The offer was jumped at by the hawker, the more so as Joson told him he would give him a trifle to start with when he should reach the metropolis. One afternoon, accordingly, they met at an appointed place, and walked towards Granton together. As a touching proof of his confidence, the lame man entrusted Poulson with a bundle of his to carry. The bundle was not very large, but it was heavy. When they reached Trinity, the lame man said he could walk no further, and took a penny ride by rail for the rest of the way, the agreement being that they were to meet on board the steamer. McSweeny, who had got word of the movement from the organ-grinder, was already at the ticket office at Granton Pier. The lame man went on board unchecked. Half an hour later Poulson appeared, carrying the bundle given him by the lame man, and was promptly stopped by McSweeny. The weight of the bundle gave my chum great hope, and for once he was not disappointed. When the bundle was opened at the station-house, there was found within a bag of coarse green cloth, containing 203 sovereigns. Then the hawker confessed that he had got the bundle from the lame man to carry, but was well laughed at for his pains. By that time the London steamer had sailed, and it appeared probable that the lame man had gone with it, for he was nowhere to be found. McSweeny was very proud of his capture, but while he was thus engaged I had been busy in another quarter. A slater had gone up on to the roof of the house upon which I had made my fishing experiment, and found there a long iron rod, bent at the end and fitted with a sharp hook. The moment I got word of this discovery I made the circuit of the district to find the nearest blacksmith, and from him I learned that the rod had been made to order by him for “a lame man who played the whistle on the streets.” Back to the organ-grinder I went, and tried the patent rod down his chimney with perfect success. I hooked up the dummy bag at the very first attempt. At the same time I drew from the organ-grinder a confession that “in drink” he was very loquacious and communicative. I had now no doubt but he had in some such unguarded moment allowed the lame man to draw from him part of his secret, the man’s native cunning and ingenuity filling up the blanks.
I now wished very much to see Joson, and with that end in view took the night mail for London. I was in the city long before the steamer arrived, and waiting for it at the wharf when it slowly crept up the river. No tender relative could have looked out for a dear friend with more anxious solicitude than I did for the face of the cripple whistle-player, and, as luck had it, his was almost the first face I saw.
He was looking over the taffrail, and evidently viewing the lively scene with great interest, for he saw no one—not even me—till my hand was laid upon his arm with the words—
“Well, Joson, I’m glad to see you. I hope you’ve had a good passage?”
The kind inquiry was never answered. Joson appeared to collapse at the very sight of my face, and submitted to be led away without a murmur. Poulson would have had some difficulty in proving his innocence, had not the lame man made a clean breast of it, and pleaded guilty with a view to shortening his own sentence.
For a long time there was one whistler less in the streets, and the organ-grinder’s motto ever after was, “Save me from my friends!”
THE BERWICK BURR.
The first time my attention was directed to Will Smeaton, was by a telegram from a Border town which described his appearance, and stated—a little late, however—that he had escaped in the direction of Edinburgh. The message called for Smeaton’s arrest on suspicion of a very deliberate attempt at murder, the victim being a sweetheart, named Jessie Aimers. The full particulars followed the telegram, and they seemed to leave little doubt of Smeaton’s guilt. Jessie Aimers was a girl of superior education, a teacher in the town, and greatly beloved by all. She and Smeaton had been brought up at the same school, but with very different results—for he became a kind of coarse dare-devil, a brass-finisher by trade, with a strong inclination for salmon poaching; while Jessie grew up refined, modest, and gentle. What possible bond of love could exist between two such natures? is the question which naturally rises to one’s lips; yet, with that tantalising contrariety which humanity seems to revel in, the answer was only, that such love did exist, and in no common degree of strength. The question was asked and echoed by all the townsfolk, and debated and wondered over, but the only decision was that Jessie Aimers was foolish to lavish her love on such a worthless object, and very much to be pitied on that account. Simple, short-sighted townsfolk! Jessie’s love was her life, her breath, the very pulse of her heart. To give up that would have been simply to lie down in the grave.
The circumstances under which the attempt at murder was said to have been made were these:—Jessie Aimers had left her home about dusk on a fine October evening to meet her lover, who was positively forbidden her father’s house. They had met at some appointed spot, and were seen about an hour later wandering slowly up by the river side. Smeaton appeared to be in a bad temper, for he was talking loudly and hotly. Jessie was answering gently and pleadingly. It was then quite dark, but they were readily recognised by their voices. Further up the river, and but a short time after, a great scream was heard, and very soon Smeaton was seen returning along the path alone, in great haste, and so intent on his own thoughts that he passed an intimate acquaintance close enough to brush his sleeve, silent as a ghost. Smeaton had gone straight home, but stayed there only long enough to get some money and his watch, and then made his way to the railway station and took a ticket for Edinburgh.
It was the manner in which this ticket was procured which first excited suspicion. Smeaton did not go to the ticket window himself, but skulked at the other end of the station, while he sent a boy whom he had hailed for the purpose to get the ticket. The boy was known, and the ticket clerk—astonished at him taking such a long journey—refused to give the ticket till he admitted that he was acting not for himself but for Will Smeaton. The boy probably made no mention of the circumstance to Smeaton, for when the ticket clerk went over the train helping to examine the tickets, and came upon Smeaton in an obscure corner, he said to him laughingly—“Were ye feared to come for the ticket yoursel’?” whereat the passenger looked horribly scared and taken aback, so much so that he was unable to reply before the ticket clerk was gone.