Into the Storm (36 page)

Y
ou forgot your coat,” Laurence said, yawning, as he came out of the hotel to find Jeb waiting for him.

“Guess I did,” Jeb mumbled, hardly wishing to explain what had happened the night before. “If the sun shines, this can be a warm spot. And in the morning you get a good class of gents.”

Though the sun was barely up, he had been awake for hours, worrying about the stolen key and about how angry his parents would be if they found out he had it — and how he got it. Light though the key was, he could almost feel its weight in his pocket. He kept telling himself he should get rid of it or at least hide it — maybe in the shanty.

Even worse than his worries about the key was the sound of his mother's cough. All through the night, he had heard it. It seemed deeper, harsher than before. Was it that way because she had no job, because Jeb was the only one working …? The boy had shuddered at the thought. It was all so frightening.

“When do they start coming?” Laurence said. For him, it was still early. He wished he could have stayed in bed.

“Soon as the first train from Boston pulls in, we should get some business. Just one thing.”

“What's that?”

“Better scruff up your face a bit. Hide that mark. The gents don't like to see rough stuff. Makes them uncomfortable.” Jeb poured a spot of the blacking on his cloth and smeared Laurence's face. “There you go. Now you look decent. Who's going to shine first, you or me?”

“You can,” Laurence said, trying to suppress another yawn.

Jeb set the box down a few feet from the hotel entrance. Then he began his call, “Black your boots! Black your boots!”

Laurence, glad he didn't have to work right away, sat on the ground, legs drawn up, back propped against the hotel wall. To protect himself against the cold, he bent over and hugged himself.

Thirty minutes passed before Jeb found his first customer. Laurence strove to watch carefully, wanting to be sure he wouldn't forget how to do the job properly. Instead, he dozed.

“Hey, wake up, fellah,” he heard Jeb call into his ear. “I got you a customer!”

Startled into wakefulness, an embarrassed Laurence — trying desperately to open his eyes — scurried over to where the gentleman was waiting. Automatically, he knelt before him and the shoe-shine box, then set the man's boot firmly on the box.

Paying strict attention to the boot, Laurence worked hard. Only when the first boot was done did he remember Jeb's instructions, that he should look up and smile.
Which is exactly what he did. The man whose boots he was blacking was none other than his brother, Albert.

L
aurence felt as if he were caught in a vise. In a panic, he ducked his head over his brother's boot and worked away with trembling hands.

As for Albert, he took no more notice of the urchin at his feet than of the pavement itself. Instead, he gazed up and down, looking at the city to which he had just come by railway. He had already decided Lowell was a tiresome place and was resolved to spend as little time here as possible.

“The other boot,” Jeb whispered into Laurence's ear.

Laurence tapped Albert's foot. The second boot was put in place.

As Laurence worked, his mind raced furiously. How his brother had tracked him to Lowell was beyond his understanding. It made little difference. He had no doubt but that Albert was there to do him harm. All Laurence could think was that he had to get away.

The boot blacking was done. Laurence, without lifting his head, his voice pitched higher than normal, said, “Two pennies, sir.”

Albert reached into a pocket and drew out a fistful of change. “Confounded money,” he murmured. “Here, take this.” He dropped a coin into Laurence's raised, shaking hand and walked off without a backward look.

Laurence stared after his brother. He seemed to be going no place in particular but merely lumbered along, pausing now and again to gawk about.

“How much he give you?” Laurence heard Jeb ask as though from a great distance.

With a start, Laurence turned, then glanced down at the dime in his hand. Numb, he handed it to Jeb.

“Crackers!” Jeb exclaimed. “A whole dime. Beginner's luck!”

Laurence, still on his knees, turned again to stare after his brother.

“What's the matter?” Jeb asked. “What you looking at?”

“That … that man there …,” said Laurence, still in a daze.

“The one you just blacked?”

Laurence nodded.

“He is dressed fancy, ain't he?” Albert was wearing greatcoat, top hat, and gloves.

Laurence bolted up. “I … I have to get away,” he stammered.

“What do you mean?”

“He's … That man is trying to catch me.”

“Him?” Jeb said, gazing with puzzlement at Albert, who had already gone a considerable distance along the street. “If he's trying to catch you, how come he's going that way?”

“He didn't know it was me,” Laurence said in a choked whisper.

“What's he want you for?”

“He wants to harm me. I know he does.”

Jeb considered Laurence anew. First it was Mr. Clemspool who had wanted this boy watched. Now here was someone the boy was running from. Jeb wished he knew just who Laurence was and what it was all about. “What about your friends in the hotel?”

“I have to get away,” Laurence gasped.

“Where?”

An anguished Laurence looked at Jeb. “Anywhere.
Please.
Help me. You can keep that money.”

Suppressing a grin, Jeb put the dime in his pocket. As he did, he felt the key and remembered he wanted to hide it. “I know a place you can keep out of sight for a while.”

“Where?”

“It's a pretty good shanty my pals and I put together. Nothing says you can't stay there for a bit. It's not so far.”

“Please …,” Laurence implored.

“Come on then,” Jeb said, and he picked up his shoe-shine box and tucked it under an arm.

The two boys set off down the street, Laurence anxiously looking back over his shoulder from time to time.

Suddenly Jeb spied a policeman ambling in their direction from the other end of the street. Fearful that Mr. Clemspool might have given the police his name and that they might now be coming after him for housebreaking, the boy stopped short. If they arrested him and found the key in his pocket, his situation would be awful.

“Look here,” he said to Laurence, extracting the key. “I need you to do something for me.”

“What is it?”

Jeb held the key out. “It's my father's. I've been carrying it. Only my pockets are so full of holes, I keep worrying I'll lose it. Would you mind holding it for me?”

While Laurence stowed the key away, Jeb kept a wary eye on the policeman. As it was, the officer merely meandered by, not even looking at the boys.

Though much relieved, Jeb decided he'd let Laurence hold the key until he got to the shanty. It would be safer.

The farther they walked, the calmer Laurence became. First he reminded himself that he was in America, not England. He need not be so fearful. And wasn't he a new person with a new name? “I am not Sir Laurence Kirkle,” he whispered to himself. “I'm not.”

A poke from Jeb startled Laurence out of his thoughts. “How come,” the boy asked, “that gent is after you?”

“He hates me.”

“Why? What you do to him?”

“Nothing.”

“He English like you?”

“Yes.”

Jeb shook his head. “You sure have a lot of Englishmen looking for you.”

Laurence came to an abrupt halt. “What do you mean … a lot?” he cried. “Is there someone else?”

Too late, Jeb realized he'd blundered. “Look here,” he said, “I'm willing to help you — don't know why I shouldn't — only you have to tell me what your game is.”

“Who else is looking for me?” Laurence demanded with sudden fierceness.

Somewhat cowed, Jeb said, “Ever hear of a man by the name of Clemspool?”

“Clemspool!” Laurence cried. “In Lowell?”

“Sort of fat, bald, round-faced fellow, with fingers that fidget a lot and a mouth that likes to talk.”

“That's him.”

“Then he's here.”

“Is he looking for me too?”

“I suppose,” Jeb replied, wishing he hadn't said anything.

“Where is he?” Laurence said. He'd begun to think it was a mistake to have left Mr. Grout this morning. “How do you know about Mr. Clemspool?”

“I was just shining his shoes, and he asked me to help him,” Jeb answered truthfully. “What's it all about anyway?”

Laurence glanced at Jeb, wondering how much he could trust him. “I ran away from home,” he said.

“That's nothing,” a disappointed Jeb returned with a shrug. “A ton of boys do that.”

“From London, England,” Laurence went on. “And those men, they've come after me.”

“To haul you back?”

“But I won't go,” Laurence said with a burst of resolve. “I won't. Only I have to go back to the hotel,” he added, wanting now to tell Mr. Grout what he had discovered.

“Just hold on a minute,” Jeb said. “We're only a bit from the shanty. I need to leave that key there. Then we'll go.”

“Will you promise to take me back to the hotel then?” Laurence asked.

“Sure thing,” Jeb said sincerely. “The shanty's just over here.”

A
lbert, unaware that it was his brother who had blackened his boots, continued his stroll through Lowell. To his disgust, all he could see were businesses and shops. No fine tailors, no sweetshops, no betting parlors. As for the people, they walked too fast and talked too loudly, and no one appeared to be of any importance. As far as he was concerned, the sooner he found this Mr. Shagwell, the better. When he saw some waiting hackney carriages, he approached the first in line.

“I say,” he called up, “I need to find a man by the name of … Ambrose Shagwell. Any idea where the chap might be?”

The driver, an old man with a slouch hat set low about his ears, pulled at his thick mustache. “Don't know, but there's a Mr. Shagwell of the Shagwell Cotton Mill. That the one you're looking for?”

“Look here, I haven't the faintest idea
what
he is. And I don't care. I just need to find him.”

“Well, if that's your man, he might be at the mill.”

“Then take me there.” Albert climbed into the carriage, and off they went. The city being quite small, the ride seemed hardly to have begun before the coach stopped and the driver called down that they had arrived.

Albert — who had not considered what he might say to Mr. Shagwell — stepped from the carriage and found himself before the mill gates. The size of the establishment took him by surprise.

“And you say this Mr. Shagwell is in charge of this … place?” he asked his driver.

“Owns it,” was the curt reply.

Albert was impressed. Not that he wanted to show it. “Stay here till I get back,” he ordered.

“Long as you pay, mister.”

Trying to act casual, but squeezing his knuckles with nervousness, Albert strolled into the mill yard and looked about. All was busy. Any number of people were at work. From the larger of the buildings, a great clatter of mechanical noise poured forth.

Feeling uneasy, Albert turned toward the smaller of the structures, where the manager's sign was posted, and knocked upon the door.

It was the boy who answered. When he observed Albert — top hatted, wearing a knee-length overcoat, hands in leather gloves — he immediately opened the door wide.

“Yes, sir,” he said with deference, “what can we do for you?”

“Yes …,” Albert drawled. “Is there a fellow named Ambrose Shagwell about?”

“Mr. Shagwell, the
owner
?”

“I suppose he is.” Albert reached into a pocket and produced a calling card with his name embossed on it. “Show him this,” he directed.

The boy squinted at the card. “You might as well come in,” he said.

Albert took indifferent note of the men working at their ledgers. Not liking to be associated with business in any way, he turned his back, gazing instead upon a map of the world pinned to the wall. How he wished he was home in England!

“He'll see you, sir,” the boy said upon returning, and led Albert into Mr. Shagwell's office.

The mill owner had received the young lord's card with both shock and perplexity. After all, Mr. Clemspool had claimed he represented the Kirkle interests. Now here, at his door, was someone announcing he
was
a Kirkle. Mr. Shagwell hardly knew how to react. Though he felt compelled to be wary, he was curious as to who was calling and why.

And when Albert walked into the room, Mr. Shagwell was even more taken aback. Here was merely a very awkward
youth who, nonetheless, as indicated by the way he dressed, appeared to be of the first rank.

“How do you do, sir,” the mill owner managed to say, feeling obliged to step out from behind his desk and offer to shake the young man's hand.

Albert, making no concession to friendliness — and not even removing his hat — demanded, “Look here, are you Shagwell?”

“Ambrose Shagwell at your service, sir. And you” — he glanced at the calling card — “are Sir Albert Kirkle. What, sir, may I have the honor of doing for you?”

“Actually, I'm … looking for someone.” Albert reached into his vest pocket and removed the letter Mr. Clemspool had written to him. “My younger brother, you know. Ungrateful scamp ran off … from home.”

Once again Mr. Shagwell was puzzled. “And what, sir, does that have to do with me?”

“He's here in America somewhere,” Albert explained with a general gesture. “But I don't know where. The thing is, he was brought here by a fellow by the name of Clemspool. That name … mean anything to you?”

“It might,” Mr. Shagwell replied with caution.

“This Clemspool fellow said I could reach him through you.”

“Did he?”

“That's what he wrote.”

“What, sir,” Mr. Shagwell asked Albert, “are your connections to this Mr. Clemspool?”

“He was doing some … little business for me.”

The answer startled Mr. Shagwell. Could it be that he had made a mistake in thinking Mr. Clemspool was a swindler? Perhaps he
did
represent the Kirkle interests. “Is he, sir, an associate, a friend?”

“Friend!” Albert exclaimed with a sneer. “The man's a scoundrel!”

This response brought Mr. Shagwell much relief. “Well, sir,” he allowed expansively, “your man has been in Lowell.”

“Confound the fellow,” said Albert. “Did he have a boy with him?”

“I know nothing about a boy, sir. But, you see …,” Mr. Shagwell faltered, not exactly sure how to explain without doing himself a disservice.

Albert came to his help. “Look here, Shagwell, I don't like the man. I just need to find him.”

Mr. Shagwell smiled. “Well, sir, if you must know, your Mr. Clemspool is presently in … well, the city jail.”

“Jail!”

“As of last night.”

The young man grinned. “I rather like that. What's he there for?”

“He was … trying to rob my house.”

Albert burst into laughter. “Rob your house! That's the fellow! Was the boy with him? He in jail too?” he asked hopefully.

Mr. Shagwell was not amused. “I told you, I know nothing about a boy.”

“Where's this jolly jail?”

“Exchange Street.”

“And you don't know anything else about Clemspool?”

“Ummmmm … no, sir,” Mr. Shagwell said. “But may I ask you, sir, if you or your family has any interest in investing —”

Albert cut him short with a wave of his gloved hand. “Appreciate your information, Shagwell. Imagine that, in jail….” And without another word, he strode from the office, leaving the mill owner as puzzled as he had been when the young lord arrived.