"We can offer you a choice from several of the sort, madam," said the shopman. "It is one of a lot we bought cheap, but quite uninjured, after a fire."

"I want to see the one in the window," the lady answered.

"I hope you will excuse me, madam," returned the shopman. "The m.u.f.f is in a position hard to reach. Besides, we must ask leave to take anything down after the window is dressed for the day, and the master is out. But I will bring you the same fur precisely."

So saying, he went, and returned presently with a load of m.u.f.fs and other furs, which he threw on the counter. But the lady had heard that "there's tricks i' the world," and persisted in demanding a sight of the m.u.f.f in the window. Being a "tall personage" and cool, she carried her point. The m.u.f.f was hooked down and brought her--not graciously. She glanced at it, turned it over, looked inside, and said,

"I will take it. Please bring a bandbox for it."

"I will, madam," said the man, and would have taken the m.u.f.f. But she held it fast, sought her purse, and laid the price on the counter. The shopman saw that she knew what both of them were about, took up the money, went and fetched a bandbox, put the m.u.f.f in it before her eyes, and tied it up. The lady held out her hand for it.

"Shall I not send it for you, madam?" he said.

"I do not live here," she answered. "I am on my way to the station."

"Here, Jack," cried the shopman to Clare, whom he caught sight of that moment going down to the bas.e.m.e.nt, "take this bandbox, and go with the lady to the station."

If his transaction with the lady had pleased the man, he would not have sent such a scarecrow to attend her, although she did not belong to the town, and they might never see her again! The lady, on her part, was about to insist on carrying the bandbox herself; but when Clare came forward, and looked up smiling in her face, she was at once aware that she might trust him. The man stood watching for the moment when she should turn her back, that he might subst.i.tute another bandbox for the one Clare carried; but Clare never looked at him, and when the lady walked out of the shop, walked straight out after her. Along the street he followed her steadily, she looking round occasionally to see that he was behind her.

They had gone about half-way to the station, when from a side street came a lad whom Clare knew as one employed in the packing-room. He carried a box exactly like that Clare had in his hand, and came softly up behind him. Clare did not turn his head, for he did not want to talk to him while he was attending on the lady.

"Look spry!" he said in a whisper. "She don't twig! It's all right!

Maidstone sent me."

Clare looked round. The lad held out his bandbox for him to take, and his empty hand to take Clare's instead. But Clare had by this time begun to learn a little caution. Besides, the lady's interests were in his care, and he could be party to nothing done behind her back! He had not time to think, but knew it his duty to stick by the bandbox. If we have come up through the animals to be what we are, Clare must have been a dog of a good, faithful breed, for he did right now as by some ancient instinct. He held fast to the box, neither slackening his pace nor uttering a word. The lad gave him a great punch. Clare clung the harder to the box. The lady heard something, and turned her head. The boy already had his back to her, and was walking away, but she saw that Clare's face was flushed.

"What is the matter?" she asked.

"I don't rightly know, ma'am. He wanted me to give him my bandbox for his, and said Mr. Maidstone had sent him. But I couldn't, you know!--except he asked you first. You did pay for it--didn't you, ma'am?"

"Of course I did, or he wouldn't have let me take it away! But if you don't know what it means, I do.--You haven't been in that shop long, have you?"

"Not quite a month, ma'am."

"I thought so!"

She said no more, and Clare followed in silence, wondering not a little. When they reached the station, she took the bandbox, and looked at the boy. He returned her gaze, his gray eyes wondering. She searched her purse for a shilling, but, unable to find one, was not sorry to give him a half-crown instead.

"You had better not mention that I gave you anything?" she said.

"I will not, ma'am, except they ask me," he answered.

"But," he added, his face in a glow of delight, "is all this for me?"

"To be sure," she answered. "I am much obliged to you for--carrying my parcel. Be a honest boy whatever comes, and you will not repent it."

"I will try, ma'am," said Clare.

But, to speak accurately, he did not know what it was to _try_ to be honest: he had never been tempted to be anything else, and had scarcely had the idea of dishonesty in his mind except in relation to Tommy. Do you say, "Then it was no merit to him"? Certainly it was none. Who was thinking of merit? Not Clare. He is a sneak who thinks of merit. He is a cad who can't do a gentlemanly action without thinking himself a fine fellow! It might be a merit in many a man to act as Clare did, but in Clare it was pure rightness--or, if you like the word better, righteousness.

Clare as little thought what awaited him. Had there been any truth, any appreciation of honesty in his vulgar heart, Mr. Maidstone could not have done as now he did. When his messenger came back with the tale of how he had been foiled, he said nothing, but his lips grew white. He closed them fast, and went and stood near the door. When Clare, unsuspecting as innocent, opened it, he was met by a blow that dazed him, and a fierce kick that sent him on his back to the curbstone. Almost insensible, but with the impression that something was interfering between him and his work, he returned to the door. As he laid his hand on it, it opened a little, and his master's face, with a hateful sneer upon it, shot into the crack, and spit in his. Then the door shut so sharply that his fingers caught an agonizing pinch. At last he understood: he was turned off, and his day's wages were lost!

What would have become of him now but for the half-crown the lady had given him! She was not _quite_ a lady, or she would have walked out of the shop, and declined to gain by frustrating a swindle; but she was a good-hearted woman, and G.o.d's messenger to Clare. He bought a bigger loaf than usual, at which, and the time of the day when he bought it, and the half-crown presented in payment, Mr. Ball wondered; but neither said anything--Mr. Ball from indecision, Clare from eagerness to get home to his family.

Chapter x.x.xVI.

The policeman.

But, alas! Clare had made another enemy--the lad whose attempt to change the bandboxes he had foiled. The fellow followed him, lurkingly, all the way home--on the watch for fit place to pounce upon him, and punish him for doing right when he wanted him to do wrong. He saw him turn into the opening that led to the well, and thought now he had him. But when he followed him in, he was not to be seen! He did not care to cross the well, not knowing what might meet him on the other side; but here was news to carry back! He did so; and his master saw in them the opportunity of indulging his dislike and revenge, and a means of invalidating whatever Clare might reveal to his discredit!

Clare and the baby and Tommy and Abdiel had taken their supper with satisfaction, and were all asleep. It was to them as the middle of the night, though it was but past ten o'clock, when Abdiel all at once jumped right up on his four legs, c.o.c.ked his ears, listened, leaped off the bed, ran to the door, and began to bark furiously. He was suddenly blinded by the glare of a bull's-eye-lantern, and received a kick that knocked all the bark out of him, and threw him to the other side of the room. A huge policeman strode quietly in, sending the glare of his bull's-eye all about the room like a vital, inquiring glance. It discovered, one after the other, every member of the family. So tired was Clare, however, that he did not wake until seized by a rough hand, and at one pull dragged standing on the floor.

"Take care of the baby!" he cried, while yet not half awake.

"_I'll_ take care o' the baby, never fear!--an' o' you too, you young rascal!" returned the policeman.

He roused Tommy, who was wide awake, but pretending to be asleep, with a gentle kick.

"Up ye get!" he said; and Tommy got up, rubbing his ferret eyes.

"Come along!" said the policeman.

"Where to?" asked Clare.

"You'll see when you get there."

"But I can't leave baby!"

"Baby must come along too," answered the policeman, more gently, for he had children of his own.

"But she has no clothes to go in!" objected Clare.

"She must go without, then."

"But she'll take cold!"

"She don't run naked in the house, do she?"

"No; she can't run yet. I keep her in a blanket. But the blanket ain't mine; I can't take it with me."

"You're mighty scrup'lous!" returned the policeman. "You don't mind takin' a 'ole 'ouse an' garding, but you wouldn' think o' takin' a blanket!--Oh, no! Honest boy _you_ are!"

He turned sharp round, and caught Tommy taking a vigorous sight at him. Tommy, courageous as a lion behind anybody's back, dropped on the rug sitting.

"We've done the house no harm," said Clare, "and I will _not_ take the blanket. It would be stealing!"