The Sword Bearer Read Free Page B

slice of his birthday cake beside him. "I can fry you some eggs an' bacon. What d'you want, lad? Is there something you'd really like?"
    She sat close beside him on the bed and put her arm round his shoulder. They had always been good friends. Her solidness and warmth comforted him, and he began to cry a little, tears rolling for the First time down his cheeks. He was glad he was normal enough to cry.
    "There, there," Mrs. Smith said soothingly. "Don't cry, lad. Somethin's goin' to 'appen. You're goin' to be all right."
    John told her he wasn't hungry.
    "But you must eat, lad. You 'ave to eat, y' know."
    "I'll eat the cake, Mrs. Smith. That'll be enough. I don't feel like eating."
    "That's fine, lad. You eat your cake, then. You're goin' to sleep in our 'ouse tonight. We're not goin' to leave you alone."
    Later it seemed strange to be in a double bed in the Smith's back bedroom. John sat up shivering. He would not go to sleep. What were lady almoners? What would the Methodist minister say? Determinedly he shook his head. No orphanage. Absolutely no orphanage. Not tomorrow. Not ever. He cried a little at the thought of running away without saying some sort of good-by to his grandmother. But his grandmother had gone. She hadn't said goodby. Was it wicked to feel like that? But then there came a more dreadful thought. Perhaps she had gone away because he was bad. He was neither clever nor tough. He was wicked. It was all his fault
    He was still fully dressed. His savings were tucked into the top pocket of his blazer, the pocket with the lion on it He got out of bed stil shivering and looked out of the window that looked down on the Smith's yard. He would stay up all night and creep away before the minister and the lady almoner came. He would go to Peter Shufflebotham's house. Peter would lend him money. Then he would go to Victoria Station and get a train for Liverpool.
    In spite of his best efforts he slept lying half across the chair by the window and half across the bed. But in his dream he thought he was still awake and staring through the window. The fog had cleared away and a full moon shone.
    John's eyes widened as he saw first a hand, than half an arm, then the top of a bowler-hatted head, and then the head and shoulders of a man climbing over the tall door of the Smith's tiny back yard. And as the man looked up at him John saw that it was Nicholas Slapfoot John's heart beat sickeningly. Old Nick, as everybody called him, heaved himself to the top of the door and swung first one clubfoot then the other over it, dropped into the yard and perched himself on top of the dustbin.
    Nicholas Slapfoot was feared by everyone in Pendleton. He lived in a hut in his scrapyard on the other side of the tall wall that blocked the end of Pimblett's Place. Every day he pulled his cart along the street shouting, "Any old iron? Any old iron! Rags and bottles and any old iron!" haggling with the neighbors for bits and pieces.
    Yet people feared him. Some people said he was very rich, but that he was a miser. It was said that one boy who once climbed into his yard never came back. And certainly boys who did go after lost balls told some pretty gruesome stories. Some boys' mothers went to the police. But the sergeant laughed at them and told them there was no such person as Nicholas Slapfoot, and there was certainly no scrapyard on the other side of the wall. All there was was the ruins of an old mill.
    John remembered Mrs. Smith talking about it. "The sergeant told 'em, 'Bring me a snapshot of 'im an' then I'll believe in this old Nick of yours.' A snapshot indeed! 'Ood ever 'eard the like! 'Ood 'av time and money to go round takin' snaps of Nicholas Slapfoot? If you ask me, 'im and the' police is in cahoots."
    John had his own reason to fear Old Nick. On his twelfth birthday John had accidentally kicked a brand new soccer ball over the wall and into the scrapyard. Peter had let him stand on his shoulders to help him climb the wall. He could