They waited the day or two, but Johnny was as effectually hidden from them as if he had been buried alive. On the Monday morning he had been placed at the bar of the Police Court, and, when asked if he had taken the loaves in the manner described, said simply that he had, but had never thought of taking them till he opened the window to let out the cat. The magistrate thought for a little, and spoke of sending him to a reformatory, but as there was a difficulty in having no parents to fall back on for the cost of maintenance, he contented himself with a sentence of three days’ imprisonment, and a warning to the terrible burglar not to be seen there again or it would be worse for him.
At the trial Johnny’s father never appeared, and from that the boy concluded that he was cast off for ever as an unclean thing. Neither was he once inquired for by his mother, which fact cut him keenest of all.
“She might have known I didn’t mean it,” he thought with bitter tears, “but was just led to take them by thinking of them at home.”
As “Peter McBain” he served his term of three days, and then was free. Curiously enough, his first thought was of his fisher uncle in Kirkcaldy, whom he had often heard of but never seen. Johnny never thought of going home, but asked the way to Kirkcaldy. He had not a penny in his pocket, and the rags he called clothes could scarcely hold together, and, when he was told that there were two ways to Kirkcaldy—a short way by the ferry, and a long way by land—he had no choice but to go by land, and turned his face with the utmost coolness in the direction of Stirling.
Very little alters the whole course of a life. As with most boys, Johnny’s little head was full of romance, and he had determined either to be a fisherman or a sailor, and actually might have had his desire accomplished had he ever found that uncle in Kirkcaldy. But he had not got many miles on his way when he picked up an acquaintance in shape of a boy a year or two older than himself, who, having been well thrashed by his father for some fault, was “running away” to a grannie in Dundee. He had run away before, and was never tired of describing the glories of life in the mills there, and the kindness of his grannie, who kept lodgers, and was always glad to see him when his own home became too hot for him. So Johnny, who still stuck to the name of “Peter McBain,” decided to accept the boy’s offer of friendship and guidance, and the two small waifs at length reached that town, where the reception by the grannie was quite as kind and loving to Johnny as if he had been her own grandson. After the boys had rested two days to heal their blistered feet, they went to one of the largest mills, and were readily engaged for some simple part of the jute spinning which could be learnt in an hour or two. At this work Peter McBain showed real smartness, and soon attracted the notice of the foreman. Peter lived with the grannie who had first welcomed him to Dundee, and learned to call her grannie too. The first flush of prosperity was on Dundee at the time; wages were high, and work was plentiful, and anyone showing peculiar smartness was almost certain of speedy promotion.
When Peter had been in the mill for nearly a year, the manager asked him if he would like to learn a trade instead of to be a tenter. Peter was willing, and was taken into the mechanics’ shop attached to the mill, there to learn to make and fit up machinery. He grew stout and sturdy, and gave great satisfaction, as he never seemed happier than when tearing in at his work. He never dared to write home, and was mourned as one dead. In six years Peter became a full-fledged journeyman. He was now a tall, strapping fellow, with a good face, and a clear, laughing eye, and was qualified to go anywhere and command a high wage as a first-class engine-fitter. He had been diligent and steady, and had studied drawing and designing to help him in his trade, and altogether was quite a different character from what he had promised as a small and terrible burglar. He had even saved a little money, and it was the thought of that money lying idle, and the heaps more which he was now able to earn, which sent his thoughts homewards and his heart throbbing for dear Auld Reekie. When he had been a few weeks journeyman, and engaged in the same mill at a capital wage, the Fair holidays came on, and Peter’s eye caught a bill announcing a “Trip to Edinburgh.” Edinburgh! The very sight of the word thrilled him through. He got a ticket and went through next day. He made his way first to Hill Place. His parents had not lived there for years. No one knew them, or had heard of them, and he began to faintly wonder if they could have been all starved to death at that fearful time when he was locked up in prison as a burglar. Then he thought of the bakers’ house of call, and went thither and got a great lift to his heart. His father was alive and doing well as foreman to Borland the baker, who had now two shops, and was flourishing also. Peter went to the principal shop, and found Mr Borland behind the counter. As he entered the shop a floury-faced man, in his shirt sleeves, was leaving for the regions below, and the young engine-fitter stared into the face with a palpitating heart.
“That’s my faither! that’s my faither!” he thought, with a great lump rising in his throat; but he could no more have spoken than he could have flown in the air.
Borland stared at him curiously, and thought from his incoherent words and strange manner that the stranger was drunk. At length he understood that the young man wished to be directed to the home of Mossman, the foreman, and, as he refused to see the foreman, he got the address and departed. Mossman came up from the bakehouse a few minutes later, and was apprised of the circumstance, but thought nothing of it till he was half-way down the stair again. Then something familiar in the face he had seen for a moment in the shop had flashed upon his memory, and he dashed up to the shop, whiter than the flour on his face, and faintly staggered towards his friend and master, Borland, with the words—
“I’ll hae to gang hame for a minute. I believe that fellow was my lost laddie—my Johnny come back!”
Meanwhile Peter McBain had gone a street or two farther, and found the house—a much nicer one than the last he had called his home in Edinburgh. A shining brass-plate on the door bore his father’s name, and when he knocked, a little urchin, chubby and rosy, whom he had never seen before, opened the door and allowed him to step within. A grey-haired woman sat sewing by the window, and some older children were clustered around, but they all stared at the stranger in blank amazement, and in utter ignorance of his identity. Peter stepped forward and gazed into his mother’s face, with the tears creeping into his eyes.