Tendays had passed, and the new assistant was more than ever at a loss to understand how a business so laxly conducted and apparently so unremunerative could provide a living for Mr. Griggs, Pemble, and Jenks. Henry knew that he, at least, was no burden on his employer's finances; but he was not yet aware that Mr. Pemble was there on a similar footing, while Jenks's labours were rewarded weekly with half-a-crown.
But this morning a bright and new star swung into his ambit, when a young man of about twenty years of age sauntered jauntily into the shop, his hat stuck on one side of his head and a cigarette drooping from his lips, where grew a moustache which must have struck envy into the soul of Mr. Pemble. The new-comer winked cheerily to Jenks, nodded a "How d'you do?" to the senior assistant, and then, to Henry's surprise, he said:
"I suppose you're the chap that Mrs. Filbert's been telling me about. We're both in the same digs."
"I beg your pardon!" Henry stammered.
"Same digs. Fellow-lodgers, don't you know."
"Oh! then you're Mr. Smith that Mrs. Filbert always talks about," answered Henry, brightening.
"That's me, my boy; but, if you please, Trevor Smith—with the accent on the Trev. There's such a beastly lot of Smiths nowadays that a fellow's got to stick up for his other name if he doesn't want to be buried in the crowd."
"I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Trevor Smith," replied Henry, who, it will be seen, was beginning to know something of the social graces.
"Right you are, young 'un," said the breezy one. "I'm just back from my fortnight's holidays. Been to London, don't you know. Jolly time. Thought I'd give you a shout on my way to the office. See you later, and tell you all about it. Ta-ta! I'm off. Big case on at the police court this morning."
Mr. Smith—Mr. Trevor Smith, if you please—was indeed a person who had assumed considerable importance in Henry's mind before he met him face to face. He was the permanent lodger by whom good Mrs. Filbert set much store.
"'E's that smart," she told Henry the first night he had stayed beneath her roof "there's no sayin' what he don't know. He writes a many fine things in theGuardian, specially 'is story of the Mop, which my Tommy read out quite easy-like last October."
"He'll be a journalist, then," Henry suggested.
"Somethink o' the sort, I reckon. Leastways, e's a heditor or a reporter or somethink. TheGuardianpays 'im to stay for it 'ere. So 'e must be clever. Oh, you'll like 'im, 'Enry. Everybody likes Mr. Trevor."
It seemed to Henry a real stroke of fortune that had brought him to the very house where one engaged in literary pursuits resided, and although keenly disappointed at the melancholy falling off in his actual experience of life under the ægis of Mr. Griggs, compared with his vision of what that was to be, he now looked forward to meeting Mr. Trevor Smith with the hope that he might point the way to better things.
The exact position of that local representative of the Fourth Estate is best defined as district reporter. The paper which employed him was published in the busy industrial centre of Wheelton, some twenty-five miles distant, where it maintained a struggling existence as theWheelton Guardian.
It was the duty of Mr. Smith to write a column of notes on men and affairs in the Stratford district every week, to supply reports of the local police court proceedings, municipal meetings, and so forth, and also to canvass for advertisements, the few hundred copies of the paper sold in Stratfordevery week, thanks to these attractions, being mendaciously headedStratford Guardian.
What the district reporter—who occasionally hinted that he was really the editor when he saw a chance to impress a stranger thereby—called "the office," was a desk in the back premises of the news-agent and fancy-goods-shop whence theGuardianwas distributed weekly.
Everybody did like Mr. Smith. It was part of his business to be well liked, and if there was a good deal of humbug about him, he was still excellent value to theGuardianfor the twenty-one shillings which the proprietors of that journal paid him each week. One does not expect genius for a guinea a week; not even the ability to write English. But it is a mistake to suppose the latter is ever required of a district reporter. The essential qualifications are a working knowledge of shorthand and a good conceit of oneself. Mr. Trevor Smith was deficient in neither; certainly not in the latter quality. He was generously impressed with the magnitude of his importance, and had chosen the Miltonic motto for his "Stratford Notes and Comments":
"Give me the liberty to know, to think, and to utter freely above all other liberties."
"Give me the liberty to know, to think, and to utter freely above all other liberties."
He took this liberty whenever he knew that the weight of local opinion tended in a certain direction. At other times he was lavish in his use of complimentary adjectives concerning every one he wrote about, from the Mayor to the town crier. No wonder he was popular.
The notes which appeared in theGuardianduring its reporter's holiday were from another hand, but Henry looked forward with pleasure to reading Trevor's contributions when his mighty pen was at work again. It is one of the strangest experiences that comes to the writing man—this interest of the layman in anyone who writes words that are printed. We seldom feel interested in the personality of the man who made our watch, but the fellow who wrote the report of the tea-meeting we attended last week—ah, there's something to stir the blood!
Now that they had met, these two, Henry was throbbing with excitement to hear what his new friend had to tell him of life and its wonders. Nor was Trevor loth to unclench his soul to the youth.
"By Jove, London's the place," he observed to Henry as he dug his teeth into a juicy tart—one of many received that day in Henry's weekly hamper from home. "London's the place! Just fancy, I saw the huge building of theMorningSunburst, Johnnies at the door in livery, hundreds of people running out and in; and the chap that edits that paper used to be a fifteen-bob-a-week reporter on that rag theStratford Times, which isn't a patch on theGuardian."
"He must be very clever."
"Clever! Bless you, they reckoned him mighty small beer in Stratford," pursued the lively Trevor, helping himself to a third tart from Henry's store. "Then there's Wilkins of thePictorial Globe, a glorious crib—fifteen hundred a year, I'll bet. He used to run that rocky little rag-bag theArden Advertiser. You should see his office in the Strand. By gum—a palace, my boy, a palace!"
"But perhaps he knows all about pictures."
"Pictures! He doesn't know a wall-poster from a Joshua Reynolds!"
"Then how do they get these grand situations?"
"How do they get 'em! Luck, my boy. But, I say, your mater knows how to make ripping good fruit-cakes."
"I'm glad you like them," said Henry, but his thoughts were far away, where Luck the Goddess reigned. "And do you intend to go to London some day—to stay, I mean?"
"As likely as not. My time will come, ha, ha! as the heavy villain hath it. Everybody gets hischance, don't you know. For all that, there's many a jolly good journalist never gets a show in Fleet Street. But what's the row?" he exclaimed abruptly, as the noise of hurrying feet and the sound of a policeman's whistle rang out in the evening quiet.
Stepping to the window, he saw the hand-pump and hose being wheeled along the street from the police station across the way, and a crowd of youngsters running after it.
"A fire!" he exclaimed. "I must look slippy, by Jingo! Come along with me. There's ten bob of lineage in this if I'm first on the spot, and it's a decent blaze. Worth while living near the station."
He had his hat on his head in a jiffy, and Henry hurried with him, intent on seeing the journalist at work. The fire proved to be at a brewery, and did considerable damage before it was got under. In the excitement of the scene Henry lost his friend, who flitted from point to point gleaning information, and looking quite the most important figure present. He had got ahead of Griffin, theTimesreporter; his ten shillings for duplicating reports to the daily papers seemed likely enough. They were as good as spent already—a new hat for one thing, and some new neckties for another.
The effect of the episode on Henry was fateful. He had been present throughout the scene, he had seen the frightened horses being rescued from the flaming stable, and had read about it all to the extent of twenty lines in next morning'sBirmingham Gazette—twenty glowing lines from the pencil of Mr. Trevor Smith—twenty lines in which the "conflagration" burned again.
He had tasted blood. This was better fun than idling the hours away with Mr. Ephraim Griggs. The Temple of Literature had been a disappointment.
Here was Life.
Upto the night of the fire, Henry had only been dreaming of what he wished to do in the world of work. Unless one of his age has had his fate sharply settled for him by being placed at some trade or profession—for which he is usually unsuited—by the masterful action of his parents, he has, at best, a nebulous vision of the path he will pursue.
With natural instinct, and aided by the accident of Edward John's business relations in Stratford, Henry had looked to literature through the gateway of the book-shop—of all, the most unlikely. But he had been shorn speedily of his illusions in that quarter.
A month in the establishment of Mr. Ephraim Griggs had left him wondering if he were a footstep nearer his goal than he had been before he bade farewell to Hampton. If the Temple of Literature which he had builded in his brain had not exactly crumbled into nothingness, it was no longer possible to rub shoulders with the slatternly Griggs and theinsipid Pemble, and still to dream dreams such as had held his mind when he determined to fare forth an adventurer into the unknown realms of Bookland.
The weeks dragged on wearily. So rude had been Henry's experience of the second-hand book-shop, in disgust he had almost concluded that after all there was as much glory in his father's business as in that of Mr. Griggs. Trevor Smith, however, had appeared on the scene at an opportune moment, and sent his thoughts off at a tangent.
Clearly, journalism was the high road to literature. It enabled one to get into print, and that, at least, was a great matter.
Already the agreeable Trevor could pose as Henry's literary godfather. He had allowed him to write one or two simple notes about the visit of a circus to the town and the annual flower-show, and these had actually appeared in type in theGuardian.
The fact that Trevor had twice borrowed half-a-crown from his fellow-lodger, and had twenty times forgotten to repay, while he had also assimilated innumerable examples of Mrs. Charles's baking, had probably something to do with his readiness in opening his columns to the youth. But that did not in the least detract from the bursting joy with which Henry read his own little paragraphs a scoreof times; nor did Edward John suspect that the first appearance of his young hopeful in the splendour of print was due to such adventitious aid.
Henry's masterpiece was a letter to the editor of theGuardianprotesting against the charge of sixpence exacted for admission to view the grave of Shakespeare. This was signed "Thespian," at the suggestion of Trevor, who never by any chance wrote of actors or of the theatre, but always of "sons of Thespis," or of "the temple of Thespis." Quite a lively correspondence ensued in the columns of the paper, and it was a great delight to Henry that he and Trevor Smith alone knew who the correspondents were. Between them they did it all. Oh, Henry was learning what journalism meant!
"Take my word for it, Henry, journalism's your game," his merry mentor assured him. "That last par of yours about the Christ Church muffin-struggle is nearly as good as I could have done myself. You're cut out for a journalist as sure as eggs is eggs. All that you want is an opportunity to show what's in you."
Yes, only the opportunity was awanting. And how to get it?
"Look at me," Mr. Trevor Smith continued, "I was only a common clerk in theGuardianoffice—a common clerk, mind you—but I had the sense tolearn shorthand, and got the first opening as a reporter—and here I am!"
He helped himself to a luscious pear from the stock which Henry had just received from home that day.
Indeed, these little bursts of confidence usually took place on the evening Henry's weekly hamper arrived, but he had never noticed the coincidence. A year or two later, perhaps, he might suspect there had been some connection between the events; meanwhile, his bump of observation had not been abnormally developed.
To-night the reporter appeared especially concerned for the welfare of his young friend, and it occurred to him to ask if Henry had been trying his hand at something more ambitious than mere paragraphs. He blushingly admitted that he had.
"Then trot it out, my boy, and I'll tell you what it's worth in a couple of ticks," said Trevor, quite unconcerned as to the length or character of Henry's "something."
It is Nature's way that the rawest youths and maidens who desire to follow a literary career invariably commence by writing essays on aspects of life which world-worn men of fifty find impossible to discuss with any approach to ripened knowledge. Henry's unpublished manuscript now brought forth of his trunk proved to be a very long and absurdly grandiloquent essay on "Liberty."
Neither the subject nor the wordiness of the manuscript dismayed the hopeful Trevor, who took it in his hand and ran his eyes with lightning rapidity over page after page.
"Ripping, my boy, ripping! That's the sort of stuff to make the critics sit up."
Henry thrilled and reddened, but winced a little when he heard his handiwork described as "stuff."
"Really? Do you think anybody would care to publish it?" he asked.
"Just the sort o' thing for theNineteenth Centuryor theQuarterly," Trevor assured him gaily, although the rascal had never set eyes on either of these reviews. "But I should hold it back a bit until you have made your name, for the editors of these things never give an unknown man a chance."
"Still, you think I ought to persevere?"
"Don't I just! I couldn't have written stuff like that at your age for a mint of money. Take my tip, young 'un, you've got it in you to make a name; and when you're riding down Fleet Street in your carriage and pair, don't forget your humble servant who gave you the first leg-up. That phrase of yours on the last page about liberty being born among the stars and flying earthward to brighten all mankind is worthy of Carlyle at his best."
"I always liked Carlyle; but I'll try very hard todo something even better—I mean better than what I've written."
"And, by-the-by, my dear Henry, do you think you could stretch me another half-crown? I'm rather rocky just now, but am expecting a tidy sum for lineage next week," said Trevor, in an off-hand way, and ignoring his friend's confusion, as he lifted his hat and prepared to go out.
Henry stretched the half-crown—with difficulty, for it meant a week's pocket-money—and when his companion had left he executed a wild dance round the table. Ambition had been fired within him again. He determined that not even the Slough of Despond, to which he likened the shop of Mr. Griggs, would discourage him for a day in his onward march to that City Beautiful where one's life was spent in writing fine thoughts for mankind to read and remember.
The difficulty remained: how to get the opportunity? All the copy-book maxims of his boyhood availed him nothing; all the stories of brave men who seized opportunity instead of waiting for it to turn up, inspired, encouraged, whispered of hope, but did not bring the situation to a simpler issue.
Soon after this evening he determined to induce Trevor to come down from his gorgeous generalisings to plain facts.
"It is all very well to say my essay is so good, butdo you honestly think I should go on writing things like that if I wish to become a journalist?"
It took something out of Henry to put it so bluntly. Despite the familiar manner in which Trevor addressed him, the youth, who was naturally reticent, always spoke of him with deference due to one of older years, and especially to one who was a real live journalist. Henry, however, was gradually losing his country shyness, and the fact that Mr. Trevor Smith continued in his debt to the extent of seven-and-sixpence encouraged him to greater boldness in his dealings with that slippery gentleman.
"I confess that I have had enough of old Griggs. There is nothing to learn from him, and I do think I should like to get work on a newspaper. Is there any chance of an opening on theGuardianat Wheelton? I have been pegging in at my shorthand for the last three weeks, you know."
"Well, since you put it that way, and since you seem to be dead set on giving old Griggs the slip, there is one thing you could do," Trevor admitted, now that he had been asked to come down to hard facts.
"What is that?" asked Henry eagerly.
"Get your gov'nor to shell out to old Spring, and he'll take you on like a shot."
"Shell out?" said Henry, evidently not alive to Trevor's slang. "What do you mean?"
"Why," returned his professional adviser, with a smile at the rustic ignorance, "haven't you seen advertisements in the daily papers something like this: 'The editor of a well-known provincial weekly has an opening for journalistic pupil. Moderate premium. Small salary after first six months'? There's your opportunity."
"Ah, I see the idea," said Henry, upon whom a light had dawned.
"What do you say to that?" Trevor pursued.
"Yes, that might do, and no doubt dad would 'shell out,' as you call it. But is there any such vacancy at present?"
"If there isn't, the Balmy One—that's another of our pet names for Old Springthorpe, the editor—will jolly soon make one, provided your pater is ready with the dibs. Write your gov'nor about it, and if he's open to spring twenty-five golden quid, leave the rest to me."
To Henry the suggestion seemed a good one, and he wondered that he had waited so long before getting Trevor to bring the situation to so practical an issue. The fact was, Mr. Smith rather liked the fun of patronising the youth, to say nothing of his share in the weekly hamper, and Henry's willingness to render slight but useful assistance by attending an occasional meeting on his behalf. Accordingly, he hadnot been anxious to lose his company too soon.
To Edward John Charles his son's letter, with its bold proposal, came with somewhat of surprise. It had never occurred to him to couple the Press with "Literatoor," but he said at once that if Henry felt journalism was good enough for him, why, he would help him to become an editor with as much pleasure as he would have set him up in the egg-and-butter trade, had he been so minded.
Within a week the postmaster took another journey to Stratford, and thence by train to Wheelton, together with Henry, to interview Mr. Martin Springthorpe, editor of theWheelton Guardian, to whom Mr. Charles carried a letter of introduction from Trevor Smith, wherein that gentleman averred he had taken great personal interest in the literary work of Henry Charles, and had even been able to make use of sundry items from his pen. He commended him to Mr. Springthorpe's best consideration.
Trevor had also taken the trouble to write privily to his chief, saying that he thought Mr. Charles would come down to the tune of five-and-twenty pounds, and not to frighten him off by asking more.
Wheelton, an industrial town of some importance, lies less than an hour's journey by rail from Stratford. It is not exactly a home of learning, nor has it given any distinguished men to literature or science, but it boasts four weekly newspapers and a small daily sheet, which would appear to be more than the inhabitants require in the shape of local reading matter, for, with one exception, the newspapers of the town have a hard struggle for existence.
At the time when Henry Charles and his father made their first journey thither the journalistic conditions were not quite so straitened, as the evening paper and one of the weeklies had not come to increase competition; but even then theGuardianwas the least successful of the three.
The office of Mr. Springthorpe's journal was situated up a flight of narrow stairs, the shop on the street front having been let to a pork-butcher for the sake of the rent. On the first floor were the editor's room, the reporters' room, and another small apartment that served as the general office,and contained a staff of one weedy young man with downy side-whiskers, and a perky little office boy.
Up a further crazy stair the composing-room was reached, and here five men and several boys put into type what was sent from the rooms below. The printing was done in premises on the ground floor behind the pork-butcher's, extended by the addition of a rather rickety wooden outbuilding. By no means an establishment to impress a visitor with the importance of the journal here produced, or to give a beginner any exaggerated idea of the dignity of journalism. Still, the massive gilt letters proclaimingThe Guardianabove the pork-butcher's had the power to make Henry's blood tingle when first he saw them.
Up the stair he followed his father, with much fluttering of the heart, but reassured by the confident and cheerful look on the face of Edward John, who went about the business as outwardly calm as if he were buying a fresh stock of stationery.
The office-boy showed the visitors into a room to the left of the counter, on the door of which the pregnant wordEditor, printed in bold letters on a slip of paper, had been pasted but recently, judging by its cleanness, as contrasted with the soiled appearance of everything else.
The editor's room was plainly furnished, not to say shabbily, despite the fact that it figured frequently in theGuardiangossip columns under the attractive title of "The Sanctum." In the middle of the floor stood a large writing-table, from which the leather covering had peeled off, exposing the wood beneath like a plane tree with its bark half-shed. On the table lay, in picturesque confusion, bundles of galley-slips, clippings from newspapers, sheets of "copy" paper, all partially secured in their positions by small slabs of lead as paper-weights.
The waste-paper basket to the left of the table had overflowed, and the floor around was strewn with cut newspapers and crumpled sheets of manuscript. On the walls hung two large maps, one showing the railways of England and the other the Midland counties. Above the fireplace a printer's calendar was nailed. Three soiled and battered haircloth chairs completed the furniture of the room when we have added a damaged arm-chair, cushioned with a pile of old papers. This was the editor's chair. Its intrinsic value was probably half-a-crown, but to the regular readers of theGuardianit must have seemed as priceless as the gold stool of Ashanti, for they were accustomed to read two columns every week headed "From the Editor's Chair."
The short, thick-set person, with the slightly bald head and distinctly red nose above a heavy black moustache, which trailed its way down each side of a clean-shaven chin and drooped over into space, was the editor himself. With a briar pipe, burnt at one side, stuck in his mouth, and puffing vigorously, he sat there in his shirt sleeves, and his pen flew swiftly over the sheets of paper that lay before him.
When Mr. Charles and his son entered, the editor laid down his pipe and pen, and rising from his chair, said in the most affable way:
"Ah, I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Charles; and this is your son Henry, of whose ability I have already heard."
Shaking hands with each, he pointed them to seats and resumed his own.
"So Henry is ambitious of embarking on a journalistic career," he remarked, as he lifted his pipe again; adding, "I hope you don't mind my smoking. I find a weed a great incentive to thought."
Mr. Springthorpe always spoke like a leading article, and it was noticed by those who knew him best that on the occasions when his nose was particularly ruddy and his utterance somewhat thick, his flow of language and the stateliness of his words were even more marked than whenone could not detect the odour of the tap-room in his vicinity.
"Yes, 'Enry is anxious to get on a noospaper," Mr. Charles replied. "And Mr. Trevor Smith has written this letter about him for you to read."
The editor reached out and took the letter with a great show of interest, reading it carefully, as though it were a document of much importance, while Henry sat fumbling with his hat, conscious that he had again arrived at a critical moment in his career.
"This is very nattering indeed, Mr. Charles," said the editor at length, "and I attach great weight to the opinion of Mr. Trevor Smith, who is an able and promising member of my staff."
"Then you think that 'Enry might suit you?"
"I have little doubt that he would prove a worthy addition to the ranks of journalism, and if I had any urgent need of a new member on my reportorial staff, I should willingly offer him an engagement. But, as I think I explained to you in my letter, I have not at present any pressing need for literary assistance."
Henry's face clouded as he listened, but brightened the next instant, when Mr. Springthorpe continued:
"It would, however, be a pity not to hold out the hand of encouragement to so bright a youngman as your son, and I should be delighted to have the privilege of initiating him into the mysteries of newspaper work if you are prepared to pay a premium, and to let him serve the first six months without salary."
"There need be no difficulty about that," said Mr. Charles, "and I am prepared to pay you now a reasonable sum for any trouble you will take with him. How much would you expect?"
"Well, it all depends. I have had pupils who have paid as much as a hundred pounds." Edward John sighed, and Henry felt a tightening at the throat. "Fifty is what I usually expect." The visitors breathed more freely. "But I feel that in Henry we have a young man of peculiar aptitude, who would soon make himself a useful colleague of my other assistants; and that being so, I should be content with half the amount."
"That's a bargain, then," said Mr. Charles, entirely relieved, as he took out his cheque-book and filled up a cheque in favour of Mr. Martin Springthorpe for twenty-five pounds. "Of course, I s'pose you give 'im a salary after the first six months," he added, when he handed the cheque to the editor.
"I shall be only too happy to adequately remunerate his services when the period of probation is terminated," Mr. Springthorpe assuredhim, placing the precious paper carefully in his pocket-book.
"And when would you like me to begin, sir?" asked Henry, who had scarcely opened his mouth since entering the room, the editor's shrewd eye for character, together with Mr. Trevor Smith's valuable testimonial, being all that Mr. Springthorpe had whereby to arrive at his flattering estimate of the young man's brightness and peculiar aptitude for journalism.
"Let me see, now—this is the 18th of July. Suppose we say that you commence your duties here on Monday, the 25th. How would that suit you?"
"That would fit in nicely, 'Enry, my lad, wouldn't it?" said Mr. Charles.
"Yes, sir," said the new reporter to the chief, who had been bought with a price. "I could start on that day, as there is nothing to keep me at Stratford."
"Do you know anything of shorthand?" the editor asked, as an afterthought.
"A little, sir; and I am studying it every night just now."
"That's right, my boy, wire in at your shorthand; a reporter is of little use without that accomplishment. To one of your ability it will be easy to acquire. I picked it up myself in afortnight, and even now, although I seldom use it, I could still take my turn at a verbatim with the best of them."
The great business completed, Mr. Charles and his son set out to look for lodgings for Henry, being recommended to the mother of one of the other reporters, who let apartments.
On the way back to Stratford, after having settled this little matter, Edward John waxed as enthusiastic as his son in picturing the possibilities which he had thus opened up for Henry. "Tis money makes the mare to go, my lad," he said. "Five-and-twenty pounds is a goodish bit out o' my savings, but I've always said you'd 'ave your chance, no matter what it cost me."
"I hope that I'll be able to prove the money hasn't been wasted, dad."
"I'm sure o' that, 'Enry—if you only wire in at your work and show the editor the stuff that's in you. Just fancy what old Miffin and the others will say when they 'ear that 'Enry Chawles is a reporter on theGuardian!"
"I mean to study very hard, get up my shorthand, and to write as much as ever I can when I join the staff. But of course I shan't stay in Wheelton all my life. There's better papers than theGuardian, you know."
"That's the true spirit, lad; always look ahead. IfI hadn't been looking ahead all these years, where would the twenty-five pounds ha' come from, and the money that's to keep you for the next six months?"
"I'm sure I don't know what could have been done without it. I don't think opportunities are as plentiful as we are told."
Henry had learned a little since that day he rode to Stratford with the carrier.
"Didn't think much of the office, though. Did you, 'Enry?"
"No," he admitted somewhat unwillingly, "it wasn't so fine as I had expected; but perhaps it is as good as they need."
"And nobody needs anythink better than that," which summed up in a sentence Edward John's philosophy of life and the secret of his financial soundness.
The few days remaining to Henry in Stratford went past all too slowly, despite the jubilation of Mr. Trevor Smith at the success of his promisingprotégé, and Henry's application to the study of shorthand, with which most of his time at the book-shop had been occupied of late. Mr. Griggs and Pemble he left without a pang, the former still concerned about his poultry, and the latter still cultivating his moustache; but he was sorry to say good-bye to Mrs. Filbert and the irrepressible Trevor, who wouldhave made the success of his proposal an excuse to borrow a fourth half-crown, were it not that the memory of the unpaid three had better not be reawakened when Henry was going away.
His journey to Wheelton found him with hopes scarcely so high as those he had cherished on his way to Stratford some three months before, but he was at least fortified with some measure of that common sense which only rises in the mind as the illusions of youth begin to sink.
It was not thought necessary for him to revisit Hampton Bagot before removing to Wheelton—his face was still turned away from home. Thus far he had been marking time merely; but now he was on the march in earnest.
Saturday, the 23rd of July, will always remain a red-letter day in the history of Henry Charles. Even at this distance of time he could doubtless recall every feature of the day as the train that carried him steamed into the station. The languorous atmosphere of a hot summer afternoon, the steady drizzle of warm rain, the flood of water around a gutter-grating in Main Street, caused by a collection of straw and rotten leaves—even that will always appear when a vision of the day arises before his memory. The station platform had been freshly strewn with sawdust on account of the weather, and the pungent smell of that is not forgotten. Thus it is that the commonest features of our surroundings, noted under exceptional circumstances, are automatically registered for ever by our senses.
Edgar Winton, the reporter at whose home Henry was to lodge, had undertaken to meet his new colleague at the station, and pilot him to the house. But by some mischance he was not there, and theyoung adventurer stood for a moment lonely and disappointed, while the train in which he had travelled continued on its journey.
His belongings, however, were not embarrassing, and for all his fragile looks Henry was still robust as any country lad. Nor did his sense of dignity come between him and the shouldering of his load up the steep and shabby main street of the town, and along sundry shabbier by-streets to the semi-genteel district of Woodland Road, where at No. 29 was the home of the Wintons.
Mrs. Winton seemed to be as amiable a landlady as good Mrs. Filbert, and more refined. Henry felt at once that so far as home-life was concerned his lines had fallen again in pleasant places. He had now risen to the dignity of a separate room, small indeed, and almost crowded with the single iron bedstead, the tiny dressing-table and chair, which, together with a few faded chromographs on the walls, made up its entire furnishing. It was on the second storey of the house, which had only two flats, and looked across a kitchen-garden to the back of a row of still smaller houses. By way of wardrobe accommodation, the back of the door was generously studded with hooks for hanging clothes. For the privilege of sleeping here Edward John had agreed to pay on behalf of his son the weekly sum of four shillings, and Mrs. Winton was to cook such foodas Henry required, charging only the market prices.
As it was late afternoon when Henry had reached his lodging, and Edgar was expected home for tea at five o'clock, Mrs. Winton's new guest, after a somewhat perfunctory toilet, descended to the parlour to await the coming of his fellow-worker. A copy of theGuardianfor that week lay on the easy chair in which the landlady asked Henry to rest himself, and he was presently reading with close attention the weighty observations of his future chief, who spoke "From the Editor's Chair" like any popeex cathedra.
Mrs. Winton having removed the vase of dusty "everlasting flowers," which stoodsolusin the middle of the faded green serge cloth that covered the oval table, and spread on the latter a cloth of snowy linen, busied herself in arranging the tea things.
Henry noted that cups and saucers were set for five, and as he only knew of four in the household, including Edgar's father and himself, he fell to wondering who the fifth might be. Undoubtedly his powers of observation had been sharpened from contact with the Stratford representative of theGuardian.
The preparations for the evening meal had just been completed when the outer door was opened,and Edgar, a fresh-complexioned young fellow of nineteen, arrived, full of apologies for having been unable to meet his guest, as he had been unexpectedly called upon to attend an inquest at the "Crown" Inn.
"And an interesting case it is, by Jove!" he exclaimed brightly. "A man has shuffled off this mortal coil by—what d'you think?"
"Poison or a razor," suggested Henry, out of the fulness of his knowledge of poor humanity.
"Nothing so common for Johnnie Briggs the bookie. Everybody knows Johnnie, and he meant to make a noise when he snuffed out. Up to the eyes in debt, I fancy. He has choked himself with a leather boot-lace, and Wiggins in the High Street is as proud as Punch because it was one of his laces. Isn't it funny?"
"It's very horrible," said Henry, who could not help showing in his looks the feeling of disgust aroused within him by Edgar's levity in speaking of so bad an occurrence.
"Horrible! Why, I think it's stunning, and old Spring will be as mad as a march hare because Johnnie didn't perform his dramatic exit in time for this week's edition of theGuardian. TheAdvertiserwill be out next Wednesday with full details, and we don't appear till Friday. It's always the way; that Wednesday rag gets all thespicy bits. But there, don't let us start talking shop all at once. I'm famished. How are you?"
But before Henry could describe his condition, a bright young woman of some eighteen years had entered the parlour, to be introduced unceremoniously as "My sister Flo—Mr. Henry Charles."
Here, then, was number five, and a very acceptable tea-table companion, thought Henry, though the blushing and mumbling with which he said how pleased he was to meet her showed him to be as awkward in the presence of the fair sex as he was new to the jargon of journalism. He dared hardly lift his eyes to look the new-comer in the face, but on her part there was no evidence of shyness.
Over the tea-cups—for Mr. and Mrs. Winton had now come in, and all were seated at the table—Henry began to feel more at home among the family, and Mr. Winton proved to be a quiet, homely person, though Henry noticed that Edgar lost to some extent his high spirits when his father came on the scene. Evidently the Wintons were people "in reduced circumstances," for both the father and mother showed signs of superior breeding.
"I hope you will get on all right at theGuardian," Mr. Winton remarked. "You won't be short of work, if Edgar is a sample. He's always slogging away at something. If it's not the police courts, it's a political meeting, or a—"
"Tea-fight, dad."
"Slang again, Eddie," put in Flo.
"Yes. Edgar delights in these flippancies; his trade seems to induce that," said Mrs. Winton. "Will you pass your cup, Mr. Charles?"
As Henry handed his cup to Flo, almost dropping it in the excitement of being dubbed "Mister," Edgar took up his mother's words, and exclaimed, with simulated indignation:
"Trade! Who calls it a trade? Remember, mater, that journalism is a profession—the Fourth Estate!"
"There's not much profession about attending inquests on suicides, and writing about the drunks and disorderlies," Flo remarked, fearless of her brother's displeasure.
"Come, come now," interposed Mr. Winton, who had not spoken since Edgar broke in upon his remarks. "You mustn't give our young friend too low an opinion of his new business," and turning to Henry, he remarked: "It is your first appointment, is it not?"
"Yes, I have only done some odds and ends for theGuardianwhen at Stratford. Of course, I'm hoping to do some good work here, but we must do the small things before we are able to do the great ones, I think."
A long speech for Henry to make beforecompany, and not performed without an effort.
"True, indeed, for only those who can do the little things well can do the great things well," was Mr. Winton's comment.
"And I was only joking," added Flo, looking archly at Henry, whose eyes immediately contemplated the lessening liquid in his cup. "Journalism is all very well, I'm sure, but newspaper fellows are so conceited that I think we need to take some of the side off them."
"Who's talking slang now?" from Edgar.
"Well, it may be slangy, but it's true; and I hope Mr. Charles won't fall into the habit of talking as if, because a man writes paragraphs in a printed paper, he knows more than Solomon."
"I'm afraid I know very little, Miss Winton. I'm here to learn." Oh, Henry was becoming quite a tea-table success.
"And I'm sure we hope you will find your new work up to your expectations. I have never met Mr. Springthorpe myself," said Mr. Winton, as he rose and retired to the living-room, which was half-kitchen, to smoke his evening pipe, while Flo helped her mother to clear away the tea-things and restore the dusty immortelles to their place of honour.
"The dad says he has never met Mr. Springthorpe,and a good thing for his idea of journalism. Not that old Spring doesn't strike you well enough at first meeting; but you'll soon find him out," Edgar said to Henry when they were alone in the parlour.
"He seemed very considerate, I thought, when my father and I called on him. A little pompous, perhaps."
"Oh, you've noticed that! You'll see more of it by-and-by. But he can be wonderfully considerate when there is a nice little premium attached to a new pupil. Your pater must have come down handsome on the spot, for the Balmy One has been swaggering around in a new frock-suit and shiny topper since you were engaged. Let me be frank with you, and tell you at once that you needn't expect anything of value out of our gorgeous chief. What you learn you'll have to pick up from Bertram and myself, and from Yardley the sub."
"I understood that I was really Mr. Springthorpe's pupil."
"You're not the first that understood that; but really it doesn't matter, for you'll get there all the same, as they say in the song. You'll have lots to do and you'll soon learn, but don't fancy old Spring is going to sit down and teach you. His duty ends when he converts your premium into clothing for theouter, and refreshment for the inner man. A good sort, but fond o' the bottle, like so many clever journalists."
"And were you a pupil also before you became a full reporter?"
"Not on theGuardian. I served six months as a junior on theAdvertiser, and received the order of the sack at the end of that time, as they had no further use for services which had begun to require a weekly fifteen bob. Luckily, theGuardianwas in a hole at the time, both the chief reporter and his assistant having given notice, and the pupil then flourishing was a hopeless youngster, who has since returned to the business of his father, who is in the aerated water trade. So I was engaged at once, and on the noble salary of fifteen bob a week I remain to this day, although I was promised an increase at the end of twelve months, and I have been on the staff for sixteen. I occasionally pick up a bit of lineage, and that helps to pan out, you know; but I'm only hanging on until something better turns up elsewhere, and then good-bye to theGuardian. My ambition is Birmingham."
"Birmingham! Wouldn't you rather like to get to London?"
"Who wouldn't? But I have the sense to know I'm not cut out for Fleet Street. In any case, no London editor would look at a man from Wheelton.You must have experience on a good provincial daily before thinking of London Town."
"I'm surprised, for Mr. Trevor Smith told me of many London editors who used to be on local papers like—our own."
"Trevor Smith is an ass. He knows as much about journalism as a monkey knows of algebra. He can't write for nuts. Most of his copy has to be rewritten by Yardley before it's fit to print."
Henry heard this unflattering description of his friend with some dismay, but remembered that Trevor had given him a very similar account of Edgar. He was beginning to know something of that brotherly feeling which always exists between fellow-craftsmen.
Winton showed himself very companionable, and in the evening took Henry for a walk round the town, in the course of which they visited the police station, where he was introduced as "the newGuardianman." This connection between the Press and the Police was one to which Henry would yet learn to attach much importance.
On the Sunday he attended church with Mr. Winton and Edgar in the morning, and would have gone again in the evening if Edgar and his father had been so disposed, but it seemed to be the rule of the house for the female side to attend the evening service, as in the morning they were engaged inhousehold duties. Edgar confessed to Henry that he didn't reckon much of church-going, and only went to please the dad. He further avowed that he thought religion a lot of rot, and that most journalists were atheists. He had heard that George Augustus Sala believed in eternal punishment, but that was about all the religion he knew of among knights of the pen.
Henry, who had been reared in the quiet atmosphere of a church-loving home, and had never listened to doubts about religion, heard Edgar's opinions with some dismay, but did not venture to dispute them. He had an uneasy feeling that the more he saw of men the less they justified his ideals, and he began to wonder whether, if he had to let slip his illusions of daily life, he would not also have to modify his religious convictions.
Withthe morning, however, Henry was fresh for the fray again. The prospects of his first day in active journalism swept away all doubts and misgivings.
Edgar having to attend the Monday police court, which was always fat with drunks and wife-beaters, Henry was left to make his way to theGuardianoffice himself.
On his arrival there he found the office-boy descending the stairs by using the railing as a slide, at the end of which he fell somewhat heavily on the door-mat, but picked himself up and smiled at Henry in proof that no bones were broken. Upstairs, the weedy young man with downy whiskers, who bore on his narrow shoulders the full weight of theGuardian'scommercial affairs, was at work on the morning's letters. He looked up as Henry entered, and inquired his business.
"Is Mr. Springthorpe in?" the new reporter asked.
The clerk was surprised for a moment to hearthe editor's name mentioned thus early in the day. Then he answered:
"No, he is rather irregular in his hours. He may not arrive till eleven or twelve to-day!"
"It's only ten o'clock now," said Henry, as though he were thinking aloud. He would never try to play Monte Cristo again, and Winton had told him that Mr. Springthorpe was never assiduous in his office attendance.
"But I expect Mr. Yardley soon," the clerk continued. "Are you Mr. Charles?"
"Yes. Shall I go to the reporters' room?"
The clerk opened the door for him, and he entered on the scene of his future labours. A long table of plain wood, cut and hacked by knives on the edges, stood in the centre of the floor, and around it were four cane-chairs, all of different shapes. The floor was covered by worn-out oilcloth, the walls were dingy, the ceilings blistered like a water-biscuit. A single gasalier, carrying two burners, hung from the roof and served to light the table, on which lay a few bundles of copy-paper, two ink-pots, and some pens. The only other furniture in the room was a small bookcase half-filled with volumes, most of which were tattered, and some without binding, having reached that condition, not so much from frequent reference as from occasional use in a game wherein the reportorial staff tried to keeptwo books flying round the room from hand to hand without falling—a game that was never successful. A bundle of unopened newspapers, in postal wrappers, lay at the window-end of the table, and also a few letters.
Presently the door was opened and Mr. Wilfrid Yardley, sub-editor, stepped in. He was a man of sallow complexion, with very black hair and dark, restless eyes that suggested worry. He wore a light yellowish summer suit and a straw hat. For a moment he paused on seeing Henry, who, as he entered, was examining the literary treasures in the bookcase.
"Good morning!" he said. "You are Mr. Charles, I suppose?" and he held out his hand to Henry. "You are early. The reporters have no hours. I'm the only one on the literary staff who is chained to the desk."
He took off his hat and jacket, exchanging the latter for a ragged thing that hung on one of the pegs along the wall. Then he seated himself at the end of the table, and commenced opening the newspapers that lay there. All the while his eyes flitted about in his head as if he feared that someone would pounce on him unawares. Evidently a quiet fellow and a conscientious worker, but a trifle too nervous to have much character.
"Mr. Springthorpe has not fixed any work foryou?" he said to Henry, with questioning eyebrows, while slitting an envelope.
"No, nothing has been arranged. I suppose I'm to do anything that turns up."
"Bertram—that is our chief reporter—will want you to help him, I suppose. But I'm sure I could do with assistance. You can't learn too much, however, so just try your hand here," and he marked several items in a daily paper referring to happenings in the Midland counties. "Try to rewrite those pars, keeping in all the facts, but only using about one-third of the space in each case. Sit down in that chair there, and perhaps you'll find a pen that suits you among those, though I never can."
Henry acquitted himself very well according to Mr. Yardley, and found the latter so considerate in his advice that he immediately conceived a liking for him.
After all, Trevor Smith and Edgar Winton were raw youths, but here was a man of thirty-five at least, and there was no "side" about him. He seemed capable and intelligent. Why, then, did he stick in Wheelton? Would Henry only reach a similar post when he was his age? These thoughts came to him as he watched the earnest face of Yardley poring over reporters' copy, "licking it into shape," sucking the while at hisbriar pipe. Such thoughts are not pleasant, but they must come to every youth who aspires to make a success of life, and they will for a moment damp his enthusiasm, unless he has the perception which tells him that no two men's careers are alike, and that every man carries within himself the qualities that make for success or failure. But Yardley may not have thought himself a failure, and there's the rub.
When the editor arrived he showed no overweening interest in Henry, but warmly commended him for the work he had done under the subeditor's eye, and urged him to make the most of his opportunities, without telling him how. Undoubtedly Winton had described the situation accurately to Henry—Mr. Springthorpe's interest ended when he pocketed the premium.
Bertram, the chief reporter, proved to be a person with distinct family resemblance to Trevor Smith, and was probably about twenty-eight years of age. He shared the editor's weakness for looking upon the wine when it is red, but always managed to get through the work required of him. Without possessing qualities of the slightest distinction, he had achieved a reputation in various newspaper offices as "a clever fellow if he'd only keep straight."
This is, perhaps, not peculiar to journalism, andif we inquire into the characters of many who are reputed to be exceptionally endowed, but imperil their success by unsteady habits, we shall find that in most cases their abilities are below the average of the steady plodder, who is seldom described as clever, simply because the shadow of unsteadiness never falls on his life as a background for the better display of such qualities as he possesses. The fact is, that your "clever fellow if he'd only keep sober" is a very ordinary fellow, whose ever-changing employers are apt to over-estimate his abilities during a decent spell of sobriety.
It is doubtful if it would be to the advantage of our story to dwell at any length on the next few months of Henry's life. The newspaper office in which he found himself was typical of hundreds in the English provinces, no better nor worse. The existence of theGuardianwas one constant struggle to increase a small circulation and add to the advertising revenue of the paper. To the latter end the services of the reporters were frequently required, and puffs of tradesmen had to be written whenever there was a chance of securing thereby a new advertisement. All the petty details of local life had to be reported at great length, even to the wedding presents received by the daughter of an undertaker in a small way of business. These wereactually displayed with the names of their donors in separate lines, following the report of the marriage ceremony, which included a full description of the bride's dress, with the name of the local dressmaker who had made it.
The pettiness of it all was rudely borne in upon the young reporter when it came to his knowledge that the item—"Purse from Servant of Bride's Mother"—represented an expenditure of eleven-pence three-farthings on the part of a faithful domestic thirteen years of age.
As an off-set against these experiences, Henry had made one great upward move. In a moment of audacity, which he must recall with wonder, he ventured to write a leading article and to swagger the editorial "we." It so happened that when he presented this to the editor, that worthy, having had a bibulous week and being short of copy, pronounced it good, and printed it with a few alterations. As it was Mr. Springthorpe's aim to do a minimum of work each week, he generously encouraged the youth to further editorial effort, with the result that Henry "we'd" pretty frequently in the leading columns of theGuardian. He was the first "pupil" who had ever shown any marked ability, and Springthorpe was secretly proud of him.
As the six months wore away, Henry began tohope that he might be added to the permanent staff, but neither Bertram nor Edgar showed signs of departing, and the prospects of his receiving a salaried position remained low. To the surprise of his colleagues, however, and against all precedent, he was not ejected at the end of his six months, but actually received a salary of half-a-guinea a week, accompanied, however, by the information that he would do well to look elsewhere for a situation at his leisure.
Now commenced a strenuous time of replying to advertisements in theDaily News. For a while never a sign came back from those doves of his which went forth trembling, but in the spring of the year after his going to Wheelton, there came a reply from the manager of one of the two daily papers at the large and important Midland town of Laysford, asking Henry to come and see him with reference to his application for the post of editorial assistant.
The plan of submitting specimens of his work, backed by an eloquent testimonial from Mr. Springthorpe, had at length succeeded, and to the amazement of the staff, Henry returned from the interview entitled to regard himself as assistant editor of theLaysford Leader. To this day the event is talked of at the office of theGuardian, but it is never recorded that important factors in bringing it about were the pressing need of theLeaderto have a new assistant at a week's notice, and the growing desire of Mr. Springthorpe to save half-a-guinea on the weekly expenses of theGuardian. Moreover, Henry had named a salary five shillings less than the only other likely candidate.
From such sordid circumstances do events of life-importance spring.
Thegrey-blue reek of Hampton Bagot is curling up into the azure sky. From the hill on which the church stands the little village lies snug like a bead on a chain—the London Road—in a jewel-case of billowy satin: green Ardenshire. A haunt of ancient peace this August day. The only noises are the pleasant rattle of a reaping-machine and the musical tinkle of an anvil, while now and again the petulant ring of a cyclist's bell reaches the ear of the lounger on the hill, and thrills some honest cottager with the hope that the ringer may rest at her house for tea.
The faint sound of a far whistle reminds us that time has passed since we last stood in Hampton's one street: a mile and a half away, the station, which is to advertise the name of the village to travelling humanity for ever, has been finished, and several times each day trains to and from Birmingham condescend to pause in their puffing progress at the tiny platform. But most of them go squealing through, indignant at findingsuch a contemptible little station ontheirline. The stationmaster-porter-ticket-collector and his junior are not overworked—or else they could not play so long with the latter's terrier, who is the liveliest member of the staff. But there are a few tickets to be taken every day, a few carriage-doors to be shut, a few whistles to blow, a few throbs of importance for the young official.
We know of one passenger who is to arrive this Saturday afternoon; at least, they are expecting him at Hampton Bagot.
The station has made no difference to the village. Certainly none to the figure at the Post Office door. The smile might have been registered, the tilt of the coat-tails patented. Edward John Charles has not altered a hair, although it is almost six years since we last saw him wagging his tails here.
"You're expectin' 'im 'ome to-day, Ed'ard John, I 'ear," the inefficient Miffin observes as he crosses to the Charles establishment for an ounce of shag.
"Yes, and about time, I think. Why, he ain't been through this door for two year, and last time 'e could on'y stay four days."
"In moi opinion, them youths what goes to the cities learns to despise their 'umble 'omes," Miffin commented, with a sad fall of the eyes. "Now, if I 'ad a son 'e'd 'ave to stay at 'ome, and take up 'is fether's trade."
"But you ain't got a son, Miffin, and that's all the difference. If there was a young Miffin, why, you're just the man to ha' been proud o' 'im makin' 'is way in the world. Mind you, Hampton ain't the on'y place under the sun."
"It'll be strange for 'Enry to come to the station," said Miffin, adroitly diverting the drift of the talk; for he was touchy on the subject of children, being as discontented because he had none as most of the village folk were because they had so many.
"He says it's going to bring 'im often back to us, and I believe he means it."
"Well, it's to be 'oped 'e'll never regret leavin' 'ome," was the last croak of the gloomy tailor, as he rammed home a charge of shag into his burnt cherry-wood pipe with his claw-like forefinger, and stepped back to his flat irons.
Edward John chuckled contentedly. Miffin was a constant entertainment to him. He had a suspicion that the tailor had been appointed by Providence to prevent his becoming unduly puffed up about his talented son.
Just in time for tea, the subject of their conversation jumped down from the butcher's gig in which he had travelled from the station. His father welcomed him with a sedate shake of the hand; his sisters three ran to him and wereshyly kissed. How our sisters shoot straight into womanhood with the gathering up of their back hair and the lengthening of their frocks! A brotherly kiss after two years to a sister who may have another young man to kiss her, produces shyness in the least self-conscious of young men.
In the parlour Henry found his mother, still the timid, withered little woman he had always known her, busy setting the tea, her curl-papers still eloquent of her household toils. He was conscious of the curl-papers for the first time as he kissed her dry lips. The near view of the papers offended some new feeling within him. He was strangely tempted to pluck them out.
There was a great change to be noted in the appearance of the only Henry. It was four years since he had left Wheelton, almost six since he went away to Stratford, and Laysford especially stamps its character on its residents.
"Bless me, 'Enry, but you're growing all to legs, like a young colt," his father remarked, as he seated himself and took a smiling survey of his son, who was given the honour of the arm-chair; a fact that marked another stage in his upward career. "All to legs, my boy!"
"But there's lots of time to fill out yet, dad. I weigh ten stone eleven."
"Mostly bones, eh?"
"But I feel all right."
"You look it, my lad; and between you an' I, I'd rather have your bones than my beef!"
"I hope you have always remembered to wear flannel next your skin, Henry?" his mother ventured to ask, in the hilarious moment which her husband was enjoying as the meed of his merry thought.
"Oh, I'm all right, mother! Don't worry about me. Wear flannel next the skin, drink cod-liver oil like water, and am never without a chest-protector on the hottest day."
His sisters laughed, but doubted their ears. Henry had never been jocular. Evidently the neat cut of his summer suit, the elegant tie, were not the only things Laysford had endowed him with.
"Your mother always was coddling you up as a boy. She forgets that you're a man now. Why, your moustache is big enough for a Frenchie. Don't it get into the tea? I never could abide a moustache. It's one of they furrin ideas."
"My moustache is rather admired, dad," said Henry brightly, glancing slily at his sisters.
"Hark at the lad.... By whom?"
"Ladies ... perhaps!"
Oh, Henry, you might have broken it more gently! Edward John smiled and called him "ayoung dog"; his mother's face clouded for a moment, and brightened; the girls understood—at least Dora, who was nineteen, and Kit, who was two years younger, understood—and laughed. Milly was only a maiden of bashful fifteen.
"It's simply wonnerful, 'Enry, how you've smartened up since you were 'ome two years ago. Your second two years have done more for you than the first," said Edward John, buttering his bread at the tea-table.
"Glad you think so, dad. But I say, mother, it's funny to be buttering my own bread again; I haven't buttered any since I was at home last."
"When I was in London I never buttered a bit. All done for you. Wonnerful how they encourage laziness in the city." Edward John had need to remind them that he had been to London; for Henry had actually spent two summer holidays there instead of coming to Hampton, and the glory of his father's visit was in danger of being tarnished.
"Still thinking o' going to London some day for good, I suppose?" he went on.
"Oh, of course; but the fact is that the more I learn of journalism the more difficult London seems. It is all plain sailing at eighteen; but at twenty-two ... well, I'm just beginning to think I'm not a heaven-born genius, dad."
"But it ain't what you think about yourself that matters."
"That's just what does matter—in journalism. I've learned one great thing since leaving home. The world takes a man pretty much at his own valuation. A fool who takes himself seriously is like to be taken seriously by other fools, and you know how many fools there are in England according to Carlyle."
"Well, then, if you are a fool, try it," retorted the postmaster merrily.
"But a wise man, who thinks himself a fool, is likely to be thought a fool by—"
"Wise men?"
"Perhaps by them also; but certainly by the fools, who are in the majority."
"Nonsense, my lad! Was it for this I paid that Springthorpe fellow five-and-twenty pounds?"
"Henry's only joking, dad," Dora suggested. Her sense of humour was not magnetic.
"A jest in earnest, Dora; for the more one learns the less one knows."
An amazing fellow: a veritable changeling this Henry! His mother watched him almost like a stranger.
"Rank heresy, now, you're talking. I wunner what old Mr. Needham would say to that?" exclaimed his father, who had a fear that his son had grown a trifle conceited.
"That I had learned a lot since you wanted him to tackle me on Virgil. But I like my work for all that; in fact, because of it. It is about the only kind of work in which one is learning every day; and I'm beginning to think that the real fun of life is not the knowledge of things so much as the getting to know them."
"Well, look 'ere, 'Enry. You're dragging your poor old father out into deep waters, an' you know he can't swim. You're talking like one of your articles. For I read 'em all that you mark with blue pencil, and your mother keeps 'em, even when she's hard up for paper to light the fire."
Henry wondered in his heart if, at a pinch, she would have used one for her curl-papers. He noticed just then, for the first time in his life, that the parlour of his old home was very small; the ceiling was so low that he found himself almost choking for breath when he looked up.
Dora and her mother were clearing away the tea-dishes, and Henry went upstairs to the bedroom where he would sleep with his father. The old nest had altered in a hundred ways, although none but Henry knew that. He had once been a bird of the brood here, but he had taken wings away, and to return for a fortnight once in two years was only to realise how far his wings had carried him. Henry had been born here, the people thathe loved the best of all were still living here in the old home—his old home. Yet it could never be anything but hisoldhome now. We talk about returning home; but really we never do so. Once we leave the home of our boyhood and youth, we never return again. It is seldom we wish to go back to the old life; and when the wish is there, Fate is usually against its fulfilment.