“Ay.”
“And therefore I expect there’s threepence-halfpenny in your pocket, Bill. Turn it out.” But he wouldn’t, and I was obliged to extract it.
“And now, Mrs M‘Lachlan,” said I, “though stolen money cannot be reclaimed, when I tell you that our friend Bill here stole it from the pocket of an old woman-pensioner, you’ll not refuse to repay it.”
“No, though it were a shilling,” replied she, as she put down the penny.
“Now there is one I shall make happy,” said I, as I put the money in my pocket, and taking Bill by the coat I carried him off, without even permitting him to finish his pot, the remaining contents of which would be a halfpenny to Mrs M‘Lachlan for her penny.
So pulling Bill along—I might safely have allowed him to walk between me and my assistant, but I felt some yearning to hold him tight—I took my “pearl of Orr’s Island” to Bailie’s Court, where there waited for me my poor pensioner, as well as the crowd, who no doubt wanted to see whether I would fulfil my promise. The moment they saw Bill in my hands they raised three cheers, more grateful to me than the eclat of having recovered a thousand pounds. There stood the woman, and before her Bill, the personification of lusty youth preying on shrivelled old age; but Bill was as unmoved as a stone, and I thought of making him feel a little, if that were possible. I knew I had no right to give up the money, but I was inclined to make an exception, were it for nothing else than to save the credit of the thieves’ wedding.
“Now,” said I, “Bill, you will give this money to the woman to whom it belongs.”
And the rogue, finding it useless to disobey, took the money and handed it to the woman, in the midst of another shout. I never received so many blessings from a sufferer all my life as I did from this poor pensioner; and the feelings of the crowd, depraved as many of them no doubt were, shewed that there was something at the bottom of the most callous spirits that responds to justice. But I was not satisfied, for I made him declare to his victim that he was sorry he had robbed her,—an admission due to the fear he entertained of being torn by the angry people. Nor was even this all, for I sent up to the wedding-party for a dram to the sufferer, whereby I still maintained the honour of the marriage, and had the satisfaction to see the old woman’s eye lighted up as bright as that of the bride.
And having gone through all these manœuvres, which afforded me no little satisfaction, and perhaps more to the crowd, I again took hold of Bill, and dragged him as roughly to the Office as was compatible with my obligation not to punish a man before sentence.
Sometime after, Bill was tried by the High Court. He was an old offender, and this had its weight with the judge; but it was easily to be seen that the peculiar circumstances of the case had more than their usual weight. The judge became quite eloquent, and no doubt he had a good subject to handle, but a very impenetrable object to impress. Bill was as unmoved as ever; I am not sure if he did not laugh,—another example of what I have so often stated, that the hardihood of these creatures is not modified by punishment, nay, even transportation. Yet I have no doubt that if this young fellow’s heart had been handled softly when it was capable of being mollified, he might have been of some use to his kind, if not a credit to himself. We have sometimes reason to doubt the effect of training even among the children of respectable people, but I suspect such a result arises from their being otherwise spoiled. The parents let out at the one end the web woven by the schoolmaster at the other, and thus education loses the character of its efficacy. With the “Raggediers” in an industrial school, no such spoiling would be permitted. The good tendency would be all in one way; and the devil would not, through the parents, be permitted to pull in the opposite direction. What though Bill Orr got a year for every penny, and one to boot for the odd halfpenny! He would be the same Bill Orr at the end as he was that night of the thieves’ wedding.