by Avi
But his exhaustion was growing. He was sore. He felt bouts of dizziness. The welt on his face throbbed. Despite the cold, penetrating drizzle—which sometimes turned to snow—flashes of sweating heat burst upon him only to be followed by chills so sharp his teeth chattered. Blowing on his hands to keep them warm, he would have given anything to be in his own bed. Yet over and over again he told himself he had no choice—he must escape from London.
Laurence hardly knew which he feared most, thieves or the police. To protect himself against the former, he kept one hand thrust deep in his jacket pocket, fist tight around the money that remained. The image of the man with the eye patch, the one who had robbed him, kept rising before him. Even so, he pushed on, pausing only to step into an alley and—to his shame—relieve himself.
He resumed walking. And then, up ahead, he did see a police constable. Distinct in his tall stiff hat, the man was casually sauntering in Laurence’s direction, whistling. Now and then he paused and held up a lantern to inspect doorways and dark alleys.
Laurence ducked down behind some ash bins. As he waited and watched—trembling—he imagined what the police would do if they caught him. They would put him in irons. A trial would follow and then the inevitable guilty verdict when his father and Albert testified against him. He saw himself standing before a periwigged judge, listening as the man meted out a sentence of transportation to the desolate penal colonies of Australia. Or perhaps he would be sent to the hulks, rotting ships used as prisons. No matter, the shame and disgrace seemed worse than any such fate.
Oh, why had he ever taken the money! Perhaps Albert had been right all along. Perhaps he, Sir Laurence Kirkle, was a bad person…. No, he had stopped being that person. He was Laurence Worthy now.
“Laurence Worthy.” Laurence whispered the name out loud through chattering teeth. Far better to disappear than to bring disgrace upon the Kirkle family. There was a hint of nobility in that. A martyrdom.
The constable had passed. Laurence moved on.
Twenty minutes later he came to Euston Station, grand with massive columns and an archway that reminded Laurence of a Roman temple his father had once shown him in a book. Horses and carriages kept coming to provide assistance to the crowds of passengers at the entrance. Boxes and trunks were piled everywhere, while porters carted goods in barrows, or on heads and backs.
Laurence slipped forward from one mound of boxes to another until he saw that he was heading right for another constable. Quickly, he ducked behind some crates, then peeked out through the drizzle.
The constable was just a few feet away and turning toward Laurence when he was approached by another man. This man wore a bowler and had drawn up the collar of his ordinary striped coat.
“Mr. Pickler, sir!” The constable greeted the newcomer with a crisp salute. “Pleasant to see you.”
“The same, Mr. Griffin….” The two men shook hands.
“Off on holiday?” the policeman asked.
“Not at all,” Mr. Pickler returned. “I’m searching for another runaway.”
Hearing the words, Laurence leaned forward to listen intently. The man in the bowler must be a policeman too. In disguise, the boy thought with alarm.
“Lots of runaways these days, eh?” Constable Griffin said. “You must be busy.”
Mr. Pickler smiled grimly. “Young lord, this one.”
“Heaven keep us! I’d like to know what he’s got to run from!”
“He’s in earnest, Mr. Griffin. He took a thousand pounds from his father.”
“Crikey! One thousand! Did he really?”
“His lordship called me in. Informed me so himself,” Mr. Pickler said with pride.
“You do get on with them swells, don’t you?”
Mr. Pickler allowed himself a slight smile. Then he said, “The boy announced he would run off to America.”
“Ah! That’s what brings you here. You think the lad’s heading for Liverpool.”
“The late train.”
“And traveling first class all the way,” Mr. Griffin said laughingly. “Cheerful way to run off, I say, with all that lolly.”
“We will stop him, Mr. Griffin,” Mr. Pickler said with confidence. “Usual reward when we do.”
The constable took out a notebook and pencil from a pocket. “All right then, Mr. Pickler, what’s this one look like?”
“Eleven years old. The right height for his age. Sandy hair and blue eyes. Scrubbed pink cheeks. Dressed absolutely proper. When he left, he was ready for high tea. Answers to the name of Sir Laurence Kirkle.”
“Kirkle?”
Mr. Pickler nodded.
The constable, impressed, made a low whistle.
“Here’s a picture.” Mr. Pickler held up the daguerreotype.
The constable eyed it. “Regular young swell, you might say, eh, Mr. Pickler?”
“Considering the money he took, I expect him to arrive in a carriage. Shouldn’t be hard to spot.”
“A young lord traveling alone, I should think not,” the constable agreed.
“Exactly,” Mr. Pickler said. “Keep the eye open for him, will you? If you see him, hold him. Use your rattle. I’ll be about.”
“I’ll know him when I see him, Mr. Pickler.” The policeman saluted. “His picture is part of my mind.”
“Very good then.” After another handshake, Mr. Pickler passed through the station entrance.
Laurence, having heard the conversation, felt ill. His worst conjectures had come true. Not only were the police looking for him, his father had called them in! It took all of the boy’s willpower not to turn on the spot and run. Only the forbidding thought of spending the night on the cold London streets held him.
Laurence studied the constable, now pacing before the station entrance. Once the boy determined the pattern of the man’s route, back and forth, he edged forward by keeping low and dodging behind carriages and carts. When the constable reached the far end of the station entrance, Laurence dashed from his hiding place and into the enormous building itself, then crouched behind a steamer trunk.
In amazement, he saw that the place was wide as a cricket pitch, lofty as a five-story building, crisscrossed with dark beams, and topped with a glass roof blackened by soot. Glowing chandeliers hung from above. Despite the lateness of the hour, the station was crowded. Laurence was glad of that. He would be less likely to be observed.
Before him, behind the low fence that functioned as a barrier, he counted fifteen railway tracks, on many of which waited locomotives painted bright greens and reds, and glowing with bits of polished brass. Some of the engines spewed steam and smoke like beasts ready to charge.
The carriages attached were of different colors: blue, green, yellow. Vaguely, Laurence remembered hearing Albert talk about the colors’ representing different classes of travel: first, second, third. Unfortunately, he could not recall which was which.
Before some trains he saw guards standing. Passengers were approaching them and presenting tickets.
Laurence knew then that he had to buy a ticket before he could pass beyond the barrier. Having no idea how much a ticket to Liverpool would cost, he furtively pulled his remaining bill from his pocket. He hoped it would be enough.
Surveying the station again, he noticed—over what looked like a series of holes in the far left wall—a sign that read TICKETS. He checked for the man with the bowler. Not seeing him, Laurence stood and moved to join a line of people facing the sign.
“My good man,” Laurence said to the gentleman who stood just ahead of him, “is this where you get tickets for Liverpool?”
The man turned. When he saw who had spoken, he reacted with disdain. “Impertinent beggar!” he snarled. “Be off with you! Third class is over there!”
“But I want first class,” Laurence protested in his high-pitched voice.
“Away with you, or I’ll call the guard!” the man cried.
The threat was enough to send Laurence scurrying toward a long straggling
line of the third-class passengers. They were dressed poorly. In their arms, at their feet, were all kinds of bags, bundles, and boxes. Laurence took his place at the line’s end. Though no one paid him any attention, he felt better when someone came up behind him; he felt part of the crowd.
The line moved forward slowly. At last Laurence reached the ticket window. In order to speak to the agent, he had to stand on his toes.
“Where to?” the man demanded without even looking up.
“Liverpool, please.”
“Shilling,” the man requested.
Laurence offered his bill to the man.
“Here! Where did you get this?” the man demanded.
“It’s mine,” Laurence returned, blushing with shame at what he was saying.
The ticket agent glared at Laurence with distrust. “I’ll bet me oysters it’s yer money,” he snarled.
“It is,” Laurence insisted.
Making a sound that suggested otherwise, the man flung down a paper ticket and the change. Laurence scooped both up, pocketed the change, then slunk away, searching still for the man in the bowler. He wished he’d asked which was the Liverpool track.
Seeing a man who looked like a train guard standing by the barrier, Laurence approached timidly.
“Is this the train for Liverpool?” he inquired, offering his ticket.
“Track twelve,” the man said, taking the ticket, tearing it in half, and returning the stub. He pointed to the far end of the station. “Leaves in four minutes. You better hop it!” He gave Laurence a helpful shove.
The boy began to run. Even as he did, he heard the cry, “All aboard for Liverpool!” and the sound of a whistle shrieking.
Mr. Pickler was lingering some fifty yards from track twelve. Intent as he was upon the entrance of the station, watching as hansom cabs unloaded their passengers, he had his back to the train. When he heard the cry and whistle, he began to fear that he had, after all, been wrong. Apparently the Kirkle boy was not going to be on the last Liverpool train tonight.
Quite casually, he glanced over his shoulder toward the track, observing the last few people heading toward the train. It was then he spied a boy racing toward it. With his clothing torn and filthy, he looked little more than a beggar. Mr. Pickler tried to imagine him without the fearful welt along his cheek. “Good Lord!” he suddenly exclaimed. “It’s him!” He began to run. “Stop!” he cried. “Stop!”
Laurence yanked open the door of the first car he came to—a yellow one. He barely poked his head inside when a man cried, “Out! Out! First class only.”
Confused, struggling for breath, Laurence backed out frantically. A second whistle sounded above a distant cry of “Stop!” With a series of clanks, the train began to inch forward. Laurence fought to stay alongside. “Third class!” he yelled. “Third class!”
“Here you are!” A stranger stood on the step of a green carriage by an open door. As the train increased its speed, Laurence made a final burst. The man reached out, caught Laurence’s hand, and hauled him aboard.
Mr. Pickler, running hard, reached the first-class carriages. He grasped for a handle only to have his hand shoved away. As he fell back onto the platform, he looked up, catching a glimpse of a grinning gentleman with an eye patch.
In the third-class coach, Laurence, panting for breath, his eyes closed, sat back on a hard wooden bench.
“There, there, my friend,” said a voice almost into his ear. “Not to worry. You’ve made the train for Liverpool.”
Laurence looked around to see the man who had spoken. He wore a tall hat and a cutaway frock coat with many pockets. His collar was high and stiff, wrapped about with a flowing maroon cravat. He wore the gloves of a gentleman.
“That was a near miss, wasn’t it?” the man said.
Laurence, still gasping, only nodded.
“Going all the way to Liverpool?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good! I am too.”
“I’m much obliged to you.”
“I am, to make my point precisely, happy to help.”
Laurence sighed. He was on his way to Liverpool. Tears came, of elation and grief. For the first time in hours, Laurence felt safe.
On the bench next to him, Mr. Clemspool struggled to keep from smiling.
The train soon reached its traveling speed of twenty-five miles an hour, the carriage settling into a continual rattling, shaking, and lurching. Such light as there was came from a single oil lantern that swung erratically from the ceiling.
There was one long high-backed bench that ran full length down the middle of the carriage. Each side of the bench was packed with people bulked out with capes and cloaks, bundles and bags, making the carriage ripe with sweaty warmth. Still, since there were no windows, merely shutters, a cold smoky draft blew over them all.
Mr. Clemspool leaned toward Laurence. “You’re young to be traveling alone, aren’t you, my boy?” he asked in a friendly way.
“I’m all right,” Laurence returned, wishing the man would not talk to him.
Just when Laurence thought the man would not speak again, Mr. Clemspool said, “If I may take the liberty—since we seem destined to travel together—might I inquire after your Christian name?”
“Laurence.”
“Laurence,” Mr. Clemspool repeated. “An excellent name for a boy.” With a sidelong glance and a low confidential tone, he whispered, “Have a surname?”
Laurence opened his mouth to reply but checked himself. “Worthy,” he said at last. Then, to make sure he had the name right, he repeated it. “Worthy.”
Mr. Clemspool nodded solemnly. “Hard to remember your own name when going fast, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” Laurence replied. He wanted nothing more than to sink into anonymity.
“Do you think you’re going to be warm enough?”
“I think so,” Laurence answered. His dinner jacket had, in fact, dried out considerably.
“If you are cold, Master Worthy, you need only tell me. I could share my cloak. We don’t want you taking ill, now do we?”
Laurence shook his head and tried to look out through the shutter slats at the dark landscape. Now and again, he saw a streak of blurry light. He hoped the man would not ask him about the welt on his face.
“And where, Master Worthy,” Mr. Clemspool pressed, “are you bound?”
Laurence considered the man and wondered at all his questions. He did have a pleasant round face. His smile was generous. His gentleman’s manners inspired confidence. And he had, after all, helped him board the train at the last moment. “America,” Laurence finally answered, trying to make this destination sound as casual as possible.
“America!” Mr. Clemspool returned with pronounced surprise—eyebrows raised, mouth agape, plump fingers extended as if to catch the word itself. “Master Worthy, you don’t mean to tell me you’re going to travel all that way alone!”
“I’m … meeting others,” Laurence said, stumbling over the lie. “Friends. In Liverpool.”
“Oh, well! To be sure!” replied Mr. Clemspool, sounding relieved. “A young fellow needs friends. You wouldn’t want to be going so far on your own. I should think not. Not a soul in Christendom would recommend it. One hears dreadful stories. To make my point precisely, Master Worthy, it’s neither safe nor prudent.”
Laurence stared at him.
“Well now,” Mr. Clemspool said, “you’re free to close your eyes. We’ve got something of a passage here. You’ll suffer no harm from me, Master Worthy. Count on me to be your traveling friend.”
After a moment Laurence said, “Please, sir, can you tell me how long the journey will take?”
“To Liverpool? Oh, eight to ten hours, if there are no breakdowns, no sheep on the right-of-way, no rail washouts. God willing, we’ll be there safe and sound by morning. So do try and get yourself some sleep.”
“Yes … sir….”
“And, Master Worthy, I beg you to remember, Mr. Matthew Clemspool�
�that’s my name—is a friend to all youth. You mustn’t forget that for a moment.” He flourished his fingers as if soothing troubled air.
“No, sir, I won’t,” Laurence murmured, pushing aside any lingering suspicions of the man. It was far easier to blot out the world by closing his eyes.
Mr. Clemspool leaned forward. Thinking that Laurence was asleep, he allowed himself a grunt of satisfaction, drew his cloak about his shoulders somewhat tighter, then settled back against the seat bench. He was altogether pleased.
But Laurence was far from sleep. As he tried to imagine what lay ahead, his stomach churned with tension. To calm himself, he concentrated on the regular clacking of the wheels upon the rails, the swaying of the carriage, the swinging of the lantern, all of which created a symphony of droning monotony. Before long he felt drowsy. That drowsiness soon deepened itself into sleep and dreams. But in the dreams all he could see was himself flying blind through a midnight sky.
It was past midnight when Mr. Pickler returned to his apartment in the London district of Clerkenwell. There, in modest comfort, he lived with his wife, Mrs. Lucy Pickler, and their two children, Evelina and Thomas.
When he arrived, he found his wife—in nightcap and bed robe—waiting up for him. A round, careful woman, she always took the keenest interest in her husband’s cases. Mr. Pickler, who drew considerable satisfaction from his wife’s admiration, was pleased to provide her with the details, particularly those that involved members of the aristocracy.
“The enigma, my dear,” he concluded after he had told her all that he knew while eating the supper she had kept warm, “is why a boy surrounded by such wealth and comfort should want to leave home.”
“If anyone can find the reason, Mr. Pickler, you can,” his wife said as she hovered about, making sure he ate well.
“But you see, my dear, Lord Kirkle informed me in private that the boy was piqued merely because he had been denied his tea. Now I ask you, does one run away from that kind of home because of such trivial punishment?”
“Mr. Pickler,” whispered his wife, “am I hearing you suggest that something else might have happened?”