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A FRIGHT FOR TOM.
TOM'S cold was not much better the next morning, but he went to work as usual, for it might be the last chance he would have of putting back the ten shillings that had caused him far more anxiety than any pleasure he might get out of his winnings would ever compensate for. And if he had found that the lad who usually took the desk had returned to his employment, then he would have been in worse trouble than ever.
But fortunately for Tom, a message was brought from the boy's father saying he was still too unwell to come back, and so Tom went to the desk again, and in the course of the day entered the bill he had received a day or two before and put the money back.
It was so great a relief to his mind when this was done, that his companions noticed the difference in him, and one or two asked if he had been paid what he had won on Tittlebrat, and suggested that he ought to stand hot drinks all round when they went out at dinner time, for as he was the only one among them who had made anything out of that race it was only fair that he should do this.
But poor Tom had not a penny he could call his own, although he found it hard to make the others understand this. They badgered him so about his winnings, that in a moment of inadvertence, he let out the fact that he had received ten shillings the previous evening.
"Ten shillings!" shouted one. "Why, that's more than ever I had in my life. What a swell you must be, Flowers! I say, we shall want cake all round, as well as hot drinks out of that. What do you say?" he added, addressing himself to Bob.
If it had been his own case, Bob would have responded heartily enough to the proposal, not only for hot drinks and cake, but some other delicacy into the bargain, and that Tom should not do the same was something beyond comprehension to all of them.
But however willing Tom might have been to stand treat, if he had got the money, he was obliged to shake his head now. "I really can't," he said in a serious tone, trying to push his way through the ring they had formed round him.
"Can't stand us a drink round, and—"
"I'll have clove," shouted one, interrupting the speaker.
"I'll have raspberry," said another.
"Oh, bother raspberry, I'm going to have pineapple," put in another.
"Suppose we walk him off to the shop and order what we like and then he can pay for it," suggested one of the party.
"I won't, though, I can tell you," said Tom, getting angry at being thus baited.
"Look here, you fellows, it ain't fair," put in Bob, when he saw they were going to walk Tom off by main force to the shop. "You leave it to me, and I'll talk it over with Flowers." And he linked his arm in Tom's to walk with him, and this would probably have pacified the rest, but Tom would have nothing to do with any of them now. He regarded Bob as being one of his tormentors, and pushed him aside when he came near him.
But in spite of this rough treatment, he contrived to say, "Look here, Tom, it's the usual thing to stand treat round when one of us gets a slice of luck, like you've got over Tittlebrat. Not that I want it for myself, for I shan't have a chance of returning it, so I won't take it, because I've promised that I'll never have any more to do with betting or gambling of any sort, I got bit so hard over this."
"So have I," interrupted Tom, in a tone of bitterness.
Bob opened his eyes to hear this. "I thought you stood to win a lot of money on Tittlebrat?" he gasped.
"So I did, but I ain't got it yet," replied Tom.
"But—but—I thought you told the fellows just now that you had ten shillings last night?"
"So I did; but I had to pay it away directly, for I had borrowed it."
Bob uttered a low whistle. "Borrowed it," he repeated. "My, suppose you had lost?" And he fixed his eyes on Tom as he spoke.
"Oh, but I knew I shouldn't lose; I had a sure tip about that, or I wouldn't have done it."
"Who lent you the money—your aunt?"
"My aunt? Catch her at it. No, no, they know nothing about it at home. My friend Jack managed it all for me."
"And gave you the tip, too?" asked Bob. At that moment he felt sorely tempted again, but he bravely told of the promise he had given his mother. "It was the shawl that did it," he explained, and then he told Tom how he had risked every penny he could scrape together on the favourite horse and lost it all.
"It was a pity," said Tom, thinking of Dick's gloves when Bob spoke of his mother's shawl.
"Yes, and I was in a fright when I had to tell mother where the money had gone. But still, it might have been worse, for if I had borrowed money as you did, and lost that, I should have been in a worse fix, and you might be in that hole now, you know, Tom."
Tom turned deadly pale at the suggestion. "Yes, I might," he said. But it was not a pleasant subject to think of, and so he contrived to turn the conversation, and when he had an opportunity turned back to the warehouse for the rest of the dinner hour, instead of going on with the rest of his companions.
He took care to avoid Bob when they went home, for fear he should say any more about the borrowed money. The very mention of it put him into a fright, especially since he had told him that he had not got it from his aunt or uncle.
As soon as he got indoors, his aunt told him that his uncle had left word that he was going to bring the gloves home with him, and he was to write the letter to send with them before he went to bed.
"Very well, aunt," said Tom, trying to speak indifferently, but really wishing he had never heard of the gloves, for he had no money to pay for them, and unless he met Jack that night and got some from him, he would have to tell his uncle that the shilling he had the week before had gone now; and what his aunt would say he hardly cared to think.
So as soon as he had finished his tea, he slipped out without saying a word to his aunt, and she did not know he had gone, until she called him down to begin his letter, when finding he did not answer, she went to see if he had gone to bed, and then found out, that he must have gone out, as the room was empty.
Meanwhile Tom had gone to look for his friend Jack, in the hope of obtaining at least a part of the money he had won on the race.
But although he met his friend a few minutes after he reached the corner of the street, Jack appeared to be greatly surprised that he should want more money from him so soon. "What can you be in such a hurry about? Are you afraid I shall run away?" he said petulantly. "I told you last night it was impossible to get it all in a minute. I gave you ten shillings; how much more do you want?"
"Why, I want my share, of course," replied Tom, whose temper had not been improved by what he had put up with from his companions at the warehouse. "You talk about giving me ten shillings, you only gave me five."
"You're a liar, I gave you ten," said Jack.
"Yes, but you owed me five of it, so that I have only had five of my share," retorted Tom, in the same angry tone.
"And what about my commission? You always seem to forget that."
"You don't, though. What do you mean about commission? Didn't I give you a shilling for telling me about Tittlebrat? How much more do you want?" asked Tom.
"Why, my commission, to be sure. Do you think bookmakers can live on air, or that they have good berths among City swells?"
"Well, then, we will cry quits about the five shillings I lent you, although you never said anything about it when you had it, and I thought you meant to pay me back."
"What do you mean by that?" demanded Jack, in a more angry tone. "Didn't I tell you yesterday that I wanted my commission?"
"And I say you can have it out of the ten shillings. I say we cry quits, and when you've paid me up the rest of the money you owe me, I'll never have any more to do with racing and betting as long as I live."
"Don't be a fool, Tom," said the other, in a changed tone. "You shall have your money right enough, and I'll make you a present of what I usually charge for commission. Suppose we go into the music-hall just below here, and there we can settle up?"
"Can't we do it here?" said Tom sulkily. "I want to get back and write a letter before I go to bed."
"Oh, blow the letter, that can wait. We've never been to a music-hall, and it would be a shame not to go to-night."
"Oh, very well, then, we'll go," said Tom, who would have been ready to go anywhere for the chance of getting some money just then.
So they went to the brilliantly-lighted hall, and it was not wonderful that the country lad should be so dazzled with the music and singing, and all that went on, as to well-nigh forget the special object for which they had come. His companion hoped he would altogether forget it, and when an hour had passed and Tom was still listening in rapt admiration to the music, his companion thought he might safely slip out and leave Tom to go home by himself.
But Tom was on the alert as soon as Jack rose from his seat, and rose too. "Are you going now?" he asked. "Let's have our settlement first," he added, "or there will be no end of a row over those gloves I told you about."
"Oh, bother the gloves," muttered Jack as he sat down again. "You're a sharper, Tom," he added, by way of flattering Tom, for he had no intention of letting him slip through his fingers without making a little more profit out of him, and to do this in the future it would be better to let him have some of the money that had been won by means of the ten shillings. So as they sat down again, he pulled a handful of silver out of his pocket. "Will a pound do for to-night?" he asked, in a tone of grand indifference, as though pounds were as plentiful as blackberries in autumn.
Tom's eyes sparkled at the sight of so much money. "Yes, that will do," he said in a tone of eagerness, thankful for the chance of getting it.
But he soon found it was not all to be his.
"You'll stand treat for to-night's expenses, of course," said Jack, counting fifteen shillings into his hand.
Tom counted, too, and looked a little surprised when his friend put the rest of the money back into his pocket. "I thought you said I was to have a pound off my account?" he ventured to say.
"And haven't you got it?" demanded Jack, with a frown.
"No, there's only fifteen shillings here," replied Tom.
"And didn't you agree to stand treat for to-night?" demanded the other. "I've done it a good many times for you," he added.
"But—but—you only paid two shillings to come in," said Tom.
"And what about the drinks we have had?" asked Jack, who had been drinking gin-and-water pretty freely all the evening.
"I only had a bottle of ginger-beer," replied Tom.
"Well? And I told you I didn't like ginger-beer, and didn't you say I was to have what I liked? I tell you, Tom, you don't know how to behave like a gentleman," concluded Jack in a tone of contempt.
"Oh, well, if it's all right I don't mind," said Tom, thinking he had better make the best of it.
"Are you coming now?" he added, as he put the money into his pocket.
Jack shook his head. "Sit down again, Tom," he said. "What's your hurry, it ain't ten o'clock yet."
"But I must go or I shall get into no end of a row at home, for aunt told me not to go out till I had written that letter."
"Ah! Petticoat government, I understand," said Jack, in a tone meant to be facetious.
"When will you have the rest ready for me?" asked Tom, lingering a minute to lean over Jack's seat.
"Oh, very soon, my boy, very soon; we are good friends, you and I, Tom. I won't hurt you, never fear," he added in a maudlin tone.
"All right," answered Tom. "Good-night." And then he made his way out of the hall and ran home as fast as he could.
With all that money in his pocket he was not afraid to face his aunt and uncle, even though he had not written the letter. But it would not do, he thought, to let them see he had so much money, for they would be sure to ask inconvenient questions.
So before he went indoors, he tied up most of the money in the corner of his pocket-handkerchief, and only put the eighteenpence he wanted for his uncle into his purse.
As he expected, he was met with a storm of reproaches from his aunt, because he had not done as he had been told, but his uncle came in while his aunt was scolding and he soon put an end to it.
"There will be time enough to-morrow," he said, "only it must not be left later, if Dick is to have the gloves for Christmas. What money have you got towards them now, my lad?" he asked, as he pulled a small parcel out of his pocket.
"All of it, uncle," said Tom in a tone of triumph, producing his purse and laying the money down upon the table.
"Halloo! This ain't the shilling I gave you for the halfpence the other day," said his uncle, picking up the one he had laid down, and looking at it curiously.
"What is it?" asked Mrs. Flowers, putting down her work and leaning over the table.
"Why, look at this queer mark in it; I am sure if the one Tom had from me the other day had been marked like this, I must have noticed it." And his uncle turned the shilling about under the lamplight as though he would look through it as well as outside it.
His aunt turned her eyes from the shilling to glance at Tom, and he coloured up under her gaze. "I—I lent that shilling to a boy, uncle," he stammered, "and he paid me to-night. That was why I had to go out."
"What boy did you lend it to?" asked his uncle, still turning the shilling about in his fingers.
"The boy I told you about a little time ago—Jack."
"Jack what?" asked his aunt.
"Hasn't he got another name?" put in his uncle, finding Tom did not answer this question.
"Yes, he has, I expect, but I don't know it," answered Tom, in a sullen tone, and darting an angry glance at his aunt.
"You mean to tell me you lent a boy a shilling and don't even know what his name is?" said his uncle severely, putting the money down on the table to turn and look at Tom.
Tom could answer this question truthfully enough, and he said without a quiver in his voice, "Yes, uncle, he told me his name was Jack, and I told him my name was Tom Flowers, but I don't think he ever said what his other name was."
"And you never asked him?" said his aunt, in an incredulous tone.
"I think I asked him once, but he didn't hear what I said, I suppose, for he said something else, and I never asked him again."
"Well, it's a very strange story," said his aunt, suspiciously. She had never had children of her own, and knew nothing of the ways of boys, or she might not have been so surprised at this.
Her husband was not. But the mark on that shilling troubled him, and instead of putting it loose in his pocket, he put it into his purse to take care of it, in case any more should be heard of it.
Tom went to bed uncomfortable enough, for he had no such confidence in Jack as to feel reassured about the matter, and so there was another night of hideous dreams for him.
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THE WAY OF TRANSGRESSORS IS HARD.
AT breakfast time the next morning Tom's uncle took the shilling again from his purse, and turned it about in his hand. "I hope you haven't got yourself mixed up with any young thief, Master Tom?" he said. "I saw one of your people yesterday, and he told me you were getting on very well, and if this lad who has been away on account of his health is not able to come back, you would stand a very good chance of getting into the office altogether, and that would be a good lift for you."
"Yes, uncle," said Tom, in rather an absent tone, for he was wishing he had never seen Jack, or had kept clear of having anything to do with him.
He went to work feeling desperately miserable again, and wishing he had never come to London, but had been content to be a blacksmith like his father. But this last wish did not last long. Oh, he could not live in the country all his life, he was quite sure, he said to himself.
The fuss his uncle had been making over the shilling being marked need not frighten him. He had not stolen it. And even if anyone found out that he had got it, they were not to know how it was Jack had to pay him this money, unless he told, and he made up his mind he would not do that.
He also decided that he would not go to meet Jack that evening, but stay at home and write a letter to his mother and Dick to send with the gloves.
On his way back he stopped to look into a shop window at the Christmas cards displayed in tempting profusion, for he thought he might buy one for his mother, without telling his uncle anything about it; for if he knew he had more money than the eighteenpence he had paid for the gloves, he might ask a good many inconvenient questions about the matter.
It was some time, however, before he could make up his mind which one to select, and at last when the choice was made, and he went into the shop to buy it, he found to his dismay that he had got no money to pay for it.
While the man was wrapping up the card, Tom was turning out his pockets. There was a ball of string, sundry ends of blacklead-pencil, his empty purse, but the pocket-handkerchief in which the whole of his wealth was tied up in one corner was not to be found.
"What is it?" asked the man, after waiting for a minute or two, while Tom searched through another pocket.
"I have lost my money," gasped Tom.
The man came round the counter to look on the floor, thinking he had just dropped it. And Tom himself gazed round the shop in the hope of seeing the familiar red handkerchief, for it seemed impossible that it could have vanished since dinner time.
He tried to recollect whether he had taken it out since he had counted over his treasure during the dinner hour, but he could not remember doing so. He did not go out for a walk to-day, for fear Randall and the rest of them should set upon him again to treat them to hot drinks and cakes, for Tom had no notion of spending this money on anyone but himself. He had enjoyed his visit to the music-hall, and meant to go again with Jack, when this fuss about the marked shilling had blown over a little.
He had thought of all this as he counted the money over at dinner time, and to think that the whole of it had vanished, and with it all chance of going to see the splendours of the place again was very hard.
"Was it sixpence or a shilling that you dropped?" asked the man, as he searched among the toys and walking-sticks that stood about on the floor.
"I had it all tied up in my handkerchief," replied Tom.
"Tied in a handkerchief," repeated the man; "then you can't have lost it here, you must have dropped it before you came into the shop, or else somebody took it out of your pocket for you."
But Tom shook his head to this suggestion. If he had walked home with Bob Ronan, he would have thought this had been done, for Bob might do it for a joke just to frighten him, but Bob had left him while he was putting on his overcoat, and he had not seen him since.
But it was clear the pocket-handkerchief and all it contained was beyond his reach now, and it was of no use waiting to look for it here.
"You can take the card and pay me for it when you go past in the morning," said the shopkeeper as Tom was leaving.
Tom hesitated, but at last, thinking that he should have his week's threepence the next day, and that his mother would expect him to send her some remembrance of Christmas, he decided to take the card, saying as he did so, "I may not be able to pay you until to-morrow evening, but I suppose that will do?"
"Oh yes, that will do, you're riot a stranger about here, I know, for I often see you pass in the morning. I hope you will find your money at home," he added, as Tom took up the little paper parcel and went out of the shop.
"I hope I shall," said Tom from the doorway, and just then a policeman came from the window, where he had evidently been looking in, and turned his attention to Tom as he sauntered past.
"I hope he'll know me next time," muttered Tom, with an uncomfortable feeling, as he thought of the shilling his uncle had got secure in his purse.
He wondered as he went along how much more annoyance he was to have through this money. Certainly, he had got nothing but misery out of it at present, it was time his "luck" changed in this respect, he thought.
As soon as he got home, he went to his own room, and looked round, as we are all apt to do when we have missed anything that yet seems impossible we can have lost entirely. Tom knew he had taken his money out at dinner time, and counted it, and yet he searched round the room at home, as though he expected to find it there.
This rushing off upstairs before he had thoroughly cleaned his boots on the doormat vexed his aunt, who prided herself on the spotless condition of her stair covers, which had just been laid down for Christmas.
"Tom, Tom," she called, "what business have you to go upstairs until after tea? I have just put down clean drugget, and it will not be fit to be seen in a week, if you run up and down stairs as you like."
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AN UNWELCOME VISITOR.
Tom came slowly down, and went into the back parlour to his tea, but he had only just seated himself when there came a knock at the door. Tom did not as a rule trouble himself about who came to the street door, and why this particular knock should make him start and tremble he could not tell, but his hand shook so, as he lifted his teacup, that he was obliged to put it down again, and listen to what was going on at the end of the passage.
"Your name is Flowers, I believe?" he heard a gruff voice say.
And his aunt replied in her stiffest tones, "Yes, it is, what do you want?"
"Well, it's a little business I have to see your husband about—has he come in yet? The lad who lives here has, I know, for I saw him as I came along."
"Yes, and you can see him again. Tom!" she called, coming down the passage as she spoke.
Tom could have wished he was deaf just then, but it was of no use to pretend that he did not hear, though he was only just dragging himself out of the chair when his aunt appeared at the door.
"Did you hear me call you, Tom?" she said, looking at him very suspiciously.
"Yes, I'm coming. Who wants me?" he said, trying to speak indifferently.
He knew before he rose from the tea table who he was likely to see standing there on the doormat, and yet when his eyes fell on the uniform of the policeman who stood just under the gaslight, his knees threatened to give way under him.
"Yes, that's the lad; I thought I wasn't mistaken," said the man.
And Tom expected to be seized and carried off, but the man turned away again as soon as he had identified him.
This gave Tom a little more courage. "What do you want me for?" he ventured to ask.
"Oh, you'll know all in good time, my man," said the policeman, turning to his aunt and whispering something to her.
"You can go back, Tom," she said, turning and speaking over her shoulder.
Tom went back, but he had no more appetite for his tea. He listened intently to what was being said at the street door.
But beyond hearing his aunt say, "Yes, he is sure to be in about ten," which Tom guessed referred to his uncle's return, he could hear nothing.
But he noticed that his aunt locked the street door before she came in, and when he went out to wash himself, he looked and saw that the key was not in the lock as usual, so he concluded that the door had been fastened to keep him in.
He wondered whether they thought he would run away if he had the chance, but turning things over in his mind, Tom decided that if he only stuck to his tale that he had merely lent Jack a shilling, which he repaid with a marked one, nothing else need be known, and surely he could not be blamed for that.
So while he washed himself, he made up his mind what he would do and say when the policeman came again, as he had no doubt he would as soon as his uncle came home.
He wrote his letters during the evening, one to his mother into which he put the Christmas card, and in which he told her how well he was getting on, and how he expected to be permanently put into the office soon. Then there was one to his aunt at the village school, and this had to be carefully written, for he knew this would go to the rectory, and so the same story was told to her, but in more carefully chosen words.
Dick's letter to be sent with the gloves was written next, and in this Tom gave a glowing account of his life in London and the splendid streets, where people could walk at night as well as in the daytime. The two last were left open for his uncle to see, but Tom fastened up his mother's, for he did not want him to know he had bought the Christmas card, for fear he should ask inconvenient questions, and he had made up his mind to stick to the story that he had only lent Jack a shilling.
He felt sleepy, but his aunt said he must stay until his uncle came home, and so he had to sit yawning and gaping for nearly an hour.
But at last his uncle's key was heard turning in the lock. And then his aunt ran along the passage, calling, "Wait a minute," while she found the key of the larger lock and unfastened the door.
"What does this mean, Maria?" asked his uncle.
But instead of replying, uncle and aunt both went into the front parlour, and a few minutes later there came the loud knock at the door such as they had heard at tea time.
The policeman was asked into the front room, and then the door closed and Tom could only hear the indistinct murmur of voices.
He wished he could know what was being said, but he firmly made up his mind to say nothing about the betting, but stick to his tale about lending Jack a shilling only.
Presently the door of the front room opened and his uncle came in, followed by the policeman and his aunt.
"It's warmer here," remarked his uncle, taking no notice of Tom, but motioning the policeman to a seat near the fire.
"No, thank you," said the man, seating himself so that he could have the light of the lamp on Tom's face.
"Now, Tom," began his uncle, "we want you to tell us all about the shilling you brought home last night."
"I told you, uncle, Jack gave it to me."
"Ah, but how was it this Jack came to be giving you shillings, that's what I want to get at?" And if Tom had not been so pre-occupied in resolving not to say a word that should reveal what really had taken place, he must have noticed that there was an almost imploring ring in his uncle's voice as he added, "Now, Tom, tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."
"I have, uncle," said Tom, assuming an air of indignant protest.
"Do you mean to say you only lent this boy a shilling. When did you lend it?" asked his uncle more severely.
"Oh, the other day," replied Tom indifferently.
"Yes, but what day?" persisted his uncle.
"Last week, I think, the day after I told you I'd got a shilling towards Dick's gloves," answered Tom.
"Did this Jack ever say anything to you about betting or card-playing?" asked the policeman, with a look that made Tom drop his eyes.
"No," he answered in a sullen tone.
"Now, Tom, if you know anything, tell us about it at once," implored his uncle.
But Tom shook his head. "I've told you all about it," he said.
"And you've nothing more to say?" enquired the policeman.
"What more did you want me to say?" asked Tom, in a tone of insolence.
"Where did you get the money to buy the Christmas cards with?" The policeman asked the question in a matter-of-course tone.
And Tom started, but recollecting that his mother's letter was fastened up, he thought he might brave it out.
"I didn't buy any Christmas cards," he said; "you must be mistaken."
But the policeman shook his head. "I know my business too well for that," he said. "Didn't you tell the man you had lost some money that was tied up in a pocket-handkerchief?"
Tom hesitated, and turned rosy red, but thinking as the handkerchief and money was gone, he might as well deny ever having it, he answered, "No, I haven't lost any money."
Then the policeman turned to his uncle. "It's a bad business altogether, I am afraid," he said. "I thought this lad might have been led away by that artful young bookmaker, as several others have, but it seems to me he can hold his own for artfulness and lying with Jack himself. Just let him put on his coat and come with us, and I'll take you to the shop where he bought this card, and you will hear that he could not find his money, and the shopkeeper let him have the card, and he promised to take the money to-morrow evening."
The policeman rose as he spoke, and at the same moment his eye fell on the corner of a letter that had been pushed under a book, as they came into the room. "What is this?" he said, pouncing upon it instantly.
"That's my mother's letter," said Tom, trying to snatch it from the policeman's hand.
"Let me see it," interposed his uncle, and the next minute he had torn open the letter, and drew out the Christmas card.
"Now, what do you say to him being a truthful boy?" exclaimed the policeman as Mr. Flowers laid the Christmas card down on the table.
"Tom! Tom! What can have possessed you to tell such a lie?" he said.
Tom hung his head, but did not reply. Even now the foolish boy was considering how much he might safely hide, and how much he had better tell. At last he had made up his story.
"I had lent Jack more than one shilling," he said, "and he paid me altogether, and gave me sixpence for interest."
"How much did you have altogether?" asked his uncle.
"Two shillings and sixpence," answered Tom.
"I don't believe it," said his aunt, now speaking for the first time.
The policeman made no comment, but he felt sure they had by no means got to the bottom of the mystery yet, and after a few more questions, the policeman and Mr. Flowers went into the next room to talk the matter over.
What conclusion they arrived at Tom did not know, but when his uncle came back he told him he might go to bed, and that he should go with him to the warehouse in the morning, and see what he could find out there that would throw light upon his doings.
Tom heard now that some lad had been robbing his master to pay his betting debts to this Jack, and at last some marked money was paid to him, and the very shilling Tom had given to his uncle for the gloves was part of this marked money.
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CONCLUSION.
TOM kept up an appearance of not caring for anything the policeman had said, so long as he was in the presence of his uncle and aunt, but as soon as he got up to his own room all his courage forsook him, and he burst into tears, and cried softly to himself for nearly an hour after he got into bed.
He was beginning to dread these restless nights with their hideous dreams, and he knew this would be, as others had been, a terror and a torment until morning came, and what awaited him in the morning he dreaded to think.
In the morning he found his uncle was fully determined to carry out his intention of going with him to the City, and speaking to Mr. Phillips of what had happened, and the two started out together.
Very little had been said at breakfast time, and the two walked silently along the road, for Mr. Flowers had made up his mind not to appeal to Tom's better feelings any more. In point of fact, since he had talked the matter over with his wife, and heard all she had to say, he had come to the conclusion that his nephew was very little better than this Jack himself, and that he had been altogether deceived in him.
They had walked some distance towards the City, when all at once Tom heard his name called, and looking round he saw Bob Ronan running towards him, and flourishing a red handkerchief, the one he had lost the previous day.
"I didn't know it had got money in it," roared Bob, as he came panting along, quite oblivious of the presence of Tom's uncle until he came up to them, and then he started with open mouth, as Mr. Flowers turned round, and holding out his hand said, in a severe tone, "You give me that handkerchief, my man."
Bob looked from one to the other and saw that things had gone wrong with his friend somehow, and thought his own love of fun might have caused the trouble.
"I hope you ain't angry with Tom because he lost this money, sir," he said, looking hard at Tom as he spoke.
"Never mind that now, you just give me the handkerchief, and tell me where you got it?"
"Why, out of Tom's pocket, to be sure," said Bob. "I only did it for a lark, just as we were going home last night, and if I'd knowed there was money tied in it, I wouldn't have touched it."
"What do you know about this money?" asked Mr. Flowers, rather severely, eyeing him as though he was as much to blame as Tom for what had happened.
"Why, I know it's his own," answered Bob, resenting the tone in which he had been addressed, and determined to defend Tom, as he supposed. "I suppose he told you it was his own—what he won on Tittlebrat the other day, I expect."
"You expect," repeated Mr. Flowers. "What do you know about it?"
"Why, I know he won a lot of money on Tittlebrat," avowed Bob. "Didn't he tell you so himself?"
"Never mind what he told me. What did you win on this race?"
Bob shook his head, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. "No more racing for me," he said. "I've given my mother my word, and I don't mean to break it for nobody. For I just chucked away her new shawl over this, and if that ain't enough to choke a fellow off, I don't know what is."
Mr. Flowers could not help smiling at the boy's rueful face as he said this. He admired him, too, for the determination with which he spoke, and he said, "Did you tell your mother what had happened, my boy?"
"Ah, that I did. I just had it all out, though I thought it would break her heart to hear that all the money I had saved to buy her winter shawl had been thrown away on these races."
"Then it was your own money you risked?" said Tom's uncle.
Bob stared at the question. "To be sure it was. Did you think I stole it?" he said rather resentfully.
"No, I don't think you would, my boy, but some other lad has been doing this, and I must find out how far Tom has mixed himself up with him in the matter."
As he spoke, he untied the corner of the handkerchief, and took out the money, looking at it carefully as he did so. "Have you touched this at all, my lad," he said, turning to Bob. He would not say a word to Tom again after the denials he had given last night about this money.
Bob shook his head. "When I found there was money in it—and I didn't find it out till I got home—I just stuffed the handkerchief into my coat pocket ready for the morning, and didn't take it out till I saw Tom coming along here."
"Very well; now, you see, I have tied it up again as you gave it to me. I may want you to remember this by-and-by, my lad."
Bob wished he could have a word with Tom about the matter, but he walked on as though the affair did not concern him at all, and yet his companion felt sure that something very serious must have happened by what his uncle said.
In his pity for Tom, and wishing to help him, he said at last, "You don't think Tom stole this money, do you, sir? Because I know he didn't. He told me all about winning on Tittlebrat when we went down Fleet Street."
"I wanted Tom to tell me all about the affair, but he said he had got no more money then."
"Well, hadn't Bob got it?" put in Tom.
"You know what I meant well enough. The policeman had seen you with this Jack very often lately, and wanted to find out whether he had given you any marked money. If you had told the whole truth about the matter, there would have been an end of it, but now I must go to Mr. Phillips and ask him to look into his accounts and make sure that he has not been robbed as well as this other gentleman."
Tom turned pale as his uncle said this, but Mr. Flowers did not notice it as he went on talking to Bob. Perhaps, if he had any suspicion of the real facts of the case, he might have acted differently, but he supposed Tom was afraid to tell all the truth for fear of getting his friend Jack into more trouble, and he thought the threat of going to Mr. Phillips would be sufficient to induce him to tell out all he knew about Jack, whom he felt sure had duped Tom as he had other lads.
But although Tom had turned a shade paler when his uncle said what he intended to do, he thought his theft would never be discovered now the ten shillings had been replaced, and so he walked on silently by his uncle's side until the warehouse was reached, and then, to his great relief, he heard that Mr. Phillips was not expected to arrive until late this morning, and so his uncle could not see him.
Tom walked to the desk feeling as though a load had been lifted from him, and thinking the matter would probably blow over now, for his uncle could not wait to see Mr. Phillips, and he would have left the City again long before his uncle could get away.
It was nearly twelve o'clock before that gentleman came, but just behind him walked the customer who had paid Tom the ten shillings a few days before.
"Thompson, why has Mr. Longton's order not been executed?" called Mr. Phillips, as he came in.
"Mr. Longton's order? I have none, sir," replied the foreman.
Mr. Phillips turned to the customer. "I told you I had heard nothing of it," he said; "your messenger must have forgotten it."
"But I gave the order myself more than a week ago. Let me see, why I paid the last bill to the lad at the desk at the same time, it was only a small item, but I wanted to clear that account off to which it belonged, and I dropped in one evening just as you were closing."
"More than a week ago," repeated Mr. Phillips; "then the lad who took the order is not here to-day, for he has been laid up with a bad cold."
"No, he's at the desk now," said Mr. Longton, looking round and seeing Tom as he lifted his head from his writing; "that's the lad I gave the order to when I paid him the ten shillings. Don't you remember it, my lad?" he said, walking up to the desk and confronting Tom.
But instead of owning that he had forgotten the order, as he clearly had, he stuck to it that he had never received it.
"Do you remember me paying you the ten shillings just as you were leaving the desk?" asked the gentleman.
No, Tom did not remember anything about it, he said; and Mr. Phillips felt sure the order must have been given to the absent desk boy, when the customer suggested that they should refer back to the book and they would see by that when the bill was paid, and whether this lad or the other was to blame for the neglect.
So the book was produced and the pages turned back to the day when Mr. Longton declared he had paid the bill and given the order. But the name of Longton or anything referring to a payment of ten shillings was not to be found.
"It would be the last thing entered for that day, I should think," said the customer, with a keen look at Tom.
Mr. Phillips ran his finger all down the page, but of course it was not there. "How is this, Flowers?" asked the gentleman, sternly.
"Perhaps—perhaps I forgot it then, and put it in afterwards," stammered Tom, feeling he must say something with those piercing eyes of Mr. Longton's fixed upon him.
"I'll run over and fetch the receipt," said that gentleman. "I should like to have this cleared up now," he added. "That young rascal has been tampering with the money, I know," he muttered to himself as he went out; "I wonder whether he has been dabbling in betting like that young fool of mine," for strange to say it was one of Mr. Longton's clerks who had paid the marked money to Jack.
He soon returned with the receipt and laid it before Mr. Phillips.
There was Tom's name written on it, as having received ten shillings on behalf of Morton & Co., but all the searching through the books for that day, and the one following, had not shown that it had been entered to the firm's account, and consequently it could not have been paid over.
Tom declared he had entered it and paid the money, but he would not say a word beyond in explanation of the fact, and so having looked through the whole of the accounts for the next day, and finding it was not there, Mr. Phillips decided in his own mind that the money had been appropriated by Tom for his own use.
Then Mr. Longton told him of how he had been served by a young clerk whom he trusted implicitly, until he had marked some money, and got a friend to pay it in to this young man, and only a small portion of it found its way back into his drawer.
Under these circumstances, Mr. Phillips decided to send for Tom's uncle, and he was locked up in the manager's room until his uncle came. Mr. Phillips explained something of the matter to him before he took him to his room, but when he brought him in he said, "Now, Mr. Flowers, unless he tells the whole truth about the matter, I shall feel bound to send for the police at once, and have him locked up."
"It is what I have tried to make him do," said Mr. Flowers.
It was plain that, bad as he might have thought Tom before, he had never dreamed it would come to this, and even Tom himself was touched by the despairing look in his uncle's face as he dropped into a chair opposite to Mr. Phillips.
"Now, Mr. Flowers, I have no wish to be hard on the boy, if he will only tell the truth about the matter; but, of course, with the number of lads we have here, I cannot pass it over. I have heard from one or two that your nephew has been betting on horses lately, and now I shall expect him to tell me the whole truth about it, or else the police must take it up. And when he leaves this room, it will be in the custody of a policeman."
"I will tell you," said Tom, with a gasping sob, "I used the ten shillings Mr. Longton paid, but I never meant to steal it, and I put it back as soon as ever I could get it from Jack. It wasn't the day after I borrowed it, but the day after that. I can show you where it is put down," added the wretched boy, for his cup of misery seemed full, now that the theft had been discovered that he had striven so long to hide.
So the books were brought and there he pointed out the entry placed in the midst of the day's transactions, that it might escape Mr. Phillips' notice when he looked over the books at the end of the day.
Tom was thankful indeed that he had been able to replace the money, but oh, what would he not have given to have the last three months of his life over again, or even the last month? But now he felt his chance of making his way in London was at an end for ever. He told his uncle and Mr. Phillips now all about his friendship with Jack, and how he had been persuaded to "borrow" the money to bet on Tittlebrat, and how difficult he had found it to get any of it back.
Then Mr. Flowers told what he had learned from the police that a good deal of marked money had been traced to this Jack, and it was probable that he himself saw the marks after he had taken it, and, so to get rid of it and screen himself from suspicion, he had paid Tom half his winnings with this marked money.
Then the gentlemen conferred together as to what would be best for Tom's future under these changed circumstances; for, of course, Mr. Phillips could not keep him, nor could he give him a character that would get him another place, so that his prospects in London were ruined.
"It is a mercy for him he was found out before things went any further," remarked Mr. Phillips, as he wished Mr. Flowers good-day.
His uncle had not made up his mind what to do with Tom, but as they walked through the warehouse, and he saw how his former companions now looked at him, he felt sure that Mr. Phillips was right, and that it would be impossible for him to stay any longer in London.
In spite of it being so early, his uncle took him home, and when he got there he said to him, "Now go and put your things together, my boy, we shall have to start early in the morning; it is Christmas day. A sorry Christmas you have made it for all of us."
"Where, where are we going?" asked Tom, with a half-scared look in his face.
"Home to Heatherdene, of course; there is no other place for you."
"Oh, uncle, pray forgive me, and give me another chance, and I will never do such a thing again," pleaded Tom.
"I hope not indeed, my lad. I trust that this will be a lesson you will never forget; but you must learn as others have had to do, that though some things may be repented of, no amount of repentance will ever do away with the evil they bring with them, and leave behind them. You must go to Heatherdene and see if you can live down this wrong-doing by learning to be as good a blacksmith as your father, for London and its temptations is no place for you."
In vain Tom wept and pleaded and promised. The time for promises had gone by, and though his uncle really felt sorry for the lad, and still more for his parents, yet he felt that it would never do for him to stay longer, and in this view of the matter his wife fully concurred.
So on Christmas afternoon Tom and his uncle arrived at the little village, to the surprise and consternation of everybody who saw them, for one look at Tom's miserable face was enough to convince them that something had gone wrong.
But who can describe the bitter grief of his mother when she heard the miserable tale! Her Tom, her darling, the one she had been so proud of, and who she felt sure would do such great things if he only had the chance—for him to be little better than a thief! Oh, it was terrible.
Tom never knew before how much his mother loved him, or how she had built her hopes on his future, until he saw her grief over his disgraceful return after three months' stay in London; and this grief he is never likely to forget.
The widow's prayers for the lad, whom her Bob had failed to help when help was possible, were heard and answered, though it was a long and bitter trial to Tom, the living down the miserable mistake he had made. The story of his grievous fall had to be told to one and another, and friends looked at him askance, even when he was striving by honest toil at his father's forge to atone for the past so far as he could.
But even this was made to work for good to the lad at last, for he himself learned to turn to God for comfort and help in his trouble, and He who was ready to forgive, was also ready to help him.
So far from sneering at the Sunday-school now, as he had done when he was in London, Tom was thankful to be admitted to the Bible-class again, and under the instruction of his teacher, he learned to conquer the pride and arrogance that had really led to his grievous fall.
But in spite of all this, it was uphill work for Tom to have to live among his old neighbours. They looked upon all he did with suspicion, for to them, the dangerous friend who had led him astray was a mere shadow, but it was a grim and awful fact that Tom only just escaped from being sent to the assizes for stealing his master's money, and this they were not likely to forget.
That Tom's repentance was deep and true and sincere was, however, soon tested by his treatment of his brother Dick, whom he had always looked down upon as being rather "soft," because he did not bluster and stand up for his "rights," as Tom had always done.
In point of fact, no one had appreciated quiet Dick except his sister Polly, until Tom came back from London, and then, after a time, the quiet, unobtrusive attentions of Dick, when everybody else had turned away from him, brought the first ray of comfort and hope to Tom's mind.
When he went out for a lonely walk to escape the cruel looks of the neighbours, Dick would steal after him, though Tom knew he would far rather have been at his books by the fireside, than wander up and down the wintry lanes.
At first Tom had felt too sick and sore to take any notice of this silent ministry of sympathy, and beyond clasping the hand that was slipped into his, he took no notice of his brother.
But by degrees, he began to talk to Dick of the books he liked to read, and so the boy's confidence was won, and then he began to think that Dick should have been sent to the grammar school rather than himself, until at last he decided to speak to his father about this, for it was plain Dick would never be strong enough for a blacksmith, and he had such a love of books, and especially those on chemistry and electricity, that Tom felt sure if these tastes of Dick's could only be cultivated, he would become a clever and a useful man.
But it was not easy to convince his father that it would be good for Dick to go to the grammar school. He had had too much of that already, he declared; Dick should not have the chance of ruining his life as Tom had done.
It was hard for Tom to go over the old, painful story, but he did it to convince his father that his education was not to be blamed for the bad use he had made of it. He even promised to apply himself more closely to the forge, in order to earn the money that was necessary to pay for Dick's schooling, if his father would only consent to let him go.
This promise of Tom's had the greatest influence with the blacksmith, for hitherto Tom had shown no liking for his father's trade, and had only done what he was obliged in a perfunctory sort of fashion, and unless he could be induced to take it up more heartily, and give more attention to it, he would be a very poor sort of blacksmith at the best.
So for Tom's own sake, his suggestion was at last taken up, and Flowers consented that Dick should go to the grammar school, if Tom would undertake to earn the money to pay for it. There was always plenty of work to be had if Tom would only stick to it, so there was not likely to be any difficulty on this score.
To see Dick's delight when he heard that he was to go to the school, where they taught the subjects that had been as a fairy tale to him, repaid Tom for the pain he had endured in talking to his father about it, and to think his younger brother was to have this chance of a good education, nerved him to overcome his dislike to being at the forge all day, as he must be now.
It was hard for him to overcome this distaste and pin himself down to work steadily under his father's direction, but by degrees the conquest was made, and he had his reward when Dick came home of an evening and told them of the wonderful things he had learned, and the experiments he had seen made in the course of the lesson.
By degrees the lad lost his shyness from his habit of now talking to Tom, while as for Tom himself, he actually began to take a pride and pleasure in his work, so that his father was able to trust him to do a job throughout without fear of the customer complaining that the work had been scamped.
It was by this means that Tom at last won back the character he had lost in London, though people were slow enough to trust him at first.
"Tell your father he must be sure and do this job himself," was a message Tom often had to deliver when he was left in charge of the forge for a little while.
Grim enough would Flowers look when he received such, for he knew all too well what it meant. "They don't believe you will give honest work, my lad," he would say with a bitter look at Tom.
But after some months, things began to change in this respect. To work for Dick's schooling had been a great sweetener of toil to Tom, but at last he began to take the same honest pride in his work that his father did, and people finding that his work was not scamped, soon ceased to give the offensive message, and at last one and another began to pass the time of day with him again, and some of the farmers as they stood waiting and watching him would remark, "Your son will make a good blacksmith after all."
To hear this was very sweet for Flowers, for he had always wanted Tom to learn his trade, and help him in it. And so when Tom began to give proof that he was likely to be a good blacksmith, he felt consoled for the failure of the London plan.
It was in Dick, however, that Tom felt the greatest reward for his toil and painstaking efforts to get on. The little, shy, delicate lad, who would never have been strong enough to wield his father's hammer, was making such good progress at school, that masters as well as friends began to feel quite proud of him, and in this Tom could feel he had a right to share, for had he not conquered himself in order that Dick might have this chance?
Slowly but surely public opinion began to turn towards Tom again, and people as they talked over the old story, as they would sometimes remember to have heard, said that Tom had been rather foolish than wicked over what had happened in London. But they all agreed that, for Tom at least, it had been a good job that he had had the bitter lesson, for he was less proud, less arrogant and exacting as to his own "rights" and far more considerate of the rights of others.
So God brought good out of the evil at last, although for this Tom had to wait and suffer many an unmerited sneer, and endure many a cold look. For the world is slow to forget such a slip as Tom had made at the outset of his life—a slip that is the ruin of many a promising lad, and might have been for Tom, if he had not bravely set himself to work to overcome all difficulties and all dislikes for the sake of his brother Dick—and by this means made his three months in London, and the acquaintance of his dangerous friend, a means of ultimate good by seeking the help and blessing of God in conquering himself for the sake of another.
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