The Son of His Father; vol. 2/3Oliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
General
The Son of His Father; vol. 2/3
Oliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
Fathers and sons -- Fiction
‘I say, clear out of there,’ said the policeman, whose inspection of
John’s first acquaintance had not been satisfactory. ‘Let’s have a look
at the gentleman. Well, he’s had too much to drink, sir, so far as I can
see. He is not one as I’ve ever seen about. He is a bit queer to look
at. Them clothes is droll, to say the least, but decent enough so far as
I can see.’
He was guarded, as became an official and representative of the law.
‘They’re fourteen years old,’ said the other man, ‘and that makes a
difference in clo’es an’ most other things. He’s put them on to-day for
the first time for fourteen year. Look at ’im. He’s come out o’ quod,
poor beggar, and did not know nobody, and happened on me. I knew ’im
onst, it don’t matter where. I’ve been taking him about for old
acquaintance sake. And he’s dazed like, and no command over his legs,
and a little drop o’ drink done for him. I call him my mate, along o’
this that we’ve been together in the same place. But he’s a born
gentleman, as ye’d see if once you heard him talk: only not being used
to it--a little drop of drink----’
‘You’ve been and hocussed him,’ said the policeman, with a sudden grasp
of the man’s arm.
‘No, by---- No,---- my soul, if I ever----’ said the fellow, pouring
out a flood of ready oaths.
The hoarse profanity, the entreaties and remonstrance of the rude voice,
which made a clamour in the air of the night, roused the slumberer in
the doorway to a state of half consciousness. He raised himself a
little, and blinking at the light of the lantern with large, mild,
light-coloured eyes, which were humorous and genial even in their
stupefied condition, began to address the group around him with a smile.
‘It’s only--Joe,’ he said; ‘there’s not much harm in--Joe. He’s
a--a--confirmed offender and all that. Never could get a--ticket; but
he’s faithful, faithful--not bad company--on the whole. I take
Joe--under my protection. I’ve a little money. Let him have--a
comfortable bed--like mine,’ he added, falling back again with a smile
full of good humour, yet not without a touch of ridicule in it, which
seemed more conscious than the speaker was, and which touched the little
group around with a curious mixture of feeling, subduing the tone even
of the policeman, who looked at John with a bewildered air.
‘I could take him to the station, sir,’ he said, paying no attention to
the exclamations of Joe, who evidently felt himself entirely
rehabilitated and restored to the good opinions of his fellows by this
strange statement: ‘he’d be safe enough there.’
‘It seems a pity,’ said John.
‘It do seem a pity,’ agreed the guardian of the night. ‘He don’t look a
bad sort, though he’s been in trouble.’
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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