Dick Lionheart | Page 6

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.
Their father was helped home at closing time, too far gone to remember
what had happened, but no Dick came in.
Bareheaded he had run away through the fog, his thin jacket and broken
boots a poor protection from the biting cold, but in his excitement he
scarcely felt it.

In a hiding place in the lining of his old jacket he had the little pocket
Bible that had been his mother's gift, with his name, Richard Hart
Crosby, on the fly leaf.
Folded small within it were the torn remains of a once handsome
crimson and blue silk handkerchief, the only memento of his father he
possessed. Somehow it had escaped the utter destruction that visited all
good things in Mrs. Fowley's keeping, and Dick treasured it more than
words could tell.
Feeling with his hand to be sure his treasures were safe, he ran
breathlessly on to Paddy's lodgings, in a back street not far from the tin
works.
Paddy had good work and fair wages, and might have been comfortably
off, but, alas, the "Blue Dragon" was not the only evil beast in Venley,
and much of Paddy's money went to the till of the "Brown Bear" at the
corner. Not that he drank deeply himself, but he loved the warmth and
company, and was too generous to others in the matter of treating.
There was always a chorus of welcome for Paddy when he entered the
bar.
But to-night he was at home, busily engaged in putting a clumsy patch
on his blue "slop" jacket, and he answered Dick's timid knock with a
boisterous welcome.
"And have ye railly left the wretches entirely and going off to Ironboro'
to seek your fortin? Shure, and its could weather for the job. And of
course ye want Pat. But ye can't have him to-night. Come and have a
bite and a sup and share me cot, and ye can be off in the mornin' before
anybody's astir, if ye like. Down then, me beauty; shure and ye needn't'
be so glad at the prospect of leaving Paddy!"
For Pat was wagging his short tail and barking and jumping in a storm
of delight, while Dick hugged him with the blissful thought that now he
would have him for always.
"You're so good to me," he cried gratefully, "but I'm afraid they'll find

me if I wait till morning."
"Not they. Let me look at your boots."
Dick held up a shabby foot, and Paddy sniffed in disdain. Two of the
Fowley's had worn the boots in turn, and they were now falling apart
from stress of wear and weather.
"They're no good for the road, me boy. We'll see." And soon a supper
of herrings and bread and butter and tea smoked invitingly on the table,
and when this had been disposed of Paddy went out, locking the door.
In a surprisingly short time he came back with a stout pair