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Charlie to the Rescue

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<h3>Chapter Thirty Two.</h3> <h4>Success and Future Plans.</h4> Punctual to the minute Zook presented himself to Mrs Butt next morning and demanded audience. Mrs Butt had been forewarned of the impending visit, and, although she confessed to some uncomfortable feelings in respect of infection and dirt, received him with a gracious air. “You’ve come to breakfast, I understand?” “Well, I believe I ’ave,” answered the little man, with an involuntary glance at his dilapidated clothes; “’avin’ been inwited—unless,” he added, somewhat doubtfully, “the inwite came in a dream.” “You may go in and clear up that point for yourself,” said the landlady, as she ushered the poor man into the parlour, where he was almost startled to find an amiable gentleman waiting to receive him. “Come along, Zook, I like punctuality. Are you hungry?” “’Ungry as a ’awk, sir,” replied Zook, glancing at the table and rubbing his hands, for there entered his nostrils delicious odours, the causes of which very seldom entered his throat. “W’y, sir, I know’d you was a gent, from the wery first!” “I have at least entered my native shell,” said Charlie, with a laugh. “Sit down. We’ve no time to waste. Now what’ll you have? Coffee, tea, pork-sausage, ham and egg, buttered toast, hot rolls. Just help yourself, and fancy you’re in the lodging-house at your own table.” “Well, sir, that would be a stretch o’ fancy that would strain me a’most to the bustin’ p’int. Coffee, if you please. Oh yes, sugar an’ milk in course. I never let slip a chance as I knows on. W’ich bread? well, ’ot rolls is temptin’, but I allers ’ad a weakness for sappy things, so ’ot buttered toast—if you can spare it.” “Spare it, my good man!” said Charlie, laughing. “There’s a whole loaf in the kitchen and pounds of butter when you’ve finished this, not to mention the shops round the corner.” It was a more gratifying treat to Charlie than he had expected, to see this poor man eat to his heart’s content of viands which he so thoroughly appreciated and so rarely enjoyed. What Zook himself felt, it is impossible for well-to-do folk to conceive, or an ordinary pen to describe; but, as he sat there, opposite to his big friend and champion, stowing away the good things with zest and devotion of purpose, it was easy to believe that his watery eyes were charged with the tears of gratitude, as well as with those of a chronic cold to which he was subject. Breakfast over, they started off in quest of the old woman with teetotal proclivities. “How did you come to know her?” asked Charlie, as they went along. “Through a ’ouse in the city as I was connected with afore I got run over an’ lamed. They used to send me with parcels to this old ’ooman. In course I didn’t know for sartin’ w’at was in the parcels, but ’avin’ a nose, you see, an’ bein’ able to smell, I guessed that it was a compound o’ wittles an’ wursted work.” “A strange compound, Zook.” “Well, they wasn’t ’zactly compounded—they was sometimes the one an’ sometimes the other; never mixed to my knowledge.” “What house was it that sent you?” “Withers and Company.” “Indeed!” exclaimed Charlie in surprise. “I know the house well. The head of it is a well-known philanthropist. How came you to leave them? They never would have allowed an old servant to come to your pass—unless, indeed, he was—” “A fool, sir, or wuss,” interrupted Zook; “an’ that’s just what I was. I runned away from ’em, sir, an’ I’ve been ashamed to go back since. But that’s ’ow I come to know old Missis Mag, an’ it’s down ’ere she lives.” They turned into a narrow passage which led to a small court at the back of a mass of miserable buildings, and here they found the residence of the old woman. “By the way, Zook, what’s her name?” asked Charlie. “Mrs Mag Samson.” “Somehow the name sounds familiar to me,” said Charlie, as he knocked at the door. A very small girl opened it and admitted that her missis was at ’ome; whereupon our hero turned to his companion. “I’ll manage her best without company, Zook,” he said; “so you be off; and see that you come to my lodging to-night at six to hear the result of my interview and have tea.” “I will, sir.” “And here, Zook, put that in your pocket, and take a good dinner.” “I will, sir.” “And—hallo! Zook, come here. Not a word about all this in the lodging-house;—stay, now I think of it, don’t go to the lodging-house at all. Go to a casual ward where they’ll make you take a good bath. Be sure you give yourself a good scrub. D’ye hear?” “Yes, sir.” He walked away murmuring, “More ’am and hegg an’ buttered toast to-night! Zook, you’re in luck to-day—in clover, my boy! in clover!” Meanwhile, Charlie Brooke found himself in the presence of a bright-eyed little old woman, who bade him welcome with the native grace of one who is a born, though not a social, lady, and beautified by Christianity. Her visitor went at once straight to the point. “Forgive my intrusion, Mrs Samson,” he said, taking the chair to which the old woman pointed, “but, indeed, I feel assured that you will, when I state that the object of my visit is to ask you to aid in the rescue of a friend from drink.” “No man intrudes on me who comes on such an errand; but how does it happen, sir, that you think I am able to aid you?” To this Charlie replied by giving her an account of his meeting and conversation with Zook, and followed that up with a full explanation of his recent efforts and a graphic description of Isaac Leather. The old woman listened attentively, and, as her visitor proceeded, with increasing interest not unmingled with surprise and amusement. When he had concluded, Mrs Samson rose, and, opening a door leading to another room, held up her finger to impose silence, and softly bade him look in. He did so. The room was a very small one, scantily furnished, with a low truckle-bed in one corner, and there, on the bed, lay the object of his quest—Isaac Leather! Charlie had just time to see that the thin pale face was not that of a dead, but of a sleeping, man when the old woman gently pulled him back and re-closed the door. “That’s your man, I think.” “Yes, that’s the man—I thank God for this most astonishing and unlooked-for success.” “Ah! sir,” returned the woman, sitting down again, “most of our successes are unlooked for, and, when they do come, we are not too ready to recognise the hand of the Giver.” “Nevertheless you must admit that some incidents do seem almost miraculous,” said Charlie. “To have found you out in this great city, the very person who had Mr Leather in her keeping, does seem unaccountable, does it not?” “Not so unaccountable as it seems to you,” replied the old woman, “and certainly not so much of a miracle as it would have been if you had found him by searching the lodging-houses. Here is the way that God seems to have brought it about. I have for many years been a pensioner of the house of Withers and Company, by whom I was employed until the senior partner made me a sort of female city-missionary amongst the poor. I devoted myself particularly to the reclaiming of drunkards—having special sympathy with them. A friend of mine, Miss Molloy, also employed by the senior partner in works of charity, happened to be acquainted with Mr Leather and his family. She knew of his failing, and she found out—for she has a strange power, that I never could understand, of inducing people to make a confidant of her,—she found out (what no one else knew, it seems) that poor Mr Leather wished to put himself under some sort of restraint, for he could not resist temptation when it came in his way. Knowing about me, she naturally advised him to put himself in my hands. He objected at first, but agreed at last on condition that none of his people should be told anything about it. I did not like to receive him on such conditions, but gave in because he would come on no other. Well, sir, you came down here because you had information which led you to think Mr Leather had come to this part of the city. You met with a runaway servant of Withers and Company—not very wonderful that. He naturally knows about me and fetches you here. Don’t you see?” “Yes, I see,” replied Charlie, with an amused expression; “still I cannot help looking on the whole affair as very wonderful, and I hope that that does not disqualify me from recognising God’s leading in the matter.” “Nay, young sir,” returned the old woman, “that ought rather to qualify you for such recognition, for are not His ways said to be wonderful—ay, sometimes ‘past finding out’? But what we know not now, we shall know hereafter. I thought that when my poor boy went to sea—” “Mrs Samson!” exclaimed Charlie, with a sudden start, “I see it now! Was your boy’s name Fred?” “It was.” “And he went to sea in the Walrus, that was wrecked in the Southern Ocean!” “Yes,” exclaimed the old woman eagerly. “Then,” said Charlie, drawing a packet from the breast-pocket of his coat, “Fred gave me this for you. I have carried it about me ever since, in the hope that I might find you. I came to London, but found you had left the address written on the packet, and it never occurred to me that the owners of the Walrus would know anything about the mother of one of the men who sailed in her. I have a message also from your son.” The message was delivered, and Charlie was still commenting on it, when the door of the inner room opened and Isaac Leather stood before them. “Charlie Brooke!” he exclaimed, in open-eyed amazement, not unmingled with confusion. “Ay, and a most unexpected meeting on both sides,” said Charlie, advancing and holding out his hand. “I bring you good news, Mr Leather, of your son Shank.” “Do you indeed?” said the broken-down man, eagerly grasping his young friend’s hand. “What have you to tell me? Oh Charlie, you have no idea what terrible thoughts I’ve had about that dear boy since he went off to America! My sin has found me out, Charlie. I’ve often heard that said before, but have never tally believed it till now.” “God sends you a message of mercy, then,” said our hero, who thereupon began to relieve the poor man’s mind by telling him of his son’s welfare and reformation. But we need not linger over this part of the story, for the reader can easily guess a good deal of what was said to Leather, while old Mrs Samson was perusing the letter of her dead son, and tears of mingled sorrow and joy coursed down her withered cheeks. That night however, Charlie Brooke conceived a vast idea, and partially revealed it at the tea-table to Zook—whose real name, by the way, was Jim Smith. “’Ave you found ’er, sir?” said Mrs Butt, putting the invariable, and by that time annoying, question as Charlie entered his lodging. “No, Mrs Butt, I haven’t found ’er, and I don’t expect to find ’er at all.” “Lawk! sir, I’m so sorry.” “Has Mr Zook come?” “Yes, sir ’e’s inside and looks impatient. The smell o’ the toast seems a’most too strong a temptation for ’im; I’m glad you’ve come.” “Look here, Zook,” said Charlie, entering his parlour, “go into that bedroom. You’ll find a bundle of new clothes there. Put them on. Wrap your old clothes in a handkerchief, and bring them to me. Tea will be ready when you are.” The surprised pauper did as he was bid, without remark, and re-entered the parlour a new man! “My own mother, if I ’ad one, wouldn’t know me, sir,” he said, glancing admiringly at his vest. “Jim Smith, Esquire,” returned Charlie, laughing. “I really don’t think she would.” “Zook, sir,” said the little man, with a grave shake of the head; “couldn’t think of changin’ my name at my time of life; let it be Zook, if you please, sir, though in course I’ve no objection to esquire, w’en I ’ave the means to maintain my rank.” “Well, Zook, you have at all events the means to make a good supper, so sit down and go to work, and I’ll talk to you while you eat,—but, stay, hand me the bundle of old clothes.” Charlie opened the window as he spoke, took hold of the bundle, and discharged it into the back yard. “There,” he said, sitting down at the table, “that will prove an object of interest to the cats all night, and a subject of surprise to good Mrs Butt in the morning. Now, Zook,” he added, when his guest was fairly at work taking in cargo, “I want to ask you—have you any objection to emigrate to America?” “Not the smallest,” he said, as well as was possible through a full mouth. “Bein’ a orphling, so to speak, owin’ to my never ’avin’ ’ad a father or mother—as I knows on—there’s nothin’ that chains me to old England ’cept poverty.” “Could you do without drink?” “Sca’sely, sir, seein’ the doctors say that man is about three parts—or four, is it?—made up o’ water; I would be apt to grow mummified without drink, wouldn’t I, sir?” “Come, Zook—you know that I mean strong drink—alcohol in all its forms.” “Oh, I see. Well, sir, as to that, I’ve bin in the ’abit of doin’ without it so much of late from needcessity, that I don’t think I’d find much difficulty in knocking it off altogether, if I was to bring principle to bear.” “Well, then,” continued Charlie, ”(have some more ham?) I have just conceived a plan. I have a friend in America who is a reformed drunkard. His father in this country is also, I hope, a reformed drunkard. There is a good man out there, I understand, who has had a great deal to do with reformed drunkards, and he has got up a large body of friends and sympathisers who have determined to go away into the far west and there organise a total abstinence community, and found a village or town where nothing in the shape of alcohol shall be admitted except as physic. “Now, I have a lot of friends in England who, I think, would go in for such an expedition if—” “Are they all reformed drunkards, sir?” asked Zook in surprise, arresting a mass of sausage in its course as he asked the question. “By no means,” returned Charlie with a laugh, “but they are earnest souls, and I’m sure will go if I try to persuade them.” “You’re sure to succeed, sir,” said Zook, “if your persuasions is accompanied wi’ sassengers, ’am, an’ buttered toast,” remarked the little man softly, as he came to a pause for a few seconds. “I’ll bring to bear on them all the arguments that are available, you may be sure. Meanwhile I shall count you my first recruit.” “Number 1 it is, sir, w’ich is more than I can say of this here slice,” said Zook, helping himself to more toast. While the poor but happy man was thus pleasantly engaged, his entertainer opened his writing portfolio and began to scribble off note after note, with such rapidity that the amazed pauper at his elbow fairly lost his appetite, and, after a vain attempt to recover it, suggested that it might be as well for him to retire to one of the palatial fourpence-a-night residences in Dean and Flower Street. “Not to-night. You’ve done me a good turn that I shall never forget” said Charlie, rising and ringing the bell with needless vigour. “Be kind enough, Mrs Butt, to show Mr Zook to his bedroom.” “My heye!” murmured the pauper, marching off with two full inches added to his stature. “Not in there, I suppose, missis,” he said facetiously, as he passed the coal-hole. “Oh, lawks! no—this way,” replied the good woman, who was becoming almost imbecile under the eccentricities of her lodger. “This is your bedroom, and I only ’ope it won’t turn into a band-box before morning, for of all the transformations an’ pantimimes as ’as took place in this ’ouse since Mr Brooke entered it, I—” She hesitated, and, not seeing her way quite clearly to the fitting end of the sentence, asked if Mr Zook would ’ave ’ot water in the morning. “No, thank you, Missis,” replied the little man with dignity, while he felt the stubble on his chin; “’avin left my razors at ’ome, I prefers the water cold.” Leaving Zook to his meditations, Mrs Butt retired to bed, remarking, as she extinguished the candle, that Mr Brooke was still “a-writin’ like a ’ouse a fire!” <hr></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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