And now he found himself entering a town not at all answering Tom’s description of Hatherton.
The little town was silent, its doors and windows shut, and all except a few old-fashioned oil-lamps dark.
After walking listlessly about—afraid to knock and ask anywhere for shelter—worn out, he sat down on a doorstep. He leaned back and soon fell fast asleep.
A shake by the shoulder roused him. A policeman was stooping over him.
“I say, get up out o’ that,” said the imperious voice of the policeman.
The boy was not half awake; he stared at him, his big face and leather-bound chimney-pot looked like a dream.
“I say,” he continued, shaking him, but not violently, “you must get up out o’ that. You’re not to be making yourself comfortable there all night. Come, be lively.”
Comfortable! Lively!—all comparative—all a question of degrees.
The boy got up as quickly as the cold and stiffness of his joints would let him.
Very dutifully he got up, and stood drenched, pale, and shivering in the moonlight.
The policeman looked down not unkindly now, at the little wayfarer. There was something piteous, I dare say. He looked a grave, thoughtful man, of more than fifty, and he put his hand on the child’s shoulder.
“Ye see, boy, that was no place to sleep in.”
“No, sir, I’ll never do it again, sir, please.”
“You’re cold; you’d get pains in your bones.”
“I’ll not any more, sir, please.”
“Come with me, my boy, it’s only a step.”
He brought the boy into his house down the lane close by.
“There’s a fire. You warm yourself. There’s my little one in fever, so you can’t stop long. Sit down, child, and warm yourself.”
He gave him a drink of hot milk and a piece of bread.
“You don’t get up, you know; there’s no need,” he added.
I think he was afraid of his pewter spoons. He kept the little fellow nearly half an hour, and he lent him an old bottomless sack to wrap about his shoulders, and charged him to bring it back in the morning. I think the man thought he might be a thief. He was a kind man—there was a balancing of great pity and suspicion.
The boy returned the sack with many thanks, in the first faint twilight of morning, and set forth again for Hatherton. It was, the fellow who directed him said, still five miles on.
At about a mile from Hatherton, cold and wet, and fearing to be too early at the George Inn, the rendezvous agreed on, the tired little fellow crept in, cold and wet, to a roadside pothouse.
At the fire of the alehouse three fellows were drinking beer. Says one who had now and then had his eye on the boy—
“That boy there has run away from school.”
I cannot describe the terror with which the little fellow heard those words. The other two looked at him. One was a fat fellow in breeches and top boots, and a red cloth waistcoat, and a ruddy good-humoured face; and after a look they returned to their talk; and in a little while the lean man, who seemed to find it hard to take his eyes off him, said, “That’s a runaway, that chap; we ought to tell the police and send him back to school.”
“Well, that’s no business of ours; can’t you let him be?” said the red waistcoat.
“Come here,” said the lean man, beckoning him over with his hard eye on him.
He rose and slowly approached under that dreadful command.
I can’t say that there was anything malevolent in that man’s face. Somewhat sharp and stern, with a lean inflexibility of duty. To the boy at this moment no face could have been imagined more terrific; his only hope was in his fat companion. He turned, I am sure, an imploring look upon him.
“Come, Irons, let the boy alone, unless ye mean to quarrel wi’ me; d⸺ me ye shall let him alone! And get him his breakfast of something hot, and be lively,” he called to the people; “and score it up to me.”
So, thanks to the good Samaritan in top boots and red waistcoat, the dejected little man pursued his way comforted.
As he walked through Hatherton he was looking into a shop window listlessly, when he distinctly saw, reflected in the plate glass, that which appalled him so that he thought he should have fainted.
It was the marble, blue-chinned face of the Sergeant-Major looking over his shoulder, with his icy gray eyes, into the same window.
He was utterly powerless to move. His great eyes were fixed on that dreadful shadow. He was actually touching his shoulder as he leaned over. Happily the Sergeant did not examine the reflection, which he would have been sure to recognise. The bird fascinated by the cold eye of a snake, and expecting momentarily, with palpitating heart, the spring of the reptile, may feel, when, withdrawing the spell, it glides harmlessly away, as the boy did when he saw that dreaded man turn away and walk with measured tread up the street. For a moment his terror was renewed, for Bion, that yellow namesake of the philosopher, recognising him, stood against the boy’s leg, and scratched repeatedly, and gave him a shove with his nose, and whimpered. The boy turned quickly, and walking away the dog left him, and ran after his master, and took his place at his side.
Conclusion
At the George Inn, a little way out of Hatherton, the boy, to his inexpressible delight, at last found Tom Orange.
He told Tom at once of his adventure at the shop window, and the occurrence darkened Tom’s countenance. He peeped out and took a long look toward Hatherton.
“Put the horse
