The moment the grasp was made, The Gander ran like the wind, and got clear away by Low Calton and the Back Canongate, and never halted till he landed breathless but triumphant at the bedside of the sleeping Yorky. His first business was to resume his own clothing, clean the paint from his nose, and take the wig from his head. Then he took the watch, with the fragment of gold chain still attached, and thrust it as far as his arm could reach in under the mattress on which lay the virtuous form of the sleeping Yorky. This done, he pocketed the red wig, laid Yorky’s clothes at the bedside beside his muddy boots, in some confusion, as if they had been taken off somewhat hurriedly, and then left the house, with the pleasing consciousness of having done all he could to help Fate to do the right thing to a great rascal.
While this was being done, the robbed man had made his way to the Central Office to report his loss. He had got a full view of the robber’s face and dress—or at least imagined he had—and went over the details with such minuteness and fidelity that I turned to some one and said in surprise—
“Surely it can’t be Yorky at his old games already, and he was only let out this morning? It’s just his style.”
I then went over one or two of Yorky’s peculiar features, to all of which the gentleman so eagerly responded in the affirmative that I thought it could do no harm at least to look for Yorky, with a view to bringing him face to face with the victim. I should have found him at once if I had gone to his den, but that was the very last place I thought he would go near when in danger of being taken. I therefore went over all his haunts, but in vain. No one had seen him, and several told me of the flight of his wife, which gave me the idea that Yorky, finding himself “on the rocks,” and deserted, had committed the robbery with great audacity, and then left the city for good with the proceeds in the wake of his partner. It was quite late at night when I thought of his garret in the Canongate. I believe it was McSweeny’s suggestion that I should go there—at least he always insists that it was, and possibly he is right, for the way in which Yorky had grinned at his damaged face had made my chum certain that the hands which inflicted the injuries were before him, and McSweeny was now eager for revenge.
There was no answer but snores to our knock, so we opened the door and entered.
“How sound the divil sleeps,” said McSweeny, with a sceptical grin, as he struck a light. “Sure a fox himself couldn’t do it better.”
Yorky refused to wake with a word, and even when violently shaken by both of us only half opened his eyes, and uttered some sleepy imprecations. At length, getting impatient, McSweeny lifted a dish containing water and emptied it over Yorky’s face, which startled him into a wakefulness and some vigorous protests.
“What do you want now?” he growled at last, when he was able to recognise us.
“I want to know where you were at half-past three o’clock to-day?” was my significant reply. “On with your things and trudge. You’ve got drunk too soon—you’ve overdone it. Man, see, there’s the slush off your boots all over the floor.”
“I haven’t been across the door since morning,” he solemnly protested, on which McSweeny somewhat savagely remarked that “we believed him every word.”