The Complete Works of Frances Hodgson Burnett. Frances Hodgson Burnett

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СКАЧАТЬ drew back a step or so, and, putting his hands on his hips, began to sing, throwing his voice upward that it might pass through the broken window. He had a splendid and vibrant young voice, though he knew nothing of its fine quality. Just now he wanted only to make it loud.

      In the street outside very few people were passing. An irritable old gentleman who was taking an invalid walk quite jumped with annoyance when the song suddenly trumpeted forth. Boys had no right to yell in that manner. He hurried his step to get away from the sound. Two or three other people glanced over their shoulders, but had not time to loiter. A few others listened with pleasure as they drew near and passed on.

      “There’s a boy with a fine voice,” said one.

      “What’s he singing?” said his companion. “It sounds foreign.”

      “Don’t know,” was the reply as they went by. But at last a young man who was a music-teacher, going to give a lesson, hesitated and looked about him. The song was very loud and spirited just at this moment. The music-teacher could not understand where it came from, and paused to find out. The fact that he stopped attracted the attention of the next comer, who also paused.

      “Who’s singing?” he asked. “Where is he singing?”

      “I can’t make out,” the music-teacher laughed. “Sounds as if it came out of the ground.”

      And, because it was queer that a song should seem to be coming out of the ground, a costermonger stopped, and then a little boy, and then a workingwoman, and then a lady.

      There was quite a little group when another person turned the corner of the street. He was a shabby boy on crutches, and he had a frantic look on his face.

      And Marco actually heard, as he drew near to the group, the tap-tap-tap of crutches.

      “It might be,” he thought. “It might be!”

      And he sang the trumpet-call of the chorus as if it were meant to reach the skies, and he sang it again and again. And at the end of it shouted, “Hallo! Hallo! Hallo! Hallo! Hallo!”

      The Rat swung himself into the group and looked as if he had gone crazy. He hurled himself against the people.

      “Where is he! Where is he!” he cried, and he poured out some breathless words; it was almost as if he sobbed them out.

      “We’ve been looking for him all night!” he shouted. “Where is he! Marco! Marco! No one else sings it but him. Marco! Marco!” And out of the area, as it seemed, came a shout of answer.

      “Rat! Rat! I’m here in the cellar—locked in. I’m here!” and a big piece of coal came hurtling through the broken window and fell crashing on the area flags. The Rat got down the steps into the area as if he had not been on crutches but on legs, and banged on the door, shouting back:

      “Marco! Marco! Here I am! Who locked you in? How can I get the door open?”

      Marco was close against the door inside. It was The Rat! It was

      The Rat! And he would be in the street again in a few minutes. “Call a policeman!” he shouted through the keyhole. “The people locked me in on purpose and took away the keys.”

      Then the group of lookers-on began to get excited and press against the area railings and ask questions. They could not understand what had happened to cause the boy with the crutches to look as if he were crazy with terror and relief at the same time.

      And the little boy ran delightedly to fetch a policeman, and found one in the next street, and, with some difficulty, persuaded him that it was his business to come and get a door open in an empty house where a boy who was a street singer had got locked up in a cellar.

      XVII

“IT IS A VERY BAD SIGN”

      The policeman was not so much excited as out of temper. He did not know what Marco knew or what The Rat knew. Some common lad had got himself locked up in a house, and some one would have to go to the landlord and get a key from him. He had no intention of laying himself open to the law by breaking into a private house with his truncheon, as The Rat expected him to do.

      “He got himself in through some of his larks, and he’ll have to wait till he’s got out without smashing locks,” he growled, shaking the area door. “How did you get in there?” he shouted.

      It was not easy for Marco to explain through a keyhole that he had come in to help a lady who had met with an accident. The policeman thought this mere boy’s talk. As to the rest of the story, Marco knew that it could not be related at all without saying things which could not be explained to any one but his father. He quickly made up his mind that he must let it be believed that he had been locked in by some queer accident. It must be supposed that the people had not remembered, in their haste, that he had not yet left the house.

      When the young clerk from the house agency came with the keys, he was much disturbed and bewildered after he got inside.

      “They’ve made a bolt of it,” he said. “That happens now and then, but there’s something queer about this. What did they lock these doors in the basement for, and the one on the stairs? What did they say to you?” he asked Marco, staring at him suspiciously.

      “They said they were obliged to go suddenly,” Marco answered.

      “What were you doing in the basement?”

      “The man took me down.”

      “And left you there and bolted? He must have been in a hurry.”

      “The lady said they had not a moment’s time.”

      “Her ankle must have got well in short order,” said the young man.

      “I knew nothing about them,” answered Marco. “I had never seen them before.”

      “The police were after them,” the young man said. “That’s what I should say. They paid three months’ rent in advance, and they have only been here two. Some of these foreign spies lurking about London; that’s what they were.”

      The Rat had not waited until the keys arrived. He had swung himself at his swiftest pace back through the streets to No. 7 Philibert Place. People turned and stared at his wild pale face as he almost shot past them.

      He had left himself barely breath enough to speak with when he reached the house and banged on the door with his crutch to save time.

      Both Loristan and Lazarus came to answer.

      The Rat leaned against the door gasping.

      “He’s found! He’s all right!” he panted. “Some one had locked him in a house and left him. They’ve sent for the keys. I’m going back. Brandon Terrace, No. 10.”

      Loristan and Lazarus exchanged glances. Both of them were at the moment as pale as The Rat.

      “Help him into the house,” said Loristan to Lazarus. “He must stay here and rest. We will go.” The Rat knew it was an order.

      He СКАЧАТЬ