CHAPTER VII.

A CHIVALROUS EXPLOIT.

SALLY DENT'S new lodger, like her former one, was a quiet man. She gave him this character, and the neighbours soon agreed that she was not mistaken in so doing. He moved and spoke so quietly that it was never easy to tell whether or not he was in the house, and he had a way of appearing suddenly with his noiseless, cat-like tread which was startling to nervous people.

He was a man who could lean motionless against the railway fence for half an hour, watching all that went on in the lane, without exchanging a word with any one, and who could listen to a fierce quarrel between neighbours without betraying by the least sign which of the contending parties had his sympathy. Yet when addressed, he was neither surly nor morose, nor did he show any reluctance to speak of his past history. He was a locksmith by trade, he said; had been in the employ of an ironmonger, but had been dismissed on account of the bad times, and now lived by any chance jobs he could get.

He was a man past forty years of age, and he brought a son and a daughter with him to Lavender Terrace. The son was a rough, evil-looking lad of sixteen, and the daughter a delicate little girl of twelve. This man, Lucas by name, would sometimes go off of a morning with his tool-bag over his shoulder, and be absent for several hours; but on other days he would hang about the lane, or busy himself in his room, so that his search for employment was not very vigorously prosecuted. But as he continued to pay regularly the rent of his room, Sally Dent did not concern herself about his habits.

Lucy Lucas was a shy, timid child, with an unnaturally grave expression and sad-looking eyes. She was lame from chronic hip disease, and went out little, for she was frightened of the rough boys who frequented the lane. That her fears were not unfounded was proved one evening about a fortnight after her arrival, when, in her brother's absence, she ventured as far as the public-house to fetch the beer for her father's supper.

Unfortunately there were many boys at Glensford with the cruel instinct of the bully who delights to torment and even torture those who are weak and defenceless. The sight of Lucy limping along, and carrying, with considerable danger of spilling its contents, the well-filled beer-jug, was hailed with delight by a group of these boys, who were hanging about in doubt how to spend the evening.

"Hurrah! Here comes the beer; now we'll have a drink!" they cried, and rushed upon poor little Lucy, crying, "Give us a drink, give us a drink!"

"I can't," said Lucy, white with fear; "it's for father's supper. I can't give it to you."

"It's for my supper, I tell you," said the ringleader of the band, "and I mean to have it, so hand it over."

He put out his hand to seize the jug; Lucy jerked it back suddenly, with the result that half the contents went over her frock and apron.

"There, there, there! You'd better have given it to us!" they cried, closing round her. "We means to have it."

The poor child in her helplessness began to cry aloud. The sound brought "Gentleman Gus" to the rescue. He knew Lucy; she had spoken kindly to him once or twice; but had she been unknown to him, he would have gone to her assistance just the same. He had so far the instincts of a gentleman that it would have been impossible for him to stand by and see a girl ill-treated without attempting to strike a blow in her defence.

Undaunted by the number and strength of the boys, Gus threw himself into their midst. Seizing the stretched out for the beer, he inflicted such a vicious pinch on it, that it was drawn back with a yell of pain. Then he dashed upon the assailants, kicking out right and left with all his might. They recoiled a little in their surprise, and he shouted to Lucy to run away. But running was impossible for her, and whilst one boy dealt Gus a blow that made his nose bleed, and another assisted in "polishing him off," the rest closed around Lucy again. But only for a moment.

A stinging blow on the head sent the foremost boy staggering backwards, whilst a voice in low, but most impressive accents exclaimed, "You young blackguard! I'll teach you to touch my girl again!"

It was Lucas, who, unperceived, had entered the lane in time to see his daughter's distress and Gus' gallant rush to her aid.

"Oh, father!" Lucy cried. "Don't let them hurt Gus; he was so good, so brave."

But Lucas needed no such admonition.

"You leave that little chap alone!" he said to the boys. "And if ever I find you hurting him again, it will be the worse for you."

The boys slunk away, muttering beneath their breath.

Gus emerged from the fight bloody and breathless.

"You're a brave little chap," said Lucas admiringly; "a well-plucked 'un, upon my word! Now come with me, and I'll wash your face before your mother sees you."

"He's got no mother, father," said Lucy. "Don't you remember I told you he'd no one belonging to him? He lives with Mrs. Dent, but she's no relation."

"Ah," said her father, regarding Gus more closely with a shrewd, observant glance. "Well, come along, lad; we'll fix you up, and you shall have your supper with us to-night. He's your champion, Lucy, and must be rewarded. You are looking quite white with the fright, my lass. Those fellows did not hurt you, did they?"

"No, father; it was only the fright," she said.

But he continued to watch her anxiously.

It was strange to Gus to be entertained as a guest in the room so familiar to him. But it looked very different. There were white curtains at the window, which had been well cleaned since Gus saw it, and flower-pots on the sill. A thick curtain hung on an iron rod near Lucy's little bed, and was drawn across the room at night. An old easy chair stood by the fireplace, some pipes and a jar of tobacco were on the mantelpiece, a clean cloth covered the table, which was neatly laid for supper, and a saucepan simmering on the fire emitted a very inviting odour.

Gus was rather startled to see Lucas close the door and lock it as soon as they were within the room. Then he turned to the boy, and said in his lowest, most impressive tones—

"Look here, youngster, no splitting, mind you, as to anything here. We're glad to see you, you're welcome to your supper; but you're just to keep things to yourself. Do you understand?"

Gus nodded. "I won't tell nothin' to nobody," he said.

And Lucas was satisfied.

With Lucy's help, Gus soon removed all traces of the fray, whilst Lucas went to fetch some more beer. When her father returned, Lucy, who was very womanly for her age, dished up the supper. It was rabbit, stewed with vegetables; a more appetising meal than Gus often had, and he thoroughly enjoyed it. Lucas talked to him as he ate it, asking many questions, apparently with the view of forming an opinion of the boy's capacity.

When supper was almost over, the son came in. He appeared astonished and not over pleased to see Gus there. He spoke roughly to his sister and surlily to his father, to whom he gave some information in such curious phraseology that it was wholly unintelligible to Gus.

A little later Gus took his departure. Lucas said good-night to him kindly, and invited him to come in and out whenever he liked. It was dull for Lucy, he said, to be so much alone.

When he had gone, the father and son looked at each other significantly.

"A well-plucked young 'un that," said Lucas. "It strikes me, he'll serve our little game."

"Not he," returned his son, with an oath. "He's a jolly sight too green."

"Think so?" said Lucas. "Well, we shall see. I mean to try what I can make of him."