WRIGGLEY BILL.

Cromwell Argus, Volume XLI, Issue 2208, 15 August 1910, Page 7

WRIGGLEY BILL.

It was only in his own select “set” he was called ‘“Wriggley Bill.” The Honourable Algernon Assheton called him William. It sounded better in a Sunday school, and, besides, the Honourable Algy was absolutely unaware of the remarkable and sinister methods by which the little sharp-faced lad had earned his sobriquet. He looked upon him as one of his proteges —a brand to be snatched from the burning —a soul to be saved. But in spite of his evangelical leanings, and his unaristocratic ways of doing good and serving his day and generation, there was nothing "soft” about Algy. He was equally at home refereeing on Mile End Marsh, for thci Tower Hamlets Junior Excelsior Association Football Club, as he was when playing inside right for the Old Etonians at Queen’s Club. He took both in his stride, as it were. Ho did nothing by halves, and whether he was organising his Boy’s Brigade of which ‘‘Wriggley Bill” was a humble private, shooting for goal, overhauling his father’s East-end property, or making love to Lady Sybil Egerton, he did each and all with might and main, and with an Unfailing good humour that made him as popular in the East as in the West. He was ‘‘Wriggley Bill’s” Al, Warranted Unbreakable Hero —the man who could do no wrong. Many a time lately Bill had lain awake in the pitch darkness of his garret in Watson’s Rents, staring wide-eyed into the blankness, and sweating with the thought of . what the "Honourable” would think and say if ho knew the truth about him. But his stepfather’s footfall on the steep stairs would be quite sufficient to nip any young sprouts of good resolution in the hud. He must continue to live his double life —go to Sunday school —unknown to his stepfather, bo one of the ‘“Honourable’s” Model Brigade Boys, attend the gymnastic club of which, despite his smallness, he was one of the star performers —and —he the aider and abettor of a gang of burglars ! Poor old "Wriggley Bill” ! He would have been a passable little beggar if he’d had half a chance. But what can a fellow do, when, a decent sort of a mother being dead, a big, burly burglar stepfather takes him by the throat and threatens to “scrag” him, if he doesn’t '"do his bloomin’ dooty” ? Verily, it’s a hard question. But Bill was never nearer making up his mind to "chuck it" —the burglary business, that is—than he was at the Christmas treat. And it wasn’t the apples or the oranges or -•the '“blow-out” on beef and plumpudding, or even the warm muffler he got off the Christmas tree that so nearly "converted” him. These might have left both his mind and his body comfortable. No, it was the "lid'y’s singin’.” He’d been to penny gaffs and beard half-dressed women sing unmentionable songs in strident shrieks, but this was something new and strange and moving. He’d seen other ladies come down to help the Honourable Algy, but they hadn't been a patch on this one. His poor little cramped-up spirit fell down and worshipped the moment he set eyes on her. She wore a lovely white fur toque—he didn’t know it was a “toque” ; but It w'as all the same—and a creamy dress, trimmed with the same fur, and she had a face like a Christmas card, and one of those sparkling, rosy, tender, dark-eyed faces that a white fur toque just seems to suit. The ‘“Honourable” helped her up on the platform, and sat down at the piano himself to play the accompaniment to her song. The lads, who had been talking sixteen to the dozen a moment before, fell as quiet as a couple of burglars under the laurels when the bobby’s bull’s-eye (alls across the garden. Then this lovely Christmas vision sang. Bill had never heard the song before—or the words. They seemed to him like something that had flown in from the other side of nowhere, so new and strange were they—"l hear thee speak of the Better Land ! Thou callest its children a happy band. Mother, oh, where is that radiant shore ? Shall we not seek it and weep no more ? I Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fireflies glance through, the myrtle boughs ; Not there, not there, my child !” : My word ! How that voice made Bill’s spine tingle ! As the sweet ! tender note, with a suspicion of tears in it, trailed off to the last word of the verse, the lads leapt to their feet and cheered. The lady smiled—such a radiant smile ! Then she sang the second verse, and they cheered again. But the last verse clutched Bill—and he wasn’t alone in his emotion. His were not the only tears that flowed. •‘‘Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy ! i Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy ; I Dreams cannot picture a world so fair— j Sorrow and death may not enter there ; Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, j For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb— ! It is there, it is there, my child 1” The "Honourable” shook hands with all the boys as they went out, and wished them each and all "A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.” He bad a special word for Bill. "Well, William,” he said, "have you had a good time ?” . "Ain't I just !” said Bill. "She’s a knock-aht, sir—a fair, bloomin’ knock-aht.”

CHAPTER 11. I New Year’s Eve. A thin veil of snow shone over far fields, under a

moon in its second quarter, and a sky of a sort of ebon-blue sprinkled with star-dust. But the shadow of Aston Manor lay heavy on the dump of thick-set laurels where two men ! and a boy lay concealed, j "Nah, none o’ yer blinkin’ shirkin’, yo’ young whelp," one of the men muttered, "or I’ll gi’ yo’ ten times wot I gi' yo’ larst night. Yo’ll not hev a whole bone left in yer body, yo’ young snipe, if ye' fail at this ’ere job. Yo’ve nu—n’ ter do but let me and Jake Inside — i we’ll do the rest—d’ye ’ear ?’’ ; "Yus,” muttered ‘“Wriggley Bill.” "Well, nah, come on—l’ll gie yo’ a leg up.” i Five minutes later Bill had again justified his nickname, by squirming through a hole that one would have imagined nothing much bigger than a rat could have negotiated. Ah, he was a treasure. He was as nimble as a cat, as agile as a monkey, and as slippery as an eel ! But a s he went along the dark passage, he suddenly realised that he had walked towards the front' of the house instead of the back. A door stood open on his right, and through a great wide window the moonbeams and the starlight, reflected from the snowcovered lawn, shone quite radiantly, making the room like a fairy bower. Bill stood still with a 1 little gasp of surprised admiration. Then he gave a low whistle. He couldn’t help it. For on the wall of the room, seeming to look down upon him with smiling eyes, and all lit up in a dreamy sort of brightness he saw his Sunday school teacher — the "Honourable” —with a wreath of holly round his frame. | Had Bill been an old mediaeval de--1 votee, and this the shrine of his patron saint, he could not have been more awe-struck. The picture seemI ed to draw him as with invisible but irresistible cords. He felt his knees I tremble under him.. He tottered toj wards the picture, across the thick 1 pile of carpet, and, before he knew, he was kneeling at the little desk , over which it hung. Then he clutched at the edge of the desk and stared—his face ghastly in the moonlight—at another picture—a little one this time, which the marauders lurking outside would have popped > instantly into their loot-bag, for it ] was set in a golden frame. Oh, what a surg of emotion came over '‘Wriggley Bill” as he stared, wide-eyed, at that "lovely” minature. There | was no mistaking it. It was tils I “lidy”—the “lidy wot sang that 1 song” which bad been running I through his head ever since, j But even that was not the final surprise of this night of surprises. Lady Sybil—dear girl—had the most unsuspecting of natures. She thought everybody was as honourable as herself. But it was more than probable that she had left her love-letter lying on the little desk in her boudoir inadvertently, nevertheless. She little thought who would read it. But Bill would never have thought of reading it, if his own name had not hit him in the eye, as it were. ‘‘Thank you, dear love, for your sweet help at the mission. It was awfully good of you to come, and your song was “the* success of a splendid evening. Do you know what one of my best boys said —a boy they call Wriggley Bill.’ for some unknown reason ? He said, ‘She’s a knock-aht, she is—a fair bloomin’ knock-aht.’ There’s a compliment for you, my love, one of the slncerost and most heartfelt that ever was paid to fair lady.” Bill felt himself blush, even though no eye was upon him. No eye ! He looked furtively up to the wall above him. Those earnest, humorous, man- ! ly eyes were looking straight down j upon him. They seemed to be say- j ing—"Well, William, have you had a . good time ?” Then, like a return of j nightmare, after a blessed period of restful sleep, came the thought of his stepfather, biting his fingers with impatience outside, and of his "friend” Jake, muttering frightful imprecations into his chin whiskers. It was fully five minutes now since I he bad disappeared from their view, I and, half .of that time was generally \ quite sufficient for his little job. j He sped softly back over the car- | pet, but, at the door something , seemed to compel him to cast a backward glance over his shoulder. Oh, those eyes ! How they followed him ! "New Year is the time for making good resolutions." Ho seemed to hear the voice of the "Honourable” talking to his class—and to J him. The very words came back to him as the moonlight shone on those kind eyes. "Yes, but any coward can make a good resolve— it takes a brave man to carry it out.” Bill bad noticed a dangling electric bell near Lady Sybil's desk. It | had bumped against his head and startled him. He almost ran back to it. He would act before his resolution cooled. He’d be coward no longer. They should have a chance to scoot for it. He’d keep mum—as far as they were concerned. But he couldn’t help them to rob the "Honourable’s” "lidy”—not at any price. As he pressed the button hard the sound of a jangling bell somewhere overhead seemed to fill the house. Who would have thought that so | slight a touch would make so much j noise ? The sudden jangling in the midnight stillness of the house seemed to excite him. He had set tire to his boats—he would burn them to the water’s edge. So he planted his thumb on the button, and let the bell “go it” for all it was worth. i Bill almost imagined the '"Honourable’s” eyes smiling at him as he stood there with his thumb on the button. Probably it was some trick of the moonlight, but certainly the eyes seemed to shine approval. Then with a suddenness which startled him in spite of the fact that he ought to have expected it, he felt himself seized by the collar from behind. ‘“Why,” said a voice at his ear, "it’s only a bit of a kid, James — what the jimini arc you doing here ? —and aringin’ my lady’s bell ?” By very force of habit Bill made a dodge for the door, when—click l—up went the electric light.

Framed in the doorway, with the j bright and sudden light shining full upon her face, her lovely hair tumbling about the lace of her dressinggown, stood the lady Bill had last seen standing with smiling eyes on the platform, singing her song of "The Better Land” to the rough lads. Her first words seemed an echo of the butler’s— "Why, Morgan, it’s a little lad ! I thought surely the place was on fire. Who was ringing the bell at this time of the night ?” | "He was—himself—my lady.” I "I couldn’t do it, mum, no I couldn't," blurted out Bill, dissolving into tears. '“When I seen that there picter alookin’ at me —I could not do it.” Lady Sybil laid her white hand on the lad's shoulder. "What were you going to do 7” she said. "Let in the blokes ahtsido,” he said. "But they’ll have done a bunk nab. I never told the ‘Honourable’ wot I did o' nights—an'—an’—you’ll tell him, Miss, nah, an’ he'll gi’ me ‘the sack from the Brigade.” i "What’s your name ?’’ said Lady Sybil. i "They calls me ‘Wriggley Bill,’ ” said the lad. A light tinkling laugh rang through j the room,-like the sound of a fairy bell. j "Oh, they call you ‘Wriggley Bill,’ do they,” said Lady Sybil, "and you I said I was a knock-out —didn’t you ?’ i "yns," said Bill, ‘“and that’s wot you is, Miss.” I Lady Sybil did not look in the least shocked, although the butler and footman were standing in mute astonishment with each a band upon his lips. "Mr. Assheton is coming to-mor-row,” said Lady Sybil. “‘l'm going to keep you here ” "Wriggley Bill" dropped on his knees before the vision in pink. ‘‘Oh, please, miss, don’t go an’ gi’ me awy—please, miss—don’t gi’ me awy to the ‘Honourable.’ ” •" I’ll tell him how you saved the ( house from a couple of dreadful burglars. Bill. And—you’d like to stay here always, wouldn’t you, and learn to drive the motor-car ?” Bill’s face brightened instantly. “Will you be in it, miss ?” he said. “‘Of course, I will,” said Lady Sybil. j ‘“Ye’r a knock-aht,” said Bill—"a fair knock-aht.” j * * * ♦ I The next morning, Sir Hubert . Egerton, Lady Sybil’s grandfather, ! who was as deaf as a post, and had slept soundly through the night, ! without an inkling of the narrow escape his goods and chattels had had, was reading his newspaper when Lady Sybil floated into the room for breakfast. | “Urn—um— most remarkable thing, my dear —two men, with burglar’s tools captured last night near the park gates. Suspected of having made an attempt on the Manor and j been disturbed. I heard nothing myself. Old hands, no doubt. It’ll be five years for ’em —and serve ’em j right—serve ’em right. Be thankful ! you weren’t murdered in your bed, 'my dear. Um —Morgan—what are you staring at ? Yes, I’ll take an omelette.” The old man’s prediction came true. Bill’s stepfather and his crony, although not caught in the act, were "wanted” for so many other jobs that they not only got five, but ten years’ penal servitude, and so ‘Wrig- i gley Bill,’ now "William, the Chauf- | fear’s Apprentice,” was relieved of ; that incubus and menace, and when i the Honourable Algy and Lady Sybil I were married a month ago at St. Margaret’s Church, Westminster, he might have been seen sitting up, a.s I rigid as a ramrod, on the "box" of the bridal car, as proud as an emperor, and probably a great deal happier than the average potentate.— From the "Idler.”