CHAPTER XV.
POLLY’S DELIVERER.
“Max,” said Dr. Brenton from the hall door, “can you take a case for me this afternoon?” The Doctor’s eyes twinkled as he spoke, for his son’s professional aid furnished him with plenty of opportunity for the harmless jesting enjoyed by both. “Of course, I mean if your own private practice permits.”
“Thank you,” replied Max gravely; “I believe I’ve nothing serious on. My distinguished services are entirely at your disposal. Is it toothache or measles? I’m great at measles.”
“I’m sorry I can’t give you a turn with your speciality. It’s just a broken arm. But there was some chance of fever; and the boy’s mother is such a fool she can’t even take his temperature, or I might have told her to send me word how he did—”
“Pardon me, but who’s the boy?”
“Oh! why, young Brown, at Appleton Farm.”
Max whistled. “Hallo! that’s a six-mile trot.”
“Yes, and I don’t know how you’re to get there. I can’t spare the trap, for I’ve to go twice as far in the other direction.”
“Never mind ways and means,” said Max cheerily. “As Appleton isn’t out of our planet, I suppose I can reach it somehow.”
“Wait a bit, though, my boy,” said the Doctor, stepping out on to the gravel path and laying his hand on Max’s shoulder. “This is Wednesday, and I don’t want to spoil any little plan for your friends’ holiday afternoon. Was there a spree in view?”
“Nothing you need bother about, Dad,” replied Max, raising his bright face. “I was just going over to Rowdon with this pansy-root for Frances. I forgot to grub up the thing in the morning, so I’m getting it now.”
“You always enjoy a few hours at Rowdon,” said the Doctor regretfully. “Perhaps, after all, I might get back in time to tackle Appleton myself.”
“No, you mightn’t. You’ll be tired enough as it is, after being out half last night. Don’t you worry, Dad, I’ll see to Brown.”
“It won’t matter how late you visit him. You could have a game first, lad. Rowdon is not much off the road to Appleton. Suppose you went there first?”
“Good idea! If Austin’s in trim, I dare say he’ll go on with me. Frances too, maybe. Off you go, Dad, and don’t fidget about Brown. I’ll settle him and his temperature.”
So off the Doctor went, as easy in his mind as his young son’s care could make him. And Max dug up his root, wrapped it neatly in brown paper, and made ready for the tramp to Rowdon.
Austin was “in trim” and volunteered his company to Appleton. Frances and her mother had arranged to give the afternoon to the Altruist work-basket; but they invited Max to come back to tea at the cottage, and to play a game at cricket on the Common afterwards. The boys did their walk in good time, found Brown’s temperature normal and his arm doing well, and then strolled homeward at a leisurely pace.
“How are things going in the village?” inquired Austin, as they neared Rowdon, and topics of more personal interest had been pretty well exhausted. “Has your father got old Fenn to do anything for Lumber’s Yard?”
“Fenn! Not he. But the folks themselves are looking up. Carlyon has been hammering away at them a long time, as you know, and most of them are a shade more respectable in consequence. At least, they are beginning to show some disgust with that beast Baker, which is a sign of a return to decency.”
“Has Baker been doing anything fresh lately?”
“Anything fresh in the way of brutality is hardly within Mr. Joe Baker’s power. He’s an out-and-out right-down waster, and I told him so yesterday for the fiftieth time.”
“What was he doing?”
“Mauling that tiny mite Polly. Fortunately Harry the Giant heard the child yell, and went to her help just as I got there. I couldn’t help treating Baker to a few home truths, and I wish you’d seen his scowls and heard the pleasant things he promised me.”
“Beast! But I say, Max, don’t put yourself in his way in a lonely lane on a dark night. He doesn’t love you.”
Max’s expressive “Ugh!” closed the subject.
The tea-table, presided over by Mrs. Morland, was surrounded that evening by a lively little company. Austin and Max gave a mirthful version of their encounter with Mrs. Brown, concerning the beef-tea they had ventured to criticise; and quiet Jim, whose sense of humour was undergoing cultivation, chuckled over the boys’ small witticisms. Max’s long walk had not robbed cricket of attraction. As soon as tea had been cleared away, the youngsters dragged Jim off to the Common; and even Mrs. Morland was cajoled into coming with them to look on and keep the score.
But it was a really tired-out lad who, when dusk was deepening into darkness, bade Frances and Austin good-bye on the further side of the Common. Max would not let his friends come further, for he meant to cover a good part of the remaining distance at a swinging trot, which might, he hoped, compel his aching legs to do their duty. And for a time they did it nobly; but presently fatigue compelled the boy to slow down to a steady walk, which made reflection easier. Max’s thoughts were usually good company, and on this particular evening he had abundant food for them.
Max Brenton was nearing his fifteenth birthday, and his busy, capable life held promise of early maturity. Though still a very boyish boy, he had in his many quiet hours developed a power of concentration and resolute temper, which inclined him to wider schemes of activity than boyhood often learns to contemplate. It was only the strength and depth of his affections—in which alone Max was child-like—that rendered it possible for him to look forward without impatience to a career consecrated to the service of Woodend.
Max would have preferred a broader outlook and a brisker scene for his energies. But he knew that a partnership with his son was Dr. Brenton’s wildest dream of future happiness and prosperity, and Max could not imagine himself bringing defeat to his father’s plan. How often had they talked it over together! and how gaily had Max anticipated his triumphant return to his little country home with the honours of the schools bound thick about his brows! By that time Dad would want someone to do the night-work, and share the responsibility of difficult cases; and who should help him, who ever had helped him, but Max?
The boy smiled as, moving rapidly through the evening darkness, he reminded himself afresh of all these things. Then the smile faded, and a quick sigh expressed the lurking regret of his growing years. For a while his thoughts soared to all conceivable heights of medical distinction; and he wondered whether, had his path not been inexorably prepared for him, he might have climbed to better purpose some other way.
Max’s thoughts still dwelt lingeringly on the opportunities present-day conditions afford to the specialist in any profession, as he drew within sight of the straggling cottages of Woodend village. The first of all was a neat little one-storeyed tenement, where dwelt poor Mrs. Baker’s aged father and mother. Of late the couple had often tried to shelter Bell and her little ones during outbreaks of Joe Baker’s drunken fury; and more than once the fugitives had been pursued to their place of refuge by their persecutor. Max recalled these facts while his eyes caught through the trees the glimmer of lights below him in the valley; and by a natural sequence of thought, he remembered also his morning encounter with Joe.
“He was in one of his worst moods,” meditated the boy; “and if the ‘Jolly Dog’ has seen any more of him since, I expect his wife will be in danger to-night. I declare, I’ve half a mind to look in on her father and give him a word of warning. He might fetch the children, anyhow.”
Max looked again at the light in old Baring’s distant window, and decided to carry out his plan. A little further on he turned into the lane where, many months ago, Austin Morland’s galloping pony had caught up “brother Jim”. The overhanging trees behind tall wooden palings added to the natural darkness of the hour and place; and it was not till his eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom that he detected a tiny figure stumbling towards him up the path. When the child came close, Max saw that it was little five-year-old Polly Baker.
“Hallo!” sang out Max; “you again, small kid! What are you doing here?”
“Oh, Mas’r Max! Mas’r Max!” The child flung herself at the lad, and clung to him desperately. “He’s after me, Father is! Don’t let him have me! Please don’t, Mas’r Max!”
The boy lifted the little child in his arms, and tried to soothe her. He felt that her frail body was palpitating with the terror which had already made her baby face wizened and old. A mighty wrath surged into Max’s heart. Polly’s trembling fingers tugging weakly at his jacket called all his manliest instincts into vigour.
He easily made out the child’s broken words of explanation. Baker had been turned away from the “Jolly Dog” as being dangerous to its other frequenters, and in malicious rage had lurched home and set about beating wife and children indiscriminately. Neighbours had come to the rescue, and had seen that Bell was safely housed with a friend, while her children were sent under escort to their grandfather Baring. For a time Baker had remained indoors, nursing his wrongs; then, not daring to interfere with Bell, since Harry the Giant was mounting guard over her, he had set out in the dark to wreak his fury on the Barings and their helpless charges.
His coming had sent Polly and the other little ones into paroxysms of terror, and they had flown for shelter out to the friendly night. Baker was drunk enough to be dangerous, without having in the least lost control over his senses. Little Polly, whose baby fist had sometimes been raised in defence of her mother, was always his favourite victim; and the child now gasped in Max’s ear her certainty that her father had seen and followed her. If he had been sure she was right, Max would have turned instantly, and have run back up the lane to some trusty villager’s dwelling; but before he could persuade himself to this course, events proved Polly’s fear to be justified. Round the corner into the lane came Baker, running at full speed, with sufficient certainty of gait to assure Max that he would have no helpless drunkard to deal with.
Even then, Max knew that he could escape, without Polly. Max was fleet of foot; but the clinging grasp of the childish fingers and the weight of the little quivering body were enough to give the advantage to Baker in an uphill race. Max had but a minute for reflection, and he determined to try to dodge Baker, slip past him, and make a dash for the village. Running downhill, he thought he might outstrip the enemy, should he give chase; and there would be the chance of meeting help in the more frequented road.
Max had hardly resolved on the attempt, when he knew it had failed. Baker made a cunning feint of speeding by, then flung himself to one side and fairly pinned Max against the palings. In a twinkling the boy had twisted himself free, and set down his burden with a whispered “Run for it, Polly! Run back to the village, fast!”
Max’s fear was all for the baby girl, and his one thought now was to gain time for her escape. Therefore he made no attempt to secure his own, but threw all his strength into the effort to hold back Polly’s father, who, with threats which chilled Max’s blood, addressed thickly to the flying child, was trying to hurl himself after her. The strong young arms of Polly’s defender were not so easily shaken off; and as the little flickering feet carried their owner round the corner and out of sight, Baker turned his attention to revenge.
Max’s vigour was already nearly spent, and his danger had been obvious to him from the beginning of the unequal struggle. Baker’s hatred of “the young Doc”, first called into active existence on the night when the boy’s manœuvres had successfully combated his own brutal designs, had increased continually ever since. It was Max’s interference, and Max’s personal popularity, which had made the denizens of Lumber’s Yard band themselves into a sort of bodyguard to protect Baker’s ill-used wife and children. It was Max who had again and again assailed the drunkard and bully with words of biting contempt. It was Max who had that very morning boldly threatened to obtain legal redress for Bell and her little ones should their cruel tyrant persecute them once more.
Now the man had the boy in his power. Max could not do much in self-defence. He tried to hit out, but Baker, seizing his arms, flung him back against the fence, and, pinning him there with one hand, struck at him furiously with the other. Even then Max’s thoughts were with the escaping child, and he clung desperately to the arm which held him during the few moments of blinding pain before he dropped. Baker was not made of the stuff which spares a fallen foe. His heavy nailed boots did a ruffian’s work on the prostrate body of Max Brenton.
Little Polly fled as for dear life along the village road. She passed her grandfather’s house, which had proved so poor a shelter; she gave no heed to bystanders at cottage-gates; she did not dare to pause even when a friendly voice addressed her. Deep in her baby heart was a fear, not for herself alone; and she flew on and on, her fluttering breath panting between her white lips, her scared eyes gleaming with terror above her colourless cheeks. Her way soon led her by large houses set far back in their beautiful gardens, and at the gate of one of these a boy stood waiting for a comrade.
“Hallo, Polly! What’s the scare, youngster? Stop, and let’s hear.”
Every Altruist was Polly’s friend, and knew the story of her wretched home. So now at last the child ventured to check her headlong pace, and to give voice to her baby fears. This lad, she knew, was Guy Gordon—he who could make cunning use of the strange silver flute, he whose pockets kept stores of sweets for tiny, crimson-frocked girls. Guy was the friend of Polly’s young deities—Max and Austin, Frances and Florry. To him the child now turned with a despairing cry.
“Mas’r Max! Oh, it’s Mas’r Max!”
“No, it’s Mas’r Guy!” laughed the boy good-naturedly. “What’s up, Trots?”
“Save him, p’ease save Mas’r Max! Father’s got him in the dark lane far away. Father’ll kill Mas’r Max!”
“Polly! What!—what do you mean, child? Your father, and Max! Where?”
Guy knew, like the rest of his small world, the hatred felt by Baker for the Doctor’s son; and while the boy tried to assure himself that there was no use in heeding incoherent babble from a mere baby like Polly, a horrible dread swept across his mind.
“Father’s got him! Oh, Father’s got Mas’r Max! Father hates Mas’r Max ’cos he won’t let him beat Mummy and me! Father’ll kill Mas’r Max away in the dark lane, ’cos—’cos Mas’r Max held Father to let Polly run!”
“It can’t be true! Polly, are you certain you mean just what you say? Oh, what’s the use of asking her! I’ll do something on the chance—”
Guy thought a moment, then, picking up the child, ran at his best speed up the road to Dr. Brenton’s house, now close at hand.
“Me was comin’ here!” sobbed Polly, as Guy pelted in at the gate; “me was comin’ to tell Dokker! Polly love Dokker and Mas’r Max. Polly not let Mas’r Max be killed dead!”
“You poor little brave thing!” muttered Guy, choking back a sob himself. “If anything has happened to Max, what will the Doctor do? He is in, I know. I saw him go home just half an hour ago. Where’s the bell? Ugh! how my hand shakes! I’m no better than this baby.”
The Doctor was in, heard Guy’s story, and keeping over his voice and face a control which amazed his boy-visitor, questioned Polly so quietly and gently that he drew from her an account clear enough as to time and place, and connected enough as to fact, to convince himself and Guy that the little one told the truth. Then he called Janet, handed Polly into her care, and caught up his hat and a thick stick.
Dr. Brenton and Guy ran down the road, side by side, at a level, steady trot. Guy kept respectful and sympathetic silence. He, like Polly, loved the good Doctor and Max.
Suddenly Guy drew from his pocket a whistle, on which he blew a loud and shrill blast.
“It’s the Altruists’ whistle, sir,” he explained briefly. “Of course we won’t wait, but if there are any of ‘Ours’ about, they’ll turn up and help.”
“Thanks, lad,” said the Doctor. “We’ll pray as we go that Max has escaped from that scoundrel.”
“He wouldn’t try,” said Guy simply, “while Polly was about.”
“You’re right,” said the Doctor, and they sped on.
Guy’s whistle roused the echoes. Down the garden-paths and the shadowy drives of the larger dwellings of Woodend rushed a half-score of Altruists, responsive to the well-known signal, and eager to know what had brought it forth. For this particular whistle was never used save when opportunity offered for the Society’s members to justify their motto, “Help Others”. The running boys soon caught up the Doctor and Guy, and heard from the latter, in his breathless undertones, what the signal had meant. The lads felt themselves in sufficient force to deliver Max from any danger; and as the village road was now empty of all save stragglers hieing homeward, they attracted no particular attention.
“There’s Harry the Giant!” exclaimed Frank Temple, who ran beside Guy just in the Doctor’s wake. “He might be of use—I’ll bring him.”
The name of Max sufficed for Harry, who attached himself willingly to the little group of boys. Then in silence they followed the Doctor out of the village, along the uphill country road, and so into the long, dark lane, which Polly’s description had enabled Dr. Brenton to identify. Half-way up the lane they came upon Max, lying, as Baker had left him, in the deep shadow of the trees.
All the lads waited silently while the father knelt down to examine his son.
“I think he is alive, Guy,” said Dr. Brenton presently, while he turned to his young allies a white and agonized face; “if he is, that’s the most I can say—and I’m not sure yet. Come, you all cared for him; you shall help me to carry him home.”
The boys pressed forward, but Harry, stepping quickly in front of them, stooped and raised Max carefully in his mighty arms.
“By your leave, gen’lemen,” said the big, good-hearted fellow, “there’s none but me as shall carry Master Max.”
And after that there was for Polly’s deliverer a long and dreamless night.