Archie\'s Mistake
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ARCHIE'S MISTAKE
BY
G. E. WYATT
_Author of "Follow the Right," "Archie Digby,"_
_"Johnnie Venture,"_
_&c. &c._
THOMAS NELSON AND SONS
_London, Edinburgh, Dublin, and New York_
1912
[Illustration: _"Simon Bond's strong hands grasped Stephen's ear and
collar."_
(1,680) Page 32.]
ARCHIE'S MISTAKE.
"Father, why do you have such a beggarly-looking hand at the mill as
that young Bennett?" asked Archie Fairfax of the great mill-owner of
Longcross.
"Why shouldn't I?" he replied. "He comes with an excellent character
from the foreman he has been under at Morfield. He does his work very
well, Munster says, and that's all I care for. I don't pay for his
clothes."
Archie said no more, but he still felt aggrieved. As a rule, his
father's work-people were a superior, tidy-looking set, but this new
lad was literally in rags, and his worn, haggard face and great,
hungry-looking eyes seemed, in Archie's mind, to bring discredit on
the cotton-mill.
"He's no business here," he said to himself.--"I wish you'd send him
away."
Archie had only lately had anything to do with the mill, as he had
been at a large public school. But now he was eighteen, and had left
school. He had come into his father's office as secretary, that he
might learn a little about the business which was to be his some day.
Mr. Fairfax had some excuse for the pride he took in his manufactory,
for a better looked after, better managed, or more prosperous one it
would have been difficult to find, though of course there were _some_
rough people among the workers. Long experience had taught his
work-people to respect and trust an employer who acted justly and
honourably in every transaction; and it was Mr. Fairfax's boast that
there had never yet been a "strike" among his men, nor any difficulty
about work or wages which had not been settled at last in a friendly
spirit.
But this very "superiority" was a snare to the mill-hands. For if they
once took a dislike to any one who had been "taken on," they left him
no peace until they got rid of him. It was looked on as a sort of
privilege in Longcross to belong to the Fairfax mills, and the men
chose to be very particular as to whom they would admit among
themselves.
They all disapproved of poor Stephen Bennett from the first day of his
coming.
As they walked away that evening they discussed his appearance with
eager disapprobation.
"Who is he?" "Where does he come from?" "Where's he living?" "What's
made the master take such a ragamuffin on?"
These were some of the questions asked, but no one was able to answer
them.
"I'll get it all out of him to-morrow," said Simon Bond, a big
savage-looking lad, with his hat on one side, and his pipe in his
mouth.
"P'raps he won't be quite so ready to tell as you are to ask," said
some one else.
"He'd better be, then, if he's got any care for his skin," answered
the boy, and the others laughed.
So the next day Simon followed the stranger out of the mill, and began
his questions in a rude, hectoring voice.
To his utter astonishment, Stephen refused to answer them. He made no
reply while Simon poured out his questions, until the latter said,--
"Well, dunderhead, d'ye hear me speaking?"
"Yes, I hear you," responded Stephen, looking at him with a
half-frightened, half-defiant expression.
"Then why don't you answer?" he inquired with an oath. He was getting
angry. "If you cheek me, 'twill be the worse for you, I can tell you."
"I don't want to cheek you," said Stephen; "but I don't see as my
affairs is your business, any more than your affairs is my business."
Simon could hardly believe his ears as he listened to this answer.
This little shrimp to defy him like that!
But his anger soon outweighed his amazement.
He seized Stephen by the collar, saying, as he gave him a shake,--
"Answer my questions this instant, or--"
His gestures completed the sentence.
Stephen turned very white, but he replied firmly,--
"I've told you I ain't going to, and I sticks to my words. If you
threaten me like that, I'll go to the foreman and complain. There he
comes."
Simon looked down the street, and saw Mr. Munster advancing just
behind two other mill-hands. He was obliged to let Stephen go, but
rage filled his heart.
"I'll pay you out," he muttered, "one of these days." Then he turned
round a side street and disappeared.
And what did Stephen do?
He walked on till he came to a baker's shop, where he bought some
bread; then to a grocer's, where he got sugar, tea, and a candle; and
so on, till his arms and pockets were full of parcels. But the odd
thing was that he bought so much. That was what struck a man--one of
the mill-hands--who was in the shop.
Most of the work-people lived in one particular quarter of the big
city--Fairfax Town it was called in consequence. But Stephen threaded
his way to quite a different part--a much poorer one--and turned into
an old tumble-down house, with all its windows broken and patched,
which had stood empty and deserted until he came to it.
Weeks passed on, and still, in spite of constant persecution, Stephen
remained at the mill. Scarcely any one spoke a kind word to him except
Mr. Fairfax, but he very seldom saw him. Even old Mr. Munster, the
head foreman, addressed him sharply and contemptuously, which was not
his usual custom. The lad did his work well enough, but he was such a
miserable-looking fellow, and so untidy and shabby.
Mr. Munster said something of the sort to Archie one day, when he met
him outside the office, just as Stephen was going away after receiving
his week's wages.
"Yes," replied Archie eagerly; "did you ever see such a scarecrow? But
he has good pay, hasn't he?"
"Yes, Mr. Archie; very good for such a young hand. He has fifteen
shillings a week."
"He drinks--depend upon it he drinks spirits, and that's what gives
him that hang-dog look," said Archie.
"You've never seen him the worse for drink, have you?" asked Mr.
Munster, not unwilling to have an excuse for getting rid of the ragged
stranger.
"Well, I don't know," he answered. "He was leaning up against a wall
the other day when I passed, and when he saw me coming he tried to
stand upright, and he regularly staggered. I could see it was as much
as ever he could do."
"H'm!" said Mr. Munster thoughtfully; "I shall watch him, then. If I
catch him like that at his work, I shall soon send him packing."
"And there's another thing," Archie went on. "What does he do with the
things he buys? What do you think I saw him getting last week?"
"Couldn't say, sir, I'm sure."
"Why, three boys' fur caps, and a lot of serge, and a girl's cloak,
and four pairs of cheap stockings, and other things besides. I was in
Dutton's shop when he came in. He didn't see me because of a pile of
blankets, and I heard him buy all those things, and carry them off. He
paid for half, and the rest he said he'd pay for this week. He must
have bought things there before, or they wouldn't have trusted him.
But, you know, they'd come to very nearly as much as his wages."
"Yes; I don't understand it," said Mr. Munster. "But, after all, it
isn't our business if he does his duty at the mill."
"No, I know," said Archie; "but I believe there's something wrong
about him, and I should like to know what it is."
"Well, 'give him enough rope and he'll hang himself,' as they say,"
rejoined Mr. Munster--"that is, if your ideas about him are true."
Archie said no more on the subject then, but he made up his mind to
keep a sharp look-out upon Stephen's conduct. Whenever he met him,
therefore, he looked keenly at him; and he would sometimes come
through the great room where Stephen worked, with a number of other
men and lads, and stand close to him, silently scrutinizing him. If he
spoke to him, it was always to ask a question which obliged young
Bennett to say a good deal in reply; and Archie was forced to own that
he displayed a considerable knowledge of the branch of business in
which he was occupied.
But Stephen soon discovered that he was regarded with suspicion, and
he came to dread his young master's approach, and the cold, searching
glance of his blue eyes.
Stephen had looked haggard and careworn from the first, but as weeks
passed on he seemed to get worse. He still did his duty as well, or
almost as well, as ever, but he grew perceptibly weaker every day, and
at last he could hardly drag himself along.
"I doubt if I'll last much longer," he said to himself, as he reached
the mill one morning about three months after his first arrival at
Longcross, "but father's time will be out next week. I must write to
him to-day or to-morrow and warn him what may be coming."
There was only one man at the mill who had ever been the least civil
to Stephen. This was a gay, thoughtless young fellow named Timothy
Lingard.
He always rather prided himself on taking a different side from the
other men, and in his light, careless way he had rather patronized
Stephen when he saw him.
Not that they met very often, for Timothy's work was to stay in the
mill all night, and go round the premises at intervals in order to see
that there was no danger of fire.
Sometimes he was not gone when Stephen came in the morning; and then,
as the latter waited outside for the doors to be opened, Timothy would
enter into a conversation with him, just to show the other men that he
took a different line from theirs.
One evening--it was about a week after the discussion about Stephen
between Archie and Mr. Munster--Timothy met the pale, careworn lad
dragging himself wearily home from the mill. He looked more ragged
than ever--his clothes seemed almost ready to drop off.
"Hullo!" said Timothy; "you look as if you hadn't too many pennies to
chink against each other. What d'ye do with your wages? They don't go
in clothes--that's clear enough."
Stephen flushed deeply, in the sudden way that people do who are in a
very weak state, but he made no answer.
"I can put you in the way of earning an extra pound, if you like,"
said Timothy carelessly.
"Oh, how--how?" cried Stephen with sudden animation, clutching at
Timothy in his eagerness, and then holding on to him to keep himself
from falling.
"There--don't go and faint over it," said Timothy, pushing him off;
"and don't throttle a man either for doing you a good turn. That ain't
no encouragement. What I mean is, that I've a rather partic'lar
engagement to-morrow night, and for several nights to come--in fact,
till next Friday--and I want to get some one to take my place at the
mill."
"But will Mr. Munster let any one else come?"
"I ain't a-going to ask him. It don't matter to _him_ who's there, so
long as there _is_ some one to look after the premises. I'm going to
put in my own man; and you can have the job if you like, and take
two-thirds o' my pay--that's twenty shillings. I shall be back by
three or four o'clock in the morning, so as to give you time for a nap
before your own work begins. But if you ain't feeling up to the double
work, just say so. Now I look at you, I have my doubts, and it won't
do for you to go falling off asleep, or fainting, mind. What d'you say
to it?"
"I could do it--I'm sure I could. I wouldn't go to sleep--I promise
you I wouldn't. The only thing is, I should like--I think--if you say
it won't matter--yes, I really should like--"
"Have it out, and have done with it, and don't stand spluttering there
like a water-pipe gone wrong. Will you do it, or not?"
"Yes," said Stephen, in a low voice.
"Then mind, you ain't to say a word about it to any one--not as
there's any harm in it, but I don't want the foreman to hear of it
sideways. I shall come here as usual at six o'clock, and if you'll
come up about seven--it's pretty near dark by then--I'll let you in,
and be off myself."
"All right. But--but, Tim, I--I was going to ask--"
"Well? Do get on--what an ass you are! What do you want?" interrupted
the other impatiently.
"'Twas about the money. Could you--I mean, would you mind paying me
first? I'll do the work--I will, indeed."
"It'll be the worse for you if you don't," said Timothy. "But as for
paying first, I don't know as I've got the money. What d'you want it
for?"
"I can't tell you--at least, I mean, for food and clothes," answered
Stephen, looking extremely distressed and embarrassed. "But never
mind, Tim; if you can't do it, I'll wait."
"No; you can have it. I daresay I'll be making more to-night," said
the reckless Timothy, and he got out two half-sovereigns and gave them
to Stephen.
"Now, remember," he said, "if you say I ain't paid you, or if you
don't do the work properly, and anything happens while I'm away, I'll
break every bone in your body."
No one could look at the two and doubt Timothy's power to wreak his
anger on the slim, weakly-looking youth, some ten years younger than
himself.
"All right; I'll take care," answered Stephen, who never wasted words;
and they separated.
The following evening Stephen arrived, as arranged, in the twilight,
at the big mill, and was admitted by Timothy at a little side-door.
"Mind," said the latter, "you ain't supposed to go to sleep. You goes
your rounds four times. There's the rules." He pointed to a card on
the wall, and added--"I take forty winks myself every now and then,
but _I_ can wake up if a fly jumps on the table. Now, I'm off. I'll be
back in lots o' time."
He departed, whistling as he went, and not feeling the least ashamed
of betraying the trust reposed in him, by thus entrusting the safety
of the whole mill to a comparative stranger. Timothy was not in the
habit of asking whether things were _right_ before he did them, but
only whether they were pleasant or convenient.
He did not notice Archie Fairfax, who was standing at the office-door
as he walked quickly by, just under a newly-lighted lamp.
There was some one else watching too, from under the shadow of a
projecting buttress, whom neither Archie nor Timothy perceived. It was
Simon Bond--Stephen's bitterest enemy.
Ever since the day when the lad had refused to answer his rude
questions, Simon had been on the look-out for his revenge. Twice he
had waylaid Stephen, and tried to give him the thrashing he had
promised him.
But once Stephen had eluded him by going through a big shop which had
an opening on the other side; once some one had come up just as Simon
had got his foe into a quiet corner.
It was of no use for him to track Stephen to his home, for he knew how
crowded it was in those narrow streets; and though a "row" would
probably be a matter of daily occurrence, there was every likelihood
that the men who looked on might take the side of their own neighbour
against a stranger like Simon.
"But my time'll come yet," he said to himself, "if I wait long
enough."
He contented himself, while waiting for the longed-for day of
vengeance, with adding what he could to Stephen's load of trouble.
His work was in the same big room, and he took care that Stephen
should have the draughtiest corner of it, and be the last to get into
the office on pay-day. And he managed that if anything did go wrong,
suspicion should fall on Stephen--in which Archie was his unconscious
helper. Then, if Stephen ventured to speak while waiting outside for
admittance in the morning--which he did very seldom--Simon would
repeat his words in a loud, mocking voice, and comment upon them, and
turn them into ridicule, till poor Stephen dreaded the sight of him
more than of all the other men put together.
"What's up now, I wonder," thought Simon, as he watched Timothy come
out and Stephen go in at the little door of the manufactory. "Why,
there's Tim Lingard going off right away. Is he gone for the night? I
should like to know. If he is, now's my time. I don't suppose the
little chap will lock the door, so I'll just slip in while he's going
his rounds, and be ready for him when he comes back--that'll all be as
easy as sneezing. I'll make it pretty hot, though, for Master Stephen
when I've got him."
He went home to his tea; and Stephen, all unconscious of the plots
being laid against him, entered the little room where the night-watch
sat, and got out his meagre supper, which he had had no time yet to
swallow. The room had two doors; one led to the courtyard through
which Stephen had entered, and the other, the upper half of which was
glass, took into Mr. Fairfax's private office and the larger
counting-house beyond, out of which the passages leading to the
general workrooms opened.
"I hope the little 'uns 'ull get on all safe for a few nights without
me," he said to himself, as he ate his slice of bread. "Polly's so
sensible, she'll do all right, if those rackety boys 'ull do as she
tells 'em. They promised me they would, but there's no tellin'."
He sat thinking for some time, and then started off on his first round
of inspection.
Meanwhile Archie Fairfax had gone home to dinner, his mind full of
the proofs he thought he had acquired of Stephen Bennett's
untrustworthiness. He said nothing about it, however, until he and
his father were left alone after dinner.
"Who's the caretaker at night now, father?" he asked, as he peeled an
apple.
"Timothy Lingard," was the answer. "Why do you want to know?"
"Oh, only because he isn't there to-night; so I thought he might have
been dismissed."
"Not there to-night! What do you mean, Archie?"
"Why, I saw him come away this evening, just before I came back here,
and Stephen Bennett went in instead. I can't say he looks quite the
sort of fellow to be in charge of a big place like that all night--a
fellow of his habits, too."
"What do you know about his habits?"
"Oh, nothing particular. But, of course, one can't help suspecting
there's something wrong about a chap who draws the pay he does, and
goes staggering about the streets with his arms full of children's
clothes, and his own things looking like a beggar's."
"Do you mean you think the lad drinks, or is dishonest? Speak out,
Archie, like a man, and don't throw stones in the dark."
"I don't want to do the fellow any harm," responded Archie, who felt
that, in spite of his watching, he knew far too little to speak
definitely; "but what I have seen of him I don't like, and that's a
fact. I can't help thinking there's something behind. What business
has he to be at the mill to-night, when the regular man's away?"
"None at all, of course. Most likely Lingard has gone off on some
errand of his own, and paid Bennett to take his place. But it is not
regular or right, by any means; I don't like the idea of it at all....
I think I shall go round myself presently, and find out all about it."
By the time Stephen got back from his round it was nearly nine
o'clock. He sank into a chair, and leaning his elbows on the table,
rested his head in his hands.
"I'm a deal weaker than I was last week," he murmured; "but I must
try and last out till father's back. I'll write to him now, and tell
him how fast I'm going. If there was any one a bit friendly, I'd tell
'em about it all, and ask 'em to look after the little 'uns if I go
quicker; but there isn't. They all seem against me and my rags. I
thought Mr. Archie looked so kind at first, but I can see now he
thinks worse of me than any."
He got out some sheets of paper he had in his pocket, and pulled the
pens and ink on the table towards him.
He did not write very fast, and as he had a good deal to say, he was
some time over his letter. About twenty minutes had passed, when the
room seemed to get very misty. The pen dropped out of Stephen's hand,
and he fell back, with his eyes shut, and his head against the rail of
the chair.
He had remained thus, asleep from very weakness, for about an hour,
when he was suddenly aroused by a rough voice in his ear.
"Wake up, skulker! your time's come at last."
He opened his eyes, his heart throbbing violently, and there stood the
burly form of Simon Bond. He looked bigger than ever in the
dimly-lighted room; and as his great grimy face came nearer, and his
strong hands grasped Stephen's ear and collar, he felt that his last
moment had come, and even sooner than he had expected.
"Get up!" said his enemy, giving him a kick, and dragging him roughly
from the chair. "Now," he went on, "I think you refused to answer my
questions last time I asked 'em. You'll please to alter your ways from
to-night, or you'll get more o' _these_ than you'll quite like."
As he spoke he let go of the lad's collar with his right hand, and
brought it swinging down with all his force on the side of Stephen's
head.
Instantly the boy dropped like one dead at his feet.
At the same moment the office-door opened, and the appalling sight
appeared of Mr. Fairfax's tall form, followed closely by his son
Archie.
Not a second did Simon lose. He turned to the door, and was off like a
flash of lightning.
Archie made a rush, as though to follow him.
"Cowardly lout!" he cried.
"No; stop, Archie," said his father. "You couldn't catch him; and if
you did, you couldn't keep him. We'll examine him to-morrow--we both
saw who it was. Now let us look after this poor lad."
"See, father, he was writing a letter," said Archie.
Mr. Fairfax took up the paper. This is what it said:--
"DEAR FATHER,--The little 'uns is all well, and I've got money now to
last 'em till you are out, if I'm took before, which I'm that bad and
low I can't hardly creep along. I've give Polly the money to use when
wanted. She's been a good girl all along. Come to the above address as
soon as you are out. I done my best, father, as you told me. And now
good-bye, if I'm gone.--Your loving son,
"STEPHEN BENNETT.
"_P.S._--I never believed as you did it, father, and I don't now. God
will make it right, so don't fret."
The envelope lay by the letter. It was directed to--
_Ambrose Bennett, No. 357,_
_Eastwood Jail._
Mr. Fairfax gave them both to his son. "There, Archie," he said;
"read these, and see if you still think you were right."
Then he went to Stephen, and did what he could to restore him to
consciousness. But he was in such a weak state that nothing seemed of
any use.
"Father, I've been a suspicious _brute_," cried Archie, flinging down
the letter. "But for my cold looks and constant spying, which I
daresay he's noticed, he might have told me all this, and I might have
helped him. Now he's starving and friendless. But I'll try to make up
now, if it isn't too late. Do let me carry him home, father--may I?"
"No," said Mr. Fairfax; "I'll go back and order some brandy, and send
for the doctor. You stay here and take care of him and the mill."
He went away, and very long did the time seem to Archie before the
doctor arrived. Now he had time to think over his own unkind--nay,
cruel--suspicions, founded on nothing but Stephen's shabby appearance.
"It's my way, I know, to make up my mind too quickly, and by a
fellow's outside," he thought. Then, somehow, the words of the last
Sunday's epistle came into his mind--"Charity thinketh no evil." He
knew that charity means love.
"No," he said to himself, "I shouldn't have thought evil of him, and I
certainly had no right to say what I did to father and Mr. Munster.
Poor fellow! how lonely and miserable he must have been; and I might
have stood his friend, if I'd only given him the chance of speaking
about his troubles, instead of glaring at him as I did. Is it too late
now to make up?"
Just then the doctor came in; but for a long, long time he could not
restore Stephen to consciousness.
He was trying still when three o'clock struck.
"Now he is really coming to--look, Dr. Grey," cried Archie, who had
watched all the doctor's efforts with breathless anxiety.
Just then Stephen gave a great sigh, and opened his eyes.
"Where am I?" he asked feebly.
"All among friends," said Archie, "and going to have a jolly time, and
be nursed up, and made as strong as a horse.--Now, Dr. Grey, let's get
a cab. I'll go and call one," and he bustled off.
Outside he met a disgusting sight. It was Timothy Lingard, staggering
towards the mill, very much the worse for what he had been drinking.
"You can't go there; go home at once," said Archie.
"Night-watch--caretaker--said I'd be here," mumbled Timothy, trying
to brush past him; and then finding Archie still stood as a hindrance
in front of him, he tried to strike him--of course not knowing who it
was--only he missed his aim, and fell down into the gutter.
There Archie left him, to seek a cab, which is not an easy thing to
find at three o'clock in the morning. However, before long he did
succeed in procuring one, and in it Stephen was conveyed to the
nearest hospital.
* * * * *
Mr. Fairfax was just starting for his office the next morning when he
was accosted by a respectable-looking working-man.
"Do I speak to Mr. Fairfax, sir?" he asked, touching his hat.
"Yes, that is my name. Can I do anything for you?"