Dusty Diamonds Cut and Polished - Robert Michael Ballantyne (best ebook reader txt) 📗

only in the spelling but in the writing. Nevertheless, it had carried great joy to the mother's heart. We shall therefore give it _verbatim et literatim_.

Brankly Farm--Kanada.

"Deer Mutrer. wen i left you i promisd to rite so heer gos. this Plase is eaven upon arth. so pritty an grand. O you never did see the likes. ide park is nuffin to it, an as for Kensintn gardings--wy to kompair thems rediklis. theres sitch a nice little gal here. shes wun of deer mis mukfersons gals--wot the vestenders calls a wafe and sometimes a strai. were all very fond of er spesially tim lumpy. i shuvd im in the river wun dai. my--ow e spluterd. but e was non the wus--all the better, mister an mistress meryboi aint that a joly naim are as good as gold to us. we as prairs nite and mornin an no end o witls an as appy as kings and kueens a-sitin on there throns. give all our luv to deer father, an etty an baiby an mis mukferson an mister olland an all our deer teechers. sai we'll never forgit wot they told us. your deer sun Bobby."

"Isn't it beautiful?" said Mrs Frog, wiping away a tear with the sock she was darning in preparation for her husband's return.

"Yes, mother. Bless the people that sent 'im out to Canada," said Hetty, "for he would never have got on here."

There came a tap to the door as she spoke, and Mrs Twitter, entering, was received with a hearty welcome.

"I came, Mrs Frog," she said, accepting the chair--for there was even a third chair--which Hetty placed for her, "to ask when your husband will be home again."

Good Mrs Twitter carefully avoided the risk of hurting the poor woman's feelings by needless reference to jail.

"I expect him this day three weeks, ma'am," replied Mrs Frog.

"That will do nicely," returned Mrs Twitter. "You see, my husband knows a gentleman who takes great pleasure in getting con--in getting men like Ned, you know, into places, and giving them a chance of--of getting on in life, you understand?"

"_Yes_, ma'am, we must all try to git on in life if we would keep in life," said Mrs Frog, sadly.

"Well, there is a situation open just now, which the gentleman--the same gentleman who was so kind in helping us after the fire; you see we all need help of one another, Mrs Frog--which the gentleman said he could keep open for a month, but not longer, so, as I happened to be passing your house to-night on my way to the Yard, to the mothers' meeting, I thought I'd just look in and tell you, and ask you to be sure and send Ned to me the moment he comes home."

"I will, ma'am, and God bless you for thinkin' of us so much."

"Remember, now," said Mrs Twitter, impressively, "_before_ he has time to meet any of his old comrades. Tell him if he comes straight to me he will hear something that will please him very much. I won't tell you what. That is my message to him. And now, how is my Mita? Oh! I need not ask. There she lies like a little angel!" (Mrs Twitter rose and went to the crib, but did not disturb the little sleeper.) "I wish I saw roses on her little cheeks and more fat, Mrs Frog."

Mrs Frog admitted that there was possible improvement in the direction of roses and fat, but feared that the air, (it would have been more correct to have said the smoke and smells), of the court went against roses and fat, somehow. She was thankful, however, to the good Lord for the health they all enjoyed in spite of local disadvantages.

"Ah!" sighed Mrs Twitter, "if we could only transport you all to Canada--"

"Oh! ma'am," exclaimed Mrs Frog, brightening up suddenly, "we've had _such_ a nice letter from our Bobby. Let her see it, Hetty."

"Yes, and so nicely written, too," remarked Hetty, with a beaming face, as she handed Bobby's production to the visitor, "though he doesn't quite understand yet the need for capital letters."

"Never mind, Hetty, so long as he sends you capital letters," returned Mrs Twitter, perpetrating the first pun she had been guilty of since she was a baby; "and, truly, this is a charming letter, though short."

"Yes, it's rather short, but it might have been shorter," said Mrs Frog, indulging in a truism.

Mrs Twitter was already late for the mothers' meeting, but she felt at once that it would be better to be still later than to disappoint Mrs Frog of a little sympathy in a matter which touched her feelings so deeply. She sat down, therefore, and read the letter over, slowly, commenting on it as she went along in a pleasant sort of way, which impressed the anxious mother with, not quite the belief, but the sensation that Bobby was the most hopeful immigrant which Canada had received since it was discovered.

"Now, mind, send Ned up _at once_," said the amiable lady when about to quit the little room.

"Yes, Mrs Twitter, I will; good-night."


CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.


NED FROG'S EXPERIENCES AND SAMMY TWITTER'S WOES.

But Ned Frog, with strong drink combined, rendered fruitless all the efforts that were put forth in his behalf at that time.

When discharged with a lot of other jail-birds, none of whom, however, he knew, he sauntered leisurely homeward, wondering whether his wife was alive, and, if so, in what condition he should find her.

It may have been that better thoughts were struggling in his breast for ascendency, because he sighed deeply once or twice, which was not a usual mode with Ned of expressing his feelings. A growl was more common and more natural, considering his character.

Drawing nearer and nearer to his old haunts, yet taking a roundabout road, as the moth is drawn to the candle, or as water descends to its level, he went slowly on, having little hope of comfort in his home, and not knowing very well what to do.

As he passed down one of the less frequented streets leading into Whitechapel, he was arrested by the sight of a purse lying on the pavement. To become suddenly alive, pick it up, glance stealthily round, and thrust it into his pocket, was the work of an instant. The saunter was changed into a steady businesslike walk. As he turned into Commercial Street, Ned met Number 666 full in the face. He knew that constable intimately, but refrained from taking notice of him, and passed on with an air and expression which were meant to convey the idea of infantine innocence. Guilty men usually over-reach themselves. Giles noted the air, and suspected guilt, but, not being in a position to prove it, walked gravely on, with his stern eyes straight to the front.

In a retired spot Ned examined his "find." It contained six sovereigns, four shillings, threepence, a metropolitan railway return ticket, several cuttings from newspapers, and a recipe for the concoction of a cheap and wholesome pudding, along with a card bearing the name of Mrs Samuel Twitter, written in ink and without any address.

"You're in luck, Ned," he remarked to himself, as he examined these treasures. "Now, old boy you 'aven't stole this 'ere purse, so you ain't a thief; you don't know w'ere Mrs S.T. lives, so you can't find 'er to return it to 'er. Besides, it's more than likely she won't feel the want of it--w'ereas I feels in want of it wery much indeed. Of course it's my dooty to 'and it over to the p'lice, but, in the first place, I refuse to 'ave any communication wi' the p'lice, friendly or otherwise; in the second place, I 'ad no 'and in makin' the laws, so I don't feel bound to obey 'em; thirdly, I'm both 'ungry an' thirsty, an' 'ere you 'ave the remedy for them afflictions, so, fourthly--'ere goes!"

Having thus cleared his conscience, Ned committed the cash to his vest pocket, and presented the purse with its remaining contents to the rats in a neighbouring sewer.

Almost immediately afterwards he met an Irishman, an old friend.

"Terence, my boy, well met!" he said, offering his hand.

"Hooroo! Ned Frog, sure I thought ye was in limbo!"

"You thought right, Terry; only half-an-hour out. Come along, I'll stand you somethin' for the sake of old times. By the way, have you done that job yet?"

"What job?"

"Why, the dynamite job, of course."

"No, I've gi'n that up," returned the Irishman with a look of contempt. "To tell you the honest truth, I don't believe that the way to right Ireland is to blow up England. But there's an Englishman you'll find at the Swan an' Anchor--a sneakin' blackguard, as would sell his own mother for dhrink--he'll help you if you wants to have a hand in the job. I'm off it."

Notwithstanding this want of sympathy on that point, the two friends found that they held enough in common to induce a prolonged stay at the public-house, from which Ned finally issued rather late at night, and staggered homewards. He met no acquaintance on the way, and was about to knock at his own door when the sound of a voice within arrested him.

It was Hetty, praying. The poor wife and daughter had given up hope of his returning at so late an hour that night, and had betaken themselves to their usual refuge in distress. Ned knew the sound well, and it seemed to rouse a demon in his breast, for he raised his foot with the intention of driving in the door, when he was again arrested by another sound.

It was the voice of little Matty, who, awaking suddenly out of a terrifying dream, set up a shrieking which at once drowned all other sounds.

Ned lowered his foot, thrust his hands into his pockets, and stood gazing in a state of indecision at the broken pavement for a few minutes.

"No peace there," he said, sternly. "Prayin' an' squallin' don't suit me, so good-night to 'ee all."

With that he turned sharp round, and staggered away, resolving never more to return!

"Is that you, Ned Frog?" inquired a squalid, dirty-looking woman, thrusting her head out of a window as he passed.

"No, 'tain't," said Ned, fiercely, as he left the court.

He went straight to a low lodging-house, but before entering tied his money in a bit of rag, and thrust it into an inner pocket of his vest, which he buttoned tight, and fastened his coat over it. Paying the requisite fourpence for the night's lodging, he entered, and was immediately hailed by several men who knew him, but being in no humour for good fellowship, he merely nodded and went straight up to his lowly bed. It was one of seventy beds that occupied the entire floor of an immense room. Police supervision had secured that this room should be well ventilated, and that the bedding should be reasonably clean, though far from clean-looking, and Ned slept soundly in spite of drink, for, as we have said before, he was unusually strong.

Next day, having thought over his plans in bed, and, being a man of strong determination, he went forth