Chapter Nineteen.How Hawkesbury put in an Appearance at Hawk Street.When I woke in the morning and called to mind Jack’s confidence of the night before, I could hardly believe I had not dreamt it.I had always guessed, and I dare say the reader has guessed too, that there was some mystery attached to my friend’s home. But I had never thought of this. No wonder now, when other boys had tormented him and called him “gaol-bird,” he had flared up with unwonted fire. No wonder he had always shrunk from any reference to that unhappy home. But why had he told me all about it now? I could almost guess the reason. For the last month or two he had been back at the nearest approach to a home that he possessed, at his old nurse’s cottage at Packworth, with her and his sister. And now, leaving them, and coming back once more to work in London, a home-sickness had seized him, and an irresistible craving for sympathy had prompted him to tell me his secret.“And it shall be safe with me,” I said to myself.We did not refer to the subject again that day, or for several days. Indeed, I almost suspected he repented already of what he had done, for his manner was more reserved and shy than I had ever known it. He seemed to be in a constant fright lest I should return to the subject, while his almost deferential manner to me was quite distressing. However, we had our work to occupy our minds during most of the day.“Slap bang, here we are again!” cried Doubleday, as we entered the office together that morning. “What cheer, Bulls’-eye? Awfully sorry we haven’t got the decorations up, but we’re out of flags at present. We’re going to illuminate this evening, though, in your honour—when we light the gas.”“Awfully glad you’re back,” said Crow. “The governors have been in an awful way without you to advise them. We’ve positively done nothing since you went, have we, Wallop?”“No—except read his life in the Newgate Calendar,” said Wallop, who had not forgotten his knock down on the day Jack left.All this Jack, like a sensible man, took quietly, though I could see, or fancied I saw, he winced at the last reference.He quietly took his old place, and proceeded to resume his work just as if he had never been absent, wholly regardless of the witticisms of his comrades.“We’ve drunk his health now and then in his absence, haven’t we, Batch, old man?” said Doubleday again, addressing me.I did not at all like to be thus drawn into the conversation, but I was forced to answer. “Yes, now and then.”“Let’s see, what was the last sentiment—the other night up at Daly’s, you know; what was it, Crow?”“Oh, Doubleday!” cried I, suddenly, in terror at the turn the talk was taking, “would you look at this invoice, please? Only twelve cases are entered, and I’m certain thirteen were shipped.”“Eh, what?” exclaimed Doubleday, who in business matters was always prompt and serious; “only twelve entered? how’s that? Why, you young idiot!” said he, taking up the paper; “can’t you read what’s straight in front of your nose? ‘A set of samples, not invoiced, in case Number 13.’”“So it is, to be sure,” exclaimed I, who, of course, knew it all along, and had only raised the alarm in order to interrupt Doubleday’s awkward talk. “Thanks.”This expedient of mine, disingenuous as it was, was successful. Before Doubleday could get back to his desk and take up the thread of his conversation where he left it, Mr Merrett entered the office. He walked straight up to Jack’s desk, and said, heartily, “Well, Smith, my man, we’re glad to see you back. Are you quite well again?”“Quite well, thank you, sir,” said Smith, rising to his feet, and flushing with pleasure at this unexpected attention from the head of the firm.I felt quite as proud as he did, and still more so when presently Mr Barnacle arrived, and after first looking over his letters and glancing at hisTimes, touched the bell and said he wished to speak to Smith.“They’re going to make a partner of you,” said Doubleday, mockingly, as he delivered the message. “Never mind; you won’t forget your old servants, I know.”“Talking of partners,” said Harris, of the Imports, over the screen, when Jack had gone in obedience to the summons, “we’re to have the new chap here next week.”“What’s his name?” asked Doubleday.“Don’t know. He’s a nephew, I believe, of old Merrett’s. The old boy told me the other day he was to come into my department to learn the business. He says I’m to teach him all I know, as he wants him to get on.”“That’s pleasant. I suppose he’s to be shoved over our heads, and tell us all what to do.”“Never fear,” said Harris; “I sha’n’t teach him too much. But the governor says he’s a ‘youth of good principles and fair attainments,’ and thinks I shall like him.”Crow whistled.“‘Good principles and fair attainments!’ That’s a good un. I guess he’s come to the wrong shop with those goods. Nobody deals in them here thatIknow of.”“Speak for yourself,” retorted Doubleday, sententiously. “No one suspected you of going in for either, but Batchelor and I flatter ourselves wearea little in that line.”“Well, if you are,” said Wallop, breaking in, “all I can say is, young Batchelor had better show his principle by stepping round to Shoddy’s and paying his bill there, or he may ‘attain’ to something he doesn’t expect.”“What do you mean?” I said. “I’ve only had the things a fortnight, and he said I needn’t pay for them for a month.”“No doubt he did,” said Wallop, not observing that Jack had by this time returned from the partners’ room, and was seated once more at his desk. “No doubt he’d have let you go on tick for a twelve month, but when he finds you owe all round to the butcher and baker and candlestick maker, no wonder he gets a bit shy. Why, only yesterday—”“Will you mind your own business?” I exclaimed, desperately, not knowing how to turn the talk.“Only yesterday,” continued Wallop, complacently, evidently noticing and enjoying my confusion, “he was asking me what I thought of your credit. Shoddy and I are chummy you know, Crow.”“Will you shut up and let me get on with my work?” I cried, despairingly.“I told him,” continued Wallop, deliberately, “I knew you only had twelve bob a week, and that, though you were a very nice boy, I would advise him to proceed with caution, as I knew for a fact—”I sprang from my seat, determined, if I could not silence him by persuasion, I would do it by force. However, he adroitly fortified himself behind his desk, and proceeded, greatly to the amusement of every one but Jack, “I knew for a fact you owed a pot of money at the tuck shop—”Here the speaker had to pause for the laughter which this announcement had elicited.“And that the Twins had advanced you getting on for half-a-sov., besides—”There was no escape. I sank down in my seat and let him go on as he liked.I had the satisfaction of hearing a full, true, and particular account of my debts and delinquencies, which every one—I could not for the world tell how—seemed to know all about, and I had the still greater satisfaction of knowing that my friend Smith was hearing of my extravagances now for the first time, and not from my lips.What would he think of me? How strange he must think it in me not to have trusted in him when he had confided to me his own far more important secret. I felt utterly ashamed. And yet, when I came to think of it, if I had acted foolishly, I had not committed a crime. Why should I be ashamed?“I say,” I began, when that evening we were walking home, rather moodily, side by side—“I say, you must have been astonished by what those fellows were saying to-day, Jack.”“Eh? Well, I couldn’t quite make it out.”“They are always chaffing me about something,” I said.“Then it was all a make-up of Wallop’s about what you owed?”“Well, no—not exactly. The fact is, I do owe one or two little accounts.”“Do you?” said Jack. “It’s a pity.”I did not quite like the tone in which he said this. It may have been that my conscience was not quite clear as to my own straightforwardness in this matter. I was not obliged to tell him everything, to be sure; but then, no more was I obliged to try to deceive him when I did tell him. At any rate, I felt a trifle irritated, and the rest of our walk proceeded in silence till we reached Style Street. Here we found Billy at his old sport, but evidently expecting us.“Shine ’e boots, governor!” cried he, with a profound grin.Jack put his foot upon the box, and the young artist fell-to work instantly.“I’ll stroll on,” I said, out of humour, and anxious to be alone.“All serene!” replied Jack, solemnly as usual.By the time he turned up at Beadle Square I had somewhat recovered my equanimity, and the rest of the evening was spent in talking about indifferent matters, and avoiding all serious topics. Among other things, I told Jack of the expected addition to the staff at Hawk Street, which interested him greatly, especially as the new-comer was to work in the Import department.“I hope he’ll be a nice fellow,” he said. “What’s his name?”“I don’t know. He’s a nephew of Merrett’s, they say, and a good fellow. He’s coming in as a clerk at first, but Harris says he’s to be taken in as a partner in time.”“Then he’s only a boy yet?”“I suppose so—seventeen or eighteen.”Of course there was a considerable amount of speculation and curiosity as to the new arrival during the week which followed. I think most of us were a little jealous, and Doubleday was especially indignant at the fellow’s meanness in being the governor’s nephew.“Of course, he’ll peach about all we do,” growled he, “and give his precious uncle a full, true, and particular account every evening of everything every one of us has been up to during the day. And the worst of it is, one can’t even lick the beggar now and then, like any other fellow.”It undoubtedly was hard lines, and we all sympathised not a little with the chief clerk’s grievance.Our suspense was not protracted. On the appointed day Mr Merrett arrived, accompanied by a slender youth of about eighteen, at sight of whom Jack and I started as though we had been shot. The new-comer was no other than our former schoolfellow, Hawkesbury.If a skeleton had walked into the office we could not have been more taken aback. Of all persons in the world, who would have guessed that this fellow whom we had last seen at Stonebridge House, and had never even heard of since should turn up now as the nephew of our employer, and as one of our own future chiefs at the office?“Gentlemen,” said Mr Merrett, “this is my nephew, Mr Hawkesbury. I trust you will all be good friends. Eh! what!”This last exclamation was occasioned by Hawkesbury’s advancing first to me and then to Smith, and shaking our hands, much to the surprise of everybody.“These two gentlemen were at school with me, uncle,” he said, by way of explanation. “It is quite a pleasant surprise to me to see them again.”“Very singular,” said Mr Merrett; “I’m glad of it. You’ll get on all the better. Harris; perhaps you will allow Mr Hawkesbury to assist you for a day or two, just while he is learning the work.”So saying, the senior partner vanished into his own room, leaving Hawkesbury in the midst of his new comrades.I did not know whether to be glad or sorry. For myself, though I never quite liked Hawkesbury, I had always got on well with him, and been disposed to believe him a well-meaning fellow.But on Jack Smith’s account I felt very sorry, and not a little uneasy, for they had never “hit” it, and from what I could judge never would.However, for the present at any rate, such apprehensions seemed to be groundless, for Hawkesbury, naturally a little ill at ease among so many strangers, appeared to be glad to claim the acquaintance of one of them, and sat down beside him and began to talk in quite a cordial manner.“This is a pleasant surprise,” he said again; “who would have thought of seeing you and Batchelor in Uncle Merrett’s office?”“We’ve been here several months,” replied Jack, not quite as cordially, I could see, as his old schoolfellow.“Have you? I’m afraid I shall never learn as much as you have,” he said, with his old smile.“Now then, young governor,” said Harris, “when it’squiteconvenient to you we’ll get to work. Don’t put yourself out, pray; but if you can spare the time from your friend, I should like you to add up this column.”Hawkesbury looked a little astonished at this speech, but at once replied, with a smile, “You are Mr Harris, I suppose? I shall be glad to learn what you can teach me.”If Harris had expected to put the new-comer down by his witticisms he was sorely mistaken. Hawkesbury coolly seated himself at the desk beside him, and, with the air more of a man inspecting the work of another than of a learner seeking information, he examined the papers and books handed to him and catechised Harris as to their contents.It was evident that he was fully aware from the beginning of his own position at the office, and that he wished us all to be aware of it also. He adopted a patronising air towards me and Jack and the other clerks, as if we were already in his employment and doing his work.“A jolly cool hand,” growled Doubleday to Crow, in an undertone most unusual to him when the principals were out of hearing. “I’m glad I’m not Harris.”“Now then, Harris,” said Crow, “mind how you dot your p’s and q’s, old man—I mean your i’s.”Hawkesbury looked up from his work and said, smiling, “I think Mr Harris dots his i’s very well. What did you say is entered in this column, Harris?”This was nothing short of a snub to Crow, who was quiet for the rest of the day.After business, as Jack and I were proceeding to walk home, Hawkesbury came up and joined our party.“Which way are you going?” inquired he. “I’ll join you, if I may.”We could hardly say no, and yet we neither of us relished the offer. However, he did not appear to notice our reluctance, and walked along with us, conversing in his usual pleasant way.“I hope we shall be good friends at the office,” he said, after a long uncomfortable pause.“I hope so,” said I, who knew it was not much use to rely on Jack Smith to keep up the conversation.“I dare say you know,” said he, “that my uncle’s idea is for me some day to join him and Mr Barnacle, but of course that depends on how I get on.”“Yes,” said I, as there was a pause here.“In any case I hope that won’t make any difference between us old schoolfellows,” he continued. “I hope not,” again I replied.“Where are you living in London?” he presently asked. I told him, and he thereupon proceeded to make further kind inquiries as to how we liked our quarters, if we had nice friends, what we did with ourselves, and so on. All of which it fell-to my lot to answer, as Jack Smith showed no inclination to assist me.At length we reached the top of Style Street, where, as usual, the athletic Billy was at his sports. I really believe he spent the entire time he was not blacking boots in walking round and round his box on the palms of his hands with his feet up in the air.At the sight of his patron he dropped promptly to attention.“Well, Billy,” said Smith, “are you ready for me?” Billy grinned all over his face, as he replied, “Yaas,” and at once fell-to work.Hawkesbury watched the incident with interest, not quite sure what to make of it, and rather taken aback to have our walk thus abruptly stopped.“Old gal’s bolted agin,” observed Billy, in the middle of his task. “’Ave any of you blokes saw her?”“No,” said Smith, “when did she go?”“Last night,” said Billy. “She give me a dose fust, and when I came round, if she ain’t sloped along of all my browns. She’s a rum un.”Poor Billy, what a picture of his domestic life was this!“Bless you, though,” continued he, breathing hard on to the toes of Jack’s boot, “she’ll turn up. When she’s done them browns she’ll step round for more. Bless her old soul!”“You ought to keep your money where she can’t find it,” suggested Jack.“’Tain’t no concern of yourn where I keep my brass. Oh, my eye, there’s a nob!” cried he, suddenly perceiving Hawkesbury, who all this time had been looking on and listening in bewilderment. “Shin’e boots next, cap’n? Oh my, ain’t he a topper?”This last appeal was made to Jack, whose boots were now clean, and who, of course, did not reply.“Who’s your friend?” said Hawkesbury to him, with a smile.“My friend’s a shoeblack,” drily replied Smith.“All, a curious little fellow. Well, as I dare say you’ve plenty to say to one another, I’ll be going. Good-bye,” and he shook hands with us both and departed.That evening Jack and I had a long and painful discussion about Hawkesbury. As usual, he had not a good word to say for him, while I, on the contrary, thought that at any rate he might be well-meaning.“All I can say is,” said Jack, “it wouldn’t take much to make me leave Hawk Street now.”“Oh, don’t say that!” I cried, miserable at the bare idea.“Don’t be afraid,” said he, bitterly. “A convict’s son can’t get taken on anywhere, and I shall just have to stay where I am as long as there are the people at home to depend on me.”He said this in such a sad tone that my heart bled for him. Alas! there seemed to be anything but happy days in store for my friend Smith.
When I woke in the morning and called to mind Jack’s confidence of the night before, I could hardly believe I had not dreamt it.
I had always guessed, and I dare say the reader has guessed too, that there was some mystery attached to my friend’s home. But I had never thought of this. No wonder now, when other boys had tormented him and called him “gaol-bird,” he had flared up with unwonted fire. No wonder he had always shrunk from any reference to that unhappy home. But why had he told me all about it now? I could almost guess the reason. For the last month or two he had been back at the nearest approach to a home that he possessed, at his old nurse’s cottage at Packworth, with her and his sister. And now, leaving them, and coming back once more to work in London, a home-sickness had seized him, and an irresistible craving for sympathy had prompted him to tell me his secret.
“And it shall be safe with me,” I said to myself.
We did not refer to the subject again that day, or for several days. Indeed, I almost suspected he repented already of what he had done, for his manner was more reserved and shy than I had ever known it. He seemed to be in a constant fright lest I should return to the subject, while his almost deferential manner to me was quite distressing. However, we had our work to occupy our minds during most of the day.
“Slap bang, here we are again!” cried Doubleday, as we entered the office together that morning. “What cheer, Bulls’-eye? Awfully sorry we haven’t got the decorations up, but we’re out of flags at present. We’re going to illuminate this evening, though, in your honour—when we light the gas.”
“Awfully glad you’re back,” said Crow. “The governors have been in an awful way without you to advise them. We’ve positively done nothing since you went, have we, Wallop?”
“No—except read his life in the Newgate Calendar,” said Wallop, who had not forgotten his knock down on the day Jack left.
All this Jack, like a sensible man, took quietly, though I could see, or fancied I saw, he winced at the last reference.
He quietly took his old place, and proceeded to resume his work just as if he had never been absent, wholly regardless of the witticisms of his comrades.
“We’ve drunk his health now and then in his absence, haven’t we, Batch, old man?” said Doubleday again, addressing me.
I did not at all like to be thus drawn into the conversation, but I was forced to answer. “Yes, now and then.”
“Let’s see, what was the last sentiment—the other night up at Daly’s, you know; what was it, Crow?”
“Oh, Doubleday!” cried I, suddenly, in terror at the turn the talk was taking, “would you look at this invoice, please? Only twelve cases are entered, and I’m certain thirteen were shipped.”
“Eh, what?” exclaimed Doubleday, who in business matters was always prompt and serious; “only twelve entered? how’s that? Why, you young idiot!” said he, taking up the paper; “can’t you read what’s straight in front of your nose? ‘A set of samples, not invoiced, in case Number 13.’”
“So it is, to be sure,” exclaimed I, who, of course, knew it all along, and had only raised the alarm in order to interrupt Doubleday’s awkward talk. “Thanks.”
This expedient of mine, disingenuous as it was, was successful. Before Doubleday could get back to his desk and take up the thread of his conversation where he left it, Mr Merrett entered the office. He walked straight up to Jack’s desk, and said, heartily, “Well, Smith, my man, we’re glad to see you back. Are you quite well again?”
“Quite well, thank you, sir,” said Smith, rising to his feet, and flushing with pleasure at this unexpected attention from the head of the firm.
I felt quite as proud as he did, and still more so when presently Mr Barnacle arrived, and after first looking over his letters and glancing at hisTimes, touched the bell and said he wished to speak to Smith.
“They’re going to make a partner of you,” said Doubleday, mockingly, as he delivered the message. “Never mind; you won’t forget your old servants, I know.”
“Talking of partners,” said Harris, of the Imports, over the screen, when Jack had gone in obedience to the summons, “we’re to have the new chap here next week.”
“What’s his name?” asked Doubleday.
“Don’t know. He’s a nephew, I believe, of old Merrett’s. The old boy told me the other day he was to come into my department to learn the business. He says I’m to teach him all I know, as he wants him to get on.”
“That’s pleasant. I suppose he’s to be shoved over our heads, and tell us all what to do.”
“Never fear,” said Harris; “I sha’n’t teach him too much. But the governor says he’s a ‘youth of good principles and fair attainments,’ and thinks I shall like him.”
Crow whistled.
“‘Good principles and fair attainments!’ That’s a good un. I guess he’s come to the wrong shop with those goods. Nobody deals in them here thatIknow of.”
“Speak for yourself,” retorted Doubleday, sententiously. “No one suspected you of going in for either, but Batchelor and I flatter ourselves wearea little in that line.”
“Well, if you are,” said Wallop, breaking in, “all I can say is, young Batchelor had better show his principle by stepping round to Shoddy’s and paying his bill there, or he may ‘attain’ to something he doesn’t expect.”
“What do you mean?” I said. “I’ve only had the things a fortnight, and he said I needn’t pay for them for a month.”
“No doubt he did,” said Wallop, not observing that Jack had by this time returned from the partners’ room, and was seated once more at his desk. “No doubt he’d have let you go on tick for a twelve month, but when he finds you owe all round to the butcher and baker and candlestick maker, no wonder he gets a bit shy. Why, only yesterday—”
“Will you mind your own business?” I exclaimed, desperately, not knowing how to turn the talk.
“Only yesterday,” continued Wallop, complacently, evidently noticing and enjoying my confusion, “he was asking me what I thought of your credit. Shoddy and I are chummy you know, Crow.”
“Will you shut up and let me get on with my work?” I cried, despairingly.
“I told him,” continued Wallop, deliberately, “I knew you only had twelve bob a week, and that, though you were a very nice boy, I would advise him to proceed with caution, as I knew for a fact—”
I sprang from my seat, determined, if I could not silence him by persuasion, I would do it by force. However, he adroitly fortified himself behind his desk, and proceeded, greatly to the amusement of every one but Jack, “I knew for a fact you owed a pot of money at the tuck shop—”
Here the speaker had to pause for the laughter which this announcement had elicited.
“And that the Twins had advanced you getting on for half-a-sov., besides—”
There was no escape. I sank down in my seat and let him go on as he liked.
I had the satisfaction of hearing a full, true, and particular account of my debts and delinquencies, which every one—I could not for the world tell how—seemed to know all about, and I had the still greater satisfaction of knowing that my friend Smith was hearing of my extravagances now for the first time, and not from my lips.
What would he think of me? How strange he must think it in me not to have trusted in him when he had confided to me his own far more important secret. I felt utterly ashamed. And yet, when I came to think of it, if I had acted foolishly, I had not committed a crime. Why should I be ashamed?
“I say,” I began, when that evening we were walking home, rather moodily, side by side—“I say, you must have been astonished by what those fellows were saying to-day, Jack.”
“Eh? Well, I couldn’t quite make it out.”
“They are always chaffing me about something,” I said.
“Then it was all a make-up of Wallop’s about what you owed?”
“Well, no—not exactly. The fact is, I do owe one or two little accounts.”
“Do you?” said Jack. “It’s a pity.”
I did not quite like the tone in which he said this. It may have been that my conscience was not quite clear as to my own straightforwardness in this matter. I was not obliged to tell him everything, to be sure; but then, no more was I obliged to try to deceive him when I did tell him. At any rate, I felt a trifle irritated, and the rest of our walk proceeded in silence till we reached Style Street. Here we found Billy at his old sport, but evidently expecting us.
“Shine ’e boots, governor!” cried he, with a profound grin.
Jack put his foot upon the box, and the young artist fell-to work instantly.
“I’ll stroll on,” I said, out of humour, and anxious to be alone.
“All serene!” replied Jack, solemnly as usual.
By the time he turned up at Beadle Square I had somewhat recovered my equanimity, and the rest of the evening was spent in talking about indifferent matters, and avoiding all serious topics. Among other things, I told Jack of the expected addition to the staff at Hawk Street, which interested him greatly, especially as the new-comer was to work in the Import department.
“I hope he’ll be a nice fellow,” he said. “What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. He’s a nephew of Merrett’s, they say, and a good fellow. He’s coming in as a clerk at first, but Harris says he’s to be taken in as a partner in time.”
“Then he’s only a boy yet?”
“I suppose so—seventeen or eighteen.”
Of course there was a considerable amount of speculation and curiosity as to the new arrival during the week which followed. I think most of us were a little jealous, and Doubleday was especially indignant at the fellow’s meanness in being the governor’s nephew.
“Of course, he’ll peach about all we do,” growled he, “and give his precious uncle a full, true, and particular account every evening of everything every one of us has been up to during the day. And the worst of it is, one can’t even lick the beggar now and then, like any other fellow.”
It undoubtedly was hard lines, and we all sympathised not a little with the chief clerk’s grievance.
Our suspense was not protracted. On the appointed day Mr Merrett arrived, accompanied by a slender youth of about eighteen, at sight of whom Jack and I started as though we had been shot. The new-comer was no other than our former schoolfellow, Hawkesbury.
If a skeleton had walked into the office we could not have been more taken aback. Of all persons in the world, who would have guessed that this fellow whom we had last seen at Stonebridge House, and had never even heard of since should turn up now as the nephew of our employer, and as one of our own future chiefs at the office?
“Gentlemen,” said Mr Merrett, “this is my nephew, Mr Hawkesbury. I trust you will all be good friends. Eh! what!”
This last exclamation was occasioned by Hawkesbury’s advancing first to me and then to Smith, and shaking our hands, much to the surprise of everybody.
“These two gentlemen were at school with me, uncle,” he said, by way of explanation. “It is quite a pleasant surprise to me to see them again.”
“Very singular,” said Mr Merrett; “I’m glad of it. You’ll get on all the better. Harris; perhaps you will allow Mr Hawkesbury to assist you for a day or two, just while he is learning the work.”
So saying, the senior partner vanished into his own room, leaving Hawkesbury in the midst of his new comrades.
I did not know whether to be glad or sorry. For myself, though I never quite liked Hawkesbury, I had always got on well with him, and been disposed to believe him a well-meaning fellow.
But on Jack Smith’s account I felt very sorry, and not a little uneasy, for they had never “hit” it, and from what I could judge never would.
However, for the present at any rate, such apprehensions seemed to be groundless, for Hawkesbury, naturally a little ill at ease among so many strangers, appeared to be glad to claim the acquaintance of one of them, and sat down beside him and began to talk in quite a cordial manner.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” he said again; “who would have thought of seeing you and Batchelor in Uncle Merrett’s office?”
“We’ve been here several months,” replied Jack, not quite as cordially, I could see, as his old schoolfellow.
“Have you? I’m afraid I shall never learn as much as you have,” he said, with his old smile.
“Now then, young governor,” said Harris, “when it’squiteconvenient to you we’ll get to work. Don’t put yourself out, pray; but if you can spare the time from your friend, I should like you to add up this column.”
Hawkesbury looked a little astonished at this speech, but at once replied, with a smile, “You are Mr Harris, I suppose? I shall be glad to learn what you can teach me.”
If Harris had expected to put the new-comer down by his witticisms he was sorely mistaken. Hawkesbury coolly seated himself at the desk beside him, and, with the air more of a man inspecting the work of another than of a learner seeking information, he examined the papers and books handed to him and catechised Harris as to their contents.
It was evident that he was fully aware from the beginning of his own position at the office, and that he wished us all to be aware of it also. He adopted a patronising air towards me and Jack and the other clerks, as if we were already in his employment and doing his work.
“A jolly cool hand,” growled Doubleday to Crow, in an undertone most unusual to him when the principals were out of hearing. “I’m glad I’m not Harris.”
“Now then, Harris,” said Crow, “mind how you dot your p’s and q’s, old man—I mean your i’s.”
Hawkesbury looked up from his work and said, smiling, “I think Mr Harris dots his i’s very well. What did you say is entered in this column, Harris?”
This was nothing short of a snub to Crow, who was quiet for the rest of the day.
After business, as Jack and I were proceeding to walk home, Hawkesbury came up and joined our party.
“Which way are you going?” inquired he. “I’ll join you, if I may.”
We could hardly say no, and yet we neither of us relished the offer. However, he did not appear to notice our reluctance, and walked along with us, conversing in his usual pleasant way.
“I hope we shall be good friends at the office,” he said, after a long uncomfortable pause.
“I hope so,” said I, who knew it was not much use to rely on Jack Smith to keep up the conversation.
“I dare say you know,” said he, “that my uncle’s idea is for me some day to join him and Mr Barnacle, but of course that depends on how I get on.”
“Yes,” said I, as there was a pause here.
“In any case I hope that won’t make any difference between us old schoolfellows,” he continued. “I hope not,” again I replied.
“Where are you living in London?” he presently asked. I told him, and he thereupon proceeded to make further kind inquiries as to how we liked our quarters, if we had nice friends, what we did with ourselves, and so on. All of which it fell-to my lot to answer, as Jack Smith showed no inclination to assist me.
At length we reached the top of Style Street, where, as usual, the athletic Billy was at his sports. I really believe he spent the entire time he was not blacking boots in walking round and round his box on the palms of his hands with his feet up in the air.
At the sight of his patron he dropped promptly to attention.
“Well, Billy,” said Smith, “are you ready for me?” Billy grinned all over his face, as he replied, “Yaas,” and at once fell-to work.
Hawkesbury watched the incident with interest, not quite sure what to make of it, and rather taken aback to have our walk thus abruptly stopped.
“Old gal’s bolted agin,” observed Billy, in the middle of his task. “’Ave any of you blokes saw her?”
“No,” said Smith, “when did she go?”
“Last night,” said Billy. “She give me a dose fust, and when I came round, if she ain’t sloped along of all my browns. She’s a rum un.”
Poor Billy, what a picture of his domestic life was this!
“Bless you, though,” continued he, breathing hard on to the toes of Jack’s boot, “she’ll turn up. When she’s done them browns she’ll step round for more. Bless her old soul!”
“You ought to keep your money where she can’t find it,” suggested Jack.
“’Tain’t no concern of yourn where I keep my brass. Oh, my eye, there’s a nob!” cried he, suddenly perceiving Hawkesbury, who all this time had been looking on and listening in bewilderment. “Shin’e boots next, cap’n? Oh my, ain’t he a topper?”
This last appeal was made to Jack, whose boots were now clean, and who, of course, did not reply.
“Who’s your friend?” said Hawkesbury to him, with a smile.
“My friend’s a shoeblack,” drily replied Smith.
“All, a curious little fellow. Well, as I dare say you’ve plenty to say to one another, I’ll be going. Good-bye,” and he shook hands with us both and departed.
That evening Jack and I had a long and painful discussion about Hawkesbury. As usual, he had not a good word to say for him, while I, on the contrary, thought that at any rate he might be well-meaning.
“All I can say is,” said Jack, “it wouldn’t take much to make me leave Hawk Street now.”
“Oh, don’t say that!” I cried, miserable at the bare idea.
“Don’t be afraid,” said he, bitterly. “A convict’s son can’t get taken on anywhere, and I shall just have to stay where I am as long as there are the people at home to depend on me.”
He said this in such a sad tone that my heart bled for him. Alas! there seemed to be anything but happy days in store for my friend Smith.
Chapter Twenty.How I served my Friend Smith anything but a Good Turn.A week sufficed to put Hawkesbury quite at his ease at Hawk Street. And it sufficed also to reconcile most of the clerks to the new arrival. For Hawkesbury, although he proved plainly he was aware of his position and prospects, showed no inclination to be stiff or unfriendly with his new associates. On the contrary, he took a good deal of trouble to make himself agreeable, and succeeded so well that in less than a week Doubleday pronounced him “not such a cad as he might be,” which was very great praise from him.Jack Smith, however, was irreconcilable. He seemed to have an instinctive dislike to his old schoolfellow, and resented the least approach on his part to friendliness. It was in vain I argued with him and urged him.“I’m sure he’s civil enough,” I said.“I’m glad to hear it.”“Why ever are you so down on him? I’m sure he would only be too glad to be friendly.”“I don’t like him,” said Jack.“At any rate,” said I, “you need not take so much trouble to make an enemy of him. Some day you may be sorry for it.”Jack did not answer, and I saw it was no use pursuing the unpleasant topic. But I was vexed with him. Why should he consider himself better than all of us who had accepted the proffered friendship of our new comrade?“Young Batch,” said Doubleday one morning about a week after Hawkesbury’s arrival, “come up to my diggings this evening. The other fellows are coming up, and the new boss too.”This was rather an awkward question, as since Jack’s return I had not gone out, and I imagined every one would conclude it was no use inviting me without him.“I know what you’re going to say,” said Doubleday, noticing my hesitation. “You’ll ask Bull’s-eye’s leave, and then tell me. Here, Bull’s-eye, Smith—whatever your name is—I want young Batch to come up to supper with me this evening, and like a dutiful boy he says he can’t come till you give him leave. What do you say?”“Don’t be an ass, Doubleday!” I cried, quite ashamed and confused to stand by and hear Smith thus appealed to. “I—I’m afraid I can’t come this evening.”“Previous engagement?” said Doubleday, with a wink.“No,” I said; “I’m going for a walk with Smith.”“I’m going to stay here late to-night,” said Jack, quietly, “I want to catch up some work.” I wished I knew what he meant by it. “All serene! then the young ’un can come to us, can’t he?” said Doubleday.“Thanks,” said I, not appearing to notice that the question was addressed to Smith.My decision appeared to afford much amusement to the other clerks.“Landed at last!” said Doubleday, mopping his face with his handkerchief and puffing like a man who had just gone through some great exertion.I did not join in the laughter that followed, and spent the rest of the day rather uncomfortably. In the evening I left Jack at his desk.“I hope you don’t mind my going,” I said. He looked up, half vexed, half astonished. “What do you mean?” he replied. “Surely it’s nothing to do with me?”“Oh, I know. But I wouldn’t care to do it if you didn’t like it. Besides, I feel rather low going when you’re not asked too.”“I shouldn’t go if I was asked,” replied Jack.“Why not?” I inquired.“I’ve something better to do with my time and my money than that sort of thing,” he replied, quietly.I went up to Doubleday’s that evening more uneasy in my mind than I had been for a long time. I was angry with him for asking me; I was angry with myself for going; and I was angry with Smith because I felt his rebuke was a just one.“Hullo, young un!” cried my host as I entered his now familiar lodgings; “all waiting for you. Why, how glum you look! Has the Lantern been lecturing you? or have you been having a dose of cold eel-pie on the road? or what? Come on. You know all these fellows. By the way, my boy, glorious news for you! Don’t know what we’ve all done to deserve it, upon my honour, but Abel here has knocked out one of his front teeth, so there’ll be no more trouble about spotting him now.”Abel grinned and exhibited the gap in his jaw which had called forth this song of thankfulness from our host.“How ever did you do it?” I asked, glad to turn the conversation from myself.“Ran against a lamp-post,” replied the mutilated Twin.This simple explanation caused much merriment, for every one chose to believe that Abel had been intoxicated at the time, and as Abel himself joined in the laugh, it was easy to see that if that had been the cause of the accident, neither he nor any one else would be greatly ashamed of it.“What would Jack think?” I could not help saying to myself.Hawkesbury walked over to where I was and shook hands. “I’m glad you’ve come,” said he, sweetly smiling; “I was afraid you would be prevented.”“No, I’d nothing to prevent me,” replied I, colouring up.“I fancied you would prefer staying with your friend Smith, or that he might not like you to come.”“Smith is working late at the office to-night,” I replied, shortly.“Now you fellows!” cried Doubleday, “if you want any grub, sit down. Batch, old man, will you take that end of the table? you’re used to lobsters, I know.”Once more I blushed to the roots of my hair, as I obeyed in as unconcerned a manner as I could.“What’s the joke about the lobster?” asked Hawkesbury, innocently.I wished the ground would open and swallow me. Was that unlucky lobster, then, to haunt me all the days of my life?“There was no joke about it, I can tell you that!” said Whipcord, with a significant grimace; “was there, Daly?”“Well, I don’t know,” said Daly, looking mysterious; “there was one rather good joke about it, if what I was told is true.”“What’s that?” demanded the company.“It was paid for!”Don’t you pity me, reader? I was obliged to join in the laugh, and appear to enjoy it.“They’re rather down on you,” said Hawkesbury, amiably.“Oh, they like their little joke,” said I.“So they do—who’s got the butter?” said Doubleday—“so does everybody—hang it, the milk’s burnt; don’t you taste it burnt, Field-Marshal? I’ll give my old woman notice—so does everybody, except—the muffins, please, Crow—except your precious friend Smith. I don’t suppose he ever enjoyed a joke in his life now, or—help yourself, Hawkesbury—or saw one either, for the matter of that, notwithstanding his bull’s-eyes.”“I don’t know,” said I, relieved again to divert the talk from myself, and glad at the same time to put in a mild word for my friend, “I think Smith has a good deal of fun in him.”“I’d like to know where he keeps it,” said Crow; “I never saw it.”“Oh! I did,” said Hawkesbury, “at school. He was a very amusing fellow at school, wasn’t he, Batchelor? Did Batchelor ever tell you of the great rebellion that he and Smith got up there?”I had not told the story, and was there and then called upon to do so—which I did, much to the gratification of the company.“Why don’t you bring this mysterious Mr Smith down to show to us one evening?” asked Whipcord. “We’re always hearing about him. I’d like to see him, wouldn’t you, Twins?”“Very,” replied Abel, who evidently had been thinking of something else.“I’m not sure,” said I, “whether he’d come out. I don’t think he cares much about visiting.”“I hope he doesn’t think it’s wrong to visit,” said the Field-Marshal.“No, not that,” said I, sorry I had embarked on the subject; “but somehow he doesn’t get on, I think, in company.”“I should rather say he doesn’t!” said Crow—“at any rate, at Hawk Street, for a more stuck-up, disagreeable, self-righteous prig I never saw.”“I think,” said Hawkesbury, mildly, “you judge him rather hardly, Crow. Some of us thought the same at school; but I really think he means well.”“Yes,” said I, ready to follow up this lead, “his manner’s against him, perhaps, but he’s a very good fellow at bottom.”“Besides,” said Hawkesbury, “he really has had great disadvantages. He has no friend at all in London, except Batchelor.”This was flattering, certainly, and naturally enough I looked sheepish.“I beg your pardon,” said Hawkesbury, suddenly perceiving his error, “I meant that he has very few friends at all; isn’t that so, Batchelor?”“Yes,” said I, “very few.”“Wasn’t he in a grocer’s shop, or some place of the kind, before he came to us?” asked Doubleday.“Yes,” I answered.“No wonder he’s a rough lot,” said Whipcord. “I should have thought his governor might have done better for him than that.”“But,” I said, feeling flurried by all this, and hardly knowing what I said, “he hasn’t got a father—that is—I mean—”“What do you mean?” asked Flanagan.I was in a dreadful plight. Every one must have seen by my confusion that I was in a fix, and how was I to get out of it?“Eh, what about his father?” demanded Doubleday.“Oh,” said I, “he’s living abroad.”“Where, Botany Bay?” asked Daly, with a laugh.I felt my face grow scarlet, and my whole manner utterly confused and guilty-looking, as I pretended not to hear the question, and turned to speak to Crow about some other matter. But my assailants were too quick for me. My manner had roused their curiosity and excited their suspicions, and I was not to be let off.“Eh? Is that where he resides?” again demanded Daly.“I really can’t say where he lives,” I replied, abruptly, and in a tone so unlike my ordinary voice that I hardly recognised it myself.I was conscious of a startled look on the faces of one or two of the company as I said this, and of a low whistle from Crow.What had I done?“I don’t think,” said Hawkesbury, with his usual smile, “your friend Smith would be grateful to you, Batchelor, for letting the cat out of the bag like this.”“What cat?” I exclaimed, in an agitated voice. “You are all mistaken, indeed you are. Smith’s father is not a—I mean he’s merely away for his health, I assure you.”“Rather a lingering illness,” drily replied the Field-marshal, amid general laughter, “if it’s kept him abroad all these years.”“If you will take my advice, Batchelor,” said Hawkesbury, “you’ll be careful how you tell everybody a thing like this. It’s not a pleasant sort of thing to be known of a fellow.”“Indeed, indeed,” I cried once more, almost beside myself with terror and rage, “you’re all wrong. I wish I’d said nothing about it. Won’t you believe me?”“Delighted,” said Whipcord, who with every one else had been enjoying my dismay, and laughing at my efforts to extricate myself. “You say Smith’s governor is a—”“No—it’s false. I was telling a lie!” I cried, in tones of misery which any ordinary mortal would have pitied. “I don’t know what he is. I never heard of him. Indeed, indeed, I was only speaking in fun.”Thus wildly did I hope by a shield of lies to hide the secret which I had—by my manner more than my words—betrayed.“I’m afraid, Batchelor,” said Hawkesbury, with a grave but sweet smile, “you either are not telling quite the truth, or you are speaking in fun about a very serious matter.”“Oh yes, you’re right,” I cried; “I’ve been telling lies; upon my honour I have.”“Upon his honour he’s been telling lies,” said Daly. “The fellowwillhave his joke. Never saw such a joker in all my days.”I would fain have rushed from the place, but I dared not. Every word I said involved me deeper, and yet I could not leave them all like this without one effort at least either to recover my secret—Jack’s secret—or else to appeal to their confidence and generosity.It was evident they were not disposed to believe anything I told them, except the one hideous fact. And that, though I had not uttered it in so many words, every one believed from my lips as if I had been inspired.I sat in abject misery while the meal lasted, listening to the brutal jests made at the cost of my absent friend, and knowing that I was responsible for them all.Directly supper was over I appealed to Doubleday.“I do hope you won’t say anything about this at the office, Doubleday,” I said, imploringly. “It would be such a dreadful thing for it to get out.”“Then it is true?” demanded Doubleday.“No—that is—I—I—don’t know,” responded I, “but oh! don’t say anything about it.”“Bless me, if you don’t know,” said he, “why do you make such a fuss? Take my advice, young un, and don’t say any more about it to any one. You’ve done very well so far, and if you want the fellows to forget all about it you’d better not remind them of it so much.”“But, Doubleday,” I implored once more, “out of friendship for me—”“Out of friendship for you let me offer you a cigar,” said Doubleday. “Now you fellows, what’s it to be—whist, nap, poker, or what?”I turned in despair to Hawkesbury.“Please, Hawkesbury,” I said, “promise to say nothing about it at the office. I would be so grateful if you would.”“Then,” said Hawkesbury, asking the same question as Doubleday had just asked, “it is true?”I dared not say “Yes,” and to say “No” would, I knew, be useless.“Oh, please don’t ask me,” I said, only “promise—do, Hawkesbury.”Hawkesbury smiled most sweetly.“Really,” he said, “one would think it was such a nice subject that a fellow would like to talk about it!”“Then you won’t!” I cried, ready to jump at the least encouragement; “oh, thanks, Hawkesbury!”This was the only comfort I could get. Crow laughed at me when I appealed to him; and the other fellows reminded me that as they had not the pleasure of knowing my pet gaol-bird they were afraid they couldn’t tell him what I had done, much as they would like.Flanagan alone treated it seriously.“Batchelor,” said he, “I never believed you were such a fool. Can’t you see you’re only making things worse by your fuss? Why can’t you hold your tongue? Smith has little enough to thank you for as it is.”He had indeed! As I walked home that evening, I felt as if I would never dare to look him in the face again.It was late when I reached Beadle Square. Jack had returned before me, and was fast asleep in bed. A candle burned beside him, and on the counterpane, as if dropped from his hand, lay a book—a Roman History.I groaned as I looked at him, and envied him his quiet sleep, the reward of honest work and a good conscience. I crept into bed that night as silently as I could, for fear of waking him.The next few days I was on thorns. I dreaded to be alone with Jack, and still more dreaded to be by when the fellows were—now an ordinary pastime—chaffing him at the office. It was like living on a volcano which might at any moment explode. However, the days went on, and my fears did not come to pass. The fellows had either forgotten all about it, or, more likely, their sense of honour prevented them from making it known. I was devoutly thankful, of course, and by every means in my power endeavoured to show it. I made myself as agreeable as possible to my comrades, and bore all their chaff and persecution with the utmost good-humour, and went out of my way to secure and retain their good graces.Of course I could not do this without in a way defying Jack’s influence. Though he had never once taken me to task in so many words, I knew well enough he considered I was wasting my time and money in this perpetual round of festivities. But I had to take the risk of that. After all, I was playing to shield him. If he only knew all, he would be grateful to me, I reflected, rather than offended.He could not help noticing my altered manner, and of course put it down to anything but its true cause. He thought I was offended with him for not encouraging my extravagances, and that the great intimacy with Doubleday and Hawkesbury and Crow was meant to show him that I was independent of him.However, he made one brave effort to pull me up.“Fred,” said he, thoughtfully, one evening, as we walked home—“Fred, what are you going to do about your debts?”“Oh, pay them some day, I suppose,” I said, shortly.“When will that be?” he continued, quietly, not noticing my manner.“I really can’t say,” I replied, not liking to be thus questioned.“Do you know how much you owe?” he asked.“Really, Jack, you take a great interest in my debts!”“I do,” he replied, solemnly, and with the air of a fellow who had made up his mind to go through with an unpleasant duty.“Well,” I said, warming up rather, “I fancy I can look after them quite as well by myself.”“I’m afraid I am offending you,” said Jack, looking straight at me, “but I don’t think you do look after them properly.”“What do you mean?” I demanded.“I mean,” said Jack, with his arm still in mine, “that you are head over ears in debt, and that, instead of paying off, you are spending your money in other ways. And I don’t think it’s right, Fred.”“Upon my word, Jack,” I said, “it’s quite new for you to lecture me like this, and I don’t like it. What business is it of yours, I should like to know?”“You are my friend,” he said, quietly.I drew my arm roughly from his.“If you are mine,” said I, “when I want your advice I’ll ask it.”He looked at me a moment doubtfully with his big eyes. Then he said, “I was afraid of this; we never quarrelled before, Fred.”“And we shouldn’t quarrel now,” I cried, “if you’d mind your own business.”“It is my business,” he persisted—doggedly, as I thought.“What’s your business?” I demanded, with rising rage.“To beg you not to be a fool,” he replied, steadily.My temper had already gone. My self-control now deserted me as I stopped abruptly, and turned to him.“Your business!” I exclaimed, bitterly.“Yes, Fred, my business,” he said, quietly, with a touch of sadness in his tone.“Then let me tell you,” I exclaimed, forgetting everything but my resentment, “I don’t intend to be told my dutyby you of all people!”It was enough. He knew the meaning of those cowardly words. His face turned suddenly pale, and his eyes dropped, as with a half-groan he started to walk slowly on.I would have given worlds to recall the words—worlds to be able to seize his arm and beg his forgiveness. But my wicked vanity kept me back, and I let him go on alone. Then I followed. It was the first of many, many sad, solitary walks for me.
A week sufficed to put Hawkesbury quite at his ease at Hawk Street. And it sufficed also to reconcile most of the clerks to the new arrival. For Hawkesbury, although he proved plainly he was aware of his position and prospects, showed no inclination to be stiff or unfriendly with his new associates. On the contrary, he took a good deal of trouble to make himself agreeable, and succeeded so well that in less than a week Doubleday pronounced him “not such a cad as he might be,” which was very great praise from him.
Jack Smith, however, was irreconcilable. He seemed to have an instinctive dislike to his old schoolfellow, and resented the least approach on his part to friendliness. It was in vain I argued with him and urged him.
“I’m sure he’s civil enough,” I said.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Why ever are you so down on him? I’m sure he would only be too glad to be friendly.”
“I don’t like him,” said Jack.
“At any rate,” said I, “you need not take so much trouble to make an enemy of him. Some day you may be sorry for it.”
Jack did not answer, and I saw it was no use pursuing the unpleasant topic. But I was vexed with him. Why should he consider himself better than all of us who had accepted the proffered friendship of our new comrade?
“Young Batch,” said Doubleday one morning about a week after Hawkesbury’s arrival, “come up to my diggings this evening. The other fellows are coming up, and the new boss too.”
This was rather an awkward question, as since Jack’s return I had not gone out, and I imagined every one would conclude it was no use inviting me without him.
“I know what you’re going to say,” said Doubleday, noticing my hesitation. “You’ll ask Bull’s-eye’s leave, and then tell me. Here, Bull’s-eye, Smith—whatever your name is—I want young Batch to come up to supper with me this evening, and like a dutiful boy he says he can’t come till you give him leave. What do you say?”
“Don’t be an ass, Doubleday!” I cried, quite ashamed and confused to stand by and hear Smith thus appealed to. “I—I’m afraid I can’t come this evening.”
“Previous engagement?” said Doubleday, with a wink.
“No,” I said; “I’m going for a walk with Smith.”
“I’m going to stay here late to-night,” said Jack, quietly, “I want to catch up some work.” I wished I knew what he meant by it. “All serene! then the young ’un can come to us, can’t he?” said Doubleday.
“Thanks,” said I, not appearing to notice that the question was addressed to Smith.
My decision appeared to afford much amusement to the other clerks.
“Landed at last!” said Doubleday, mopping his face with his handkerchief and puffing like a man who had just gone through some great exertion.
I did not join in the laughter that followed, and spent the rest of the day rather uncomfortably. In the evening I left Jack at his desk.
“I hope you don’t mind my going,” I said. He looked up, half vexed, half astonished. “What do you mean?” he replied. “Surely it’s nothing to do with me?”
“Oh, I know. But I wouldn’t care to do it if you didn’t like it. Besides, I feel rather low going when you’re not asked too.”
“I shouldn’t go if I was asked,” replied Jack.
“Why not?” I inquired.
“I’ve something better to do with my time and my money than that sort of thing,” he replied, quietly.
I went up to Doubleday’s that evening more uneasy in my mind than I had been for a long time. I was angry with him for asking me; I was angry with myself for going; and I was angry with Smith because I felt his rebuke was a just one.
“Hullo, young un!” cried my host as I entered his now familiar lodgings; “all waiting for you. Why, how glum you look! Has the Lantern been lecturing you? or have you been having a dose of cold eel-pie on the road? or what? Come on. You know all these fellows. By the way, my boy, glorious news for you! Don’t know what we’ve all done to deserve it, upon my honour, but Abel here has knocked out one of his front teeth, so there’ll be no more trouble about spotting him now.”
Abel grinned and exhibited the gap in his jaw which had called forth this song of thankfulness from our host.
“How ever did you do it?” I asked, glad to turn the conversation from myself.
“Ran against a lamp-post,” replied the mutilated Twin.
This simple explanation caused much merriment, for every one chose to believe that Abel had been intoxicated at the time, and as Abel himself joined in the laugh, it was easy to see that if that had been the cause of the accident, neither he nor any one else would be greatly ashamed of it.
“What would Jack think?” I could not help saying to myself.
Hawkesbury walked over to where I was and shook hands. “I’m glad you’ve come,” said he, sweetly smiling; “I was afraid you would be prevented.”
“No, I’d nothing to prevent me,” replied I, colouring up.
“I fancied you would prefer staying with your friend Smith, or that he might not like you to come.”
“Smith is working late at the office to-night,” I replied, shortly.
“Now you fellows!” cried Doubleday, “if you want any grub, sit down. Batch, old man, will you take that end of the table? you’re used to lobsters, I know.”
Once more I blushed to the roots of my hair, as I obeyed in as unconcerned a manner as I could.
“What’s the joke about the lobster?” asked Hawkesbury, innocently.
I wished the ground would open and swallow me. Was that unlucky lobster, then, to haunt me all the days of my life?
“There was no joke about it, I can tell you that!” said Whipcord, with a significant grimace; “was there, Daly?”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Daly, looking mysterious; “there was one rather good joke about it, if what I was told is true.”
“What’s that?” demanded the company.
“It was paid for!”
Don’t you pity me, reader? I was obliged to join in the laugh, and appear to enjoy it.
“They’re rather down on you,” said Hawkesbury, amiably.
“Oh, they like their little joke,” said I.
“So they do—who’s got the butter?” said Doubleday—“so does everybody—hang it, the milk’s burnt; don’t you taste it burnt, Field-Marshal? I’ll give my old woman notice—so does everybody, except—the muffins, please, Crow—except your precious friend Smith. I don’t suppose he ever enjoyed a joke in his life now, or—help yourself, Hawkesbury—or saw one either, for the matter of that, notwithstanding his bull’s-eyes.”
“I don’t know,” said I, relieved again to divert the talk from myself, and glad at the same time to put in a mild word for my friend, “I think Smith has a good deal of fun in him.”
“I’d like to know where he keeps it,” said Crow; “I never saw it.”
“Oh! I did,” said Hawkesbury, “at school. He was a very amusing fellow at school, wasn’t he, Batchelor? Did Batchelor ever tell you of the great rebellion that he and Smith got up there?”
I had not told the story, and was there and then called upon to do so—which I did, much to the gratification of the company.
“Why don’t you bring this mysterious Mr Smith down to show to us one evening?” asked Whipcord. “We’re always hearing about him. I’d like to see him, wouldn’t you, Twins?”
“Very,” replied Abel, who evidently had been thinking of something else.
“I’m not sure,” said I, “whether he’d come out. I don’t think he cares much about visiting.”
“I hope he doesn’t think it’s wrong to visit,” said the Field-Marshal.
“No, not that,” said I, sorry I had embarked on the subject; “but somehow he doesn’t get on, I think, in company.”
“I should rather say he doesn’t!” said Crow—“at any rate, at Hawk Street, for a more stuck-up, disagreeable, self-righteous prig I never saw.”
“I think,” said Hawkesbury, mildly, “you judge him rather hardly, Crow. Some of us thought the same at school; but I really think he means well.”
“Yes,” said I, ready to follow up this lead, “his manner’s against him, perhaps, but he’s a very good fellow at bottom.”
“Besides,” said Hawkesbury, “he really has had great disadvantages. He has no friend at all in London, except Batchelor.”
This was flattering, certainly, and naturally enough I looked sheepish.
“I beg your pardon,” said Hawkesbury, suddenly perceiving his error, “I meant that he has very few friends at all; isn’t that so, Batchelor?”
“Yes,” said I, “very few.”
“Wasn’t he in a grocer’s shop, or some place of the kind, before he came to us?” asked Doubleday.
“Yes,” I answered.
“No wonder he’s a rough lot,” said Whipcord. “I should have thought his governor might have done better for him than that.”
“But,” I said, feeling flurried by all this, and hardly knowing what I said, “he hasn’t got a father—that is—I mean—”
“What do you mean?” asked Flanagan.
I was in a dreadful plight. Every one must have seen by my confusion that I was in a fix, and how was I to get out of it?
“Eh, what about his father?” demanded Doubleday.
“Oh,” said I, “he’s living abroad.”
“Where, Botany Bay?” asked Daly, with a laugh.
I felt my face grow scarlet, and my whole manner utterly confused and guilty-looking, as I pretended not to hear the question, and turned to speak to Crow about some other matter. But my assailants were too quick for me. My manner had roused their curiosity and excited their suspicions, and I was not to be let off.
“Eh? Is that where he resides?” again demanded Daly.
“I really can’t say where he lives,” I replied, abruptly, and in a tone so unlike my ordinary voice that I hardly recognised it myself.
I was conscious of a startled look on the faces of one or two of the company as I said this, and of a low whistle from Crow.
What had I done?
“I don’t think,” said Hawkesbury, with his usual smile, “your friend Smith would be grateful to you, Batchelor, for letting the cat out of the bag like this.”
“What cat?” I exclaimed, in an agitated voice. “You are all mistaken, indeed you are. Smith’s father is not a—I mean he’s merely away for his health, I assure you.”
“Rather a lingering illness,” drily replied the Field-marshal, amid general laughter, “if it’s kept him abroad all these years.”
“If you will take my advice, Batchelor,” said Hawkesbury, “you’ll be careful how you tell everybody a thing like this. It’s not a pleasant sort of thing to be known of a fellow.”
“Indeed, indeed,” I cried once more, almost beside myself with terror and rage, “you’re all wrong. I wish I’d said nothing about it. Won’t you believe me?”
“Delighted,” said Whipcord, who with every one else had been enjoying my dismay, and laughing at my efforts to extricate myself. “You say Smith’s governor is a—”
“No—it’s false. I was telling a lie!” I cried, in tones of misery which any ordinary mortal would have pitied. “I don’t know what he is. I never heard of him. Indeed, indeed, I was only speaking in fun.”
Thus wildly did I hope by a shield of lies to hide the secret which I had—by my manner more than my words—betrayed.
“I’m afraid, Batchelor,” said Hawkesbury, with a grave but sweet smile, “you either are not telling quite the truth, or you are speaking in fun about a very serious matter.”
“Oh yes, you’re right,” I cried; “I’ve been telling lies; upon my honour I have.”
“Upon his honour he’s been telling lies,” said Daly. “The fellowwillhave his joke. Never saw such a joker in all my days.”
I would fain have rushed from the place, but I dared not. Every word I said involved me deeper, and yet I could not leave them all like this without one effort at least either to recover my secret—Jack’s secret—or else to appeal to their confidence and generosity.
It was evident they were not disposed to believe anything I told them, except the one hideous fact. And that, though I had not uttered it in so many words, every one believed from my lips as if I had been inspired.
I sat in abject misery while the meal lasted, listening to the brutal jests made at the cost of my absent friend, and knowing that I was responsible for them all.
Directly supper was over I appealed to Doubleday.
“I do hope you won’t say anything about this at the office, Doubleday,” I said, imploringly. “It would be such a dreadful thing for it to get out.”
“Then it is true?” demanded Doubleday.
“No—that is—I—I—don’t know,” responded I, “but oh! don’t say anything about it.”
“Bless me, if you don’t know,” said he, “why do you make such a fuss? Take my advice, young un, and don’t say any more about it to any one. You’ve done very well so far, and if you want the fellows to forget all about it you’d better not remind them of it so much.”
“But, Doubleday,” I implored once more, “out of friendship for me—”
“Out of friendship for you let me offer you a cigar,” said Doubleday. “Now you fellows, what’s it to be—whist, nap, poker, or what?”
I turned in despair to Hawkesbury.
“Please, Hawkesbury,” I said, “promise to say nothing about it at the office. I would be so grateful if you would.”
“Then,” said Hawkesbury, asking the same question as Doubleday had just asked, “it is true?”
I dared not say “Yes,” and to say “No” would, I knew, be useless.
“Oh, please don’t ask me,” I said, only “promise—do, Hawkesbury.”
Hawkesbury smiled most sweetly.
“Really,” he said, “one would think it was such a nice subject that a fellow would like to talk about it!”
“Then you won’t!” I cried, ready to jump at the least encouragement; “oh, thanks, Hawkesbury!”
This was the only comfort I could get. Crow laughed at me when I appealed to him; and the other fellows reminded me that as they had not the pleasure of knowing my pet gaol-bird they were afraid they couldn’t tell him what I had done, much as they would like.
Flanagan alone treated it seriously.
“Batchelor,” said he, “I never believed you were such a fool. Can’t you see you’re only making things worse by your fuss? Why can’t you hold your tongue? Smith has little enough to thank you for as it is.”
He had indeed! As I walked home that evening, I felt as if I would never dare to look him in the face again.
It was late when I reached Beadle Square. Jack had returned before me, and was fast asleep in bed. A candle burned beside him, and on the counterpane, as if dropped from his hand, lay a book—a Roman History.
I groaned as I looked at him, and envied him his quiet sleep, the reward of honest work and a good conscience. I crept into bed that night as silently as I could, for fear of waking him.
The next few days I was on thorns. I dreaded to be alone with Jack, and still more dreaded to be by when the fellows were—now an ordinary pastime—chaffing him at the office. It was like living on a volcano which might at any moment explode. However, the days went on, and my fears did not come to pass. The fellows had either forgotten all about it, or, more likely, their sense of honour prevented them from making it known. I was devoutly thankful, of course, and by every means in my power endeavoured to show it. I made myself as agreeable as possible to my comrades, and bore all their chaff and persecution with the utmost good-humour, and went out of my way to secure and retain their good graces.
Of course I could not do this without in a way defying Jack’s influence. Though he had never once taken me to task in so many words, I knew well enough he considered I was wasting my time and money in this perpetual round of festivities. But I had to take the risk of that. After all, I was playing to shield him. If he only knew all, he would be grateful to me, I reflected, rather than offended.
He could not help noticing my altered manner, and of course put it down to anything but its true cause. He thought I was offended with him for not encouraging my extravagances, and that the great intimacy with Doubleday and Hawkesbury and Crow was meant to show him that I was independent of him.
However, he made one brave effort to pull me up.
“Fred,” said he, thoughtfully, one evening, as we walked home—“Fred, what are you going to do about your debts?”
“Oh, pay them some day, I suppose,” I said, shortly.
“When will that be?” he continued, quietly, not noticing my manner.
“I really can’t say,” I replied, not liking to be thus questioned.
“Do you know how much you owe?” he asked.
“Really, Jack, you take a great interest in my debts!”
“I do,” he replied, solemnly, and with the air of a fellow who had made up his mind to go through with an unpleasant duty.
“Well,” I said, warming up rather, “I fancy I can look after them quite as well by myself.”
“I’m afraid I am offending you,” said Jack, looking straight at me, “but I don’t think you do look after them properly.”
“What do you mean?” I demanded.
“I mean,” said Jack, with his arm still in mine, “that you are head over ears in debt, and that, instead of paying off, you are spending your money in other ways. And I don’t think it’s right, Fred.”
“Upon my word, Jack,” I said, “it’s quite new for you to lecture me like this, and I don’t like it. What business is it of yours, I should like to know?”
“You are my friend,” he said, quietly.
I drew my arm roughly from his.
“If you are mine,” said I, “when I want your advice I’ll ask it.”
He looked at me a moment doubtfully with his big eyes. Then he said, “I was afraid of this; we never quarrelled before, Fred.”
“And we shouldn’t quarrel now,” I cried, “if you’d mind your own business.”
“It is my business,” he persisted—doggedly, as I thought.
“What’s your business?” I demanded, with rising rage.
“To beg you not to be a fool,” he replied, steadily.
My temper had already gone. My self-control now deserted me as I stopped abruptly, and turned to him.
“Your business!” I exclaimed, bitterly.
“Yes, Fred, my business,” he said, quietly, with a touch of sadness in his tone.
“Then let me tell you,” I exclaimed, forgetting everything but my resentment, “I don’t intend to be told my dutyby you of all people!”
It was enough. He knew the meaning of those cowardly words. His face turned suddenly pale, and his eyes dropped, as with a half-groan he started to walk slowly on.
I would have given worlds to recall the words—worlds to be able to seize his arm and beg his forgiveness. But my wicked vanity kept me back, and I let him go on alone. Then I followed. It was the first of many, many sad, solitary walks for me.
Chapter Twenty One.How a Door closed between my Friend Smith and me.If any one had told me a month before that I should quarrel with my friend Smith, I should have laughed at the bare idea. But now the impossible thing had happened.That night as I lay awake in my bed I felt that I had not a friend in the world. I had wounded, in the cruellest way, the only true friend I ever had, and now I was to suffer for it. The words had come hastily and thoughtlessly, but they had come; and Jack, I knew, regarded me as a coward and a brute.The next day we scarcely spoke a word to one another, and when we did it was in so constrained a manner that it would have been more comfortable had we remained silent. We walked to and from the office by separate ways, and during the mid-day half-hour we lunched for the first time at different eating-houses.I longed to explain—to beg his pardon. But he was so stiff and distant in his manner that I could not venture to approach him. Once I did try, but he saw me coming and, I fancied, turned on his heel before I got up.What was I to do? If this was to last, I should be miserable for ever. Yet how could it end? Would I write him a letter, or would I get some one to plead my cause for me? Or would I let him see how wretched I was, and work on his feelings that way? It was all my fault, I knew. Yet he might have come out a little and made a reconciliation easy. Surely if he had really been my friend, thought I, he would not be so quick to cast me off, and judge me by one or two hasty words!What between an evil conscience, vexation, and disappointment, I was that day about the most miserable fellow alive. The fellows at the office all noticed and added to my discomfort by ostentatiously condoling with me.“Poor old chap!” said Doubleday; “he’s been letting you have it, has he? Awful shame.”“As if a fellow mayn’t get screwed without his interfering,” laughed Crow.“It’s nothing of the sort,” said I, as usual taking in earnest what was meant as a jest; “I was never screwed.”Crow’s only answer was a whistle, which greatly amused all the others.“Never mind,” said Doubleday, “come along with us to-night, old man; we’ve got a little spree on, haven’t we, Crow? We’re going to get tea and shrimps at the Magpie, and then going in a body to the Serio-Comics, and finish up with a supper somewhere or other. Going to make a regular night of it. Come along.”“I don’t want to,” I said; “besides, I can’t afford it.”“Afford your great-grandmother! Why, a fellow who can entertain the whole lot of us as you did can’t be so very hard up, can he, Wallop? So come, none of your gammon. You’re coming with us to-night, my boy, and old Bull’s-eye can sit and scowl at himself in the looking-glass if he likes.”I went with them, glad enough to get anywhere out of Jack’s sight. We had a “rollicking evening,” as the fellows called it; which meant that after a noisy and extravagant tea at the Magpie we adjourned in a body to the performance, where we made quite as much noise as the rest of the audience put together, after which we finished up with a fish supper of Doubleday’s ordering, at a restaurant, the bill for which came to two shillings a head.I was not in a condition to enjoy myself. The thought of Jack haunted me all the evening and made me miserable. I fancied him walking back from Hawk Street alone. He would stop to talk to Billy, I knew, and then he would go on to Beadle Square and bury himself in his book till bedtime. Would he ever think of me? Why, even the little shoeblack was more to him now than I was.I got home late—so late that Mrs Nash protested angrily, and threatened to stand my irregularities no longer. Jack was not asleep when I entered the room, but at sight of me he turned over in his bed and drew the clothes round him. I was angry and miserable and made no attempt to speak to him. But I could not sleep. The spirit seemed to have gone out of my life in London, and I dreaded to-morrow as much as ever I had hated to-day.I rose early in the morning, and after a hurried breakfast started from the house before Jack came down. At least I could take refuge in my work at the office.I had the place to myself for quite half an hour, when Hawkesbury arrived.“Well, Batchelor,” said he, “you are industrious. I thought I should be first to-day, but you are before me. Where’s your friend Smith?”“I don’t know,” I said, hurriedly.“I’m afraid,” said Hawkesbury, with his sweet smile, “you and Smith haven’t been getting on well lately. I noticed yesterday you never spoke to one another.”“I’m not obliged to speak to him,” I growled.“Certainly not. In fact I think it’s very kind indeed of you to make him your friend under the circumstances.”Of course I knew what these last words meant. A day or two ago they would have terrified me; but now in my mortified state of mind they didn’t even offend me.“Jack and I always got on well,” I said, “until he began to interfere with my affairs. I didn’t like that.”“Of course not; nobody does. But then you know he has always been a sort of guardian to you.”“He was never anything of the sort,” I retorted.“Well,” said Hawkesbury, pleasantly, but with a touch of melancholy in his voice, “I never like to see old friends fall out. Would you like me to speak to him and try to make it up?”“Certainly not,” I exclaimed. “If I want it, I can do that myself.”“What can he do himself?” cried Doubleday, entering at this moment with Crow and Wallop, and one or two others of last night’s party. “Was the young un saying he could find his way home by himself after that supper last night, eh? My eye, that’s a good ’un, isn’t it, Crow?”“Nice gratitude,” cried Crow, “after our carrying him home and propping him up against his own front door.”“I wonder what his friend Smith thought of it?” said Wallop; “he must have been shocked.”“When you fellows have done,” I said, who had felt bound to submit to all this with the best grace I could, “I’ll get on with my work.”“What a joker the fellow is!” said Doubleday. “One would think he was always at his work.”“I want to work now,” I said. “I do indeed.”“Do you indeed?” said Doubleday, mocking my tones and making a low bow.“Since when did you take a fancy for hard labour?”“Hard labour?”At that moment the door opened and Jack Smith entered.I could notice the quick start he gave as the words fell suddenly on his ear. He gave one scared look round the office, and then went quietly to his desk.At the sight of him there was an abrupt silence amongst us. Crow and Wallop stopped short in the middle of their exclamation. Hawkesbury and I buried ourselves in our work, and Doubleday, standing before the fire, began to whistle softly.Could anything have happened more awkwardly and suspiciously? Jack must certainly believe we were all talking about him, and the ill-fated word he had overheard would naturally suggest to him—“When you’ve done laughing, young Batchelor,” said Doubleday, stopping short in his whistling, “we’ll get to work.”This unexpected remark, which of course was a delicate way of calling everybody’s attention to my rueful countenance, served to put all the rest of the company except myself at their ease, and Mr Barnacle’s entrance a minute afterwards put an end for the time to any further conversation.But the day dragged on miserably. What must Jack think of me? He would be sure to believe the worst of me, and it was impossible for me to explain.“After all,” I thought, “if he does choose to form wrong conclusions, why should I afflict myself? No one was even speaking of him when he entered the office. What business of mine is it to put him right?”And then, as usual, I forgot all about the injury I had done him, all my treachery, all my meanness, and instead felt rather aggrieved, and persuaded myself it was I, not he, who was the injured person.At dinner-time I ostentatiously went out arm-in-arm with Hawkesbury, and when on returning I met Smith on the stairs I brushed past him as if I had not seen him.That afternoon I was called upon unexpectedly to go down to the docks to see after the shipment of some goods. I was relieved to have the excuse for being alone and getting away from the unpleasant surroundings of Hawk Street.It was late in the afternoon when I returned, so late that I almost expected the fellows would some of them have left for the day. But as I entered the office I noticed they were all there, and became aware that something unusual was taking place. From the loud tones of the speakers I concluded the partners had left for the day.At first I could not tell whether it was a joke or a quarrel that was being enacted; but it soon began to dawn on me. Jack Smith was being set on by the others.What his offence had been I could not quite gather, though I believe it consisted in his insisting on using the ledger he was at work on till the actual hour for ceasing work arrived, while Harris, who was responsible for the locking-up of the books, and who wanted this evening to go half an hour earlier, was demanding that he should give it up now.“I must finish these accounts to-night,” said Jack.“I tell you I’m not going to be kept here half an hour just to please you,” replied Harris.“We’re not supposed to stop work till seven,” said Jack; “that’s the time we always work to when Mr Barnacle is here. And it’s only half-past six now.”“What business of yours is it when we’re supposed to work to, Mr Prig?” demanded Harris, savagely. “You’re under my orders here, and you’ll do what I tell you.”“I’m under Mr Barnacle’s orders,” said Jack, going on with his writing.“You mean to say you’re not going to do what I tell you?” asked Harris, in a rage.“I’m going to do what’s right—that’s all,” said Smith, quietly.“Right! You humbug! You’re a nice respectable fellow to talk about right to us, Mr Gaol-bird! As if we didn’t know who you are! You son of a thief and swindler! Right, indeed! We don’t want to hear about right from you!”Jack gave one startled, scared, upward look as he spoke; but it was turned not to the speaker, but to me. I shall never forget that look. I could have sunk into the earth with shame and misery as I encountered it.He closed the ledger, and with white face and quivering lips took his hat and walked silently from the office.To me his manner was more terrible than if he had broken out into torrents of passion and abuse. At the sight of his face that moment my treachery and sin appeared suddenly in their true light before my eyes. I had been false to my best friend, and more than false.Who could tell if I had not ruined him? Vain and selfish fool that I had been! Always thinking what others would think of me, and never how best I could help him in his gallant struggle against his evil destiny.I rushed wildly from the office after him, and overtook him on the stairs.“Oh, Jack,” I cried, “it really wasn’t my—oh! I’m so dreadfully sorry, Jack! If you’ll only let me explain, I can—”He was gone. The door shut-to suddenly in my face, leaving me alone with my misery, and shutting out my one hope of recovering my only friend.I returned miserable to the office—miserable and savage. Though I knew I had only myself to blame for what had happened, I was fain to vent my anger on the cowardly set who had used my secret against my friend. But when I tried to speak the words would not come. I locked up my desk dejectedly, and without a word to any one, and heedless of the looks and titters that followed me, walked from the place.Half way down the street I became aware of a footstep following hurriedly, as if to overtake me. Could it be Jack? Was there yet a chance? No, it was Hawkesbury.“Oh, Batchelor,” he said, “I am so sorry. It’s most unfortunate the way it came out, isn’t it?”I made no answer, and drew my arm out of his.“Harris is such a short-tempered fellow,” he went on, not noticing my manner, “but I never thought he would go as far as he did. I assure you, Batchelor, when I heard it, I felt quite as sorry as you did.”“I should like to know who told Harris about it,” I said. “I didn’t.”“Didn’t you? Wasn’t he there that evening you told all the rest of us? To be sure he wasn’t. He must have heard the others speaking about it.”“They all promised—that is, I begged them all—not to tell any one,” I said, with a groan.“Yes, I remember your asking me that evening. It’s a great shame if the fellows have told Harris. But he may have heard some other way.”“How could he?” said I.“Well, I suppose it was all in the papers at the time,” said Hawkesbury.“Harris would hardly be in the habit of reading newspapers thirteen or fourteen years old,” I said, bitterly.“Was it so long ago as that?” said Hawkesbury. “No, it hardly does seem likely. Somebody must have told him.”“It was a blackguard thing of him to do,” I said, “and I’ll take good care never to speak to him again.”“Well, you’d be quite justified in cutting him dead,” replied Hawkesbury. “I’d do the same if he’d done as much to a friend of mine.”I did not reply to this. After all, had Harris been much more to blame than I had been in the first instance?“Well,” said Hawkesbury, “I hope it will soon blow over. One never likes unpleasant things like this coming up. You must tell Smith how angry I am with Harris.”“I don’t suppose Smith will ever speak to me again,” I said.“Really? Oh, I hope it’s not so bad as that. After all, you know,” said Hawkesbury, “it would have been much more straightforward of him to tell the fellows what he was at first. They don’t like being taken by surprise in a matter like this. I really don’t see thathehas so much to complain of.”“But it was so low of Harris to fling it in his teeth like that,” I said.“Well, yes, it was,” said Hawkesbury; “but it was not as bad as if he had said something about him that wasn’t true. Well, good-night, Batchelor. I hope it will be all right in time.”I was not much comforted by this conversation; and yet I was not altogether displeased to find that Hawkesbury agreed with me in condemning Harris’s conduct, and his last argument, though it took away nothing from my unkindness, certainly did strike me. However unpleasant and cruel Jack’s treatment had been, one must remember that the story told about him was true. Yes, it was a great consolation to feel that, whatever else had happened, no one had told a lie!As I passed the top of Style Street, meditating on these things, I became aware that Billy was striding across my path with a face full of grimy concern.“I say, master,” he cried, “where’s t’other bloke?”“I don’t know,” I said, walking on.“What, ain’t you saw him?” he demanded, trotting along, blacking-brush in hand, by my side.“Yes—go away, do you hear? I don’t want you walking beside me.”“That there clock,” said Billy, pointing up to a clock just over his usual place of business—“that there clock’s been gone seving a lump, and he ain’t been.”“It’s nothing to do with me,” I cried angrily. “Come, get away, unless you want your ears boxed.”“Won’t he’s boots be in a muck, though,” continued the boy, wholly regardless of my wrath, “without no shine.”“Do you hear what I say?” cried I, stopping short threateningly.Billy slunk off more disconsolately than I had ever seen him, leaving me to pursue my way unmolested.I do not know where I wandered to that evening, or what I thought of as I walked. My mind was too confused and miserable to take in anything clearly, except that I had lost my friend.Fellows passed me arm-in-arm, in earnest talk or with beaming faces, and only reminded me of what I had lost. Memories of the past crowded in upon me—of Stonebridge House, where his friendship had been my one comfort and hope; of our early days in London, when it seemed as if, with one another for company, nothing could come amiss, and no hardship could be quite intolerable; of his illness and absence, and my gradual yielding to frivolity and extravagance; then of his return and confidence in me. Would that he had never told me that wretched secret! If he had only known to whom he was telling it, to what a pitiful, weak, vain nature he was confiding it, he would have bitten his tongue off before he did it, and I should have yet been comparatively happy!But the evil was done now, and what power on earth could undo it?I slunk home to Beadle Square when I imagined every one else would be in bed.Mrs Nash met me at the door.“Your friend Smith’s gone,” she said.“Gone!” I exclaimed. “Where?”“How should I know? He paid his bill and took off his traps two hours ago, and says he’s not coming back!”You may guess, reader, whether I slept that night.
If any one had told me a month before that I should quarrel with my friend Smith, I should have laughed at the bare idea. But now the impossible thing had happened.
That night as I lay awake in my bed I felt that I had not a friend in the world. I had wounded, in the cruellest way, the only true friend I ever had, and now I was to suffer for it. The words had come hastily and thoughtlessly, but they had come; and Jack, I knew, regarded me as a coward and a brute.
The next day we scarcely spoke a word to one another, and when we did it was in so constrained a manner that it would have been more comfortable had we remained silent. We walked to and from the office by separate ways, and during the mid-day half-hour we lunched for the first time at different eating-houses.
I longed to explain—to beg his pardon. But he was so stiff and distant in his manner that I could not venture to approach him. Once I did try, but he saw me coming and, I fancied, turned on his heel before I got up.
What was I to do? If this was to last, I should be miserable for ever. Yet how could it end? Would I write him a letter, or would I get some one to plead my cause for me? Or would I let him see how wretched I was, and work on his feelings that way? It was all my fault, I knew. Yet he might have come out a little and made a reconciliation easy. Surely if he had really been my friend, thought I, he would not be so quick to cast me off, and judge me by one or two hasty words!
What between an evil conscience, vexation, and disappointment, I was that day about the most miserable fellow alive. The fellows at the office all noticed and added to my discomfort by ostentatiously condoling with me.
“Poor old chap!” said Doubleday; “he’s been letting you have it, has he? Awful shame.”
“As if a fellow mayn’t get screwed without his interfering,” laughed Crow.
“It’s nothing of the sort,” said I, as usual taking in earnest what was meant as a jest; “I was never screwed.”
Crow’s only answer was a whistle, which greatly amused all the others.
“Never mind,” said Doubleday, “come along with us to-night, old man; we’ve got a little spree on, haven’t we, Crow? We’re going to get tea and shrimps at the Magpie, and then going in a body to the Serio-Comics, and finish up with a supper somewhere or other. Going to make a regular night of it. Come along.”
“I don’t want to,” I said; “besides, I can’t afford it.”
“Afford your great-grandmother! Why, a fellow who can entertain the whole lot of us as you did can’t be so very hard up, can he, Wallop? So come, none of your gammon. You’re coming with us to-night, my boy, and old Bull’s-eye can sit and scowl at himself in the looking-glass if he likes.”
I went with them, glad enough to get anywhere out of Jack’s sight. We had a “rollicking evening,” as the fellows called it; which meant that after a noisy and extravagant tea at the Magpie we adjourned in a body to the performance, where we made quite as much noise as the rest of the audience put together, after which we finished up with a fish supper of Doubleday’s ordering, at a restaurant, the bill for which came to two shillings a head.
I was not in a condition to enjoy myself. The thought of Jack haunted me all the evening and made me miserable. I fancied him walking back from Hawk Street alone. He would stop to talk to Billy, I knew, and then he would go on to Beadle Square and bury himself in his book till bedtime. Would he ever think of me? Why, even the little shoeblack was more to him now than I was.
I got home late—so late that Mrs Nash protested angrily, and threatened to stand my irregularities no longer. Jack was not asleep when I entered the room, but at sight of me he turned over in his bed and drew the clothes round him. I was angry and miserable and made no attempt to speak to him. But I could not sleep. The spirit seemed to have gone out of my life in London, and I dreaded to-morrow as much as ever I had hated to-day.
I rose early in the morning, and after a hurried breakfast started from the house before Jack came down. At least I could take refuge in my work at the office.
I had the place to myself for quite half an hour, when Hawkesbury arrived.
“Well, Batchelor,” said he, “you are industrious. I thought I should be first to-day, but you are before me. Where’s your friend Smith?”
“I don’t know,” I said, hurriedly.
“I’m afraid,” said Hawkesbury, with his sweet smile, “you and Smith haven’t been getting on well lately. I noticed yesterday you never spoke to one another.”
“I’m not obliged to speak to him,” I growled.
“Certainly not. In fact I think it’s very kind indeed of you to make him your friend under the circumstances.”
Of course I knew what these last words meant. A day or two ago they would have terrified me; but now in my mortified state of mind they didn’t even offend me.
“Jack and I always got on well,” I said, “until he began to interfere with my affairs. I didn’t like that.”
“Of course not; nobody does. But then you know he has always been a sort of guardian to you.”
“He was never anything of the sort,” I retorted.
“Well,” said Hawkesbury, pleasantly, but with a touch of melancholy in his voice, “I never like to see old friends fall out. Would you like me to speak to him and try to make it up?”
“Certainly not,” I exclaimed. “If I want it, I can do that myself.”
“What can he do himself?” cried Doubleday, entering at this moment with Crow and Wallop, and one or two others of last night’s party. “Was the young un saying he could find his way home by himself after that supper last night, eh? My eye, that’s a good ’un, isn’t it, Crow?”
“Nice gratitude,” cried Crow, “after our carrying him home and propping him up against his own front door.”
“I wonder what his friend Smith thought of it?” said Wallop; “he must have been shocked.”
“When you fellows have done,” I said, who had felt bound to submit to all this with the best grace I could, “I’ll get on with my work.”
“What a joker the fellow is!” said Doubleday. “One would think he was always at his work.”
“I want to work now,” I said. “I do indeed.”
“Do you indeed?” said Doubleday, mocking my tones and making a low bow.
“Since when did you take a fancy for hard labour?”
“Hard labour?”
At that moment the door opened and Jack Smith entered.
I could notice the quick start he gave as the words fell suddenly on his ear. He gave one scared look round the office, and then went quietly to his desk.
At the sight of him there was an abrupt silence amongst us. Crow and Wallop stopped short in the middle of their exclamation. Hawkesbury and I buried ourselves in our work, and Doubleday, standing before the fire, began to whistle softly.
Could anything have happened more awkwardly and suspiciously? Jack must certainly believe we were all talking about him, and the ill-fated word he had overheard would naturally suggest to him—
“When you’ve done laughing, young Batchelor,” said Doubleday, stopping short in his whistling, “we’ll get to work.”
This unexpected remark, which of course was a delicate way of calling everybody’s attention to my rueful countenance, served to put all the rest of the company except myself at their ease, and Mr Barnacle’s entrance a minute afterwards put an end for the time to any further conversation.
But the day dragged on miserably. What must Jack think of me? He would be sure to believe the worst of me, and it was impossible for me to explain.
“After all,” I thought, “if he does choose to form wrong conclusions, why should I afflict myself? No one was even speaking of him when he entered the office. What business of mine is it to put him right?”
And then, as usual, I forgot all about the injury I had done him, all my treachery, all my meanness, and instead felt rather aggrieved, and persuaded myself it was I, not he, who was the injured person.
At dinner-time I ostentatiously went out arm-in-arm with Hawkesbury, and when on returning I met Smith on the stairs I brushed past him as if I had not seen him.
That afternoon I was called upon unexpectedly to go down to the docks to see after the shipment of some goods. I was relieved to have the excuse for being alone and getting away from the unpleasant surroundings of Hawk Street.
It was late in the afternoon when I returned, so late that I almost expected the fellows would some of them have left for the day. But as I entered the office I noticed they were all there, and became aware that something unusual was taking place. From the loud tones of the speakers I concluded the partners had left for the day.
At first I could not tell whether it was a joke or a quarrel that was being enacted; but it soon began to dawn on me. Jack Smith was being set on by the others.
What his offence had been I could not quite gather, though I believe it consisted in his insisting on using the ledger he was at work on till the actual hour for ceasing work arrived, while Harris, who was responsible for the locking-up of the books, and who wanted this evening to go half an hour earlier, was demanding that he should give it up now.
“I must finish these accounts to-night,” said Jack.
“I tell you I’m not going to be kept here half an hour just to please you,” replied Harris.
“We’re not supposed to stop work till seven,” said Jack; “that’s the time we always work to when Mr Barnacle is here. And it’s only half-past six now.”
“What business of yours is it when we’re supposed to work to, Mr Prig?” demanded Harris, savagely. “You’re under my orders here, and you’ll do what I tell you.”
“I’m under Mr Barnacle’s orders,” said Jack, going on with his writing.
“You mean to say you’re not going to do what I tell you?” asked Harris, in a rage.
“I’m going to do what’s right—that’s all,” said Smith, quietly.
“Right! You humbug! You’re a nice respectable fellow to talk about right to us, Mr Gaol-bird! As if we didn’t know who you are! You son of a thief and swindler! Right, indeed! We don’t want to hear about right from you!”
Jack gave one startled, scared, upward look as he spoke; but it was turned not to the speaker, but to me. I shall never forget that look. I could have sunk into the earth with shame and misery as I encountered it.
He closed the ledger, and with white face and quivering lips took his hat and walked silently from the office.
To me his manner was more terrible than if he had broken out into torrents of passion and abuse. At the sight of his face that moment my treachery and sin appeared suddenly in their true light before my eyes. I had been false to my best friend, and more than false.
Who could tell if I had not ruined him? Vain and selfish fool that I had been! Always thinking what others would think of me, and never how best I could help him in his gallant struggle against his evil destiny.
I rushed wildly from the office after him, and overtook him on the stairs.
“Oh, Jack,” I cried, “it really wasn’t my—oh! I’m so dreadfully sorry, Jack! If you’ll only let me explain, I can—”
He was gone. The door shut-to suddenly in my face, leaving me alone with my misery, and shutting out my one hope of recovering my only friend.
I returned miserable to the office—miserable and savage. Though I knew I had only myself to blame for what had happened, I was fain to vent my anger on the cowardly set who had used my secret against my friend. But when I tried to speak the words would not come. I locked up my desk dejectedly, and without a word to any one, and heedless of the looks and titters that followed me, walked from the place.
Half way down the street I became aware of a footstep following hurriedly, as if to overtake me. Could it be Jack? Was there yet a chance? No, it was Hawkesbury.
“Oh, Batchelor,” he said, “I am so sorry. It’s most unfortunate the way it came out, isn’t it?”
I made no answer, and drew my arm out of his.
“Harris is such a short-tempered fellow,” he went on, not noticing my manner, “but I never thought he would go as far as he did. I assure you, Batchelor, when I heard it, I felt quite as sorry as you did.”
“I should like to know who told Harris about it,” I said. “I didn’t.”
“Didn’t you? Wasn’t he there that evening you told all the rest of us? To be sure he wasn’t. He must have heard the others speaking about it.”
“They all promised—that is, I begged them all—not to tell any one,” I said, with a groan.
“Yes, I remember your asking me that evening. It’s a great shame if the fellows have told Harris. But he may have heard some other way.”
“How could he?” said I.
“Well, I suppose it was all in the papers at the time,” said Hawkesbury.
“Harris would hardly be in the habit of reading newspapers thirteen or fourteen years old,” I said, bitterly.
“Was it so long ago as that?” said Hawkesbury. “No, it hardly does seem likely. Somebody must have told him.”
“It was a blackguard thing of him to do,” I said, “and I’ll take good care never to speak to him again.”
“Well, you’d be quite justified in cutting him dead,” replied Hawkesbury. “I’d do the same if he’d done as much to a friend of mine.”
I did not reply to this. After all, had Harris been much more to blame than I had been in the first instance?
“Well,” said Hawkesbury, “I hope it will soon blow over. One never likes unpleasant things like this coming up. You must tell Smith how angry I am with Harris.”
“I don’t suppose Smith will ever speak to me again,” I said.
“Really? Oh, I hope it’s not so bad as that. After all, you know,” said Hawkesbury, “it would have been much more straightforward of him to tell the fellows what he was at first. They don’t like being taken by surprise in a matter like this. I really don’t see thathehas so much to complain of.”
“But it was so low of Harris to fling it in his teeth like that,” I said.
“Well, yes, it was,” said Hawkesbury; “but it was not as bad as if he had said something about him that wasn’t true. Well, good-night, Batchelor. I hope it will be all right in time.”
I was not much comforted by this conversation; and yet I was not altogether displeased to find that Hawkesbury agreed with me in condemning Harris’s conduct, and his last argument, though it took away nothing from my unkindness, certainly did strike me. However unpleasant and cruel Jack’s treatment had been, one must remember that the story told about him was true. Yes, it was a great consolation to feel that, whatever else had happened, no one had told a lie!
As I passed the top of Style Street, meditating on these things, I became aware that Billy was striding across my path with a face full of grimy concern.
“I say, master,” he cried, “where’s t’other bloke?”
“I don’t know,” I said, walking on.
“What, ain’t you saw him?” he demanded, trotting along, blacking-brush in hand, by my side.
“Yes—go away, do you hear? I don’t want you walking beside me.”
“That there clock,” said Billy, pointing up to a clock just over his usual place of business—“that there clock’s been gone seving a lump, and he ain’t been.”
“It’s nothing to do with me,” I cried angrily. “Come, get away, unless you want your ears boxed.”
“Won’t he’s boots be in a muck, though,” continued the boy, wholly regardless of my wrath, “without no shine.”
“Do you hear what I say?” cried I, stopping short threateningly.
Billy slunk off more disconsolately than I had ever seen him, leaving me to pursue my way unmolested.
I do not know where I wandered to that evening, or what I thought of as I walked. My mind was too confused and miserable to take in anything clearly, except that I had lost my friend.
Fellows passed me arm-in-arm, in earnest talk or with beaming faces, and only reminded me of what I had lost. Memories of the past crowded in upon me—of Stonebridge House, where his friendship had been my one comfort and hope; of our early days in London, when it seemed as if, with one another for company, nothing could come amiss, and no hardship could be quite intolerable; of his illness and absence, and my gradual yielding to frivolity and extravagance; then of his return and confidence in me. Would that he had never told me that wretched secret! If he had only known to whom he was telling it, to what a pitiful, weak, vain nature he was confiding it, he would have bitten his tongue off before he did it, and I should have yet been comparatively happy!
But the evil was done now, and what power on earth could undo it?
I slunk home to Beadle Square when I imagined every one else would be in bed.
Mrs Nash met me at the door.
“Your friend Smith’s gone,” she said.
“Gone!” I exclaimed. “Where?”
“How should I know? He paid his bill and took off his traps two hours ago, and says he’s not coming back!”
You may guess, reader, whether I slept that night.