Charlie to the Rescue - Robert Michael Ballantyne (ebook reader with highlighter TXT) 📗

relieve the poor man's mind by telling him of his son's welfare and reformation.

But we need not linger over this part of the story, for the reader can easily guess a good deal of what was said to Leather, while old Mrs Samson was perusing the letter of her dead son, and tears of mingled sorrow and joy coursed down her withered cheeks.

That night however, Charlie Brooke conceived a vast idea, and partially revealed it at the tea-table to Zook--whose real name, by the way, was Jim Smith.

"'Ave you found 'er, sir?" said Mrs Butt, putting the invariable, and by that time annoying, question as Charlie entered his lodging.

"No, Mrs Butt, I haven't found _'er_, and I don't expect to find _'er_ at all."

"Lawk! sir, I'm _so_ sorry."

"Has Mr Zook come?"

"Yes, sir 'e's inside and looks impatient. The smell o' the toast seems a'most too strong a temptation for 'im; I'm glad you've come."

"Look here, Zook," said Charlie, entering his parlour, "go into that bedroom. You'll find a bundle of new clothes there. Put them on. Wrap your old clothes in a handkerchief, and bring them to me. Tea will be ready when you are."

The surprised pauper did as he was bid, without remark, and re-entered the parlour a new man!

"My own mother, if I 'ad one, wouldn't know me, sir," he said, glancing admiringly at his vest.

"Jim Smith, Esquire," returned Charlie, laughing. "I really don't think she would."

"Zook, sir," said the little man, with a grave shake of the head; "couldn't think of changin' my name at my time of life; let it be Zook, if you please, sir, though in course I've no objection to esquire, w'en I 'ave the means to maintain my rank."

"Well, Zook, you have at all events the means to make a good supper, so sit down and go to work, and I'll talk to you while you eat,--but, stay, hand me the bundle of old clothes."

Charlie opened the window as he spoke, took hold of the bundle, and discharged it into the back yard.

"There," he said, sitting down at the table, "that will prove an object of interest to the cats all night, and a subject of surprise to good Mrs Butt in the morning. Now, Zook," he added, when his guest was fairly at work taking in cargo, "I want to ask you--have you any objection to emigrate to America?"

"Not the smallest," he said, as well as was possible through a full mouth. "Bein' a orphling, so to speak, owin' to my never 'avin' 'ad a father or mother--as I knows on--there's nothin' that chains me to old England 'cept poverty."

"Could you do without drink?"

"Sca'sely, sir, seein' the doctors say that man is about three parts--or four, is it?--made up o' water; I would be apt to grow mummified without drink, wouldn't I, sir?"

"Come, Zook--you know that I mean _strong_ drink--alcohol in all its forms."

"Oh, I see. Well, sir, as to that, I've bin in the 'abit of doin' without it so much of late from needcessity, that I don't think I'd find much difficulty in knocking it off altogether, if I was to bring principle to bear."

"Well, then," continued Charlie, "(have some more ham?) I have just conceived a plan. I have a friend in America who is a reformed drunkard. His father in this country is also, I hope, a reformed drunkard. There is a good man out there, I understand, who has had a great deal to do with reformed drunkards, and he has got up a large body of friends and sympathisers who have determined to go away into the far west and there organise a total abstinence community, and found a village or town where nothing in the shape of alcohol shall be admitted except as physic.

"Now, I have a lot of friends in England who, I think, would go in for such an expedition if--"

"Are _they_ all reformed drunkards, sir?" asked Zook in surprise, arresting a mass of sausage in its course as he asked the question.

"By no means," returned Charlie with a laugh, "but they are earnest souls, and I'm sure will go if I try to persuade them."

"You're sure to succeed, sir," said Zook, "if your persuasions is accompanied wi' sassengers, 'am, an' buttered toast," remarked the little man softly, as he came to a pause for a few seconds.

"I'll bring to bear on them all the arguments that are available, you may be sure. Meanwhile I shall count you my first recruit."

"Number 1 it is, sir, w'ich is more than I can say of this here slice," said Zook, helping himself to more toast.

While the poor but happy man was thus pleasantly engaged, his entertainer opened his writing portfolio and began to scribble off note after note, with such rapidity that the amazed pauper at his elbow fairly lost his appetite, and, after a vain attempt to recover it, suggested that it might be as well for him to retire to one of the palatial fourpence-a-night residences in Dean and Flower Street.

"Not to-night. You've done me a good turn that I shall never forget" said Charlie, rising and ringing the bell with needless vigour.

"Be kind enough, Mrs Butt, to show Mr Zook to his bedroom."

"My heye!" murmured the pauper, marching off with two full inches added to his stature. "Not in there, I suppose, missis," he said facetiously, as he passed the coal-hole.

"Oh, lawks! no--this way," replied the good woman, who was becoming almost imbecile under the eccentricities of her lodger. "This is your bedroom, and I only 'ope it won't turn into a band-box before morning, for of all the transformations an' pantimimes as 'as took place in this 'ouse since Mr Brooke entered it, I--"

She hesitated, and, not seeing her way quite clearly to the fitting end of the sentence, asked if Mr Zook would 'ave 'ot water in the morning.

"No, thank you, Missis," replied the little man with dignity, while he felt the stubble on his chin; "'avin left my razors at 'ome, I prefers the water cold."

Leaving Zook to his meditations, Mrs Butt retired to bed, remarking, as she extinguished the candle, that Mr Brooke was still "a-writin' like a 'ouse a fire!"


CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.


SWEETWATER BLUFF.

We must now leap over a considerable space, not only of distance, but of time, in order to appreciate fully the result of Charlie Brooke's furious letter-writing and amazing powers of persuasion.

Let the reader try to imagine a wide plateau, dotted with trees and bushes, on one of the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains, where that mighty range begins to slide into union with the great prairies. It commands a view of mingled woodland and rolling plain, diversified by river and lake, extending to a horizon so faint and far away as to suggest the idea of illimitable space.

Early one morning in spring, five horsemen, emerging from a belt of woodland, galloped to the slope that led to the summit of this plateau. Drawing rein, they began slowly to ascend. Two of the cavaliers were young, tall, and strong;--two were portly and old, though still hearty and vigorous; one, who led them, on a coal-black steed, was a magnificent specimen of the backwoodsman, and one, who brought up the rear, was a thin little man, who made up for what he wanted in size by the energy and vigour of his action, as, with hand and heel, he urged an unwilling horse to keep up with the rest of the party.

Arrived at the summit of the plateau, the leading horseman trotted to its eastern edge, and halted as if for the purpose of surveying the position.

"Here we are at last," he said, to the tallest of his comrades; "Sweetwater Bluff--and the end of our journey!"

"And a most noble end it is!" exclaimed the tall comrade. "Why, Hunky Ben, it far surpasses my expectations and all you have said about it."

"Most o' the people I've had to guide over this trail have said pretty much the same thing in different words, Mr Brooke," returned the scout, dismounting. "Your wife will find plenty o' subjects here for the paintin' she's so fond of."

"Ay, May will find work here to keep her brushes busy for many a day to come," replied Charlie, "though I suspect that other matters will claim most of her time at first, for there is nothing but a wilderness here yet."

"You've yet to larn, sir, that we don't take as long to _fix_ up a town hereaway as you do in the old country," remarked Hunky Ben, as old Jacob Crossley ambled up on the staid creature which we have already introduced as _Wheelbarrow_.

Waving his hand with enthusiasm the old gentleman exclaimed, "Glorious!" Indeed, for a few minutes he sat with glistening eyes and heaving chest, quite unable to give vent to any other sentiment than "glorious!" This he did at intervals. His interest in the scene, however, was distracted by the sudden advent of Captain Stride, whose horse--a long-legged roan--had an awkward tendency, among other eccentricities, to advance sideways with a waltzing gait, that greatly disconcerted the mariner.

"Woa! you brute. Back your tops'ls, won't you? I _never_ did see sitch a craft for heavin' about like a Dutch lugger in a cross sea. She sails side on, no matter where she's bound for. Forges ahead a'most entirely by means of leeway, so to speak. Hallo! woa! Ketch a grip o' the painter, Dick, an' hold on till I git off the hurricane deck o' this walrus--else I'll be overboard in a--. There--" The captain came to the ground suddenly as he spoke, without the use of stirrup, and, luckily, without injury.

"Not hurt I hope?" asked Dick Darvall, assisting his brother-salt to rise.

"Not a bit of it, Dick. You see I'm a'most as active as yourself though double your age, if not more. I say, Charlie, this _is_ a pretty look-out. Don't 'ee think so, Mr Crossley? I was sure that Hunky Ben would find us a pleasant anchorage and safe holding-ground at last, though it did seem as if we was pretty long o' comin' to it. Just as we was leavin' the waggins to ride on in advance I said to my missus--says I--Maggie, you may depend--"

"Hallo! Zook," cried Charlie, as the little man of the slums came limping up, "what have you done with your horse?"

"Cast 'im loose, sir, an' gi'n 'im leave of absence as long as 'e pleases. It's my opinion that some the 'osses o' the western prairies ain't quite eekal to some o' the 'osses I've bin used to in Rotten Row. Is this the place, Hunky? Well, now," continued the little man, with flashing eyes, as he looked round on the magnificent scene, "it'll do. Beats W'itechapel an' the Parks any 'ow. An' there's lots o' poultry about, too!" he added, as a flock of wild ducks went by on whistling wings. "I say, Hunky Ben, w'at's yon brown things over there by the shores o' the lake?"

"Buffalo," answered the scout.

"What! wild uns?"

"There's no tame ones in them diggin's as I knows