Chapter XVI. The Rat to the Rescue

The Lost Prince

by Francis Hodgson Burnett

Marco walked through the passage and into the kitchen part of the
basement. The doors were all locked, and they were solid doors. He
ran up the flagged steps and found the door at the top shut and
bolted also, and that too was a solid door. His jailers had plainly
made sure that it should take time enough for him to make his way
into the world, even after he got out of the wine-cellar.

The cat had run away to some part of the place where mice were
plentiful. Marco was by this time rather gnawingly hungry himself.
If he could get into the kitchen, he might find some fragments of
food left in a cupboard; but there was no moving the locked door. He
tried the outlet into the area, but that was immov- able. Then he
saw near it a smaller door. It was evidently the entrance to the
coal-cellar under the pavement. This was proved by the fact that
trodden coal-dust marked the flagstones, and near it stood a scuttle
with coal in it.

This coal-scuttle was the thing which might help him! Above the
area door was a small window which was supposed to light the entry.
He could not reach it, and, if he reached it, he could not open it.
He could throw pieces of coal at the glass and break it, and then he
could shout for help when people passed by. They might not notice or
understand where the shouts came from at first, but, if he kept them
up, some one's attention would be attracted in the end.

He picked a large-sized solid piece of coal out of the heap in
the scuttle, and threw it with all his force against the grimy glass.
It smashed through and left a big hole. He threw another, and the
entire pane was splintered and fell outside into the area. Then he
saw it was broad daylight, and guessed that he had been shut up a
good many hours. There was plenty of coal in the scuttle, and he had
a strong arm and a good aim. He smashed pane after pane, until only
the framework remained. When he shouted, there would be nothing
between his voice and the street. No one could see him, but if he
could do something which would make people slacken their pace to
listen, then he could call out that he was in the basement of the
house with the broken window.

"Hallo!" he shouted. "Hallo! Hallo! Hallo! Hallo!"

But vehicles were passing in the street, and the passers-by were
absorbed in their own business. If they heard a sound, they did not
stop to inquire into it.

"Hallo! Hallo! I am locked in!" yelled Marco, at the topmost
power of his lungs. "Hallo! Hallo!"

After half an hour's shouting, he began to think that he was
wasting his strength.

"They only think it is a boy shouting," he said. "Some one will
notice in time. At night, when the streets are quiet, I might make
a policeman hear. But my father does not know where I am. He will
be trying to find me--so will Lazarus--so will The Rat. One of them
might pass through this very street, as I did. What can I do!"

A new idea flashed light upon him.

"I will begin to sing a Samavian song, and I will sing it very
loud. People nearly always stop a moment to listen to music and find
out where it comes from. And if any of my own people came near, they
would stop at once--and now and then I will shout for help."

Once when they had stopped to rest on Hampstead Heath, he had
sung a valiant Samavian song for The Rat. The Rat had wanted to hear
how he would sing when they went on their secret journey. He wanted
him to sing for the Squad some day, to make the thing seem real. The
Rat had been greatly excited, and had begged for the song often. It
was a stirring martial thing with a sort of trumpet call of a chorus.
Thousands of Samavians had sung it together on their way to the
battle-field, hundreds of years ago.

He drew back a step or so, and, putting his hands on his hips,
began to sing, throwing his voice upward that it might pass through
the broken window. He had a splendid and vibrant young voice, though
he knew nothing of its fine quality. Just now he wanted only to make
it loud.

In the street outside very few people were passing. An
irritable old gentleman who was taking an invalid walk quite jumped
with annoyance when the song suddenly trumpeted forth. Boys had no
right to yell in that manner. He hurried his step to get away from
the sound. Two or three other people glanced over their shoulders,
but had not time to loiter. A few others listened with pleasure as
they drew near and passed on.

"There's a boy with a fine voice," said one.

"What's he singing?" said his companion. "It sounds
foreign."

"Don't know," was the reply as they went by. But at last a
young man who was a music-teacher, going to give a lesson, hesitated
and looked about him. The song was very loud and spirited just at
this moment. The music-teacher could not understand where it came
from, and paused to find out. The fact that he stopped attracted the
attention of the next comer, who also paused.

"Who's singing?" he asked. "Where is he singing?"

"I can't make out," the music-teacher laughed. "Sounds as if it
came out of the ground."

And, because it was queer that a song should seem to be coming
out of the ground, a costermonger stopped, and then a little boy, and
then a workingwoman, and then a lady.

There was quite a little group when another person turned the
corner of the street. He was a shabby boy on crutches, and he had a
frantic look on his face.

And Marco actually heard, as he drew near to the group, the
tap-tap-tap of crutches.

"It might be," he thought. "It might be!"

And he sang the trumpet-call of the chorus as if it were meant
to reach the skies, and he sang it again and again. And at the end
of it shouted, "Hallo! Hallo! Hallo! Hallo! Hallo!"

The Rat swung himself into the group and looked as if he had
gone crazy. He hurled himself against the people.

"Where is he! Where is he!" he cried, and he poured out some
breathless words; it was almost as if he sobbed them out.

"We've been looking for him all night!" he shouted. "Where is
he! Marco! Marco! No one else sings it but him. Marco! Marco!"
And out of the area, as it seemed, came a shout of answer.

"Rat! Rat! I'm here in the cellar--locked in. I'm here!" and
a big piece of coal came hurtling through the broken window and fell
crashing on the area flags. The Rat got down the steps into the area
as if he had not been on crutches but on legs, and banged on the
door, shouting back:

"Marco! Marco! Here I am! Who locked you in? How can I get
the door open?"

Marco was close against the door inside. It was The Rat! It
was

The Rat! And he would be in the street again in a few minutes.
"Call a policeman!" he shouted through the keyhole. "The people
locked me in on purpose and took away the keys."

Then the group of lookers-on began to get excited and press
against the area railings and ask questions. They could not
understand what had happened to cause the boy with the crutches to
look as if he were crazy with terror and relief at the same time.

And the little boy ran delightedly to fetch a policeman, and
found one in the next street, and, with some difficulty, persuaded
him that it was his business to come and get a door open in an empty
house where a boy who was a street singer had got locked up in a
cellar.