Chapter Thirteen.The new Secretary takes the Reins.It is high time to return to Reginald, whom we left in a somewhat dismal fashion, straining his eyes for a last sight of his mother and brother as they waved farewell to him on the Euston platform.If the reader expects me to tell him that on finding himself alone our hero burst into tears, or broke out into repentant lamentations, or wished himself under the wheels of the carriage, I’m afraid he will be disappointed.Reginald spent the first half-hour of his solitary journey in speculating how the oil in the lamp got round at the wick. He considered the matter most attentively, and kept his eyes fixed on the dim light until London was miles behind him, and the hedges and grey autumn fields on either hand proclaimed the country. Then his mind abandoned its problems, and for another half-hour he tried with all his might to prevent the beat of the engine taking up the rhythm of one of the old Wilderham cricket songs. That too he gave up eventually, and let his imagination wander at large over those happy school days, when all was merry, when every friend was a brick, and every exertion a sport, when the future beckoned him forward with coaxing hand. What grand times they were! Should he ever forget the last cricket match of the summer term, when he bowled three men in one over, and made the hardest catch on record in the Wilderham Close? He and Blandford—Ah, Blandford! His mind swerved on the points here, and branched off into the recollection of that ill-starred dinner at the Shades, and the unhealthy bloated face of the cad Pillans. How he would have liked to knock the idiot down, just as he had knocked Durfy down that night when young Gedge—Ah, another point here and another swerve. Would Horace be sure and keep his eye on the young ’un, and was there any chance of getting him down to Liverpool?Once more a swerve, and this time into a straight reach of meditation for miles and miles ahead. He thought of everything. He pictured his own little office and living-room. He drew a mental portrait of the housekeeper, and the cups and saucers he would use at his well-earned meals. He made up his mind the board-room would be furnished in green leather, and that the Bishop of S— would be a jolly sort of fellow and fond of his joke. He even imagined what the directors would say among themselves respecting himself after he had been introduced and made his first impression. At any rate they should not say he lacked in interest for their affairs, and when he wrote home—Ah! this was the last of all the points, and his thoughts after that ran on the same lines till the train plunged into the smoke and gloom of the great city which was henceforth to extend to him its tender mercies.If Reginald had reckoned on a deputation of directors of the Select Agency Corporation to meet their new secretary at the station, he was destined to be disappointed. There were plenty of people there, but none concerning themselves with him as he dragged his carpet-bag from under the seat and set foot on the platform.The bag was very heavy, and Shy Street, so he was told, was ten-minutes’ walk from the station. It did occur to him that most secretaries of companies would take a cab under such circumstances and charge it to “general expenses.” But he did not care to spend either the Corporation’s money or his own for so luxurious a purpose, and therefore gripped his bag manfully and wrestled with it out into the street.The ten-minutes grew to considerably more than twenty before they both found themselves in Shy Street. A long, old-fashioned, dismal street it was, with some shops in the middle, and small offices at either end. No imposing-looking edifice, chaste in architecture and luxurious in proportions, stood with open doors to receive its future lord. Reginald and his bag stumbled up a side staircase to the first floor over a chemist’s shop, where a door with the name “Medlock” loomed before him, and told him he had come to his journey’s end.Waiting a moment to wipe the perspiration from his face, he turned the handle and found himself in a large, bare, carpetless room, with a table and a few chairs in the middle of it, a clock over the chimneypiece, a few directories piled up in one corner, and a bundle of circulars and wrappers in another; and a little back room screened off from the general observation with the word “private” on the door. Such was the impression formed in Reginald’s mind by a single glance round his new quarters.In the flutter of his first entrance, however, he entirely overlooked one important piece of furniture—namely, a small boy with long lank hair and pale blotched face, who was sitting on a low stool near the window, greedily devouring the contents of a pink-covered periodical. This young gentleman, on becoming aware of the presence of a stranger, crumpled his paper hurriedly into his pocket and rose to his feet.“What do yer want?” he demanded.“Is Mr Medlock here?” asked Reginald.“No fear,” replied the boy.“Has he left any message?”“Don’t know who you are. What’s yer name?”“I’m Mr Cruden, the new secretary.”“Oh, you’re ’im, are yer? Yes, you’ve got to address them there envellups, and ’e’ll be up in the morning.”This was depressing. Reginald’s castles in the air were beginning to tumble about his ears in rapid succession. The bare room he could excuse, on the ground that the Corporation was only just beginning its operations. Doubtless the carpet was on order, and was to be delivered soon. He could even afford not to afflict himself much about this vulgar, irreverent little boy, who was probably put in, as they put in a little watch-dog, to see to the place until he and his staff of assistants rendered his further presence unnecessary. But it did chill him to find that after his long journey, and his farewell to his own home, no one should think it worth while to be here to meet him and install him with common friendliness into his new quarters. However, Mr Medlock was a man of business, and was possibly prevented by circumstances over which he had no control from being present to receive him.“Where’s the housekeeper?” demanded he, putting down his bag and relieving himself of his overcoat.“’Ousekeeper! Oh yus,” said the boy, with a snigger; “no ’ousekeepers ’ere.”“Where are my rooms, then?” asked Reginald, beginning to think it a pity the Corporation had brought him down all that way before they were ready for him.“Ain’t this room big enough for yer?” said the boy; “ain’t no more ’sep’ your bedroom—no droring-rooms in this shop.”“Show me the bedroom,” said Reginald.The boy shuffled to the door and up another flight of stairs, at the head of which he opened the door of a very small room, about the size of one of the Wilderham studies, with just room to squeeze round a low iron bedstead without scraping the wall.“There you are—clean and haired and no error. I’ve slep’ in it myself.”Reginald motioned him from the room, and then sitting down on the bed, looked round him.He could not understand it. Any common butcher’s boy would be better put up. A little box of a bedroom like this, with no better testimonial to its cleanliness and airiness than could be derived from the fact that the dirty little watch-dog downstairs had occupied it! And in place of a parlour that bare gaunt room below in which to sit of an evening and take his meals and enjoy himself. Why ever had the Corporation not had the ordinary decency to have his permanent accommodation ready for him before he arrived?He washed himself as well as he could without soap and towel, and returned to the first floor, where he found the boy back on his old stool, and once more absorbed in his paper.The reader looked up as Reginald entered.“Say, what’s yer name,” said he, “ever readTim Tigerskin?”“No, I’ve not,” replied Reginald, staring at his questioner, and wondering whether he was as erratic in his intellect as he was mealy in his countenance.“’Tain’t a bad ’un, but ’tain’t ’arf as prime asThe Pirate’s Bride. The bloke there pisons two on ’em with prussic acid, and wouldn’t ever ’ave got nabbed if he ’adn’t took some hisself by mistake, the flat!”Reginald could hardly help smiling at this appetisingrésumé.“I want something to eat,” he said. “Is there any place near here where I can get it?”“Trum’s, but ’is sosseges is off at three o’clock. Better try Cupper’s—he’s a good ’un for bloaters;Ideals with ’im.”Reginald felt neither the spirit nor the inclination to make a personal examination into the merits of the rival caterers.“You’d better go and get me something,” he said to the boy; “coffee and fish or cold meat will do.”“No fear; I ain’t a-goin’ for nothing,” replied the boy. “I’ll do your errands for a tanner a week and your leavings, but not no less.”“You shall have it,” said Reginald. Whereupon the boy undertook the commission and departed.The meal was a dismal one. The herrings were badly over-smoked and the coffee was like mud, and the boy’s conversation, which filled in a running accompaniment, was not conducive to digestion.“I’d ’most a mind to try some prussic in that corfee,” said that bloodthirsty young gentleman, “if I’d a known where the chemist downstairs keeps his’n. Then they’d ’a said you’d poisoned yourself ’cos you was blue coming to this ’ere ’ole. I’d ’a been put in the box at the inquige, and I’d ’a said Yes, you was blue, and I thought there was a screw loose the minit I see yer, and I’d seen yer empty a paper of powder in your corfee while you thort nobody wasn’t a-looking. And the jury’d say it was tempory ’sanity and sooiside, and say they considers I was a honest young feller, and vote me a bob out of the poor-box. There you are. What do you think of that?”“I suppose that’s what the man inThe Pirate’s Brideought to have done,” said Reginald, with a faint smile.“To be sure he ought. Why, it’s enough to disgust any one with the flat, when he goes and takes the prussic hisself. Of course he’d get found out.”“Well, it’s just as well you’ve not put any in my coffee,” said Reginald. “It’s none too nice as it is. And I’d advise you, young fellow, to burn all those precious story-books of yours, if that’s the sort of stuff they put into your head.”The boy stared at him in horrified amazement.“Burn ’em! Oh, Walker!”“What’s your name?” demanded Reginald.“Why, Love,” replied the boy, in a tone as if to say you had only to look at him to know his name.“Well then, young Love, clear these things away and come and make a start with these envelopes.”“No fear. I ain’t got to do no envellups. You’re got to do ’em.”“I say you’ve got to do them too,” said Reginald, sternly; “and if you don’t choose to do what you’re told I can’t keep you here.”The boy looked up in astonishment.“You ain’t my governor,” said he.“I am, though,” said Reginald, “and you’d better make up your mind to it. If you choose to do as you’re told we shall get on all right, but I’ll not keep you here if you don’t.”His tone and manner effectually overawed the mutinous youngster. He could not have spoken like that unless he possessed sufficient authority to back it up, and as it did not suit the convenience of Mr Love just then to receive the “sack” from any one, he capitulated with the honours of war, put hisTim Tigerskininto his pocket, and placed himself at his new “governor’s” disposal.The evening’s work consisted in addressing some two hundred or three hundred envelopes to persons whose names Mr Medlock had ticked in a directory, and enclosing prospectuses therein. It was not very entertaining work; still, as it was his first introduction to the operations of the Corporation, it had its attractions for the new secretary. A very fair division of labour was mutually agreed upon by the two workers before starting. Reginald was to copy out the addresses, and Master Love, whose appetite was always good, was to fold and insert the circulars and “lick up” the envelopes.This being decided, the work went on briskly and quietly. Reginald had leisure to notice one or two little points as he went on, which, though trivial in themselves, still interested him. He observed for one thing that the largest proportion of the names marked in the directory were either ladies or clergymen, and most of them residing in the south of England. Very few of them appeared to reside in any large town, but to prefer rural retreats “far from the madding crowd,” where doubtless a letter, even on the business of the Corporation, would be a welcome diversion to the monotony of existence. As to the clergy, doubtless their names had been suggested by the good Bishop of S—, who would be in a position to introduce a considerable connection to his fellow-directors. Reginald also noticed that only one name had been marked in each village, it doubtless being assumed that every one in these places being on intimate terms with his neighbour, it was unnecessary to waste stamps and paper in making the Corporation known to two people where one would answer the same purpose.He was curious enough to read one of the circulars, and he was on the whole pleased with its contents. It was as follows:—“Select Agency Corporation, Shy Street, Liverpool.—Reverend Sir,” (for the ladies there were other circulars headed “Dear Madam”), “The approach of winter, with all the hardships that bitter season entails on those whom Providence has not blessed with sufficient means, induces us to call your attention to an unusual opportunity for providing yourself and those dear to you with a most desirable comfort at a merely nominal outlay. Having acquired an enormous bankrupt stock ofwinter clothingof most excellent material, and suitable for all measures, we wish, in testimony to our respect for the profession of which you are an honoured representative, to acquaint youprivatelywith the fact before disposing of the stock in the open market. For £3 we can supply you with a complete clerical suit of the best make, including overcoat and gloves, etcetera, etcetera, the whole comprising an outfit which would be cheap at £10. Inyourcase we should have no objection to meet you by taking £2 with your order and the balanceany time within six months. Should you be disposed to show this to any of your friends, we may say we shall be pleased to appoint you our agent, and to allow you ten per cent, on all sales effected by you, which you are at liberty to deduct from the amount you remit to us with the orders. We subjoin full list of winter clothing for gentlemen, ladies, and children. Money orders to be made payable to Cruden Reginald, Esquire, Secretary, 13, Shy Street, Liverpool.”“Hullo!” said Reginald, looking up excitedly, “don’t fold up any more of those, boy. They’ve made a mistake in my name and called me Cruden Reginald instead of Reginald Cruden. It will have to be altered.”“Oh, ah. There’s on’y a couple of billions on ’em printed; that won’t take no time at all,” said Master Love, beginning to think longingly ofTim Tigerskin.“It won’t do to send them out like that,” said Reginald.“Oh yes, it will. Bless you, what’s the odds if you call me Tommy Love or Love Tommy? I knows who you mean. And the governor, ’e is awful partickler about these here being done to-night. And we sent off millions on ’em last week. My eye, wasn’t it a treat lickin’ up the envellups!”“Do you mean to say a lot of the circulars have been sent already?”“’Undreds of grillions on ’em,” replied the boy.Of course it was no use after that delaying these; so Reginald finished off his task, not a little vexed at the mistake, and determined to have it put right without delay.It was this cause of irritation, most likely, which prevented his dwelling too critically on the substance of the circular so affectionately dedicated to the poor country clergy. Beyond vaguely wondering where the Corporation kept their “bankrupt” stock of clothing, and how by the unaided light of nature they were to decide whether their applicants were stout or lean, or tall or short, he dismissed the matter from his mind for the time being, and made as short work as possible of the remainder of the task.Then he wrote a short line home, announcing his arrival in as cheerful words as he could muster, and walked out to post it. The pavements were thronged with a crowd of jostling men and women, returning home from the day’s work; but among them all the boy felt more lonely than had he been the sole inhabitant of Liverpool. Nobody knew him, nobody looked at him, nobody cared two straws about him. So he dropped his letter dismally into the box, and turned back to Shy Street, where at least there was one human being who knew his name and heeded his voice.Master Love had made the most of his opportunities. He had lit a candle and stuck it into the mouth of an ink-bottle, and by its friendly light was already deep once more in the history of his hero.“Say, what’s yer name,” said he, looking up as Reginald re-entered, “this here chap” as scuttled a ship, and drowned twenty on ’em.’Ewas a cute ’un, and no error. He rigs hisself up as a carpenter, and takes a tile off the ship’s bottom just as the storm was a-coming on; and in corse she flounders and all ’ands.”“And what became of him?” asked Reginald.“Oh, in corse he stows hisself away in the boat with a lifebelt, and gets washed ashore; and he kills a tiger for ’is breakfast, and—”“It’s a pity you waste your time over bosh like that,” said Reginald, not interested to hear the conclusion of the heroic Tim’s adventures; “if you’re fond of reading, why don’t you get something better?”“No fear—I like jam; don’t you make no error, governor.”With which philosophical albeit enigmatical conclusion he buried his face once more in his hands, and immersed himself in the literary “jam” before him.Reginald half envied him as he himself sat listless and unoccupied during that gloomy evening. He did his best to acquaint himself, by the aid of papers and circulars scattered about the room, with the work that lay before him. He made a careful tour of the premises, with a view to possible alterations and improvements. He settled in his own mind where the directors’ table should stand, and in which corner of the private room he should establish his own desk. He went to the length of designing a seal for the Corporation, and in scribbling, for his own amusement, the imaginary minutes of an imaginary meeting of the directors. How would this do?“A meeting of directors of the Select Agency Corporation”—by the way, was it “Limited”? He didn’t very clearly understand what that meant. Still, most companies had the word after their name, and he made a note to inquire of Mr Medlock whether it applied to them—“was held on October 31st at the company’s offices. Present, the Bishop of S— in the chair, Messrs Medlock, Blank, M.P., So-and-so, etcetera. The secretary, Mr Cruden, having been introduced, took his seat and thanked the directors for their confidence. It was reported that the receipts for the last month had been (well, say) £1,000, including £50 deposited against shares by the new secretary, and the expenses £750. Mr Medlock reported the acquisition of a large bankrupt stock of clothing, which it was proposed to offer privately to a number of clergymen and others as per a list furnished by the right reverend the chairman. The following cheques were drawn:—Rent for offices for a month, £5; printing and postage, £25; secretary’s salary for one month, £12 10 shillings; ditto, interest on the £50 deposit, 4 shillings 2 pence; office-boy (one month), £2; Mr Medlock for bankrupt stock of clothing, £150; etcetera, etcetera. The secretary suggested various improvements in the offices and fittings, and was requested to take any necessary steps. After sundry other routine business the Board adjourned.”This literary experiment concluded, Reginald, who after the fatigues and excitement of the day felt ready for sleep, decided to adjourn too.“Do you stay here all night?” said he to Love.“Me? You and me sleeps upstairs.”“I’m afraid there’s no room up there for two persons,” said Reginald; “you had better go home to-night, Love, and be here at nine in the morning.”“Go on—as if I ’ad lodgin’s in the town. If you don’t want me I know one as do. Me and the chemist’s boy ain’t too big for the attick.”“Very well,” said Reginald, “you had better go up to bed now, it’s late.”“Don’t you think you’re having a lark with me,” said the boy; “’tain’t eleven, and I ain’t done this here Tigerskin yet. There’s a lump of reading in it, I can tell you. When he’d killed them tigers he rigged hisself up in their skins, and—”“Yes, yes,” said Reginald. “I’m not going to let you stay up all night reading that rot. Cut up to bed now, do you hear?”Strange to say, the boy obeyed. There was something about Reginald which reduced him to obedience, though much against his will. So he shambled off with his book under his arm, secretly congratulating himself that the bed in the attic was close to the window, so that he would be able to get a jolly long read in the morning.After he had gone, Reginald followed his example, and retired to his own very spare bed, where he forgot all his cares in a night of sound refreshing sleep.
It is high time to return to Reginald, whom we left in a somewhat dismal fashion, straining his eyes for a last sight of his mother and brother as they waved farewell to him on the Euston platform.
If the reader expects me to tell him that on finding himself alone our hero burst into tears, or broke out into repentant lamentations, or wished himself under the wheels of the carriage, I’m afraid he will be disappointed.
Reginald spent the first half-hour of his solitary journey in speculating how the oil in the lamp got round at the wick. He considered the matter most attentively, and kept his eyes fixed on the dim light until London was miles behind him, and the hedges and grey autumn fields on either hand proclaimed the country. Then his mind abandoned its problems, and for another half-hour he tried with all his might to prevent the beat of the engine taking up the rhythm of one of the old Wilderham cricket songs. That too he gave up eventually, and let his imagination wander at large over those happy school days, when all was merry, when every friend was a brick, and every exertion a sport, when the future beckoned him forward with coaxing hand. What grand times they were! Should he ever forget the last cricket match of the summer term, when he bowled three men in one over, and made the hardest catch on record in the Wilderham Close? He and Blandford—
Ah, Blandford! His mind swerved on the points here, and branched off into the recollection of that ill-starred dinner at the Shades, and the unhealthy bloated face of the cad Pillans. How he would have liked to knock the idiot down, just as he had knocked Durfy down that night when young Gedge—
Ah, another point here and another swerve. Would Horace be sure and keep his eye on the young ’un, and was there any chance of getting him down to Liverpool?
Once more a swerve, and this time into a straight reach of meditation for miles and miles ahead. He thought of everything. He pictured his own little office and living-room. He drew a mental portrait of the housekeeper, and the cups and saucers he would use at his well-earned meals. He made up his mind the board-room would be furnished in green leather, and that the Bishop of S— would be a jolly sort of fellow and fond of his joke. He even imagined what the directors would say among themselves respecting himself after he had been introduced and made his first impression. At any rate they should not say he lacked in interest for their affairs, and when he wrote home—
Ah! this was the last of all the points, and his thoughts after that ran on the same lines till the train plunged into the smoke and gloom of the great city which was henceforth to extend to him its tender mercies.
If Reginald had reckoned on a deputation of directors of the Select Agency Corporation to meet their new secretary at the station, he was destined to be disappointed. There were plenty of people there, but none concerning themselves with him as he dragged his carpet-bag from under the seat and set foot on the platform.
The bag was very heavy, and Shy Street, so he was told, was ten-minutes’ walk from the station. It did occur to him that most secretaries of companies would take a cab under such circumstances and charge it to “general expenses.” But he did not care to spend either the Corporation’s money or his own for so luxurious a purpose, and therefore gripped his bag manfully and wrestled with it out into the street.
The ten-minutes grew to considerably more than twenty before they both found themselves in Shy Street. A long, old-fashioned, dismal street it was, with some shops in the middle, and small offices at either end. No imposing-looking edifice, chaste in architecture and luxurious in proportions, stood with open doors to receive its future lord. Reginald and his bag stumbled up a side staircase to the first floor over a chemist’s shop, where a door with the name “Medlock” loomed before him, and told him he had come to his journey’s end.
Waiting a moment to wipe the perspiration from his face, he turned the handle and found himself in a large, bare, carpetless room, with a table and a few chairs in the middle of it, a clock over the chimneypiece, a few directories piled up in one corner, and a bundle of circulars and wrappers in another; and a little back room screened off from the general observation with the word “private” on the door. Such was the impression formed in Reginald’s mind by a single glance round his new quarters.
In the flutter of his first entrance, however, he entirely overlooked one important piece of furniture—namely, a small boy with long lank hair and pale blotched face, who was sitting on a low stool near the window, greedily devouring the contents of a pink-covered periodical. This young gentleman, on becoming aware of the presence of a stranger, crumpled his paper hurriedly into his pocket and rose to his feet.
“What do yer want?” he demanded.
“Is Mr Medlock here?” asked Reginald.
“No fear,” replied the boy.
“Has he left any message?”
“Don’t know who you are. What’s yer name?”
“I’m Mr Cruden, the new secretary.”
“Oh, you’re ’im, are yer? Yes, you’ve got to address them there envellups, and ’e’ll be up in the morning.”
This was depressing. Reginald’s castles in the air were beginning to tumble about his ears in rapid succession. The bare room he could excuse, on the ground that the Corporation was only just beginning its operations. Doubtless the carpet was on order, and was to be delivered soon. He could even afford not to afflict himself much about this vulgar, irreverent little boy, who was probably put in, as they put in a little watch-dog, to see to the place until he and his staff of assistants rendered his further presence unnecessary. But it did chill him to find that after his long journey, and his farewell to his own home, no one should think it worth while to be here to meet him and install him with common friendliness into his new quarters. However, Mr Medlock was a man of business, and was possibly prevented by circumstances over which he had no control from being present to receive him.
“Where’s the housekeeper?” demanded he, putting down his bag and relieving himself of his overcoat.
“’Ousekeeper! Oh yus,” said the boy, with a snigger; “no ’ousekeepers ’ere.”
“Where are my rooms, then?” asked Reginald, beginning to think it a pity the Corporation had brought him down all that way before they were ready for him.
“Ain’t this room big enough for yer?” said the boy; “ain’t no more ’sep’ your bedroom—no droring-rooms in this shop.”
“Show me the bedroom,” said Reginald.
The boy shuffled to the door and up another flight of stairs, at the head of which he opened the door of a very small room, about the size of one of the Wilderham studies, with just room to squeeze round a low iron bedstead without scraping the wall.
“There you are—clean and haired and no error. I’ve slep’ in it myself.”
Reginald motioned him from the room, and then sitting down on the bed, looked round him.
He could not understand it. Any common butcher’s boy would be better put up. A little box of a bedroom like this, with no better testimonial to its cleanliness and airiness than could be derived from the fact that the dirty little watch-dog downstairs had occupied it! And in place of a parlour that bare gaunt room below in which to sit of an evening and take his meals and enjoy himself. Why ever had the Corporation not had the ordinary decency to have his permanent accommodation ready for him before he arrived?
He washed himself as well as he could without soap and towel, and returned to the first floor, where he found the boy back on his old stool, and once more absorbed in his paper.
The reader looked up as Reginald entered.
“Say, what’s yer name,” said he, “ever readTim Tigerskin?”
“No, I’ve not,” replied Reginald, staring at his questioner, and wondering whether he was as erratic in his intellect as he was mealy in his countenance.
“’Tain’t a bad ’un, but ’tain’t ’arf as prime asThe Pirate’s Bride. The bloke there pisons two on ’em with prussic acid, and wouldn’t ever ’ave got nabbed if he ’adn’t took some hisself by mistake, the flat!”
Reginald could hardly help smiling at this appetisingrésumé.
“I want something to eat,” he said. “Is there any place near here where I can get it?”
“Trum’s, but ’is sosseges is off at three o’clock. Better try Cupper’s—he’s a good ’un for bloaters;Ideals with ’im.”
Reginald felt neither the spirit nor the inclination to make a personal examination into the merits of the rival caterers.
“You’d better go and get me something,” he said to the boy; “coffee and fish or cold meat will do.”
“No fear; I ain’t a-goin’ for nothing,” replied the boy. “I’ll do your errands for a tanner a week and your leavings, but not no less.”
“You shall have it,” said Reginald. Whereupon the boy undertook the commission and departed.
The meal was a dismal one. The herrings were badly over-smoked and the coffee was like mud, and the boy’s conversation, which filled in a running accompaniment, was not conducive to digestion.
“I’d ’most a mind to try some prussic in that corfee,” said that bloodthirsty young gentleman, “if I’d a known where the chemist downstairs keeps his’n. Then they’d ’a said you’d poisoned yourself ’cos you was blue coming to this ’ere ’ole. I’d ’a been put in the box at the inquige, and I’d ’a said Yes, you was blue, and I thought there was a screw loose the minit I see yer, and I’d seen yer empty a paper of powder in your corfee while you thort nobody wasn’t a-looking. And the jury’d say it was tempory ’sanity and sooiside, and say they considers I was a honest young feller, and vote me a bob out of the poor-box. There you are. What do you think of that?”
“I suppose that’s what the man inThe Pirate’s Brideought to have done,” said Reginald, with a faint smile.
“To be sure he ought. Why, it’s enough to disgust any one with the flat, when he goes and takes the prussic hisself. Of course he’d get found out.”
“Well, it’s just as well you’ve not put any in my coffee,” said Reginald. “It’s none too nice as it is. And I’d advise you, young fellow, to burn all those precious story-books of yours, if that’s the sort of stuff they put into your head.”
The boy stared at him in horrified amazement.
“Burn ’em! Oh, Walker!”
“What’s your name?” demanded Reginald.
“Why, Love,” replied the boy, in a tone as if to say you had only to look at him to know his name.
“Well then, young Love, clear these things away and come and make a start with these envelopes.”
“No fear. I ain’t got to do no envellups. You’re got to do ’em.”
“I say you’ve got to do them too,” said Reginald, sternly; “and if you don’t choose to do what you’re told I can’t keep you here.”
The boy looked up in astonishment.
“You ain’t my governor,” said he.
“I am, though,” said Reginald, “and you’d better make up your mind to it. If you choose to do as you’re told we shall get on all right, but I’ll not keep you here if you don’t.”
His tone and manner effectually overawed the mutinous youngster. He could not have spoken like that unless he possessed sufficient authority to back it up, and as it did not suit the convenience of Mr Love just then to receive the “sack” from any one, he capitulated with the honours of war, put hisTim Tigerskininto his pocket, and placed himself at his new “governor’s” disposal.
The evening’s work consisted in addressing some two hundred or three hundred envelopes to persons whose names Mr Medlock had ticked in a directory, and enclosing prospectuses therein. It was not very entertaining work; still, as it was his first introduction to the operations of the Corporation, it had its attractions for the new secretary. A very fair division of labour was mutually agreed upon by the two workers before starting. Reginald was to copy out the addresses, and Master Love, whose appetite was always good, was to fold and insert the circulars and “lick up” the envelopes.
This being decided, the work went on briskly and quietly. Reginald had leisure to notice one or two little points as he went on, which, though trivial in themselves, still interested him. He observed for one thing that the largest proportion of the names marked in the directory were either ladies or clergymen, and most of them residing in the south of England. Very few of them appeared to reside in any large town, but to prefer rural retreats “far from the madding crowd,” where doubtless a letter, even on the business of the Corporation, would be a welcome diversion to the monotony of existence. As to the clergy, doubtless their names had been suggested by the good Bishop of S—, who would be in a position to introduce a considerable connection to his fellow-directors. Reginald also noticed that only one name had been marked in each village, it doubtless being assumed that every one in these places being on intimate terms with his neighbour, it was unnecessary to waste stamps and paper in making the Corporation known to two people where one would answer the same purpose.
He was curious enough to read one of the circulars, and he was on the whole pleased with its contents. It was as follows:—
“Select Agency Corporation, Shy Street, Liverpool.—Reverend Sir,” (for the ladies there were other circulars headed “Dear Madam”), “The approach of winter, with all the hardships that bitter season entails on those whom Providence has not blessed with sufficient means, induces us to call your attention to an unusual opportunity for providing yourself and those dear to you with a most desirable comfort at a merely nominal outlay. Having acquired an enormous bankrupt stock ofwinter clothingof most excellent material, and suitable for all measures, we wish, in testimony to our respect for the profession of which you are an honoured representative, to acquaint youprivatelywith the fact before disposing of the stock in the open market. For £3 we can supply you with a complete clerical suit of the best make, including overcoat and gloves, etcetera, etcetera, the whole comprising an outfit which would be cheap at £10. Inyourcase we should have no objection to meet you by taking £2 with your order and the balanceany time within six months. Should you be disposed to show this to any of your friends, we may say we shall be pleased to appoint you our agent, and to allow you ten per cent, on all sales effected by you, which you are at liberty to deduct from the amount you remit to us with the orders. We subjoin full list of winter clothing for gentlemen, ladies, and children. Money orders to be made payable to Cruden Reginald, Esquire, Secretary, 13, Shy Street, Liverpool.”
“Hullo!” said Reginald, looking up excitedly, “don’t fold up any more of those, boy. They’ve made a mistake in my name and called me Cruden Reginald instead of Reginald Cruden. It will have to be altered.”
“Oh, ah. There’s on’y a couple of billions on ’em printed; that won’t take no time at all,” said Master Love, beginning to think longingly ofTim Tigerskin.
“It won’t do to send them out like that,” said Reginald.
“Oh yes, it will. Bless you, what’s the odds if you call me Tommy Love or Love Tommy? I knows who you mean. And the governor, ’e is awful partickler about these here being done to-night. And we sent off millions on ’em last week. My eye, wasn’t it a treat lickin’ up the envellups!”
“Do you mean to say a lot of the circulars have been sent already?”
“’Undreds of grillions on ’em,” replied the boy.
Of course it was no use after that delaying these; so Reginald finished off his task, not a little vexed at the mistake, and determined to have it put right without delay.
It was this cause of irritation, most likely, which prevented his dwelling too critically on the substance of the circular so affectionately dedicated to the poor country clergy. Beyond vaguely wondering where the Corporation kept their “bankrupt” stock of clothing, and how by the unaided light of nature they were to decide whether their applicants were stout or lean, or tall or short, he dismissed the matter from his mind for the time being, and made as short work as possible of the remainder of the task.
Then he wrote a short line home, announcing his arrival in as cheerful words as he could muster, and walked out to post it. The pavements were thronged with a crowd of jostling men and women, returning home from the day’s work; but among them all the boy felt more lonely than had he been the sole inhabitant of Liverpool. Nobody knew him, nobody looked at him, nobody cared two straws about him. So he dropped his letter dismally into the box, and turned back to Shy Street, where at least there was one human being who knew his name and heeded his voice.
Master Love had made the most of his opportunities. He had lit a candle and stuck it into the mouth of an ink-bottle, and by its friendly light was already deep once more in the history of his hero.
“Say, what’s yer name,” said he, looking up as Reginald re-entered, “this here chap” as scuttled a ship, and drowned twenty on ’em.’Ewas a cute ’un, and no error. He rigs hisself up as a carpenter, and takes a tile off the ship’s bottom just as the storm was a-coming on; and in corse she flounders and all ’ands.”
“And what became of him?” asked Reginald.
“Oh, in corse he stows hisself away in the boat with a lifebelt, and gets washed ashore; and he kills a tiger for ’is breakfast, and—”
“It’s a pity you waste your time over bosh like that,” said Reginald, not interested to hear the conclusion of the heroic Tim’s adventures; “if you’re fond of reading, why don’t you get something better?”
“No fear—I like jam; don’t you make no error, governor.”
With which philosophical albeit enigmatical conclusion he buried his face once more in his hands, and immersed himself in the literary “jam” before him.
Reginald half envied him as he himself sat listless and unoccupied during that gloomy evening. He did his best to acquaint himself, by the aid of papers and circulars scattered about the room, with the work that lay before him. He made a careful tour of the premises, with a view to possible alterations and improvements. He settled in his own mind where the directors’ table should stand, and in which corner of the private room he should establish his own desk. He went to the length of designing a seal for the Corporation, and in scribbling, for his own amusement, the imaginary minutes of an imaginary meeting of the directors. How would this do?
“A meeting of directors of the Select Agency Corporation”—by the way, was it “Limited”? He didn’t very clearly understand what that meant. Still, most companies had the word after their name, and he made a note to inquire of Mr Medlock whether it applied to them—“was held on October 31st at the company’s offices. Present, the Bishop of S— in the chair, Messrs Medlock, Blank, M.P., So-and-so, etcetera. The secretary, Mr Cruden, having been introduced, took his seat and thanked the directors for their confidence. It was reported that the receipts for the last month had been (well, say) £1,000, including £50 deposited against shares by the new secretary, and the expenses £750. Mr Medlock reported the acquisition of a large bankrupt stock of clothing, which it was proposed to offer privately to a number of clergymen and others as per a list furnished by the right reverend the chairman. The following cheques were drawn:—Rent for offices for a month, £5; printing and postage, £25; secretary’s salary for one month, £12 10 shillings; ditto, interest on the £50 deposit, 4 shillings 2 pence; office-boy (one month), £2; Mr Medlock for bankrupt stock of clothing, £150; etcetera, etcetera. The secretary suggested various improvements in the offices and fittings, and was requested to take any necessary steps. After sundry other routine business the Board adjourned.”
This literary experiment concluded, Reginald, who after the fatigues and excitement of the day felt ready for sleep, decided to adjourn too.
“Do you stay here all night?” said he to Love.
“Me? You and me sleeps upstairs.”
“I’m afraid there’s no room up there for two persons,” said Reginald; “you had better go home to-night, Love, and be here at nine in the morning.”
“Go on—as if I ’ad lodgin’s in the town. If you don’t want me I know one as do. Me and the chemist’s boy ain’t too big for the attick.”
“Very well,” said Reginald, “you had better go up to bed now, it’s late.”
“Don’t you think you’re having a lark with me,” said the boy; “’tain’t eleven, and I ain’t done this here Tigerskin yet. There’s a lump of reading in it, I can tell you. When he’d killed them tigers he rigged hisself up in their skins, and—”
“Yes, yes,” said Reginald. “I’m not going to let you stay up all night reading that rot. Cut up to bed now, do you hear?”
Strange to say, the boy obeyed. There was something about Reginald which reduced him to obedience, though much against his will. So he shambled off with his book under his arm, secretly congratulating himself that the bed in the attic was close to the window, so that he would be able to get a jolly long read in the morning.
After he had gone, Reginald followed his example, and retired to his own very spare bed, where he forgot all his cares in a night of sound refreshing sleep.
Chapter Fourteen.The Select Agency Corporation loses its Office-Boy.Mr Medlock duly appeared next morning. He greeted the new secretary with much friendliness, hoped he had a good journey and left them all well at home, and so on. He further hoped Reginald would find his new quarters comfortable. Most unfortunately they had missed securing the lease of a very fine suite of offices in Lord Street, and had to put up with these for the present. Reginald must see everything was comfortable; and as of course he would be pretty closely tied to the place (for the directors would not like the offices left in charge of a mere office-boy), he must make it as much of a home as possible.As to money, salaries were always paid quarterly, and on Christmas Day Reginald would receive his first instalment. Meanwhile, as there were sure to be a few expenses, Reginald would receive five pounds on account (a princely allowance, equal to about thirteen shillings a week for the eight weeks between now and Christmas!)The directors, Mr Medlock said, placed implicit confidence in the new secretary. He was authorised to open all letters that came. Any money they might contain he was strictly to account for and pay into the bank daily to Mr Medlock’s account. He needn’t send receipts, Mr Medlock would see to that. Any orders that came he was to take copies of, and then forward them to Mr John Smith, Weaver’s Hotel, London, “to be called for,” for execution. He would have to answer the questions of any who called to make inquiries, without of course disclosing any business secrets. In fact, as the aim of the Corporation was to supply their supporters with goods at the lowest possible price, they naturally met with a good deal of jealousy from tradesmen and persons of that sort, so that Reginald must be most guarded in all he said. If it became known how their business was carried on, others would be sure to attempt an imitation; and the whole scheme would fail.“You know, Mr Reginald,” said he—“Excuse me,” interrupted Reginald, “I’m afraid you’re mistaken about my name. You’ve printed it Cruden Reginald, it should be Reginald Cruden.”“Dear me, how extraordinarily unfortunate!” said Mr Medlock; “I quite understood that was your name. And the unlucky part of it is, we have got all the circulars printed, and many of them circulated. I have also given your name as Mr Reginald to the directors, and advertised it, so that I don’t see what can be done, except to keep it as it is. After all, it is a common thing, and it would put us to the greatest inconvenience to alter it now. Dear me, when I saw you in London I called you Mr Reginald, didn’t I?”“No, sir; you called me Mr Cruden.”“I must have supposed it was your Christian name, then.”“Perhaps it doesn’t matter much,” said Reginald; “and I don’t wish to put the directors to any trouble.”“To be sure I knew you would not. Well, I was saying, Reginald (that’s right, whatever way you take it!) the directors look upon you as a gentleman of character and education, and are satisfied to allow you to use your discretion and good sense in conducting their business. You have their names, which you can show to any one. They are greatly scattered, so that our Board meetings will be rare. Meanwhile they will be glad to hear how you are getting on, and will, I know, appreciate and recognise your services. By the way, I believe I mentioned (but really my memory is so bad) that we should ask you to qualify to the extent of £50 in the shares of the company?”“Oh yes, I have the cheque here,” said Reginald, taking it out of his pocket.“That’s right. And of course you will give yourself a receipt for it in the company’s name. Curious, isn’t it?”With which pleasantry Mr Medlock departed, promising to look in frequently, and meanwhile to send in a fresh directory marked, and some new circulars for him to get on with.Reginald, not quite sure whether it was all as good as he expected, set to work without delay to put into practice the various instructions he had received.Mr Medlock’s invitation to him to see everything was comfortable could hardly be fully realised on 13 shillings a week. That must wait for Christmas, and meanwhile he must make the best of what he had.He set Love to work folding and enclosing the new circulars (this time calling attention to some extremely cheap globes and blackboards for ladies’ and infants’ schools), while he drew himself up a programme of his daily duties, in accordance with his impression of the directors’ wishes. The result of this was that he came to the conclusion he should have his hands very full indeed—a possibility he by no means objected to.But it was not clear to him how he was to get much outdoor exercise or recreation, or how he was to go to church on Sundays, or even to the bank on weekdays, if the office was never to be left. On this point he consulted Mr Medlock when he called in later in the day, and arranged that for two hours on Sunday, and an hour every evening, besides the necessary walk to the bank, he might lock up the office and take his walks abroad. Whereat he felt grateful and a little relieved.It was not till about four days after his arrival that the first crop of circulars sown among the clergy yielded their firstfruits. On that day it was a harvest with a vengeance. At least 150 letters arrived. Most of them contained the two pounds and an order for the suit. In some cases most elaborate measurements accompanied the order. Some asked for High Church waistcoats, others for Low; some wished for wideawake hats, others for broad-brimmed clericals. Some sent extra money for a school-boy’s suit as well, and some contained instructions for a complete family outfit. All were very eager about the matter, and one or two begged that the parcel might be sent marked “private.”Reginald had a busy day from morning till nearly midnight, entering and paying in the cash and forwarding the orders to Mr John Smith. He organised a beautiful tabular account, in which were entered the name and address of each correspondent, the date of their letters, the goods they ordered, and the amount they enclosed, and before the day was over the list had grown to a startling extent.The next day brought a similar number of applications and remittances as to the globes and blackboards, and of course some more also about the clerical suits. And so, from day to day, the post showered letters in at the door, and the secretary of the Select Agency Corporation was one of the hardest worked men in Liverpool.Master Love meanwhile had very little time for his “penny dreadfuls,” and complained bitterly of his hardships. And indeed he looked so pale and unhealthy that Reginald began to fear the constant “licking” was undermining his constitution, and ordered him to use a sponge instead of his tongue. But on this point Love’s loyalty made a stand. Nothing would induce him to use the artificial expedient. He deliberately made away with the sponge, and after a battle royal was allowed his own way, and continued to lick till his tongue literally clave to the roof of his mouth.By the end of a fortnight the first rush of work was over, and Reginald and his henchman had time to draw breath. Mr Medlock had gone to London, presumably to superintend the dispatch of the various articles ordered.It was about this time that Reginald had written home to Horace complaining of the dulness of his life, and begging him to repay Blandford the 6 shillings 6 pence, which had been weighing like lead on his mind ever since he left town, and which he now despaired of ever being able to spare out of the slender pittance on which he was doomed to subsist till Christmas. Happily that festive season was only a few weeks away now, and then how delighted he should be to send home a round half of his income, and convince himself he was after all a main prop to that dear distant little household.Had he been gifted with ears sharp enough to catch a conversation that took place at the Bodega in London one evening about the same time, the Christmas spirit within him might have experienced a considerable chill.The company consisted of Mr Medlock, Mr Shanklin, and Mr Durfy. The latter was present by sufferance, not because he was wanted or invited, but because he felt inclined for a good supper, and was sharp enough to know that neither of his employers could afford to fall out with him just then.“Well, how goes it?” said Mr Shanklin. “You’ve had a run lately, and no mistake.”“Yes, I flatter myself we’ve done pretty well. One hundred pounds a day for ten days makes how much, Durfy?”“A thousand,” said Durfy.“Humph!” said Mr Shanklin. “Time to think of our Christmas holidays.”“Wait a bit. We’ve not done yet. You say your two young mashers are still in tow, Alf?”“Yes; green as duckweed. But they’re nearly played out, I guess. One of them has a little bill for fifty pounds coming due in a fortnight, and t’other—well, he wagered me a hundred pounds on a horse that never ran for the Leger, and he’s got one or two trifles besides down in my books.”“Yes, I got you that tip about the Leger,” said Durfy, beginning to think himself neglected in this dialogue of self-congratulation.“Yes; you managed to do it this time without botching it, for a wonder!” said Mr Shanklin.“Yes; and I hope you’ll manage to give me the ten-pound note you promised me for it, Mr S.,” replied Durfy, with a snarl. “You seem to have forgotten that, and my commission too for finding you your new secretary.”“Yes. By the way,” said Mr Medlock, “he deserves something for that; it’s the best stroke of business we’ve done for a long time. It’s worth three weeks to us to have him there to answer questions and choke off the inquisitive. He’s got his busy time coming on, I fancy. Bless you, Durfy, the fellow was born for us! He swallows anything. I’ve allowed him thirteen shillings a week till Christmas, and he says, ‘Thank you.’ He’s had his name turned inside out, and I do believe he thinks it an improvement! He sticks in the place all day with that young cockney gaol-bird you picked us up too, Durfy, and never growls.”“Does he help himself to any of the money?”“Not a brass farthing! I do believe he buys his own postage-stamps when he writes home to his mamma!”This last announcement was too comical to be received gravely.“Ha, ha! he ought to be exhibited!” said Shanklin.“He ought to be starved!” said Durfy viciously. “He knocked me down once, and I wouldn’t have told you of him if I didn’t owe him a grudge—the puppy!”“Oh, well, I daresay you’ll be gratified some day or other,” said Medlock.“I tell you one thing,” said Durfy; “you’d better put a stopper on his writing home too often; I believe he’s put his precious brother up to watch me. Why, the other night, when I was waiting for the postman to get hold of that letter you wanted, I’m blessed if he didn’t turn up and rout me out—he and a young chum of his brother’s that used to be in the swim with me. I don’t think they saw me, luckily; but it was a shave, and of course I missed the letter.”“Yes, you did; there was no mistake about that!” said Mr Shanklin viciously. “When did you ever not miss it?”“How can I help it, when it’s your own secretary is dogging me?”“Bless you! think of him dogging any one, the innocent! Anyhow, we can cut off his letters home for a bit, so as to give you no excuse next time.”“And what’s the next job to be, then?” asked Durfy.“The most particular of all,” replied the sporting man. “I want a letter with the Boldham postmark, or perhaps a telegram, that will be delivered to-morrow night by the last post. There’s a fifty pounds turns on it, and I must have it before the morning papers are out. Never mind what it is; you must get it somehow, and you’ll get a fiver for it. As soon as that’s done, Medlock, and the young dandies’ bills have come due, we can order a cab. Your secretary at Liverpool will hold out long enough for us to get to the moon before we’re wanted.”“You’re right there!” said Mr Medlock, laughing. “I’ll go down and look him up to-morrow, and clear up, and then I fancy he’ll manage the rest himself; and we can clear out. Ha, ha! capital sherry, this brand. Have some more, Durfy.”Mr Medlock kept his promise and cheered Reginald in his loneliness by a friendly visit.“I’ve been away longer than I expected, and I must say the way you have managed matters in my absence does you the greatest credit, Reginald. I shall feel perfectly comfortable in future when I am absent.”A flush of pleasure rose to Reginald’s cheeks, such as would have moved to pity any heart less cold-blooded than Mr Medlock’s.“No one has called, I suppose?”“No, sir. There’s been a letter, though, from the Rev. T. Mulberry, of Woolford-in-the-Meadow, to ask why the suit he ordered has not yet been delivered.”Mr Medlock smiled.“These good men are so impatient,” said he; “they imagine their order is the only one we have to think of. What would they think of the four hundred and odd suits we have on order, eh, Mr Reginald?”“I suppose I had better write and say the orders will be taken in rotation, and that his will be forwarded in a few days.”“Better say a few weeks. You’ve no notion of the difficulty we have in trying to meet every one’s wishes. Say before Christmas—and the same with the globes and other things. The time and trouble taken in packing the things really cuts into the profits terribly.”“Could we do any of it down here?” said Reginald. “Love and I have often nothing to do.”It was well the speaker did not notice the fiendish grimace with which the young gentleman referred to accepted the statement.“You’re very good,” said Mr Medlock; “but I shouldn’t think of it. We want you for head work. There are plenty to be hired in London to do the hand work. By the way, I will take up the register of orders and cash you have been keeping, to check with the letters in town. You won’t want it for a few days.”Reginald felt sorry to part with a work in which he felt such pride as this beautifully kept register. However, he had made it for the use of the Corporation, and it was not his to withhold.After clearing up cautiously all round, with the result that Reginald had very little besides pen, ink, and paper left him, Mr Medlock said good morning.“I may have to run up to town for a few days,” he said, “but I shall see you again very soon, I hope. Meanwhile, make yourself comfortable. The directors are very favourably impressed with you already, and I hope at Christmas they may meet and tell you so in person. Boy, make a parcel of these books and papers and bring them for me to my hotel.”Love obeyed surlily. He was only waiting for Mr Medlock’s departure to dive into the mystery ofTrumpery Toadstool, or Murdered for a Lark, in which he had that morning invested. He made a clumsy parcel of the books, and then shambled forth in a somewhat homicidal spirit in Mr Medlock’s wake down the street.At the corner that gentleman halted till he came up.“Well, young fellow, picked any pockets lately?”The boy scowled at him inquisitively.“All right,” said Mr Medlock. “I never said you had. I’m not going to take you to the police-station, I’m going to give you half a crown.”This put a new aspect on the situation. Love brightened up as he watched Mr Medlock’s hand dive into his pocket.“What should you do with a half-crown if you had it?”“Do? I know, and no error. I’d get theNoogate Calendar, that’s what I’d do.”“You can read, then?”“Ray-ther; oh no, not me.”“Can you read writing?”“In corse.”“Do you always go to the post with the letters?”“In corse.”“Do you ever see any addressed to Mrs Cruden or Mr Cruden in London?”“’Bout once a week. That there sekketery always gives ’em to me separate, and says I’m to be sure and post ’em.”“Well, I say they’re not to be posted,” said Mr Medlock. “Here’s half a crown; and listen: next time you get any to post put them on one side; and every one you can show me you shall have sixpence for. Mind what you’re at, or he’ll flay you alive if he catches you. Off you go, there’s a good boy.”And Love pocketed his half-crown greedily, and with a knowing wink at his employer sped back to the office.That afternoon Reginald wrote a short polite note to the Rev. T. Mulberry, explaining to him the reason for any apparent delay in the execution of his order, and promising that he should duly receive it before Christmas. This was the only letter for the post that day, and Love had no opportunity of earning a further sixpence.He had an opportunity of spending his half-crown, however, and when he returned from the post he was radiant in face and stouter under the waistcoat by the thickness of the coveted volume of theNewgate Calendarseries.With the impetuosity characteristic of his age, he plunged into its contents the moment he found himself free of work, and by the time Reginald returned from his short evening stroll he was master of several of its stories.Tim TigerskinandThe Pirate’s Bridewere nothing to it. They all performed their incredible exploits on the other side of the world, but these heroes were beings of flesh and blood like himself, and, for all he knew, he might have seen them and talked to them, and have known some of the very spots in London which they frequented. He felt a personal interest in their achievements.“Say, governor,” said he as soon as Reginald entered, “do you know Southwark Road?”“In London? Yes,” said Reginald.“This ’ere chap, Bright, was a light porter to a cove as kep’ a grocer’s shop there, and one night when he was asleep in the arm-cheer he puts a sack on ’is ’ead and chokes ’im. The old cove he struggles a bit, but—”“Shut up!” said Reginald angrily. “I’ve told you quite often enough. Give me that book.”At the words and the tones in which they were uttered Love suddenly turned into a small fiend. He struggled, he kicked, he cursed, he howled to keep his treasure. Reginald was inexorable, and of course it was only a matter of time until the book was in his hands. A glance at its contents satisfied him.“Look here,” said he, holding the book behind his back and parrying all the boy’s frantic efforts to recover it, “don’t make a fool of yourself, youngster.”“Give it to me! Give me my book, you—”And the boy broke into a volley of oaths and flung himself once more tooth-and-nail on Reginald. Already Reginald saw he had made a mistake. He had done about the most unwise thing he possibly could have done. But it was too late to undo it. The only thing, apparently, was to go through with it now. So he flung the book into the fire, and, catching the boy by the arm, told him if he did not stop swearing and struggling at once he would make him.The boy did not stop, and Reginald did make him.It was a poor sort of victory, and no one knew it better than Reginald. If the boy was awed into silence, he was no nearer listening to reason—nay, further than ever. He slunk sulkily into a corner, glowering at his oppressor and deaf to every word he uttered. In vain Reginald expostulated, coaxed, reasoned, even apologised. The boy met it all with a sullen scowl. Reginald offered to pay him for the book, to buy him another, to read aloud to him, to give him an extra hour a day—it was all no use; the injury was too deep to wash out so easily; and finally he had to give it up and trust that time might do what arguments and threats had failed to effect.But in this he was disappointed; for next morning when nine o’clock arrived, no Love was there, nor as the day wore on did he put in an appearance. When at last evening came, and still no signs of him, Reginald began to discover that the sole result of his well-meant interference had been to drive his only companion from him, and doom himself henceforth to the miseries of solitary confinement.For days he scarcely spoke a word. The silence of that office was unearthly. He opened the window, winter as it was, to let in the sound of cabs and footsteps for company. He missed even the familiar rustle of the “penny dreadfuls” as the boy turned their pages. He wished anybody, even his direst foe, might turn up to save him from dying of loneliness.
Mr Medlock duly appeared next morning. He greeted the new secretary with much friendliness, hoped he had a good journey and left them all well at home, and so on. He further hoped Reginald would find his new quarters comfortable. Most unfortunately they had missed securing the lease of a very fine suite of offices in Lord Street, and had to put up with these for the present. Reginald must see everything was comfortable; and as of course he would be pretty closely tied to the place (for the directors would not like the offices left in charge of a mere office-boy), he must make it as much of a home as possible.
As to money, salaries were always paid quarterly, and on Christmas Day Reginald would receive his first instalment. Meanwhile, as there were sure to be a few expenses, Reginald would receive five pounds on account (a princely allowance, equal to about thirteen shillings a week for the eight weeks between now and Christmas!)
The directors, Mr Medlock said, placed implicit confidence in the new secretary. He was authorised to open all letters that came. Any money they might contain he was strictly to account for and pay into the bank daily to Mr Medlock’s account. He needn’t send receipts, Mr Medlock would see to that. Any orders that came he was to take copies of, and then forward them to Mr John Smith, Weaver’s Hotel, London, “to be called for,” for execution. He would have to answer the questions of any who called to make inquiries, without of course disclosing any business secrets. In fact, as the aim of the Corporation was to supply their supporters with goods at the lowest possible price, they naturally met with a good deal of jealousy from tradesmen and persons of that sort, so that Reginald must be most guarded in all he said. If it became known how their business was carried on, others would be sure to attempt an imitation; and the whole scheme would fail.
“You know, Mr Reginald,” said he—
“Excuse me,” interrupted Reginald, “I’m afraid you’re mistaken about my name. You’ve printed it Cruden Reginald, it should be Reginald Cruden.”
“Dear me, how extraordinarily unfortunate!” said Mr Medlock; “I quite understood that was your name. And the unlucky part of it is, we have got all the circulars printed, and many of them circulated. I have also given your name as Mr Reginald to the directors, and advertised it, so that I don’t see what can be done, except to keep it as it is. After all, it is a common thing, and it would put us to the greatest inconvenience to alter it now. Dear me, when I saw you in London I called you Mr Reginald, didn’t I?”
“No, sir; you called me Mr Cruden.”
“I must have supposed it was your Christian name, then.”
“Perhaps it doesn’t matter much,” said Reginald; “and I don’t wish to put the directors to any trouble.”
“To be sure I knew you would not. Well, I was saying, Reginald (that’s right, whatever way you take it!) the directors look upon you as a gentleman of character and education, and are satisfied to allow you to use your discretion and good sense in conducting their business. You have their names, which you can show to any one. They are greatly scattered, so that our Board meetings will be rare. Meanwhile they will be glad to hear how you are getting on, and will, I know, appreciate and recognise your services. By the way, I believe I mentioned (but really my memory is so bad) that we should ask you to qualify to the extent of £50 in the shares of the company?”
“Oh yes, I have the cheque here,” said Reginald, taking it out of his pocket.
“That’s right. And of course you will give yourself a receipt for it in the company’s name. Curious, isn’t it?”
With which pleasantry Mr Medlock departed, promising to look in frequently, and meanwhile to send in a fresh directory marked, and some new circulars for him to get on with.
Reginald, not quite sure whether it was all as good as he expected, set to work without delay to put into practice the various instructions he had received.
Mr Medlock’s invitation to him to see everything was comfortable could hardly be fully realised on 13 shillings a week. That must wait for Christmas, and meanwhile he must make the best of what he had.
He set Love to work folding and enclosing the new circulars (this time calling attention to some extremely cheap globes and blackboards for ladies’ and infants’ schools), while he drew himself up a programme of his daily duties, in accordance with his impression of the directors’ wishes. The result of this was that he came to the conclusion he should have his hands very full indeed—a possibility he by no means objected to.
But it was not clear to him how he was to get much outdoor exercise or recreation, or how he was to go to church on Sundays, or even to the bank on weekdays, if the office was never to be left. On this point he consulted Mr Medlock when he called in later in the day, and arranged that for two hours on Sunday, and an hour every evening, besides the necessary walk to the bank, he might lock up the office and take his walks abroad. Whereat he felt grateful and a little relieved.
It was not till about four days after his arrival that the first crop of circulars sown among the clergy yielded their firstfruits. On that day it was a harvest with a vengeance. At least 150 letters arrived. Most of them contained the two pounds and an order for the suit. In some cases most elaborate measurements accompanied the order. Some asked for High Church waistcoats, others for Low; some wished for wideawake hats, others for broad-brimmed clericals. Some sent extra money for a school-boy’s suit as well, and some contained instructions for a complete family outfit. All were very eager about the matter, and one or two begged that the parcel might be sent marked “private.”
Reginald had a busy day from morning till nearly midnight, entering and paying in the cash and forwarding the orders to Mr John Smith. He organised a beautiful tabular account, in which were entered the name and address of each correspondent, the date of their letters, the goods they ordered, and the amount they enclosed, and before the day was over the list had grown to a startling extent.
The next day brought a similar number of applications and remittances as to the globes and blackboards, and of course some more also about the clerical suits. And so, from day to day, the post showered letters in at the door, and the secretary of the Select Agency Corporation was one of the hardest worked men in Liverpool.
Master Love meanwhile had very little time for his “penny dreadfuls,” and complained bitterly of his hardships. And indeed he looked so pale and unhealthy that Reginald began to fear the constant “licking” was undermining his constitution, and ordered him to use a sponge instead of his tongue. But on this point Love’s loyalty made a stand. Nothing would induce him to use the artificial expedient. He deliberately made away with the sponge, and after a battle royal was allowed his own way, and continued to lick till his tongue literally clave to the roof of his mouth.
By the end of a fortnight the first rush of work was over, and Reginald and his henchman had time to draw breath. Mr Medlock had gone to London, presumably to superintend the dispatch of the various articles ordered.
It was about this time that Reginald had written home to Horace complaining of the dulness of his life, and begging him to repay Blandford the 6 shillings 6 pence, which had been weighing like lead on his mind ever since he left town, and which he now despaired of ever being able to spare out of the slender pittance on which he was doomed to subsist till Christmas. Happily that festive season was only a few weeks away now, and then how delighted he should be to send home a round half of his income, and convince himself he was after all a main prop to that dear distant little household.
Had he been gifted with ears sharp enough to catch a conversation that took place at the Bodega in London one evening about the same time, the Christmas spirit within him might have experienced a considerable chill.
The company consisted of Mr Medlock, Mr Shanklin, and Mr Durfy. The latter was present by sufferance, not because he was wanted or invited, but because he felt inclined for a good supper, and was sharp enough to know that neither of his employers could afford to fall out with him just then.
“Well, how goes it?” said Mr Shanklin. “You’ve had a run lately, and no mistake.”
“Yes, I flatter myself we’ve done pretty well. One hundred pounds a day for ten days makes how much, Durfy?”
“A thousand,” said Durfy.
“Humph!” said Mr Shanklin. “Time to think of our Christmas holidays.”
“Wait a bit. We’ve not done yet. You say your two young mashers are still in tow, Alf?”
“Yes; green as duckweed. But they’re nearly played out, I guess. One of them has a little bill for fifty pounds coming due in a fortnight, and t’other—well, he wagered me a hundred pounds on a horse that never ran for the Leger, and he’s got one or two trifles besides down in my books.”
“Yes, I got you that tip about the Leger,” said Durfy, beginning to think himself neglected in this dialogue of self-congratulation.
“Yes; you managed to do it this time without botching it, for a wonder!” said Mr Shanklin.
“Yes; and I hope you’ll manage to give me the ten-pound note you promised me for it, Mr S.,” replied Durfy, with a snarl. “You seem to have forgotten that, and my commission too for finding you your new secretary.”
“Yes. By the way,” said Mr Medlock, “he deserves something for that; it’s the best stroke of business we’ve done for a long time. It’s worth three weeks to us to have him there to answer questions and choke off the inquisitive. He’s got his busy time coming on, I fancy. Bless you, Durfy, the fellow was born for us! He swallows anything. I’ve allowed him thirteen shillings a week till Christmas, and he says, ‘Thank you.’ He’s had his name turned inside out, and I do believe he thinks it an improvement! He sticks in the place all day with that young cockney gaol-bird you picked us up too, Durfy, and never growls.”
“Does he help himself to any of the money?”
“Not a brass farthing! I do believe he buys his own postage-stamps when he writes home to his mamma!”
This last announcement was too comical to be received gravely.
“Ha, ha! he ought to be exhibited!” said Shanklin.
“He ought to be starved!” said Durfy viciously. “He knocked me down once, and I wouldn’t have told you of him if I didn’t owe him a grudge—the puppy!”
“Oh, well, I daresay you’ll be gratified some day or other,” said Medlock.
“I tell you one thing,” said Durfy; “you’d better put a stopper on his writing home too often; I believe he’s put his precious brother up to watch me. Why, the other night, when I was waiting for the postman to get hold of that letter you wanted, I’m blessed if he didn’t turn up and rout me out—he and a young chum of his brother’s that used to be in the swim with me. I don’t think they saw me, luckily; but it was a shave, and of course I missed the letter.”
“Yes, you did; there was no mistake about that!” said Mr Shanklin viciously. “When did you ever not miss it?”
“How can I help it, when it’s your own secretary is dogging me?”
“Bless you! think of him dogging any one, the innocent! Anyhow, we can cut off his letters home for a bit, so as to give you no excuse next time.”
“And what’s the next job to be, then?” asked Durfy.
“The most particular of all,” replied the sporting man. “I want a letter with the Boldham postmark, or perhaps a telegram, that will be delivered to-morrow night by the last post. There’s a fifty pounds turns on it, and I must have it before the morning papers are out. Never mind what it is; you must get it somehow, and you’ll get a fiver for it. As soon as that’s done, Medlock, and the young dandies’ bills have come due, we can order a cab. Your secretary at Liverpool will hold out long enough for us to get to the moon before we’re wanted.”
“You’re right there!” said Mr Medlock, laughing. “I’ll go down and look him up to-morrow, and clear up, and then I fancy he’ll manage the rest himself; and we can clear out. Ha, ha! capital sherry, this brand. Have some more, Durfy.”
Mr Medlock kept his promise and cheered Reginald in his loneliness by a friendly visit.
“I’ve been away longer than I expected, and I must say the way you have managed matters in my absence does you the greatest credit, Reginald. I shall feel perfectly comfortable in future when I am absent.”
A flush of pleasure rose to Reginald’s cheeks, such as would have moved to pity any heart less cold-blooded than Mr Medlock’s.
“No one has called, I suppose?”
“No, sir. There’s been a letter, though, from the Rev. T. Mulberry, of Woolford-in-the-Meadow, to ask why the suit he ordered has not yet been delivered.”
Mr Medlock smiled.
“These good men are so impatient,” said he; “they imagine their order is the only one we have to think of. What would they think of the four hundred and odd suits we have on order, eh, Mr Reginald?”
“I suppose I had better write and say the orders will be taken in rotation, and that his will be forwarded in a few days.”
“Better say a few weeks. You’ve no notion of the difficulty we have in trying to meet every one’s wishes. Say before Christmas—and the same with the globes and other things. The time and trouble taken in packing the things really cuts into the profits terribly.”
“Could we do any of it down here?” said Reginald. “Love and I have often nothing to do.”
It was well the speaker did not notice the fiendish grimace with which the young gentleman referred to accepted the statement.
“You’re very good,” said Mr Medlock; “but I shouldn’t think of it. We want you for head work. There are plenty to be hired in London to do the hand work. By the way, I will take up the register of orders and cash you have been keeping, to check with the letters in town. You won’t want it for a few days.”
Reginald felt sorry to part with a work in which he felt such pride as this beautifully kept register. However, he had made it for the use of the Corporation, and it was not his to withhold.
After clearing up cautiously all round, with the result that Reginald had very little besides pen, ink, and paper left him, Mr Medlock said good morning.
“I may have to run up to town for a few days,” he said, “but I shall see you again very soon, I hope. Meanwhile, make yourself comfortable. The directors are very favourably impressed with you already, and I hope at Christmas they may meet and tell you so in person. Boy, make a parcel of these books and papers and bring them for me to my hotel.”
Love obeyed surlily. He was only waiting for Mr Medlock’s departure to dive into the mystery ofTrumpery Toadstool, or Murdered for a Lark, in which he had that morning invested. He made a clumsy parcel of the books, and then shambled forth in a somewhat homicidal spirit in Mr Medlock’s wake down the street.
At the corner that gentleman halted till he came up.
“Well, young fellow, picked any pockets lately?”
The boy scowled at him inquisitively.
“All right,” said Mr Medlock. “I never said you had. I’m not going to take you to the police-station, I’m going to give you half a crown.”
This put a new aspect on the situation. Love brightened up as he watched Mr Medlock’s hand dive into his pocket.
“What should you do with a half-crown if you had it?”
“Do? I know, and no error. I’d get theNoogate Calendar, that’s what I’d do.”
“You can read, then?”
“Ray-ther; oh no, not me.”
“Can you read writing?”
“In corse.”
“Do you always go to the post with the letters?”
“In corse.”
“Do you ever see any addressed to Mrs Cruden or Mr Cruden in London?”
“’Bout once a week. That there sekketery always gives ’em to me separate, and says I’m to be sure and post ’em.”
“Well, I say they’re not to be posted,” said Mr Medlock. “Here’s half a crown; and listen: next time you get any to post put them on one side; and every one you can show me you shall have sixpence for. Mind what you’re at, or he’ll flay you alive if he catches you. Off you go, there’s a good boy.”
And Love pocketed his half-crown greedily, and with a knowing wink at his employer sped back to the office.
That afternoon Reginald wrote a short polite note to the Rev. T. Mulberry, explaining to him the reason for any apparent delay in the execution of his order, and promising that he should duly receive it before Christmas. This was the only letter for the post that day, and Love had no opportunity of earning a further sixpence.
He had an opportunity of spending his half-crown, however, and when he returned from the post he was radiant in face and stouter under the waistcoat by the thickness of the coveted volume of theNewgate Calendarseries.
With the impetuosity characteristic of his age, he plunged into its contents the moment he found himself free of work, and by the time Reginald returned from his short evening stroll he was master of several of its stories.Tim TigerskinandThe Pirate’s Bridewere nothing to it. They all performed their incredible exploits on the other side of the world, but these heroes were beings of flesh and blood like himself, and, for all he knew, he might have seen them and talked to them, and have known some of the very spots in London which they frequented. He felt a personal interest in their achievements.
“Say, governor,” said he as soon as Reginald entered, “do you know Southwark Road?”
“In London? Yes,” said Reginald.
“This ’ere chap, Bright, was a light porter to a cove as kep’ a grocer’s shop there, and one night when he was asleep in the arm-cheer he puts a sack on ’is ’ead and chokes ’im. The old cove he struggles a bit, but—”
“Shut up!” said Reginald angrily. “I’ve told you quite often enough. Give me that book.”
At the words and the tones in which they were uttered Love suddenly turned into a small fiend. He struggled, he kicked, he cursed, he howled to keep his treasure. Reginald was inexorable, and of course it was only a matter of time until the book was in his hands. A glance at its contents satisfied him.
“Look here,” said he, holding the book behind his back and parrying all the boy’s frantic efforts to recover it, “don’t make a fool of yourself, youngster.”
“Give it to me! Give me my book, you—”
And the boy broke into a volley of oaths and flung himself once more tooth-and-nail on Reginald. Already Reginald saw he had made a mistake. He had done about the most unwise thing he possibly could have done. But it was too late to undo it. The only thing, apparently, was to go through with it now. So he flung the book into the fire, and, catching the boy by the arm, told him if he did not stop swearing and struggling at once he would make him.
The boy did not stop, and Reginald did make him.
It was a poor sort of victory, and no one knew it better than Reginald. If the boy was awed into silence, he was no nearer listening to reason—nay, further than ever. He slunk sulkily into a corner, glowering at his oppressor and deaf to every word he uttered. In vain Reginald expostulated, coaxed, reasoned, even apologised. The boy met it all with a sullen scowl. Reginald offered to pay him for the book, to buy him another, to read aloud to him, to give him an extra hour a day—it was all no use; the injury was too deep to wash out so easily; and finally he had to give it up and trust that time might do what arguments and threats had failed to effect.
But in this he was disappointed; for next morning when nine o’clock arrived, no Love was there, nor as the day wore on did he put in an appearance. When at last evening came, and still no signs of him, Reginald began to discover that the sole result of his well-meant interference had been to drive his only companion from him, and doom himself henceforth to the miseries of solitary confinement.
For days he scarcely spoke a word. The silence of that office was unearthly. He opened the window, winter as it was, to let in the sound of cabs and footsteps for company. He missed even the familiar rustle of the “penny dreadfuls” as the boy turned their pages. He wished anybody, even his direst foe, might turn up to save him from dying of loneliness.
Chapter Fifteen.A Letter from Horace.“Dear Reg,” (so ran a letter from Horace which Reginald received a day or two after Master Love’s desertion), “I’m afraid you are having rather a slow time up there, which is more than can be said for us here. There’s been no end of a row at theRocket, which you may like to hear about, especially as two of the chief persons concerned were your friend Durfy and your affectionate brother.“Granville, the sub-editor, came into the office where Booms and Waterford and I were working on Friday morning, and said, in his usual mild way,—“‘I should like to know who generally clears the post-box in the morning?’“‘I do,’ said Booms. You know the way he groans when he speaks.“‘The reason I want to know is, because I have an idea one or two letters lately have either been looked at or tampered with before the editor or I see them.’“‘I suppose I’m to be given in charge?’ said Booms. ‘I didn’t do it; but when once a man’s suspected, what’s the use of saying anything?’“Even Granville couldn’t help grinning at this.“‘Nonsense, Booms. I’m glad to say I know you three fellows well enough by this time to feel sure it wasn’t one of you. I shouldn’t have spoken to you about it if I had.’“Booms seemed quite disappointed he wasn’t to be made a martyr of after all.“‘You think I know all about it?’ he said.“‘No, I don’t; and if you’ll just listen without running away with ridiculous notions, Booms,’ said Granville, warming up a bit, ‘I’ll explain myself. Two letters during the last fortnight have been undoubtedly opened before I saw them. They both arrived between eight o’clock in the evening and nine next morning, and they both came from sporting correspondents of ours in the country, and contained information of a private nature intended for our paper the next day. In one case it was about a horse race, and in the other about an important football match. The letters were not tampered with for the purpose of giving information to any other papers, because we were still the only paper who gave the news, so the probability is some one who wanted to bet on the event has tried to get hold of the news beforehand.’“‘I never made a bet in my life,’ said Booms.“We couldn’t help laughing at this, for the stories he tells us of his terrific sporting exploits when he goes out of an evening in his high collar would make you think he was the loudest betting man in London.“Granville laughed too.“‘Better not begin,’ he said, and then blushed very red, as it occurred to him he had made an unintentional pun. But we looked quite grave, and did not give any sign of having seen it, and that put him on his feet again.“‘It’s not a comfortable thing to happen,’ said he, ‘and what I want to propose is that one or two of you should stay late for a night or two and see if you can find out how it occurs. There are one or two events coming off during the next few days about which we expect special communications, so that very likely whoever it is may try again. You must be very careful, and I shall have to leave you to use your discretion, for I’m so busy with the new Literary Supplement that I cannot stay myself.’“Well, when he’d gone we had a consultation, and of course it ended in Waterford and me determining to sit up. Poor Booms’s heart would break if he couldn’t go ‘on the mash’ as usual; and though he tried to seem very much hurt that he was not to stay, we could see he was greatly relieved. Waterford and I were rather glad, as it happened, for we’d some work on hand it just suited us to get a quiet evening for.“So I wrote a note to Miss Crisp. Don’t get excited, old man; she’s a very nice girl, but she’s another’s. (By the way, Jemima asks after you every time I meet her, which is once a week now; she’s invited herself into our shorthand class.) And after helping to rig old Booms up to the ninety-nines, which wasn’t easy work, for his ‘dicky’ kept twisting round to the side of his neck, and we had to pin it in three places before it would keep steady, I gave him the note and asked him would he ever be so kind as to take it round for me, as it was to ask Miss Crisp if she would go and keep my mother company during my absence.“After that I thought we should never get rid of him. He insisted on overhauling every article of his toilet. At least four more pins were added to fix the restless dicky in its place on his manly breast. We polished up his eye-glasses with wash-leather till the pewter nearly all rubbed off; we helped him roll his flannel shirt-sleeves up to the elbows for fear—horrible idea!—they should chance to peep out from below his cuffs; we devoted an anxious two minutes to the poising of his hat at the right angle, and then passed him affectionately from one to the other to see he was all right. After which he went off, holding my letter carefully in his scented handkerchief and saying—dear gay deceiver!—that he envied us spending a cosy evening in that snug office by the fire!“The work Waterford and I have on hand is—tell it not in Gath, old man, and don’t scorn a fellow off the face of the earth—to try to write something that will get into the Literary Supplement. This supplement is a new idea of the editor’s, and makes a sort of weekly magazine. He writes a lot of it himself, and we chip a lot of stuff for him out of other papers. The idea of having a shot at it occurred to us both independently, in a funny and rather humiliating way. It seems Waterford, without saying a word to me or anybody, had sat down and composed some lines on the ‘Swallow’—appropriate topic for this season of the year. I at the same time, without saying a word to Waterford or anybody except mother, had sat down and, with awful groanings and wrestlings of mind, evolved a lucubration in prose on ‘Ancient and Modern Athletic Sports.’ Of course I crammed a lot of it up out of encyclopaedias and that sort of thing. It was the driest rot you ever read, and I knew it was doomed before I sent it in. But as it was written I thought I might try. So, as of course I couldn’t send it in under my own name, I asked Miss Crisp if I might send it under hers. The obliging little lady laughed and said, ‘Yes,’ but she didn’t tell me at the same time that Waterford had come to her with his ‘Swallow’ and asked the very same thing. A rare laugh she must have had at our expense! Well, I sent mine in and Waterford sent in his.“We were both very abstracted for the next few days, but little guessed our perturbation arose from the same cause. Then came the fatal Wednesday—the ‘d.w.t.’ day as we call it—for Granville always saves up his rejected addresses for us to ‘decline with thanks’ for Wednesdays. There was a good batch of them this day, so Waterford and I took half each. I took a hurried skim through mine, but no ‘Ancient and Modern Athletic Sports’ were there. I concluded therefore Waterford had it. Granville writes in the corner of each ‘d.w.t.,’ or ‘d.w.t. note,’ which means ‘declined with thanks’ pure and simple, or ‘declined with thanks’ and a short polite note to be written at the same time stating that the sub-editor, while recognising some merit in the contribution, regretted it was not suitable for the Supplement. I polished off my pure and simple first, and then began to tackle the notes. About the fourth I came to considerably astonished me. It was a couple of mild sonnets on the ‘Swallow,’ with the name M.E. Crisp attached!“‘Hullo,’ I said to Waterford, tossing the paper over to him, ‘here’s Miss Crisp writing some verses. I should have thought she could write better stuff than that, shouldn’t you?’“Waterford, very red in the face, snatched up the paper and glanced at it.“‘Do you think they’re so bad?’ said he.“‘Frightful twaddle,’ said I; ‘fancy any one saying—’”“The drowsy year from winter’s sleep ye wake,Yet two of ye do not a summer make.”“‘Well,’ said he, grinning, ‘you’d better tell her straight off it’s bosh, and then she’s not likely to make a fool of herself again. Hullo, though, I say,’ he exclaimed, picking up a paper in front of him, every smudge and blot of which I knew only too well, ‘why, she’s at it again. What’s this?“‘“Ancient and Mod—” Why, it’s in your writing; did you copy it out for her?’“‘I wrote that out, yes,’ said I, feeling it my turn to colour up and look sheepish.“Waterford glanced rapidly through the first few lines, and then said,—“‘Well, all I can say is, it’s a pity she didn’t stick to poetry. I’m sure the line about waking the drowsy year is a jolly sight better than this awful rot.’“‘Though we are not told so in so many words, we may reasonably conclude that athletic sports were not unpractised by Cain and Abel prior to the death of the latter!“‘As if they could have done it after!’“‘I never said they could,’ I said, feeling very much taken down.“‘Oh—it was you composed it as well as wrote it, was it?’ said he laughing. ‘Ho, ho! that’s the best joke I ever heard. Poor little Crisp, what a shame to get her to father—or mother a thing like this; ha, ha! “prior to the death of the latter”—that’s something like a play of language! My eye, what a game she’s been having with us!’“‘Us! then you’re the idiot who wrote about the Swallows!’ said I.“‘Suppose I am,’ said he, blushing all over, ‘suppose I am.’“‘Well, all I can say is, I’m precious glad the little Crisp isn’t guilty of it. “Two of ye do not a summer make,” indeed!’“‘Well, they don’t,’ said he.“‘I know they don’t,’ said I, half dead with laughing, ‘but you needn’t go and tell everybody.’“‘I’m sure it’s just as interesting as “Cain and Abel”—’“‘There now, we don’t want to hear any more about them,’ said I, ‘but I think we ought to send them both back to Miss Crisp, to give her her laugh against us too.’“We did so; and I needn’t tell you she lets us have it whenever we get within twenty yards of her.“Here’s a long digression, but it may amuse you; and you said you wanted something to read.“Well, Waterford and I recovered in a few days from our first reverse, and decided to have another shot; and so we were rather glad of the quiet evening at the office to make our new attempts. We half thought of writing a piece between us, but decided we’d better go on our own hooks after all, as our styles were not yet broken in to one another. We agreed we had better this time both write on subjects we knew something about; Waterford accordingly selected ‘A Day in a Sub-Sub-Editor’s Life’ as a topic he really could claim to be familiar with; while I pitched upon ‘Early Rising,’ a branch of science in which I flatter myself, old man,youare not competent to tell me whether I excel or not. Half the battle was done when we had fixed on our subjects; so as soon as every one was gone we poked up the fire and made ourselves snug, and settled down to work.“We plodded on steadily till we heard the half-past nine letters dropped into the box. Then it occurred to us we had better turn down the lights and give our office as deserted a look as we could. It was rather slow work sitting in the dark for a couple of hours, not speaking a word or daring to move a toe. The fire got low, but we dared not make it up; and of course we both had awful desires to sneeze and cough—you always do at such times—and half killed ourselves in our efforts to smother them. We could hear the cabs and omnibuses in Fleet Street keeping up a regular roar; but no footsteps came near us, except once when a telegraph boy (as we guessed by his shrill whistling and his smart step) came and dropped a telegram into the box. I assure you the click the flap of the letter-box made that moment, although I knew what it was and why it was, made my heart beat like a steam-engine.“It was beginning to get rather slow when twelve came and still nothing to disturb us. We might have been forging ahead with our writing all this time if we had only known.“Presently Waterford whispered,—“‘They won’t try to-night now.’“Just as he spoke we heard a creak on the stairs outside. We had heard lots of creaks already, but somehow this one startled us both. I instinctively picked up the ruler from the table, and Waterford took my arm and motioned me close to the wall beside him. Another creak came presently and then another. Evidently some one was coming down the stairs cautiously, and in the dark too, for we saw no glimmer of a light through the partly-opened door. We were behind it, so that if it opened we should be quite hidden unless the fellow groped round it.“Down he came slowly, and there was no mistake now about its being a human being and not a ghost, for we heard him clearing his throat very quietly and snuffling as he reached the bottom step. I can tell you it was rather exciting, even for a fellow of my dull nerves.“Waterford nudged me to creep a little nearer the gas, ready to turn it up at a moment’s notice, while he kept at the door, to prevent our man getting out after he was once in.“Presently the door opened very quietly. He did not fling it wide open, luckily, or he was bound to spot us behind it; but he opened it just enough to squeeze in, and then, feeling his way round by the wall, made straight for the letter-box. Although it was dark he seemed to know his way pretty well, and in a few seconds we heard him stop and fumble with a key in the lock. In a second or two he had opened it, and then, crouching down, began cautiously to rub a match on the floor. The light was too dim to see anything but the crouching figure of a man bending over the box and examining the addresses of one or two of the letters in it. His match went out before he had found what he wanted.“It was hard work to keep from giving him a little unexpected light, for my fingers itched to turn up the gas. However, it was evidently better to wait a little longer and see what he really was up to before we were down on him.“He lit another match, and this time seemed to find what he wanted, for we saw him put one letter in his pocket and drop all the others back into the box, blowing out his match as he did so.“Now was our time. I felt a nudge from Waterford and turned the gas full on, while he quietly closed the door and turned the key.“I felt quite sorry for the poor scared beggar as he knelt there and turned his white face to the light, unable to move or speak or do anything. You’ll have guessed who it was.“‘So, Mr Durfy,’ said Waterford, leaning up against the door and folding his arms, ‘it’s you, is it?’“The culprit glared at him and then at me, and rose to his feet with a forced laugh.“‘It looks like it,’ he said.“‘So it does,’ said Waterford, taking the key out of the door and putting it in his pocket; ‘very like it. And it looks very much as if he would have to make himself comfortable here till Mr Granville comes!’“‘What do you mean?’ exclaimed the fellow. ‘I’ve as much right to be here as you have, for the matter of that, at this hour.’“‘Verywell, then,’ said Waterford, as cool as a cucumber, ‘we’ll all three stay here. Eh, Cruden?’“‘I’m game,’ said I.“He evidently didn’t like the turn things were taking, and changed his tack.“‘Come, don’t play the fool!’ he said coaxingly, ‘The fact is, I expected a letter from a friend, and as it was very important I came to get it. It’s all right.’“‘You may think so,’ said Waterford; ‘you may think it’s all right to come here on tiptoe at midnight with a false key, and steal, but other people may differ from you, that’s all! Besides, you’re telling a lie; the letter you’ve got in your pocket doesn’t belong to you!’“It was rather a rash challenge, but we could see by the way his face fell it was a good shot.“He uttered an oath, and advanced threateningly towards the door.“‘Sit down,’ said Waterford, ‘unless you want to be tied up. There are two of us here, and we’re not going to stand any nonsense, I can tell you!’“‘You’ve no right—’“‘Sit down, and shut up!’ repeated Waterford.“‘I tell you if you—’“‘Cruden, you’ll find some cord in one of those drawers. If you don’t shut up, and sit down, Durfy, we shall make you.’“He caved in after that, and I was rather glad we hadn’t to go to extremes.“‘Hadn’t we better get the letter?’ whispered I.“‘No; he’d better fork it out to Granville,’ said Waterford.“He was wrong for once, as you shall hear.“Durfy slunk off and sat down on a chair in the far corner of the room, swearing to himself, but not venturing to raise his voice above a growl.“It was now about half-past twelve, and we had the lively prospect of waiting at least eight hours before Granville turned up.“‘Don’t you bother to stay,’ said Waterford. ‘I can look after him.’“But I scouted the idea, and said nothing would induce me to go.“‘Very well, then,’ said he; ‘we may as well get on with our writing.’“So we pulled our chairs up to the table, with a full-view of Durfy in the corner, and tried to continue our lucubrations.“But when you are sitting up at dead of night, with a prisoner in the corner of the room cursing and gnashing his teeth at you, it is not easy to grow eloquent either on the subject of ‘A Day in a Sub-sub-Editor’s Life,’ or ‘Early Rising.’ And so we found. We gave it up presently, and made up the fire and chatted together in a whisper.“Once or twice Durfy broke the silence.“‘I’m hungry,’ growled he, about two o’clock.“‘So are we,’ said Waterford.“‘Well, go and get something. I’m not going to be starved, I tell you. I’ll make you smart for it, both of you.’“‘You’ve been told to shut up,’ said Waterford, rising to his feet with a glance towards the drawer where the cord was kept.“Durfy was quiet after that for an hour or so. Then I suppose he must have overheard me saying something to Waterford about you, for he broke out with a vicious laugh,—“‘Reginald! Yes, he’ll thank you for this. I’ll make it so hot for him—’“‘Look here,’ said Waterford, ‘this is the last time you’re going to be cautioned, Durfy. If you open your mouth once more you’ll be gagged; mind that. I mean what I say.’“This was quite enough for Durfy. He made no further attempt to speak, but curled himself up on the floor and turned his face to the wall, and disposed himself to all appearances to sleep. Whether he succeeded or not I can’t say. But towards morning he glowered round at us. Then he took out some tobacco and commenced chewing it, and finally turned his back on us again and continued dozing and chewing alternately till the eight o’clock bell rang and aroused us.“Half an hour later Granville arrived, and a glance at our group was quite sufficient to acquaint him with the state of affairs.“‘So this is the man,’ said he, pointing to Durfy.“‘Yes, sir. We caught him in the act of taking a letter out of the box at midnight. In fact, he’s got it in his pocket this moment.’“Durfy gave a fiendish grin, and said,—“‘That’s a lie. I’ve no letter in my pocket!’“And he proceeded to turn his pockets one after the other inside out.“‘All I know is we both saw him take a letter out of the box and put it in his pocket,’ said Waterford.“‘Yes,’ snarled Durfy, ‘and I told you it was a private letter of my own.’“‘Whatever the letter is, you took it out of the box, and you had better show it quietly,’ said Granville; ‘it will save you trouble.’“‘I tell you I have no letter,’ replied Durfy again.“‘Very well, then, Cruden, perhaps you will kindly fetch a policeman.’“I started to go, but Durfy broke out, this time in tones of sincere terror,—“‘Don’t do that, don’t ruin me! I did take it, but—’“‘Give it to me then.’“‘I can’t. I’ve eaten it!’“Wasn’t this a thunderbolt! How were we to prove whose the letter was? Wild thoughts of a stomach-pump, or soap and warm water, did flash through my mind, but what was the use? The fellow had done us after all, and we had to admit it.“No one stopped him as he went to the door, half scowling, half grinning.“‘Good morning, gentlemen!’ said he. ‘I hope you’ll get a better night’s rest to-morrow. I promise not to disturb you,’ (here followed a few oaths). ‘But I’ll pay you out, some of you—Crudens, Reginalds, sneaks, prigs—all of you!’“With which neat peroration he took his leave, and theRockethas not seen him since.“Here’s a long screed! I must pull up now.“Mother’s not very well, she’s fretting, I’m afraid, and her eyes trouble her. I can’t say we shall be sorry when Christmas comes, for try all we can, we’re in debt at one or two of the shops. I know you’ll hate to hear it, but it’s simply unavoidable on our present means. I wish I could come down and see you; but for one thing, I can’t afford it, and for another, I can’t leave mother. Mrs Shuckleford is really very kind, though she’s not a congenial spirit.“Young Gedge and I see plenty of one another: he’s joined our shorthand class, and is going in for a little steady work all round. He owes you a lot for befriending him at the time you did, and he’s not forgotten it. I promised to send you his love next time I wrote. Harker will be in town next week, which will be jolly. I’ve never seen Bland since I called to pay the 6 shillings 6 pence. I fancy he’s got into rather a fast lot, and is making a fool of himself, which is a pity.“You tell us very little about your Corporation; I hope it is going on all right. I wish to goodness you were back in town. I never was in love with the concern, as you know, and at the risk of putting you in a rage, I can’t help saying it’s a pity we couldn’t all have stayed together just now. Forgive this growl, old man.“Your affectionate brother,—“Horace.“Wednesday, ‘d.w.t.’ day. To our surprise and trepidation, neither the ‘Day in a Sub-Sub-editor’s Life’ nor ‘Early Rising’ were among the papers given out to-day to be ‘declined with thanks.’ Granville may have put them into the fire as not even worth returning, or he may actually—O mirabile dictu—be going to put us into print?”
“Dear Reg,” (so ran a letter from Horace which Reginald received a day or two after Master Love’s desertion), “I’m afraid you are having rather a slow time up there, which is more than can be said for us here. There’s been no end of a row at theRocket, which you may like to hear about, especially as two of the chief persons concerned were your friend Durfy and your affectionate brother.
“Granville, the sub-editor, came into the office where Booms and Waterford and I were working on Friday morning, and said, in his usual mild way,—
“‘I should like to know who generally clears the post-box in the morning?’
“‘I do,’ said Booms. You know the way he groans when he speaks.
“‘The reason I want to know is, because I have an idea one or two letters lately have either been looked at or tampered with before the editor or I see them.’
“‘I suppose I’m to be given in charge?’ said Booms. ‘I didn’t do it; but when once a man’s suspected, what’s the use of saying anything?’
“Even Granville couldn’t help grinning at this.
“‘Nonsense, Booms. I’m glad to say I know you three fellows well enough by this time to feel sure it wasn’t one of you. I shouldn’t have spoken to you about it if I had.’
“Booms seemed quite disappointed he wasn’t to be made a martyr of after all.
“‘You think I know all about it?’ he said.
“‘No, I don’t; and if you’ll just listen without running away with ridiculous notions, Booms,’ said Granville, warming up a bit, ‘I’ll explain myself. Two letters during the last fortnight have been undoubtedly opened before I saw them. They both arrived between eight o’clock in the evening and nine next morning, and they both came from sporting correspondents of ours in the country, and contained information of a private nature intended for our paper the next day. In one case it was about a horse race, and in the other about an important football match. The letters were not tampered with for the purpose of giving information to any other papers, because we were still the only paper who gave the news, so the probability is some one who wanted to bet on the event has tried to get hold of the news beforehand.’
“‘I never made a bet in my life,’ said Booms.
“We couldn’t help laughing at this, for the stories he tells us of his terrific sporting exploits when he goes out of an evening in his high collar would make you think he was the loudest betting man in London.
“Granville laughed too.
“‘Better not begin,’ he said, and then blushed very red, as it occurred to him he had made an unintentional pun. But we looked quite grave, and did not give any sign of having seen it, and that put him on his feet again.
“‘It’s not a comfortable thing to happen,’ said he, ‘and what I want to propose is that one or two of you should stay late for a night or two and see if you can find out how it occurs. There are one or two events coming off during the next few days about which we expect special communications, so that very likely whoever it is may try again. You must be very careful, and I shall have to leave you to use your discretion, for I’m so busy with the new Literary Supplement that I cannot stay myself.’
“Well, when he’d gone we had a consultation, and of course it ended in Waterford and me determining to sit up. Poor Booms’s heart would break if he couldn’t go ‘on the mash’ as usual; and though he tried to seem very much hurt that he was not to stay, we could see he was greatly relieved. Waterford and I were rather glad, as it happened, for we’d some work on hand it just suited us to get a quiet evening for.
“So I wrote a note to Miss Crisp. Don’t get excited, old man; she’s a very nice girl, but she’s another’s. (By the way, Jemima asks after you every time I meet her, which is once a week now; she’s invited herself into our shorthand class.) And after helping to rig old Booms up to the ninety-nines, which wasn’t easy work, for his ‘dicky’ kept twisting round to the side of his neck, and we had to pin it in three places before it would keep steady, I gave him the note and asked him would he ever be so kind as to take it round for me, as it was to ask Miss Crisp if she would go and keep my mother company during my absence.
“After that I thought we should never get rid of him. He insisted on overhauling every article of his toilet. At least four more pins were added to fix the restless dicky in its place on his manly breast. We polished up his eye-glasses with wash-leather till the pewter nearly all rubbed off; we helped him roll his flannel shirt-sleeves up to the elbows for fear—horrible idea!—they should chance to peep out from below his cuffs; we devoted an anxious two minutes to the poising of his hat at the right angle, and then passed him affectionately from one to the other to see he was all right. After which he went off, holding my letter carefully in his scented handkerchief and saying—dear gay deceiver!—that he envied us spending a cosy evening in that snug office by the fire!
“The work Waterford and I have on hand is—tell it not in Gath, old man, and don’t scorn a fellow off the face of the earth—to try to write something that will get into the Literary Supplement. This supplement is a new idea of the editor’s, and makes a sort of weekly magazine. He writes a lot of it himself, and we chip a lot of stuff for him out of other papers. The idea of having a shot at it occurred to us both independently, in a funny and rather humiliating way. It seems Waterford, without saying a word to me or anybody, had sat down and composed some lines on the ‘Swallow’—appropriate topic for this season of the year. I at the same time, without saying a word to Waterford or anybody except mother, had sat down and, with awful groanings and wrestlings of mind, evolved a lucubration in prose on ‘Ancient and Modern Athletic Sports.’ Of course I crammed a lot of it up out of encyclopaedias and that sort of thing. It was the driest rot you ever read, and I knew it was doomed before I sent it in. But as it was written I thought I might try. So, as of course I couldn’t send it in under my own name, I asked Miss Crisp if I might send it under hers. The obliging little lady laughed and said, ‘Yes,’ but she didn’t tell me at the same time that Waterford had come to her with his ‘Swallow’ and asked the very same thing. A rare laugh she must have had at our expense! Well, I sent mine in and Waterford sent in his.
“We were both very abstracted for the next few days, but little guessed our perturbation arose from the same cause. Then came the fatal Wednesday—the ‘d.w.t.’ day as we call it—for Granville always saves up his rejected addresses for us to ‘decline with thanks’ for Wednesdays. There was a good batch of them this day, so Waterford and I took half each. I took a hurried skim through mine, but no ‘Ancient and Modern Athletic Sports’ were there. I concluded therefore Waterford had it. Granville writes in the corner of each ‘d.w.t.,’ or ‘d.w.t. note,’ which means ‘declined with thanks’ pure and simple, or ‘declined with thanks’ and a short polite note to be written at the same time stating that the sub-editor, while recognising some merit in the contribution, regretted it was not suitable for the Supplement. I polished off my pure and simple first, and then began to tackle the notes. About the fourth I came to considerably astonished me. It was a couple of mild sonnets on the ‘Swallow,’ with the name M.E. Crisp attached!
“‘Hullo,’ I said to Waterford, tossing the paper over to him, ‘here’s Miss Crisp writing some verses. I should have thought she could write better stuff than that, shouldn’t you?’
“Waterford, very red in the face, snatched up the paper and glanced at it.
“‘Do you think they’re so bad?’ said he.
“‘Frightful twaddle,’ said I; ‘fancy any one saying—’”
“The drowsy year from winter’s sleep ye wake,Yet two of ye do not a summer make.”
“The drowsy year from winter’s sleep ye wake,Yet two of ye do not a summer make.”
“‘Well,’ said he, grinning, ‘you’d better tell her straight off it’s bosh, and then she’s not likely to make a fool of herself again. Hullo, though, I say,’ he exclaimed, picking up a paper in front of him, every smudge and blot of which I knew only too well, ‘why, she’s at it again. What’s this?
“‘“Ancient and Mod—” Why, it’s in your writing; did you copy it out for her?’
“‘I wrote that out, yes,’ said I, feeling it my turn to colour up and look sheepish.
“Waterford glanced rapidly through the first few lines, and then said,—
“‘Well, all I can say is, it’s a pity she didn’t stick to poetry. I’m sure the line about waking the drowsy year is a jolly sight better than this awful rot.’
“‘Though we are not told so in so many words, we may reasonably conclude that athletic sports were not unpractised by Cain and Abel prior to the death of the latter!
“‘As if they could have done it after!’
“‘I never said they could,’ I said, feeling very much taken down.
“‘Oh—it was you composed it as well as wrote it, was it?’ said he laughing. ‘Ho, ho! that’s the best joke I ever heard. Poor little Crisp, what a shame to get her to father—or mother a thing like this; ha, ha! “prior to the death of the latter”—that’s something like a play of language! My eye, what a game she’s been having with us!’
“‘Us! then you’re the idiot who wrote about the Swallows!’ said I.
“‘Suppose I am,’ said he, blushing all over, ‘suppose I am.’
“‘Well, all I can say is, I’m precious glad the little Crisp isn’t guilty of it. “Two of ye do not a summer make,” indeed!’
“‘Well, they don’t,’ said he.
“‘I know they don’t,’ said I, half dead with laughing, ‘but you needn’t go and tell everybody.’
“‘I’m sure it’s just as interesting as “Cain and Abel”—’
“‘There now, we don’t want to hear any more about them,’ said I, ‘but I think we ought to send them both back to Miss Crisp, to give her her laugh against us too.’
“We did so; and I needn’t tell you she lets us have it whenever we get within twenty yards of her.
“Here’s a long digression, but it may amuse you; and you said you wanted something to read.
“Well, Waterford and I recovered in a few days from our first reverse, and decided to have another shot; and so we were rather glad of the quiet evening at the office to make our new attempts. We half thought of writing a piece between us, but decided we’d better go on our own hooks after all, as our styles were not yet broken in to one another. We agreed we had better this time both write on subjects we knew something about; Waterford accordingly selected ‘A Day in a Sub-Sub-Editor’s Life’ as a topic he really could claim to be familiar with; while I pitched upon ‘Early Rising,’ a branch of science in which I flatter myself, old man,youare not competent to tell me whether I excel or not. Half the battle was done when we had fixed on our subjects; so as soon as every one was gone we poked up the fire and made ourselves snug, and settled down to work.
“We plodded on steadily till we heard the half-past nine letters dropped into the box. Then it occurred to us we had better turn down the lights and give our office as deserted a look as we could. It was rather slow work sitting in the dark for a couple of hours, not speaking a word or daring to move a toe. The fire got low, but we dared not make it up; and of course we both had awful desires to sneeze and cough—you always do at such times—and half killed ourselves in our efforts to smother them. We could hear the cabs and omnibuses in Fleet Street keeping up a regular roar; but no footsteps came near us, except once when a telegraph boy (as we guessed by his shrill whistling and his smart step) came and dropped a telegram into the box. I assure you the click the flap of the letter-box made that moment, although I knew what it was and why it was, made my heart beat like a steam-engine.
“It was beginning to get rather slow when twelve came and still nothing to disturb us. We might have been forging ahead with our writing all this time if we had only known.
“Presently Waterford whispered,—
“‘They won’t try to-night now.’
“Just as he spoke we heard a creak on the stairs outside. We had heard lots of creaks already, but somehow this one startled us both. I instinctively picked up the ruler from the table, and Waterford took my arm and motioned me close to the wall beside him. Another creak came presently and then another. Evidently some one was coming down the stairs cautiously, and in the dark too, for we saw no glimmer of a light through the partly-opened door. We were behind it, so that if it opened we should be quite hidden unless the fellow groped round it.
“Down he came slowly, and there was no mistake now about its being a human being and not a ghost, for we heard him clearing his throat very quietly and snuffling as he reached the bottom step. I can tell you it was rather exciting, even for a fellow of my dull nerves.
“Waterford nudged me to creep a little nearer the gas, ready to turn it up at a moment’s notice, while he kept at the door, to prevent our man getting out after he was once in.
“Presently the door opened very quietly. He did not fling it wide open, luckily, or he was bound to spot us behind it; but he opened it just enough to squeeze in, and then, feeling his way round by the wall, made straight for the letter-box. Although it was dark he seemed to know his way pretty well, and in a few seconds we heard him stop and fumble with a key in the lock. In a second or two he had opened it, and then, crouching down, began cautiously to rub a match on the floor. The light was too dim to see anything but the crouching figure of a man bending over the box and examining the addresses of one or two of the letters in it. His match went out before he had found what he wanted.
“It was hard work to keep from giving him a little unexpected light, for my fingers itched to turn up the gas. However, it was evidently better to wait a little longer and see what he really was up to before we were down on him.
“He lit another match, and this time seemed to find what he wanted, for we saw him put one letter in his pocket and drop all the others back into the box, blowing out his match as he did so.
“Now was our time. I felt a nudge from Waterford and turned the gas full on, while he quietly closed the door and turned the key.
“I felt quite sorry for the poor scared beggar as he knelt there and turned his white face to the light, unable to move or speak or do anything. You’ll have guessed who it was.
“‘So, Mr Durfy,’ said Waterford, leaning up against the door and folding his arms, ‘it’s you, is it?’
“The culprit glared at him and then at me, and rose to his feet with a forced laugh.
“‘It looks like it,’ he said.
“‘So it does,’ said Waterford, taking the key out of the door and putting it in his pocket; ‘very like it. And it looks very much as if he would have to make himself comfortable here till Mr Granville comes!’
“‘What do you mean?’ exclaimed the fellow. ‘I’ve as much right to be here as you have, for the matter of that, at this hour.’
“‘Verywell, then,’ said Waterford, as cool as a cucumber, ‘we’ll all three stay here. Eh, Cruden?’
“‘I’m game,’ said I.
“He evidently didn’t like the turn things were taking, and changed his tack.
“‘Come, don’t play the fool!’ he said coaxingly, ‘The fact is, I expected a letter from a friend, and as it was very important I came to get it. It’s all right.’
“‘You may think so,’ said Waterford; ‘you may think it’s all right to come here on tiptoe at midnight with a false key, and steal, but other people may differ from you, that’s all! Besides, you’re telling a lie; the letter you’ve got in your pocket doesn’t belong to you!’
“It was rather a rash challenge, but we could see by the way his face fell it was a good shot.
“He uttered an oath, and advanced threateningly towards the door.
“‘Sit down,’ said Waterford, ‘unless you want to be tied up. There are two of us here, and we’re not going to stand any nonsense, I can tell you!’
“‘You’ve no right—’
“‘Sit down, and shut up!’ repeated Waterford.
“‘I tell you if you—’
“‘Cruden, you’ll find some cord in one of those drawers. If you don’t shut up, and sit down, Durfy, we shall make you.’
“He caved in after that, and I was rather glad we hadn’t to go to extremes.
“‘Hadn’t we better get the letter?’ whispered I.
“‘No; he’d better fork it out to Granville,’ said Waterford.
“He was wrong for once, as you shall hear.
“Durfy slunk off and sat down on a chair in the far corner of the room, swearing to himself, but not venturing to raise his voice above a growl.
“It was now about half-past twelve, and we had the lively prospect of waiting at least eight hours before Granville turned up.
“‘Don’t you bother to stay,’ said Waterford. ‘I can look after him.’
“But I scouted the idea, and said nothing would induce me to go.
“‘Very well, then,’ said he; ‘we may as well get on with our writing.’
“So we pulled our chairs up to the table, with a full-view of Durfy in the corner, and tried to continue our lucubrations.
“But when you are sitting up at dead of night, with a prisoner in the corner of the room cursing and gnashing his teeth at you, it is not easy to grow eloquent either on the subject of ‘A Day in a Sub-sub-Editor’s Life,’ or ‘Early Rising.’ And so we found. We gave it up presently, and made up the fire and chatted together in a whisper.
“Once or twice Durfy broke the silence.
“‘I’m hungry,’ growled he, about two o’clock.
“‘So are we,’ said Waterford.
“‘Well, go and get something. I’m not going to be starved, I tell you. I’ll make you smart for it, both of you.’
“‘You’ve been told to shut up,’ said Waterford, rising to his feet with a glance towards the drawer where the cord was kept.
“Durfy was quiet after that for an hour or so. Then I suppose he must have overheard me saying something to Waterford about you, for he broke out with a vicious laugh,—
“‘Reginald! Yes, he’ll thank you for this. I’ll make it so hot for him—’
“‘Look here,’ said Waterford, ‘this is the last time you’re going to be cautioned, Durfy. If you open your mouth once more you’ll be gagged; mind that. I mean what I say.’
“This was quite enough for Durfy. He made no further attempt to speak, but curled himself up on the floor and turned his face to the wall, and disposed himself to all appearances to sleep. Whether he succeeded or not I can’t say. But towards morning he glowered round at us. Then he took out some tobacco and commenced chewing it, and finally turned his back on us again and continued dozing and chewing alternately till the eight o’clock bell rang and aroused us.
“Half an hour later Granville arrived, and a glance at our group was quite sufficient to acquaint him with the state of affairs.
“‘So this is the man,’ said he, pointing to Durfy.
“‘Yes, sir. We caught him in the act of taking a letter out of the box at midnight. In fact, he’s got it in his pocket this moment.’
“Durfy gave a fiendish grin, and said,—
“‘That’s a lie. I’ve no letter in my pocket!’
“And he proceeded to turn his pockets one after the other inside out.
“‘All I know is we both saw him take a letter out of the box and put it in his pocket,’ said Waterford.
“‘Yes,’ snarled Durfy, ‘and I told you it was a private letter of my own.’
“‘Whatever the letter is, you took it out of the box, and you had better show it quietly,’ said Granville; ‘it will save you trouble.’
“‘I tell you I have no letter,’ replied Durfy again.
“‘Very well, then, Cruden, perhaps you will kindly fetch a policeman.’
“I started to go, but Durfy broke out, this time in tones of sincere terror,—
“‘Don’t do that, don’t ruin me! I did take it, but—’
“‘Give it to me then.’
“‘I can’t. I’ve eaten it!’
“Wasn’t this a thunderbolt! How were we to prove whose the letter was? Wild thoughts of a stomach-pump, or soap and warm water, did flash through my mind, but what was the use? The fellow had done us after all, and we had to admit it.
“No one stopped him as he went to the door, half scowling, half grinning.
“‘Good morning, gentlemen!’ said he. ‘I hope you’ll get a better night’s rest to-morrow. I promise not to disturb you,’ (here followed a few oaths). ‘But I’ll pay you out, some of you—Crudens, Reginalds, sneaks, prigs—all of you!’
“With which neat peroration he took his leave, and theRockethas not seen him since.
“Here’s a long screed! I must pull up now.
“Mother’s not very well, she’s fretting, I’m afraid, and her eyes trouble her. I can’t say we shall be sorry when Christmas comes, for try all we can, we’re in debt at one or two of the shops. I know you’ll hate to hear it, but it’s simply unavoidable on our present means. I wish I could come down and see you; but for one thing, I can’t afford it, and for another, I can’t leave mother. Mrs Shuckleford is really very kind, though she’s not a congenial spirit.
“Young Gedge and I see plenty of one another: he’s joined our shorthand class, and is going in for a little steady work all round. He owes you a lot for befriending him at the time you did, and he’s not forgotten it. I promised to send you his love next time I wrote. Harker will be in town next week, which will be jolly. I’ve never seen Bland since I called to pay the 6 shillings 6 pence. I fancy he’s got into rather a fast lot, and is making a fool of himself, which is a pity.
“You tell us very little about your Corporation; I hope it is going on all right. I wish to goodness you were back in town. I never was in love with the concern, as you know, and at the risk of putting you in a rage, I can’t help saying it’s a pity we couldn’t all have stayed together just now. Forgive this growl, old man.
“Your affectionate brother,—
“Horace.
“Wednesday, ‘d.w.t.’ day. To our surprise and trepidation, neither the ‘Day in a Sub-Sub-editor’s Life’ nor ‘Early Rising’ were among the papers given out to-day to be ‘declined with thanks.’ Granville may have put them into the fire as not even worth returning, or he may actually—O mirabile dictu—be going to put us into print?”