Dusty Diamonds Cut and Polished: A Tale of City Arab Life and Adventure

“You have not yet advertised, I think?” said Crackaby.

“No, not yet,” answered Twitter; “we cannot bear to publish it. But we have set several detectives on his track. In fact we expect one of them this very evening; and I shouldn’t wonder if that was him,” he added, as a loud knock was heard at the door.

“Please, ma’am,” said the domestic, “Mr Welland’s at the door with another gentleman. ’E says ’e won’t come in—’e merely wishes to speak to you for a moment.”

“Oh! bid ’em come in, bid ’em come in,” said Mrs Twitter in the exuberance of a hospitality which never turned any one away, and utterly regardless of the fact that her parlour was extremely small.

Another moment, and Stephen Welland entered, apologising for the intrusion, and saying that he merely called with Sir Richard Brandon, on their way to the Beehive meeting, to ask if anything had been heard of Sam.

“Come in, and welcome, do,” said Mrs Twitter to Sir Richard, whose face had become a not unfamiliar one at the Beehive meetings by that time. “And Miss Diana, too! I’m so glad you’ve brought her. Sit down, dear. Not so near the door. To be sure there ain’t much room anywhere else, but—get out of the way, Stickler.”

The black sheep hopped to one side instantly, and Di was accommodated with his chair. Stickler was one of those toadies who worship rank for its own sake. If a lamp-post had been knighted Stickler would have bowed down to it. If an ass had been what he styled “barrow-knighted,” he would have lain down and let it walk over him—perhaps would even have solicited a passing kick—certainly would not have resented one.

“Allow me, Sir Richard,” he said, with some reference to the knight’s hat.

“Hush, Stickler!” said Mrs Twitter.

The black sheep hushed, while the bustling lady took the hat and placed it on the sideboard.

“Your stick, Sir Richard,” said Stickler, “permit—”

“Hold your tongue, Stickler,” said Mrs Twitter.

The black sheep held his tongue—between his teeth,—and wished that some day he might have the opportunity of punching Mrs Twitter’s head, without, if possible, her knowing who did it. Though thus reduced to silence, he cleared his throat in a demonstratively subservient manner and awaited his opportunity.

Sir Richard was about to apologise for the intrusion when another knock was heard at the outer door, and immediately after, the City Missionary, John Seaward, came in. He evidently did not expect to see company, but, after a cordial salutation to every one, said that he had called on his way to the meeting.

“You are heartily welcome. Come in,” said Mrs Twitter, looking about for a chair, “come, sit beside me, Mr Seaward, on the stool. You’ll not object to a humble seat, I know.”

“I am afraid,” said Sir Richard, “that the meeting has much to answer for in the way of flooding you with unexpected guests.”

“Oh! dear, no, sir, I love unexpected guests—the more unexpected the more I—Molly, dear,” (to her eldest girl), “take all the children up-stairs.”

Mrs Twitter was beginning to get confused in her excitement, but the last stroke of generalship relieved the threatened block and her anxieties at the same time.

“But what of Sam?” asked young Welland in a low tone; “any news yet?”

“None,” said the poor mother, suddenly losing all her vivacity, and looking so pitifully miserable that the sympathetic Di incontinently jumped off her chair, ran up to her, and threw her arms round her neck.

“Dear, darling child,” said Mrs Twitter, returning the embrace with interest.

“But I have brought you news,” said the missionary, in a quiet voice which produced a general hush.

“News!” echoed Twitter with sudden vehemence. “Oh! Mr Seaward,” exclaimed the poor mother, clasping her hands and turning pale.

“Yes,” continued Seaward; “as all here seem to be friends, I may tell you that Sam has been heard of at last. He has not, indeed, yet been found, but he has been seen in the company of a man well-known as a rough disorderly character, but who it seems has lately put on the blue ribbon, so we may hope that his influence over Sam will be for good instead of evil.”

An expression of intense thankfulness escaped from the poor mother on hearing this, but the father became suddenly much excited, and plied the missionary with innumerable questions, which, however, resulted in nothing, for the good reason that nothing more was known.

At this point the company were startled by another knock, and so persuaded was Mrs Twitter that it must be Sammy himself, that she rushed out of the room, opened the door, and almost flung herself into the arms of Number 666.

“I—I—beg your pardon, Mr Scott, I thought that—”

“No harm done, ma’am,” said Giles. “May I come in?”

“Certainly, and most welcome.”

When the tall constable bowed his head to pass under the ridiculously small doorway, and stood erect in the still more ridiculously small parlour, it seemed as though the last point of capacity had been touched, and the walls of the room must infallibly burst out. But they did not! Probably the house had been built before domiciles warranted to last twenty years had come into fashion.

“You have found him!” exclaimed Mrs Twitter, clasping her hands and looking up in Giles’s calm countenance with tearful eyes.

“Yes, ma’am, I am happy to tell you that we have at last traced him. I have just left him.”

“And does he know you have come here? Is he expecting us?” asked the poor woman breathlessly.

“Oh! dear, no, ma’am, I rather think that if he knew I had come here, he would not await my return, for the young gentleman does not seem quite willing to come home. Indeed he is not quite fit; excuse me.”

“How d’you know he’s not willing?” demanded Mr Twitter, who felt a rising disposition to stand up for Sammy.

“Because I heard him say so, sir. I went into the place where he was, to look for some people who are wanted, and saw your son sitting with a well-known rough of the name of North, who has become a changed man, however, and has put on the blue ribbon. I knew North well, and recognised your son at once. North seemed to have been trying to persuade your boy to return,” (“bless him! bless him!” from Mrs Twitter), “for I heard him say as I passed—‘Oh! no, no, no, I can never return home!’”

“Where is he? Take me to him at once. My bonnet and shawl, Molly!”

“Pardon me, ma’am,” said Giles. “It is not a very fit place for a lady—though there are some ladies who go to low lodging-houses regularly to preach; but unless you go for that purpose it—”

“Yes, my dear, it would be quite out of place,” interposed Twitter. “Come, it is my duty to go to this place. Can you lead me to it, Mr Scott?”

“Oh! and I should like to go too—so much, so very much!”

It was little Di who spoke, but her father said that the idea was preposterous.

“Pardon me, Sir Richard,” said Mr Seaward, “this happens to be my night for preaching in the common lodging-house where Mr Scott says poor Sam is staying. If you choose to accompany me, there is nothing to prevent your little daughter going. Of course it would be as well that no one whom the boy might recognise should accompany us, but his father might go and stand at the door outside, while the owner of the lodging might be directed to tell Sam that some one wishes to see him.”

“Your plan is pretty good, but I will arrange my plans myself,” said Mr Twitter, who suddenly roused himself to action with a degree of vigour that carried all before it. “Go and do your own part, Mr Seaward. Give no directions to the proprietor of the lodging, and leave Sammy to me. I will have a cab ready for him, and his mother in the cab waiting, with a suit of his own clothes. Are you ready?”

“Quite ready,” said the missionary, amused as well as interested by the good man’s sudden display of resolution. Mrs Twitter, also, was reduced to silence by surprise, as well as by submission. Sir Richard agreed to go and take Di with him, if Giles promised to hold himself in readiness within call.

“You see,” he said, “I have been in similar places before now, but—not with my little child!”

As for Loper, Larrabel, Crackaby, Stickler, and Company—feeling that it would be improper to remain after the host and hostess were gone; that it would be equally wrong to offer to go with them, and quite inappropriate to witness the home-coming,—they took themselves off, but each resolved to flutter unseen in the neighbourhood until he, or she, could make quite sure that the prodigal had returned.

It was to one of the lowest of the common lodging-houses that Sam Twitter the younger had resorted on the night he had been discovered by Number 666. That day he had earned sixpence by carrying a carpet bag to a railway station. One penny he laid out in bread, one penny in cheese. With the remaining fourpence he could purchase the right to sit in the lodging-house kitchen, and to sleep in a bed in a room with thirty or forty homeless ones like himself.

On his way to this abode of the destitute, he was overtaken by a huge man with a little bit of blue ribbon in his button-hole.

“Hallo! young feller,” exclaimed the man, “you’re the chap that was livin’ wi’ Ned Frog the night I called to see ’im—eh! Sam Twitter, ain’t you?”

“Yes,” said young Sam, blushing scarlet with alarm at the abruptness of the question. “Yes, I am. T–Twitter is my name. You’re the man that gave him the Bible, are you not, whom he turned out of his house for tryin’ to speak to him about his soul?”