Ovington's Bank

Clement had never visited the cotton-town before, and on a more commonplace errand he might have allowed himself to be daunted by a turmoil and bustle as new to him as it was uncongenial. But with his mind set on one thing, he heeded his surroundings only as they threatened to balk his aim, and he had himself driven directly to the Police Office, over which the notorious Nadin had so lately presided that for most people it still went by his name. Fearless, resolute, and not too scrupulous, the man had through twenty troublous years combated the forces alike of disorder and of liberty; and before London had yet acquired an efficient police, he had gathered round him a body of men equal at least to the Bow Street Runners. He had passed, but his methods survived; and half an hour after Clement had entered the office he issued from it accompanied by a hard-bitten, sharp-eyed man in a tall beaver hat and a long wide-skirted coat.

"The Apple Tree? Oh, the Apple Tree's on the square," he informed Clement. "And Jerry Stott? No harm in him, sir, either. He'll speak when he sees me."

"You don't think we need another man?"

"There's one following. No use to go in a bunch. He'll watch the front, and we'll go in by the yard. Got a barker, sir?"

"Yes."

"'Fraid so. Well, don't use it-show it if you like. Law's law, and a live dog's worth more than its hide. Ay, that's Chetham's. Queer old place, and-sharp's the word, here we are," as they turned off Long Mill Gate, and entered the yard of an old-fashioned house, over the door of which hung the sign of an apple-tree. The place was quiet, in comparison with the street they had left, and "Here's Jerry," the officer added, as they espied a young fellow, who in a corner of the enclosure was striving to raise to his shoulder a truss of hay. He ceased his efforts when he saw them.

"We want a word with you," said the officer.

The man eyed them with dismay. "I never thout 'at he'd come to thee," he said.

"The chap you brought in this morning?"

"Ay, sure."

"Happen yes and happen no," the policeman replied. "What's it all about?"

"If he says I took his eauts he be a leear. I wurna wi' the sack, not to say alone 'at is, not five minutes, and yo' may look at t' sack and see all's theer as ever was! Never a handfu' missing, tho' the chap he cursed and swore an' took on, the mout ha' been eauts o' gowd! He's a leear iv he says I tetched 'em, but I never thout he'd t' brass to come to thee."

"Why not, lad?"

"'Cause i' the end he let up and steared at t' sack leek a steck pig, and then he fell a shriking 'i worse shap than ever, and away he goes as iv a dog had bit him and down t' Long Gate hell for leather!"

"Which way? I see. Did he take the oats?"

"Not he, nor t' bag. An after mekking setch a din about his eauts! I war no wi' 'em five minutes."

The officer declined to commit himself. "Let us see them," he said.

Jerry led them to a tumble-down, black and white building at the rear of the yard, with lattice work in its crazy windows and an old date over the door. They followed him up a ladder and into a loft, where were a frowsy bed or two, some old pack-saddles, and two or three stools made out of casks sawn in two. On the floor in one place lay a heap of oats trampled this way and that, and beside the heap an empty sack. The officer picked up the sack, shook it and examined it.

"What do you make of it?" Clement asked.

"I don't know what to make of it. Here, you, Jerry, fetch me a corn measure!" And when he had thus rid them of the lad, "He may be carrying out orders and telling a flash tale to put us off. Or he may be telling the truth, and in that case it looks as if someone had been a mite brighter than your man and cleared his stuff."

"But where is it?"

"Ah! Just so, I'd like to know," shaking his head. "Yes, Jerry, measure it back into the sack. How much is there?"

The lad began to gather up the oats and replace them in the bag, while the two men looked on, perplexed and undecided. Suddenly Clement stooped-a scrap of cord, doubtless the cord which had tied the neck of the sack, had caught his eye. He picked it up, looked at it, then, with a word, he handed it to the officer. "I think that settles it," he said, his eyes shining. There was a tiny twist of straw-plait, like a rosette, knotted about the cord and still adhering to it.

Nadin's man looked at the plait and for a moment did not understand. Then his face cleared. "By Joseph! You're right, sir!" he exclaimed, and slapped his thigh. "And sharp, sharp too. You'd ought to be one of us! That settles it, it's the backtrack we've to look to, but I'll take no chances." And turning to the lad and addressing him in his harshest voice, "See here, in an hour we shall know if you've told us the truth. If you've not it will be the New Bailey and a pair of iron garters for you. So if you've aught to add, out with it! It's your last chance, Jerry Stott."

But the lad protested that he'd told all the truth. It had happened just as he had told them.

The officer turned to Clement. "I think he's on the square," he said, "but I'll have him watched." And he led the way down the ladder. When they reached the street, he stepped out smartly, making nothing of the crowd and bustle, the lumbering drays and over-hanging cranes through which they had to thread their way. "We'll catch the Altringham stage at the Cross if we're sharp," he said. "It'll be quicker than getting out a po'chay and a lot cheaper."

They caught the stage, and alighted in Altringham before five. A walk of as many minutes brought them to the Barley Sheaf, a wagoner's house at the corner of a lane in the poorest part of the town. The ostler, from whom Clement had so lately parted, stood leaning against a post at the entrance to the yard, his hands still in his pockets and the straw still in his mouth. When he saw them a grin broke up his ugly face. "He've been here," he cried, "but," triumphantly, "I've routed him, mister! I sent him all ways!"

The officer did not respond. "Why, the devil, didn't you seize him?" he growled.

"What, me? And him double my size? And a desperate villain? 'Deed, I'd to save my skin, mister, and only yon lad and a couple of childer in the yard when he come. I see him first, sneaking a look round this yere post, and thinks I, it'll be a knife in the back or a punch in the face for me if he's heard I've rapped. So, first's better than last, thinks I, and seeing as he hung back I up to him bold as brass, but with one eye on the lad too, and sez I, 'Can you read?' sez I. He looked at me's if he'd have my blood, but there was the lad and the childer a-staring, so 'Ay, I can,' says he, 'and can read you, you thieving villain!' 'Well, if you can read, read that,' sez I, and pointed to a bill as was posted on the gate. 'I can't,' sez he, 'and, happen you can tell me what 'tis all about.' He looks, and he sees 'tis the bill about he, and painting him to the life. Anyways, he turns the color o' whey and he gives me a look as if he'd cut out my inwards, but he sees it's no good, for there was the lad and the childer, and he slinks off. Ay, I routed him, I did, little as I be, mister!"

"Right!" said Nadin's man. "And now do you show us the sack as you changed for his."

The man's face fell amazingly, but Clement noted that he looked surprised rather than frightened. "Eh?" he exclaimed. "Lord, now, who told you, mister? He didn't know."

"Never mind who told us. We know, and that's enough. There was a twist o' plait round the cord?"

"There were."

"You said nothing about it before. But out with it now, and do you take care, my lad."

"Well, who axed me? Exchange is no robbery and I ain't afeard. 'Twas just this way. He sold me three sacks, 's I told you, squire, and I was hauling 'em off to stable when 'Not that one!' says he sharp. So then I look at t' one he was so set on keeping, and when his back was turned I hefted it sly-like, and it seemed to me a good bit heavier than t' others. Then I spied the bit o' plait about the cord, and thinks I, being no fule, 'tis a mark. And when he went in for a squib o' cordial wi' Jerry Stott I shifted t' mark to another sack and loaded up, and off he goes and he none the wiser, and no harm done. Exchange is no robbery and you can't do nowt to me for that."

"I don't know," said the officer darkly. "Let us see the sack."

"You're not agoing-"

"Do you hear? Jump, unless you want to get into trouble. You show us that sack, and be quick about it, my lad."

Grumbling, but not daring to refuse, the old man led the way into the stables, and there in an empty stall the three sacks stood upright. "Which is the one you filched?" asked the man from Manchester.

Reluctantly the ostler pointed it out. "Then you get me a horse-cloth."

"You're not going-well, a wilful man must have his way. Will that serve you? But if my oats is spilled and spiled-"

Nadin's man paid no heed to his remonstrance, but in a trice cut the cord that tied the sack's mouth, tipped it on its side, and let the grain pour out in a golden stream. A golden stream it proved to be, for in a twinkling something sparkled amid the corn, and here and there a sovereign glittered. To Clement and the officer who had read the riddle, this was no great surprise, though they viewed it with smiling satisfaction. But the old man, stuck dumb by the sight of the treasure that had been for a time in his power, turned a dirty white. He stood gazing at the vision of wealth, greed in his eyes, his hands working convulsively; and presently in a choked voice, "O, Lord! O, Lord!" he muttered. "You'll not take t' all! You'll not take t' all!. It were mine. I bought it."

"You came nigh to buying a pair o' bracelets," the officer replied grimly. "You with stolen property in your possession to talk o'-thank your stars your neck's not to answer for it! No, we don't need your help. You sheer off. We can count it without you. You've done pretty well as it is. Sheer off, unless you want the handcuffs on you!"

The old ostler went, measuring the five pounds which he had made by the treasure he had lost, and finding no comfort in the possession of that which only an hour before had been a fortune to gloat over. But there was no help for it. He had to swallow his rage. The officer called after him to bring a sieve. He brought it sullenly, and his part was done. All that was left to him was a vision of gold that grew more dazzling with each telling of the tale. And very, very often he told it.

When he was gone they gathered up the oats and riddled them through the sieve and recovered four hundred and thirty pounds. Thomas had taken a mere handful for his spending. As Clement counted it, sovereign by sovereign, into a knotted handkerchief which the other held, he, too, gloated over it, for it spelled success. But the money reckoned and the handkerchief knotted up, "And now for the man," he said.

But Nadin's man shook his head. "We'd be weeks and not get him," he said. "You'd best leave him to us, sir. We'll bill him in Manchester and make the flash kens too hot for him. But there's no knowing which way he'll turn. May be to Liverpool, or as like as not to Aldersbury. Chaps like him are pigeons for homing. Back they go, though they know they'll be taken."

In the end Clement decided to stand content, and having given his assistant a liberal fee, he took his seat next morning on the Victory coach, travelling by Chester to Aldersbury. He was not vain, but it was with some exultation that he began his journey, that he faced again the free-blowing winds and the open pastures, heard the cheery notes of the bugle, and viewed the old-fashioned marketplaces and roistering inns, some of which he had passed three days before. He had not failed. He had done something; and he thought of Jos, and he thought of the Squire, and he thanked Providence that had put it in his power to turn the tables on the old man. Surely after what he had done the Squire must consider him. Surely after services so notable-and Lord, what luck he had had-the Squire would be willing to listen to him? He recalled the desperate struggle in the road, and the old man's "At him, good lad! At him!" and he thought of the sum-no small sum, and the old man was avaricious-which his promptness had recovered. His hopes ran high.

To be sure, there was another side to it. The Squire might not recover, and then-but he refused to dwell on that contingency. No, the Squire must recover, must receive and reward him, must own that after all he was something better than a clerk or a shopboy. And all things would be well, all roads be made smooth, all difficulties be cleared away. And in time he and Jos-his eyes shone.

Of course in the elation of the hour and flushed by success, he ignored facts which he would have been wiser to remember, and over-leapt obstacles which were not small. A little thought would have taught him that the Squire was not the man to change his views in an hour, or to swallow the prejudices of a life-time because a young chap had done him a service. To be beholden to a man, and to give him your daughter, are things far apart.

And this Clement in cooler moments would have seen. But he was young and in love, and he had done something; and the sun shone and the air was sweet, and if, as the coach swung gaily up the Foregate between School and Castle, his heart beat high and he already foresaw a triumphant issue, who shall blame him? At any rate his case was altered, and in comparison with his position a few days before, he stood well.

He alighted at the door of the Lion, and by a coincidence which was to have its consequences the first person he met in the High Street was Arthur Bourdillon. "Hallo!" Arthur cried, his face lighting up. "Back already, man? Have you done anything?"

"I've got the money," Clement replied. And he waved the bag.

"And Thomas?"

"No, he gave us the slip for the time. But I've got the money, except a dozen pounds or so."

"The deuce you have!" the other answered-and it was not quite clear whether he were pleased or not. "How did you do it? Tell us all about it." He drew Clement aside on to some steps at the foot of St. Juliana's church.

Clement ran briefly over his adventures. When he had done, "Deuced sharp of you," Arthur said. "Devilish sharp, I must say! Now, if you'll hand over I'll take it out to Garth. I am on my way there, I'm just starting, and I haven't a moment to spare. If you'll hand over-"

But Clement made no move to hand over. Instead, "How is he?" he asked.

"Oh, pretty bad."

"Will he get over it?"

"Farmer thinks so. But there's no hope for the eye, and he doubts about the other eye. He's not to use it for six weeks at least."

"He's in bed?"

"Lord, yes, and will be in bed for heaven knows how long-if he ever gets up from it. Why, man, he's had the deuce of a shake. The wonder is that he's alive, and it's long odds that he'll never be the same man again."

"That's bad," Clement said. "And how is-" He was going to inquire after Miss Griffin, but Arthur broke in on him.

"Ask the rest another time," he said. "I can't stay now. I'm taking out things that are wanted in a hurry and the curricle is waiting. This is the first day I've been in town, for there's no one there to do anything except my cousin and the old Peahen. So hand over, old chap, and I'll take the stuff out. It will do the old man more good than all the doctor's medicine."

Clement hesitated. If he had not been carrying the money, he might have made an excuse. He might at any rate have delayed the act. But the money was the Squire's, he could give no reason for taking it to the bank, and he had not that hardness of fibre, that indifference to the feelings of others which was needed if he was to say boldly that it was he who had recovered the money and he who was going to hand it over. Still he did hesitate, something telling him that the demand was unreasonable. Then Arthur's coolness, his assumption that what he proposed was the natural course did its work. Clement handed over the bag.

"Right," Arthur said, weighing it in his hand. "You counted it, I suppose? Four hundred and thirty, or thereabouts?"

"That's it."

"Good! See you soon. Good-bye!" And well pleased with himself, chuckling a little-for Clement's discomfiture had not escaped him-Arthur hurried away.

And Clement went his way. But reality had touched his golden dreams, and they had melted. The sun still shone, but it did not shine for him, and he no longer walked with his head in the air. It was not only that, by resigning the money and entrusting its return to another, he had lost the advantage on which he had counted, but he had been worsted. He had failed, in the contest of wits and wills, and, abuse his ill-luck as he might, he owed the failure to himself-to his own weakness. He saw it.

It was possible that Arthur had acted in innocence. But Clement doubted this, and he doubted it the more the longer he thought of it. He fancied that he recognized a thing which had happened before: that this was not the first time that Arthur had taken the upper hand with him and jockeyed him into the worse position. As he crossed the threshold of the bank, his self-confidence fell from him, he felt himself slip into the old atmosphere, he became once more the inefficient.

Nor was it any comfort to him that his father saw the matter in the same light, and after listening with an appreciative face and some surprise to his earlier adventures, made no effort to hide the chagrin that he felt at the dénouement. "But why-why in the world did you do that?" he exclaimed. "Give up the money after you had done the work? And to Bourdillon, who had no more right to it than you had? Good heavens, lad, it was the act of a fool! I'd not be surprised if old Griffin never heard your name in connection with it!"

"Oh, I don't think Arthur-"

"Well, I do." The banker was vexed. "It's clear that Arthur is a deal sharper than you. As for the Squire, I hear that he is only half-conscious, and what he hears, if he ever hears the tale at all, will make little impression on him. Now if he had seen you, and you'd handed over the money-if he had seen you, then the bank and you would have got the credit."

"Still, Clem did recover it," Betty said.

"Ay, but who will ever know that he did?"

"Still he did, and I believe that he'll get a message from Garth to-morrow. Now, see if you don't, Clem. Or the next day."

But no message came on the morrow, or on the next day. No message came at all; and though it was possible to attribute this to the Squire's condition-for he was reported to be very ill-and Clement did his best to attribute it to that and to keep up his spirits, the tide of time wears away even hope, and presently he began to see that he had built on the sand.

At any rate no message and no acknowledgment came, unless a perfunctory word of thanks dropped by Arthur counted as such. And Clement had soon to recognize that what he had done, he might as well, for any good it was likely to do him, have left undone. His father, who had no thought of anything but his son's credit, was merely chagrined. But with Clement, who had built high hopes upon the event, hopes of which his father and Betty little dreamed, the wound went far deeper.