The boy smiled as, moving rapidly through the evening darkness, he reminded himself afresh of all these things. Then the smile faded, and a quick sigh expressed the lurking regret of his growing years. For a while his thoughts soared to all conceivable heights of medical distinction; and he wondered whether, had his path not been inexorably prepared for him, he might have climbed to better purpose some other way.
Max’s thoughts still dwelt lingeringly on the opportunities present-day conditions afford to the specialist in any profession, as he drew within sight of the straggling cottages of Woodend village. The first of all was a neat little one-storeyed tenement, where dwelt poor Mrs. Baker’s aged father and mother. Of late the couple had often tried to shelter Bell and her little ones during outbreaks of Joe Baker’s drunken fury; and more than once the fugitives had been pursued to their place of refuge by their persecutor. Max recalled these facts while his eyes caught through the trees the glimmer of lights below him in the valley; and by a natural sequence of thought, he remembered also his morning encounter with Joe.
“He was in one of his worst moods,” meditated the boy; “and if the ‘Jolly Dog’ has seen any more of him since, I expect his wife will be in danger to-night. I declare, I’ve half a mind to look in on her father and give him a word of warning. He might fetch the children, anyhow.”
Max looked again at the light in old Baring’s distant window, and decided to carry out his plan. A little further on he turned into the lane where, many months ago, Austin Morland’s galloping pony had caught up “brother Jim”. The overhanging trees behind tall wooden palings added to the natural darkness of the hour and place; and it was not till his eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom that he detected a tiny figure stumbling towards him up the path. When the child came close, Max saw that it was little five-year-old Polly Baker.
“Hallo!” sang out Max; “you again, small kid! What are you doing here?”
“Oh, Mas’r Max! Mas’r Max!” The child flung herself at the lad, and clung to him desperately. “He’s after me, Father is! Don’t let him have me! Please don’t, Mas’r Max!”
The boy lifted the little child in his arms, and tried to soothe her. He felt that her frail body was palpitating with the terror which had already made her baby face wizened and old. A mighty wrath surged into Max’s heart. Polly’s trembling fingers tugging weakly at his jacket called all his manliest instincts into vigour.
He easily made out the child’s broken words of explanation. Baker had been turned away from the “Jolly Dog” as being dangerous to its other frequenters, and in malicious rage had lurched home and set about beating wife and children indiscriminately. Neighbours had come to the rescue, and had seen that Bell was safely housed with a friend, while her children were sent under escort to their grandfather Baring. For a time Baker had remained indoors, nursing his wrongs; then, not daring to interfere with Bell, since Harry the Giant was mounting guard over her, he had set out in the dark to wreak his fury on the Barings and their helpless charges.
His coming had sent Polly and the other little ones into paroxysms of terror, and they had flown for shelter out to the friendly night. Baker was drunk enough to be dangerous, without having in the least lost control over his senses. Little Polly, whose baby fist had sometimes been raised in defence of her mother, was always his favourite victim; and the child now gasped in Max’s ear her certainty that her father had seen and followed her. If he had been sure she was right, Max would have turned instantly, and have run back up the lane to some trusty villager’s dwelling; but before he could persuade himself to this course, events proved Polly’s fear to be justified. Round the corner into the lane came Baker, running at full speed, with sufficient certainty of gait to assure Max that he would have no helpless drunkard to deal with.
Even then, Max knew that he could escape, without Polly. Max was fleet of foot; but the clinging grasp of the childish fingers and the weight of the little quivering body were enough to give the advantage to Baker in an uphill race. Max had but a minute for reflection, and he determined to try to dodge Baker, slip past him, and make a dash for the village. Running downhill, he thought he might outstrip the enemy, should he give chase; and there would be the chance of meeting help in the more frequented road.