sir. Pray don’t send me back.”
“And what’s the name of the chap as you’re afraid on?”
“Mr Blakeford, sir.”
“I’m blest!”
“What did you say, sir?”
“I said I’m blest, boy.”
“Then you do know him?” said the first constable.
“I don’t quite know as I do, yet,” was the reply.
“Well, look here, I want to get back. You take charge of him. I found him on a doorstep in Great Coram Street. There’s his bundle. If he don’t give a good account of himself, have it entered and lock him up.”
“All right,” said the other, after a few moments’ hesitation.
“Then I’m off,” said the first man; and he left me in charge of the big constable, who stood staring down at me so fiercely, as I thought, that I looked to right and left for a way of escape.
“None o’ that, sir,” he said sharply, in the words and way of the other, whose heavy footsteps were now echoing down the passage. “Lookye here, if you try to run away, I’ve only got to shout, and hundreds of thousands of pleecemen will start round about to stop yer.”
As he spoke he pushed me into a Windsor arm-chair, where I sat as if in a cage, while he held up one finger to shake in my face.
“As the Clerkenwell magistrate said t’other day, the law’s a great network, and spreads wide. You’re new in the net o’ the law, young fellow, and you can’t get out. Just look here, we knows a deal in the law and police, and I can find out in two twos whether you are telling me the truth or doing the artful.”
“Please, sir – ”
“Hold your tongue, sir! You can make your defence when your time comes; and mind this, it’s my dooty to tell you that what you says now may be used in evidence again you.”
Thus silenced, I stood gazing up in his big-whiskered face, that seemed to loom over me, in the gaslight, and wondered why there should be so much form and ceremony over taking my word.
“Now look here,” he said pulling out a notebook and pencil, like the auctioneer’s, only smaller, and seeming as if he were going to take an inventory of my small person. “Now, look here,” he repeated, moistening the point of his pencil, “you told Joe Smith you knowed me, and I never set eyes on you afore.”
“Please, sir,” I said hastily, “I told him I know Mr Revitts, who’s in the police.”
“Yes, and you said you had run away from Rowford and a Mr Blake – Blake – What’s his name?”
“Blakeford, sir,” I said despondently, for it seemed that this was not my Mr Revitts.
“Blakeford. That’s right; and he ill-used you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’s a little fair man, ain’t he, with blue eyes?” And he rustled the leaves of his notebook as if about to take down my answer.
“No, sir,” I cried eagerly; “he’s tall and dark, and has short hair, and very white teeth.”
“Ho! Tall, is he?” said the constable, making believe to write, and then holding out his pencil at me. “He’s a nice, kind, amiable man, ain’t he, as wouldn’t say an unkind word to a dorg?”
“Oh no, sir,” I said, shuddering; “that’s not my Mr Blakeford.”
“Ho! Now, then, once more. There’s a servant lives there at that house, and her name’s Jane – ain’t it?”
“No, sir, Mary.”
“And she’s got red hair and freckles, and she – she’s very little and – ”
“No, no,” I cried excitedly, for after my heart had seemed to sink terribly low, it now leaped at his words. “That isn’t Mary, and you are saying all this to try me, sir. You – you are Mr William Revitts, I know you are;” and I caught him eagerly by the arm.
“Which I don’t deny it, boy,” he said, still looking at me suspiciously, and removing my hand. “Revitts is my name. P.C. Revitts, VV 240; and I ain’t ashamed of it. But only to think of it. How did you know of me, though?”
“I wrote Mary’s letters for her, sir.”
“Whew! That’s how it was she had so improved in her writing. And so you’ve been living in the same house along a her?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, “and she was so good and kind.”
“When she wasn’t in a tantrum, eh?”
“Yes, sir, when she wasn’t in a – ”
“Tantrum, that’s it, boy. We should ha’ been spliced afore now if it hadn’t been for her tantrums. But only to think o’ your being picked up in the street like this. And what am I to do now? You’ve absconded, you have; you know you’ve absconded in the eyes of the law.”
“Write to Mary, please, sir, and ask her if it wasn’t enough to make me run away.”
“Abscond, my lad, abscond,” said the constable.
“Yes, sir,” I said, with a shiver, “abscond.”
“You didn’t – you didn’t,” he said in a half hesitating way, as he felt and pinched my bundle, and then ran his hand down by my jacket-pocket. “You didn’t – these are all your own things in this, are they?”
“Oh yes, sir!” I said.
“Because some boys when they absconds, makes mistakes, and takes what isn’t theirs.”
“Do they, sir?”
“Yes, my lad, and I’m puzzled about you. You see, it’s my duty to treat you like a runaway ’prentice, and I’m uneasy in my mind about what to do. You see, you did run away.”
“Oh yes, sir, I did run away. I was obliged to. Mr Blakeford wanted me to tell lies.”
“Well, that seems to come easy enough to most people,” he said.
“But I am telling the truth, sir,” I said. “Write down to Rowford, and ask Mary if I’m not telling the truth.”
“Truth! Oh, I know that, my boy,” he said kindly. “Here, give’s your hand. Come along.”
“But you won’t send me back, sir?”
“Send you back? Not I, boy. He’s a blackguard, that Blakeford. I know him, and I only wish he’d do something, and I had him to take up for it. Mary’s told me all about him, and if ever we meets, even if it’s five pounds or a month, I’ll punch his head: that’s what I’ll do for him. Do yer hear?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Now, what’s to be done with you?”
