mischief brewing.

david laidlaw was one of those comfortably constituted men who eat heartily, sleep profoundly, and lie thinking in bed in the mornings—when awake—with philosophic intensity.

on the morning after his first day in london our hero’s mind had to grapple with the perplexing question, whether it was possible that a man with a jovial face, a hearty manner, well-off to all appearance in a worldly point of view, and who chanced to have a man’s money at his mercy yet did not take it, could be a deceiver and in league with thieves. impossible! yet there were the damaging facts that mr spivin had introduced a thief to him as a true and converted man, and that this thief, besides denying his own conversion, had pronounced him—spivin—a black-hearted villain!

“it bothers me!” said david at length, getting over the side of the bed, and sitting there for some time abstractedly stroking his chin.

pondering the subject deeply, he dressed, called for breakfast, met spivin with a quiet “guid-mornin’, freen,” said that he had had “a pleesant time o’t i’ the slums,” and then went out to visit his friends in cherub court. before going, however, he removed his money from his bag, put it in an inner breast-pocket, and paid his bill.

“you won’t be back to dinner, i suppose,” said the landlord in his genial manner.

“na. i’m gaun to plowter aboot a’ day an’ see the toon. i may be late o’ comin’ in, but ye’ll keep my bed for me, an’ tak’ care o’ my bag.”

spivin said he would do so with such hearty goodwill that david said, mentally, “he’s innocent.”

at the moment a tall dark man with a sharp intelligent expression entered the house and bade the landlord good-morning. the latter started, laughed, winked, glanced expressively at the scotsman, and returned the stranger’s salute in a tone that induced david to say, mentally, “he’s guilty.”

gravely pondering these contradictory opinions, our hero walked along until he found himself close to the alley which led into cherub court. a female yell issued from the alley as he came up, and mrs rampy suddenly appeared in a state of violent self-assertion. she was a strong, red-faced woman, who might have been born a man, perhaps, with advantage. she carried a broken-lipped jug, and was on her way to the shop which was at least the second cause of all her woes.

standing aside to let the virago pass, laidlaw proceeded to the court, where, to his great surprise, he found tommy splint sitting on a doorstep, not exactly in tears, but with disconsolation deeply impressed on his dirty young face.

“eh, laddie, what’s wrang?” exclaimed the scot, his mind reverting anxiously, and strangely enough, to the “waux doll.”

“o, mr laidlow” exclaimed the boy.

“na, na,” interrupted david, “i’m no laid low yet, though the lun’on folk hae done their best to bring me t’ that condeetion. my name’s laid-law, laddie. freen’s ca’ me david, an’ ye may do the same; but for ony sake dinna use that english daivid. i canna thole that. use the lang, braid, bible a. but what’s the maitter wi’ ye?”

“well, mr da-a-a-vid,” returned the boy, unable to resist a touch of fun even in his distress, “they’ve bin an’ dismissed our susy, wot’s as good as gold; so she’s hout o’ work, and chimley-pot liz she’s fit to break ’er hold ’art, ’cause she ain’t able to earn enough now to pay the rent of ’er room, an’ the landlord, what’s a lawyer, ’e is, says two weeks’ rent is overdue, and ’e’ll turn ’er hout into the street to-morrer if it’s not paid.”

“that’s bad news, tammy,” said laidlaw, thrusting both hands into his pockets, and looking meditatively at the ground. “but why doesna sam blake, the waux—, i mean susy’s faither, lend them the siller?”

“’cause he’s gone to liverpool for somethink or other about ’is wessel, an’ left no address, an’ won’t be back for two or three days, an’ the old ooman ain’t got a friend on ’arth—leastwise not a rich ’un who can ’elp ’er.”

“hoots, laddie, ye’re wrang! i can help her.”

“ah, but,” said the boy, still in tones of disconsolation, “you don’t know chimley-pot liz. she’s proud, she is, an’ won’t take nuffin from strangers.”

“weel, weel, but i’m no’—a stranger, callant.”

“i rather think you are!” replied the boy, with a knowing look.

“ye may be richt. weel, i’ll no’ gi’e them the chance to refuse. what’s the name of the lawyer-body that’s their landlord?”

“lockhart. john would be ’is christian name if ’e wos a christian. but a cove with a christian name as is not a christian do seem an absurdity—don’t it? they say ’e’s about the greatest willian out o’ newgate. an’ ’is office is somewhere near chancery lane.”

“weel, christian or no christian, i’ll gi’e him a ca’,” said david; “are they up there enow?” he added, with a significant motion of his head towards the garden on the roof.

“yes, both of ’em—’owling. i couldn’t stand it, so came down ’ere to veep alone.”

“weel, ye better stop where ye are, an’ veep—as ye say—a wee while langer. i’ll gang up to see them.”

a minute more and david, tapping at the garret door, was bidden to enter by a sweet voice which caused the slightest imaginable sensation in his heart! susan was there alone—not ’owling, as tommy had expressed it, but with the traces of tears obviously about her eyes. she blushed deeply and looked a little confused as david entered, probably because of being caught with the signs aforesaid on her cheeks.

“guid-mornin’, miss blake,” said david earnestly, giving the girl a warm shake of the hand. “o lassie, but i am sorry to hear that ye’re in trouble! i do assure ye that if a pund or twa would help yer granny—”

“’sh, mr laidlaw!” said susan, looking furtively round and speaking low. “granny will hear! you must not offer her money. from father, indeed, if he were here, she would accept it, but not from a—a stranger.”

“am i, then, such a stranger?” asked david in a peculiar tone, for the word sounded cold and disagreeable.

again susan blushed, yet felt a tendency to laugh, as she replied, “well, you know, although you have helped me in trouble, it is not very long since we met. but come and see granny; she’s in the garden—and, please, don’t speak of our troubles.”

“weel, weel, please yersel’, lassie,” returned the scot, almost sternly, as he followed susan into the garden on the roof, where old liz sat in her rustic chair resting her head on her hand, and looking sadly at the sunlight, which flickered through the foliage on to the zinc floor. despite susan’s caution laidlaw sat down beside the old woman and took her hand.

“noo, mrs morley,” he said, “it’s o’ no use me tryin’ to haud my tongue whan i want to speak. i’m a plain north-country man, an’ i canna thole to see a puir auld body in trouble withoot offerin’ t’ help her. i’ve been telt o’ susy’s misfortin’ an’ aboot the rent, and if ye’ll accep’—”

“no, sir, no,” said old liz firmly, but without any look of that pride with which she had been credited. “i will not accept money from—”

“but i’m no’ askin’ ye,” interrupted david, “to accep’ money as a gift—only as a loan, ye ken, withoot interest of course.”

“not even as a loan,” said the old woman. “besides, young man, you must not fancy that i am altogether penniless. i ’appen to ’ave shares in an american railway, which my landlord advised me to buy with my small savings. no doubt, just at present the dividend on the shares of the washab and roria railway have fallen off terribly, but—”

“what railway?” asked laidlaw quickly.

“the washab and roria. somewhere in the united states,” said liz.

“h’m! i was readin’ the papers yestreen,” said david. “ye see, i’m fond o’ fishin’ aboot odd corners o’ the papers—the money market, an’ stocks, an’ the like—an’ i noticed that vera railway—owin’ to its daft-like name, nae doot—an’ its deevidends are first-rate. ye could sell oot enow at a high profit gin ye like.”

“indeed? you must be mistaken, i think,” replied the old woman, “for i ’ave ’ad almost nothink for a year or two. you see, my landlord, who takes charge of these matters for me—”

“that’s mr lockhart the lawyer, ye mean?”

“yes. he says they’re losing money now, and there was no dividend at all last half-year.”

“h’m! that is strange,” said david, stroking his chin, “uncommon—strange!”

“d’you think mr lockhart has made a mistake, mr laidlaw?” asked susan hopefully.

“ay, i think he hes made a mistake. but ’oo’ll see. an’ noo, to change the subjec’, i’ll tell ’ee aboot some o’ the adventur’s i had last nicht.”

from this point david laidlaw entertained old liz and susy and tommy splint, who had by that time joined them, with a graphic account of his adventures in the slums, in the telling of which he kept his audience in fits of laughter, yet spoke at times with such pathos that susan was almost moved to tears.

“noo, i must away,” he said at length, rising. “i’ve got partikler business in haund. come wi’ me, tammy. i’ll want ’ee, and i’ll come back sune to see ye, auld liz. dinna ye tak’ on aboot losin’ yer place, su—, miss blake, lass. ye’ll git a better place afore lang—tak’ my word for ’t.”

on the way down-stairs laidlaw and his little companion passed a tall gentleman and two ladies who were ascending. ere the foot of the stair was reached, loud exclamations of recognition and joy were heard in the regions above.

“i say!” exclaimed tommy splint, with wide-open eyes, “ain’t they a-goin’ of it up there? let’s go back an’ listen.”

“na, ye wee rascal, we’ll no’ gang back. if ye want to be freen’s wi’ me ye’ll no daur to putt yer lug to keyholes. come awa’. it’s nae business o’ yours or mine.”

they had not gone far in the direction of chancery lane when, to their surprise, they met sam blake, who had changed his mind about the visit to liverpool. david at once seized him by the arm, and made him walk with them, while he explained the circumstances in which his daughter and old liz had been so suddenly placed.

“wouldn’t it be better for me,” said sam, “to steer straight for the garden than to go along with you?”

“na—ye’ll gang wi’ me. it’s plain that they hae auld freen’s veesitin’ them at the gairden, sae we’d better lat them alane. besides, i want ye for a wutness; i’m no much o’ a polis man, nevertheless i’m gaun to try my haund at a bit o’ detective business. just you come wi’ me, and niver say a word till ye’re spoken to.”

“heave ahead then, skipper; you’re in command,” returned the sailor with a quiet laugh. it was echoed by little tommy, who was hugely pleased with the semi-mysterious looks and nods of his scottish friend, and regarded the turn affairs seemed to be taking as infinitely superior to mere ordinary mischief.

arrived at chancery lane, they soon discovered the office of john lockhart, esquire, solicitor. entering, they found the principal seated at a table covered with papers and legal documents of all kinds. both the lawyer and the farmer felt, but did not show, some surprise on looking at each other.