What happened to Tad

by Mary E. Ropes

It was already dusk, and another of the waggons stood between him and Pelagie, screening him from view. The rest of the troupe were scattered in various directions. No one was near but Pelagie, and she was preoccupied with her cooking.

A few long, stealthy strides and Tad had reached the road. Here he paused a moment, looking this way and that, screened by some bushes; but no one was in sight.

"Now for Granville and England!" he said to himself, and gathering the living bundle closer in his arms, he set off at a quick walk in an opposite direction from that which led to St. Malo. He had before him a long tramp, he knew, for Granville was nearly sixteen miles away.

What he was to do when he got there was not very easy to determine, but what he hoped for was to find Jeremiah Jackson and his "Stormy Petrel," and get a free passage over to Southampton. He had no idea, however, how often the skipper made his voyages, and therefore he knew he might have to wait a long time. But he had not considered how the baby and he were to live while thus waiting. Self-will is generally short-sighted, and does not take into account possible consequences, when following its own headlong course.

The baby's weight, Tad soon found, was far greater now than it had been on that memorable Sunday nearly seven months ago. And the pace at which the runaway started to-night from the gipsy camp slowed down perforce after a while. By this time the night had closed in, and Tad was thankful for the darkness which hid this last evil deed of his. For now that the first excitement was over, he was beginning to feel that the deed was indeed evil. And as he trudged along, carrying the thrice-kidnapped child, he gradually realised to some extent what he was doing, and what a heavy price he was paying for his own way.

Again before him, in the mirror of memory, rose the earnest, patient face of little Phil whom he had so disloyally deserted. Again he saw the look of pain which his own cruel words had called into those wistful eyes, those sensitive lips. Yes, he had lost Phil, dearly though they had loved each other, bitterly though they had suffered together. Then too, how had he requited dear old Mother Sophie and Father Jacques for all their kindness? Yes—they too were now among the losses which he had that night sustained. These true friends lost; and all for what?

Poor Tad was obliged to confess to himself that he had precious little to show in exchange. True he had gratified his self-will, but so far the gratification was of a decidedly qualified character. He was growing very tired, and so hungry that he was obliged to stop and take out his piece of bread to munch as he went along. Then, too, the child had begun to wail piteously in a hoarse voice that frightened him, and Granville was still nine miles off.

But for the demon Pride which kept whispering in his ear, the lad would have turned back even now to the camp; but he told himself that he could not bear to return to his friends confessing himself in the wrong. No, he felt he must go on now, having, by this last act of his, cut himself adrift from all who had befriended him.

All night Tad walked on, but in the morning he got a lift in a light cart that was going in to an early market at Granville. Worn and jaded and utterly disheartened, he and his now slumbering charge were driven into the town.

"The brat is a-goin' to be ill, I do believe," said Tad, peering down into the little flushed face lying against his shoulder. "Just like my luck!"