CHAPTER XVIII

JEREMIAH TO THE RESCUE

"THEN all that I've done is wuss than lost," said Tad to himself as he walked slowly away from the hospital where he had left his little brother. "I've run away on the sly and walked all night; I've carried off a sick child as can't be no good to me; I've broke with Phil and with the gipsies; and all for what? To stay here and starve in the streets while maybe the child dies in the hospital, and if he do die, why then good-bye to any home-goin' at all. Just my luck I can't seem to compass nothing at all, I can't."

That night he slept under an old boat which was turned on its side awaiting repairs on the shore, above high-water mark. A more unhappy lad it would have been hard to find under God's great canopy of sky than Tad when he awoke next morning, cold, hungry, with a remorseful conscience and an anxious heart. After buying a small loaf of bread which was to last him all day, he walked down to the quay, which he had good cause to remember, for it was here he had first met Renard. But the thought of old Foxy was not uppermost in his mind as he sauntered round, looking idly about him at the varied shipping, and at the busy crowd loading and unloading the vessels. His wretched experiences with his late master seemed to him now something very remote, almost forgotten in the nearness of his more recent troubles.

So much absorbed was Tad in his own miserable reflections, and the utter collapse of every plan he had made, that he started like one awakened out of sleep, when a long, claw-like hand grasped his arm, and a well-known, hateful voice said almost in his ear, "Ah, bon jour, mine dear cheeile! So I you have found at de last!" And a grin of evil triumph made even uglier and more repulsive than ever Renard's wicked face. Tad started as though from some noxious reptile. All the memories of his sufferings and those of Phil at the hands of this man rushed upon him with overwhelming force, and he gazed into Renard's green eyes, fascinated and speechless.

"Ah, ma foi!" chuckled Foxy. "Only to tink! Dis dear boy is so please to see his old master, dat he find not word to speak."

"It's a lie! I ain't pleased!" cried Tad, finding voice at last. "You know very well I'm nothin' of the kind. I hate you, that I do! Let me go!" And he tried to wrench his arm from old Foxy's clutch.

"Oh fie! Fie! Wat naughty tempers have dis dear cheeile!" sighed Renard as he tightened his hold. "Come wid me, mine friend; you shall once again be educate in de college of Monsieur Renard. Widout doubt your jours de fête—wat you call holiday—find demselves too long. Now you weel work."

And old Foxy began to drag his unwilling prisoner along, trying to get him away from the quay and into the town.

Tad did what he could to free himself from the man's hold, but all to no purpose. As well might a fly try to win clear when a spider has hold of him.

The people they met took no heed of him. It was nothing uncommon to see a struggle or even a fight going on here, and nobody interfered; so Tad was almost in despair, when suddenly he caught sight of something that gave him energy and courage.

There, standing on the deck of a trim little vessel drawn close up to the quay, was a burly form surmounted by a bluff; honest, weather-beaten face and a shaggy mass of red hair and beard.

"Oh, Captain Jackson!" shrieked the lad. "Save me! Save me! Foxy's got me again!" And he stretched out his one free arm in passionate entreaty.

The worthy Jeremiah leaped on shore and met Renard face to face. "What's up?" said he. "What's the matter?"

"De matter, Monsieur Jeremie," replied Renard in honeyed tones, "is dat dis poor boy did run away from his kind master, and now he come back, and all weel be well again."

"Never, never!" cried Tad. "Don't believe him, please, captain! He's the awfullest liar that ever was. Please, sir, look at me; don't you call to mind a boy you picked up in a open boat at sea, and how good you was to me? You wanted me to go back with you to England, and I'd near made up my mind to it, when old Foxy here come down with Phil Bates, and coaxed me into goin' along of him. And after that, me and my chum was starved and beaten and ill-treated, and at last, roust of all, we—"

"Weel you be quaite, Edouard?" hissed Renard, giving the boy's arm a violent jerk. "If you hold not your peace," he added in a whisper, "I weel keel you."

"I remember you very well, Teddie Poole," said Jeremiah. "So you don't want to return to the man's service, eh?"

"No, sir, no indeed!" cried Tad. "Save me from him! Do save me, captain!"

The bluff, good-humoured face looked very grave and stern as Jeremiah Jackson turned once more to Renard.

"Unhand that lad, Renard!" he said.

"Ma foi! And why, Monsieur Jeremie?" inquired Foxy. "You have not de right to say, 'Do dis and dat.'"

"It's no use bullyin' and blusterin', you parley-vooin' scoundrel!" said Jackson stoutly. "Unhand that lad, or I'll tell the world here what I know. If once all Granville heard that you—"

"Enough! Hush, oh hush, Monsieur Jeremie, mine good, dear friend!" whispered Renard, looking round furtively to see if Jackson's rather too plain speaking had been overheard. "It is one leetle joke; say notting more. I am only delight to do you oblige, and if you desire dat I let go dis cheeile, behold I cede heem widout unpleasant. Good morning, Edouard; bon jour to you too, Monsieur Jeremie."

And loosening his hold on Tad, the Frenchman bowed low, cap in hand, and shuffled off towards the town.