7

Tobit had been horribly bored in jail. He was shut into a little upstairs room that looked out on to a pigsty with three pigs in it. Beyond that lay a grass-grown yard in which there was a well. The well appeared to be disused: it was covered by a millstone with moss on it; the wellhead was weatherworn, the handle and chain rusty. A pile of old farm implements lay in a corner of the yard, half grown over with brambles. On the other side of the yard was a windmill with some doves on its roof.

Tobit had plenty of time to study all these details.

For a while he tried to amuse himself by firing Joobie nuts through his peashooter at the pigs, but their hides were so thick that they didn't notice; it was very poor sport and he presently gave up. For a while, too, he tried to cheer himself by hoping that his grandmother would send to have him released, or that some witness would come forward to say that he had been wrongfully arrested, but time passed, and his hopes sank lower and lower. Night fell. When he had been sitting in the dark for a couple of hours somebody opened his door and thrust in a rush dip, a loaf of brown bread, and a mug of weak beer; he had no more visitors that evening. It took him a long time to go to sleep; he made up dozens of different stories about how he was rescued by highwaymen, by Hanoverians, by outlaws; how he managed to escape by tearing his sheets into strips and climbing out of the window. But nobody rescued him, there were no sheets, it was a long drop to the ground, and then there were the pigs underneath; Tobit had a great dislike of pigs.

He thought of swallowing a Joobie nut. When he was little, Sannie had given him Joobie nuts to suck for toothache and there had been a fearful fascination about the things they made him see—trolls, giant bats, griffins. Then Sannie had forbidden Joobie nuts, which of course added to the excitement of sucking them. But now Sannie was not here to provoke, and he didn't fancy the kind of visions that Joobie nuts might produce in the little dark prison room. He counted sheep instead and at last fell asleep.

Next morning, not particularly early, the door opened and he was surprised to see Pelmett, who brought a loaf of brown bread and a cup of watery milk. Tobit's heart leapt up.

"Has Grandmother sent to have me let out?"

Pelmett dumped the cup and loaf on the floor, then stood regarding Tobit with folded arms and a scornful smile.

"Old Lady T? Not middling likely! You've cooked your goose with her, my boy—she've cut you off. There'll be no more airs and graces, Mas'r Tobit now! Yes, Sir Tobit, no, Sir Tobit, what can I fetch for you, Sir Tobit—ugh, you spoilt young twort! You'll be pulled afore the Beak this morning, and you'll be given a lifer in Botany Bay, and serve you right. All for a couple of four penny shubunkins!" He laughed in a sneering manner as if he knew more than he was prepared to say, picked up the empty beer mug, spat into it, and retired, slamming the door.

Presently two constables appeared and hustled Tobit into a downstairs room.

Three gentlemen were already seated there, behind a table. He recognized the Tegleaze family lawyers, and hope rose in him again. But the two old gentlemen, Pickwick and FitzPickwick, stared vacantly about as if they had not noticed him come in, while young Mr. Wily flipped through a bunch of papers, stood up, and proceeded to read aloud in a rapid gabble:

"Accused was seen to steal two shubunkin fish, worth fourpence-three-farthings, property of Miss Betsy Smith; fish were subsequently discovered in accused's pocket."

"Shocking, shocking," mumbled the two old gentlemen. One of them asked, "Where is Miss Smith now?"

"She has left town."

"Names of witnesses?" croaked the other old gentleman. They seemed half asleep, and as if they were unable to distinguish objects more than two or three feet away.

"Mrs. Aker, Mrs. Baker, Mr. Caker, Miss Daker, Mrs. Eaker, Mr. Faker—all ratepayers; a Mr. Twite, and a Mr. Mystery, who happened to be passing through the town, and Amos Frill, footman at Tegleaze Manor."

"Ah yes, mumble mumble; very respectable, Tegleaze Manor. Mumble mumble," said one of the two old men.

"And the culprit's name?"

As the younger lawyer read out Tobit's name, both constables fell into such a fit of coughing that it seemed almost impossible the old gentlemen should have heard it, but this did not seem to make any difference.

"Guilt clearly proved then," said one. "I think we are all agreed on that? Mumble mumble."

"Indeed yes, mumble," said the other. "And the sentence? Are we agreed on that?"

"Ten years in Botany Bay, I think we decided before coming in?"

Here it was young Mr. Wily's turn to cough in a reproving way.

"Did you hear, young man?" said old Mr. FitzPickwick, blinking in Tobit's direction. "You are sentenced to ten years' transportation, and we hope you are duly grateful for the leniency of your sentence."

Tobit's mouth was so dry with astonishment and dismay that he was incapable of making any reply, but nobody noticed; young Wily snapped out,

"Constables, remove him!" and he was hustled back to his cell.

"You'll be taken off on Tuesday, when a gang goes down to the convict ships at Pompey," one of the constables told him. "Ah, and am I thankful I'm not in your shoes!"

They dumped down his dinner—more brown bread and a bowl of weak pea soup. After that, nothing happened for a number of hours and Tobit was left to his own miserable reflections. He tried to tell himself stories about how he escaped on the way to Portsmouth; how he was rescued by smugglers, by French privateers, by pirates from the convict ship—but none of the stories rang particularly true, and even if they had, they left a lot of time ahead of him which would have to be spent in a very disagreeable manner.

By five o'clock that evening it is probable that he was the most unhappy boy in Pet worth.

He was sunk in a sort of melancholy daze when he became aware of low voices having a conversation just outside his door, and the sound of coins chinking. Then the door was softly opened. Tobit, who had been staring gloomily out at the pigs, turned his head, but before he could see who had come in a neckerchief was whipped over his eyes and a noose was drawn tight over his hands. Something pricked him between the shoulder blades.

"D'you feel that?" inquired a voice in his ear. "If you want it to go another six inches in, just holler! It'd go in as easy as a knitting needle into a ball o' yarn."

Tobit prudently remained silent and was half pulled, half pushed very rapidly and, as far as he could make out, by at least two men, downstairs, out into the frosty night, a short distance over cobbles, a shorter distance over grass, and into a building that seemed large, to judge by the echoes, and had a strong, not unpleasant odor of bran, sacking, and grain. He could hear a regular creaking, and the mutter of distant voices. A door slammed behind him and a bolt rattled. The cloth was removed from his face and he discovered that he was in a large, round, dimly lit room; sacks, some full, some empty, were piled against the walls; in the center was an arrangement of ropes and pulleys leading up through a hole in the high ceiling. The floor was thick with dust or flour. He realized that he must be in the windmill; the creak was the regular noise of the great sails as they went around.

A small oil lamp burned on a trestle table about ten feet from where he stood; beyond the table sat a man whose face could not at the moment be seen because he was leaning forward, looking down intently at a small object that lay between him and the light.

Presently the man raised his eyes from their gloating scrutiny and peered past the lamp. Tobit recognized the puppet master.

He spoke harshly and abruptly.

"Where's your sister, b-boy?" he demanded.

Tobit remained silent, thinking the question could not have been addressed to him.

But the man repeated impatiently.

"You have a tongue—use it, or b-by the powers, I'll d-drag it out of you. Where's your sister? Where will she have hidden herself?"

"I—I haven't got a sister!" gulped Tobit.

Here another man, who had been standing in the shadows, moved forward. So low were Tobit's spirits that he was not particularly surprised to recognize Colonel FitzPickwick. The Colonel remonstrated.

"What difference does it make where the girl is, Tegleaze—since you have the heirloom?"

These words made Tobit start forward, but he was dragged sharply back by the cord around his wrists; Pelmett and another man still stood behind him.

"I tell you, I'll have no contenders for the title!" said the man addressed as Tegleaze. "When the Hanoverians come to power I want my claim clear. The boy is to be transported—very well, he's out of the running. But where's the g-girl? Where has she run off t-to?" he snarled at Tobit.

"I don't know what you are talking about!"

"He never met his sister," interposed FitzPickwick again. "He did not even know she existed. But doubtless we can soon track her down. She was friendly with the pair who have just decamped from Dogkennel Cottages—she may be with them. They'll not have gone far."

"She m-must be found."

"What will you do then?" the Colonel asked uneasily.

"Ship her overseas t-too, perhaps—back to Tiburon. Or m-marry her, maybe! How can I tell till I find her?"

"I don't understand you, Tegleaze!" the Colonel exclaimed. "You are so changeable. First you were going to wait till the boy came of age so that his grandmother would get her hands on the heirloom; I could have persuaded her to part with it as with all her other geegaws, for gambling money."

"Are you so sure?" interjected the other man. "The old lady is afraid of the luck-piece—Sannie told me so. She may be too willful and scatterbrained to scruple over gambling away family jewels and money, but the heirloom is something different. She believes, Sannie told me, that it has some uncanny power—that when it is in her hands it will bring her luck."

"But you do not believe such superstitious nonsense?"

"N-no." Tegleaze seemed to hesitate. "But perhaps I do not altogether t-trust you, FitzPickwick! You might, after all, if you had succeeded in getting it from her, have kept the luck-piece for yourself! After all, those two old hags of yours were playing a fine double g-game. If it had not been for their suddenly producing this precious girl, I could have made my claim as heir, once Tobit was out of the count. B-but that won't be so s-simple now—even if we get rid of the g-girl people might ask awkward questions; you can d-dispatch one rival heir without arousing suspicion, but if there are two, you have to be more c-careful! Until King George is on the throne and our c-cause has triumphed I'll stay in the b-background—now I have the luck-piece I c-can afford to wait. Our f-friends will see I have my rights after we have dealt with the Wren's N-Nest."

"Well—very well. Shall I deliver the luck-piece to the Margrave of Bad Fallingoff? He will give all the jewels in his crown to see it safe!"

"Thank-ee, FitzPickwick," the other man said dryly. "I'll take care of that little m-matter myself!"

"What about Godwit—what about payment for moving the Wren's Nest?"

"Have no fear—you can trust me! Tell him to set his wits to work on the matter—he will receive f-funds within the w-week."

The seated man picked up the little object that lay before him; it was slung on a thin black cord, which he proceeded to tie in a knot. His hands, while doing this, shook so violently that two or three times he nearly dropped it; it swung crazily from side to side and Tobit could not get a clear view of it, though he could guess what it was.

"I wonder you care to part with it—since it is the family treasure?" Colonel FitzPickwick said inquisitively.

"The family? The family that does not even know of my existence? Pah! I should like to c-crush it to dust!" the other man said with such violent anger in his voice that the Colonel took an instinctive step forward. "S-set your mind at rest, however—I shall n-not do so! After all, this little t-trifle is going to pay for our t-triumph—it will set your humble servant back in his rightful place as well as K-King George. But, C-Colonel, I detain you—you have other engagements, I am s-sure. Pray don't let me inc-inconvenience you."

The Colonel seemed reluctant to leave.

"What about the boy—you'll not harm him?"

"Pelmett and Twite shall take him back to jail—ready for export. I see you were right. He c-can tell us nothing useful. G-good night, my dear sir."

He stood up and stepped to escort Colonel FitzPickwick from the place, carelessly slinging the black cord around his neck as he did so. But the cord, insecurely tied, came unknotted, and the pendant slipped off it and fell without a sound on to the dusty floor. They exchanged a few last words at the door, then the Colonel went out and mounted a horse, which could then be heard trotting away.

"Now," Tegleaze said briskly returning. "Give FitzPickwick a few minutes to get clear, then dispose of the b-boy."

"Back to the lock-up, eh?" Pelmett said with a meaning wink.

Tegleaze did not reply; Tobit felt a sudden oddness in the atmosphere.

"Who are you?" he blurted out.

"Found your t-tongue, eh?" Mr. Mystery gave Tobit a long, strange, chill stare. "Well, it won't do you much good now. And it won't do you much good to know who I am. But I'll tell you—I'm your cousin—your cousin Miles Tegleaze. Our great-great-great-grandfathers were brothers, back in Cromwell's day. Yours fought on the king's side and prospered; mine went overseas to the Americas and f-fell on hard times. So did his son and his son's son. But n-now it is my turn to crow."

He swung away as if the sight of Tobit fidgeted him, and studied some plans that lay on the table. "Right," he said presently without looking around, "t-take him out."

Pelmett and the man called Twite grabbed Tobit's arms again and urged him toward the door. But he tripped over an iron bolt that fastened a trap entrance in the floor and, unable to keep his balance with his arms behind him, fell flat on his face.

Just before he hit the floor he saw something to his left in the thick, floury dust: a small, round, brightly colored object—the Tegleaze luck-piece. By pushing himself sideways, as if struggling to get up, Tobit was just able to gulp it into his mouth—along with a lot of dust—before the two men dragged him upright again.

Once outside the mill they did not, as he had expected, take him back toward the jail. Instead, Twite held him, while Pelmett moved a few feet away.

"Dark as the inside of a cow," Tobit heard him mutter. "Where is the plaguy thing—Ah—" There came a strange grinding creak as if heavy metal or stone had been slowly opened or dragged to one side. With an indescribable pang of terror Tobit remembered the disused well in the windmill yard.

"Too bad about this, young feller-me-lad," muttered the man called Twite. "But orders is orders—that Mystery knows enough about me to have me strung up by the heels from Temple Bar. I'll undo your hands though—you can swim if you've a mind to."

Tobit felt the noose gently slipped from his wrists—next minute he was pushed violently forward—trod on nothing—and fell, gasping with shock and fright. The luck-piece flew out of his mouth as he fell. Something struck his arm and he made an instinctive clutch at it, first with one hand, then with the other. It was the well rope, which burnt and scraped his palms as he shot helplessly downward. Another loud grinding creak overhead told him that the well's lid had been shut above him; at the same moment his fall was checked; he came to rest on something cold and sharp that cut and bruised his knees and shins: the bucket. Tobit and the bucket together dropped a few more feet; then, apparently, the rope caught, or had come to the end of its length.

Dangling in the dark, Tobit reached out with one hand; he could feel the circular brick wall of the well all around him, nothing above or below. He found a Joobie nut in his pocket and dropped it, but could hear no splash; either the well was dry, or the water was too far down for the sound to be audible. Up above, he could see a tiny circle of night sky, about the size of a button, with a single star in it. This must be the round hole in the middle of the millstone.

"I am hanging on a bucket in a well," thought Tobit very slowly and carefully. "I don't know how deep it is, but it may be very deep. I daren't shout for help because the nearest person is probably that man who says he is my cousin, and he wants me to die, I suppose so he can be sure of getting Tegleaze Manor. I have lost the luck-piece, which is at the bottom of the well. The only other people who know where I am are Pelmett and that man who undid the rope. Everybody else will think I have escaped from the jail. Grandmother has cut me off. No one will care what has happened to me."

With a tremendous effort he managed to wriggle up so that he was half kneeling on the bucket. It was difficult because the bucket swung about and tipped, and when he had changed his position the metal rim hurt his legs, but at least some of the weight was off his arms. He wondered if the rope would break.

After a while he tried to make up a story about how he was rescued from the well, but no possible story seemed to meet the case.

He began to feel painful cramps in his arms and legs, but there was no way that he could move to ease them; he could find no comfort, either for mind or body.

He had thought himself to be miserable in jail, but in comparison with his present situation the jail seemed quite a cozy, homelike place. He wondered if he could be dreaming—having a nightmare—but it was all so unlikely that he was sure it must be real. The dreams from Joobie nuts were nothing like as frightening as this.

Joobie nuts. He felt them rattling in his pocket like heavy little peas. He could chew a couple and give himself a different kind of dream—but then he would go to sleep and fall off the bucket and that would be the end of him.

Presently, for no better reason than to distract his mind from the hopelessness of his plight, he began puzzling over the talk between Tegleaze and Colonel FitzPickwick.

"Where's your sister?" Tegleaze had asked. And FitzPickwick had said, "He didn't know she existed."

What could they have meant? Surely they were not talking about him?

"I haven't got a sister," Tobit repeated obstinately.

After another very long pause he added,

"Have I?"

Dido, Cris, and the three Wineberry Men stood in dismay, at a loss, out by the jail, until Pip said in an urgent whisper,

"Butter my wig, boys, let's scarper! Us doesn't want to be picked up by the constables spannelling around outside the lock-up."

"He's right," said Yan. "You two liddle maids'd best get back to The Fighting Cocks, smartish. If there's kidnappers abroad 'tis time for honest folk to be under cover."

"But what'll us do about Tobit?" said Dido worriedly. "I don't trust that Mystery—he'd pinch the birdseed from a blind canary. What'd he want to kidnap Tobit from jail for?"

No one could answer this.

"I'll nip round to the Angel, where he was staying, and have a word with the landlord," said Yan. "He be my great-aunt Gertrude's godson. He'll tell me if old Mystery's stirred out lately and where he's been. You two lads, Tan and Pip, quick yourselves out o' town and get to work on tomorrow's load, I'll see you presently. And if I pick up any news at the Angel I'll leave word with Aunt Sary."

They separated, going in three different directions. Dido and Cris started down the alley, back toward The Fighting Cocks. But Cris went slower and slower, presently stopped altogether.

"What ails you, gal?" Dido said in an impatient whisper. "Bustle on, can't you?"

"I—I feel as if Aswell were trying to say something," Cris whispered back. "But I can't quite hear—can't make out what it is. Wait—wait just a minute!"

She stood still, then turned slowly back the way they had come, like a water diviner questing for the pull of the rod.

"Oh, rummage it," Dido muttered. "This is a fine time for Aswell to feel like a chat."

Very unwillingly she followed Cris, who was now proceeding at a steady pace back along the alleyway. At the top she went left, passing the jail again, and entered a grass-grown yard at the side of a windmill. Someone was inside the mill: there was a faint rim of light around the door. Dido looked inquiringly at Cris, who shook her head.

"Hush! I can almost hear it now!" she breathed. "Why are you so faint, Aswell?"

Their eyes were used to the dark; they could see the round stone in the middle of the yard, and the wellhead. Cris moved slowly toward this, listening all the time. Dido took two or three steps after her, glancing warily around.

"Cris! Yan said we oughta get under cover!" she whispered urgently.

"Hush!" Cris, heedless of Dido's warning, seemed to be listening through every pore of her skin. She murmured, "I can't make it out—Aswell seems to be in trouble—"

There followed a pause which seemed nerve-rackingly long to Dido, then Cris added with the beginnings of doubt in her voice,

"Is it Aswell?"

At that moment something struck Dido on her wrist. She rubbed the place and whispered, "Do come on, gal, we dassn't stay scambling about here so near the lock-up—"

"Could Aswell be down there?"

Like a bird dog, Cris was pointing to the well—not with her hand, but with her whole attention.

"In the well? Look, Cris, it just ain't sensible to stay here—"

Two more pellets struck Dido's hand; purely by chance she caught one of them and rolled it unthinkingly between her fingers. Something about the feel and shape of it attracted her notice; she sniffed it, peered at it, tested it with the tip of her tongue. It was a Joobie nut.

"HejM Where did that come from?"

She knelt down to look at the millstone covering the well; as she did so, a fourth nut hit her on the cheek. It had come, there was no doubt at all, through the round hole in the well lid.

"What the dickens is going on round here?" she whispered to Cris. "Surely to goodness Aswell ain't shooting Joobie nuts at us from down the well?"

Even while she said the words her mind had leapt ahead and found the explanation.

"Tobit!"

She squatted down by the stone and leaned so that her face was over the hole. A nut struck her cheek. "Hey, Tobit!" she called softly. "Are you down there, boy?"

She could feel the well's hollowness carry her voice downward.

"Yes!" An urgent whisper came echoing back. "I'm halfway down here, hanging on a bucket. Can you pull me up? Some men threw me down here. Is that Dido? Are you on your own?"

"Rabbit me, now what are we going to do?" Dido muttered. "We don't dare waste time hunting for Yan—how does this pesky well open up?"

She felt all over the millstone; tugged upward; it was immovable.

"They musta shifted the stone somehow to get him in—"

All this time Cris had been standing silent, apparently dumbstruck; now she murmured in bewilderment,

"It's not Aswell!"

"O' course it's not Aswell, you noddy!" whispered Dido, hauling unavailingly at the millstone. "It's your brother. It's Tobit. Give us a hand, do!"

"No, but Aswell is saying something now—listen! Aswell says—wait, I'm getting it—Aswell says sideways. Push the stone sideways."

"What, like this?" More than doubtful, Dido gave the stone a shove, and nearly tumbled headlong in herself as it swung around, evidently on a pivot, to reveal a black crescent-shaped hole. The loud grinding rumble it made terrified the girls; Cris ran on tiptoe around to the far side of the stone; she and Dido eased it farther around, inch by inch; even so it seemed to make a hideous row in the quiet night. It would not go all the way; feeling around, Dido discovered that the rope had somehow jammed underneath it, which was why, evidently, the bucket had stuck halfway down and broken Tobit's fall.

"Anyways, I reckon there's room for him to clamber through," she whispered to Cris. "We can't wind up the bucket, though—we'll just have to haul him up. Brace yourself, Cris! It's lucky Tobit's skinny like you."

Heaving and straining, trying to stifle their gasps, they dragged Tobit on the bucket nearer and nearer to the top. When he was only a few feet down, Dido, changing places with Cris to get a closer purchase on the rope, fell or stumbled against the millstone and contrived to loosen it so that with a loud rasping thud it shot back the final foot; the freed rope would have run back down the well but Dido flung herself on it and reached down a hand to grab Tobit. She caught his hair and he let out a yell.

"Quiet! Grip on my hand, boy! Cris, you hold my feet."

Somehow, all struggling together on the brink, they managed to haul him out, losing a good deal of skin in the process.

There was a noise from inside the mill. Rapid steps came toward the door and they heard the sound of bolts being drawn.

"Quick!" gasped Tobit. "He's in there!"

No one asked who. Without a word they flew around to the back of the mill and dropped behind a stack of old farm implements grown over with brambles.

They heard the door open and a voice shout, "Pelmett? Where the devil are you?"

Somebody ran out. There was another shout, then silence.

"They've seen the well's open," Dido guessed. "Now what'll they do? Go off into the town, most like—they'd not expect anyone to be hiding around here."

Cris, Dido, and Tobit huddled in a heap, among the nettles and the rusty harrow blades.

"Keep your breathing down, you two—try not to breathe, can't you!" Dido whispered.

There was no more sound from the other side of the mill.

After five minutes had gone by, Dido said,

"Guess it'd be all right to mizzle off? We'd best climb over this wall behind us and circle round. Agreeable? Tobit, give Cris a hoist over the wall, can you?"

With the utmost caution they climbed, by means of the junk heap, on to the wall, which was not very high. There was much more of a drop down on the far side, into a field; Dido realized that this was in fact the town wall.

Without speaking, Dido grabbed Cris's hand, gestured her to take that of Tobit, and led off at a silent trot, under the wall, until they came to a small copse. Striking a footpath, they turned along it, through a gate, across another field, all the time skirting around the edge of Petworth which they could see as a few twinkling lights in the distance. At last their path met another which led back toward the town; they followed this warily, ready to duck into the hedge if they heard anybody approaching. But they met no one, and the path presently brought them out beside a big house at the bottom of the High Street.

"Right," muttered Dido. "You two bide here—duck down behind them bushes if you hear anybody coming—and I'll scout on ahead and make sure all's clear. Don't either of you dare to say a word!"