Bab Bab 22 · A Victim of Treachery.

. A Victim of Treachery.

Once more ‘King Foo-foo the First’ was roving with the tramps and

outlaws, a butt for their coarse jests and dull-witted railleries, and

sometimes the victim of small spitefulness at the hands of Canty and

Hugo when the Ruffler’s back was turned.  None but Canty and Hugo really

disliked him.  Some of the others liked him, and all admired his pluck

and spirit.  During two or three days, Hugo, in whose ward and charge

the King was, did what he covertly could to make the boy uncomfortable;

and at night, during the customary orgies, he amused the company by

putting small indignities upon him--always as if by accident.  Twice he

stepped upon the King’s toes--accidentally--and the King, as became his

royalty, was contemptuously unconscious of it and indifferent to it; but

the third time Hugo entertained himself in that way, the King felled

him to the ground with a cudgel, to the prodigious delight of the tribe.

Hugo, consumed with anger and shame, sprang up, seized a cudgel, and

came at his small adversary in a fury.  Instantly a ring was formed

around the gladiators, and the betting and cheering began.

But poor Hugo stood no chance whatever.  His frantic and lubberly

‘prentice-work found but a poor market for itself when pitted against

an arm which had been trained by the first masters of Europe in

single-stick, quarter-staff, and every art and trick of swordsmanship.

The little King stood, alert but at graceful ease, and caught and

turned aside the thick rain of blows with a facility and precision which

set the motley on-lookers wild with admiration; and every now and then,

when his practised eye detected an opening, and a lightning-swift rap

upon Hugo’s head followed as a result, the storm of cheers and laughter

that swept the place was something wonderful to hear.  At the end of

fifteen minutes, Hugo, all battered, bruised, and the target for

a pitiless bombardment of ridicule, slunk from the field; and the

unscathed hero of the fight was seized and borne aloft upon the

shoulders of the joyous rabble to the place of honour beside the

Ruffler, where with vast ceremony he was crowned King of the Game-Cocks;

his meaner title being at the same time solemnly cancelled and annulled,

and a decree of banishment from the gang pronounced against any who

should thenceforth utter it.

All attempts to make the King serviceable to the troop had failed. He

had stubbornly refused to act; moreover, he was always trying to escape.

He had been thrust into an unwatched kitchen, the first day of his

return; he not only came forth empty-handed, but tried to rouse the

housemates. He was sent out with a tinker to help him at his work;

he would not work; moreover, he threatened the tinker with his own

soldering-iron; and finally both Hugo and the tinker found their

hands full with the mere matter of keeping his from getting away.  He

delivered the thunders of his royalty upon the heads of all who hampered

his liberties or tried to force him to service.  He was sent out, in

Hugo’s charge, in company with a slatternly woman and a diseased baby,

to beg; but the result was not encouraging--he declined to plead for the

mendicants, or be a party to their cause in any way.

Thus several days went by; and the miseries of this tramping life, and

the weariness and sordidness and meanness and vulgarity of it, became

gradually and steadily so intolerable to the captive that he began at

last to feel that his release from the hermit’s knife must prove only a

temporary respite from death, at best.

But at night, in his dreams, these things were forgotten, and he was

on his throne, and master again.  This, of course, intensified the

sufferings of the awakening--so the mortifications of each succeeding

morning of the few that passed between his return to bondage and the

combat with Hugo, grew bitterer and bitterer, and harder and harder to

bear.

The morning after that combat, Hugo got up with a heart filled with

vengeful purposes against the King.  He had two plans, in particular.

One was to inflict upon the lad what would be, to his proud spirit

and ‘imagined’ royalty, a peculiar humiliation; and if he failed to

accomplish this, his other plan was to put a crime of some kind upon the

King, and then betray him into the implacable clutches of the law.

In pursuance of the first plan, he purposed to put a ‘clime’ upon the

King’s leg; rightly judging that that would mortify him to the last and

perfect degree; and as soon as the clime should operate, he meant to get

Canty’s help, and _force_ the King to expose his leg in the highway

and beg for alms. ‘Clime’ was the cant term for a sore, artificially

created. To make a clime, the operator made a paste or poultice of

unslaked lime, soap, and the rust of old iron, and spread it upon a

piece of leather, which was then bound tightly upon the leg.  This would

presently fret off the skin, and make the flesh raw and angry-looking;

blood was then rubbed upon the limb, which, being fully dried, took on a

dark and repulsive colour.  Then a bandage of soiled rags was put on in

a cleverly careless way which would allow the hideous ulcer to be seen,

and move the compassion of the passer-by. {8}

Hugo got the help of the tinker whom the King had cowed with the

soldering-iron; they took the boy out on a tinkering tramp, and as soon

as they were out of sight of the camp they threw him down and the tinker

held him while Hugo bound the poultice tight and fast upon his leg.

The King raged and stormed, and promised to hang the two the moment the

sceptre was in his hand again; but they kept a firm grip upon him

and enjoyed his impotent struggling and jeered at his threats.  This

continued until the poultice began to bite; and in no long time its work

would have been perfected, if there had been no interruption.  But there

was; for about this time the ‘slave’ who had made the speech denouncing

England’s laws, appeared on the scene, and put an end to the enterprise,

and stripped off the poultice and bandage.

The King wanted to borrow his deliverer’s cudgel and warm the jackets

of the two rascals on the spot; but the man said no, it would bring

trouble--leave the matter till night; the whole tribe being together,

then, the outside world would not venture to interfere or interrupt.  He

marched the party back to camp and reported the affair to the Ruffler,

who listened, pondered, and then decided that the King should not be

again detailed to beg, since it was plain he was worthy of something

higher and better--wherefore, on the spot he promoted him from the

mendicant rank and appointed him to steal!

Hugo was overjoyed.  He had already tried to make the King steal, and

failed; but there would be no more trouble of that sort, now, for of

course the King would not dream of defying a distinct command delivered

directly from head-quarters.  So he planned a raid for that very

afternoon, purposing to get the King in the law’s grip in the course of

it; and to do it, too, with such ingenious strategy, that it should seem

to be accidental and unintentional; for the King of the Game-Cocks was

popular now, and the gang might not deal over-gently with an unpopular

member who played so serious a treachery upon him as the delivering him

over to the common enemy, the law.

Very well.  All in good time Hugo strolled off to a neighbouring village

with his prey; and the two drifted slowly up and down one street after

another, the one watching sharply for a sure chance to achieve his evil

purpose, and the other watching as sharply for a chance to dart away and

get free of his infamous captivity for ever.

Both threw away some tolerably fair-looking opportunities; for both,

in their secret hearts, were resolved to make absolutely sure work this

time, and neither meant to allow his fevered desires to seduce him into

any venture that had much uncertainty about it.

Hugo’s chance came first.  For at last a woman approached who carried a

fat package of some sort in a basket.  Hugo’s eyes sparkled with sinful

pleasure as he said to himself, “Breath o’ my life, an’ I can but

put _that_ upon him, ’tis good-den and God keep thee, King of the

Game-Cocks!” He waited and watched--outwardly patient, but inwardly

consuming with excitement--till the woman had passed by, and the time

was ripe; then said, in a low voice--

“Tarry here till I come again,” and darted stealthily after the prey.

The King’s heart was filled with joy--he could make his escape, now, if

Hugo’s quest only carried him far enough away.

But he was to have no such luck.  Hugo crept behind the woman, snatched

the package, and came running back, wrapping it in an old piece of

blanket which he carried on his arm.  The hue and cry was raised in a

moment, by the woman, who knew her loss by the lightening of her burden,

although she had not seen the pilfering done.  Hugo thrust the bundle

into the King’s hands without halting, saying--

“Now speed ye after me with the rest, and cry ‘Stop thief!’ but mind ye

lead them astray!”

The next moment Hugo turned a corner and darted down a crooked

alley--and in another moment or two he lounged into view again, looking

innocent and indifferent, and took up a position behind a post to watch

results.

The insulted King threw the bundle on the ground; and the blanket fell

away from it just as the woman arrived, with an augmenting crowd at her

heels; she seized the King’s wrist with one hand, snatched up her bundle

with the other, and began to pour out a tirade of abuse upon the boy

while he struggled, without success, to free himself from her grip.

Hugo had seen enough--his enemy was captured and the law would get him,

now--so he slipped away, jubilant and chuckling, and wended campwards,

framing a judicious version of the matter to give to the Ruffler’s crew

as he strode along.

The King continued to struggle in the woman’s strong grasp, and now and

then cried out in vexation--

“Unhand me, thou foolish creature; it was not I that bereaved thee of

thy paltry goods.”

The crowd closed around, threatening the King and calling him names; a

brawny blacksmith in leather apron, and sleeves rolled to his elbows,

made a reach for him, saying he would trounce him well, for a lesson;

but just then a long sword flashed in the air and fell with convincing

force upon the man’s arm, flat side down, the fantastic owner of it

remarking pleasantly, at the same time--

“Marry, good souls, let us proceed gently, not with ill blood and

uncharitable words.  This is matter for the law’s consideration,

not private and unofficial handling.  Loose thy hold from the boy,

goodwife.”

The blacksmith averaged the stalwart soldier with a glance, then went

muttering away, rubbing his arm; the woman released the boy’s wrist

reluctantly; the crowd eyed the stranger unlovingly, but prudently

closed their mouths.  The King sprang to his deliverer’s side, with

flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, exclaiming--

“Thou hast lagged sorely, but thou comest in good season, now, Sir

Miles; carve me this rabble to rags!”