Escape From Home Page 21

  “Very well, Mr. Patrick, if you have such a ticket, be so good as to show it to me.”

  “Faith, it’s my sister who has it.”

  “Sister now! This is the first I’ve heard of a sister.”

  “But I do have a sister!” Patrick cried in exasperation. “And isn’t she waiting for me at Mrs. Sonderbye’s lodging house.”

  “Mr. Patrick,” Mr. Bartholomew said with great patience, “if this is true, why did you not tell me last night?”

  “I …”

  The minister wagged a finger. “Mr. Patrick, I am trying to help you. Lies will only make me cross. Now pay heed. I’m going to take you to the Catholic Society for the Protection of Abandoned Irish Boys, run by your own countrymen. And a very fine establishment it is too. You’ll be fed, clothed, taken care of.”

  “But I don’t want to go to any place but where my sister is!” the boy cried in horror.

  “Mr. Patrick,” the minister replied in his most soothing voice, “you need to learn to trust those who know what’s good for you.”

  “Your Honor,” Patrick pleaded, his eyes suddenly brimming with tears, “I am telling the holy truth. Maura’s waiting for me!”

  “Mr. Patrick, please don’t try my patience. I’m doing you a good turn.”

  Patrick started to protest again, but fear froze him. What was happening was exactly what he had most dreaded.

  Mr. Bartholomew, taking Patrick’s silence as acceptance, turned to Laurence. “As for you, Mr. Laurence, you will remain here until I return. I want you to give me your promise on that.”

  “Yes, sir,” Laurence answered, not knowing what else to do. “I’ll wait.”

  “Very good then,” the minister said. “Now then, Mr. Patrick, let’s be off.” He stood by the door.

  Patrick and Laurence stared at each other for a moment.

  “Bye,” Patrick murmured.

  “Bye,” Laurence returned.

  “All right, lad, come along,” Mr. Bartholomew said, and clamping his hand firmly on Patrick’s shoulder, he led him away.

  The night had passed quietly for Ralph Toggs in his warehouse chamber. Indeed, he slept so well, it was only the sound of footsteps in the old hallway that woke him.

  Up in a flash, he took a quick look, realized whose steps he had heard, waited, then jumped out in front of Fred.

  “Well, well.” Toggs sniggered. “It’s little Fred No-name, the Yorkshire marvel. What brings you here?”

  Fred, with Mr. Bartholomew’s letter in hand, had been loping along, caught up in daydreams about how he would spend the reward money he got for finding Laurence. Toggs took him completely by surprise.

  He stopped in his tracks. Trying to recover his composure, he eyed his rival with fear and anger. “Just looking for pigeons,” he said.

  “In here?” Toggs said scornfully. “Not likely.”

  “Well, what are you doing here?” Fred threw back.

  “I was waiting for you.”

  “Me?”

  “Sure,” Toggs said, enjoying the boy’s uneasiness. “I knew you were coming.”

  Fred looked at Toggs suspiciously.

  “What’s that you got there?” Toggs demanded.

  Fred had quite forgotten the letter. The moment Toggs asked, he thrust it behind his back. If the letter had something to do with Laurence, the last thing he wanted was his rival getting hold of it. “Message for Sergeant Rumpkin,” Fred said.

  “Who gave it to you?”

  “A clergyman.”

  “A clergyman! What’s it about?” Toggs wanted to know.

  Fred took a step back. “None of your business,” he answered.

  “You don’t even read, do you?” Toggs sneered. “So you wouldn’t know whose business it is, now would you?”

  “I do know!” Fred cried.

  “Well, I can read,” Toggs pressed. “So you can hand it over now.” He reached for the letter.

  Fred took another step back.

  “Well then, keep it yourself,” Toggs said. “It’s likely rubbish.” He turned away.

  Thinking he had deflected Toggs’s curiosity, Fred relaxed his guard. The next moment Toggs whirled, made a lunge, and snatched the letter away. Fred tried to retrieve it, but Toggs held him off and read the address on the paper. Out came a derisive whoop. “Going to the police, were you?”

  “Wasn’t!” Fred cried. “I was taking it to the sergeant.”

  “Liar!” Ralph Toggs said as he unfolded the letter and read it hastily.

  “Let me have it,” Fred cried. “I have to take it to the sergeant!”

  “Well then, we’ll both take it to him,” Toggs returned. “Unless you can get it back from me.”

  Fred glared at Ralph Toggs with all the hatred he had ever felt for anyone. But there was little choice. “All right,” he muttered. “We’ll both go.”

  The streets of Liverpool were already crowded with the morning’s latest emigrants. With bundles, bags, and trunks in hand, they were pouring into the city. But neither Fred nor Toggs paid them any mind, so intent were they upon their current purpose. Each was thinking furiously. Fred was wondering if he could outrun Toggs and reach the sergeant first so as to claim the discovery of the boy. For his part, Toggs was puzzling over the Laurence referred to in the letter and why Fred should be so anxious to carry information about him to the sergeant. He was not, however, going to ask.

  One hundred yards from the Iron Duke, Fred could not restrain himself. He broke into a run. His advantage lasted barely ten seconds. Toggs’s longer legs quickly enabled him to catch up so that he burst through the doors of the Iron Duke five steps ahead of his rival.

  The main room was crowded, mostly with dock laborers. A few called familiarly to Toggs. Ignoring them, he pushed toward the rear.

  In the back room, sitting in isolated splendor, Sergeant Rumpkin was partaking of his regular breakfast. Beneath his many chins was tucked a grease-spotted napkin. On the table before him were plates of eggs, ham, chicken, beef, and venison pie. There was also a pitcher of ale, a bottle of wine, three loaves of bread, and a great pyramid of yellow cheeses. In the fireplace, a roaring fire gave off such heat that even the food was sweating.

  Toggs dashed up to the table, flung down the letter, and cried, “Fred’s gone informer!”

  “Liar,” screamed Fred as he came up fast and attempted to shove Toggs away. The two boys were red faced, panting hard.

  The startled sergeant, a half-eaten lamb shank in one hand, a drink in the other, looked from Fred to Ralph Toggs, then down at the letter.

  “I caught him going to police headquarters,” Toggs exclaimed. “Carrying a message from some clergyman.”

  “I found that boy,” Fred barked. “The one we’re looking for.”

  “Attention!” the sergeant roared. “Attention!”

  The two boys stopped their clamoring and stood as stiffly as their excitement allowed.

  “Do you think we’re in Bedlam?” the sergeant cried with vexation. He flung down his food in disgust, then wiped his hands and chins with the napkin, all the while glaring furiously. “Mixing your business with my viands is against all regulations,” he growled even as he snatched up some ale and swilled it down to make clear that he, at least, intended to follow the proper rules of conduct. “It’s not to be condoned! How many times must I tell you boys, I am not to be disturbed during my meals!”

  Fred, almost beside himself with rage, blurted, “But I—”

  “Mr. Fred!” the sergeant cried, “did I or did I not command you to be still?”

  “It’s only that Toggs—!”

  “Silence!” the sergeant thundered.

  Reluctantly, Fred shut his mouth.

  “Now then,” the sergeant said as he leaned back in his chair, “there seems to be some kind of skirmish here.”

  Holding them silent with his stern gaze, he plucked up a hard-boiled egg, cracked it with his sharp knuckles, peeled it slowly, then flicked away the shell bits
with his narrow thumb like so much confetti. Only when he had stuffed the entire egg into his mouth, crushed it, chewed it, swallowed it, belched, and patted his lips and chins again with his napkin did he pick up the letter.

  “Is this the letter you’re speaking of, Mr. Toggs?” The sergeant dangled the paper before Toggs like some unclean thing.

  “He was running errands for the police,” Toggs repeated.

  “I was bringing it to you!” Fred shouted.

  “One at a time!” the sergeant shouted. “All right, Mr. Toggs, you arrived first. Let’s hear your report.”

  “I was laying low,” Toggs began, “in the Duke of York’s warehouse on account of some problem I had with the dock police. That’s why I couldn’t make muster last night. Though I did bring my money.” So saying, he took out his earnings from the day before and, with a great rattle, dumped the money before the sergeant who, with a swift swirl of his hand, scooped it up and put it in his pocket.

  “Go on,” he growled.

  “Then here comes this No-name pegging through, letter in hand. I hails him and asks him, perfectly friendly, where’s he going. ‘None of your business!’ says he.”

  “Not true!” Fred cried.

  “In turn, Mr. Fred, in turn!” the sergeant roared.

  Toggs grinned—further infuriating Fred—and then continued. “Well, I saw right off he was up to no good. So I took that letter from him—he’s not much of a fighter—and read the cover and saw it was for the police. ‘What’re you going to the police for?’ I asks. ‘None of your business,’ says he. ‘Don’t you think you better go to the sergeant first?’ says I. ‘Go where I want,’ he retorts.

  “So I opened the letter, read it, and saw it was all about some boy. Laurence is his name.”

  “Laurence?” the sergeant exclaimed with new interest.

  “That clergyman was telling the police all about a Laurence.”

  “Was he!”

  “Read it for yourself,” Toggs suggested.

  “Is that the end of your report?”

  “Except that, since he wouldn’t bring it to you, I thought I should.”

  “That’s all lies!” Fred cried in exasperation.

  “Very well, Mr. Fred,” the sergeant said. “What’s your account of this fracas?”

  Fred was so upset, he could barely talk. “I got up this morning. Early. Wanted to search out that boy we’re looking for. The one we talked about at muster last night. Which Toggs didn’t come to. When I was passing by the chapel ship Charity, the clergyman there hailed me and dragged me to his service. Before he did, he told me to take a letter to the police. Offered me a penny to do it.” Fred held out the coin as proof.

  The sergeant extended his hand. Fred dropped the coin into it and saw the fingers close.

  “I said I would,” he continued, “only intending to bring the letter to you. Next thing is, the clergyman brung in that boy, the same as we’re looking for. So I took a guess, figuring the letter had something to do with him. I was bringing it to you when Toggs grabbed it.”

  “He was taking it to the police,” Toggs sneered. “You can see for yourself that’s what’s written.”

  Sergeant Rumpkin studied the letter’s address. Then he unfolded it and read it once, and again. After the second time, he did not put it down. Instead, he held the letter before his eyes, considering which boy to believe.

  On the face of things, he was rather more inclined toward Fred. Not only was it like the youngster to be up early to search for the missing boy and earn the reward money, but his anger seemed the more genuine.

  As for Ralph Toggs, Sergeant Rumpkin knew him for the bully he was. All the same, if he sided with Fred, there was a danger that Toggs could do something rash, perhaps even absent himself from the association. On the other hand, if he sided with Toggs, though Fred might go on a sulk, there was little else the weasel-faced youngster could do. Besides, now that he had built Fred up, was it not time to cut him down? That was sound strategy. And finally, since Toggs had not been at the meeting the night before, he had no claim to Mr. Clemspool’s reward money. As far as Sergeant Rumpkin was concerned, that meant he could pocket it all.

  The sergeant lowered the letter. “Mr. Fred,” he began, “it is my understanding that you don’t know how to read. Is that correct?”

  “No, I don’t, but I …”

  “Since you can’t read, you couldn’t know the contents of this letter, could you? To take it to the police would have been a tactical mistake. An ambush. A defeat. It seems to me, Mr. Fred, you’ve made a serious breach in our rules of combat.”

  “But I wasn’t taking it to the police!” wailed an outraged Fred, his face as bright red as his hair.

  “Sure, he was,” Toggs said, sensing his victory.

  “I wasn’t!”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Sergeant Rumpkin interrupted. “I choose, in this instance, to believe Mr. Toggs. Mr. Fred, I’m deeply grieved that you would even consider consorting with the police and—”

  “It’s a lie! An awful lie!” Fred shouted, so livid that tears started in his eyes.

  “Look at him!” Toggs mocked. “He’s crying like a baby!”

  The insult was too much for Fred. Furious, he leaped at his tormentor. But the older boy’s weight and strength proved too much for him. Toggs threw Fred off with ease. Fred, sprawling, recovered and crouched low, ready to spring again. Toggs in turn whipped out his knife and held it before him.

  The sergeant leaped from his chair. “Cease-fire!” he roared, waving his napkin wildly. “Cease-fire! Truce! No brawling at my breakfast. Instead, we’ll all go and fetch this Laurence boy. Though you’ve made a mistake, Mr. Fred, I’m willing to overlook it this once. But you must promise not to go on any more errands to the police. And no more attacking comrades.”

  A smirking Toggs held his hand out to Fred. “I’m willing to forgive him, even if he don’t have no last name.”

  His face contorted with rage, Fred cried, “I’ll get you back for this, Ralph Toggs. I will!” And he raced from the room.

  “Mr. Fred!” the sergeant called after him. “Halt!” It was of no use. Fred had dashed out of the Iron Duke.

  Toggs laughed. “Not to worry. He’s young. He’ll be back.”

  “Be that as it may,” the sergeant rumbled, “I think I had best lay immediate siege to this Laurence. Come along, Mr. Toggs. Step lively. We’ve a forced march to make to the Charity!”

  You will find the society home a great blessing, Mr. Patrick,” Mr. Bartholomew said, his hand firmly upon the boy’s shoulder. As they passed through the docks, he was keeping to a fearful pace.

  Patrick barely listened to the minister’s words. He was trying to decide the right moment to break away and run for freedom.

  “Father Kiley, the principal, is a generous, bighearted man,” the minister went on. “All the lads are quite devoted to him. And, Mr. Patrick—no small thing—not once have I heard any complaints about the food. So you see it will be a happy time for you, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Patrick said.

  After passing by the last of the dock police stations, they paused before crossing the wide congested street known as the Strand.

  Patrick looked about. He was sure he remembered buildings and signs from the time they had followed Ralph Toggs to the lodging house.

  “As to how long you will remain there, that’s for Father Kiley to decide,” the minister went on. “Generally, it will be until he finds you suitable employment. That usually takes two months or so. But it can be the making of you, Mr. Patrick. I’ve seen it happen many times.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “He may even teach you to read.”

  Patrick looked around. “I can read,” he said.

  “Can you? Well, Mr. Patrick, I’m both surprised and gratified to hear it,” Mr. Bartholomew said as he moved them forward, threading their way through the wagons, carts, and carriages that crowded the road.


  A hansom cab loomed up before them. The horse came so close, Mr. Bartholomew had to step back. In so doing, his grip on Patrick loosened, just the chance Patrick had been waiting for. Giving a sudden twist to his shoulder, he freed himself. Instantly, he darted forward, cutting in front of a large wagon filled with bales of textiles all labeled “Shagwell Cotton Mill.” Clearing the wagon, Patrick skipped across the road. Once on the other side, he plunged into a narrow street and began to race up through the city.

  Mr. Bartholomew was taken entirely by surprise. “Mr. Patrick! Stop! Halt!” he cried. “You mustn’t go! I’m trying to help you!” He attempted to follow, but the wagon blocked his way. Endeavoring to sidestep it, he was stopped by a man pushing a barrow. By the time he reached the other side of the road, Patrick had vanished.

  Winded, frustrated, the minister looked up and down the busy street. He had lost Patrick for sure. The thought made his heart heavy.

  Then he reminded himself there was still a chance to do some good. That is, there was Laurence. He hesitated, wondering if he should just go back to the Charity. The question was, did that red-headed boy deliver the letter or not?

  After looking about to take his bearings, the minister realized he was closer to police headquarters than to the chapel boat. Would the English boy wait as he’d been told to? There was something about the boy—better breeding perhaps—that suggested he would indeed keep his word. It seemed, therefore, most efficient to go to the police. With renewed vigor, the Reverend Mr. Gideon Bartholomew set off uphill.

  On the Charity, Laurence remained in his chair for a long time. Periodically he sipped at the remainder of his tepid tea, but the silence that surrounded him contributed to his feeling of being very alone.

  Slowly, painfully, he weighed what had just happened: First he had found a solution to his problems—Patrick’s ticket to America—only to have it snatched away. Though he knew he should feel upset, he gradually became aware that he did not. He wondered why. Was not the chance to go to America exactly what he had desired? Yes, he kept telling himself, yes. What then was the matter with him? Why was he feeling … relieved not to have it?