A MYSTERIOUS VISITOR
Martin’s first hour’s experience as baker’s boy was by no means pleasant. Mr. Faryner’s customers had been kept waiting for their morning rolls and loaves, and at nearly every house where Martin called he was received with dark looks and cutting words.
He took it all in good part, explained that he was a new boy, and promised to be earlier on the morrow. As the basket became lighter he grew more cheerful, and by the time he reached Bow Lane he had almost forgotten the forebodings with which he had started.
Turning into the yard by which he would reach the back entrance to Mr. Slocum’s house he suddenly collided with a boy coming in the opposite direction. He was turning round; the basket was jerked off his arm, and the two loaves it contained rolled out on the cobblestones.
“Now, clumsy, why don’t you look where you are going?” said a well-remembered voice.
Martin had already recognised his old opponent, the apprentice through whom he had been dismissed. He was himself recognised before he could say a word in reply, and for a moment or two the boys stared at each other. Then the apprentice laughed.
“Dash my eyes!” he said. “Do I see Martin Leake?”
Without waiting for an answer he swooped on the loaves, picked them up, rubbed the dust off on his breeches, and rushed back into the open doorway of the house.
“Sally, here’s Martin Leake turned baker’s boy,” Martin heard him shout.
In a few seconds he came out again followed by the cook with the loaves in her hands. Martin had picked up his basket, and was standing just outside the door.
“Well I never!” exclaimed the cook, who had always been well disposed towards Martin. “So you are working for Faryner, are you? I was wondering what had come to the boy. Mr. Slocum is in a towering rage because he’s been kept waiting for his breakfast. I’ll just send up the bread, then I’ll come back, Master Hopton; mind you that.”
She retreated into the house, and the boys were left at the door. They stood looking at each other awkwardly. Martin bore Hopton no malice; on the other hand he could not feel friendly towards him, and had not the cook asked him to remain he would have walked away.
“Slocum’s a terror,” said the apprentice suddenly.
Martin did not reply.
“Sent me out to buy a loaf,” Hopton went on. “You saved me a journey.”
This did not appear to call for an answer. There was silence again for a few moments.
“I say, I’m sorry I got you turned out,” said Hopton, awkwardly.
“You needn’t be,” said Martin, surprised. “I wouldn’t come back again for anything.”
“I don’t blame you. I’m sick of Slocum and his tempers. Does Faryner pay you well?”
“Now what’s that to do with you, Master Hopton?” said the cook, returning. “Just you run back to the shop, or you’ll get into trouble.”
“All right, Sally,” said the apprentice, grinning. He gave Martin a friendly wink as he turned into the house.
“So you have made up your quarrels,” said the cook.
“I’m not sure that we have,” replied Martin, with a smile. “But he’s very friendly. I wonder why?”
“He wishes he were you, I daresay, instead of being bound to Mr. Slocum for seven years. To Mr. Slocum, says I, though ’tis really to Mr. Greatorex. Ah! I wish the old master had never left the City. What things are coming to I don’t know. Mr. Slocum’s cursing and cuffing those apprentices from morning till night, and you’re lucky to be out of it.”
“What’s the matter with him?”
“Goodness alone knows! It’s my belief he has something on his mind, but—— There he is, bawling for me. Don’t let him see you. Coming, sir, coming!”
Martin hurried away, feeling more than ever glad that he was no longer in Mr. Slocum’s service, and wondering whether his old employer’s ill temper was connected in any way with his mysterious doings on the riverside.
Another round, in a different part of the city, occupied part of the afternoon, and Martin had to clean out the shop before he left for home. Again it had been a very hot day, and he was more tired than he had ever been before; so tired, indeed, that he was not inclined to talk about his new job.
“ ’Tis a come-down, to be sure, for a master mariner’s son,” said Dick Gollop; “but what you can’t help, make the best of.”
“Now don’t you go for to dishearten the lad, with your come-downs,” said Susan. “ ’Tis honest and useful, and we shan’t have to buy so much bread.”
Weary though he was, Martin that night found it impossible to sleep. His room was small and felt like an oven, though he had opened the window and the door, and thrown off all the bedclothes.
The senses of a sleepless person are extraordinarily acute, and as the hours dragged on Martin became annoyed at the regular snores of Susan Gollop in the room beyond. Dick happened to be out on night duty again. For a long time the only other sounds Martin heard were the footsteps of Mr. Seymour as he went along the passage above and up the stairs to his room.
“He’s very late home,” thought Martin.
He heard the lodger shut his door; then all was silent again until a new sound, outside his window, caught his ear. It was a slight thud, such as would be made by a small object falling on the ground, and he might hardly have noticed it had not recent events made him heedful and suspicious.
Rising from his bed he tiptoed on bare feet to the window and looked out, taking care to keep out of sight himself. It was a starry night, and he saw a dark patch against the sky—the form of a man standing on the square of waste ground above the basement level.
His thoughts flew to the man who had climbed the gutter pipe to the old Frenchman’s room, and his heart began to beat more quickly. Then he heard whispering voices. The man was evidently talking to someone on one of the upper floors. Only a few words were spoken, then the man walked quickly away.
Martin was relieved; it seemed that there was to be no further attack on the Frenchman’s room. But he was also puzzled. Who was the man? Why should anyone come in the dead of night to the back of the house and talk to one of the inmates? And to whom had he spoken? It must be either Mounseer or Mr. Seymour.
Still listening and watching, Martin suddenly heard the stairs creak. More than ever puzzled, and a little alarmed, he stole out into the passage. There were now footsteps in the hall above. He crept up the basement stairs on hands and knees, and noticed a dim flickering light upon the wall.
At the top of the staircase he bent low and peeped round. A smoky candle was guttering on the hall floor. The front door was partly open, and Martin saw the back of a man in nightcap and dressing-gown, talking to someone outside.
“Mr. Seymour!” said Martin to himself. “It’s too tall for Mounseer.”
“The sloop is in the river,” said a husky voice. “It’s too risky. You had better take it.”
“If I must, I must!” replied Mr. Seymour, in a low tone.
He opened the door a little farther. Martin felt strangely excited. A mysterious visitor to Mr. Seymour; a sloop in the river; some risky enterprise; something that Mr. Seymour was to take; all these circumstances sharpened his curiosity and caused him to strain eyes and ears.
The two men between them carried a heavy object into the hall. Martin could not see what it was, nor could he see the features of the visitor. Mr. Seymour was between them and the light.
“Remember you’ll have to account to me,” said the stranger in the same low, husky tone.
“If you don’t trust me,” replied Mr. Seymour impatiently, “take it away!”
“Trust you—oh, yes!” was the answer, with a slight gurgle of laughter. “But I thought I might as well remind you. That’s all. Good-night!”
He turned his back and went out into the darkness, Mr. Seymour gently closing the door behind him. And then Martin saw that the object on the floor was a square box, brass-bound at the corners.
Mr. Seymour shot the bolt without noise, shouldered the box, which appeared to be of considerable weight, then looked at the candle.
“Confound it!” he muttered, frowning.
Martin guessed that he was annoyed because, laden with the box, he could not stoop to lift the candle.
Slowly, taking every step cautiously, he carried the box up the first staircase, across the landing, and then up the staircase to his own room. In a minute he returned, picked up the candle, and ascended once more.
Martin’s heart was thumping as he crept down to his room again, and it was almost morning before he at last fell asleep.