Escape From Home (12 page)

W
hen Ralph Toggs rushed downhill away from Mrs. Sonderbye's, he was angry. He did not know why he was angry, only that he felt so. The very notion was itself mortifying. After all, he had done no more than he did every day—snapped up two ignorant Irish emigrants and led them to a place of lodging, for which service he received money. Three or four times a day he did it and had been doing so for five years as the best runner in the Lime Street Runners Association!

Sergeant Rumpkin, the association leader, had often told Toggs how good he was, praising him before all the others. At the age of fifteen, he had no rivals, except, perhaps, Fred, a boy without a last name. And Fred, in Ralph Toggs's opinion, was just a lack-brain brat.

And yet, this time, when Toggs had done his job, the girl had thanked him. It was confounding. And those eyes….

Toggs could have sworn she knew he was misleading them. Had she not seen the Union House, where she and her brother were meant to stay, after he told them it had burned? Even so, she had trusted him, had
thanked
him! For Toggs, it was galling to be treated with such consideration! And from such a pretty girl!

As for Mrs. Sonderbye's home, Toggs knew how perfectly awful it was, knew the landlady's reputation for gouging her tenants in every possible way. It had not mattered to him before. Why should it matter now?

Distressed by such thoughts, Toggs took himself into a spirit shop and found a seat in a far corner. Once there, he wrapped himself in as deep a sulk as he had ever experienced.

Ralph Toggs was not usually given to thinking about himself. He did his job and lived his life with few questions asked and no answers demanded. Most of his friends did exactly the same. As far as he could tell, they never were troubled with questions or answers.

With his drink before him—it too had acquired a sour taste—Toggs began to admit that there was something about that girl…. He wished she had not believed him!

Was he getting soft? he asked himself. Being a runner required hardness, and his hardness was something of which he had always been proud. After all, you had to take miserable, confused people right off the boats and make sure that what little they had was plucked away. They were not called pigeons for nothing. What did it matter to him? People should look out for themselves. The way he did. No one took care of him. He asked no one to pity him. And yet, he half suspected that the girl
did
pity him. It was galling!

If he was getting soft, he told himself, he should get out of the business altogether. There were always new fellows coming into the runners' trade ready to take his place, new ones like Fred. This Fred was nothing but a baby, yet hard as nails, mean as a rough stone. Worst of all, Sergeant Rumpkin had taken a liking to him. Brought him into the association. Praised him.

Toggs shook his head in disgust. He would be happy to take on Fred No-name anytime of the day or night. But as for this girl …

Maybe, he thought, he
should
get out of the business. Go to America like so many others. Not that it would take much money. Except that Toggs did not have money. What he got he always spent.

To prove this fact to himself, he reached into his pocket and took out the few coins Mrs. Sonderbye had given him. Perhaps if he gave them back to the girl, he would feel better. She might even tell him what she really thought of him. A good scolding or even a slap of anger would brace him up considerably. That was more what he was used to.

Toggs stood up, drained his drink, spit it out for the filth it was, and returned to the streets. His mind was made up: He would go to the docks and find a way to get some money. Exactly how, he had no idea. But one way or another, he was determined to have it. And with the money, win the girl.

With a confident tap to his hat, he started off.

W
e are here, Master Worthy,” Mr. Clemspool whispered into Laurence's ear. With a start, Laurence woke. Passengers were already clambering out of the railway carriage. The boy pulled himself up only to become aware of how much his body ached. He felt hot too.

“Push the door then,” Mr. Clemspool urged.

Rather light-headed, Laurence did as he was told. Gingerly, he stepped onto the platform. Though not nearly as vast as the station in London, it was quite lofty and grand. Many people were pushing past.

Mr. Clemspool, in greatcoat and top hat, and carrying his traveling bag, extricated himself from the carnage. Once on the platform, he stretched. “Painful way to travel, isn't it?” he said. “Ah, but the sea, Master Worthy, the bracing sea. What pleasures are in store for you!” He patted Laurence on the back.

“First, however, we need to get you some food and proper lodging, wouldn't you say?” He glanced about. A few yards away a girl—not a day older than seven and dressed in rags—was selling sugar buns. Round like balls, large as a man's fist, and sprinkled liberally with sugar, they were heaped high in a shallow reed basket that the child held before her. A crudely lettered sign read
SUGAR BUNS, HA'PENNY EACH
.

Mr. Clemspool beckoned flamboyantly with his hat.

The girl hurried over. “Yes, sir!”

“One, two?” Mr. Clemspool offered Laurence.

The sight of food made the boy's stomach growl. “Two,” he replied.

“Young Master Worthy desires two buns.
No!
Make that three!”

The girl curtsied and handed over the buns. Mr. Clemspool gave her two pennies, grandly waved away the change, then passed the buns to Laurence, who devoured the first in three bites and immediately started on the second.

The girl giggled, hand over her mouth. Mr. Clemspool laughed too. “Now then,” he said, bending over the boy, “I'm supposed to meet an old friend for a brief chat. He was traveling first class. Ah! The clock! The very spot.”

Upon the farthest wall of the station, a huge clock with Roman numerals had been mounted. The time was eight-thirty-five.

“Follow me,” Mr. Clemspool said, wrapping one arm around Laurence so that the two of them moved in lockstep. Together, they made their way across a large crowded space amid bulky piles of boxes and trunks. Laurence saw many families—or so he thought they were—grouped around their possessions. He wondered if they too were going to America.

“There's my friend,” Mr. Clemspool announced, deftly turning Laurence away so that the boy faced the way they had come. “Now, Master Worthy, I won't be but a twinkling. You
must
remain right here.” He placed a firm hand on Laurence's shoulder and squeezed. “Do
not
move!” he ordered in a severe voice. “I intend to keep my eye on you. Once I return, I'll find a decent place for you to rest.”

Laurence stood where he was and began to eat the third bun. It was much easier to have someone make decisions for him.

But once he had eaten the bun, Laurence grew impatient. Not entirely pleased to be relegated to waiting, he glanced in the direction of the clock. Mr. Clemspool was still talking to the man he had referred to as his old friend. This gentleman was dressed in fashionable clothing that fairly glowed with newness. His tall top hat was brushed, his boots bright and shiny, his shoulder cape—with fur trimming on the collar—luxurious. One eye was covered with a patch.

Laurence fairly jumped. For one heart-plunging second, he thought he was looking at the scoundrel who had robbed him of his money in London the night before. He wished the man would turn so he could see his full face, but he did not. Then Laurence told himself this man could
not
possibly be the same person. That cad had been in London. This man was in Liverpool. The eye patch had to be merely a coincidence. Other men wore eye patches. Furthermore, the boy reminded himself, he had already made a number of bad judgments. He must make no more. With that thought, he made himself turn away.

Within moments Mr. Clemspool returned. “Very good then, Master Worthy,” he cried. “You've done exactly as you were told. I
admire
that in a young man. Now, I shall give all my attention to you!”

Leaving the station, they stepped out into Lime Street. Facing them was a colossal stone building with many huge columns, guarded by two massive sculptured lions. Laurence gasped.

“Saint George Hall,” Mr. Clemspool said with a casual wave of his hand, as if the building were an old acquaintance. “One of the marvels of this city of wealth!”

The building was as big as any Laurence had seen. Its size succeeded in making him acutely aware of his weakness and isolation.

Under Mr. Clemspool's guidance, they turned left and came upon a thoroughfare full of carriages, wagons, carts. Buildings of dark stone were festooned with bright commercial signs proclaiming where agents, packagers, shippers, deliverers, and a hundred more services pertaining to the ocean trade might be found.

“Liverpool!” Mr. Clemspool announced with an expansive gesture. “The second city in England! Half a
million
people, Master Worthy!
Not
a place—to make my point precisely—you'd wish to be adrift on your own, eh?”

“No, sir,” Laurence replied truthfully.

At the curb, a row of hansom cabs waited for people emerging from the station. The first driver—a man with a stiff gray beard, a tall hat, and a long, trailing green scarf around his neck—peered down from his high perch. “All right, gents, where might you be going?”

“Royalton Hotel,” Mr. Clemspool called up. “Grove Street.”

The driver wrinkled his nose. “That boy there, he's a bit dirty and bruised, ain't he?”

Embarrassed, Laurence turned away.

“You are altogether correct,” Mr. Clemspool replied briskly. “It's that wretched railroad. But be assured, my good man, there will be an extra shilling for you to wink the old eye.”

“Right-o!” the driver returned with newfound enthusiasm for dirty passengers.

Mr. Clemspool held open the carriage door for Laurence to get in, which the boy did. Mr. Clemspool took the seat by his side. “Almost there!” he enthused.

The driver made a clucking noise and flicked the reins. With a clatter of hooves, the horse trotted off.

As Laurence sank back in the upholstered seat, Mr. Clemspool lifted the carriage blanket and tucked it about the boy's knees. The attention, the appropriateness of it, was all wonderfully familiar and comforting. This was life as Laurence knew it, as it should be.

With half-closed eyes, he considered his benefactor. He felt truly grateful to the man. But then, he told himself, why shouldn't Mr. Clemspool be kind? Was he not merely treating him the way he'd been treated from his birth?

But as the cab bounced over the cobblestone streets, the image of the man with the eye patch drifted back into his mind. Laurence now regretted having turned away without studying the man's face. He would have liked to feel reassured that this was
not
the man from London. But with a shudder and a shake of his head, he once again strove to dismiss the thought.

Mr. Clemspool noted the tremor. “You seem to be troubled by something,” he remarked solicitously. “Are you?”

“No, nothing,” Laurence replied, and shut his eyes. It was wrong, he told himself, to be suspicious of those who were treating you properly.

They soon reached the Royalton Hotel, a modest four-story brick building on a quiet street. Ordinary houses stood on either side. No great snarl of traffic or mobs of pedestrians crowded the way. Indeed, the place was quite isolated.

“Come along now,” Mr. Clemspool urged, holding Laurence's arm firmly as he stepped from the cab. The boy was about to say there was no need to hold him so tightly when a uniformed attendant greeted them with a bow, called Mr. Clemspool by name, picked up his bag, and indicated the hotel door. Once inside, Mr. Clemspool let go of Laurence.

In the foyer was a table behind which sat a man, dressed formally. “Ah, Mr. Clemspool, sir,” he said as he rose to his feet, “so good to see you again.”

“Pleasure to be here,” Mr. Clemspool returned, lifting his hat. His bald head gleamed. “My son,” he announced, making a wave of his fingers that encompassed Laurence.

The man bowed. “Mr. Hudson at your service,” he said to Laurence.

“We've just come down by railroad from London,” Mr. Clemspool explained. “I must apologize for the boy's condition. Quite filthy, I know. He tripped at the station. Made a terrible mess. Ruined his fine clothing and bruised his face. Indeed, I fear the lad is none too well. Quite exhausted and overwhelmed by it all, you see.”

A startled Laurence gazed at his protector. To be introduced as his son did not seem right. That was taking liberties. As for the reasons given … Laurence wished he were not so tired and disoriented. He hardly knew what to say.

Mr. Hudson seemed unconcerned. He made several references to previous visits, the weather, the tides, and inquiries as to the length of Mr. Clemspool's stay, as well as the nature of the accommodations needed. “The usual?” he concluded by asking.

“Quite sufficient,” Mr. Clemspool returned.

In a matter of moments, Mr. Clemspool and Laurence were in their rooms. There were two rooms, both with beds. One was situated near the door, the other toward the back and reachable only by going through the first room.

“You shall stay there,” Mr. Clemspool said, indicating the second, farthest room. “It looks out on the street and is pleasant and bright. I shall take this one near the door. Will that be agreeable?”

“I'm sure,” said Laurence, bewildered by the ease of this business.

“I do hope you didn't mind my saying you were my son, Master Worthy,” Mr. Clemspool offered with a generous swirl of his fingers, as if sweeping the air of cobwebs. “It saves explanations. For now, hasten yourself into bed. You don't look well, my friend. I shall procure some real food and some proper clothing for you.”

Mr. Clemspool went on so briskly, Laurence had no time to respond. Besides, the thought of a bed pushed all worries from his mind. He made his way into the farthest room. There, he used the basin and pitcher of water that stood upon a small table to wash his hands and face.

With a sigh, Laurence stripped himself of his dirty, tattered clothing, leaving them—as he usually did at home—in a pile on the floor. Then he slipped on the nightshirt that hung from a wall hook. Its softness was delightful. At last he crawled up on the high four-poster bed and crept deep beneath the covers. The delicious smell of clean cotton sheets was luxuriant. The fluffiness of three goose-down pillows, the gentle weight of wool blankets … like home.

Mr. Clemspool poked his head in at the door. “Comfy?” he inquired sweetly.

“Oh, yes, sir,” Laurence purred with contentment. His eyes were already half-closed.

“Master Worthy,” Mr. Clemspool announced as he came another step into the room, “I shall leave you to get some food.” Glancing at Laurence and seeing that the boy's eyes were shut, he swooped up the soiled clothing. With practiced hands, he patted it down, finding and removing what remained of the money, then left the clothing on the floor where it had been.

Laurence, suspecting nothing, lay snug in bed. Half-asleep, he listened to the click of the lock in the door as Mr. Clemspool left the room. Did the locking bother him? Not at all. A locked door meant he was cared for, safe. Moreover, the sweetness of the bed proved to be so blissful that a sleep of total confidence was not long in coming.