The Poacher Part 24

"I met her in the road the day that I came down to Gravesend."

"Well, I'm sure! and do you speak to every young lady you chance to meet?"

"No; but I was unhappy, and she was very kind to me."

"She's a very sweet child, or rather, I can only say that she was, when I knew her?"

"When did you know her?"

"Four or five years ago. I lived for a short time with Mrs Phillips; that was when I was a good girl."

"Yes, indeed, Nancy," said Mrs Chopper, shaking her head.

"Why ain't you good, now, Nancy?" replied Joey.

"Because--" said Nancy.

"Because why?"

"Because I am not good," replied the girl; "and now, Peter, don't ask any more questions, or you'll make me cry. Heigho! I think crying very pleasant now and then; one's heart feels fresher, like flowers after the rain. Peter, where are your father and mother?"

"I don't know; I left them at home."

"You left them at home! but do you never hear from them? do you never write?"

"No."

"But why not? I am sure they have brought you up well. They must be very good people--are they not?"

Joey could not answer; how could he say that his father was a good man after what had pa.s.sed?

"You don't answer me, Peter; don't you love your father and mother dearly?"

"Yes, indeed I do; but I must not write to them."

"Well, I must say there is something about Peter and his parents which I cannot understand, and which I have often tried to make him tell, and he will not," said Mrs Chopper. "Poaching ain't such a great crime, especially in a boy. I can't see why he should not write to his father and mother, at all events, I hope, Peter, you have told me the truth?"

"I have told you what is true; but my father was a poacher, and they know it; and if they did not punish me, they would him, and transport him, too, if I gave evidence against him, which I must do, if put to my oath. I've told you all I can tell; I must not tell of father, must I?"

"No, no, child; I dare say you are right," replied Mrs Chopper.

"Now, I don't ask you to tell me, Peter," said Nancy, "for I can guess what has taken place; you and your father have been out poaching, there has been a scuffle with the keepers, and there has been blood shed; and that's the reason why you keep out of the way. Ain't I right?"

"You are not far wrong," replied Joey; "but I will not say a word more upon it."

"And I won't ask you, my little Peter; there--that's done--and now I shall have a peep out of the window, for it's very close here, Mrs Chopper."

Nancy threw the window open and leaned out of it, watching the pa.s.sers-by. "Mercy on us! here's three soldiers coming up the street with a deserter handcuffed," cried she. "Who can it be? he's a sailor.

Why, I do believe it's Sam Oxenham, that belongs to the _Thomas and Mary_ of Sunderland. Poor fellow! Yes, it is him."

Joey went to the window, and took his stand by the side of Nancy.

"What soldiers are those?" inquired he.

"They're not soldiers, after all," replied Nancy; "they are jollies--a sergeant and two privates."

"Jollies! what are they?"

"Why, marines, to be sure."

Joey continued looking at them until they pa.s.sed under the window, when Nancy, who had a great disgust at anything like arbitrary power, could not refrain from speaking.

"I say, master sergeant, you're a nice brave fellow, with your two jollies. D'ye think the young man will kill you all three, that you must put the darbies on so tight?"

At this appeal, the sergeant and privates looked up at the window, and laughed when they saw such a pretty girl as Nancy. The eyes of one of the privates were, however, soon fixed on our hero's face, and deeply scrutinising it, when Joey looked at him. As soon as Joey recognised him, he drew back from the window, pale as death, the private still remaining staring at the window.

"Why, what's the matter, Peter?" said Nancy; "what makes you look so pale? do you know that man?"

"Yes," replied Joey, drawing his breath, "and he knows me, I'm afraid."

"Why do you fear?" replied Nancy.

"See if he's gone," said Joey.

"Yes, he has; he has gone up the street with the sergeant; but every now and then he looks back at this window; but perhaps that's to see me."

"Why, Peter, what harm can that marine do you?" inquired Mrs Chopper.

"A great deal; he will never be quiet until he has me taken up, and then what will become of my poor father?" continued Joey, with the tears running down his cheeks.

"Give me my bonnet, Peter. I'll soon find out what he is after," said Nancy, leaving the window. She threw her bonnet on her head, and ran downstairs.

Mrs Chopper in vain endeavoured to console our hero, or make him explain--he did nothing but sit mournfully by her side, thinking what he had best do, and expecting every minute to hear the tramp of Furness (for it was he who had recognised Joey) coming up the stairs.

"Mrs Chopper," at last said Joey, "I must leave you, I'm afraid; I was obliged to leave my former friends on this man's account."

"Leave me, boy! no, no, you must not leave me--how could I get on without you?"

"If I don't leave you myself, I shall be taken up, that is certain; but indeed I have not done wrong--don't think that I have."

"I'm sure of it, child; you've only to say so, and I'll believe you; but why should he care about you?"

"He lived in our village, and knows all about it; he gave evidence at--"

"At what, boy?"

"At the time that I ran away from home; he proved that I had the gun and bag which were found."

"Well, and suppose you had; what then?"