The Poacher

I thought I knew my friend Will Bryan thoroughly. I had had every opportunity for so doing. He was so frank and open-hearted, that I fancied there was no difficulty in reading him. But from the conversation recorded in the preceding chapter, I saw there were strata in his character, of the existence of which I was not previously aware. I had always considered him the picture of health and vivacity, and as one whose talents shone although they had never been cultivated. He was no great reader; but of whatsoever he read he took in the meaning and spirit at a gulp, He was too listless to take pains, but then he did everything, apparently, without effort. All he saw and all he heard—sermons excepted—he took down, as it were, in shorthand upon his memory. He was a shrewd, keen observer of men and things. To use his own idiom, he was constantly “spotting” something or somebody, and it was but seldom he was far off the mark. On returning home together from places we had visited he would astonish me with the number of things he had “spotted,” but which I had never noticed at all. I am not much surprised, now, that he used to call me, on such occasions, Bartimeus. I often envied his ability to see things as they were, and not as they seemed. I considered, always, that he had a natural faculty for detecting deceit and trickery, or as he called them “humbug” and “fudge.” His shrewdness and his knack of setting things forth in their true colours—in few, but cutting words—had impressed me for years, and induced me to emulate him. But, for all that, I felt, as he himself admitted, that he had “done me harm;” for, many a time, when I fancied myself benefitting from a sermon or address, Will would destroy the good impression by pointing out some “humbug” in it of his own discovering. Although I could place greater reliance upon his honour, and presume farther upon his generosity than anyone else, still, I was convinced that he was an utter stranger to serious feeling, and wholly unconcerned about his spiritual condition. After I had resolved to reveal my intention to reform, I expected, as already intimated, he would be severely sarcastic at my expense. But I was dissappointed. It surprised me to find him rejoice at my having “had a turn,” as he phrased it, and that there was a longing in his own heart for a similar awakening. He did not intend, he said, to carry out his bat in the game he was playing. In the solitude and silence of night had come a cry from the depths of his consciousness: “Will, why art thou wicked?” But, as he said, he got no help from his parents “to turn the evil spirit out.” Poor old Will! I have often thought if he had received a religious rearing, if he had seen anything but worldliness and worship of the golden calf at home, he might to-day be an ornament not only to his neighbourhood but to his nation. In the most reckless of us there is a kind of duality. Although depravity may be uppermost, there is something at the bottom of the heart which doffs its hat to goodness, to truth. I once knew a drunken, wholly irreligious man who, on receiving a letter from a son who had left home, giving an account of his reception into full church membership, was so overcome with emotion that he was obliged to beat a hasty retreat into another room, out of sight of his family, in order to weep out his joy. What a homage to religion! Whether on a throne or off, it is virtue that is paramount, by common consent. Amid all his frivolity and mischief, Will Bryan had his serious hours, when Conscience insisted upon being heard, and his soul sighed for help to cast forth the spirit of evil. I should never have imagined that such thoughts found a place in his heart, if he himself had not admitted to me that they had. The secret history of his heart, told by one friend to another, often elicits other history kept equally secret theretofore.

I do not know what made Will Bryan think I wished to become a preacher, because I am certain I never disclosed the fact to him. When a lad, it is true, I delighted in the notion of one day joining the ministry; but it was a secret which I confided to not a living soul. For some years my mode of life had been anything but favourable to such a notion, and the boyish desire was entirely eliminated from my mind by tho time I had become of age and sense. When Will protested it was a preacher I must be, nothing was farther from my thoughts. I was in too much trouble about my condition and creed to think of anything else. And yet I must confess that Will’s words: “You needn’t shake your head; it is a preacher you will be,” clung to me. He pronounced them with such emphasis and certainty that I felt constrained to ask myself was Will, like Saul, among the prophets? I scouted the notion; only no sooner did I do so than it would return. I recalled the strange and wonderful feeling that came over me on the night of Seth’s death, after my attempt to pray by his bedside; how something had told me, on my way home, that I would some day be a preacher. But I could not help remembering, also, how wicked, how sinful, how flippant I had been, during the many years that had elapsed since mother died; and I fancied hearing unclean spirits at my elbow asking, amidst derisive laughter, “Who art thou, to think of preaching? Thou who hast broken every commandment a thousand times?” There were dozens of lads about my home who knew my old life. How they would smile in the sleeve did I dare to talk of such a thing; how they would recall my old tricks, whilst I preached! And how I would remember them on seeing my companions! What, me a preacher! Impossible! But then how came Will so confidently to predict it was a preacher I would be? He knew more about me than anybody else in the neighbourhood; aye, knew more of my faults. And yet he had said, “You are bound to be a preacher!” Impossible, said I to myself. I am certain neither of my salvation nor my faith. He who thinks of preaching should first of all be assured of his own salvation. It is not so with me. Once more did I discard the idea of becoming a preacher, it being out of the question, I thought, that such a thing could ever happen.

Weeks passed; and somehow, of late, I found myself no longer caring for light-coloured clothes—not because I thought of being a preacher, but because black clothes appeared more becoming. I had light clothes no worse than new in my box, but I would not wear, because I did not like them. I made up my mind that the next coat I got made for myself should be a little longer-bodied, although not so long as the preachers’, not for anyone to think I was imitating them, than which nothing was farther from my mind. I took a special interest in books of divinity, and wondered a little why others of the like age did not relish them as I did. I remembered the time when I was much given to criticise the preachers, and to find faults in their sermons; but latterly I had got to wonder how really blameless they were, and how they managed to fulfil their duties so surpassingly well. Previously, I hated to find it becoming Abel’s turn to take the “monthly” entertainment of the preacher; but now, I longed for its advent, and spent all the time at my disposal in the speakers’ company. I can’t, to this minute, help laughing at my simplicity. I regarded Abel’s diary as a sacred book, so sacred that I dared not ask to see it, though I burned to know who was to preach with us in the coming months. And when Abel happened, forgetfully, to leave it on the mantle-piece, the temptation to look hurriedly through it was too strong to be withstood. After doing so, I felt as guilty, as, I should imagine, the Jew who, not being of the order of priesthood, had happened to examine the contents of the ark of the covenant! I I am sorry to be obliged to admit that 1 have not been able to preserve the like feeling of respect towards the diary; because I subsequently discovered some things in it which could not always be depended on. Looking at it at the year’s end, I found it contained quite as many “fairings”* as fairs, and that the moon had not changed so often as the “promises.”

But to return. I loved to see a preacher coming to Abel Hughes’s house; if he was a young one all the better—a student more especially. I could be more bold with these latter, and ask them an occasional question, such as, How old were they when they began to preach? Did they find the work very difficult? Was it of their own accord they had taken to it, or at the instigation of others? And so forth. Had I any thought of myself beginning to preach? Nothing was farther from my mind, so I fancied. If I secretly cherished any such intention, the memory of the disgrace attaching to my family, of which I knew not the minute it would be revived and brought painfully into prominence, was sufficient to blast, for ever, every hope or desire of this kind there might be in me. Recollection of my feelings at that time puts me in mind of the incident I am now going to relate.

In the neighbourhood where I was brought up there was a strange character known as “Old Nic’las,” or, more often “Old Nick;” a not inappropriate designation for, with my boyish notions of his namesake, I fancied Nic’las and he to possess a strong family likeness. The former was tall, had a stoop, was muscular and strong. Although at the time I speak of an old man, age had not softened or smoothed his natural roughness of aspect. His bristly hair obstinately refused to whiten, his repulsive countenance was too firm set to wrinkle. I believe he would have gone mad had he lost a tooth. In walking, he always held his head down and rested his hands on the small of his back, under his coat-tails. He looked no one in the face save from the corners of his cunning eyes. He was such a terror to the children, that when one of them cried or refused to come home on being called, the mother might be heard saying, “You wait a bit, my boy; here’s old Nic’las coming,” which was quite enough to stop the cry or to send the youngster running into the house for his life. Although mother never threatened Niclas upon me, I feared him greatly, notwithstanding. I remember when we were a crowd of boys at play, directly we saw Niclas coming, we scampered off to hide, and kept as still as mice out of the way until he had gone by. Will Bryan would not believe he was human. Will used to say he was a cross between a Gipsy and the Evil One. Nic’las held no sort of communication with his neighbours, for which, so far as I know, no one was the least bit sorry. A stranger to those parts, his life and circumstances were a complete mystery. Many, however, were the wild and fearful stories told about him, implicitly accepted by the credulous and the superstitious, no one being able to gainsay them. It was pretty generally believed that he was of high family and very rich. Mother was of opinion that he had sold himself to the Evil One, and was living upon the proceeds. I fear her views of the pecuniary resources of the Evil One were too broad; only, in face of such a charge, she would instantly answer that the love of money is the root of all evil, and that it was not unlikely the Devil had an enormous old stocking stowed away somewhere. Anyhow, it is certain that Nic’las was not poor, for he lived in his own house, which he had bought for a pretty good sum of money. This house, called Garth Ddu, stood in a secluded nook, about half a mile from the town, and abutted upon the domain of the Hall. Surrounding house and garden was a high wall, built after Nic’las had become owner, Whit was visible of the structure had an antiquated look about it, the ivy mantling it up to the roof and making the windows wholly useless. A stranger would have thought the place had no occupant, and would have been confirmed in the notion by the appearance of the patch of land attached to the house, which had been neither grazed nor mown for years, and which human being never trod save Nic’las, who might be seen occasionally, head downwards, walking by the hedge-side, gun under arm, as if searching, not for a bird but for a badger. Since the day Nic’las got into possession, not a foot was known to have entered that enclosure save its owner’s, and that of a disreputable old woman, named Magdalen Bennet, or as she was commonly called Modlen of the Garth. Not even the tax collector was ever allowed to go beyond the door in the wall. Nic’las holding no intercourse with his neighbours, what of business he had to do with the world was transacted by Modlen alone. It was she who brought home his food, and the little clothes he stood in need of; it was she who called for his weekly newspaper. Many were the attempts made to get from Modlen some inkling of Nic’las’s circumstances and mode of life; but the only reply the old woman ever gave was, ‘it is a question you are putting me.” The utmost got out of her, even by her best friends, with reference to the way in which he spent his time was that he dug his garden and shot sparrows. All conversation concerning her master being distasteful to Modlen, and she being a good customer, the shopkeepers did not think of pestering her with inquiries. And yet they could not help wondering at the capacity of Nic’las’s stomach, if he alone ate all the food she bought for him. Moreover, when they thought of the large amount of powder and shot sent him, they wondered how a single sparrow had been left alive in all the country. It was Modlen’s story, probably, which gave rise to the belief that Niclas had a magnificent garden, well worth the seeing, and made many people grieve that so lovely a glade should waste its sweetness in almost the same manner as that desert flower of which the poet sings. The hermit life he led, and the halo of mystery surrounding his past had, at the time of which I write, become an old story, of which people no longer spoke or thought. It was pretty generally believed that there was something wrong in the head of the queer man of Garth Ddu. The common impression, combined with the fact that blows had been heard within the garden walls, efficiently protected Nic’las from the prying intrusion of his neighbours.

Will Bryan and myself held but little communication after the colloquy recorded in the previous chapter, and, to his credit be it said, this was to be attributed more to Will’s resolve not to “do harm to me,” than to any other cause. I had no longer any particular friend, with the exception of Abel Hughes; but, then, he was an old man. I spent my leisure time for the most part alone; and the more I read and studied, the more did the great questions of life weigh down my soul. No sooner did I find light thrown upon one mind-trouble, than I was in the midst of another, and I hardly ever get the better of my dejection save at short intervals. I often pined for a companion of my own age and disposition, to whom I could lay bare my heart; because, when I found myself in a difficulty or got fresh light on any subject, some spirit of speech came to me, and I longed for a hearer. I never was in robust health, and this disposition to stay within doors proved very injurious to me. When the weather was fine, Abel absolutely compelled me to go out for a walk. One night, towards the end of May, I remember well, after shutting shop, going, unasked, for a long stroll into the country. It was exceptionally clear and beautiful out of doors; so I took the zig-zag path by Alun’s side, passing, as I went, a number of clerks amusing themselves angling. Having gone far enough, I fancied I could get back sooner by another route. I crossed a couple of fields and, as I now remember, trespassed in so doing, and came into the high road leading by the Hall, whose surroundings I enjoyed, and whose isolation 1 drank in with delight, spite the fact that, for reasons already recorded, 1 felt no respect for the owner. I thought, if I may be permitted to say so, there was at once a simplicity and a god-like majesty about those tall trees shadowing the road on either hand; and that saying about “the trees of the Lord” came into my mind with a new and mystic meaning. No wonder, thought I, Will Bryan should talk so much of “nature.” I don’t know whether anyone else feels similarly, but, ever since I can remember, a feeling of reverence comes over me when I find myself in a great umbrageous forest. Perhaps it is something I, as a Briton, have inherited from the Druids of old; or it is possible the feeling may be commoner than I have imagined. The inspired writers, for instance, speak with respect of the cedars of Lebanon. It may be some will smile at the idea; but I have thought that you meet with more of God in a wooded country than in a bare and exposed one. At any rate, on that night, in a silence broken only by the baying of a hound at the Hall and the sound of my own footsteps on the hard roadway, I felt a sort of watch and ward kept over me as I walked, contemplatively, between that avenue of giant trees, standing out like grenadiers of God. On reaching the spot where the wood was thickest and gloomiest, and wherefrom the twilight was almost completely excluded, I saw coming to meet me a big man, slowly stalking and with head bent to earth. When we had got a little nearer each other I perceived it was Old Nic’las. The sight fairly made my flesh creep. I had not come across him for some time, and there was something in his look that night which agreed so well with the depressing loneliness of the place, that I lost every grain of that feeling of security which had possessed me only a moment previously. The sentinel trees seemed no longer grenadiers, but grim mantles, offering cover for a ghastly murder.

With trembling hand I buttoned up my coat over a still more trembling heart, and walked rapidly on. ‘Good night, Mr. Nic’las,” said I, in as bold a tone as I could command. Nic’las answered never a word, and did not even raise his head. After I had proceeded a few yards, I looked back and saw Nic’las going leisurely on his way. How foolish to be so frightened! Nic’las, poor old fellow, was an innocent creature enough. Leaving the main road, I struck the path leading by Garth Ddu, which I reached in a few minutes. I could not help stopping to take a look at the old house. How silly, thought I, of the people of the neighbourhood to associate such fearful, baseless, fables with its owner. In all my life I had never heard that Nic’las had said a nasty word to anybody. He had an odd way of living, it was useless to deny; but, so far as the facts went, no one could say that Nic’las was not a harmless man, after all. If he chose to make himself a mystery and a riddle to those around, he had a perfect right to do so, for he never did anybody wrong. There was, I thought, a charm about a secret, recluse life, and Nic’las, doubtless, found a pleasure in it. At the same time, I felt a great curiosity with respect to the house, especially now that its owner was from home. I should like to see the garden of which there was so much talk. The wall was not too high for me to climb. I resolved to make the attempt, and had just begun the task when I felt a strong grip laid upon my collar, and myself shaken as a terrier shakes a rat. The hand was old Nic’las’s.

“A thief is it! A thief in the house of Nic’las of Garth Ddu! Rather venturesome, eh?” he cried, giving me another shake which almost shook my soul from my body.

“Who are you?” he went on. ‘What are you? Where d’ye come from? Speak! Say your prayers! or by I’ll pull you into four quarters and a head!”

If he hadn’t held me by the collar, as a cat hols a mouse in her paw, I am certain I should have fallen from sheer fright. I tried to speak, but mouth and tongue were dry as a cake, and I couldn’t get out a word. I believed, for certain, he was going to murder me, but I could not have cried out had I been given the world. A hundred thoughts flashed across my brain: death by torture, another existence, my condition, mother, Bob, Abel Hughes, with all their associations, and if ever I prayed it was then. All this took only a quarter of a minute to think of; I, the while, gazing terrified at the fiendish face of old Nic’las, unable to utter a cry. Almost directly, he slackened his hold of me, but without letting go, and I could see by his looks that he was half satisfied with the scare he had given me. In a somewhat milder tone he asked me, once more: “Who are you, and what do you want?”

I don’t know how it came about, but all of a sudden my tongue eased a bit, and I was enabled tremulously to answer:

“I’m no thief Mr. Nic’las. I’m ’prentice to Abel Hughes, and I only wanted to see your garden; that’s the truth.”

“Wanted to see my garden, eh? Modlen’s been palavering, I know, that the garden is worth seeing; yes, worth the seeing. If the old hag doesn’t keep her tongue still, I’ll shoot her, dead as a door nail, that I will. And every boy I catch climbing my garden wall, I’ll flay him alive, and throw his flesh to the dog—that’ll save me buying meat for him. You want to see the garden, do you? Well, you shall see it, for it’s worth seeing. Ha, ha! Come inside.”

With one hand Nic’las kept his grip of me, while with the other he drew from his pocket a latch key, with which he opened the door in the wall. He led me through and carefully closed the door behind him. He then released me and ordered me to follow him. What was my surprise when I beheld the famous garden! It was a perfect wilderness, and, from its appearance, the owner could not have put a spade into it for years. With the exception of the path, which went about it, it was fairly hidden with thorns and brambles. Some of the bushes were dead or decayed, while others appeared to have broken heart for want of nourishment. For all that, Nic’las took me round, pretending to point out different kinds of fruits, flowers and plants which the place contained, using their technical names, and descanting elaborately on each variety, just as if he had been a professional gardener. When it was all over he laughed a harsh, jeering laugh, and said: “The garden is worth seeing, is’nt it?”

His classical gibberish concerning thorns, briars and weeds, being ended, he began mumbling disjointedly, as a maniac would; his words, as far as I can recollect them, being somewhat as follow:—

“Who’s Niclas of Garth Ddu? Where does he come from? Whom does he belong to? How does he live You’d like to know, wouldn’t you? But you shan’t. You think Nic’las a fool; he is a fool, too. Who was Nic’las’s father? David Nic’las, Esquire, great man, wise man, merchant, miser, idiot. Didn’t he smother his wife before, no, after, Nic’las, Garth Ddu was born? Who saw her die? How much did David Nic’las, Esquire, merchant, miser, idiot, pay the doctor not to tell? Where did David Niclas, Esquire, merchant, miser, idiot, send Niclas, Garth Ddu, to be nursed? Did he pay a hundred, two hundred pounds for poisoning the child? When did David Nic’las, Esquire, merchant, miser, idiot, get to know Nic’las, Garth Ddu, had no brains? What did he offer the schoolmaster to kill him with Latin? Did he offer a hundred pounds? Did he offer two hundred? Did David Nic’las, Esquire, merchant, miser, idiot, try to kill Nic’las of Garth Ddu, twice? Did he try three times? Did David Nic’las, Esquire, merchant, miser, idiot, get a stroke once? Did he have a stroke twice? Did he have a stroke three times? When David Nic’las, Esquire, merchant, miser, idiot, got the last stroke, did Nic’las of Garth Ddu sit on his chest, and squeeze his throat? Did he do so once? Did he do it twice? Can’t you answer me? Haven’t you a tongue? Where did Nic’las, Garth Ddu, get his money from? How did he get money? Would he have had money had he not sat on David Nic’las, Esquire, merchant, miser, idiot’s breast? How much did he get? Did he get two thousand? Did he get five thousand? Did he get ten thousand? Don’t you hear? Won’t you answer?”

“I must have time to consider, Mr. Nic’las,” replied I.

“Consider!” he returned. “Never take time to consider, or your head’U go wrong and you won’t be able to sleep for a week, for a fortnight, for three weeks. You’ll have to walk all night, if you’re going to consider. Never consider, or you ’ll get soft in the head. Can’t you speak? Are you deaf and dumb? I had a cousin who was deaf and dumb. He was always considering, and he died in the Asylum. They wanted Nic’las, Garth Ddu, to go to the Asylum, so that they might get his money. What do they do in the Asylum? Nothing but consider. Do they consider a week? Do they consider a year? Won’t you answer? Wait a bit; I’ll make you.”

Near by was an old thorn-grown summer-house, into which he dived, bringing out with him a double barrelled gun.

“Do you see this?” he said, recommencing his ravings. “What’s it good for? Will it kill once? Will it kill twice? Here, take hold of it and shoot me. One barrel at a time, mind. No, stay; I’ll shoot you first in the head with one barrel, and you shoot me, after, in the breast with the other. Toss up who’ll shoot first! I Heads! I Tails! I Who’s to shoot first? Let me consider; but I musn’t consider or my head ’ll go wrong. Why does Nic’las, Garth Ddu, keep so many cats To drive the Devil away. Sometimes a spirit of murder comes over me, and I’m bound to kill somebody. Who’ll I kill? If I killed Modlen, who’d fetch my things for me? What do I do Kill a cat, and pull her all to ribbons; the evil spirit goes away then. But what if the cats won’t come? What am I to do Shoot the old tree there, see; this way.”

Nic’las discharged both barrels into the trunk of the old tree. I was for some little time unable to make out whether the strange old creature was fool or knave; but while his rhodomontade was in progress, I became convinced he was a knave of the first order, or, as Will Bryan would say, a perfect humbug. It was patent that he was only making an artificial effort to impress me with the fact that he was insane. There was not a particle of insanity in his features; and I noticed that he constantly scanned my face to find out whether his vagaries frightened me. In a very few minutes I grew perfectly self-possessed, and no more afraid of him than if he were a sparrow. Immediately the report of the gun died away, I saw a short man coming from the house, and making towards us, presumably to find out the meaning of the shots. Obviously that man’s appearance was as unexpected to Nic’las as it was to me. I and the new-comer recognised each other directly he came up.

“Holloa, Rhys!” he cried, extending a hand which I refused to take. “Nic’las,” he went on; “d’ye know who this chap is?”

Nic’las shook his head.

“Our old pal’s kid,” said the new-comer.

Nic’las opened wide his eyes in astonishment and, obediently to a sign from his comrade, went into the house.

“Won’t you shake hands, Rhys? How did you find your way here, tell me P” resumed the man, directly Nic’las was out of sight.

“Uncle,” I replied—for he was none other than the man whom I hated most on earth ever since I had first seen him when I called him “the Irishman”—“Uncle,” I said, ‘if I shook hands with you I should expect my hand to rot from that moment. I detest you with all my heart. Let me out of this accursed place.”

“What’s the matter with the boy? Why are you so cross? Why hate me?” he asked.

“Why?” rejoined I. “You know why, very well. It is you who’ve been the cause of all my mother’s misery and mine, It was you who ruined my father. It was you who taught him to poach. It was with you he was when he did that deed which compelled him to quit the country. Why do I hate you indeed! Because it was you, of all people, who gave my mother most trouble, my father alone excepted. How often have you been to our house interfering with our comfort? How many times did my mother give you the last shilling she had in the world so as to get rid of you? And how much oftener would you have worried us if you hadn’t been afraid of Bob?”

“Bob was a fool,” he observed. “Didn’t your father and I give him a chance of bolting on the night of his arrest? But he wouldn’t, and so, like a ninny, he was taken to gaol.”

“Don’t you call Bob a fool,” said I. “Bob would have been ashamed to take help from two such scoundrels as you and my father. Uncle, tell me the truth—if you haven’t forgotten the way—where is my father? Is he hiding in this abominable hole? Tell the truth, for once in your lifetime!”

“He is not,” was the answer. “Your parent is in a much warmer place.”

“Where? Speak plainly, and tell us the truth. Where is he?” I asked again.

“How can I tell? I never was on the grounds where your father now is. All I know is that he has kicked the bucket; and it’s a blessed shame you haven’t a bit of crape about your hat; you a Methodist, too!”

To my discredit, be it said, my heart leaped with joy at the News.:

“Do you really mean to say my father is dead?” I queried. “Don’t deceive me, now—tell the truth for once.”

“Never was truer word spoken,” he replied. “You know your father was fond of drink. Well, both of us had been in luck a bit. He got hold of too much brass for his own good; made too free with the whiskey, and had a stroke. I told him many times to take care; but it was no use talking. He turned up his toes in Warwick. I happened, as it were, to be, at the time, in Leamington—for the sake of my health, you know. I took in Warwick on my journey, and there met your father, whom I happened to know. I looked after him as long as he lived—it was in some not over-respectable public house he had put up—and emptied his pockets directly the last breath had gone out of him. He didn’t want to die, one mortal bit, knowing well they are all teetotalers in the other world. But it was his own fault entirely—I had warned him against the drink. The Union paid for burying him, I being only, as it were, a friend of his, you know.”

If you are telling the truth,” I remarked, “this is the best bit of news I ever heard. And if you had only died with him I should have been perfectly happy.”

He simply laughed, and said: “Well, when I die, you, as my nearest relative, will come in for all my shooting grounds —and they are very extensive; reaching from Warwick to Reined, in Denbighshire. What do you think? Tom of Nant’s ghost looks after one end of the estate, and Shakspeare’s after the other. They are the two head keepers, according to your father. No wonder you want me to die, so that you may be able to say you own your uncle James’s estate.”

“Give over fooling, and let me out of this horrible place,” said I, walking towards the door in the wall.

“Wait a little; what’s your hurry? How does that—— old roundhead behave towards you? Have you any objection to my visiting you on the sly, when I’m hard up? I see you’re a bit of a buck, so p’r’aps you’d like to find uncle James looking you up occasionally. Have you any such thing as half a crown about you, that you can spare? Where did you get that watch from? Now I think of it, what ’ll you give for the pawn-ticket of your father’s? You ought to have something to remember him by.”

I must tell the truth, however ugly. Some strange, improper spirit, took possession of me—some strong desire to throttle the churl. But I had strength to resist the impulse— as was best for me, no doubt.

“Open the door,” I said, “and let me get away.”

“You haven’t paid the gate,” he observed.

Son of my mother, I gave him all the money I had about me, which was two shillings.

“Thank you. I shall see you again, when you are more flush,” he remarked, taking a latch-key from his pocket and opening the door.

Directly I found my feet outside, I turned upon him, and looking him resolutely in the face, said, “Uncle, I have you under my thumb now. I’ve found out your retreat—the den you are hiding in—and if ever you show your face to me again, or I hear that you’ve been seen in the neighbourhood, or any of your work is being carried on here, remember, I shall reveal the whole to the police.”

“What!” he cried. ‘Are you going to split on me? Do you want to slaver your own clothes?”

“As sure as you’re a living man,” I replied.

“Look here,” he returned; “you’ll never see me again. So do your worst, my proud chicken.” And he tried to spit in my face as he slammed the door in my teeth.

I went joyfully home. The great burden which had weighed upon my mind had dropped to the ground. And yet I could not help asking myself, had my uncle told the truth? I knew he was better versed in telling lies.