CHAPTER XII

A FRIEND AND AN ENEMY

"THERE'S one thing I wish we'd been able to do," said Phil, as soon as he could get breath enough to speak.

"And what's that?" asked Tad.

"Warn the people at that house we went to rob, and let 'em know there was burglars about," replied Phil. "I never thought of it till now, but we might have set up a screech or a loud whistle just to wake folks, and maybe frighten Paul and Jean and Foxy."

"Why, you silly, we'd only have been murdered if we'd done that," said Tad.

"All the same," rejoined Phil the uncompromising, "I think we ought to have done it."

"Well, we can't help ourselves now," remarked Tad, with a sigh of relief, for his was not a martyr's spirit, and it had never occurred to him to reproach himself until Phil suggested that they had neglected their duty.

"No," he repeated, "we can't help ourselves now; it's hours since we left them fellows, and any mischief as was to be done has been done already. So it's no good goin' back, to say nothin' of our bein' sure to meet Foxy."

Phil shuddered.

"We mustn't get into his hands no more, whatever happens," said he; "but he'll try and catch us, you may be sure, Tad."

"Yes," assented Tad, "we know too much about him not to be dangerous now we've run away. So of course he'll want to find us, and we'll have to look out."

"We'd better not keep to the high roads in the daytime," said Phil; "if we do, he's sure to track us sooner or later."

"The thing is, what can we do? Where can we go?" muttered Tad more to himself than to his companion. "Have you any money, Phil?"

"Not a sou, Tad."

"Nor I. And how we're to get food and shelter, or find work to keep us, goodness knows."

"God knows," corrected Phil gravely, "and it's a comfort He does know. But now come on, Tad; we must put some miles between us and old Foxy afore the next few hours is over."

For another half-hour they trudged along the road, talking busily, and trying to form some plan of action for the future. By this time the sun was rising, and the tardy winter morn had begun.

"We must take to the fields now," said Phil. "We mustn't be seen on the road by any folks goin' to market, for old Foxy will be sure to ask everybody he meets if they've seen us, and if they had, why, it would end in our bein' nabbed. Come along, Tad!"

So the boys left the highway, and clambering over a gate, walked along a strip of low marsh-land, which was, however, dry now with the frost.

Here, sheltered from view by the hedge, they followed the windings of the road for some distance, feeling quite safe. But as the morning advanced, and the excitement of their escape subsided, the pangs of hunger and thirst became almost intolerable. And when they spied in the distance a little house standing among trees, they resolved to go there and beg for something to eat.

As they approached nearer, they saw that the house was not an ordinary cottage, but a substantial and neatly built, though small, building of two storeys. It had a stable and coach-house at the back, and a little yard where cocks and hens were crowing and clucking over a feed of grain just thrown out to them.

A pale, dark-eyed, sad-faced woman answered the timid knock at the door which Tad gave.

"What would you, my children?" she asked gently. "You look weary and ill. What ails you? Tell me!" And her kind eyes rested with a wondering pity upon Phil, whose thin, patient, white little face appealed to her motherly heart.

"We are starving, madame," said Tad, in the queer French he had picked up during his short stay in France; "and we have not a sou to buy bread. Will you, of your goodness, give us something to eat, that we may have strength to pursue our journey?"

"Oui, certainement," replied the woman kindly. "Come into my kitchen, children; there sit down by the hearth, and warm yourselves, while I make ready for you."

Soon a plentiful meal of hot milk and bread, and thick pancakes of buckwheat flour, was put before them. As the famished lads ate and drank their fill, their hospitable hostess paused now and again in her work, to smile at them approvingly, and heap their plates, and replenish their cups with a fresh supply of food and drink.

At last the cravings of appetite were satisfied, and seeing how weary and sleepy the boys looked, the good woman said:

"Listen, my children; I can see that you need rest; indeed one would think you had had no sleep all night. Now there is clean straw laid on the floor of my apple room, at the back of the house. Would you not like to lie down there and rest—both of you—for a few hours?"

"Ah yes, indeed we should, madame!" cried Tad.

"And thank you, oh, thank you for your goodness!" said Phil, glancing up gratefully with wistful, moistened eyes. For after all that the boys had known of late of hardship, privation, and above all of cruelty—they could hardly accept without tears, the motherly kindness of this gentle-hearted stranger.

She led them to the back of the house, and opening a door, ushered them into the little room where the winter fruit stores were kept. On shelves round the walls were arranged, in tidy rows, on clean paper, rosy-cheeked apples, and hard, sound, brownish-green baking pears, while on the straw in one corner reposed several enormous golden pumpkins. Dried herbs of many kinds hung in bunches from strings carried across the room just below the rafters of the low roof, and little lath boxes of various seeds had a small shelf all to themselves. But on the floor, at the corner of the room furthest from the door, was a thick mass of fresh straw and hay, dry and fragrant, and to this the woman pointed.

"Lie down there, my children," she said, "and sleep as long as you will."

As they crept thankfully into their cosy bed, she went and fetched a horse-blanket and covered them carefully with such sweet, womanly tenderness, that Phil caught her hand and kissed it, and Tad looked up into the kind, sad face, his own softened and made beautiful by gratitude. Then with a gentle "Sleep well, my children!" their new friend left them to their repose.

The boys must have slept about eight hours, for when they awoke it seemed to be late in the afternoon. The sun was no longer shining in through the slats of the shutter window; indeed the daylight appeared already to be on the wane. Moreover, a voice which somehow was familiar, and dreamily associated in their minds with something distinctly unpleasant, sounded in their ears, and presently roused them to full consciousness.

"Hark!" whispered Tad. "What's that?"

And the boy sat up, the old, fearful, hunted look coming back into the face just lately so serene in sleep.

"It's someone talkin' with the woman, ain't it?" said Phil.

"Yes—but don't you know the voice?" gasped Tad. "It's that man Paul, one of them burglars."

"What shall we do?" cried Phil. "Has he come after us?"

"No, no," rejoined Tad; "but p'raps this is where he lives, and maybe he's just got home. Listen, Phil; we'd better be quite sure it's he, and if the woman's told him anything, afore we makes up our mind what to do."

Still as mice, the lads lay buried in the straw under the blanket, and listened breathlessly. Part of the talk they could not hear, only a low murmur of two voices reaching their ears.

But at last the man's voice said distinctly:

"Enough, Claudine; why waste my time and patience with those everlasting remonstrances of thine? See here, could all thy industry or mine, year in, year out, win such a pretty bauble as this?"

Here there was a pause, as though the man were showing the woman something. Then he went on:

"Let me put it about thy neck, my dear! Why dost thou draw back? It is but a plain gold cross and chain such as any woman may wear; take it!"

"Never, Paul," replied the woman's voice passionately. "Never will I wear stolen goods. Oh, my husband!—" And here her voice broke, and she went on sobbingly, "thou art breaking my heart and spoiling my life and thine own. Think how happy we were only a short time ago, before the evil days of thy friendship with Jean Michel and his companions! Why not be content with honest labour, instead of living in fear and remorse as we must? For this is now the third time that thou hast returned from a bad night's work, bringing me gifts which I can but refuse as accursed things."

Paul laughed a little hard laugh.

"The things I bring home are but a little love-token for thee, Claudine. The rest of our booty finds its way to the smelting-pot of our Hebrew friends in the town, and thenceforth tells no tales. And as for my safety, wife, no fears. We work in crape masks, and we cover our tracks with skill. The only danger is now and then from our accomplices."

"And how so?" questioned Claudine.

Then the man told his wife how he and Jean had been joined by Renard and his lads on the previous night, and how, at the last moment, the boys had refused to do their master's bidding, so that Renard and they had been ordered off as worse than useless for the job they had in hand.

"And the danger is," added Paul, "lest that dirty old rascal or one of the brats should carry some story about us to the police, just out of spite. As it was, we had a great deal of needless trouble. Had the boys been content to enter and open to us, all would have been so simple, so easy. But since they refused, we were forced to break in, and this made noise, and some of the household were roused, so that we could not get all we had hoped; and this, after our precautions, and our clever poisoning of the dog, was too bad! Ah!" added Paul fiercely. "Could I but lay hands on those two little rascals, I would teach them to disobey again!"

"Did they then refuse to enter and open to thee and thy companions, Paul?" asked the woman.

"Yes, they said they would not go, and even the threats of their master availed not; and we could not use force for fear of an outcry."

"Tell me, what like were the lads?" inquired Claudine. "Were they small or big? French or—"

"Why, wife, what makes then so curious about a matter that, of a truth, concerns thee not?" said Paul suspiciously. "Thou art never likely to set eyes upon the young miscreants. That greedy old bag-of-bones—Renard, the thief, mountebank, tailor, tinker, and what not—has got the lads, body and soul, and he is not likely to let them out of his sight."

"Are they French?" asked Claudine again.

"No, certainly not. With their master they spoke the English tongue, and a hard, jaw-breaking, cursed language it is too. One of the boys was little with a pale face, and the other taller, with a big round head like one of thine own pumpkins, Claudine. Ah, let me but catch them, the young monkeys! And in the space of ten minutes, no one should know them for the same children."

To this the woman made no reply that the lads could hear; but they had heard enough to make them look at each other in renewed fear and horror.

"We can't stay here another moment, Phil," whispered Tad. "We must go."

The slatted, wooden shutter which served as a window was only fastened by a hook on one side. Tad stole across the straw-covered floor, slipped the hook out of the ring, and the shutter swung open. Swiftly and noiselessly the boys got out, and found themselves in a small back garden communicating by a gate with the yard, and divided only by a low fence from a lane, the tall, bare trees of which they could see rising above the fence. To clamber over, and drop down into the lane on the other side, was the work of a moment. Then away—away, in the fading light, as though flying for their lives—sped the two poor lads, once more fugitives and vagabonds in a strange land.