In time and under a new superintendent Cleg Kelly went back to Hunker Court Sunday school, some time after the loss of his friends the Kavannahs. This is equivalent to saying that Hunker Court became again an exceedingly lively place of instruction and amusement on a Sabbath afternoon. It is true that Cleg was not always present, and when he was absent his teacher's heart sent up a silent thanksgiving. That, of course, was before Miss Cecilia Tennant took him in hand.
Cleg had several teachers before he found his fate. He was, in fact, the crux of the school, and every aspiring young neophyte who "took a class" was provided with a nut to crack in the shape of Cleg. But he never cracked him.
The superintendent of Hunker Court at the date of this first pilgrimage was a somewhat ineffective gentleman, whose distinguishing trait was that he appeared to be of a pale sandy complexion all over. That is, all of him not covered by a tightly-buttoned black surtout. His name was Samson Langpenny. Why it was so, is historically uncertain—"Langpenny," probably, owing to his connection with his father. But "Samson" is wholly inexplicable, and was certainly exceedingly hard upon Master Langpenny as a boy. For it procured him many lickings at that delightful season, owing to logic of the usual schoolboy type and cogency.
"Jock, ye dinna ken wha was the strongest man?"
"It's a lee, I do ken. It was Samson!"
"Na, then it juist isna, for I lickit Samson this mornin' mysel'!"
The second boy thought this over a moment—saw it—considered it rather good.
"Dod," he said, "I wad like to could say that mysel'. I can lick Samson mysel' as weel as Pate Tamson!"
Whereupon he went and lurked for Samson till that unfortunate youth came along. Then he triumphantly established his claim to be the strongest man by once more thrashing "Samson" Langpenny, while the tears of the first combat were hardly yet dry upon the cuff of the coat-sleeve which Master Langpenny ordinarily used instead of a pocket-handkerchief.
It was quite in accordance with the contrariness of things, that Samson Langpenny should develop into the superintendent of the roughest Sunday school in all the South Side of Edinburgh. He had now a real handkerchief, as every one might see, for he wore about equal parts of it within his pocket and without. The lower and unseen portion was the working end. Now, there may be excellent moral purpose in a judiciously-used pocket-handkerchief. There is, indeed, a certain literary man whose wife avers that her husband's toilet consists ordinarily of "four paper knives, four pens, and no pocket-handkerchief." But this person is not usually held up in Sunday schools as a shining example. Quite the contrary.
Now, Cleg Kelly had no great personal grievance against his superintendent. But he said in his vulgar way (for there is no doubt that he was that kind of boy) that "he did not cotton to that wipe o' Langpenny's!"
Cleg's present teacher was a young gentleman of the name of Percy Somerville, whose principal reasons for teaching in Hunker Court were that he might improve the minds of the youth of the district, and that he might have a fair chance of seeing Miss Cecilia Tennant home across the meadows. This last was a pleasant thing to do at any time, but specially desirable in the summer season, after the heat and turmoil of Hunker Court, and on this account Samson Langpenny never lacked for recruits to his teaching staff at that time.
Now, Percy Somerville was "a very nice boy"—these were Miss Tennant's own words. "But, you know—well, you know—after all, he is only a boy."
And, in addition, as they say in political circles, when the leadership of the party is in question, "there was no vacancy." The junior partner still lived.
How Percy Somerville undoubtedly had his troubles, owing chiefly to Celie Tennant's hardness of heart; but they were as nothing to the difficulties which afflicted Samson Langpenny.
For instance, it was in this wise that Mr. Percy Somerville was greeted, as he appeared with a reluctant scholar who had been detected in trying to escape by the side door after the roll had been marked. (It was drawing near the time of the summer treat into the country, so it behoved the teachers to be careful in marking attendances.)
"Go it, Pierce-eye! Hit him one in the eye!"
This exclamation was traced afterwards to Cleg Kelly's acquaintance in day-school with a baleful ballad included in the Royal Poetry Book, and intituled "Chevy Chase."
Mr. Somerville thereupon promptly lost his rightful and given name, and became to all eternity—or so long, at least, as he remained at Hunker Court—"Old One-in-the Eye."
But it so happened that, on this particular Sunday, Cleg's teacher with the pugnacious title was absent; and, in despite of the notice prominently placarded on the walls behind the superintendent's desk, he was absent without having provided a substitute.
There was nothing for it, therefore, but that Samson Langpenny should take the class himself. And he would as soon have faced a battery of artillery as a class in which sat the Egyptian plague of his school, Cleg Kelly. It was, indeed, on this particular day that there came to Samson the resolution to try him with Miss Celie Tennant as a last resource, previous to a second and final expulsion.
Indeed, he would have chosen the latter alternative long ago, but for a well-grounded inward belief that, at the close of the hour after Cleg's compulsory exit, there would not be a whole pane of glass in all the many windows of Hunker Court Sunday school. He remembered well as a teacher the awful scene which accompanied the first expulsion under the reign of "Pund o' Cannles"—a scene which since his return had made Cleg almost idolised by the scholars of Hunker Court.
Samson Langpenny sat down to teach the Border Ruffians of the Sooth Back—Cleg Kelly's class. Now he was out of place, and knew it. His true sphere in a Sunday school was in the infant department; where, with a packet of butterscotch and "Hush-a-bye, Baby!" he might have been a great and shining success.
Why the minister did not see this was a standing problem in Hunker Court. But, as the teachers said one to another on their several ways home:
"It is so hard to get the minister to see anything—and as for his wife——"
"Can you say your Psalm—metrical version?" asked Samson Langpenny, as though of a certainty they were all letter-perfect in the prose version.
"I can," said Cleg Kelly promptly.
"Then," said Samson, smiling, well-pleased, "we will take you last."
With various hitches and shoves, the awkward and unruly class bored its way through the Psalm—"metrical version." An impartial observer might have noticed that the teacher contributed about ninety-five per cent. of the recitation in the form of hints and suggestions. Nevertheless, each boy, having completed his portion, sat back with a proud consciousness that he had done his duty with even needless promptitude and accuracy. Also it was an established canon of the place that so soon as each boy was released from the eye of the teacher, he instantly put his hand slyly under the bench. Then he either nipped his neighbour in a place which made the sufferer take an instant interest in the circumstance, or else he incontinently stuck a pin into him.
In either case the boy assaulted remarked: "Ouch! please, sir, Tam Rogerson's nippin' me. Wull ye speak to him?"
But this was only the usual routine, and provoked no remark.
When, however, the superintendent came to Cleg Kelly, and that diligent young student began at once to reel off the twenty-third Psalm with vivacity and despatch—the psalm which the entire body of Scottish youth learns long before the A, B, C—it was obviously time to interfere.
"If ye please, sir (or whether or no), that's no the richt yin!" said Tam Rogerson, who ran Cleg close for the place of honour as the "warst loon i' the schule!" This was a post of as great distinction at Hunker Court as the position of clown in a circus.
Cleg's answer was twofold.
To Tam Rogerson he remarked—under his breath, it is true, but with startling distinctness—
"Wait till I get you oot, ma man; I'll warm you."
And Tam Rogerson grew hot from head to foot, for he knew that he was as good as warmed already.
On the other hand, Cleg gave the answer of peace to his teacher:
"Please, sir, Maister Langshanks—penny, I mean—my faither is a Papish—an' he winna let me learn ony ither Psalm but the three-an'-twunty. But I hae learned HER to richts!"
After this exhibition of the rights of the nonconforming conscience in strange places, Cleg continued his lesson in Hunker Court under the vague tutelage of Samson Langpenny. Now Samson was unaware of the strong feeling of resentment which was gathering in the bosoms of his scholars, owing to the length of his "introductory exercises." The Psalm and the "questions" were all in the day's work, but Samson introduced a prayer in the middle of the teaching hour, which Cleg Kelly considered to be wholly uncalled for and indeed little short of impious.
So, as soon as Samson shut his eyes, Cleg silently joined the class nearest him, and the other scholars of the absent Mr. Somerville did likewise. When Samson opened his eyes and awoke to the state of the case, he found himself wholly without a single scholar to whom instruction could be given.
Cleg had betaken himself to the class of Miss Robina Semple, an excellent maiden lady of much earnestness and vigour. She was so busy explaining the Scripture lesson, that she did not at first observe the addition to the number of her scholars in the wholly undesirable person of Master Kelly.
The lesson was the parable of the lame man at the pool of Siloam.
Now in Miss Semple's class there was a lame boy named Chris Cullen. He sat listening with strained attention and invincible eagerness to every word which fell from his teacher. Cleg, to whom all lessons were much alike, listened also—chiefly, it may be, because he saw the reflection of an angel's smile on the face of the lame boy, Chris Cullen.
"What gars ye hearken like that, Chris?" whispered Cleg, with some anxiety. Only the news of a prize fight would have brought such an expression of interest to his own face, or (it might be) the announcement that his father had got ten years.
"It's aboot a man that got a dook, an' then he could walk!" said Chris, speaking hurriedly over his shoulder, being anxious not to miss a word.
"What hindered him to dook afore?" asked Cleg.
"He couldna get doon to the water-edge," said Chris.
"Was the bobby there?" persisted Cleg, to whom the limit of where he might not go or might not do coincided with the beat of the officers of Her Majesty's peace.
"Wheesht!" interjected Chris Cullen, "she's telling it the noo!"
For the lame boy, his teacher existed for this purpose alone.
The calm, high voice of Miss Robina Semple went on—Robina Semple, whom some called "a plain old maid"—
"And so the poor man, who had no one to carry him down to the edge when the angel troubled the water, had to stay where he was, and somebody else got in before him! Are you not sorry for him?"
"Never heed, Chris Cullen," broke in Cleg, "I'll cairry ye doon on my back mysel'! There's naebody will daur to hinder ye dookin' in ony dub ye like, when I'm cairryin' ye!"
Cleg Kelly was certainly acquiring, by contact if in no other way, certain Christian ideas. For the rest he was still frankly pagan.
Now at this particular date Hunker Court Sabbath school was run under a misapprehension. It was the idea of the superintendent that a little sugared advice would tame the young savages of the courts and wynds. Hence the hour of instruction was largely taken up with confused sound and fury. Samson would have been wiser if he had suborned a prize-fighter of good moral principles to teach the young idea of Hunker Court how to shoot head foremost out at the door. Under these circumstances it is conceivable that some good might have been done. But as it was, under the placid consulship of Samson Langpenny, teachers and scholars alike had a good deal of physical exercise of an interesting and healthful sort. But the moral and religious improvement was certainly to seek.
Yet in the class of Miss Semple, that excellent woman and good teacher of youth, there was one scholar who that Sunday had heard to profit. It was Cleg Kelly. He carried home little Chris Cullen on his shoulders, and if no angel stirred the waters of the gutter puddles as these two went their way, and if no immediate healing resulted, both Chris and Cleg were the better for the lesson of the troubling of the waters.
Even Samson Langpenny did not go to Hunker Court that day in vain, for he went along with Chris and Cleg part of the way home. Pride was not among Samson's failings, and, as we know, bashfulness was equally absent from the black catalogue of the sins of our hero.
"What for are you carrying Chris?" asked Samson Langpenny, who, though he had many weaknesses, had also large and sufficient virtues of earnestness and self-sacrifice.
"Weel, ye see, sir," said Cleg, trotting alongside cheerily, his burden upon his shoulders, "it's true that Chris can gang himsel'. But ye ken yersel' gin the laddies are verra ceevil when they get oot o' schule. They micht knock the wee yin ower. But when he is up on my shoothers, they juist darena. My certes, but I wad like to fa' acquaint wi' the yin that wad as muckle as lift a 'paver' to him. I wad 'paver' him!"
The superintendent smiled, though as a general rule he deprecated an appeal to arms. Cleg had also a little sound advice to offer his superior.
"Ye dinna lick aneuch in your schule, Maister!" continued Cleg, for he was unselfishly desirous that everyone should succeed in the sphere of life to which Providence had called him. He did not, it is true, see any great reason for a man's having taken to keeping Sunday school. Summer treats in the country might surely have been given without them—likewise tea soirées. But since these things had been mixed up together, the instruction part, however unnecessary, should certainly be carried out in a workmanlike fashion.
"Not lick enough?" queried the superintendent, aghast. He thought he could not have heard aright—the pest of Hunker Court counselling corporal punishment!
"Aye, an' div ye ken," Cleg went on, "div ye ken I can tell ye, wha ye could get to keep the laddies as quaite as pussy."
The superintendent looked at the rebel Head Centre of Hunker Court, bending with the weight of Chris Cullen upon his shoulders. It did not strike him that Cleg might also be able to support his own crippled steps upon his willing heathen shoulders.
"What would you advise?" he asked at last, with a certain pathetic humility.
"There's a maister at oor day schule that's awsome handy wi' the taws, an a' the laddies are feared o' him. He comes to your kirk—I hae seen him gang in the door. Ye micht get him for a teacher in yer Sabbath schule! Then the boys wad hae to be quaite. His name's MacRobb."
"Why would the boys have to be quiet then?" said Samson Langpenny, who did not yet understand what his ragged mentor was driving at.
"Dinna ye see, sir," said Cleg eagerly, "the boys daurna play their capers on Sabbaths at Hunker Court, an' gang to his schule on Mondays. Na, he wad fair skin them alive. It wad mak' an awfu' differ to you, sir."
"But I do not know Mr. MacRobb," said Samson; "how can I get him to give up his Sabbath afternoons to teach in such a noisy place? He will say that he gets enough of teaching through the week."
"Gae 'way!" said Cleg in his vernacular, forgetting for the moment to whom he spoke, "gae 'way, man! Get bonny Miss Tennant, the lass in the yella frock, to speer him. He'll come fast aneuch then. He does naething else in the kirk but glower at her a' the time the minister's preaching."
Thus Cleg jested with love, and used its victims at his pleasure.
Soon after this Cleg Kelly became a member of a young lady's class, in a manner which has been elsewhere related.[3]
That young lady was Miss Cecilia Tennant, otherwise known as Celie—a young lady much admired by all who knew her (and by some who did not, but wanted to); and especially admired by Mr. Donald Iverach, junior partner in the firm on whose premises the class was held. I have also related the tragical events which preceded the formation of the boys' class, organised under the guidance and tutelage of Cleg Kelly. But it soon became evident that something more than a night class was necessary, if any impression were to be made on the wild Arabs of the Sooth Back.
"Ye see the way o' it is this, Miss Celie," Cleg explained. "Ye canna keep a boy frae ill-doing by juist telling him aboot Jacob for an hour in the week. There's a' day in the shop, wi' the gaffer swearin' blue murder even on, an' ill-talk an' ither things that I juist canna tell ye. Then there's every nicht, when we drap work. What can we do but stand about the streets, or start the Gang an' look aboot us for a bobby to chivvy, or else for something handy for 'liftin'?'"
"But, Cleg," cried Celie, much alarmed, "surely I do not understand you to say that you steal?"
"Na," said Cleg, "we dinna steal. We only 'nick' things whiles!"
Celie had heard, indeed, of the "mobs," the "unions," the "gangs," the "crowds." But she thought them simply amiable and rather silly secret societies, such as her own brothers used to make a great deal of unnecessary secrecy about—calling themselves "Bloody Bill of the Ranch," "Navajo Tommy," and other stupid names. She had remarked the same mania in Cleg sometimes, and had some reason to believe that all boys are alike, whatever may be their station in life.
But Cleg soon put his friend out of the danger of any such mistake.
"Mind, say 'As sure as daith,' an' ye'll cut your throat gin ye tell," said Cleg, very earnestly, "an' I'll tell ye, aye, an' make ye a member!"
Cleg was about to reveal state secrets, and he did not want to run any risks. Celie promised faithfully the utmost discretion.
"Weel, Miss Celie, I can see that ye are no gaun to do muckle guid amang us boys, if I dinna tell ye. An' I want ye no to believe ony lees, like what are telled to the ministers an' folk like them. There's mair ill in the Sooth Back than can be pitten richt wi' a track. I canna bide them tracks——"
The distribution of tracts was an old grievance of Cleg's. But Celie earnestly and instantly put him on the plain way again, for if he once began upon "tracks," there was no telling if ever she would get any nearer to her promised lesson on the good and evil of the boys' unions.
Celie found herself as eager as ever was her first mother Eve, to eat of the tree of the forbidden knowledge.
"Gie us your han', Miss Celie, I'll no hurt ye," said Cleg.
Celie drew off her dainty glove, and instantly extended a hand that was white and small beyond all the boy's imagining. Cleg took it reverently in his dirty, work-broadened paw. He touched the slender fingers as if they were made of thistle-down and might blow away accidentally. So he held his breath. Then he took out his knife, one with a point like a needle, which had been used in a shoe factory.
Perhaps Celie winced a little as he opened the blade, but, if it were so, it was very little indeed. Yet it was enough to be perceptible to her very sincere admirer.
Cleg let her hand drop, and without a pause thrust the sharp point into the ball of his own thumb, squeezing therefrom a single drop of blood.
"It's no juist exactly richt, no to hae your ain blood, ye ken!" he explained gravely; "but as ye dinna tell so mony lees as the boys, maybe mine will do as weel this time to take the oath with."
With a clean new pen from Celie's desk, Cleg made on her palm the sign of a cross, and for her life the initiated dared not so much as let her hand quiver or her eyelid droop.
She knew that the occasion was an entirely critical one. But in a moment it was over, and Celie Tennant was admitted a bonâ fide acting member of the Sooth Back Gang, with full right in its secrets and to the disposal of one full and undivided share of its profits. No questions to be asked as to how these profits were come by. Indeed, from that moment there is little doubt that Celie Tennant might have been indicted for reset, conspiracy, and crimes infinitely various.
That night at Miss Tennant's class there was a full attendance, and the opening was delayed owing to necessity arising for the expulsion of a boy, apparently in no way offending against discipline.
Celie looked the question she dared not speak.
"He's no yin o' us!" explained Cleg in a whisper. "He belongs to the Potter-raw gang—a low lot."
Celie felt morally raised by the consciousness of belonging to a gang of the most high-toned "nickums" in the whole city.
Then Cleg, after the briefest opening exercises had been endured, explained that there remained for that evening only the ceremony of reception of a new member who had already been sworn in. In this Celie had to concur with as good a grace as possible. She was then and there appointed, with acclamation, a full member of the honourable (or dishonourable, according to the point of view) society of the Knuckle Dusters of the Sooth Back. It was generally felt after this, that Jacob (the Patriarch of that name) could very well afford to wait over for a little.
But, after the ceremony, when Celie looked again at her class, she could hardly believe her eyes. Were these the lads who night after night had stood before her with faces sleeked and smugged with arrant hypocrisy, or had looked up at her after some bout of intolerable mischief, as demure as kittens after spilling a saucer of milk?
A certain seriousness and comradeship pervaded the meeting. But Cleg was not yet at the end of his surprises.
"I perpose," he said, "that we hae a Club a' for oorsels."
The meeting with unanimous palm and hoof signified its approval of this grand proposal, obviously one which had been discussed before.
"We will hae it in here, and we'll pay to be members—an' that will do for the coals, and we'll hae smokin'——"
Celie sat aghast. Events were precipitating themselves with a vengeance. Indeed, surprise sat so manifest on her countenance that Cleg thought it wise to point out its genuine character to his brother members. It would never do for them to believe that the great idea of the club had not originated with themselves.
"She kens nocht aboot it, but I ken fine she's gaun to stan' in wi' us!" he explained, putting her, as it were, on her honour and under the solemn seal of the bloody cross of the Knuckle Dusters.
In this Celie, bound by her oath, had indeed no choice.
She must of a surety stand by them. But a serious difficulty occurred to her.
"Lads," she said, "we have only the right to this place for one night in the week. How can we occupy it every night?"
All the boys laughed loud. The question was mightily amusing. Indeed, Celie was often most amusing to them when she had no intention of being so.
"Of coorse, we ken, ye hae only to ask him!" they said, with one solid voice of general concurrence.
Celie felt herself beginning to burn low down on her neck, and it made her angry to think that in a minute more she would blush like a great baby just out of the senior class of the Ladies' College. The boys watched her maliciously till she looked really distressed, and then Cleg struck gallantly into the breach.
"Chaps," he cried, "I think we should ask for oorsels. We are gaun to elec' a commy-tee and run the show. Dinna let us begin by troublin' Miss Tennant. We'll gang an' ask oorsels. Gin ye are feared, I'm no!"
Crash! came a stone through the window. All leapt to their feet in a moment.
"It's that dirty scoondrel frae the Potter-raw. Oot after him!" cried Cleg.
Whereupon the newly constituted Knuckle Dusters' Club tumultuously detached itself for police duty. There was a scurry along the highway, a fight at a street corner. Two boys got a black eye apiece. A policeman was assaulted in the half-humorous way peculiar to the district. A letter-deliverer sat down suddenly on the pavement, to the delay of Her Majesty's mails, and after five well-spent and happy minutes, the Club re-entered, wiping its brow, and Cleg cried:
"Three cheers for the Knuckle Dusters' Club! Miss Celie to be the president for ever an' ever. We'll meet the morn's nicht to elec' the commy-tee. And there's twenty meenits left for Jacob!"
And so the Knuckle Dusters' Club sat patiently down to endure its Scripture lesson.
The reader of this random chronicle has not forgotten the Troglodytes—the Cave Dwellers, the Railing Roosters—alien to the race of men, with manners and customs darkly their own.
These are they with whom Cleg had to do, when he amused himself all that summer day opposite the house of the sergeant. Of the Troglodytes the chief were Tam Luke, who for a paltry consideration gave his time during the day to furthering the affairs of Tamson, the baker; Cleaver's boy, who similarly conducted the butcher's business next door; and the grocer's boy, who answered to the name of "Marg"—that is, if he who used it was very much bigger and stronger than himself. In other circumstances "Marg" chased and hammered according to his ability the boy who called the name after him—for it was contracted from "margarine," and involved a distinct slur upon his line of business.
But each man of the Troglodytes was a Knuckle Duster. In the Club they were banded together for offence and defence. In the days before Cleg took in hand to reorganise the club, they had a good many things in common besides the fear of the constable.
Now, each boy was most respectable during his hours of business. There was no "sneaking" the goods of their own masters. The till was safe, and they did not carry away the stock-in-trade to sell it. But that was pretty much all the way their honour went. Their kind of honesty, it is to be feared, was chiefly of the "best policy" sort. Fun was fun, and "sneaking" was the breath of life; but it was one thing to "fake an apple," and altogether another to be "nicked" for stealing from one's master. The latter meant the loss of situation without a character. Now a character is a valuable asset. It is negotiable, and must be taken care of. To steal does not hurt one's character—only to be found out. To break a plate-glass window with a stone does not harm a character as much as it damages the window; but to be an hour late three mornings running is fatal. So Cleaver's boy had a character; "Marg" had a character, and even Tam Luke had a character. They were all beauties. Our own Cleg had half a dozen different characters—most of them, however, rather indifferent.
But there is no mistake that, under the influence of Celie Tennant and the new Knuckle Dusters' Club, they were all in the way of improvement. The good character of their hours of work already began to lap over into their play-time. But thus it was not always.
Just before its re-inauguration the Sooth Back "mob" had been rather down on its luck. Cleg was among them only intermittently. They had had a fight with Bob Sowerby's gang, which frequented the Pleasance lands, and had been ignominiously defeated.
Worse than all, they had come across "Big" Smith, the athletic missionary of the Pleasance. He was so called to distinguish him from "Little" Smith, a distinguished predecessor of the same name, who was popularly understood to have read every book that was. Big Smith was not distinguished in the same way. All the same, he was both distinguished and popular.
On this occasion he was addressing his weekly meeting underneath one of the great houses. The Knuckle Dusters thought it good sport to ascend to the window of the common stair, and prepare missiles both fluid and solid. This was because they belonged to the Sooth Back, and did not know Big Smith.
Big Smith's mode of exhortation was the prophetic denunciatory. He was no Jeremiah—a Boanerges of the slums rather. He dealt in warm accusations and vigorous personal applications. He was very decidedly no minor prophet, for he had a black beard like an Astrakhan rug, and a voice that could outroar a Gilmerton carter. Also he was six feet high, and when he crossed his arms it was like a long-range marker trying to fold his arms round a target.
"Sinners in Number Seventy-three!" cried Big Smith, and his voice penetrated into every den and corner of that vast rabbit warren, "you will not come out to hear me, but I'll make ye hear me yet, if I scraich till the Day of Judgment. Sinners in Number Seventy-three, ye are a desperate bad lot. I hae kenned ye this ten year—but——"
Clash!—came a pail of dirty water out of the stair window where the Knuckle Dusters, yet completely unregenerate, were concealed.
Big Smith was taking breath for his next overwhelming sentence, but he never got it delivered. For as soon as he realised that the insult was meant for him, Big Smith pushed his hat firmly down on the back of his head and started up the stair. He had his oak staff in his hand, a stick of fibre and responsibility, as indeed it had need to be.
The first he got his hands upon was Tam Luke.
Tam was standing at the back of a door, squeezing himself against the wall as flat as a skate.
"Come oot!" said Big Smith, in commanding tones.
"It wasna me!" said Tam Luke, who very earnestly wished himself elsewhere.
"Come oot!" said Big Smith, missionary.
Tam Luke came—not wholly by his own will, but because the hand of Big Smith seemed to gather up most of his garments at once. And he grasped them hard too. Tam Luke's toes barely touched the ground.
"It wasna me!" repeated Tam Luke.
"What's a' this, then?" queried Big Smith, shaking him comprehensively, as the coal-man of the locality empties a hundredweight sack into the bunker. Half a dozen vegetables, more or less gamey in flavour, dropped out of his pockets and trotted irregularly down the stair.
Then Tam Luke, for the first time in his life, believed in the power of the Church militant. The Knuckle Dusters on the landing above listened with curious qualms, hearing Tam singing out his petitions in a kind of inappeasable rapture. Then, suddenly, they bethought them that it was time they got out of their present invidious position, and they made a rush downstairs.
But Big Smith stood on the steps, still holding Tam Luke, and with a foot like a Sutton's furniture van, he tripped each one impartially as he passed, till quite a little haycock of Knuckle Dusters was formed at an angle of the stair.
Then Big Smith, in a singularly able-bodied way, argued with the heap in general for the good of their souls; and the noise of the oak stick brought out all the neighbours to look on with approbation. They had no sympathy with the Knuckle Dusters whatever. And though they continually troubled the peace of mind of Big Smith with their goings on, yet they were loyal to him in their own way, and rejoiced exceedingly when they saw him "dressing the droddums" of the youths of the Sooth Back Gang.
"Lay on till them, Maister Smith!—bringin' disgrace on oor stair," cried a hodman's wife from the top landing, looking over with the brush in her hand. And Maister Smith certainly obeyed her. Each Knuckle Duster crawled hurriedly away as soon as he could disentangle himself. And as each passed the lower landings the wives harassed his retreat with brushes and pokers for bringing shame on the unstained good name of Number Seventy-three in the Pleasance.
"It'll learn them no to meddle wi' oor missionary," they said, as they retired to drink tea syrup, which had been stewing on the hearth since morning.
For they felt proud of Big Smith, and told their husbands, actual and attached, of the great doings upon their return at night. It became a standing taunt as far as the Arch of Abbeyhill for a month, "I'll send Big Smith till ye!" And there was not a Knuckle Duster that did not hang his head at the remembrance. The Pleasance was naturally very proud of its missionary, and offered long odds on him as against any missionary in the town. "He could lick them a' wi' his hand tied ahint his back," said the Pleasance in its wholly reasonable pride.
Now this was the cause of the depression which for a long time had rested upon the Knuckle Dusters and tarnished the glory of their name. So low had they sunk that it was more than a month since any of them had been up for assaulting the police. So that, as you may see, things were indeed coming to a pretty pass. From all this the new Club was to save them.
First of all, it re-established them in their own self-esteem, which is a great point. Then it gained them the respect of others as well, for Miss Tennant was a much honoured person in the Sooth Back. Lastly, the Club fire burned a half a ton of coals in the fortnight, and the fact was fame in itself.
So the Knuckle Dusters squared themselves up, and for the first time since the affair of Big Smith they looked a bobby in the face. More than that, they actually began to show some of their old spirit again.
Specially did they delight to tell the story of the Leith chief of police and the apples. It was, indeed, enough to gild any "mob" with a permanent halo of glory.
This is the tale at its briefest. But it took four nights to tell in the Club, working three hours a night.
The chief, in the plainest of plain clothes, was hastening down the shore to catch the Aberdour boat, for he was a family man, and also a most douce and home-loving citizen. He had taken a cottage near the shore at Aberdour, where he could have his bairns under his eye upon the beach, and at the same time be able to note how badly the Fife police did their duty in the matter of the Sunday excursionists.
But for all that he ought to have had that packet of apples better tied up, for he had bought a whole shilling'sworth on his way down. The chief was rather partial to a good apple himself; and, in any case, it is always advisable to be on the safe side of one's wife, even if you are a chief of police.
Now the chief reckoned without the Knuckle Dusters. These valiant youths were on the war-path, and as he was passing a point where the houses are few, along by the dock gates, Tam Luke came alongside and pulled the string of his parcel with a sharp and knowing twitch. Instantly it came undone, and the apples rolled every way upon the street. Thereupon every Knuckle Duster seized as many as he could reach, and the Club scattered like hunted hares down alleys and over fences.
For a moment the chief stood thunderstruck. Then he gave chase, selecting Cleaver's boy for his prey. But he found that he was not quite so supple as when he was a young constable fresh from the country. And besides, he heard the warning whistle blow from the "Lord Aberdour." He pictured his bairns on the quay and his wife looking out for him. After all, was it worth it? So he darted into a shop and bought chocolate instead, and took his anger out by saying, "I'll wager I'll make it warm for these young vagabonds." He said it as many as forty times on the way over. He never minded the scenery one single bit. Among the Knuckle Dusters there was great jubilation. That night they told the whole to Celie Tennant, who was horrified; but she could only advise them to "restore fourfold," an unknown idea to the Club.
It was, however, a proposition ably advocated by Cleg Kelly, who, owing to absence, not honesty, had taken no part in the larceny. And, strictly as a humorous conception, the idea of fourfold restitution caught on wonderfully.
This is why a very dirty paper containing two shillings came to the chief of the Leith police, with the inscription thereon: "FOR TO BUY MAIR AIPPLES."
Celie wanted them to send four shillings, but the Club unanimously declined, because the grocer's boy said that the chief's apples were only second quality.
And the Club had every confidence in the grocer's boy being well-informed on the point.
The junior partner was, as he expressed it, "down on his luck." He was heartily sorry for himself, and indeed the fault was not all his own. It was now some considerable time since he began regularly to see home the lady member of the Knuckle Dusters' Club, and perhaps he had begun to some extent to presume upon his standing. He had, in fact, taken it upon him to warn her as to the difficulties of her position.
"It is not right for a young lady to be about in this district at night—no girl ought to do it, whatever be her motive."
He was sometimes a very short-sighted junior partner.
Celie Tennant fired up.
"And pray, Mr. Iverach, who made you my guardian? I am quite of age to judge where it is right for me to go, and what it is proper for me to do!"
The junior partner assumed a lofty attitude.
"I consider," he began, "that it is highly improper."
But this was as far as he got. The pose judicial was not one to which Miss Cecilia Tennant was accustomed, even from her own father. She dropped her companion a very pretty courtesy.
"I consider that our roads separate here," she said; "and I wish you a very good evening, Mr. Iverach!"
And she gave the junior partner a look at once so indignant and so admirably provocative, that he turned away righteously incensed, but at the same time miscalling himself for more kinds of idiot than his father had ever called him, even on his most absent-minded days in the office.
Nevertheless he endeavoured, by a dignified manner as he walked away, to express his wounded feelings, his unquenchable sense of injustice, the rectitude of his aims and intentions, and the completeness with which he washed his hands of all consequences. It is not easy to express all this by simply taking off one's hat, especially when you have a well-grounded belief that you are being laughed at privately by one whom you—well, respect. And saying "silly girl" over and over does not help the matter either. For the junior partner tried, and did not improve the situation so much as the value of a last evening's paper.
On the other hand, there was a sense of exhilaration about Celie Tennant's heart and a certain lightness in her head, when she had thus vindicated her independence. She stopped and looked into the window of a shop in which nothing was displayed but a large model of a coal-waggon, loaded with something "Jewels," and bearing the sympathetic announcement that Waldie's Best Household Coal was down this week one penny a bag.
It is a curious thing, when you come to think of it, that the prettiest girls often stop opposite dark shop fronts where there is apparently nothing to interest them, and pass by others all aglow with the blanched whiteness of female frilleries. There is some unexplained optical problem here. The matter has been mentioned to Miss Tennant, but she says that she does not know the reason. She adds that it is all nonsense. Perhaps, after Professor Tait has found out all about the flight of the golf-ball, he will give some attention to this question. He can obtain statistics and facts on any well-frequented street by keeping to the shady side.
So Celie stood a moment—only a moment, and was then quite ready to turn away, assured in mind and at peace with all men—with the doubtful exception of Mr. Donald Iverach.
Her bonnet was indeed "straight on." But she gave her foot a little stamp when she thought of the junior partner.
"The idea!" she said.
But she did not condescend to expound the concept which troubled her, so that an idea it has ever since remained, and indeed must be left as such.
Then Celie became conscious that some one was gazing at her—not a woman, of course. She turned. It was only Cleg Kelly. But she was glad to see even him, for, after all, one does need some support even in well-doing. It is so difficult to be independent all by one's self.
"Where are you going, Cleg?" she said.
"To the penny shows aff o' the Easter Road," replied Cleg.
"Will you take me, Cleg?" said Celie, with a sudden clearing of her face, her eyes beginning to blaze with excitement.
A great thought took possession of her. This appeared to be a providential chance to prove all that she had been advancing to Mr. Donald Iverach, who, indeed, had nothing whatever to do with the matter.
"Take you, Miss Celie?" stammered Cleg aghast. "Ye wadna gang to the shows?"
And he laughed a little laugh of wonderment at the jest of his goddess, for of course it could only be a joke.
"I will come with you, Cleg, if you will take me!" said Celie.
"But ye ken, Miss Celie, it's no for the like o' you. It's a' weel aneuch for boys and common fowk, but no for you!"
Thus Cleg urged prudence, even against the wild hope which took possession of him.
"Come on, Cleg!" said Celie Tennant, rushing into rebellion at the thought of having her independence called in question, even by one of the Knuckle Dusters.
"It's all his fault!" she said to herself.
Which it very clearly was—Cleg's, of course, for he ought not to have followed her home.
Now along the Easter Road, then only a somewhat muddy country track, there was a small quarry which is now filled up, and a vacant acre or two of land where the show-folk took up their stances, and waged mimic but not bloodless wars in the mornings for the best positions.
Great sheets of canvas were stretched above, flaring cressets were being lighted below, for some of the largest shows were dark inside, being those where the mysteries of "Pepper's Ghost" were shortly to be unveiled.
Celie Tennant was greatly excited by the prospect of eating of the tree of knowledge.
"Let us go in here," she said, pointing to the wondrous "Ghost Illusion" bearing the name and style of Biddle. She drew out her purse to pay, but Cleg stopped her with his hand. He had grown quite dignified.
"Na," he said, "ye canna do that. It's my treat the nicht, when ye are walkin' oot wi' me."
Then it dawned upon Celie that she was assisting at a well-understood function—no less than the solemn treating of a lady fair upon the evening of a pay-day. The thought nearly overcame her, but she only said, "Thank you, Cleg," and was discreetly silent.
For the time being she was Cleg Kelly's "young woman."
They went in. A fat woman, with large silver rings in her ears of the size of crown pieces, took Cleg's money and looked with great sharpness at them both. Cleg paid for the best places in the house. They cost him sixpence, and were carpeted—the seats, not the floor. To such heights of extravagance does woman lead man! The play was already proceeding as they sat down. Presently, after some very moral observations from an old gentleman in trouble with a dying child (he said "choild"), the curtain dropped and the roof of canvas was drawn aside, in order to let in the struggling daylight and save the flaring naphtha cressets.
Instantly Celie and Cleg became the sole centre of attraction—a doubleted courtier in tights, with an unruly sword which scraped the curtain, having no chance whatever by comparison with their grandeur. Cleg folded his arms with a proud disdain and sat up with a back as straight as an arrow.
"Glory be—if 'tisn't Cleg Kelly wid the Quane of Shaeba!" said a compatriot in the pit. (The house was divided into pit and carpet.) And this was the general opinion. It was the proudest moment of Cleg's existence—to date, as he himself said.
Celie sat all the while demure as a kitten and smoothed her gloves. Several Knuckle Dusters passed Cleg the private wink of the society, but none dared intrude on that awful dignity of responsibility. Besides, none of them were "on the carpet," and Biddle of the Silver Rings possessed a quick eye and a long arm.
The curtain went up. This time it was a haunted room. A haunted clock ticked irregularly in the corner, and the villain sat alone in his quite remarkable villainy, on a solitary chair in the middle of the room. It was very dark, owing to the murky cast of crime all round. Suddenly the gentleman on the chair shouted out the details of his "croime" at the pitch of his voice, as if he had been the town crier. He told how much he regretted having left his victim weltering in his gore, whereupon the aforesaid victim abruptly appeared, "weltering," it is true, but rather in a white sheet with the lower part of which his legs appeared to be having a difficulty.
The villain hastened to rise to the occasion. Once more he drew his sword, with which he had been making gallant play all the time. Again he informed the next street of his "croime." Then he pulled a pistol out of his belt and solemnly warned the spectre what would happen if he did not clear out and take his winding-sheet with him.
But the spectre appeared to be wholly unimpressed, for he only gibbered more incoherently and fluttered the bed-quilt (as Cleg called it) more wildly. The villain continued to exhort.
"He's an awfu' blatherumskite!" said Cleg, contemptuously. He knew something of real villains. He had a father.
Again the spectre was warned:
"Your blood be upon your own head!" shouted the villain, and fired the pistol.
The ghost remarked, Br-r-r-r-r! whoop!—went up to the ceiling, came down again wrong side up, and then set about gibbering in a manner more freezing than ever. Whereupon the villain seized his crime-rusted sword in both hands and puddled about in the spectre's anatomy, as if it had been a pot, and he was afraid it would boil over. But soon he satisfied himself that this was not the game to play with a spirit so indifferent. And with a wild shriek of despair he cast the sword from him on the floor.
"Ha, baffled! foiled!" he remarked, clasping his hand suddenly to his brow: "COL-LD FIRE IS USELESS!"
This was summing up the situation with a vengeance, and tickled Celie so much that she laughed joyously—as the audience clapped and cheered with appreciation, and Cleg rose to come out.
"What comes after that?" said Celie, who was quite willing to stay to the end.
"After that the devil got him. We needna wait for that!" said Cleg, simply. He had an exceedingly healthy and orthodox belief in the ultimate fate of ill-doers. But he did not choose that his goddess should witness the details.
But we must do our hero justice. After the spiriting away of Vara Kavannah and the children from the burning house in Callendar's yard, Cleg did not submit to their loss without making many attempts to find them. His friend, the sergeant's wife, set the machinery of the police in motion. But nothing could be heard of Vara or of Hugh, or of little Gavin. Cleg went the round of the men who drive the rubbish-carts, each man of whom was a personal and particular friend. Now a persevering ash-man knows a lot—more than a policeman, having a wider beat, and not so much encouragement officially to tell what he knows. But, as Cleg could tell you, an ash-man's temper needs watching. Like the articles of diet he empties out of the baskets into his great sheet-iron covered carts, it is apt to go both bad and high. A policeman patrolling his beat is, according to his personal deservings, stayed with flagons, comforted with apples. But what maid in all the areas thinks upon the poor dustman?
Nevertheless, Cleg went the round of the ash-cart men, and of each he inquired circumspectly about the Kavannahs. Not one had seen them in any part of the city. But, indeed, there were many people, even women and children, awake and abroad that morning of the great fire in Callendar's woodyard. Cleg next looked up the morning milkmen who converge upon the city from every point, summer and winter. They have risen to the milking of the cows during the small hours of the morning, and thereafter they have set their barrels upon a light cart, before spinning cityward between the hedges. The milkmen can tell as much of the country roads as the dustmen of the city streets. But to none had the vision of three pilgrim children, setting forth from the city of persecution, been vouchsafed.
So Cleg had perforce to abide, with his heart unsatisfied and sore. Perhaps, so he thought, one day hidden things would come to light, and the shadows which had settled upon the fate of the Kavannahs break and flee away.
In the meantime the ancient Society of the Knuckle Dusters flourished exceedingly in its new incarnation of "The Club." The deputation which approached Mr. Donald Iverach, having by the intervention of the watchman chosen a good time for their visit, was most graciously received. The watchman, a man of some penetration, gave Cleg the word to come at six o'clock on a day when the junior partner had brought his tennis shoes to the works.
"You want to use the old store-room every night?" said Donald Iverach, looking at the shamefaced deputation, every man of whom itched to draw triangles on the floor with his toe and yet dared not.
"Except Sundays," answered Cleg, who, as ever, was ready of speech, and not at all shamefaced.
"What does Miss Tennant say?" asked the junior partner, who wished to see where he was being led. He was not a selfish young man, but, like the rest of us, he wanted to be sure what he was going to get out of a thing before he committed himself.
"Miss Tennant's a memb—" began Tam Luke, who had no discretion.
Cleg kicked Tam Luke on the shin severely. Tam promptly coughed, choked, and was led out by unsympathetic friends, who expressed their opinion of him outside with pith and animation.
"Miss Celie wants us to look after this club oorsels," said Cleg. "We are the commy-tee—except Tam Luke," he added. Tam had de facto forfeited his position by his interruption.
The commy-tee hung its head, and looked about for possible exits.
"And who is responsible?" asked Mr. Donald Iverach, smiling a little and shaking his head.
"Me an' Miss Celie," answered Cleg, promptly.
The junior partner stopped shaking his head, but continued to smile.
"Come away, chaps," said Cleg, who knew when the battle was won; "guid nicht to ye, sir, an' thank ye. Miss Celie wull be pleased!"
Thereafter the Knuckle Dusters' Club was formally organised. The prominent feature in the management was the House Committee. Its powers were unlimited, and were chiefly directed to "chucking out." This was the club's sole punishment. Fines would certainly not be collected. Privileges were so few that it was not easy to discriminate those which pertained to members of the club in good standing. But the members of the House Committee were chosen on the principle that any two of them, being "in charge," should be qualified to "chuck" the rest of the club—members of the House Committee itself being of course excepted. It was a singularly able-bodied committee, and willing beyond all belief. So long as it held together, the situation was saved. Its average measurement round the forearm was eleven inches.
There were difficulties, of course. And, strange as it may seem, these rose chiefly from the ravages of the tender sentiment of love. The Knuckle Dusters had laid it down as a fundamental condition that no girls were to be permitted, or even encouraged. Miss Celie had insisted upon this. Perhaps, womanlike, she wished to reign alone, and could brook no rivals near her throne. But in practice the rule was found difficult of enforcement. For there was no maidenly backwardness about the girls of the Sooth Back. It was indeed a rule that each Keelie, beyond the condition of a schoolboy, should possess himself of a sweetheart—that is, so soon as he was capable of "doing for himself." Sometimes these alliances resulted in singularly early marriage. Oftener they did not.
Cleg, of course, was much too young for "nonsense" of this kind, as he described it. But Cleaver's boy, and Tam Luke, and indeed most of the Knuckle Dusters, being "in places," were from the first equipped with a complete working outfit of sweethearts, pipes, and navy revolvers. They got them all about the same time, not because they wanted them, but because it was the fashion. Yet I do them no more than justice when I allow that they thought most highly of the pipes. They treated their pipes with every consideration.
It is true that each Knuckle Duster spoke of his sweetheart as "my young lady," but this was only between themselves. To the "young ladies" themselves their words were certainly not the ordinary and hackneyed terms of affection, such as generations of common lovers have used.
But the girls were not to be daunted. With such cavalier and disdainful knights, ordinary methods were put out of court. It was clearly necessary that someone should do the wooing. If not the Knuckle Dusters (haughty knaves), why, then the "young lady" herself. It was always Leap Year in the Sooth Back. There were but two unforgivable crimes in the bright lexicon of love, as it was consulted in the lower parts of the Pleasance. On the side of the Knuckle Dusters the one unpardonable fault was "going with a swell." On the part of the "young ladies" it was "taking up with another girl." Blows, disdain, contumely, abuse, all fell alike harmless—mere love-pats of the gentle god. "Another" is the only fatal word in love.
So, then, it was quite in keeping with the nature of things, and especially with the nature of untrammelled youth, that the Knuckle Dusters' Club should have its amatorious difficulties. Part of each evening at the club was now devoted to the sciences. Arithmetic and writing were the favourites. There was also talk of forming a shorthand class. For shorthand has a mysterious fascination for the uneducated. It is universal matter of faith among them, that only the most gifted of the human race can learn to write shorthand. This is strange enough, for both observation and experience teach us that the difficulty lies in reading the shorthand after it is written.
The entrance to the club-room of the Knuckle Dusters was through a vaulted "pend," which, having no magistrate of the city resident within it, was wholly unlighted. It was no uncommon thing, therefore, for the solemn work of scientific instruction to be interrupted by the voice of the siren outside—a siren with a towse of hair done up loosely in a net, a shawl about her head, and elf locks a-tangle over her brow. The siren did not sing. She whistled like a locomotive engine when the signals are contrary and the engine-driver anxious to go off duty. At first the Knuckle Dusters used to rise and quietly depart, when, in this well-understood fashion, the voice of love shrilly breathed up the store-room stair. But after a little, Celie, who, from an entirely superfluous sense of delicacy, had hitherto suffered in silence, felt that it was time to remonstrate.
It was Cleaver's boy who caused most trouble. Now this was by no means the fault of Cleaver's boy, who, to do him justice, was far more interested in the adventures of "Sixteen String Jack" or "Deadshot Dick, the Cowboy of Coon County," than in a dozen Susies or Sallies. But Cleaver's boy was a youth of inches. Besides, he had a curly head and an imperious way with him, which took with women—who, gentle and simple, like to be slighted and trodden upon when the right man takes the contract in hand. Cleaver's boy was, in fact, just Lord Byron without the title and the clubfoot. Cleaver's boy had also genius like the poet. Here is one of his impromptus, written after a music-hall model: