164

JIM HUTSON'S KNIFE.

house, and was never absent for a night at a time, but his
mother was deep in her work and knew nothing, whatever she
may have feared. I daresay she had many a sorrowful hour,
and pleaded and remonstrated with him unceasingly, for the
singular feature of Jim's case was that his new life did not
harden him against his mother. If he was becoming dissipated
and brutalised, no trace of that was ever expended upon her.
With her he was always subdued and silent or full of promises
for the future. There were thus two influences at work—one
dragging him downwards and the other tugging him back. Joe
Knevitt's proved the stronger, for when this had gone on for
some time Jim was again in my hands. This time it was for
an attempt—the very daring of which almost took my breath
away. I suppose the planning had been done by Joe Knevitt,
but the execution—the lion's share of the work—fell to Jim.

The place chosen was a clothier's at the South Side—a
shilling-a-week clubman—whose business premises were the
third flat of a land of houses, the fourth of which was the top.
There was not the slightest chance of getting in unseen by the
door, as one part of the flat was let 10 a person who was
seldom out of the house. The remainder was locked up when
not occupied by the clothier and his band of tailors, and most
of the windows looked to the back. It happened that the
house was a corner one, and after much study and reconnoiter-
ing the intending thieves decided upon a mode of enteringwhich
I would not have risked for all the webs of cloth that ever were
woven. A quiet and very dark Sunday night was chosen for
the attempt. The two got up on the roof of the corner house
joining that occupied by the clothier, and Jim, who had under
his coat a long length of rope wound round his body with
which to lower the webs of cloth to his pal, crept down to the
edge of the slates, and loosened with his practised hand the
zinc roan or rain gutter running along the edge of the slates.
This precarious bridge he sloped over the angle to the window
of the clothier's store-room, a distance of only about twelve
feet, but with a slope on it that would have made anyone
shudder had they been forced to walk that plank against their
will. Joe steadied the top end of the frail bridge, and Jim went
sliding down and across with his life in his hands. He was
seen doing it, and the accidental spectator afterwards assured
me that his own hair nearly stood on end as he saw it done.
The passage was accomplished swiftly, and in safety, but Jim's
difficulties were only begun. He stood on the window-sill,