Rogues and Vagabonds

by George R. Sims

Once outside they separated, but all made for the pier. Marston stood and looked out over the sea, watching for the lights of the Ostend packet.

The night was not very dark, and the water was comparatively still. As he looked out over the wide expanse of waters, dotted here and there with the light of a fishing vessel at anchor his thoughts wandered away over the past.

As he stood there, clutching his bag of gold, he thought of each succeeding step he had taken in crime, until he had come to look upon a robbery such as he had just been the prime mover in in much the same light as a merchant looks upon a successful speculation on ‘Change.’

Thinking of his wild life, and glancing almost unconcernedly at the panorama of his evil deeds which unfolded itself at the bidding of the great showman Memory, something seemed to come suddenly between him and the canvas. The gentle face of a beautiful girl rose up before him; her eyes looked pleadingly into his. Suddenly it vanished, and the panorama was unrolled swiftly. Scene alter scene he saw, where all was wickedness and he was the central figure.

‘Bah!’ he exclaimed, as he caught himself sighing. ‘What the deuce is the matter with me to-night?’

He lit a cigar and moved away from the pier side, strolling up towards the head. He looked around for his companions. A feeling of loneliness had come upon him, and he wanted some one to speak to.

But it bad been agreed that they should not rejoin each other until the packet was in sight, so Marston buttoned his overcoat up found his throat, and whistled a tune to relieve his feelings.

He could not shake them off. In a few minutes he found himself musing again. What should he do now if this coup came off with complete success?

Once safe back in town he could snap his fingers at detection. He would have ample opportunity of destroying the scent if the hounds of the law ever got on it. He knew that he would have an early intimation if there was any necessity for him to take precautions. His companions might peach, but it was almost impossible. It wouldn’t pay them. They were as deep in the mud as he was in the mire, and he had the whip hand of them all.

Still he felt uncomfortable, almost for the first time in his life, he kept thinking of Ruth Adrian, and that upset him. The old love, fanned into a flame, was burning brightly in his breast once more, and it seemed to unnerve him. The wealth which was his now would open the gates of fortune to him. He knew it. He knew that, with the capital soon to be at his command, he could make money legitimately and without risk. That was his intention. He had no vulgar ambition to be a criminal. His desire was, having secured the foundation of a fortune, to live cleanly and respectably for the future. But in all the dreams in which he indulged, Ruth Adrian was always his wife.