Her husband would roar
“The bloody brat! Bitin’ the ’and wot fed ’im. ’Ere we’ve bin all these years slavin’ our lives out an’ wot for I’d like ter know? To give ’im a persishun— Ain’t ’e allers lived in luckshery? Round the swell pubs with his curls an’ lace collars an’ orl?
“Wot’ud ’is poor great grand-pa say I dun. If ’e could only turn in ’is grave and see ’im now.
“ ’E was ’ung, that’s what ’e was me boy in them days when they ’ung yer fer ’orse-stealin’ ’e was. We got our pride, fumerly pride an’ we don’t make no mays aliongsez. Yer Ma’s pa was the best safe-blower wot never was!
“An’ ’ere’s our own child, our only child we ’as bin lavishin’ on. Our own ’Ide Park. Cottinin’ on to the mission-house. Kissin’ cops I shouldn’t wonder! Gawd, it’s more than a decent man can stand. Servile, that’s what ’e is, servile. It’s orfal ’avin’ to say it of yer own son, servile!
“You’d let a lot of Toffs get away with Everythink! And let them keep it! Without as much as a thankye to yer.
“Jus’ becorse they sing when they talks!
“Where’s yer brains? Where’s yer sense er justice? Where’s yer self-respec’?
“Can’t yer stand up in a fair fight an’ take wot comes ter yer?
“Lor’ blimme, yer might a bin born of a bank clerk! A bank clerk wot passes the cashier’s safe, hevery day of ’is life, swelp me God, an’ dies in the poor ’ouse, without a word of complaint.
“Ain’t yer got no sense o’ right nor wrong?
“Why I suppose if the Lord Mayor O’Lunnon left ’is front door open yer’d walk straight up an’ ring the bell. Wouldn’t yer now?
“Aow — don’t cry, yer daddy didn’t orter a’ said so much. I didn’t mean ’arf of it. There, me own lad, kiss as many cops as yer like. ’Taint nothing serious. You’ll get all right, s’soon as yer voice breaks.”
“I’m cryin’, perpa,” sobbed Hyde Park Hinderman, “Cause yer is a bad man.”
This wilful misinterpretation of his reprovals exhausted the able burglar’s compassion. He lifted his offspring by the seat of his pants, and chucked him downstairs.
+
The mission house and The Society for The Prevention of Cruelty to Children (all this society’s wards are children who fail to reform their parents) took up this case.
Very little could have been done however, had it not been for that accident which was to help young Hyde in his laudatory design. The cops at last “got” his Pappa and Mamma and their sentence was for so long that it was hardly worthwhile for the son to wait for them to come out.
The mission house took him, and the mission house watched, how every day his eyes grew more innocent, his lashes pointed straighter up to heaven.
+
Mrs. Switheringham Bates first noticed him hanging round the preparation of lilies for the altar in the little chapel. She asked his history.
“Sad, sad,” she said. A childless widow, she had often wished to adopt just such a pair of eyes as these.
“Criminals you say, dear me!” It was most annoying. “Criminals.”
“And what,” she asked Hyde some weeks later on another of her visits of charity. “What gave you the idea, er, what made you long — ”
“How long?” enquired Hyde willingly.
“I mean, what made you feel you would like to become converted?”
The child puzzled himself for awhile.
“I know,” he answered brightly, “it was that orfal stale smell in the pubs.”
“But what do you want to do — with your Life — Have you thought?”
“Oh mam, I want, I do so want to be good.”
“Why?” asked Mrs. Bates suspiciously.
“Cause everybody what is anybody, anybody wot don’t get chased around is.”
This revelation of “goodness” surprised her into pondering deeply within herself; she was forced to admit it coincided with her own conception, exactly.
“And when you were good, what would you do then?”
“Make everybody what isn’t good, good too,” said Hyde staunchly.
“Why?” asked Mrs. Bates, almost threatening him.
“I want,” said the boy, spreading wide his arms, “to make the whole world smell of flowers.”
“Why?” snapped Mrs. Bates again.
“Cause,” said Hyde Park ecstatically, “It would be same as here. An’ I like it. I liii-ke it!”
“That boy,” she remarked later, “has the most beautiful instincts.”
“We begin to believe,” said the parson, “that he has the vocation.”
“And criminals, you say, extraordinary.
“Er — What about his education?” she demanded irritably.
The parson looked her squarely in the eyes.
“The Lord will provide.”
“But criminals; impossible!”
“You forget,” he said, “To the Lord, all things are possible.”
“The responsibility,” she objected.
“The Influence,” he encouraged her.
“The Taint?”
“I am convinced, that some ancestor — ”
“Ah, an ancestor?” She brightened.
“Was one of us. We have here, a pure throw-back.”
“You think so?”
“I am convinced.”
“I shall consult a criminolo — — a specialist.”
“I only hope,” said the parson, pressing her hand, “He will understand this case.”
+
Mrs. Bates did not return however, for some time. She was worried.
“You mope,” said the new young doctor.
She told him of her loneliness, her love of youth around her. Piece by piece, he got the whole story of those innocent eyes.
“You fear, because the parents are criminals?”
“Yes.”
“But excuse me, with you the boy would, would he not, be amply provided for?”
“I don’t adopt by halves, I think I may say it would be — amply.”
“He would get a first-rate education and what is more important, plenty of amusement I suppose?”
“Ah,” sighed Mrs. Bates. “How I should love to hear him laugh.
“Of course as things are at present it is only fitting that he should remain a little too serious. But under other circumstances, — — —
I should discourage it.”
“Oh certainly.”
“The Parson thinks he has the vocation — — but I should hardly care — — a great fortune brings responsibilities, doctor. He would have to devote himself — —”
“Precisely. But what about— What does the boy want?”
“He wants,” said Mrs. Bates, “At present, to reform the world.”
“There’s scope for a career,” the doctor laughed. “— ways for spending your money which would hardly pass unnoticed. Should he make his attempt in good faith. He might after all land in prison.”
“But what a different landing.”
“Might influence the sentiment of the vote. Heard Debs got one million votes for presidency when he was in — ”
“But in America.”
“Well he could run a newspaper.”
“Dear man, it would cost him millions not to get bought up.”
“If he went in for it in good faith — ”
“He would fail.”
“They have,” said the doctor, “all failed.”
“I sometimes think great failure makes more fascinating men, than great success.”
“They have more time.”