Dusty Diamonds Cut and Polished: A Tale of City Arab Life and Adventure

by R. M. Ballantyne

  CHAPTER TWELVE.

  SAMMY TWITTER'S FALL.

  We must turn now to Samuel Twitter, senior. That genial old man wasbusy one morning in the nursery, amusing little Mita, who had by thattime attained to what we may style the dawn-of-intelligence period oflife, and was what Mrs Loper, Mr Crackaby, and Mr Stickler called"engaging."

  "Mariar!" shouted Mr Twitter to his amiable spouse, who was finishingher toilet in the adjoining room. "She's makin' faces at me--yes, she'sactually attempting to laugh!"

  "The darling!" came from the next room, in emphatic tones.

  "Mariar!"

  "Well, dear."

  "Is Sammy down in the parlour?"

  "I don't know. Why?"

  "Because he's not in his room--tumti-iddidy-too-too--you charmingthing!"

  It must be understood that the latter part of this sentence hadreference to the baby, not to Mrs Twitter.

  Having expended his affections and all his spare time on Mita,--who, todo her justice, made faces enough at him to repay his attentions infull,--Mr Twitter descended to the breakfast parlour and asked thedomestic if she had seen Sammy yet.

  "No, sir, I hain't."

  "Are you sure he's not in his room?"

  "Well, no, sir, but I knocked twice and got no answer."

  "Very odd; Sammy didn't use to be late, nor to sleep so soundly," saidMr Twitter, ascending to the attic of his eldest son.

  Obtaining no reply to his knock, he opened the door and found that theroom was empty. More than that, he discovered, to his surprise andalarm, that Sammy's bed was unruffled, so that Sammy himself must haveslept elsewhere!

  In silent consternation the father descended to his bedroom and said,"Mariar, Sammy's gone!"

  "Dead!" exclaimed Mrs Twitter with a look of horror.

  "No, no; not dead, but gone--gone out of the house. Did not sleep in itlast night, apparently."

  Poor Mrs Twitter sank into a chair and gazed at her husband with astricken face.

  Up to that date the family had prospered steadily, and, may we not add,deservedly; their children having been trained in the knowledge of God,their duties having been conscientiously discharged, their sympathieswith suffering humanity encouraged, and their general principles carriedinto practical effect. The consequence was that they were awell-ordered and loving family. There are many such in our land--families which are guided by the Spirit and the Word of God. The suddendisappearance, therefore, of the eldest son of the Twitter family wasnot an event to be taken lightly for he had never slept out of his ownparticular bed without the distinct knowledge of his father and mothersince he was born, and his appearance at the breakfast-table had beenhitherto as certain as the rising of the sun or the winding of theeight-day clock by his father every Saturday night.

  In addition to all this, Sammy was of an amiable disposition, and hadbeen trustworthy, so that when he came to the years of discretion--whichhis father had fixed at fifteen--he was allowed a latch-key, as he hadfrequently to work at his employer's books till a lateish hour,--sometimes eleven o'clock--after the family, including the domestic, hadgone to rest.

  "Now, Samuel," said Mrs Twitter, with a slight return of her wontedenergy, "there can be only two explanations of this. Either the dearboy has met with an accident, or--"

  "Well, Mariar, why do you pause?"

  "Because it seems so absurd to think of, much more to talk of, his goingwrong or running away! The first thing I've got to do, Samuel, is to goto the police-office, report the case, and hear what they have toadvise."

  "The very thing I was thinking of, Mariar; but don't it strike you itmight be better that _I_ should go to the station?"

  "No, Samuel, the station is near. I can do that, while you take a cab,go straight away to his office and find out at what hour he left. Now,go; we have not a moment to lose. Mary," (this was the next in order toSammy), "will look after the children's breakfast. Make haste!"

  Mr Twitter made haste--made it so fast that he made too much of it,over-shot the mark, and went down-stairs head foremost, saluting thefront door with a rap that threw that of the postman entirely into theshade. But Twitter was a springy as well as an athletic man. He aroseundamaged, made no remark to his more than astonished children, and wenthis way.

  Mrs Twitter immediately followed her husband's example in a lessviolent and eccentric manner. The superintendent of police received herwith that affable display of grave good-will which is a characteristicof the force. He listened with patient attention to the ratherincoherent tale which she told with much agitation--unbosoming herselfto this officer to a quite unnecessary extent as to private feelings andopinions, and, somehow, feeling as if he were a trusted and confidentialfriend though he was an absolute stranger--such is the wonderfulinfluence of Power in self-possessed repose, over Weakness indistressful uncertainty!

  Having heard all that the good lady had to say, with scarcely a word ofinterruption; having put a few pertinent and relevant questions andnoted the replies, the superintendent advised Mrs Twitter to calmherself, for that it would soon be "all right;" to return home, andabide the issue of his exertions; to make herself as easy in thecircumstances as possible, and, finally, sent her away with the firstray of comfort that had entered her heart since the news of Sammy'sdisappearance had burst upon her like a thunderclap.

  "What a thing it is," she muttered to herself on her way home, "to putthings into the hands of a _man_--one you can feel sure will doeverything sensibly and well, and without fuss." The good lady meant nodisparagement to her sex by this--far from it; she referred to a manlyman as compared with an unmanly one, and she thought, for one moment,rather disparagingly about the salute which her Samuel's bald pate hadgiven to the door that morning. Probably she failed to think of thefussy manner in which she herself had assaulted the superintendent ofpolice, for it is said that people seldom see themselves!

  But Mrs Twitter was by no means bitter in her thoughts, and herconscience twitted her a little for having perhaps done Samuel a slightinjustice.

  Indeed she _had_ done him injustice, for that estimable little man wentabout his inquiries after the lost Sammy with a lump as big as a walnuton the top of his head, and with a degree of persistent energy thatmight have made the superintendent himself envious.

  "Not been at the office for two days, sir!" exclaimed Mr Twitter,repeating--in surprised indignation, for he could not believe it--thewords of Sammy's employer, who was a merchant in the hardware line.

  "No, sir," said the hardware man, whose face seemed as hard as his ware.

  "Do--you--mean--to--tell--me," said Twitter, with deliberate solemnity,"that my son Samuel has not been in this office for _two days_?"

  "That is precisely what I mean to tell you," returned the hardware man,"and I mean to tell you, moreover, that your son has been very irregularof late in his attendance, and that on more than one occasion he hascome here drunk."

  "Drunk!" repeated Twitter, almost in a shout.

  "Yes, sir, drunk--intoxicated."

  The hardware man seemed at that moment to Mr Twitter the hardest-wareman that ever confronted him. He stood for some moments aghast andspeechless.

  "Are you aware, sir," he said at last, in impressive tones, "that my sonSamuel wears the blue ribbon?"

  The hardware man inquired, with an expression of affected surprise, whatthat had to do with the question; and further, gave it as his opinionthat a bit of blue ribbon was no better than a bit of red or greenribbon if it had not something better behind it.

  This latter remark, although by no means meant to soothe, had the effectof reducing Mr Twitter to a condition of sudden humility.

  "There, sir," said he, "I entirely agree with you, but I had believed--indeed it seems to me almost impossible to believe otherwise--that mypoor boy had religious principle behind his blue ribbon."

  This was said in such a meek tone, and with such a woe-begone look asthe conviction began to dawn that Sammy was not immaculate--that thehardware m
an began visibly to soften, and at last a confidential talkwas established, in which was revealed such a series of irregularitieson the part of the erring son, that the poor father's heart was crushedfor the time, and, as it were, trodden in the dust. In his extremity,he looked up to God and found relief in rolling his care upon Him.

  As he slowly recovered from the shock, Twitter's brain resumed itswonted activity.

  "You have a number of clerks, I believe?" he suddenly asked the hardwareman.

  "Yes, I have--four of them."

  "Would you object to taking me through your warehouse, as if to show itto me, and allow me to look at your clerks?"

  "Certainly not. Come along."

  On entering, they found one tying up a parcel, one writing busily, onereading a book, and one balancing a ruler on his nose. The latter, onbeing thus caught in the act, gave a short laugh, returned the ruler toits place, and quietly went on with his work. The reader of the bookstarted, endeavoured to conceal the volume, in which effort he wasunsuccessful, and became very red in the face as he resumed his pen.

  The employer took no notice, and Mr Twitter looked very hard at thehardware in the distant end of the warehouse, just over the desk atwhich the clerks sat. He made a few undertoned remarks to the master,and then, crossing over to the desk, said:--

  "Mr Dobbs, may I have the pleasure of a few minutes' conversation withyou outside?"

  "C-certainly, sir," replied Dobbs, rising with a redder face than ever,and putting on his hat.

  "Will you be so good as to tell me, Mr Dobbs," said Twitter, in a quietbut very decided way when outside, "where my son Samuel Twitter spentlast night?"

  Twitter looked steadily in the clerk's eyes as he put this question. Hewas making a bold stroke for success as an amateur detective, and, as isfrequently the result of bold strokes, he succeeded.

  "Eh! your--your--son S-Samuel," stammered Dobbs, looking at Twitter'sbreast-pin, and then at the ground, while varying expressions of guiltyshame and defiance flitted across his face.

  He had a heavy, somewhat sulky face, with indecision of characterstamped on it. Mr Twitter saw that and took advantage of the latterquality.

  "My poor boy," he said, "don't attempt to deceive me. You are guilty,and you know it. Stay, don't speak yet. I have no wish to injure you.On the contrary, I pray God to bless and save you; but what I want withyou at this moment is to learn where my dear boy is. If you tell me, nofurther notice shall be taken of this matter, I assure you."

  "Does--does--he know anything about this?" asked Dobbs, glancing in thedirection of the warehouse of the hardware man.

  "No, nothing of your having led Sammy astray, if that's what you mean,--at least, not from me, and you may depend on it he shall hear nothing,if you only confide in me. Of course he may have his suspicions."

  "Well, sir," said Dobbs, with a sigh of relief, "he's in my lodgings."

  Having ascertained the address of the lodgings, the poor father called acab and soon stood by the side of a bed on which his son Sammy laysprawling in the helpless attitude in which he had fallen down the nightbefore, after a season of drunken riot. He was in a heavy sleep, withhis still innocent-looking features tinged with the first blight ofdissipation.

  "Sammy," said the father, in a husky voice, as he shook him gently bythe arm; but the poor boy made no answer--even a roughish shake failedto draw from him more than the grumbled desire, "let me alone."

  "Oh! God spare and save him!" murmured the father, in a still huskyvoice, as he fell on his knees by the bedside and prayed--prayed asthough his heart were breaking, while the object of his prayer layapparently unconscious through it all.

  He rose, and was standing by the bedside, uncertain how to act, when aheavy tread was heard on the landing, the door was thrown open, and thelandlady, announcing "a gentleman, sir," ushered in the superintendentof police, who looked at Mr Twitter with a slight expression ofsurprise.

  "You are here before me, I see, sir," he said.

  "Yes, but how did you come to find out that he was here?"

  "Well, I had not much difficulty. You see it is part of our duty tokeep our eyes open," replied the superintendent, with a peculiar smile,"and I have on several occasions observed your son entering this housewith a companion in a condition which did not quite harmonise with hisblue ribbon, so, after your good lady explained the matter to me thismorning I came straight here."

  "Thank you--thank you. It is _very_ kind. I--you--it could not havebeen better managed."

  Mr Twitter stopped and looked helplessly at the figure on the bed.

  "Perhaps," said the superintendent, with much delicacy of feeling, "youwould prefer to be alone with your boy when he awakes. If I can be ofany further use to you, you know where to find me. Good-day, sir."

  Without waiting for a reply the considerate superintendent left theroom.

  "Oh! Sammy, Sammy, speak to me, my dear boy--speak to your old father!"he cried, turning again to the bed and kneeling beside it; but thedrunken sleeper did not move.

  Rising hastily he went to the door and called the landlady.

  "I'll go home, missis," he said, "and send the poor lad's mother tohim."

  "Very well, sir, I'll look well after 'im till she comes."

  Twitter was gone in a moment, and the old landlady returned to herlodger's room. There, to her surprise, she found Sammy up and hastilypulling on his boots.

  In truth he had been only shamming sleep, and, although still verydrunk, was quite capable of looking after himself. He had indeed beenasleep when his father's entrance awoke him, but a feeling of intenseshame had induced him to remain quite still, and then, having commencedwith this unspoken lie, he felt constrained to carry it out. But thethought of facing his mother he could not bear, for the boy had asensitive spirit and was keenly alive to the terrible fall he had made.At the same time he was too cowardly to face the consequences. Dressinghimself as well as he could, he rushed from the house in spite of theearnest entreaties of the old landlady, so that when the distractedmother came to embrace and forgive her erring child she found that hehad fled.

  Plunging into the crowded thoroughfares of the great city, and walkingswiftly along without aim or desire, eaten up with shame, and rendereddesperate by remorse, the now reckless youth sought refuge in a lowgrog-shop, and called for a glass of beer.

  "Well, I say, you're com--comin' it raither strong, ain't you, youngfeller?" said a voice at his elbow.

  He looked up hastily, and saw a blear-eyed youth in a state ofdrivelling intoxication, staring at him with the expression of an idiot.

  "That's no business of yours," replied Sam Twitter, sharply.

  "Well, thash true, 'tain't no b-busnish o' mine. I--I'm pretty far gonem'self, I allow; but I ain't quite got the l-length o' drinkin' in ap-public 'ouse wi' th' bl-blue ribb'n on."

  The fallen lad glanced at his breast. There it was,--forgotten,desecrated! He tore it fiercely from his button-hole, amid the laughterof the bystanders--most of whom were women of the lowest grade--anddashed it on the floor.

  "Thash right.--You're a berrer feller than I took you for," said the sotat his elbow.

  To avoid further attention Sammy took his beer into a dark corner andwas quickly forgotten.

  He had not been seated more than a few minutes when the door opened, anda man with a mild, gentle, yet manly face entered.

  "Have a glass, ol' feller?" said the sot, the instant he caught sight ofhim.

  "Thank you, no--not to-day," replied John Seaward, for it was our citymissionary on what he sometimes called a fishing excursion--fishing formen! "I have come to give you a glass to-day, friends."

  "Well, that's friendly," said a gruff voice in a secluded box, out ofwhich next minute staggered Ned Frog. "Come, what is't to be, old man?"

  "A looking-glass," replied the missionary, picking out a tract from thebundle he held in his hand and offering it to the ex-prize-fighter."But the tract is not the glass I speak of, friend: here it
is, in theWord of that God who made us all--made the throats that swallow thedrink, and the brains that reel under it."

  Here he read from a small Bible, "`But they also have erred throughwine, and through strong drink are out of the way.'"

  "Bah!" said Ned, flinging the tract on the floor and exclaiming as heleft the place with a swing; "I don't drink wine, old man; can't affordanything better than beer, though sometimes, when I'm in luck, I have adrop of Old Tom."

  There was a great burst of ribald laughter at this, and numerous werethe witticisms perpetrated at the expense of the missionary, but he tookno notice of these for a time, occupying himself merely in turning overthe leaves of his Bible. When there was a lull he said:--

  "Now, dear sisters," (turning to the women who, with a more or lessdrunken aspect and slatternly air, were staring at him), "for sisters ofmine you are, having been made by the same Heavenly Father; I won'toffer you another glass,--not even a looking-glass,--for the one I havealready held up to you will do, if God's Holy Spirit opens your eyes tosee yourselves in it; but I'll give you a better object to look at. Itis a Saviour--one who is able to save you from the drink, and from sinin every form. You know His name well, most of you; it is Jesus, andthat name means Saviour, for He came to save His people from theirsins."

  At this point he was interrupted by one of the women, who seemed bent onkeeping up the spirit of banter with which they had begun. She askedhim with a leer if he had got a wife.

  "No," he said, "but I have got a great respect and love for women,because I've got a mother, and if ever there was a woman on the face ofthis earth that deserves the love of a son, that woman is my mother.Sister," he added, turning to one of those who sat on a bench near himwith a thin, puny, curly-haired boy wrapped up in her ragged shawl, "thebest prayer that I could offer up for you--and I _do_ offer it--is, thatthe little chap in your arms may grow up to bless his mother as heartilyas I bless mine, but that can never be, so long as you love the strongdrink and refuse the Saviour."

  At that moment a loud cry was heard outside. They all rose and ran tothe door, where a woman, in the lowest depths of depravity, with hereyes bloodshot, her hair tumbling about her half-naked shoulders, andher ragged garments draggled and wet, had fallen in her efforts to enterthe public-house to obtain more of the poison which had already almostdestroyed her. She had cut her forehead, and the blood flowed freelyover her face as the missionary lifted her. He was a powerful man, andcould take her up tenderly and with ease. She was not much hurt,however. After Seaward had bandaged the cut with his own handkerchiefshe professed to be much better.

  This little incident completed the good influence which the missionary'swords and manner had previously commenced. Most of the women began toweep as they listened to the words of love, encouragement, and hopeaddressed to them. A few of course remained obdurate, though notunimpressed.

  All this time young Sam Twitter remained in his dark corner, with hishead resting on his arms to prevent his being recognised. Well did heknow John Seaward, and well did Seaward know him, for the missionary hadlong been a fellow-worker with Mrs Twitter in George Yard and at theHome of Industry. The boy was very anxious to escape Seaward'sobservation. This was not a difficult matter. When the missionaryleft, after distributing his tracts, Sammy rose up and sought to hidehimself--from himself, had that been possible--in the lowest slums ofLondon.