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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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RGL e-Book Cover
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LITTLE whirls of white dust spun down the broad, empty street of Moorlands, as one windy March morning Job Ingalls drove into the yard of the Duchy Arms.
"Morning, Jim," he said to the ostler. "Put the horse up, will you? I've got a bit of shopping to do."
He jumped down, a fine, active figure, in spite of his 60 years and frosted hair and beard.
"All right, sir," said Jim, touching his cap. "I'll look after the horse. How be things out to Hollingsworth?"
"Pretty well, thank you, Jim. One of the children's ailing a trifle, but she'll be all right when the warm weather comes."
"I hope so, indeed," said the ostler sympathetically. Like most of the moor folk, he liked and respected honest Job Ingalls.
At that moment there came the sudden cry of a beaten dog from the alley behind the yard.
"You brute. I'll teach you," shouted a savage voice. Then heavy blows, and the cries rose to a shriek, which died to a pitiful moaning.
"What's that?" demanded Mr. Ingalls sharply.
"It's that good-for-naught, Simon Kerslake, sir. 'Tis a cruel shame the way he do treat that poor beast."
"Good heavens, he's killing it!" cried the farmer, as the cries of the miserable animal again woke the echoes.
Striding around the end of the high stone wall which bounded the inn yard, he came into a narrow turning between the wall and the back of a row of squalid cottages. In the middle of the muddy passageway a short, thick-set, red-nosed man was holding by the collar a miserable-looking, half-starved sheep dog of the old-fashioned, bog-tailed type, and welting it savagely with a length of a heavy leather trace. He had already, beaten the poor brute into insensibility.
"Drop it, you blackguard!" cried Mr. Ingalls sternly as he came up. "You cowardly brute; what do you mean by torturing the poor animal in that fashion?"
At the voice the other straightened himself up and faced the newcomer.
"Wot business is it o' yours, I'd like to know, Mister Job Ingalls?" he remarked, with an ugly sneer. "The dorg's mine. I suppose I can do what I likes with my own."
"That you can't. Not when it comes to torturing a dumb animal. I tell you, Simon Karslake, I've seen chaps sent to prison for less than that."
A cruel smile crossed Karslake's face.
"Prison, eh! Nice one you be to talk of prison. What about your son, Robert?" he went on, raising his voice so that the men at the end of the alley could hear plainly. "Robert Ingalls working up in the quarry there, not a mile away. Serving five years for stealing his employer's money."
A flush of bitter shame dyed the old man's cheeks. It was true what this fellow said. Robert Ingalls, his only son, was in truth behind the walls of the great grim prison which towers above the rest of the village. It was the tragedy of his life that he, known far and wide as honest Job Ingalls, should have a convicted felon for his only son.
A tragedy indeed, but so far a secret tragedy. Robert Ingalls had been convicted under another name, and his father had fully believed that no one but himself, a lawyer and his son's wife knew the truth.
How this scoundrel, Karslake, had got hold of it he could not imagine, and the old farmer stood dumbfounded, unable to find a word.
He turned away and went back into the yard, where, to Jim, the ostler's surprise, he had his horse harnessed and drove straight off home.
The fact was that he felt he could not face anyone for the time being. Well he knew how such a piece of scandal as Karslake had made public would be rolled from lip to lip. It would be all over town in an hour, in every corner of the moor in 24 hours.
He was right. Before the day was out his own farmhands had got hold of it. He saw them whispering together, caught their covert glances, half-sneering, half-pitying.
THERE are some duties which a moorland former must attend to in person. The rent audit came round, and Mr. Ingalls, though greatly against his will, was obliged to drive into the village.
It was a dull, chill evening, but as he rode past the tall, gray walls of the prison, it was misery, not cold, which sent a shiver through him.
Job Ingalls had passed by, and was pacing slowly up the hill beyond when a woman's shriek made him rein his horse in sharply and turn his head. Through the dull foliage behind him came a sudden glare of light.
"Fire!" came the scream again; and then a wild cry of "Help!"
"The governor's house," muttered Mr. Ingalls and, turning the horse, galloped back to the gate, jumped off, and flinging the reins over a post, ran in.
As he hurried up the short drive he saw flames bursting furiously from the lower windows. On the gravel stood three women and two children. They were Mrs. Peyton, the governor's wife, and her two elder children, and two maids. Mrs. Peyton was screaming for help, the two maids were staring helplessly at the flames, which were increasing with appalling rapidity.
"My baby—my baby!" screamed Mrs. Peyton, the moment she saw the farmer, and pointed wildly to a top story window. Looking up, Mr. Ingalls was horrified to see the head of a tiny, fair-haired girl looking out of the open casement under the eaves.
"Save her!" cried the poor lady desperately.
By this time the alarm had been given and a dozen men, warders mostly, were on the scene. Some were bringing buckets, two had a ladder which, under Col. Peyton's own direction, they were planting against the wall. But when they got it up, it was too short, the top rung was some eight feet below the nursery window ledge.
At that moment came a loud shout from one of the bystanders.
"Look at that! What's he going to do?"
The man was pointing to one of the trees at the west end of the house, and Ingalls, looking up, saw a figure high in the bare branches, climbing upwards with the agility of a monkey. The red glare of the flames shone on his drab breeches and showed the black arrows on his shirt. It was a convict who climbed so boldly.
For a moment or two those below failed to understand what he was after, but when they saw him crawling out upon a great limb which stretched towards the roof of the burning house, a sudden shout went up.
Old Ingalls did not shout. His heart was in his mouth, for, from where he stood, he saw more plainly than the others that there was a wide gap between the end of the branch and the roof.
Surely it was beyond human power to cross it. But whether that was so or not the brave fellow evidently meant to try. Those below held their breath as they saw him let himself down, and with his feet dangling over 50 feet of empty space, set the branch end swinging like a pendulum.
Once—twice—then he let go and went flying through the air. A sob of relief as he lit on all fours on the coping of the flat roof.
He reached a point directly above the window and then came the second part of his task. Steadily, yet quickly, he lowered himself over the edge, and, clinging to the gutter, swung inwards. The window was close under the eaves, and the next second his feet were planted safe of the sill.
He dived inside and vanished, but in a moment he was back in sight, with the child rolled tightly in a shawl, safe in one arm.
Clutching the window frame tightly with his left hand, he slowly straightened himself. Then he lifted the little one in his right.
Then the convict leaned far backwards then with one quick movement of his right arm, pushed the baby up over the eaves and onto the comparative safety of the flat roof.
He still had to follow her, and to draw himself up over the projecting ledge seemed an impossible task. But the man's muscles were iron and his nerves were steel. He must have found some hand-hold, for the next moment he was up over the edge; and as they saw him standing there, holding the baby safe in his arms, such a roar of cheers broke out as those grim prison walls had never heard before.
As the shouts died away Col. Peyton and his helpers were soon rushing the ladder around to the back of the house, which was untouched by the fire. The others all followed at a run, and presently the baby girl was safe in her father s arms.
Then was seen a thing which Moorlands prison had never seen before. After one quick glance at the child to make sure she was uninjured, Col. Peyton turned and seized the convict's hand.
"You're a gallant fellow," he said, in a voice which shook with uncontrollable emotion. You have done as fine a thing as I ever saw in my life, and whatever brought you here, Moorlands prison no place for a man like you. I shall write tonight to the home secretary and lay the whole case before him. I trust it will mean at least a pardon for you."
"Will it really, sir?"
"What has it to do with you, Mr. Ingalls?" he demanded in amazement.
"This is my son, sir," said the old man, and laid his hand proudly on the shoulder of the convict.
"Your son!" cried the governor. "Yes, I remember now. I have heard some talk of it."
"My friends," he said aloud "Some of you have taunted your neighbour here with the fact that his son was a convict. I think you have good cause to revise your opinion. Do you not agree with me?"
The answer was a burst of cheering.
It was a proud and happy old man who rode back that night to Hollingsworth farm. He was prouder and happier when a month later, his son received his pardon and came back to the old home.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.