Chapter Twenty Eight.
How I found myself once more at Hawk Street.
In due time the doctor paid his final visit and gave me leave to return to Hawk Street.
I can’t describe how strange it seemed to be walking out once more in the open air, leaning on Jack’s arm, and feeling myself an active member of society.
The part of the town where Jack’s lodgings were situated was new to me. It could not have been worse than Beadle Square, but it wasn’t much better. This street was narrow and squalid and crowded, and presented no attractions either in the way of fresh air or convenience. Still, to me, any place that harboured Jack Smith would have been more homelike than the stateliest mansion.
“By the way,” said Jack, as we walked down to the office the first morning, “I suppose you don’t want to go back to Beadle Square.”
“Not if I can help it,” I said; “the only thing is, I suppose, I ought to tell my uncle. You know he paid my lodging there.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Jack. “I went down one day and saw Mrs Nash and told her what had become of you, and said she might let your bed to any one else. And I wrote to your uncle (I thought it best not to bother you by telling you at the time), and told him where you were and how you were getting on. He wrote back a civil note to say he was glad to hear you were getting better; and with regard to the lodgings, he had been just about to write and say that as you had now a respectable income at the office he would not be continuing to pay for your lodging; so that when you got well you might consider yourself free to do as you liked in that respect.”
“Awfully obliging of him,” said I.
“Well, it struck me as rather a cordial way of putting it,” remarked Jack, laughing.
“I had better look for quarters at once,” said I.
“Do nothing of the kind. Stay where you are!”
“What?” I exclaimed, in pleased astonishment. The idea had never occurred to me before. “How ever could I? As it is I’ve been turning Mr Smith out long enough.”
“He was talking to me about it the other day,” said Jack. “He finds that all his time is now required at the office of the newspaper he writes for, and therefore he has really no use for his room except as a bedroom. So that our room up stairs is at our complete disposal.”
“How jolly!” I exclaimed. “Nothing could have happened more delightfully.”
“Nothing,” said Jack, as pleased as I was; “and he says any time of an evening when he’s away we can use the lower room as if it was our own. Isn’t it brickish of him?”
I agreed heartily in the sentiment, and proceeded to Hawk Street with less weight on my mind than ever.
There, as was natural, I found myself an object of a good deal of interest and remark. Doubleday, who once during my illness had sent me a short note of sympathy by Smith, was the first to welcome me back to my old quarters.
“Here we are again, young ’un, alive and kicking,” cried he, clapping me on the back as I entered. “How his whiskers have grown, haven’t they, Wallop? Well, how’s your game leg?”
“It was my arm, not my leg,” I said.
“No! was it? I heard it was your off-leg and your spine and your skull that were smashed. That’s what made me so surprised to see you. Never mind, I’m glad to see you, young ’un, for there’s a ticklish bit of figure work to do. None of the others would look at it, so I’ve saved it up for you, my boy.”
“And I’m ready for it,” said I.
Crow and Wallop greeted me rather more shyly. I fancy they had had rather a fright when they heard how very ill I had been.
They shook hands rather sheepishly, and Wallop said something about the weather which had no actual bearing, on my recovery. I had come to the conclusion during my illness that Crow and Wallop had not been altogether profitable companions, and I was therefore glad they were not more demonstrative now.
But I had yet to meet Hawkesbury, and wished the operation well over; for however much I may once have believed in him, I now disliked him, and determined to have as little to do with him as possible.
“Ah, Batchelor,” cried he, coming up with outstretched hand, and beaming as if the incident in my sick-room weeks ago had never happened. “So glad to see you back. We have missed you greatly. How do you feel? You’re looking better than when I saw you last.”
I just took his hand and said, “Thank you,” as shortly as I could.
He appeared neither to notice my manner nor my tone.
“You’ve had a long spell of it,” said he. “I’d no idea a broken arm was such a serious thing. But I dare say you’ll be all the better for your long rest.”
I set to work to open my desk and get together my papers and pens, ready for work.
“It was a bad fall you had,” continued he, standing beside me as I was thus employed. “You have no idea how distressed I was when it happened. But Whipcord was really in such a shocking state that night that—”
“Can you give me a piece of blotting-paper?” I said to Doubleday across the desk.
He waited till I had got what I wanted, and proceeded, smiling as ever, “It really wasn’t safe for any of us. Masham, by the way, was very sorry to hear of your accident, and asked me to tell you so. I meant to do so the evening I called, but your friend was really so polite that I forgot all about it.”
I had stood it thus far, and kept to my resolve of saying as little as I could. But when he brought in Jack’s name it was all I could do to hold my peace.
I made an excuse to leave my place and consult a Directory, in the hopes of shaking him off, but there he was when I returned, ready to go on as benignly as ever.
“I’m sure, Batchelor,” said he, “it must have been greatly against you to be cooped up in that miserable lodging all the time, and in—what I should call—such uncongenial society. But when one is ill, of course one has just to put up with what one can get.”
My patience had reached its limit at last.
“My friend’s society is more congenial to me than yours is at present!” I said, colouring up and bending over my writing.
“I see,” said he, “he has got you under this thumb again, and means to keep you there.”
“Will you let me get on with my work?” I said.
“Oh, certainly!” said he, smiling blandly. “I merely wished to tell you how glad I was to see you back at last; but I dare say that doesn’t interest you.”
I made no answer, and, seeing that I was determined to hold no more conversation, he gently withdrew.
I felt quite relieved when he had done so, and still more to find that, for the first time in my life, I had been proof against his blandishments.
“What have you been doing to Petty-Cash?” whispered Doubleday to me, presently; “he looks so smiling and benevolent that I’m certain you must have given him mortal offence about something or other.”
“I don’t care if I have,” I said.
Doubleday whistled softly. “I say, young ’un,” said he, “your illness has smartened you up a bit, I reckon, eh?”
This, coming from the source it did, I felt to be a compliment. However, I had more calls upon my new resolutions before the day was over.
The partners arrived and received me—each in his own peculiar way—very kindly. Mr Merrett was good enough to say the work of the office had suffered a good deal in my absence, and Mr Barnacle said he hoped I had come back prepared to make up for lost time. To both which observations I listened respectfully, and returned once more to my desk.
The morning passed quickly and busily. I had made a plunge into the difficult task so considerately saved up for me by Doubleday, and felt quite refreshed by the array of figures to be dealt with. In fact, I was so engrossed with it that when Jack came and asked me if I was going out to lunch I said I really could not leave it now, but would take my lunch later on.
So he went, and several of the others, leaving me with Crow, Wallop, and Hawkesbury, in possession of the office.
The two former heroes had by this time somewhat recovered from their surprise at seeing me once more in the land of the living, and seemed disposed to wax facetious in proportion at my expense.
I dug my thumbs into my ears, in the hopes of getting on with my work, but it was not easy, and I had at last to give up the attempt.
“Jolly glad he’s not kicked the bucket, for one thing,” said Wallop.
“Why?” asked Crow, apparently surprised that there should be any reason for thankfulness in such an event.
“He owes me thirty bob, that’s all,” said Wallop.
It was true! It was one of the oldest of my debts, and one which had been greatly on my mind for many a day.
“Ah!” said I, feeling constrained to take some notice of the remark. “I’m afraid I’ve kept you out of that money a long time, Wallop.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Wallop. “When I want it I’ll drop on you for it, my boy.”
“I’ll try to pay it off as soon as ever I can,” I said.
I disliked Wallop, as I have said, and the thought that I owed him money was not at all pleasant to me.
My creditor laughed.
“There’s plenty more will be glad to hear you’re better,” said he. “There’s Shoddy I met the other week in a regular blue funk because he thought you’d bolted. He wanted to come down and see the governors here about his little bill, but I managed to pacify him. But he says if you don’t give him a call soon he’ll wake you up.”
“I’ll go and see him at once,” I said, feeling very uncomfortable.
“Then there’s the Twins. It seems you’re on their books for a matter of a sov. or so advanced you at odd times. They’ve been most affectionate in their inquiries about you.”
It wasn’t pleasant to be reminded thus on my first morning back at work of the burden of debt which still pressed on me from the old, and I humbly hoped bygone, days of my extravagance. Not even a broken arm or a dangerous fever will wipe off old scores.
Wallop rather enjoyed going through the catalogue of my debts.
“Then there’s Tucker, the pastrycook, wants half-a-sov. at the very least, and Weeden, the tobacconist, a florin for mild cigarettes, and—”
“Yes, yes,” I said; “I know all about it, and I’m going to pay them all.”
“That’s a good job,” remarked Wallop, “and the sooner you tell them all so the better. They’d all like to have your present address.”
“I’m not sure that that would console them much,” said Crow. “It’s rather a shadier place than the old one.”
“Yes, when you come to think of it, a fellow would get a bit shy when he read the address, ‘care of Tom Jailbird, Esquire, Up a Slum, Drury Lane.’”
“Look here!” cried I, suddenly starting up; “don’t you call my friend names, please.”
Nothing could have delighted the genial pair more than my excitement. They greeted my protest with laughter, and winking at one another, continued to talk among themselves.
“Good practice, I should think. Crow, living with a chap like that—get used to prison fare. Come all the easier later on.”
“Wonder if they practise picking one another’s pockets to keep their hands in, of an evening.”
“I’m told that jailbird has got an album full of tickets-of-leave.”
“Ah! His father must have travelled a good bit in his time.”
It was pitiful, paltry jesting, but it was more than I could stand.
“Will you stop?” I shouted.
“Nobody was speaking to you,” said Wallop.
“You were speaking of my friend!” I exclaimed.
“More shame to you for chumming up with such disreputable lot,” said Crow.
“Do you hear? stop it!” I shouted.
“We’ll stop it,” said Wallop, “when—”
I did not wait to hear more, but rushed upon the speaker.
The upshot might have been serious for me in my present weak condition, and being one against two. But before my blow could be returned Hawkesbury, who had so far been a silent witness to the scene, sprang from his place and pulled me away. I struggled to get free, but he held me firm, as he said, “Batchelor, don’t be foolish. You two, be quiet, will you, or I must report you to my uncle. Fighting is not allowed in here.”
“I didn’t want to fight,” said Wallop, putting up his hand to his smarting cheek, “but I’ll have it out with him.”
“Young prig!” growled Crow, savagely.
“You hear what I say,” said Hawkesbury. “I won’t allow it to go any further. Here, Batchelor, go to your seat, and don’t be absurd.”
This tone of authority and his unasked-for interference irritated me as much as ever the language of my two adversaries had done. Hawkesbury was always getting the pull of me in ways like this.
I retired sulkily to my seat, saying I would thrash any one who insulted Smith in my presence, at which the others sneered.
“All I can say is,” said Wallop, with his hand still up to his face, “if I don’t get that thirty shillings he owes me to-morrow, I’ll show him up in a way that will astonish him—that’s all.”
With which threat he took up his hat and went out, leaving me in a very agitated and uncomfortable frame of mind, as the reader may guess.
I would far sooner have been thrashed out and out by Wallop than be left thus under what Hawkesbury would certainly consider an obligation to him.
“I thought it best,” said he, in his insinuating way, “to interfere. You are really not well enough for that sort of thing, Batchelor.”
During the rest of the day my mind was too uneasy to permit me to make much progress with my work, and I was glad when evening came and I could escape with my friend.
“You look fagged,” said he, as I took his arm.
“I am rather,” said I, “and worried too, Jack.”
“What about?” he asked.
Then I told him all about my debts; and we spent the rest of the evening in a sort of committee of ways and means.
Taken separately my debts were none of them very large, but added all together their total was something appalling. Ten pounds would scarcely cover them, and that did not include what I owed the doctor.
It was a serious business, without doubt.
Wallop’s threat to insist on immediate payment, or else “show me up” before the partners and my other creditors, may have been mere bounce; but it may equally well have been in earnest, in which case I was ruined.
Jack’s one solicitude that evening was to keep me from fretting too much. But it is all very well to say, “Don’t fret,” and another thing to remove the cause of fretting. And that we could neither of us do.
Jack had no money. What little he had saved he had spent on books or sent home to Mrs Shield. As for Mr Smith, senior, even if I had cared to ask him to help me, I knew he had barely enough to keep body and soul together. The idea of borrowing from Doubleday occurred to me, but Smith promptly discouraged it. Besides, I had once asked him for a loan, and he had refused it, on the ground he never lent money to anybody.
“The only thing,” said Jack, “is to write home to your uncle.”
I could scarcely help smiling at the idea. I knew my uncle better than Jack Smith did, and I might as well hope to get blood out of a stone as expect him to pay for my extravagances in London.
However, Jack was so sure it was the right and only thing to do that I finally consented to sit down and make a clean breast of it, which I did in the following note:—
“Dear Uncle,—I am better now, and back at work. I am sorry to say, however, I am in a good deal of difficulty about money. Before my illness I had got into extravagant ways and run into debt. I enclose a list of what I believe I owe at the present moment. You will see—not including the doctor’s bill—it comes to £10 2 shillings 4 pence. The names marked with a star are clerks at the office who have lent me money, I am sorry to say, for gambling and other purposes. I don’t know what to do about paying them back. I thought if you wouldn’t mind advancing the amount I could pay you back so much a week out of my salary. I hope and trust you will help me in my difficulty. I need hardly say I have seen the folly of my old ways, and am determined to live carefully and economically in future. Do please write by return and help me.
“Your affect. nephew,—
“Fred. Batchelor.”
Jack approved of this effusion as businesslike and to the point.
“You haven’t gone out of the way to excuse yourself,” said he, “and I dare say it will go down all the better for that. If he doesn’t write and send up the money I shall be surprised.”
Poor Jack! A lot he knew about uncles of my sort!
However, I felt more comfortable to have written the letter, and if I could only have been sure Wallop’s threat was mere idle bluster I should have slept easily.
As it was, I had had rather a stirring day for my first one out, and at the end of it felt a good deal less game for work than at the beginning. Nothing could exceed Jack’s tenderness and anxiety to relieve me of as much worry as possible. When I was in bed he came and read aloud to me. It was Virgil he read—which he was working at for his examination. And I remember that evening lying half awake, half asleep, listening now to him, thinking now of my debts, mixing up Aeneas with Wallop, and Mr Shoddy with Laocoön, and poor old Priam with my uncle.
The following morning I rose only half refreshed, and made my way anxiously to the office. One of the first fellows I met was Wallop, who greeted my approach with a surly grin.
I felt sure at that moment he had meant what he threatened yesterday, and my heart quailed within me at the prospect.
“Well, young prig,” said he, “I suppose you’ve brought my money?”
“No,” said I; “I’m afraid I must ask you to wait a little longer. I hope you won’t do anything for a day or two, at any rate. I will do my best to get it by then.”
He laughed in my face, and evidently enjoyed my distress.
“You sung a different tune yesterday, my boy, when you hit me. Do you remember? That wasn’t the payment I wanted!”
“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” said I.
“Well, I mean to show you I pay my debts more punctually than you do,” said he; and with that he gave me a cuff on my head which sent me reeling half across the office.
I could not—I dare not—return it, and he knew it.
“There,” said he, laughing brutally; “now we’re quits! As to that thirty shillings, I’ll let you off, as it has been paid me.”
“Paid you!” I exclaimed, in utter bewilderment. “Who by?”
“Hawkesbury!”
Chapter Twenty Nine.
How I began to see Daylight through my Troubles.
Those of my readers who have read their Virgil will most likely remember an observation made by one of the gentlemen who figure conspicuously in the story of the Aeneid. He dreaded his hereditary enemies, the Greeks, under any circumstances; but he never dreaded them so much as when they came and offered him presents!
This was pretty much my feeling when I was told that my debt to Wallop had been paid for me by Hawkesbury.
There had been a time in my life when I almost liked Hawkesbury. More recently I had suspected him of being not quite the angel I once believed him. Later still I had felt my suspicion grow to very decided dislike. And now, at the moment when he made me his debtor for thirty shillings, I positively loathed him.
I could not guess his motive. I was certain it was not out of pure love for me or pity for Wallop. Indeed, I was pretty certain there was far more mischief than good in the action. I would sooner have owed Wallop thirty pounds than Hawkesbury thirty shillings. He knew it, too, and for that very reason paid my debt to Wallop.
“Whatever business of Hawkesbury’s is it?” I demanded of Wallop, as soon as I could find words to express myself.
“Goodness knows,” replied Wallop, with a laugh.
“But I won’t let him do it. I don’t want him to pay my debts. You must give him the money back, Wallop.” Wallop grinned delightedly.
“Oh, quite so. It’s rather likely, when I’ve been waiting for my money the best part of a year, I should decline to receive it when I’ve got the chance! No, my boy, you can settle with Hawkesbury now. You owe him the thirty bob, not me!”
What was I to do? I demanded an explanation of Hawkesbury as soon as he appeared.
“Wallop tells me you’ve paid him the thirty shillings I owed him,” said I.
“Oh, he shouldn’t have told you,” said Hawkesbury, with the meek air of a benevolent man who doesn’t like to hear his own good deeds talked about.
“I wish you hadn’t done it,” said I.
“Oh, you mustn’t think of it,” said he, blandly. “It was only because I heard him threaten to get you into trouble if you didn’t pay him, and I should have been so sorry if that had happened.”
“Thank you, but really I prefer to pay my own debts!”
He laughed as if it was a joke.
“I’m sure you do; but as I knew you couldn’t do it, I thought it would be a relief to you if I did it for you.”
Could he be in earnest? He talked as if I ought to be grateful to him instead of in a rage, as I was. Certainly it was a queer position to be in—storming at a fellow who has just saved you from debt, perhaps disgrace, possibly ruin, I couldn’t make out what to think of it.
“I daresay you thought you were doing me a good turn,” I said as civilly as I could, “but as it happens I wish you had let the thing alone.”
He sighed forgivingly and went to his desk.
The moment Jack and I got outside at dinner-time I unburdened my woes to him.
He was in as great if not a greater commotion than I was.
“What does he mean by it?” he exclaimed. “Fred, you must pay him back at once, whatever it costs you!”
“All very well,” said I, “but you know I’ve nothing.”
“Can’t you pawn anything? can’t you get a job of some sort to do? anything to pay him off. I shall be miserable as long as you owe him a farthing!”
He spoke with a vehemence that quite astonished me.—“You don’t mean to say you’re going to let yourself stop in his debt?” he exclaimed, when I did not answer.
“Not a second after I can get the money.”
“When will you hear from your uncle?”
“To-morrow morning if he writes by return. But I’ve no hopes from him.”
“I suppose it would not do to ask the partners,” said Jack.
I was thunderstruck at the very idea. For Jack to entertain it for a moment only showed how desperately in earnest he was.
We could get no light on the subject, and I had the pleasure of being reminded by Hawkesbury’s smile all day long that I was in his power, and saw no way out.
That whole evening Jack and I sat and discussed the situation. We even rose early, to consult Mr Smith the elder on his return to the lodgings. He soon appreciated our difficulty; but he could suggest no relief. For he was as poor as either of us, and had as few friends.
My uncle’s letter did not come that day or the next.
Meanwhile I knew no peace. Hawkesbury’s manner was more suave and condescending than ever.
To the rest of my fellow-clerks during those two days I was the most cross-grained and obnoxious comrade conceivable. My only relief seemed to be in quarrelling with somebody, and as they all laid themselves out to bait and tease me one way or another I had a pretty lively time of it.
My chief hope was (and Jack shared in it), that if my uncle had been determined not to help me at all he would probably have written by return. The delay might mean he was at least considering the matter.
At last, on the third day of my waiting, the postman knocked at our door. With beating heart I rushed to receive the letter which I knew must be for me.
It was, but it was not from my uncle, it was from Hawkesbury.
“My Dear Batchelor,” he wrote, “I am very sorry to see that I have given you offence by settling your debt with Wallop. I really meant it for the best, because I knew you could not pay, and I was afraid if it came to my uncle’s or Mr Barnacle’s knowledge it might be awkward for you, for I happen to know my uncle feels very strongly about clerks getting into debt, especially through gambling. I’m afraid I can’t undo what has been done, for Wallop will hardly give me back the money. So I write to tell you how sorry I am, and to say I hope you will forgive me. Please do not trouble about the repayment of the loan; you must take whatever time suits you. I trust this little matter will not make us worse friends than before.
“Yours sincerely,—
“E. Hawkesbury.
“P.S.—I write this as I shall be away from the office the next two days, while we are moving to our new house. When we are settled in I hope you will come and see us.”
What was I to think of it? For the last three days I had been losing no opportunity of snubbing this fellow, and to demonstrate to him that, so far from feeling obliged to him, I disliked him all the more for what he had done. In return for which he now writes me this beautiful letter, breathing forgiveness and considerateness, and absolutely apologising for having paid thirty shillings to save me from ruin!
Either he must be a paragon of the first water, or else—
I gave it up, and handed the letter across to Jack Smith. He read it, with knit brows, from beginning to end, and then a second time; after which he tossed it back to me and said, “Well, what do you think of that?”
“What do you?”
“Rot, every bit of it!”
I expected he would say so. “But, Jack,” I began.
“You don’t mean to say,” said Jack, “you’re going to let yourself be taken in by that stuff?”
“But unless he means what he says, what possible motive can he have for writing a letter like that?”
Jack did not answer. We did not discuss the matter further, but I went down to the office that morning with the letter in my pocket, heartily wishing I could make up my mind what to think of it all as easily as Jack Smith.
One thing, at any rate, was a comfort—I should not see Hawkesbury for two days.
But if I was to be spared the sight of one unwelcome person, I had in store for me another which I little expected. I was coming with Jack out of the office on the second evening afterwards, after a hard day’s work, wondering why my uncle did not write, and sighing inwardly at the prospect of seeing Hawkesbury back next day, when a stranger accosted me in the street.
At least, I thought him a stranger until, standing full in front of him, I saw his face and heard him speak.
“Oh, good evening, Mr Batchelor, sir! The governor’s compliments, sir—Mr Shoddy’s compliments—and he’ll be particularly glad if you’ll step round now, sir.”
I owed Shoddy three pounds, and this summons fell on my ear like a knell.
“Better go,” said Jack.
How sick Jack must be of me, thought I, by this time. Ever since I had been back with him he had been for ever worried either with my health or my debts or my office rows. I was half tempted to ask him not to come, but I could not bring myself to be sufficiently self-denying.
“What does Mr Shoddy want me for?” I asked of the assistant as we walked along.
“I believe, sir, between ourselves, it’s about your little account, sir. How do the clothes wear, sir? Nice stuff that tweed we made them of. Could do you a very nice suit of the same now, sir, dirt cheap. Two fifteen to you, and measure the coat. We should charge three guineas to any one else.”
It occurred to me to wonder why so great exception should be made in my favour, especially as I had owed my present bill so long. However, we let the fellow rattle on at his shoppy talk, and soon arrived at Mr Shoddy’s ready-made clothes establishment.
I felt rather like a criminal being brought up before a judge than a customer before the tailor of his patronage.
“Good evening, Mr Batchelor,” said the tailor. “Take a seat, sir.”
I did so, and Jack took another.
A long pause ensued.
“You wished to see me,” observed I.
“Well, yes, I do,” said the tailor. “The fact is, Mr Batchelor, you aren’t treating me well. Those clothes were sold you for cash, sir—cash down!”
“Yes, I’m afraid I have been rather slow in paying, Mr Shoddy,” said I.
“Quite so, sir! The question is, have you the amount with you now—three pounds plus six shillings for interest to date?”
“I certainly have not the money with me,” said I.
“Ah! Then you are prepared to give me security, of course? Now what do you say to my drawing on Messrs Merrett, Barnacle, and Company, at one month, for the amount? I should be satisfied with their bill.”
I nearly jumped off my seat with horror.
“Merrett, Barnacle, and Company pay my tailor’s bill! Oh, no! quite out of the question!” I exclaimed.
“Ah, that’s a pity! I should have liked their bill, and you could pay them by instalments.”
“I wouldn’t on any account have them spoken to on the subject,” said I.
“Well, perhaps your friend here—”
“No,” said Jack; “I’ve no money at all.”
“Your uncle possibly—”
How had the man heard that I had an uncle? He seemed to know all about me, and I began to get uncomfortable.
“My uncle, I fear, would not advance the money. I have already asked him, and had no reply.”
“This is rather awkward for you, sir,” said Mr Shoddy, coolly. “I quite hoped you would have been prepared with a proposal.”
“I might be able to pay you a shilling a week,” I faltered.
Mr Shoddy shrugged his shoulders. “Three pounds six is sixty-six shillings, interest six and six; seventy-two shillings and sixpence—seventy-two and a half weeks—one year and four and a half months to pay off. Thank you, sir; can’t do it.”
“I don’t know what to do if you won’t accept that,” I faltered.
“Three shillings a week, secured,” said the tailor, “would meet the case, I think. What do you think?”
“I could never keep it up, I fear,” said I; “but I’d try.”
“Thank you, sir. You draw your salary weekly, I believe?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Oh, then, if I just look in and see one of the principals and explain, he’ll stop the three shillings a week for me, which will save all trouble. What time are they generally at home?”
The cool resolve of the man to make my employers a party to my debt positively terrified me. I begged him to give up the idea, promised wildly to do all sorts of things to pay him, and entreated him to give me more time.
He was politely inexorable. “Pleased to oblige you, but, after a year, we must look after our little accounts, mustn’t we? Let’s see, to-morrow I’m engaged. I’ll look in on Friday and settle it.”
No argument or entreaty of mine could make him understand such a step would be ruination to me. He was firmly convinced a guarantee from the firm would be the best security for his money, and so, simply disregarding all my protests and appeals, gaily promised to see me again on Friday.
What was I to do? My only hope was in my uncle’s answer, and that, as the reader knows, was small enough.
The following morning it arrived. It was brief, and to the point:—
“Dear Nephew,—I hold that lads of your age cannot learn too soon that the people to pay debts are those who make them. I return your list, as it may be useful.
“Yours,—
“F. Jakeman.”
It was what I had expected. My last hope of a respite now gone to the winds!
We walked down disconsolately to the office. Hawkesbury was back in his place, smiling as usual. But the dread of Shoddy’s visit to-morrow drove away all thought for the present of resentment against Hawkesbury. I was even constrained to greet him civilly, and when he asked if I had received his letter, to say yes, I was much obliged.
On leaving the office that evening the tailor’s assistant was hanging about outside as before. I imagined he had some fresh message, and went up to him eagerly. “Well,” said I, “what is it?”
“Nothing that I know of,” said he. “I was just passing this way, and thought I’d see how you were getting on. No orders, I suppose? None of your young gentlemen want a nice cheap suit? Pleased to make you a consideration for the introduction. If one or two of you joined together and took a piece, could do the lot very reasonably indeed.”
So, not only was I to be exposed before my employers to-morrow, but meanwhile my movements were being watched, for fear I should run away, I suppose.
“Jack,” said I, as we walked along, “I believe you are right after all.”
“How?” said Jack.
“The only thing to do is to tell the partners all about it, before Shoddy comes to-morrow!”
“Well,” said Jack, “I don’t see it could be much worse than letting them hear all about it from him.”
With which consoling but desperate resolution we proceeded.
To beguile the time, we went round by Style Street.
A youth was standing having his boots blacked as we came up. We thought we recognised the figure—though till he turned round we could not recall his name. Then to our surprise we saw it was Flanagan.
But such a swell as he was! He had alarmed me more than once by the grandeur of his attire when I had met him at the parties of the “usual lot.” I had seen him rarely since. As for Jack, the two had scarcely met since they left Stonebridge House.
“Hullo, Batchelor,” he cried, as we approached, “that you? I heard you’d been ill, and—why, Smith,” he broke out, catching sight of my companion, “how are you? Haven’t seen you for ages! And the rum thing is I was speaking about you this very moment—wasn’t I, kid?”
“Yaas,” said Billy, with a grin.
“You know, Batchelor, you once introduced me to this young gentleman when we were rolling home one night after a spree—fearfully slow parties some of those!—and I’ve given him a job pretty often since—and he was just telling me about you. Lodging Drury Lane way, I hear?”
“Yes,” said I. There was something so genuine in the tone of my old schoolfellow that I could almost forgive him his grand clothes.
“I say, couldn’t you come along to my rooms to-night? I’m all by myself. Jolly to talk over old days. Come on, Smith.”
“Thanks,” said Smith, who, I could see, felt half shy of this old comrade, “but I have to work for an exam., and it’s coming off now in a week or two.”
“Well, Batchelor, you come,” said Flanagan.
I hesitated a moment, and then consented. The fact was, I suspected Flanagan might possibly get his clothes made at Shoddy’s. In which case, as to all appearance he must be a good customer, he might, I thought, use his influence with the tailor to prevent the threatened visit to-morrow.
So I went with him, much to his satisfaction, and we had a pleasant evening together. He confided to me his troubles. How he was getting tired of the “usual lot,” and of London altogether, and wanted his father to let him be a farmer. How he was always getting into trouble up here in town, living by himself, with far more money than he wanted, and no one “to pull him up,” as he called it. How he often recalled Stonebridge House with all its hardships, and wished himself back there instead of in this unsatisfactory world of London.
“If I could only grind like Smith,” said he, “it wouldn’t be so bad; but what’s the use of my grinding? In fact, what’s the use of my being up here at all, when I only get into rows, and spend one half of my time going to the dogs and the other in pulling up?”
“Well,” said I, “that’s better than me, who spend all my time in going to the dogs.”
“Oh, but you had Smith to keep you steady,” said he. “You couldn’t go far wrong with him. I’ve got no one of that sort. I really wish my father would put me to farming. A fellow couldn’t go to the dogs, you know, all among the cows, and pigs, and horses—that is,” added he, laughing, “not the sort of dogs I mean.”
There was a great deal in Flanagan’s troubles with which I could sympathise. He was a fellow with a kind nature at bottom, but too easy-going to withstand the temptations of London.
In return for his confidence I told him most of my troubles. He was greatly interested in the story, and especially reproached himself with his share in aiding and abetting my past extravagances.
When, however, I came to tell him of my financial troubles with Hawkesbury and Shoddy he brightened up suddenly.
“Why, why ever didn’t you tell me of that before, Batchelor?” he exclaimed. “And this beggar Shoddy’s going to show you up, is he? Ha, ha! we’ll disappoint him for once in a way. I know him of old.”
“I was wondering if you knew him,” said I, suddenly feeling my spirits lightened, “and would mind asking him not to call up at the office.”
“Of course I will,” said Flanagan, jumping up and taking his hat. “Come along, old man, he won’t be shut up yet, I expect. If he is we’ll wake him up.”
And off we went, my heart full of joy at this unexpected hope.
Shoddy’s shop was still open, and its lord was at home. He greeted Flanagan obsequiously, as a good customer.
“Ah, Shoddy, how are you? Just make out my friend’s bill here, will you—look sharp!”
Shoddy, in as much surprise as I was, promptly obeyed, adding the interest for the last year and the next.
“Knock off that last six-and-six,” demanded my friend.
“But that’s for—”
“Knock it off, do you hear?” shouted Flanagan, “and receipt it.”
Fancy my astonishment! I had expected to see Shoddy persuaded to abandon his idea of calling at the office; but this was far more than I ever dreamt of.
“Oh, Flanagan,” I began, “you really—”
“Shut up,” said Flanagan. “May as well owe it to me as Shoddy. There,” added he, putting down the money and giving me the receipt, “and look here, Mr Shoddy, the next time you try your sharp practice on us I change my tailor.”
“And now,” said he, putting a note into my hand, “this will help to square accounts with Hawkesbury and some of the others. Mind you pay it back, do you hear?”
Before I could even turn to speak to him he had bolted round the corner and vanished!
Chapter Thirty.
How I paid off a Score, and made a rather Awkward Discovery.
I stood staring at the five-pound note which Flanagan had left in my hand in a state of utter bewilderment.
My first impulse was to give chase to my benefactor and compel him to take back the money. My second was to do nothing of the sort, but rejoice with thankfulness over the help thus unexpectedly sent me.
It was little enough I had done to deserve any one’s kindness, and it was only too reasonable to expect to have to get myself out of my own troubles. But here, like some good fairy, my old Irish schoolfellow had stepped on to the scene, and sent all those troubles to the right-about with a single turn of the hand.
What rejoicings Jack and I had that night over my good fortune! What careful plans we made for a systematic repayment of the loan! and how jubilantly I looked forward to handing Hawkesbury back his thirty shillings in the morning!
Since I had received that letter of his my wrath had somewhat abated towards him. Much as I disliked and suspected him, still I could not feel quite certain that he might not after all have meant well by what he did, however blundering and objectionable a way he had taken to show it. That, however, did not interfere with my satisfaction now at the prospect of being quits.
It was a positive luxury, as Jack and I entered the office next morning, to be able to meet his amiable, condescending smile in a straightforward way, and not by colouring up and looking confused and chafing inwardly.
I was anxious to get the ceremony over as soon as possible, and therefore walked straight up to his desk, and, placing the thirty shillings before him, said, in a voice which I did not trouble to conceal from the other clerks present.
“That’s the thirty shillings you paid Wallop for me the other day, Hawkesbury. I’m much obliged for the loan of it.”
If some one had informed him he was to start in five minutes for the North Pole, he could not have looked more amazed or taken aback. Nothing, evidently, had been farther from his thoughts than that I should be able to repay the loan, and to have it here returned into his hands before I had been his debtor a week fairly astonished him.
His face darkened suddenly into an expression very unusual with him, as he looked first at the money, then at me.
However, I gave him no time to say anything, but hurried off to my desk, feeling—for the first time since my return to Hawk Street—that there was not a man at the office I dared not look in the face.
As I expected, he sidled up to me at the first opportunity.
“Batchelor,” said he, “you must really take the money back. I am sure you must want it. I should be quite uncomfortable to feel I was depriving you of it.”
And so saying, he actually laid the two coins down on my desk.
“Thank you,” I began; “but if—”
“Please don’t talk so loud,” said he; “I would rather everybody didn’t hear.”
“Then,” said I, “kindly take the money off my desk. It’s yours.”
“But, really, Batchelor, I don’t feel comfortable—”
“I do,” I interrupted.
“I am sure you are not in a position to afford it,” said he. “Excuse my asking, but—”
“I suppose you’d like to know where I got it from,” said I, irritated at his persistency. “You may be surprised to hear I didn’t steal it, and equally surprised to hear I have no notion of gratifying your curiosity.”
I was perfectly amazed at my own hardihood in thus addressing him. But now I had paid him I was afraid of him no more. He was too much put out to keep up his chronic smile as he said. “I hardly expected to be spoken to in this way by you, Batchelor, after all that has happened. If you had been left to yourself, I’m sure you would not have spoken so, but your friend Smith appears to have a special spite against me.”
I was tempted to retort, but did not, and he went back pensively to his desk, taking the money with him.
The remainder of the five-pound note served to discharge my debts to the Twins, and to Tucker, the pastrycook, and Weeden, the tobacconist. The last two I paid myself; the first I sent by Doubleday, not wishing to encounter again the familiar heroes of the “usual lot.”
It was with a light heart and a sense of burden removed from my life that I returned that evening to the lodgings, whither jack had preceded me.
On my arrival I found him in a state of uneasiness.
“Very queer,” said he, “Billy’s not turned up. He was to be here at seven, and it’s now half-past; I never knew him late before.”
“Very likely he’s had some unexpected customers to detain him,” I said.
“Not likely. Billy wouldn’t be late for an appointment here if the Prince of Wales himself came to get his boots blacked.”
“What can have become of him, then?” I said.
“I wish I knew. I am afraid he’s got into trouble.”
We waited another half-hour, and no Billy appeared. Smith looked more and more anxious.
“I think,” said he, “we’d better go and look for him, Fred; what do you say?”
“I’ll come, certainly,” said I; “but where do you expect to find him?”
“If there is no sign of him in Style Street, I expect he’ll be in the court where his mother lives.”
I had a lively recollection of my last visit to that aristocratic thoroughfare. But I did not wish to seem unwilling to accompany Jack in his quest. Only I rather hoped we should find our man—or boy—in Style Street.
But that we did not do. The flagstone on which he was wont to establish his box was there, bare and unoccupied except for the scrawling letters and sums traced out with his finger-tip. High or low, he was not to be found in Style Street.
We went on in the growing dark towards the court.
“Do you know the house he lives at?”
“I’m not sure,” said Jack.
“Do you know what name to inquire for?”
“No, only Billy,” said Jack.
“Don’t you think,” said I, “it’s rather unlikely we shall come across him in a crowded court like that, knowing neither the name nor the house where he lives?”
“Let us try, anyhow,” said Jack.
We went on, and soon reached the well-known “slum.” I must confess honestly I would rather not have entered. Last time we had been there one of us had been struck by smallpox, and both had had to run for our lives, and it seemed to me—perhaps my illness had made me a coward—that we were running an unnecessary risk now by plunging into it just because Billy happened to be an hour late for an appointment.
However, Jack was determined, and I was determined to stick by Jack.
When we first entered, the court was as before, swarming with men and women and children, and in the crowd we passed some way unnoticed.
Presently, however, Jack stopped and asked a woman—
“Do you know in what house a little boy called Billy who black boots lives?”
The woman who was engaged in sewing a black sleeve on to an old grey coat, looked up sharply, and demanded—
“What do you want to know for?”
“I want to see him,” said Jack.
“What do you want to see him for?”
“He didn’t come to the ragged school to-night.”
The woman flared up.
“We don’t want none of your ragged schools! You go and teach yourselves manners—that’s what you’d better do, and don’t come nosing about here—as if we couldn’t get on without a parcel of snuffing young prigs like you to tell us what to do. That’s what I think of you.”
And the honest British matron tossed her head in a huff, and went on with her patchwork.
“If everybody was as honest as you,” said Jack—where the sly dog learned the art of flattery I can’t imagine—“no one would interfere. But we are afraid Billy’s mother is not very good to him.”
The woman looked up again, as if not quite sure what to make of this speech. But Jack looked so much in earnest that she said, shortly—
“You’re about right there. I’m a poor woman, but I hope I know better than to make a beast of myself to my own childer.”
Then she knew Billy, and could tell us where he lived after all.
Jack began, almost confidentially—
“Do you think—”
But he got no farther just then, for we had not noticed a group of idlers who, attracted by our presence in the court, and curious to know our business, had gathered round, and now began, half in jest, half in earnest, to hustle us, crying—
“Go on home. Go and teach yourselves. We don’t want none of your ABC.”
We thought it wise to walk slowly on, without appearing to be running away.
About half way up the court, however, a further stoppage occurred.
This was occasioned by the appearance of another stranger in the court besides ourselves—a clergyman, who, with a small but offence-less crowd at his heels, was making a grand tour of the various houses and flats.
He was a tall, kindly-looking man, with hair just turning white, who looked like a man who did not spare himself or live for himself. He had a pleasant word for everybody, however unpleasant and unpromising they might seem, and bore all the remarks and jests of unfriendly loafers with great good-humour and composure.
The sight of him in the midst of our difficulties was most welcome. We quickened our steps to meet him. The knot of roughs who were following us looked on this as a rout, and set up a yell of defiance. Others, seeing us walking rapidly away, joined in the demonstration, and one or two, not content with following us with their voices, followed us with stones.
Just as we came up to the clergyman a stone intended for one of us whizzed past my ear, and struck him on the cheek. He never moved a muscle, or even looked to see where it came from, but walked on to meet us.
“Oh! sir,” said Jack, stepping forward, “we’re so glad to meet you. We’re looking for a little boy called Billy, who lives in this court, who generally comes to our ragged school, but wasn’t there this evening. He’s a shoeblack. Do you know where he lives?”
“I wish I could tell you,” said the clergyman, “but this is my first visit here. Where is your school?”
“Oh, it’s not properly a school, but Billy and sometimes one or two others come to our lodgings, and learn to write and read. He has never missed before. That’s what makes me fear something is wrong.”
At that moment the object of our search stood before us, with his usual grin wider than ever.
“What cheer, blokes?” was his greeting. “Oh, ’ere, governor, I reckon you’re a-goin’ to turn me up ’cos I wasn’t at the racket school. But my old gal, she’s a-missin’. She’s always a-skylarkin’ somewheres, she is, and I was a-lookin’ for her.”
“Have you found her?” asked Jack, whose pleasure at finding his young protégé was unconcealed.
“Found ’er! No; but I knows where she is.”
“Where?”
“In the station, for smashin’ winders. Ain’t she a wonner?”
“My poor boy!” said the clergyman, sympathisingly.
“Ga on! I ain’t your boy. Don’t know yer; I’m this ’ere bloke’s chap, and I ain’t a-goin’ to be larned by no one else.”
It was impossible to avoid smiling at this frank declaration, seriously as it was uttered.
“When did your mother get into trouble?” asked Jack.
“This very afternoon, bless ’er old ’art. She was on the fly all yesterday, a-goin’ on any’ow. So I comes round afore the racket school, to see if she was a-coolin’ down, and, there! if she ’adn’t hooked it! I ’as a good look up and down the court, but she’d walked. So I cuts to the nighest station, and sees a pal o’ mine outside. ‘It’s all right,’ says he; ‘she’s in there,’ meaning the lock-up. ‘Wot was she up to?’ says I. ‘Winders agin,’ he says. So she’s all safe, she is.”
“I tell you what it is, Billy,” said Smith. “I’m afraid you let her spend the money you get for blacking boots on drink. That’s what gets her into trouble.”
“That ain’t no concern of yourn,” said Billy. Then, suddenly correcting himself, he added, “Leastways it ain’t no concern of these here two blokes. Mister, I say, governor, is it too late for to learn me to-night?”
“Yes, it’s too late to-night; but we’ll have the school to-morrow instead. Where will you live while your mother’s away?”
“Oh, ain’t you funny!” said the boy, with a grin. “As if a chap liked me lived anywheres!”
“Well,” said Jack, taking my arm, and not desirous to prolong the discussion, “mind you turn up to-morrow, Billy.”
“No fears,” cried Billy, with a grin, accompanying us for a step or two, walking on his hands.
“That’s a most extraordinary lad,” said the clergyman.
“There’s a lot of good in him,” responded Smith.
“And you are doing your best to bring it out,” said the clergyman.
“Which way are you going?” said he, when presently with no further adventure we had got through the court.
“To Drury Lane,” said I.
“Ah, down this street. That’s my way too. Will you just come into my house and have a bit of supper?”
Jack never liked accepting invitations, but there was something so friendly and simple-minded about this clergyman that it would almost have seemed rude to say no.
“This is quite a new part of the town to me,” said he, as we walked along. “I suppose you know it well?”
“Yes,” said I, “we lived close here for some months.”
“I wished you lived here still,” he said. “I want workers of your sort in my new parish.”
He insisted on including me in his compliments, not knowing how little I deserved them.
“My walk this evening,” said he, “is really the first serious voyage of discovery I have made in my parish, and the result is not very encouraging. It seems a very low neighbourhood, worse a good deal than I expected. However, there will be all the more to do.”
There was something so modest and yet so resolute in the way he spoke that we both liked him.
His house, a dull-looking City rectory, was at the end of the street, and here we halted.
“We’re rather in a state of confusion here,” said he, as he rang the bell, “we only moved in this week. So you must take us as you find us.”
We entered, and were ushered into a pleasant parlour, which appeared to be the only completely furnished room at present.
“Is Mr Edward at home?” asked our host of the servant.
“Yes, sir, he’s upstairs.”
“Ask him to come down,” said he, “and bring in supper.”
He explained to us that Edward was his son, whom he would like us to know.
“I’m often sorry for him,” said the father; “he has no mother, and I am too much occupied to be much with him. I wish he had some good friends in London.”
He emphasised the word “good,” as much as to say that some of his son’s friends were not very desirable.
The servant brought in supper, and said that Master Edward would be down presently.
Meanwhile our host chatted pleasantly, chiefly about his parish and his plans for improving it. I could not help admiring him more and more as he went on. He was not, to all appearance, a very clever man, but there was an honest ring about all he said which made me feel that, had I only known him in the months past I might have been spared many of my follies and troubles.
At last there was a step in the hall outside, and the door opened. What was our amazement and consternation when we beheld in Edward, the good clergyman’s son—Hawkesbury!
Our consternation, however, hardly exceeded his, on seeing who his father’s visitors were. And as for the clergyman himself, the sight of our mutual astonishment fairly took him aback.
It was half a minute at least before any one could sufficiently recover his surprise to speak. During the interval my great fear was how Smith would act. I knew he detested Hawkesbury, and believed him to be a hypocrite and a deceiver, and I knew too that he was rarely able to contain himself when face to face with the fellow. How he would behave now, a guest in the father’s house, I could not imagine. Fool that I was! I was always doubting my friend!
“Why, how is this,” said Mr Hawkesbury, “you seem to know one another?”
“Yes,” said I, “Hawkesbury here is at Merrett, Barnacle, and Company’s with Smith and me.”
“How very curious!” said the clergyman; “and, to be sure, I neither knew your names, nor you mine. Well, as you all know one another, I needn’t introduce you.”
“Father,” said Hawkesbury, standing still at the door, “I want to speak to you a moment, please.”
“Yes, presently; but come in now, Edward, we are waiting to begin supper. Now, what an odd coincidence to come across you in this way!”
“I want to speak to you, father,” again said Hawkesbury.
The father looked vexed as he turned towards his son.
Smith rose at the same moment and said, holding out his hand to Mr Hawkesbury, “I think, if you will excuse us, we had better go, sir.”
“What, before supper! why, how is this?”
“I think your son would rather not have us here,” said Jack, solemnly.
The father looked in amazement, first at us, then at his son, who once more asked to speak to his father.
The good man, in evident bewilderment, begged us to excuse him for a moment. But Jack, taking my arm once more, said, before our host could leave the room, “Good-night, sir. Thank you very much for your kindness.”
And before I well knew where I was, we were standing out in the street.