"You shall never beat me again, or call me names, never!" he cried, as he opened the door and dashed out into the November night.
There was a dense fog outside that seemed to swallow him instantly, and by the time Fowley got to the door the boy had vanished.
"He's escaped me this time, but he shall have a double dose when I set eyes on him again," said the man grimly, as he hung up the strap; "I'll let him know about father's money!"
"But who could have told him?" asked his wife, in a frightened tone. "What if he goes with his tale to the police, or to that meddling doctor, that took such notice of him. He's never been the same boy since then."
"Police! not he, but if he should, 'mum's' the word, mind. We never had naught but just enough to pay for the buryin'. He'll be back again, meek enough, come bedtime, and then you can find out."
And flinging the tools back into the box, the man, who had already drunk too much on his way home, lurched off to the "Blue Dragon," where all his evenings now were spent. But his wife sat over the fire and looked at the grate Dick had laboriously black-leaded that morning, and her thoughts were busy with the past. And her long sleeping conscience was awake, and she heard again the feeble voice of a dying man, "Send this letter to brother Richard at once. We quarrelled before he went off to Ironboro', but he'll come and see to things and take charge of little Dick. And there'll be enough to pay for his upbringing, when all's said and done." But the letter was conveniently forgotten, and presently thrust into the flames, and the leathern pouch with its store of gold greedily taken possession of, as soon as the lodger was dead. And like all ill-gotten gains, the gold rapidly melted away.
"Who could have knowed about it, and told the boy?" she muttered with growing anxiety, as she went to the door to look out for the runaway.
But there was nothing but the murky gloom, with a faint reflection of light from the lamps far down the road, and a noise of rough play in the distance. The children of the row—her own among them—were having their usual street games in spite of the fog and chill, but Dick would not be there, she knew. For he was different from the rest, and hated the rough horse-play and bad language with all his might.
"I must have a sup to make me forget it," she muttered again. "He looked for all the world like his father. I told Fowley at the time it would come home to us, and it will."
Noisily the children came in, clamoured for supper, and took it in their dirty hands, and then went to bed.