As they neared the empty house, Peter was about to thrust his head out of the window. He had the words on the tip of his tongue to say, “Stop here, Mr. Grace.” So much were they on the tip of his tongue that he almost believed he had said them. But he darted back, crouching in the darkest corner of the fusty cab. At a little distance, watching the gate, he had caught sight of a man.

Cat’s Meat crawled on, ascending the hill. At the top, where the Terrace began, Mr. Grace halted. “‘Ere, young ‘un, where are we goin’? You’ll be ‘ome direckly.”

“Turn the corner,” Peter whispered from inside the growler; “turn the corner quickly.”

Mr. Grace turned and lumbered on a little way. Again he halted. “‘Arf a mo’, Peter. Wot’s the gime? Tell us.”

“Did you see that tall lean man, standing outside the garden of the empty house?”

“May a’ done. Thought h’I saw two on ‘em, but maybe I’m seein’ double—- H’oh yes, h’I saw old Tapeworm.”

“He’s the plain-clothes man. I know, ‘cause I heard him talking with my father. My father said he’d give my uncle up, if the plain-clothes man would trust him and not make mother nervous.”

“And wery friendly o’ your pa, h’I’m sure. Let family love kintinue—— But where’s this uncle o’ yours as did the swipin’? Come darn to facts, me friend. Where h’is ‘e nar?”

Peter’s answer was like the beating wings of a moth, rapid but making hardly any sound. “He’s hidden in the garden of the empty house.”

“Jee-rusalem!” Mr. Grace whistled, cleared his throat once or twice and spat. Then he started laughing. “Leave ‘im ter me, me ‘earty. I’ll settle wiv the spotter.”

He pulled his horse round. But when Peter saw what was happening, he gave a small imploring whisper. “Oh, Mr. Grace, please, please don’t go back yet; we’ve got to think something out.”

“Think somefing h’out! Crikey! I’ve thought. H’I’m drunk, me lad, and when h’I’m drunk h’I think quicklike. You get under the seat and think o’ somefing sad, somefing as’ll keep yer quiet—think o’ the chap as died o’ small-specks.”

Peter took his friend’s advice. Oh, what a Christmas Eve he was having! He had known Mr. Grace both drunk and sober—sober, t’is true, very rarely. But sobriety is a relative term, according to your man. Mr. Grace sober was afraid of the law; Mr. Grace drunk was game for anything.

Mr. Grace jerked on the reins. Cat’s Meat flung his legs apart, fell forward, fell backward, came to rest and grunted. He was for all the world like a chair giving way and making a desperate effort to hold together; only Cat’s Meat was always successful in dodging disruption—a chair in collapse isn’t.

“I see yer, Mr. Piece o’ Sucked Thread. I see yer. Yer cawn’t ‘ide from a man as sees double. Come h’out o’ that there shadder. Come h’out inter the blessed light. ‘No shadders yonder, no temptations there,’ as they sing in the H’Army o’ Salwashun.”

When there was no answer, Mr. Grace continued his harangue. “Blokey, yer ain’t got a chawnce in the world. I knows yer by yer ‘ang-dawg h’air. Yer wanted by the cops, I’ll bet a tanner. It’s Christmas h’Eve, blokey, so I won’t be ‘ard on yer; but yer’ve got ter pay fer ridin’ in me keb. Every bloke ‘as, or else I whacks ‘im on the snout.”

“Shish! Wot’s the matter?” The shadow by the wall spoke and stirred.

“Wot’s s’matter! I’ll let yer know wot’s s’matter if yer don’t pay me my fare. H’I druv yer from the Terrace and yer wuz goin’ ter King’s Cross, yer were. And yer opened the door by the pub darn there and jumped h’out.”

“You’re drunk, me man. H’I’m lookin’ fer the very chap yer blatherin’ about. Where did ‘e jump h’out?”

The detective stepped into the road so that the lights of the cab shone on him.

“Kum up, Cat’s Meat. I see nar; ‘e ain’t the feller.” Cat’s Meat came up one weary step and the wheels protested.

“No, yer don’t.” The detective caught hold of the reins. “Where’d this chap jump h’out?”

“‘Ands h’orf.” Mr. Grace rose up on his box threateningly, his whip raised as if about to bring it down. “‘Ands h’orf, I sye. Leave me prancin’ steed to ‘is own dewices, le’go o’ me gallopin’ charger.”

“Where’d this chap jump out? If yer don’t tell me, I’ll arrest you instead.”

“Awright, yer Royal ‘Ighness! Don’t lose yer ‘air. Why didn’t yer sye yer was a cop at fust. H’I’m lookin’ fer ‘im as much as you are. I want ‘im wery bad. You and me’s friends.”

“Friends! I choose me own friends. I’m a respeckable man, I am. Tell me quickly, where’d ‘e jump out?”

Mr. Grace removed his hat and scratched his head. “Of h’all the fiery blokes I h’ever met, you taik the biscuit, me chap. ‘E h’excused hisself darn there by the pub and the trams. I ‘ears the door o’ me keb a-bangin’. I looks round and, lo, ‘e’d wanished in the crards.”

The detective waited to hear no more, but set off running down the Crescent. As he dwindled in the darkness, Mr. Grace called after him, “Me and Cat’s Meat’ll miss yer—so agreeable yer were. Merry Christmas, ole pal.” Then, in a lower voice to Peter, “Yer kin forget the smallspecks, young ‘un. Yer——”

But Peter had leapt to the pavement and slipped through the gateway under the sign To Let. “Uncle. Uncle. He’s gone. Hurry.”

He listened. The shrubbery about him rustled. He looked up at the empty windows, wondering if Uncle Waffles had got inside the house. He was a little frightened; the darkness was so desperate and lonely. He called more loudly. “Uncle. Uncle. Make haste.”

Then he heard a sound of shuffling and something stirred beneath the steps. He ran forward and seized the man’s coat—it was sodden—dragging him through the garden toward the road. It was strange that so small a boy should take command of a grown man.

“You won’t give me up, Peter, will you?”

Give him up! That was likely! Fancy Peter allowing anyone to suffer if he could prevent it! Why, Peter, when Romance’s kittens were to be drowned, would steal them away and hide them. He couldn’t bear that anything should be wounded or dead. He pushed his uncle into the cab and, before following, held a whispered consultation with Mr. Grace.

“You remember my plan—what I told you?”

Mr. Grace digressed. He twisted round on the box, craning his neck to look in at the window. “‘E don’t strike me as much ter make a fuss abart.”

“That’s ‘cause you don’t know him.”

“Well, I ain’t pining’ fer an introduction.”

“But you’re not going back on me, Mr. Grace! He doesn’t look very grand; but he’s kind and gentle.” Peter was dismayed by this sudden coolness.

“H’I’m not the chap ter go back on ‘is friends. Hook inter the keb. I remember wot yer told me.”

At the top of the Crescent they turned to the left, crawled a hundred yards and then turned to the right, going down the mews which ran behind the Terrace. The mews was unlighted and humpy. On one side stood the high closed doors of stables; on the other, rubbish heaps and the backs of jerry-built houses not yet finished building.

The man at Peter’s side said nothing. Every now and then he shivered and seemed to hug himself. Once or twice he twitched and muttered below his breath. There was the stale smell of alcohol and wet clothes about him. To Peter it was all so terrible that he could not put his comfort into words. This man, who swayed weakly with each jerk of the cab and crouched away from him, was a stranger—not a bit like the irresponsible joking person he had known as his Uncle Waffles.

The cab stopped. Mr. Grace waddled down and blew out his lamps. Then he tapped on the window. “‘Ere we are, Master Peter. H’I’ve counted the doors; this ‘ere’s the back o’ yer ‘ouse.”

Peter stretched out his hand gropingly in the blackness and touched his uncle’s. “I’m going to hide you so you’ll never be found.”

Ocky’s voice came in a hopeless whisper. “Are you, Peter? But how—— how?”

“You remember the loft above the stable I told you about? No one goes there but Kay and myself—it’s our secret. It’s too cold for Kay to go there now. Mr. Grace and I are going to help you over the wall; then you must climb into the loft the way I once showed you and lie quiet. To-morrow I’ll come to you as soon as I can and bring you whatever I can get.”

“You’re a good boy, Peter. You’re a ha’penny marvel; I always said you were.”

The whisper was hoarse, but no longer hopeless.

Suddenly the door was jerked open irritably. “‘Ere, make ‘aste. Come h’out of it, you in there.”

When Peter and his uncle had obeyed orders, the cab was backed up against the tall doors which gave entrance to the yard of the stable.

“Get h’up on the roof o’ me keb, climb onter the top o’ the doors and see if yer kin drop h’over.” Mr. Grace spoke gruffly.

Ocky did as he was bidden but, either through timidity or weakness, failed to scramble from the cab on to the top of the doors. Mr. Grace growled impatiently and muttered something explosive at each failure. Now that he was in mid-act of contriving against the law, he was anxious to be rid of the adventure.

Ocky excused himself humbly. “I’m not the man I was. I’ve had my troubles.”

“To ‘ell with yer troubles! They cawn’t be no worse’n mine; if yer want ter know wot trouble is, taik a week o’ bein’ father ter my darter—— Kum on, Peter, you and me’s got ter chuck ‘im h’over.”

Standing on the roof of the cab, they each caught hold of a leg and hoisted. Ocky protested, but up he went, till in desperation he clutched at the doors and sat balancing astride them.

Now that he had something to do, Mr. Grace’s cheerfulness returned. “Like bringin’ ‘ome the family wash, ain’t it, Peter?” Then, to Ocky threateningly, “Nar Bill Sykes, yer’ve got ter tumble darn t’other side; I’m goin’ ter drar awye me keb.”

Ocky said he’d break his legs—he might need them, so he didn’t want to do that. He lay along the narrow ledge like a man unused to riding, clinging to a horse’s neck.

“Awright, yer force me to it.” Mr. Grace spoke sadly with a kind of it-hurts-me-more than-it-does-you air. Peter was told to get down. Mr. Grace having driven away a few paces, dropped the reins and stepped on to the roof, whip in hand.

“Me and Peter is good pals. Peter says ter me, ‘My uncle’s swiped somefing. The cops is after ‘im.’ ‘Righto,’ I says. Now h’it appears yer don’t want ter be saved; but h’I’ve give me word and h’I’m goin’ ter do it.—— Are yer going’ h’over?”

Mr. Grace brought his whip down lightly across Ocky’s legs; his humor made him a humane man. Ocky squirmed, lost his balance and disappeared, all except his hands which clung desperately. Once again the whip came down and a muffled thud was heard.

Mr. Grace took his seat on the box and gathered up the reins. “Any more h’orders, sir?” he asked of Peter. “Keb. Keb. Keb.—— Thirsty work, Master Peter. Poor chap lost ‘is nerve; ‘e needed a little stimerlant. We h’all do sometimes.”

But when Peter tried to pay Mr. Grace, he refused indignantly. “H’I h’ain’t like some folks as would rob a work ‘ouse child o’ its breakfust. Wot I done I done fer love o’ you, Master Peter. You buy that little gal o’ yours a present.” Then, because he didn’t want to be thought a good man, he spoke angrily. “H’I’ve got ter be drunk ter-night. Yer’ve wasted enough o’ me time awready. Kum h’up ‘ere beside me h’at once and I’ll drive yer ‘ome.”

So they drove round the mews to the Terrace and halted this time in front of the house. When Peter had rung the bell, his friend beckoned him back. “Sonny, ‘e weren’t worf it. ‘E weren’t reelly.”

Before Peter could answer, the door opened and he heard his mother’s voice saying, “Why, it’s Peter in a Christmas cab! Oh, how kind of Mr. Grace to bring you back! Were you so loaded down with presents, Peter?” And he entered empty-handed. He would need all his Christmas money to help Uncle Waffles. Kay came running to meet him and halted in bewilderment. “But, Mummy, where are Peter’s presents?”

Grace’s mind was taken up with another subject; from the steps she had caught her father’s eye and had seen that it was glazed. As she passed her mistress she sought sympathy, whispering, “Pa’s drunk as usual, Mam. Ain’t it sick’ning? Fat lot o’ good me prayin’!”

But Mr. Grace, pottering down the Terrace, felt a Christmas warmth about his heart. It wasn’t because he had saved a man from Justice; he was happy because Peter had told him that he was the only friend in the world from whom he could have asked help.—— Grace might call him a drunkard, and to-night he intended to be very drunk; but he must be something better as well, or else Peter wouldn’t have talked like that.

So, because he was happy, he sang as he pottered down the Terrace. It wasn’t exactly a Christmas carol, but it served his purpose. It expressed devil-may-care contempt for public opinion—and that was how he felt.

“Darn our narbor’ood,

Darn our narbor’ood,

Darn the plaice where I’m a-livin’ nar,

Why, the gentry in our street

In the cisterns wash their feet,

In the narbor’ood where I’m a-livin’ nar.”

Mr. Grace very rarely sang, because he was very seldom happy. Cat’s Meat quickened his step; he knew what that sound meant. It meant no more work.

In the distance the lights of the public-house grew up.