CHAPTER XX.—THE RETURN OF A WANDERER.

Otago Witness, Issue 2626, 13 July 1904, Page 90

CHAPTER XX.— THE RETURN OF A WANDERER.

An open door, a flood of light, anel Harry and his rescuer passed from the darkness and cold.

Bartholcmew Brent waited to ascertain no more, 'but sped back, drcnchoeli and barefooted, tho way he had come ; fear and defiance wore in his heart — the defiance of cheated nature : he had been made for brave things, anrl held by circumstance to a small part; hi? instinct to achieve was stripped of all accomplishment. The land of promise so delectable to his hope had proved a land he might not enter. His instinct for ]>3.] pmrss hi>d fouid no fulfilment. Guilty of no intentional evil, lie was fleeing an evil of his imagination, too ignorant to knew that the dreadeel law diel not pursue him. "If you are brought here again you will lose your character, and I shall punish you." These words of the magistrate limited Bartie's horizon. He had left Harry in safe keeping ; he would be restored to Xell, received home without recrimination or denunciation. For himself there would be no pardon. His effort for freedom, for respec: ability, had put him under an added ban. He was more outcast than in his forloinest days, at St. Ermin's, for he had alienated his only friends. He crouched in the hemlock with the fear of c hunted animal, and as the night wore on and the skies cleared to the stars, their alien brightness, the aloofness in the great immensity intensified the fear of the city waif Among his kind in the crowded streets, in the reeking dens where human species herded, he had no fear, neither of noise nor violence-; but in the unpeopled night, among the harmless foices of Nature, he tremb'ed at the unknown, the untried. With Harry by his side, he had not realised this isolation : the defenceless lad had made demand! upon courage and chivalry. Now, with no one to believe in him, no one to speak to him, and every man's hand against him, Bartholomew Brent was a fearsome boy.

The silence of the night changed to the cold whiteiT'SS of the dawn, in which innumerablo living creatures, with busy in-dii-try, recommencee\ their activities, and strange bird calls greeted Bartie's ear. The chiiping of liondon sparrows had conblitutod hi-, knowledge of bird song till this acquaintance of fore-t country. Reared an on<y the d:n of commingling sounds, th-e individual notes partook of a personal criti-ci-ir,. A bird declared:

"Ho did it! did it! did it! Chirippe, chirippe ! Come and see! Come and see!"

It seemed to Barlie that the sun would presently lise to rpy him out. If he were discovpied ho wo-ild again be handed over to justice, or injustice, according to the point of "view, and that new hope of a wider life bn> an impossibility. The country had betrayed him — innocence did not grow In the fields, and the mischief lurking- behinel every hedgerow was more than enough to snare the best-intentioned British boy to ruin. Also, food' was shockingly scarce, and the means of obtaining it limited to a degiee that e-caped Irs concentration and energy. "If I could plah or 'arrer," he murmured dUconsolatly. " I might get pyde." But return to the land for one *o tmskilleel in agricultural pursuits had proved a failure. He had spent his sovereign, lost his bosom friend, pul himself, so he imagined, in the power of the law, and cut himsp'f off from cv\en that good which he hael. Here he was without visible moans of support, shoc-k-inaly hwigry. anel compelled to hide in a elitch from tho intrusive curiosity of a tolk so piimithc that they considered it their business to "-ettle" the aflr-irs of any pioneering boy who happened to want a meal. Baitholomow Brent had elonp wirl: thp country ' — cr wouiel have do"c with it tho instant lio could get out of it. He yearned lor " the lights o' London " and lr.jiidds of people, v. ho d'dn"': want to knov. you — tluough whom you could thread jour way unnoticed. He hael bpt.ii very hard put to there, bur london had never forced him to the humiliption of a ditch — a wet clitsh of hemlock and biamble-, !— and 110 chance even of an orange pee. Hairb'faJth e-cape-, fro v drown "iir by sea and ravage- en unowned j-lands wcie nothing to it.

Ji was =o ignoniiniom to have been cle-fcal-fl. and *o lcnely. Nothing in all {he -ourdlo^s to l.p-ar except the pei^onali<i<>s of the hn\U The one yciclicd on a boujh o\Lrhoad t\\i-(cd it- hrail mgratialingly. raid, looking do«n at the muddy mortal, ad\ isod him to " cheer-up, choei

All jolly fine."' said Bartholomew, dc ii^ncli; "you can cat worms."

" Cheep ! Cheep ! Cheep '." responded th* feathered companion. To got bax:k to Lcuidon, somehow. That was, it pei-oible, the best thing, Baltic deended, as ho lay with his dirty face hidden on his ragged -Ic-eve. But how? In London he could hide, and live till he coulcl find a chance to go to sea. All day ha cogitated, but w ith the afternoon spent, with hunger and foav of another night alone in the darkness, he went slowly over the fields, skirting yet net touching the town, and came in the twilight quite unexpectedly iupon the lailway station. Seeing* a crowd 'of people going 111 one direction, and having experienced the safety in number-, Ire. slippeel among them from the fields-, and went in the same diiecrion round tho bend of the road leading from the town to the. Wimborne rai'woy station, gathering enough -from tho loud talk that there had been an excursion from London for some- special rea=on, and the excursionists were hurrying to the return train. Bartie'3 luck ' had not deserted him, nor his wits. He s^w his opportunity. Keeping close behind a stout woman who was struggling with a large basket, a huge bunch of heather, and two small children, he picked the snnller child im in his arms.

"Xar, then," he -aid, "'ere we are, little 'un. 11l <cc arter 'im, mam; you 'old 011 tor the other."

" I'm much obliged, I'm sure," said the perspiring and fluttered matron. Whether Bartie would be under equal obligation remained to be =ecn. His hcait thumped with weafrness and fear: it was as much as ho could do to struggle on with his fat bin den. which he held in front of him like a sh'eld with which presently to charge the ticket; collector. In the crush on the little platform, where at any other time the ragged! barefooted bey would have attracted attention, he was unnoticed. The fat babyshield protected him. He haH passed the ticket collector, but the train was not yet in. There was still time for him to be discovered. A series of shivers went down his cold back, his teeth chattered; the baby got heavier and heavier. Bartie's knees were -giving way. when a low rumble was heard ; the shrieking of a whistle announced' the train ; the red light came swiftly forward ; the train stoppeel. In the scramble for seats Bartie got in with the baby and seated himself in the far comer, the mother following with the basket and the other child " Take your ?eats. . . . London," was distinct among other cries. DOOI9 slammed, and then the train begin to move. Emancipation !

" Thank you kindly," said the woman. "I'll take the child. '

Bartie leaned back in his corner, dizzy with rel'cf and long fasting. The rattle of the speeding train at first confused, then soothed him. But the woman had been taking note of his condition.

"Didn't come with the excursionists, did; you?" fahc asked.

Bartholomew's an=wcr was evasive. Bub her attention was drawn off by a neighbour.

" Help yourself," she said, offering the boy a provision basket in which was the debris of a feast, not waiting for further ceremonj-, he took the good things as they appeared without reference to the order of courses — sandwiches following cake and fruit between bread and butter. Such, a meal had not fallen to his lot since Nell'a provision came to an end.

On they sped through the daikness ; station after station was passeel, and. the boy — warm and comfortable in his comer — ■ slept as he had not slept for long. He was still sleeping when the tickets were collected, and escaped notice in the crowded train.

" Waterloo ! Waterloo !"

BaHie roused in affright, \inaware that his critical moment had passed. While tho people in the compartment were gatheiing their belongings, he pushed his way through, and, dodging between men and horses, escaped from the great station.

London once more ! London, with its twinrkling lamps spreading far and wide, melting into space of light ; with its roar and bustle of traffic and hurrying- people intent on their own business or pleasure. Its strife anel noise, its purpose and energy, were homelike to the waif of the street : a homeless waif to-night, for lie dare not seek oven the poor shelter of the hair-skin merchants. Great Petre street and St. Ermin's must know his red heael no more, for there, ho had no doubt, the police wanted him. He dare not face Nell, whoso brother he had probably been the death of. The river drew him like a great living personality, as it has drawn many another homeless wanderer. The light from the Embankment lamps was deflected on its waters ; the great bridges .spanning the stream, with the outlines traced with lamps, illuminated! the distance, and over them the ceaseless stream of traffic passed, cabs and carriages rolled by, and it struck the London boy for the fir^t time that they never seemed to come back again; larely the same vehicle or the same face returned. From morning; till night, and fai on through the night till mo ruing, the people went their way from somewher* to somewhere. Most of. them had homes, with friends there to receive them. Many of thrse cloaked ladies and white-shirted men being carried aV>ng swiftly in broughams and cabs> were goingto mansions like that at Queen Ann's Gate. But he knew that later, when the lights were out in the great hotels, anel the streets were empty except for an occasional cab, the scats of tho Embankment would be occupied by shadowy white face figures, hrddledl together, on whom the passing policeman would turn his buli's-eye. Bartie must nob be one among them. He turned another way through mean streets and alleys running to t'lf- water's eda;c. where drifted the men who go down to the sea in ships or come off them. Tho river wore a different aspect here. Obttructcel in its course by shipping and wharves, lapping about boats and baizes, jt still biought coolness to mi-rky places, breathing its frosh bieath onfoul things. po°ti-.mg with its mystery and! =hado\\-j what is far enough lemoved from poetry. But di'-t, and sordid act cannot wholly re-si-t its- -pell : barge lights and window lights of mean rooms were veflceteel on its surface, and although the pictuiesque was only in the reflection, the small denizen of the shims folr 111 company, and hp heard th:> river's pcsUtent ca"l to the wie'e *ea.

(To be continued.)

We rrad of love, we read of wpv, Of \«:l'rous deeds and n.ysric ioie. 33ut then, we've road of it bcfoie, Anel yearn for something newer. TliPiv'".; nothing fresh, the world is And weary a^ a twice tolel tale. Yet stay 1 when coughs and eo!e!b prevail, Thci-eVWooDo' Ui:EAT Peiteiuiixj: Cuaa,