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

They carried the harmonium promptly to the most conspicuous part of the room, planted it there, opened it, placed a stool in front of it, and one of the brightest diamonds from that mine—in the person of Hetty Frog—sat down before it. Simply, and in sweet silvery tones, she sang—“Come to the Saviour.”

The others joined—even Sir Richard Brandon made an attempt to sing—as he had done on a previous occasion, but without much success, musically speaking. Meanwhile, John Seaward turned up the passage from which he had prepared to speak that evening. And so eloquent with nature’s simplicity was the missionary, that the party soon forgot all about the Twitters while the comforting Gospel was being urged upon the unhappy creatures around.

But we must not forget the Twitters. They are our text and sermon just now!

Young Sam Twitter had risen with the intention of going out when the missionary entered, for words of truth only cut him to the heart. But his companion whispered him to wait a bit. Soon his attention was riveted.

While he sat there spell-bound, a shabby-genteel man entered and sat down beside him. He wore a broad wide-awake, very much slouched over his face, and a coat which had once been fine, but now bore marks of having been severely handled—as if recently rubbed by a drunken wearer on whitewashed and dirty places. The man’s hands were not so dirty, however, as one might have expected from his general appearance, and they trembled much. On one of his fingers was a gold ring. This incongruity was lost on Sam, who was too much absorbed to care for the new comer, and did not even notice that he pushed somewhat needlessly close to him.

These things were not, however, lost on Reggie North, who regarded the man with some surprise, not unmixed with suspicion.

When, after a short time, however, this man laid his hand gently on that of Sam and held it, the boy could no longer neglect his eccentricities. He naturally made an effort to pull the hand away, but the stranger held it fast. Having his mind by that time entirely detached from the discourse of the missionary, Sam looked at the stranger in surprise, but could not see his face because of the disreputable wide-awake which he wore. But great was his astonishment, not to say alarm, when he felt two or three warm tears drop on his hand.

Again he tried to pull it away, but the strange man held it tighter. Still further, he bent his head over it and kissed it.

A strange unaccountable thrill ran through the boy’s frame. He stooped, looked under the brim of the hat, and beheld his father!

“Sammy—dear, dear Sammy,” whispered the man, in a husky voice.

But Sammy could not reply. He was thunderstruck. Neither could his father speak, for he was choking.

But Reggie North had heard enough. He was quick-witted, and at once guessed the situation.

“Now then, old gen’lm’n,” he whispered, “don’t you go an’ make a fuss, if you’re wise. Go out as quiet as you came in, an’ leave this young ’un to me. It’s all right. I’m on your side.”

Samuel Twitter senior was impressed with the honesty of the man’s manner, and the wisdom of his advice. Letting go the hand, after a parting squeeze, he rose up and left the room. Two minutes later, North and Sammy followed.

They found the old father outside, who again grasped his son’s hand with the words, “Sammy, my boy—dear Sammy;” but he never got further than that.

Number 666 was there too.

“You’ll find the cab at the end of the street, sir,” he said, and next moment Sammy found himself borne along—not unwillingly—by North and his father.

A cab door was opened. A female form was seen with outstretched arms.

“Mother!”

“Sammy—darling—”

The returning prodigal disappeared into the cab. Mr Twitter turned round.

“Thank you. God bless you, whoever you are,” he said, fumbling in his vest pocket; having forgotten that he represented an abject beggar, and had no money there.

“No thanks to me, sir. Look higher,” said the Bible-seller, thrusting the old gentleman almost forcibly into the vehicle. “Now then, cabby, drive on.”

The cabby obeyed. Having already received his instructions he did not drive home. Where he drove to is a matter of small consequence. It was to an unknown house, and a perfect stranger to Sammy opened the door. Mrs Twitter remained in the cab while Sammy and his father entered the house, the latter carrying a bundle in his hand. They were shown into what the boy must have considered—if he considered anything at all just then—a preposterously small room.

The lady of the house evidently expected them, for she said, “The bath is quite ready, sir.”

“Now, Sammy,—dear boy,” said Mr Twitter, “off with your rags—and g–git into that b–bath.”

Obviously Mr Twitter did not speak with ease. In truth it was all he could do to contain himself, and he felt that his only chance of bearing up was to say nothing more than was absolutely necessary in short ejaculatory phrases. Sammy was deeply touched, and began to wash his dirty face with a few quiet tears before taking his bath.

“Now then, Sammy—look sharp! You didn’t use—to—be—so—slow! eh?”

“No, father. I suppose it—it—is want of habit. I haven’t undressed much of late.”

This very nearly upset poor Mr Twitter. He made no reply, but assisted his son to disrobe with a degree of awkwardness that tended to delay progress.

“It—it’s not too hot—eh?”

“Oh! no, father. It’s—it’s—v–very nice.”

“Go at it with a will, Sammy. Head and all, my boy—down with it. And don’t spare the soap. Lots of soap here, Sammy—no end of soap!”

The truth of which Mr Twitter proceeded to illustrate by covering his son with a lather that caused him quickly to resemble whipped cream.

“Oh! hold on, father, it’s getting into my eyes.”

“My boy—dear Sammy—forgive me. I didn’t quite know what I was doing. Never mind. Down you go again, Sammy—head and all. That’s it. Now, that’s enough; out you come.”

“Oh! father,” said the poor boy, while invisible tears trickled over his wet face, as he stepped out of the bath, “it’s so good of you to forgive me so freely.”

“Forgive you, my son! forgive! why, I’d—I’d—” He could say no more, but suddenly clasped Sammy to his heart, thereby rendering his face and person soap-suddy and wet to a ridiculous extent.

Unclasping his arms and stepping back, he looked down at himself.

“You dirty boy! what d’you mean by it?”

“It’s your own fault, daddy,” replied Sam, with a hysterical laugh, as he enveloped himself in a towel.

A knock at the bath-room door here produced dead silence.

“Please, sir,” said a female voice, “the lady in the cab sends to say that she’s gettin’ impatient.”

“Tell the lady in the cab to drive about and take an airing for ten minutes,” replied Mr Twitter with reckless hilarity.

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, my boy, here’s your toggery,” said the irrepressible father, hovering round his recovered son like a moth round a candle—“your best suit, Sammy; the one you used to wear only on Sundays, you extravagant fellow.”

Sammy put it on with some difficulty from want of practice, and, after combing out and brushing his hair, he presented such a changed appearance that none of his late companions could have recognised him. His father, after fastening up his coat with every button in its wrong hole, and causing as much delay as possible by assisting him to dress, finally hustled him down-stairs and into the cab, where he was immediately re-enveloped by Mrs Twitter.

He was not permitted to see any one that night, but was taken straight to his room, where his mother comforted, prayed with, fed and fondled him, and then allowed him to go to bed.

Next morning early—before breakfast—Mrs Twitter assembled all the little Twitters, and put them on chairs in a row—according to order, for Mrs Twitter’s mind was orderly in a remarkable degree. They ranged from right to left thus:—

Molly, Willie, Fred, Lucy, and Alice—with Alice’s doll on a doll’s chair at the left flank of the line.