THE PLOT ADVANCES.

It will be necessary that for a short time we again follow up the fortunes of our hero's parents. When Rushbrook and Jane had quitted the village of Grassford, they had not come to any decision as to their future place of abode; all that Rushbrook felt was a desire to remove as far as possible from the spot where the crime had been committed. Such is the feeling that will ever possess the guilty, who, although they may increase their distance, attempt in vain to fly from their consciences, or that All-seeing Eye which follows them everywhere. Jane had a similar feeling, but it arose from her anxiety for her husband. They wandered away, for they had sold everything before their departure, until they found themselves in the West Riding of Yorkshire, and there they at length settled in a small village. Rushbrook easily obtained employment, for the population was scanty, and some months passed away without anything occurring of interest.

Rushbrook had never taken up his employment as a poacher since the night of the murder of the pedlar; he had abjured it from that hour. His knowledge of woodcraft was, however, discovered, and he was appointed first as under, and eventually as head keeper to a gentleman of landed property in the neighbourhood. In this situation they had remained about a year, Rushbrook giving full satisfaction to his employer, and comparatively contented (for no man could have such a crime upon his conscience, and not pass occasional hours of misery and remorse), and Jane was still mourning in secret for her only and darling child, when one day a paper was put into Rushbrook's hands by his master, desiring him to read an advertisement which it contained, and which was as follows:—"If Joseph Rushbrook, who formerly lived in the village of Grassford, in the county of Devon, should be still alive, and will make his residence known to Messrs. Pearce, James, and Simpson, of 14, Chancery-lane, he will hear of something greatly to his advantage. Should he be dead, and this advertisement meet the eye of his heirs, they are equally requested to make the communication to the above address."

"What does it mean, sir?" inquired Rushbrook.

"It means that, if you are that person, in all probability there is some legacy bequeathed to you by a relative," replied Mr S—-; "is it you?"

"Yes, sir," replied Rushbrook, changing colour; "I did once live at Grassford."

"Then you had better write to the parties and make yourself known. I will leave you the newspaper."

"What think you, Jane?" said Rushbrook, as soon as Mr —- had quitted.

"I think he is quite right," replied Jane.

"But, Jane, you forgot—this may be a trap; they may have discovered something about—you know what I mean."

"Yes, I do, and I wish we could forget it; but in this instance I do not think you have anything to fear. There is no reward offered for your apprehension, but for my poor boy's, who is now wandering over the wide world; and no one would go to the expense to apprehend you, if there was nothing to be gained by it."

"True," replied Rushbrook, after a minute's reflection; "but, alas! I am a coward now: I will write."

Rushbrook wrote accordingly, and, in reply, received a letter inclosing a bank-bill for 20 pounds, and requesting that he would come to town immediately. He did so, and found, to his astonishment, that he was the heir-at-law to a property of 7,000 pounds per annum—with the only contingency, that he was, as nearest of kin, to take the name of Austin. Having entered into all the arrangements required by the legal gentleman, he returned to Yorkshire, with 500 pounds in his pocket, to communicate the intelligence to his wife; and when he did so, and embraced her, she burst into tears.

"Rushbrook, do not think I mean to reproach you by these tears; but I cannot help thinking that you would have been happier had this never happened. Your life will be doubly sweet to you now, and Joey's absence will be a source of more vexation than ever. Do you think that you will be happier?"

"Jane, dearest! I have been thinking of it as well as you, and, on reflection, I think I shall be safer. Who would know the poacher Rushbrook in the gentleman of 7,000 pounds a year, of the name of Austin? Who would dare accuse him, even if there were suspicion? I feel that once in another county, under another name, and in another situation, I shall be safe."

"But our poor boy, should he ever come back—"

"Will also be forgotten. He will have grown up a man, and, having another name, will never be recognised: they will not even know what our former name was."

"I trust that it will be as you say. What do you now mean to do?"

"I shall say that I have a property of four or five hundred pounds left me, and that I intend to go up to London," replied Rushbrook.

"Yes, that will be wise; it will be an excuse for our leaving this place, and will be no clue to where we are going," replied Jane.

Rushbrook gave up his situation, sold his furniture, and quitted Yorkshire. In a few weeks afterwards he was installed into his new property, a splendid mansion, and situated in the west of Dorsetshire. Report had gone before them; some said that a common labourer had come into the property, others said it was a person in very moderate circumstances; as usual, both these reports were contradicted by a third, which represented him as a half-pay lieutenant in the army. Rushbrook had contrived to mystify even the solicitor as to his situation in life; he stated to him that he had retired from the army, and lived upon the government allowance; and it was in consequence of a reference to the solicitor, made by some of the best families in the neighbourhood, who wished to ascertain if the newcomers were people who could be visited, that this third report was spread, and universally believed. We have already observed that Rushbrook was a fine, tall man; and if there is any class of people who can be transplanted with success from low to high life, it will be those who have served in the army. The stoop is the evidence of a low-bred, vulgar man; the erect bearing equally so that of the gentleman. Now, the latter is gained in the army, by drilling and discipline, and being well-dressed will provide for all else that is required, as far as mere personal appearance is concerned. When, therefore, the neighbours called upon Mr and Mrs Austin they were not surprised to find an erect, military-looking man, but they were very much surprised to find him matched with such a fine, and even elegant-looking woman, as his wife. Timid at first, Jane had sufficient tact to watch others and copy; and before many months were passed in their new position, it would have been difficult to suppose that Mrs Austin had not been born in the sphere in which she then moved. Austin was brusque and abrupt in his manners as before; but still there was always a reserve about him, which he naturally felt, and which assisted to remove the impression of vulgarity. People who are distant are seldom considered ungentlemanlike, although they may be considered unpleasant in their manners. It is those who are too familiar who obtain the character of vulgarity.

Austin, therefore, was respected, but not liked; Jane, on the contrary, whose beauty had now all the assistance of dress, and whose continued inward mourning for her lost son had improved that beauty by the pensive air which she wore, was a deserved and universal favourite. People of course said that Austin was a harsh husband, and pitied poor Mrs Austin; but that people always do say if a woman is not inclined to mirth.

Austin found ample amusement in sporting over his extensive manor, and looking after his game. In one point the neighbouring gentlemen were surprised, that, although so keen a sportsman himself, he never could be prevailed upon to convict a poacher. He was appointed a magistrate, and being most liberal in all his subscriptions, was soon considered as a great acquisition to the county. His wife was much sought after, but it was invariably observed that, when children were mentioned, the tears stood in her eyes. Before they had been a year in their new position, they had acquired all the knowledge and tact necessary; their establishment was on a handsome scale; they were visited and paid visits to all the aristocracy and gentry, and were as popular as they could have desired to be. But were they happy? Alas! no. Little did those who envied Austin his property and establishment imagine what a load was on his mind—what a corroding care was wearing out his existence. Little did they imagine that he would gladly have resigned all, and been once more the poacher in the village of Grassford, to have removed from his conscience the deed of darkness which he had committed, and once more have his son by his side. And poor Jane, her thoughts were day and night upon one object—where was her child? It deprived her of rest at night; she remained meditating on her fate for hours during the day; it would rush into her mind in the gayest scenes and the happiest moments; it was one incessant incubus—one continual source of misery. Of her husband she thought less; for she knew how sincerely contrite he was for the deed he had done—how bitterly he had repented it ever since, and how it would, as long as he lived, be a source of misery—a worm that would never die, but gnaw till the last hour of his existence. But her boy—her noble, self-sacrificed little Joey!—he and his destiny were ever in her thoughts; and gladly would she have been a pauper applying for relief, if she had but that child to have led up in her hand. And yet all the county thought how happy and contented the Austins ought to be, to have suddenly come into possession of so much wealth. 'Tis God alone that knows the secrets of the heart of man.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

A VERY LONG CHAPTER, BUT IN WHICH OUR HERO OBTAINS EMPLOYMENT IN A VERY SHORT TIME.

The preparatory establishment for young gentlemen to which our hero had been sent, was situated on Clapham-rise. Joey did not think it prudent to walk in the direction of London; he therefore made a cut across the country, so as to bring him, before seven o'clock in the morning, not very far from Gravesend. The night had been calm and beautiful, for it was in the month of August; and it had for some time been broad daylight when our hero, who had walked fifteen or sixteen miles, sat down to repose himself; and, as he remained quietly seated on the green turf on the way side, he thought of his father and mother, of the kindness of the McShanes, and his own hard fate, until he became melancholy and wept; and, as the tears were rolling down his cheeks, a little girl, of about ten years old, very neatly dressed, and evidently above the lower rank of life, came along the road, her footsteps so light as not to be perceived by Joey; she looked at him as she passed, and perceived that he was in tears, and her own bright, pretty face became clouded in a moment. Joey did not look up, and after hesitating awhile, she passed on a few steps, and then she looked round, and observing that he was still weeping, she paused, turned round, and came back to him; for a minute or two she stood before him, but Joey was unconscious of her presence, for he was now in the full tide of his grief, and, not having forgotten the precepts which had been carefully instilled into him, he thought of the God of Refuge, and he arose, fell on his knees, and prayed. The little girl, whose tears had already been summoned by pity and sympathy, dropped her basket, and knelt by his side—not that she prayed, for she knew not what the prayer was for, but from an instinctive feeling of respect towards the Deity which her new companion was addressing, and a feeling of kindness towards one who was evidently suffering. Joey lifted up his eyes, and beheld the child on her knees, the tears rolling down her cheeks; he hastily wiped his eyes, for until that moment, he imagined that he had been alone; he had been praying on account of his loneliness—he looked up, and he was not alone, but there was one by his side who pitied him, without knowing wherefore; he felt relieved by the sight. They both regained their feet at the same time, and Joe went up to the little girl, and, taking her by the hand, said, "Thank you."

"Why do you cry?" said the little girl.

"Because I am unhappy; I have no home," replied Joey.

"No home!" said the little girl; "it is boys who are in rags and starving, who have no home, not young gentlemen dressed as you are."

"But I have left my home," replied Joey.

"Then go back again—how glad they will be to see you!"

"Yes, indeed they would," replied Joey, "but I must not."

"You have not done anything wrong, have you? No, I'm sure you have not—you must have been [be] a good boy, or you would not have prayed."

"No, I have done nothing wrong, but I must not tell you any more."

Indeed, Joey was much more communicative with the little girl than he would have been with anybody else; but he had been surprised into it, and, moreover, he had no fear of being betrayed by such innocence. He now recollected himself, and changed the conversation.

"And where are you going to?" inquired he.

"I am going to school at Gravesend. I go there every morning, and stay till the evening. This is my dinner in my basket. Are you hungry?"

"No, not particularly."

"Are you going to Gravesend?"

"Yes," replied Joey. "What is your name?"

"Emma Phillips."

"Have you a father and mother?"

"I have no father; he was killed fighting, a little while after I was born."

"And your mother—"

"Lives with grandmother, at that house you see there through the large trees. And what are you going to do with yourself? Will you come home with me? and I'll tell my mother all you have told me, and she is very kind, and will write to your friends."

"No, no; you must not do that; I am going to seek for employment."

"Why, what can you do?"

"I hardly know," replied Joey; "but I can work, and am willing to work, so I hope I shall not starve."

With such conversation they continued their way, until the little girl said, "There is my school, so now I must wish you good-bye."

"Good-bye; I shall not forget you," replied Joey, "although we may never meet again." Tears stood in the eyes of our hero, as they reluctantly unclasped their hands and parted.

Joey, once more left alone, now meditated what was the best course for him to pursue. The little Emma's words, "Not young gentlemen dressed as you are," reminded him of the remarks and suspicions which must ensue if he did not alter his attire. This he resolved to do immediately; the only idea which had presented itself to his mind was, if possible, to find some means of getting back to Captain O'Donahue, who, he was sure, would receive him, if he satisfied him that it was not safe for him to remain in England; but, then, must he confess to him the truth or not? On this point our hero was not decided, so he put off the solution of it till another opportunity. A slop warehouse now attracted his attention; he looked into the door after having examined the articles outside, and seeing that a sailor-boy was bargaining for some clothes, he went in as if waiting to be served, but in fact, more to ascertain the value of the articles which he wished to purchase. The sailor had cheapened a red frock and pair of blue trousers, and at last obtained them from the Jew for 14 shillings. Joey argued that, as he was much smaller than the lad, he ought to pay less; he asked for the same articles, but the Jew, who had scanned in his own mind the suit of clothes which Joey had on, argued that he ought to pay more. Joey was, however, firm, and about to leave the shop, when the Jew called him back, and after much haggling, Joey obtained the dress for 12 shillings. Having paid for the clothes, Joey begged permission to be permitted to retire to the back shop and put them on, to ascertain if they fitted him, to which the Jew consented. A Jew asks no questions when a penny is to be turned; who Joey was, he cared little; his first object was to sell him the clothes, and having so done he hoped to make another penny by obtaining those of Joey at a moderate price. Perceiving that our hero was putting his own clothes, which he had taken off; into a bundle, the Jew asked him whether he would sell them, and Joey immediately agreed; but the price offered by the Jew was so small, that they were returned to the bundle, and once more was Joey leaving the shop, when the Jew at last offered to return to him the money he had paid for the sailor's dress, and take his own clothes in exchange, provided that Joey would also exchange his hat for one of tarpaulin, which would be more fitting to his present costume. To this our hero consented, and thus was the bargain concluded without Joey having parted with any of his small stock of ready money. No one who had only seen him dressed as when he quitted the school, would have easily recognised Joey in his new attire. Joey sallied forth from the shop with his bundle under his arm, intending to look out for a breakfast, for he was very hungry. Turning his head right and left to discover some notice of where provender might be obtained, he observed the sailor lad, who had been in the shop when he went in, with his new purchase under his arm, looking very earnestly at some prints in a shop window. Joey ranged up alongside of him, and inquired of him where he could get something to eat; the lad turned round, stared, and, after a little while, cried, "Well, now, you're the young gentleman chap that came into the shop; I say aren't you after a rig, eh? Given them leg bail, I'll swear. No consarn of mine, old fellow. Come along, I'll show you."

Joey walked by his new acquaintance a few yards, when the lad turned to him, "I say, did your master whop you much?"

"No," replied Joey.

"Well, then, that's more than I can say of mine, for he was at it all day. Hold out your right hand, now your left," continued he, mimicking; "my eyes! how it used to sting. I don't think I should mind it much now, continued the lad, turning up his hand; it's a little harder than it was then. Here's the shop, come in; if you haven't no money I'll give you a breakfast."

The lad took his seat on one side of a narrow table, Joey on the other, and his new acquaintance called for two pints of tea, a twopenny loaf, and two penny bits of cheese. The loaf was divided between them, and with their portion of cheese and pint of tea each they made a good breakfast. As soon as it was over, the young sailor said to Joey, "Now, what are you going arter; do you mean to ship?"

"I want employment," replied Joey; "and I don't much care what it is."

"Well, then, look you; I ran away from my friends and went to sea, and do you know I've only repented of it once, and that's ever since. Better do anything than go to sea—winter coming on and all; besides, you don't look strong enough; you don't know what it is to be coasting in winter time; thrashed up to furl the top-gallant sail when it is so dark you can't see your way, and so cold that you can't feel your fingers, holding on for your life, and feeling as if life, after all, was not worth caring for; cold and misery aloft, kicks and thumps below. Don't you go to sea; if you do, after what I've told you, why then you're a greater fool than you look to be."

"I don't want to be a sailor," replied Joey, "but I must do something to get my living. You are very kind: will you tell me what to do?"

"Why, do you know, when I saw you come up to me, when I was looking at the pictures, in your frock and trousers, you put me in mind, because you are so much like him, of a poor little boy who was drowned the other day alongside of an India ship; that's why I stared, for I thought you were he, at first."

"How was he drowned, poor fellow?" responded Joey.

"Why, you see, his aunt is a good old soul, who keeps a bumboat, and goes off to the shipping."

"What's a bumboat?"

"A boat full of soft tommy, soldiers, pipes, and backey, rotten apples, stale pies, needles and threads, and a hundred other things; besides a fat old woman sitting in the stern sheets."

Joey stared; he did not know that "soft tommy" meant loaves of bread, or that "soldiers" was the term for red-herrings. He only thought that the boat must be very full.

"Now, you see that little Peter was her right-hand man, for she can't read and write. Can you? but of course you can."

"Yes, I can," replied Joey.

"Well, little Peter was holding on by the painter against a hard sea, but his strength was not equal to it, and so when a swell took the boat he was pulled right overboard, and he was drowned."

"Was the painter drowned too?" inquired Joey.

"Ha! ha! that's capital; why, the painter is a rope. Now, the old woman has been dreadfully put out, and does nothing but cry about little Peter, and not being able to keep her accounts. Now, you look very like him, and I think it very likely the old woman would take you in his place, if I went and talked her over; that's better than going to sea, for at all events you sleep dry and sound on shore every night, even if you do have a wet jacket sometimes. What d'ye think?"

"I think you are very kind; and I should be glad to take the place."

"Well, she's a good old soul, and has a warm heart, and trusts them who have no money; too much, I'm afraid, for she loses a great deal. So now I'll go and speak to her, for she'll be alongside of us when I go on board; and where shall I find you when I come on shore in the evening?"

"Wherever you say, I will be."

"Well, then, meet me here at nine o'clock; that will make all certain. Come, I must be off now. I'll pay for the breakfast."

"I have money, I thank you," replied Joey.

"Then keep it, for it's more than I can do; and what's your name?"

"Joey."

"Well then, Joey, my hearty, if I get you this berth, when we come in, and I am short, you must let me go on tick till I can pay."

"What's tick?"

"You'll soon find out what tick is, after you have been a week in the bumboat," replied the lad, laughing. "Nine o'clock, my hearty; good-bye."

So saying, the young sailor caught up his new clothes, and hastened down to the beach.

The room was crowded with seamen and women, but they were too busy talking and laughing to pay any attention to Joey and his comrade. Our little hero sat some little time at the table after his new acquaintance had left, and then walked out into the streets, telling the people of the house that he was coming back again, and requesting them to take care of his bundle.

"You'll find it here, my little fellow, all right when you ask for it," said the woman at the bar, who took it inside and put it away under the counter.

Joey went out with his mind more at ease. The nature of his new employment, should he succeed in obtaining it, he could scarcely comprehend, but still it appeared to him one that he could accomplish. He amused himself walking down the streets, watching the movements of the passers-by, the watermen in their wherries, and the people on board of the vessels which were lying off in the stream. It was a busy and animating sight. As he was lolling at the landing-place, a boat came on shore, which, from the description given by his young sailor friend, he was convinced was a bumboat; it had all the articles described by him, as well as many others, such as porter in bottles, a cask probably containing beer; leeks, onions, and many other heterogeneous matters, and, moreover, there was a fat woman seated in the stern.

The waterman shoved in with his boat-hook, and the wherry grounded. The fat personage got out, and the waterman handed to her a basket, a long book, and several other articles, which she appeared to consider indispensable; among others, a bundle which looked like dirty linen for the wash.

"Dear me! how shall I get up all these things?" exclaimed the woman; "and, William, you can't leave the boat, and there's nobody here to help me."

"I'll help you," said Joey, coming down the steps: "what shall I carry for you?"

"Well, you are a good kind boy," replied she; "can you carry that bundle? I'll manage all the rest."

Joey tossed the bundle on his shoulder in a moment.

"Well, you are a strong little chap," said the waterman.

"He is a very nice little fellow, and a kind one. Now, come along, and I'll not forget you."

Joey followed with the bundle, until they arrived at a narrow door, not eighty yards from the landing-place, and the woman asked him if he would carry it upstairs to the first floor, which he did.

"Do you want me any more?" said Joey, setting down the bundle.

"No, dear, no; but I must give you something for your trouble. What do you expect?"

"Nothing at all," replied Joey; "and I shall not take anything; you're very welcome; good-bye;" and so saying, Joey walked downstairs, although the woman halloed after him, and recommenced his peregrination in the streets of Gravesend; but he was soon tired of walking on the pavement, which was none of the best, and he then thought that he would go out into the country, and enjoy the green fields; so off he set, the same way that he came into the town, passed by the school of little Emma, and trudged away on the road, stopping every now and then to examine what attracted his notice; watching a bird if it sang on the branch of a tree, and not moving lest he should frighten it away; at times sitting down by the road-side, and meditating or the past and the future. The day was closing in, and Joey was still amusing himself as every boy who has been confined to a schoolroom would do; he sauntered on until he came to the very spot where he had been crying, and had met with little Emma Phillips; and as he sat down again, he thought of her sweet little face, and her kindness towards him—and there he remained some time till he was roused by some one singing as they went along the road. He looked up, and perceived it was the little girl, who was returning from school. Joey rose immediately, and walked towards her to meet her, but she did not appear to recognise him, and would have passed him if he had not said, "Don't you know me?"

"Yes, I do now," replied she, smiling, "but I did not at first—you have put on another dress; I have been thinking of you all day—and, do you know, I've got a black mark for not saying my lesson," added the little girl, with a sigh.

"And, then, it is my fault," replied Joey; "I'm very sorry."

"Oh, never mind; it is the first that I have had for a long while, and I shall tell mamma why. But you are dressed as a sailor-boy—are you going to sea?"

"No, I believe not—I hope to have employment in the town here, and then I shall be able to see you sometimes, when you come from school. May I walk with you as far as your own house?"

"Yes, I suppose so, if you like it."

Joey walked with her until they came to the house, which was about two hundred yards farther.

"But," said Joey, hesitating, "you must make me a promise."

"What is that?"

"You must keep my secret. You must not tell your mother that you saw me first in what you call gentleman's clothes—it might do me harm—and indeed it's not for my own sake I ask it. Don't say a word about my other clothes, or they may ask me questions which I must not answer, for it's not my secret. I told you more this morning than I would have told any one else—I did, indeed."

"Well," replied the little girl, after thinking a little, "I suppose I have no right to tell a secret, if I am begged not to do it, so I will say nothing, about your clothes. But I must tell mother that I met you."

"Oh, yes; tell her you met me, and that I was looking for some work, and all that, and to-morrow or next day I will let you know if I get any."

"Will you come in now?" said Emma.

"No, not now; I must see if I can get this employment promised for me, and then I shall see you again; if I should not see you again, I shall not forget you, indeed I won't—Good-bye."

Emma bade him adieu, and they separated, and Joey remained and watched her till she disappeared under the porch of the entrance.

Our hero returned towards Gravesend in rather a melancholy mood; there was something so unusual in his meeting with the little girl—something so uncommon in the sympathy expressed by her—that he felt pain at parting. But it was getting late, and it was time that he kept his appointment with his friend, the sailor boy.

Joey remained at the door of the eating-house for about a quarter of an hour, when he perceived the sailor lad coming up the street. He went forward to meet him.

"Oh, here we are. Well, young fellow, I've seen the old woman, and had a long talk with her, and she won't believe there can be another in the world like her Peter, but I persuaded her to have a look at you, and she has consented; so come along, for I must be on board again in half an hour."

Joey followed his new friend down the street, until they came to the very door to which he had carried the bundle. The sailor boy mounted the stairs, and turning into the room at the first landing, Joey beheld the woman whom he had assisted in the morning.

"Here he is, Mrs Chopper, and if he won't suit you, I don't know who will," said the boy. "He's a regular scholar, and can sum up like winkin'."

This character, given so gratuitously by his new acquaintance, made Joey stare, and the woman looked hard into Joey's face.

"Well, now," said she, "where have I seen you before? Dear me! and he is like poor Peter, as you said, Jim; I vow he is."

"I saw you before to-day," replied Joey, "for I carried a bundle up for you."

"And so you did, and would have no money for your trouble. Well, Jim, he is like poor Peter."

"I told you so, old lady; ay, and he'll just do for you as well as Peter did; but I'll leave you to settle matters, for I must be a-board."

So saying, the lad tipped a wink to Joey, the meaning of which our hero did not understand, and went downstairs.

"Well, now, it's very odd; but do you know you are like poor Peter, and the more I look at you the more you are like him: poor Peter! did you hear how I lost him?"

"Yes, the sailor lad told me this morning."

"Poor fellow! he held on too fast; most people drown by not holding on fast enough: he was a good boy, and very smart indeed; and so it was you who helped me this morning when I missed poor Peter so much? Well, it showed you had a good heart, and I love that; and where did you meet with Jim Paterson?"

"I met him first in a slop-shop, as he calls it, when I was buying my clothes."

"Well, Jim's a wild one, but he has a good heart, and pays when he can. I've been told by those who know his parents, that he will have property by-and-bye. Well, and what can you do? I am afraid you can't do all Peter did."

"I can keep your accounts, and I can be honest and true to you."

"Well, Peter could not do more: are you sure you can keep accounts, and sum up totals?"

"Yes, to be sure I can; try me."

"Well, then, I will: here is pen, ink, and paper. Well, you are the very image of Peter, and that's a fact. Now write down beer, 8 pence; tobacco, 4 pence; is that down?"

"Yes."

"Let me see: duck for trousers, 3 shillings, 6 pence; beer again, 4 pence; tobacco, 4 pence; is that down? Well, then, say beer again, 8 pence. Now sum that all up."

Joey was perfect master of the task, and, as he handed over the paper, announced the whole sum to amount to 5 shillings, 10 pence.

"Well," says Mrs Chopper, "it looks all right; but just stay here a minute while I go and speak to somebody." Mrs Chopper left the room, went downstairs, and took it to the bar-girl at the next public-house to ascertain if it was all correct.

"Yes, quite correct, Mrs Chopper," replied the lass.

"And is it as good as Peter's was, poor fellow?"

"Much better," replied the girl.

"Dear me! Who would have thought it? and so like Peter too!"

Mrs Chopper came upstairs again, and took her seat—"Well," said she, "and now what is your name?"

"Joey."

"Joey what?"

"Joey—O'Donahue," replied our hero, for he was fearful of giving the name of McShane.

"And who are your parents?"

"They are poor people," replied Joey, "and live a long way off."

"And why did you leave them?"

Joey had already made up his mind to tell his former story; "I left there because I was accused of poaching, and they wished me to go away."

"Poaching; yes, I understand that—killing hares and birds. Well, but why did you poach?"

"Because father did."

"Oh, well, I see; then, if you only did what your father did we must not blame his child; and so you come down here to go to sea?"

"If I could not do better."

"But you shall do better, my good boy. I will try you instead of poor Peter, and if you are an honest and good, careful boy, it will be much better than going to sea. Dear me! how like he is,—but now I must call you Peter; it will make me think I have him with me, poor fellow!"

"If you please," said Joey, who was not sorry to exchange his name.

"Well, then, where do you sleep to-night?"

"I did intend to ask for a bed at the house where I left my bundle."

"Then, don't do so; go for your bundle, and you shall sleep in Peter's bed (poor fellow, his last was a watery bed, as the papers say), and then to-morrow morning you can go off with me."

Joey accepted the offer, went back for his bundle, and returned to Mrs Chopper in a quarter of an hour; she was then preparing her supper, which Joey was not sorry to partake of; after which she led him into a small room, in which was a small bed without curtains; the room itself was hung round with strings of onions, papers of sweet herbs, and flitches of bacon; the floor was strewed with empty ginger-beer bottles, oakum in bags, and many other articles. Altogether, the smell was anything but agreeable.

"Here is poor Peter's bed," said Mrs Chopper; "I changed his sheets the night before he was drowned, poor fellow! Can I trust you to put the candle out?"

"Oh, yes; I'll be very careful."

"Then, good night, boy. Do you ever say your prayers? poor Peter always did."

"Yes, I do," replied Joey; "good night."

Mrs Chopper left the room. Joey threw open the window—for he was almost suffocated—undressed himself, put out the light, and, when he had said his prayers, his thoughts naturally reverted to the little Emma who had knelt with him on the road-side.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

IN WHICH OUR HERO GOES ON DUTY.

At five o'clock the next morning Joey was called up by Mrs Chopper; the waterman was in attendance, and, with the aid of Joey, carried down the various articles into the boat. When all was ready, Mrs Chopper and Joey sat down to their breakfast, which consisted of tea, bread and butter, and red herrings; and, as soon as it was finished, they embarked, and the boat shoved off.

"Well, Mrs Chopper," said the waterman, "so I perceive you've got a new hand."

"Yes," replied Mrs Chopper; "don't you think he's the moral of poor Peter?"

"Well, I don't know; but there is a something about the cut of his jib which reminds me of him, now you mention it. Peter was a good boy."

"Aye, that he was, and as sharp as a needle. You see," said Mrs Chopper, turning to Joey, "sharp's the word in a bumboat. There's many who pay, and many who don't; some I trust, and some I don't—that is, those who won't pay me old debts. We lose a bit of money at times, but it all comes round in the end; but I lose more by not booking the things taken than in any other way, for sailors do pay when they have the money—that is, if ever they come back again, poor fellows. Now, Peter."

"What! is his name Peter, too?"

"Yes, I must call him Peter, William; he is so like poor Peter."

"Well, that will suit me; I hate learning new names."

"Well, but, Peter," continued Mrs Chopper, "you must be very careful; for, you see, I'm often called away here and there after wash clothes and such things; and then you must look out, and if they do take up anything, why, you must book it, at all events. You'll learn by-and-bye who to trust, and who not to trust; for I know the most of my customers. You must not trust a woman—I mean any of the sailors' wives—unless I tell you; and you must be very sharp with them, for they play all manner of tricks; you must look two ways at once. Now, there's a girl on board the brig we are pulling to, called Nancy; why, she used to weather poor Peter, sharp as he was. She used to pretend to be very fond of him, and hug him close to her with one arm, so as to blind him, while she stole the tarts with the other; so, don't admit her familiarities; if you do, I shall pay for them."

"Then, who am I to trust?"

"Bless the child! you'll soon find out that; but mind one thing; never trust a tall, lanky seaman without his name's on the books; those chaps never pay. There's the book kept by poor Peter; and you see names upon the top of each score—at least, I believe so; I have no learning myself, but I've a good memory; I can't read nor write, and that's why Peter was so useful."

That Peter could read his own writing it is to be presumed; but certain it was that Joey could not make it out until after many days examination, when he discovered that certain hieroglyphics were meant to represent certain articles; after which it became more easy.

They had now reached the side of the vessel, and the sailors came down into the boat, and took up several articles upon credit; Joey booked them very regularly.

"Has Bill been down yet?" said a soft voice from the gangway.

"No, Nancy, he has not."

"Then he wants two red herrings, a sixpenny loaf, and some 'baccy."

Joey looked up, and beheld a very handsome, fair, blue-eyed girl with a most roguish look, who was hanging over the side.

"Then he must come himself, Nancy," replied Mrs Chopper, "for, you know, the last time you took up the things he said that you were never told to do so, and he would not pay for them."

"That's because the fool was jealous; I lost the tobacco, Mrs Chopper, and he said I had given it to Dick Snapper."

"I can't help that; he must come himself."

"But he's away in the boat, and he told me to get the things for him. Who have you there? Not Peter; no, it's not Peter; but, what a dear little boy."

"I told you so," said Mrs Chopper to our hero; "now, if I wasn't in the boat, she would be down in it in a minute, and persuade you to let her have the things—and she never pays."

Joey looked up again, and, as he looked at Nancy, felt that it would be very unkind to refuse her.

"Now, what a hard-hearted old woman you are, Mrs Chopper. Bill will come on board; and, as sure as I stand here, he'll whack me. He will pay you, you may take my word for it."

"Your word, Nancy!" replied Mrs Chopper, shaking her head.

"Stop a moment," said Nancy, coming down the side with very little regard as to showing her well-formed legs; "stop, Mrs Chopper, and I'll explain to you."

"It's no use coming down, Nancy, I tell you," replied Mrs Chopper.

"Well, we shall see," replied Nancy, taking her seat in the boat, and looking archly in Mrs Chopper's face; "the fact is Mrs Chopper, you don't know what a good-tempered woman you are."

"I know, Nancy, what you are," replied Mrs Chopper.

"Oh, so does everybody: I'm nobody's enemy but my own, they say."

"Ah! that's very true, child; more's the pity."

"Now, I didn't come down to wheedle you out of anything, Mrs Chopper, but merely to talk to you, and look at this pretty boy."

"There you go, Nancy; but ain't he like Peter?"

"Well, and so he is! very like Peter; he has Peter's eyes and his nose, and his mouth is exactly Peter's—how very strange!"

"I never see'd such a likeness!" exclaimed Mrs Chopper.

"No, indeed," replied Nancy, who, by agreeing with Mrs Chopper in all she said, and praising Joey, and his likeness to Peter, at last quite came over the old bumboat-woman; and Nancy quitted her boat with the two herrings, the loaf; and the paper of tobacco.

"Shall I put them down, Mrs Chopper?" said Joey.

"Oh, dear," replied Mrs Chopper, coming to her recollection, "I'm afraid that it's no use; but put them down, anyhow; they will do for bad debts. Shove off, William, we must go to the large ship now."

"I do wish that that Nancy was at any other port," exclaimed Mrs Chopper, as they quitted the vessel's side; "I do lose so much money by her."

"Well," said the waterman, laughing, "you're not the only one; she can wheedle man or woman, or, as they say, the devil to boot, if she would try."

During the whole of the day the wherry proceeded from ship to ship, supplying necessaries; in many instances they were paid for in ready money, in others Joey's capabilities were required, and they were booked down against the customers. At last, about five o'clock in the evening, the beer-barrel being empty, most of the contents of the baskets nearly exhausted, and the wherry loaded with the linen for the wash, biscuits, empty bottles, and various other articles of traffic or exchange, Mrs Chopper ordered William, the waterman, to pull on shore to the landing-place.

As soon as the baskets and other articles had been carried up to the house, Mrs Chopper sent out for the dinner, which was regularly obtained from a cook's-shop. Joey sat down with her, and when his meal was finished, Mrs Chopper told him he might take a run and stretch his legs a little if he pleased, while she tended to the linen which was to go to the wash. Joey was not sorry to take advantage of this considerate permission, for his legs were quite cramped from sitting so long jammed up between baskets of eggs, red herrings, and the other commodities which had encompassed him.

We must now introduce Mrs Chopper to the reader a little more ceremoniously. She was the widow of a boatswain, who had set her up in the bumboat business with some money he had acquired a short time before his death, and she had continued it ever since on her own account. People said that she was rich, but riches are comparative, and if a person in a seaport town, and in her situation, could show 200 or 300 pounds at her bankers, she was considered rich. If she was rich in nothing else, she certainly was in bad and doubtful debts, having seven or eight books like that which Joey was filling up for her during the whole day, all containing accounts of long standing, and most of which probably would stand for ever; but if the bad debts were many, the profits were in proportion; and what with the long standing debts being occasionally paid, the ready-money she continually received, and the profitable traffic which she made in the way of exchange, etcetera, she appeared to do a thriving business, although it is certain the one-half of her goods were as much given away as were the articles obtained from her in the morning by Nancy.

It is a question whether these books of bad debts were not a source of enjoyment to her, for every night she would take one of the books down, and although she could not read, yet, by having them continually read to her, and knowing the pages so exactly, she could almost repeat every line by heart which the various bills contained; and then there was always a story which she had to tell about each—something relative to the party of whom the transaction reminded her; and subsequently, when Joey was fairly domiciled with her, she would make him hand down one of the books, and talk away from it for hours; they were the ledgers of her reminiscences; the events of a considerable portion of her life were all entered down along with the 'baccy, porter, pipes, and red herrings; a bill for these articles was to her time, place and circumstance; and what with a good memory, and bad debts to assist it, many were the hours which were passed away (and pleasantly enough, too, for one liked to talk, and the other to listen) between Mrs Chopper and our little hero. But we must not anticipate.

The permission given to Joey to stretch his legs induced him to set off as fast as he could to gain the high road before his little friend, Emma Phillips, had left her school. He sat down in the same place, waiting for her coming. The spot had become hallowed to the poor fellow, for he had there met with a friend—with one who sympathised with him when he most required consolation. He now felt happy, for he was no longer in doubt about obtaining his livelihood, and his first wish was to impart the pleasing intelligence to his little friend. She was not long before she made her appearance in her little straw bonnet with blue ribbons. Joey started up, and informed her that he had got a very nice place, explained to her what it was, and how he had been employed during the day.

"And I can very often come out about this time, I think," added Joey, "and then I can walk home with you, and see that you come to no harm."

"But," replied the little girl, "my mother says that she would like to see you, as she will not allow me to make acquaintance with people I meet by accident. Don't you think that mother is right?"

"Yes, I do; she's very right," replied Joey; "I didn't think of that."

"Will you come and see her, then?"

"Not now, because I am not very clean. I'll come on Sunday, if I can get leave."

They separated, and Joey returned back to the town. As he walked on, he thought he would spend the money he had got in a suit of Sunday clothes, of a better quality than those he had on, the materials of which were very coarse. On second thoughts, he resolved to apply to Mrs Chopper, as he did not exactly know where to go for them, and was afraid that he would be imposed upon.

"Well, Peter," said his new mistress, "do you feel better for your walk?"

"Yes, thank you, ma'am."

"Peter," continued Mrs Chopper, "you appear to be a very handy, good boy, and I hope we shall live together a long while. How long have you been at sea?"

"I was going to sea; I have never been to sea yet, and I don't want to go; I would rather stay with you."

"And so you shall, that's a settled thing. What clothes have you got, Peter?"

"I have none but what I stand in, and a few shirts in a bundle, and they are Sunday ones; but when I left home I had some money given me, and I wish to buy a suit of clothes for Sunday, to go to church in."

"That's a good boy, and so you shall; but how much money have you got?"

"Quite enough to buy a suit of clothes," replied Joey, handing out two sovereigns, and seventeen shillings in silver.

"Oh, I suppose they gave you all that to fit you out with when you left home; poor people, I dare say they worked hard for it. Well, I don't think the money will be of any use to you; so you had better buy a Sunday suit, and I will take care you want for nothing afterwards. Don't you think I'm right?"

"Yes, I wish to do so. To-day is Tuesday; I may have them made by next Sunday?"

"So you can; and as soon as William comes in, which he will soon, from the washerwoman's, we will go out and order them. Here he comes up the stairs—no, that foot's too light for his. Well, it's Nancy, I declare! Why, Nancy, now," continued Mrs Chopper, in a deprecating tone, "what do you want here?"

"Well, I leave you to guess," replied Nancy, looking very demurely, and taking a seat upon a hamper.

"Guess, I fear there's no guess in it, Nancy; but I will not—now it's no use—I will not trust another shilling."

"But I know you will, Mrs Chopper. Lord love you, you're such a good-natured creature, you can't refuse any one, and certainly not me. Why don't you take me in your boat with you as your assistant? then there would be something in it worth looking at. I should bring you plenty of custom."

"You're too wild, Nancy; too wild, girl. But, now, what do you want? recollect you've already had some things to-day."

"I know I have, and you are a good-natured old trump, that you are. Now I'll tell you—gold must pass between us this time."

"Mercy on me, Nancy, why you're mad. I've no gold—nothing but bad debts."

"Look you, Mrs Chopper, look at this shabby old bonnet of mine. Don't I want a new one?"

"Then you must get somebody else to give you money, Nancy," replied Mrs Chopper, coolly and decidedly.

"Don't talk so fast, Mrs Chopper: now, I'll let you know how it is. When Bill came on board he asked the captain for an advance; the captain refused him before, but this time he was in a good humour, and he consented. So then I coaxed Bill out of a sovereign to buy a new bonnet, and he gave it me; and then I thought what a kind soul you were, and I resolved that I would bring you the sovereign, and go without the new bonnet; so here it is, take it quick, or I shall repent."

"Well, Nancy," said Mrs Chopper, "you said right; gold has passed between us, and I am surprised. Now I shall trust you again."

"And so you ought; it's not every pretty girl, like me, who will give up a new bonnet. Only look what a rubbishy affair this is," continued Nancy, giving her own a kick up in the air.

"I wish I had a sovereign to give away," said Joey to Mrs Chopper; "I wish I had not said a word about the clothes."

"Do as you like with your own money, my dear," said the bumboat-woman.

"Then, Nancy, I'll give you a sovereign to buy yourself a new bonnet with," said Joey, taking one out of his pocket and putting into her hand.

Nancy looked at the sovereign, and then at Joey. "Bless the boy!" said she, at last, kissing him on the forehead; "he has a kind heart; may the world use him better than it has me! Here, take your sovereign, child; any bonnet's good enough for one like me." So saying, Nancy turned hastily away, and ran downstairs.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

IN WHICH MRS. CHOPPER READS HER LEDGER.

"Ah, poor girl," said Mrs Chopper, with a sigh, as Nancy disappeared. "You are a good boy, Peter; I like to see boys not too fond of money, and if she had taken it (and I wish she had, poor thing) I would have made it up to you."

"Is the man she calls Bill her husband?" inquired Joey.

"Oh, I know nothing about other people's husbands," replied Mrs Chopper, hastily. "Now then, let us go and order the clothes, and then you'll be able to go to church on Sunday; I will do without you."

"What, won't you go to church?"

"Bless you, child! who is to give the poor men their breakfast and their beer? A bumboat-woman can't go to church any more than a baker's man, for people must eat on a Sunday. Church, like everything else in this world, appears to me only to be made for the rich; I always take my Bible in the boat with me on Sunday, but then I can't read it, so it's of no great use. No, dear, I can't go to church, but I can contrive, if it don't rain in the evening, to go to meeting and hear a little of the Word; but you can go to church, dear."

A suit of blue cloth, made in sailor's fashion, having been ordered by Mrs Chopper, she and Joey returned home; and, after their tea, Mrs Chopper desired Joey to hand her one of the account-books, which she put upon her knees and opened.

"There," said she, looking at the page, "I know that account well; it was Tom Alsop's—a fine fellow he was, only he made such a bad marriage: his wife was a very fiend, and the poor fellow loved her, which was worse. One day he missed her, and found she was on board another vessel; and he came on shore, distracted like, and got very tipsy, as sailors always do when they're in trouble, and he went down to the wharf, and his body was picked up next day."

"Did he drown himself?"

"Yes, so people think, Peter; and he owed me 1 pound, 3 shillings, 4 pence, if I recollect right. Aren't that the figure, Peter?"

"Yes, ma'am," replied Joey; "that's the sum total of the account, exactly."

"Poor fellow!" continued Mrs Chopper, with a sigh, "he went to his long account without paying me my short one. Never mind; I wish he was alive, and twice as much in my debt. There's another—I recollect that well, Peter, for it's a proof that sailors are honest; and I do believe that, if they don't pay, it's more from thoughtlessness than anything else; and then the women coax all their money from them, for sailors don't care for money when they do get it—and then those Jews are such shocking fellows; but look you, Peter, this is almost the first bill run up after I took up the business. He was a nice fair-haired lad from Shields; and the boy was cast away, and he was picked up by another vessel, and brought here; and I let him have things and lent him money to the amount of a matter of 20 pounds, and he said he would save all and pay me, and he sailed away again, and I never heard of him for nine years. I thought that he was drowned, or that he was not an honest lad; I didn't know which, and it was a deal of money to lose; but I gave it up; when one day a tall, stout fellow, with great red whiskers, called upon me, and said, 'Do you know me?' 'No,' said I, half-frightened; 'how should I know you? I never see'd you before.'—'Yes, you did,' says he, 'and here's a proof of it;' and he put down on the table a lot of money, and said, 'Now, missus, help yourself: better late than never. I'm Jim Sparling, who was cast away, and who you were as good as a mother to; but I've never been able to get leave to come to you since. I'm boatswain's mate of a man-of-war, and have just received my pay, and now I've come to pay my debts.' He would make me take 5 pounds more than his bill, to buy a new silk gown for his sake. Poor fellow! he's dead now. Here's another, that was run up by one of your tall, lanky sailors, who wear their knives in a sheath, and not with a lanyard round their waists; those fellows never pay, but they swear dreadfully. Let me see, what can this one be? Read it, Peter; how much is it?"

"4 pounds, 2 shillings, 4 pence," replied our hero.

"Yes, yes, I recollect now—it was the Dutch skipper. There's murder in that bill, Peter: it was things I supplied to him just before he sailed; and an old man was passenger in the cabin: he was a very rich man, although he pretended to be poor. He was a diamond merchant, they say; and as soon as they were at sea, the Dutch captain murdered him in the night, and threw him overboard out of the cabin-window; but one of the sailors saw the deed done, and the captain was taken up at Amsterdam, and had his head cut off. The crew told us when the galliot came back with a new captain. So the Dutch skipper paid the forfeit of his crime; he paid my bill, too, that's certain. Oh, deary me!" continued the old lady, turning to another page. "I shan't forget this in a hurry. I never see poor Nancy now without recollecting it. Look, Peter; I know the sum—8 pounds, 4 shillings 6 pence—exactly: it was the things taken up when Tom Freelove married Nancy,—it was the wedding dinner and supper."

"What, Nancy who was here just now?"

"Yes, that Nancy; and a sweet, modest young creature she was then, and had been well brought up too; she could read and write beautifully, and subscribed to a circulating library, they say. She was the daughter of a baker in this town. I recollect it well: such a fine day it was when they went to church, she looking so handsome in her new ribbons and smart dress, and he such a fine-looking young man. I never seed such a handsome young couple; but he was a bad one, and so it all ended in misery."

"Tell me how," said Joey.

"I'll tell all you ought to know, boy; you are too young to be told all the wickedness of this world. Her husband treated her very ill; before he had been married a month he left her, and went about with other people, and was always drunk, and she became jealous and distracted, and he beat her cruelly, and deserted her; and then, to comfort her, people would persuade her to keep her spirits up, and gave her something to drink, and by degrees she became fond of it. Her husband was killed by a fall from the mast-head; and she loved him still and took more to liquor, and that was her ruin. She don't drink now, because she don't feel as she used to do; she cares about nothing; she is much to be pitied, poor thing, for she is still young, and very pretty. It's only four years ago when I saw her come out of church, and thought what a happy couple they would be."

"Where are her father and mother?"

"Both dead. Don't let's talk about it any more. It's bad enough when a man drinks; but if a woman takes to it, it is all over with her; but some people's feelings are so strong, that they fly to it directly to drown care and misery. Put up the book, Peter; I can't look at it any more to-night; we'll go to bed."

Joey every day gave more satisfaction to his employer, and upon his own responsibility, allowed his friend the sailor lad to open an account as soon as his money was all gone. Finding that the vessel was going up the river to load, Joey determined to write a few lines to the McShanes, to allay the uneasiness which he knew his absence must have occasioned, Jim Paterson promising to put the letter in the post as soon as he arrived at London.

Our hero simply said, "My dear sir, I am quite well, and have found employment, so pray do not grieve about me, as I never shall forget your kindness.—Joey McShane."

On the following Sunday Joey was dressed in his sailor's suit, and looked very well in it. He was not only a very good-looking, but a gentlemanlike boy in his manners. He went to church, and after church he walked out to the abode of his little friend, Emma Phillips. She ran out to meet him, was delighted with his new clothes, and took him by the hand to present him to her mother. Mrs Phillips was a quiet-looking, pleasing woman, and the old lady was of a very venerable appearance. They made many inquiries about his friends, and Joey continued in the same story, that he and his father had been poachers, that he had been discovered and obliged to go away, and that he went with the consent of his parents. They were satisfied with his replies, and prepossessed in his favour; and as Joey was so patronised by her little daughter, he was desired to renew his visits, which he occasionally did on Sundays, but preferred meeting Emma on the road from school; and the two children (if Joey could be called a child) became very intimate, and felt annoyed if they did not every day exchange a few words. Thus passed the first six months of Joey's new life. The winter was cold, and the water rough, and he blew his fingers, while Mrs Chopper folded her arms up in her apron; but he had always a good dinner and a warm bed after the day's work was over. He became a great favourite with Mrs Chopper, who at last admitted that he was much more useful than even Peter; and William, the waterman, declared that such was really the case, and that he was, in his opinion, worth two of the former Peter, who had come to such an untimely end.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

IN WHICH THE BITER IS BIT.

The disappearance of Joey from the school was immediately communicated to McShane by the master, who could not imagine how such an incident could have occurred in such a decent establishment as his preparatory seminary; it was an epoch in his existence, and ever afterwards his chronology was founded upon it, and everything that occurred was so many months or weeks before or after the absconding of young Master McShane. The letter had, of course, been produced, and as soon as the schoolmaster had taken his departure, McShane and his wife were in deep council. "I recollect," said Mrs McShane, who was crying in an easy chair—"I recollect, now, that one day the boy came up and asked me the meaning of wilful murder, and I told him. And now I think of it, I do also remember the people at Number 1 table, close to the counter, some time ago, talking about a murder having been committed by a mere child, and a long report of it in the newspapers. I am sure, however (as Joey says in his letter), that he is not guilty."

"And so am I," replied McShane. "However, bring up the file of newspapers, dear, and let me look over them. How long back do you think it was?"

"Why, let me see; it was about the time you went away with Captain O'Donahue, I think, or a little before—that was in October."

McShane turned over the file of newspapers, and after a quarter of an hour's search found the report of the coroner's inquest.