How I took part in a not very successful Holiday Party.

Several weeks elapsed, and I was beginning to doubt whether Hawkesbury’s advice, after all, was good, when a general holiday occurred to break the monotony of my life both at Hawk Street and Beadle Square.

I had for some time meditated, if I had the funds, taking advantage of my next holiday to run down to my uncle’s. Not that I expected any particular welcome from him, but I longed to see the old familiar haunts of my childhood after my long imprisonment in London; and, even if there were no more congenial friend than Cad Prog to hail me, it would at least be a change from this dreary city, with its noise and bustle, and disappointed hopes and lost friendships.

But my intention in this direction was upset by a double reason. One was that I had no money. Indeed, my debts had got so far ahead of my means that it was clear a crisis in my financial affairs must soon come. The other reason was an invitation to join in a grand day’s excursion by road to Windsor.

It came from Hawkesbury.

“Are you doing anything particular on Monday?” he asked me, a day or two before the holiday.

“No; I half thought of going home, but I can’t afford that, so I may go to the British Museum.”

“Not a very cheerful place to spend a holiday,” laughed Hawkesbury. “What do you say to coming a quiet drive with me?”

Had the invitation come from Crow or Daly, or even Doubleday, I should have regarded it shyly. But Hawkesbury was a steady fellow, I thought, and not likely to lead one into mischief.

“I should like it awfully!” I said, “only—that is—I don’t think I can afford it.”

“Oh!” said he, smiling affably, “you shan’t be at any expense at all. It’s my affair, and I should like to take you with me.”

Of course my gratitude was as profuse as it was sincere.

“My idea was,” continued Hawkesbury, “to get a dogcart for the day and go somewhere in the direction of Windsor, taking our own provender with us, and having a jolly healthy day in the open air.”

Nothing could be more delightful or more in accordance with my own wishes.

“Will it be just you and I?” I asked.

“Well, these traps generally hold four. I thought perhaps Whipcord would come for one; he’s a good driver, you know, and a steady enough fellow when he’s by himself. And there’s a friend of mine called Masham I mean to ask as well.”

I would have preferred it if the expedition had been confined to Hawkesbury and myself, but I had no right to be discontented with the arrangements which had been made, and spent the next few days in eager anticipation.

I wondered what Jack Smith meant to do on his holiday; most likely he would be reading hard for his “Sam,” as Billy called it. It seemed shabby of me to go off on a spree and leave him to drudge; but, as Hawkesbury said when I referred to the matter, it would just show him what he missed by holding aloof, and make him all the more ready to try to get back my friendship.

Doubleday, when I told him of my plan for the day, snuffed up at it in no very pleasant way. But then he had always been jealous of Hawkesbury since giving up the petty-cash to his charge.

“All I can say is,” said he, “I’d think twice about going with that party, and I’m not so very particular. I suppose you never met Mr Masham, did you?”

“No,” said I.

“Ah!” he replied, laughing, “you’ll find him a very nice boy; just a little too strait-laced for me, but he’ll suit you.”

I could not make out whether this was in jest or earnest; in any case, I put it down to the petty-cash, and thought it a pity Doubleday should be so put out by a trifle.

“What are you going to do?” I asked him.

“Oh! I’m going to do my best to be cheerful in a mild way,” said he, “down the river. It’s a good job Hawkesbury’s booked you, my boy, for I meant to ask you to join us, and that would have done you out of your quiet day with Petty-Cash and his friends, which would be a pity.”

The Monday came at last, and opened perfectly. My spirits rose as I looked out and saw the blue cloudless sky overhead, and thought of the trees, and birds, and flowers, and country air I was so soon to be among.

I was to meet my party at the Horseshoe stables in the City, and thither I repaired in good time, in my smartest get-up, and with a shilling plum-cake under my arm, which I had made up my mind to take as my contribution to the commissariat of the expedition. I passed Style Street on my way, and came in for hilarious greeting from Billy.

“Hi! shine ’e boots, governor? My eye, there’s a nob! Shine ’e all over, governor. Ain’t you got ’em on, though? What’s up, mister?”

“See you again soon, Billy,” said I, bustling on. I was angry with him for the way he laughed, and for the description of me I knew quite well he would presently give to Jack Smith.

Early as I was at the rendezvous, Hawkesbury was before me, and with him his friend Masham. The latter was a queer-looking fellow of about thirty. He was pale and dark round the eyes, like a person who hadn’t slept for a week. His lips were large and red, and the lower part of his face a good deal too big for the upper. Altogether Mr Masham was neither a very healthy nor a very prepossessing-looking specimen; but Hawkesbury had told me he was clever and very amusing, so I supposed I oughtn’t to judge by appearances.

“Punctual as usual,” said Hawkesbury, as I approached. “Phil, this is my friend Batchelor I was telling you of.”

I wished secretly I knew exactly what he had been telling him of me.

“Oh,” said Masham, eyeing me all over, as he lit a cigar, and then held out his cigar-case to me. “What do you smoke, Batchelor?”

“I don’t smoke, thank you,” said I.

“Have you given it up, then?” said Hawkesbury. “You used to smoke at Doubleday’s parties.”

“Ah! I thought he looked like a chap that smoked,” said Masham, holding out his case again. “Don’t be modest, Batchelor. We’re all friends here.”

I didn’t like the style of this Masham. Indeed, I was a trifle afraid of him already, and half repented coming.

“I gave up smoking some weeks ago,” said I, determined not to give in if I could help. “I found I couldn’t afford it.”

“The very reason you should take a cigar now when you’ve a chance of getting one for nothing,” replied Masham, digging me pleasantly in the ribs.

“Thanks, I’d rather not, if you’ll excuse me,” I replied again.

“Can’t excuse you, my dear fellow. We’re all bound to be sociable to-day. At least, so I fancy.”

“Come, Batchelor,” said Hawkesbury. “We may as well humour him. I’d advise you to take a cigar. I’ll take one, too, to keep you company, though I hate them. They always make me feel sick.”

So saying, he took a cigar and lit it. I felt bound to do the same, not only to relieve myself of Masham’s importunity, but to avoid disturbing the harmony of our party at the very beginning of the day.

At this moment Whipcord arrived on the scene, as stylish as ever, with his hat all on one side of his head and his straw all on one side of his mouth.

“What cheer, my venerable chums?” he cried, as he approached. “Ah! Masham. You turned up again! I thought we’d lost—”

“That’ll do,” said Masham, with a significant jerk of his head towards me. “Have a weed?”

“Thanks, we’ll see about that later on. I’m off my smoke just now. Ah! young Batchelor, you there? Brought your boxing-gloves with you, I hope? Hot fellow with the gloves is Batchelor, Phil. Well, where’s your trap, Hawkesbury?”

“There it is coming out.”

Whipcord eyed it professionally and critically. He liked the dogcart, but didn’t think much of the horse.

“Do all right for a water-cart, I dare say,” observed he, “or cat’s meat. But I don’t see how we’re to get to Windsor and back with such a rheumatic old screw.”

“You’re out there, mister,” said the ostler, who was harnessing the animal. “You’ll find he ain’t such a screw as you think. You’ll need to keep a steady hand on him all the way, pertikler on the road home, or he’ll screw you a way you don’t fancy.”

Whipcord laughed.

“I’ll do my best,” he said. “He does look a sort of beast to be nervous of, certainly.”

The ostler grinned cynically, and we meanwhile mounted to our seats, Hawkesbury and Whipcord being in front, and I, much to my disgust, being placed beside Masham on the back seat.

Despite Whipcord’s desponding prophecies, our charger stepped out at a pretty fair pace, and in due time we began to shake off the dust of London from our wheels and meet the first traces of country.

For a considerable time my companion absorbed himself in his cigar—much to my satisfaction—and I, for fear of appearing anxious for conversation, betook myself to mine.

At length, however, after about half an hour thus occupied, Masham broke the silence.

“Know Hawkesbury well?” he asked.

“Pretty well,” I answered; “we were at school together first, and now we’re in the same office.”

“Nice boy at school?”

“Yes; I think so.”

“Not quite sure, eh?”

“I always got on well with him.”

“Yes, you would. Sort of a nest for bad eggs, that school, wasn’t it?”

“Yes—that is, a good many of the boys were a bad sort,” said I, not very comfortable to be undergoing this cross-examination.

“I understand. You weren’t, of course, eh?” said he, digging me in the ribs with his knuckles.

His manner was most offensive. I felt strongly inclined to resent it, and yet somehow I felt that to be civil to him would be the less of two evils.

“Hawkesbury doing well at the office, eh?”

“Certainly!” said I. “Why not?”

“See no reason at all. Worthy chap, Hawkesbury. Nice boy at home; great comfort to the old people.”

“Really,” said I, “you know him much better than I do.”

“Ah! should get to know Hawkesbury all you can. Moral chap—like you and me, eh?” and here followed another dig in the ribs.

This was getting intolerable. However, at this point Whipcord pulled up at a wayside inn, much to my relief. Anything was better than Masham’s conversation.

We halted a quarter of an hour, to give our horse time to get breath, as Whipcord explained, but, as it really seemed, to allow that gentleman and Masham to refresh themselves also.

When we started again my companion began almost immediately to resume the conversation, but this time it was of a less personal nature, though disagreeable enough.

For he made no secret at all that he was a youth of depraved tastes and habits, and insisted on addressing me as though I resembled him in these respects. He gave me what he doubtless intended to be a highly entertaining and spicy account of many of his escapades and exploits in town and country, appealing to me every few sentences as to what I should have said or done or thought in similar circumstances.

And when he had exhausted his stories of himself he told me stories of his friends, some of which were disgusting, some horrifying, and some stupid. But with it all he had an air as if he believed everybody at heart was bad, and as if morality and sobriety and unselfishness were mere affectation and cant.

Has any of my readers ever met such a one as Masham? I hope not. If he should, let him beware of him as the worst enemy a boy could encounter. For no poison is more deadly than that which strives to make one man lose all faith in his fellow-man.

I was so far infected by his manner that, though I felt ashamed to be sitting and listening to his bad talk, I dared not protest, for fear of appearing (what he would be sure to consider me), a hypocrite.

And so, unprofitably, the journey was beguiled, not without frequent stoppings and refreshings, each of which had the effect of exhilarating Whipcord’s spirits and making Masham’s tongue looser and looser.

At length Windsor was reached, and I looked forward to exchanging my undesirable companion for more interesting occupation in seeing over the town with its grand old castle.

But in this I was woefully disappointed. Whipcord drove straight up to an inn in the town, where he ordered the horse and trap to be put up, while we all entered the smoky coffee-room and discussed the desirability of having dinner.

“I thought we were going to picnic out of doors?” I said, mildly, in answer to Masham’s appeal whether we should not order dinner where we were.

“All very well if you could get your liquor laid on,” said Whipcord. “I fancy we’d better stay where we are. What do you say, Hawkesbury?”

“I’m sorry to disappoint Batchelor,” said Hawkesbury, smiling, “but I really think we shall get dinner more comfortably here. We’ve no plates or knives; and, as Whipcord says, there would be a difficulty about the beer.”

I was outvoted, and had to give up my idea of a rustic meal in the open air.

It was not a very pleasant dinner. Masham, despite Hawkesbury’s protests, persisted in interlarding it with his offensive stories, and Whipcord, who was taking very decided measures to excite his spirits, chimed in with his horsey slang, not unmixed with profanity.

“How are you getting on, Batchelor?” said the former presently to me. “Don’t be afraid of that bottle, man, it’s only whisky!”

“Don’t you believe him; it’s gin,” laughed Whipcord.

“I thought you said it was brandy,” said Hawkesbury.

“There you are!” said Masham. “One says one thing, one another, and one another. Now I tell you what, Batchelor shall be umpire, and we’ll each put five shillings on it, eh? What do you say to that?”

“I’d rather not bet,” replied Hawkesbury, “but I’d like to know what Batchelor says it is.”

“I’ll go half-sovs. with you on it,” said Whipcord.

“Done with you!” said Masham; “but Hawkesbury must go too, for if it’s brandy we both lose.”

“I’d rather not bet,” said Hawkesbury, “but if it will spoil your fun if I don’t I’ll join.”

“Thanks. Now, Batchelor, fill up, old toper, and give us your verdict.”

“I really am no judge of spirits,” said I. “Innocent babe,” said Masham, “how well he does it! But he doesn’t seem to know the rule in these cases,” added he, winking at the other two. “What rule?” I asked.

“Why, about hanging back. Half a tumbler for every twenty seconds, isn’t that it, Whipcord?”

“I thought it was a whole tumbler!”

“Ah, wouldn’t you take your time to decide, eh? Come now,” said Masham, taking out his watch, “we’ll start now.”

“Hold hard,” said Whipcord. “Surely we are to have glasses too, to see if he guesses right.”

“Very well, fill all round. Now, Batchelor.”

“I really can’t do it,” I said, faintly. “Five seconds gone!” bawled Masham, laughing. “Please, don’t be so foolish,” I cried, getting alarmed. “Hawkesbury, please stop them!”

“Ten seconds gone, eleven, twelve!”

“I tell you, I—”

“Seventeen, eighteen,” said Masham, rising and reaching out his arm for the bottle.

There was no help for it. I seized my glass and gulped down its contents. It made me cough and sputter, and my eyes watered, greatly to the amusement of my persecutors.

“What is it?” they all cried.

I could scarcely speak for anger and the burning in my throat.

“It’s a shame!” I began.

“That’s not what it is,” cried Whipcord. “Come, give it a name, or you’ll have to drink another!”

“Oh, brandy,” I almost shrieked, willing to do anything rather than that. “I say, Hawkesbury,” I said, reproachfully, “I didn’t expect you were bringing me to this sort of thing.”

“It is a shame,” he said to me aside. “I would have stopped it if I could; but don’t you see they were eager about their bet, and it was the only way of quieting them. Never mind.”

The rest of the afternoon passed away much as it had begun. After dinner we went down to the river and took a boat, in which Masham and Whipcord lay and slept all the time, while Hawkesbury and I rowed them about. It was with difficulty, about five o’clock, that we got them ashore again, and half led, half dragged them back to the inn.

“Come,” said Hawkesbury to Whipcord, “it’s time to be getting the trap ready for the start back, isn’t it?”

“Is it? Go and tell the fellow, some of you,” replied our driver. “I’ll be ready pretty soon,” said he, moving once more towards the bar.

“You surely aren’t going to drink any more,” cried I, taking his arm and trying gently to stop him.

He wrenched his arm loose and gave me a push back, saying, “Young prig! what’s it to do with you?”

“I think he wants to come too,” said Masham. “Come along, Batchelor.”

I had positively to run away to elude them, and made the pretext of going to the stable to see after the harnessing of the horse.

When this was done I sought for Hawkesbury.

“Do you think it’s safe for Whipcord to drive in the state he’s in?”

“Oh, yes. With a horse like that too. He’s pretending to be a great deal worse than he is, just to horrify you.”

It seemed ages before we actually started. Whipcord, in a most quarrelsome humour, had to be dragged almost by force from the bar. Hawkesbury, at the last moment, discovered that he was going without paying the bill; while Masham, having once made himself comfortable in the bar parlour, flatly refused to be moved, and had finally to be left behind.

The only consolation in this was that I had the tail of the dogcart to myself, which was infinitely preferable to the odious society of Masham.

It was nearly six when we finally started from Windsor and turned our horse’s head homeward. And this had been my day’s enjoyment!

Chapter Twenty Six.

How I fell badly, and was picked up in a way I little expected.

The delightful picnic to which I had looked forward with such satisfaction had certainly not come off as I expected. And it was not yet over, for the drive home under the conduct of Mr Whipcord promised to be the most exciting portion of the whole day.

As long as we were in the country roads the unsteadiness of our Jehu did not so much matter, for he was sober enough to keep the horse upon the road, though hardly fit to steer him past other vehicles. However, it was marvellous how we did get on. What hairbreadth escapes we had! It was useless attempting to remonstrate with the fellow. He was in that quarrelsome and mischievous humour which would brook no protest. Once, very soon after starting, in passing a country cart we as nearly as possible upset against it, a misadventure which Whipcord immediately set down as a deliberate insult intended for himself, and which nothing would satisfy him but to avenge then and there.

He leaped down off the dogcart, heedless of what became of the horse, and, throwing off his coat, shouted to the countryman to “Come on!” an invitation which the countryman answered with a crack of his whip which made the doughty hero leap as high into the air as he had ever done in his life.

As might be expected, this incident did not tend to pacify the outraged feelings of the tipsy Whipcord, who, disappointed of his vengeance on the countryman, was most pressing in his invitations to Hawkesbury or me or both of us to dismount and “have it out.” Indeed, he was so eager for satisfaction that he all but pulled me off my seat on to the road, and would have done so quite had not the horse given a start at the moment, which put me out of his reach, and nearly upset him in the dust.

Things certainly did not look promising for a nice quiet drive home. With difficulty we coaxed him back into the trap, where he at once began to vent his spleen on the horse in a manner which put that animal’s temper to a grand test.

He further insisted on pulling up at every wayside inn for refreshment, until it became quite evident, if we ever reached London at all, we should certainly not do so till nearly midnight.

I held a hurried consultation with Hawkesbury as to what ought to be done.

“Don’t you think,” suggested I, “we had almost better go on by ourselves and leave him behind?”

“Oh no,” said Hawkesbury; “that would never do. It wouldn’t be honourable.”

It occurred to me it would not be much less honourable than inviting a fellow to a quiet picnic and letting him in for an expedition like this.

“Well,” said I, “suppose we let him drive home, and you and I go back some other way?”

“You forget I’m responsible for the trap. No, we’d better go on as we are. We’ve not come to grief so far. Perhaps, though,” said he, “you’d sooner drive?”

“What’s that about sooner drive?” shouted Whipcord, coming up at this moment. “Who’d sooner drive? You, young Batchelor? All right; off with your coat!” And he threw himself on me in a pugilistic attitude.

After a long delay we got once more under way, the vehicle travelling more unsteadily than ever, and my misgivings as to ever reaching London becoming momentarily more numerous.

How we ever got back I can’t imagine, unless it was that after a time Whipcord finally dropped the reins and allowed the horse to find its own way home. He certainly thought he was driving, but I fancy the truth was that one of the ostlers on the road, seeing his condition, had cunningly looped the reins round the front rail of the trap, so that, drive all he would, he could not do much more harm than if he was sitting idle.

At length the lateness of the hour and the frequent lights announced that London must be near. It was fortunate it was so late, or we should certainly have come to grief in the first crowded street. As it was, Whipcord had already got command of the reins again, as the sudden jerks and shies of the horse testified.

My impulse was to avoid the danger by quietly jumping down from my seat and leaving the other two to proceed alone. But somehow it seemed a shabby proceeding to leave Hawkesbury in the lurch, besides which, even if I had overcome that scruple, the seat was so high that at the unsteady rate we were going I would run considerable risk by jumping. So I determined to hold on and hope for the best.

We got safely down Oxford Street, thanks to its emptiness, and were just proceeding towards Holborn, when Whipcord gave his horse a sudden turn down a side street to the right.

“Where are you going?” I cried; “it’s straight on.”

He pulled up immediately, and bidding Hawkesbury hold the reins, pulled off his coat for the twentieth time, and invited me to come and have it out on the pavement.

“Don’t be a fool,” said Hawkesbury; “drive on now, there’s a good fellow.”

“What does he want to tell me which way to drive for?” demanded the outraged charioteer.

“He didn’t mean to offend you—did you, Batchelor? Drive on now, Whipcord, and get out of this narrow street.”

With much persuasion Whipcord resumed his coat and seized the reins.

“Thinks I don’t know the way to drive,” he growled. “I’ll teach him!”

I had been standing up, adding my endeavours to Hawkesbury’s to pacify our companion, when he suddenly lashed furiously at the horse. The wretched animal, already irritated beyond endurance, gave a wild bound forward, which threw me off my feet, and before I could put out a hand to save myself pitched me backwards into the road.

I was conscious of falling with a heavy crash against the kerb with my arm under me, and of seeing the dogcart tearing down the street. Then everything seemed dark, and I remember nothing more.

When I did recover consciousness I was lying in a strange room on a strange bed. It took an effort to remember what had occurred. But a dull pain all over reminded me, and gradually a more acute and intense pain on my left side. I tried to move my arm, but it was powerless, and the exertion almost drove back my half-returning senses.

“Lie quiet,” said a voice at my side, “the doctor will be here directly.”

The voice was somehow familiar; but in my weak state I could not remember where I had heard it. And the exertion of turning my head to look was more than I could manage.

I lay there, I don’t know how long, with half-closed eyes, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, and feeling only the pain and an occasional grateful passing of a wet sponge across my forehead.

Then I became aware of more people in the room and a man’s voice saying—

“How was it?”

“I found him lying on the pavement. I think he must have been thrown out of a vehicle.”

That voice I had certainly heard, but where?

“It’s the arm—broken!” said the voice.

“Ah,” said the doctor, leaning over me and touching me lightly near the elbow.

I groaned with agony as he did so.

“Go round to the other side,” said he, hurriedly. “I must examine where the fracture is. I’m afraid, from what you say, it must be rather a bad one.”

I just remembered catching sight of a well-known face bending over me, and a familiar voice whispering—

“Steady, old man, try to bear it.”

The next moment I had fainted.

It may have been minutes or it may have been hours before I next came to myself, and then my arm lay bandaged by my side, and the sharpness of the pain had gone.

“Fred, old man,” was the first thing I heard as I opened my eyes. I knew the voice now, and the face with its two great eyes which bent over me.

I had found my friend at last!

“Hush, don’t talk now,” he said, as I tried to speak; “lie quiet now, there’s a dear fellow.”

“Jack!” I said. I could not resist uttering his name, his old familiar long-lost name.

“Yes, it’s Jack,” he whispered, “but don’t talk now.”

“You forgive me, Jack?” I murmured, heedless of his injunction.

“Yes, a hundred times!” he said, brushing back the hair from my forehead, and putting his finger to my lips.

Then I obeyed him, and lay silent and happy all day. Happier with all my pain than I had been for months.

The doctor came later on and looked at my arm.

“He’ll do now, I think,” said he, “but he will very likely be feverish after it. You should have him taken to the hospital.”

“Oh no,” cried Jack. “He must stay here, please. I can look after him quite well.”

“If it was only the arm,” said the doctor. “But he’s had a bad fall and is a good deal bruised and shaken besides. He would get better attention, I think, at the hospital.”

“I would so much sooner he stayed here,” said Jack; “but if he’d really be better at the hospital, I suppose I ought to let him go.”

“I won’t go to the hospital!” exclaimed I, making the longest speech I had yet made since my accident, with a vehemence that positively startled the two speakers.

This protest settled the question. If only a sick person threatens to get excited about anything, he is pretty sure to have his own way. And so it proved in my case.

“But will you be able to stay at home all day from business to look after him?” asked the doctor.

“No, I’m afraid not,” said Jack, “but I think I know some one who will. He sha’n’t be left alone, and I can always just run home in the dinner-hour to see how he’s getting on.”

The doctor left, only half satisfied with this arrangement, and repeating that it would have been far better to move me to the hospital.

When he was gone Jack came and smoothed my pillow. “I am glad you’re to stay,” he said. “Now, for fear you should begin to talk, I’m going out to Billy to get my boots blacked. So good-bye for a bit, old boy.”

“But, Jack—” I began, trying to keep him.

“Not a word now,” said he, going to the door. “Presently.”

I was too contented and comfortable to fret myself about anything, still more to puzzle my brains about what I couldn’t understand. So I lay still thinking of nothing, and knowing nothing except that I had found my friend once more, and that he was more to me than ever.

Nothing makes one so sleepy as thinking of nothing at all; and long before Jack returned from his visit to Billy I was asleep, and slept soundly all through the night.

Next morning I woke invigorated in body and mind. Jack was up and about before I opened my eyes. He was at my side in a moment as I moved.

“Well, you have had a sleep,” he said, cheerily. “I have,” replied I. “But, Jack, where am I?”

“Oh, this is my lodgings,” said he. “I’m pretty comfortable here.”

I looked round the room. It was a poor, bare apartment, with only two beds, a chair, a small table, and a washstand to furnish it. The table was covered with papers and books.

“You’ve got a sitting-room too, I suppose?” I said, after taking the room in.

He laughed.

“I find this quite as good a room to sit in as to lie in,” said he, “for the matter of that. But I have got the use of another room belonging to a fellow-lodger. He’s a literary man, and writes for the papers; but in his spare moments he coaches me in Latin and Greek, in consideration of which I give him half my room to sleep in.”

“Whatever’s he to do now when I’m here?” I asked.

“Oh, he’s going to have a shake-down in his own room. You’ll like him, Fred; he’s a very good-natured, clever man.”

“How old?” I asked.

“About fifty, I should think. And I fancy he’s seen a good deal of trouble in his time, though I don’t like to ask him.”

“I say, Jack,” I began in an embarrassed manner, “ever since that time—”

“Shut up, now,” said Jack, briskly. “The doctor says unless you obey me in everything you’re to go straight to the hospital. And one of my rules is, you’re to talk about nothing I don’t approve of.”

“I was only going to say—”

“There you go. I don’t approve of what you were going to say. I suppose you’ll be interested to hear I reported your case to the firm yesterday, and they were very sorry to hear of it, and told me there were other fellows in the office they could have spared better. There’s a compliment!”

“Was Hawkesbury at the office?” I asked.

Jack’s face clouded for a moment.

“Yes, Hawkesbury was there.”

“You know he was with me when the accident happened?” I said, by way of explanation.

“Oh,” said Jack. “Hullo! here comes Billy. I hope, you won’t be horrified to have him to look after you while I’m at the office. He’s the only person I could think of.”

“Billy and I are very good friends,” I said, somewhat taken aback, however, by the prospect of being consigned to that young gentleman’s charge for several hours every day.

“Here you are, Billy,” said Jack, as the boy entered. “You needn’t have brought your blacking-box with you, though.”

“What, ain’t none of the blokes here got no boots, then?” remarked the youth, depositing his burden.

“The bloke, as you call him, who lies there,” said Jack, pointing to me, “won’t be putting on his boots for a good many days yet.”

Billy approached my bed with his most profuse grin.

“I say, ain’t you been and done it? Do you hear? you’ve broke your arm!”

This piece of news being so remarkably unexpected visibly affected me.

“Yes,” said Jack, “and I want you to sit here while I’m away, and see nobody breaks it again.”

“I’ll give the fust bloke that tries it on a topper, so I will,” said Billy, fiercely, sitting down on his box and preparing to mount guard.

“I quite believe you,” said Jack, laughing. “But mind, Billy, you mustn’t make a noise or disturb him when he’s resting. And if anything special happens and I’m badly wanted, you must run to my office and fetch me. You know where it is?”

“Yaas, I know,” said Billy.

“If Mr Smith comes up, you may let him in and make yourself scarce till he goes away again.”

“What Mr Smith?” I asked.

“Oh, my fellow-lodger. Isn’t it funny his name’s Smith? At least, wouldn’t it be funny if every other person weren’t called Smith?”

“It is rather a large family,” said I, laughing.

Billy having received his full instructions, including the serving of certain provisions out of a cupboard in a corner of the room, made himself comfortable on his perch, and sat eyeing me, after Jack had gone, as if I were a criminal of some sort whom it was his duty to prevent from escaping.

It was a queer situation to be in, certainly. Left alone in a friend’s lodging with a broken arm and other contusions, and a small shoeblack to look after me, who had once robbed me of my penknife and a sixpence!

I was rather doubtful whether his new employment was quite as congenial to him as his old. Indeed, I rather pitied him as he sat there silent and motionless like a watch-dog on guard.

“You may stand on your hands if you like, Billy,” I said, presently.

He eyed me sharply and doubtfully.

“You’re ’avin’ a lark with me,” he said.

“No, I’m not. You really may do it.”

“Ain’t a-goin’ to do it,” replied he, decisively.

“Why not?” I asked.

“T’other bloke ain’t said I’m to do it,” replied he.

“Well,” said I, “if you don’t think he’d like it, don’t do it. For I’m sure he’s very good to you, Billy, isn’t he?”

“’Tain’t no concern of yourn,” responded my genial guardian.

After this there was a long silence, and I was getting drowsy, when Billy said, “That there ’orse was a-goin’ it.”

“What horse?”

“Why, as if you didn’t know! That there ’orse as was drivin’ you blokes a’ Monday night.”

“What, did you see us, then?” I asked.

“In corse I did. I seen you as I was a-comin’ back from the racket school. My eye, wasn’t you tidy and screwed though! You don’t ought to be trusted with ’orses, you don’t.”

“I wasn’t screwed, Billy,” said I, “and I wasn’t driving.”

“No, that you wasn’t driving. But I knows the bloke as was.”

“Do you know Mr Whipcord?”

“Yaas, I knows the animal,” he replied, with a grin. “He gave me a doin’ with his stick once, he did.”

“But did you see me pitched out?” I asked, not feeling particularly interested in the last reminiscence.

“In corse I did. I seen you. Thought you was dead, and I fetches the bloke to yer, and the bloke sends me for the doctor, and the doctor—”

At this moment the door opened and a stranger entered.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

How I suffered a Relapse, which did me good.

The gentleman who entered the room was a middle-aged man, of striking appearance. In face and person he seemed worn and feeble. He walked with a slight stoop; his cheeks were hollow and slightly flushed, and his brow was furrowed by lines which would have appeared deep even in a much older man. But as soon as he began to talk his face lit up, his eyes sparkled, and there was a ring in his voice which was more like Jack Smith himself than his older and more sedate namesake.

For this stranger, I guessed at once, must be the other Mr Smith with whom Jack lodged.

At sight of him Billy stopped abruptly in the middle of his sentence, and, putting his hand up to his forelock, saluted him with his usual familiar grin.

“Ah, William, my worthy friend, you here?” the gentleman said, almost gaily, as he entered. “I heard I should find you on duty. You must introduce me to this sick gentleman, and ask him if I shall disturb him.”

Billy grinned in a confused sort of way, not knowing exactly how to do the honours. Then, looking at me and jerking his thumb in the direction of the stranger, he said, “This here’s the cove from downstairs!”

The gentleman approached my bedside and said, gently, “Am I disturbing you? I found a note from my fellow-lodger when I got in just now, asking me to call up and see how you were getting on.”

“It’s very kind of you,” said I. “I hope you can stay a bit.”

“Certainly; I’ve nothing to do.”

Billy, however, did not apparently favour this suggestion.

“This ’ere cove,” said he, pointing to me, “ain’t to jaw, mister!”

“Quite right, William,” said the gentleman; “I’ll see he doesn’t. I’ll do all the talking and he shall do the listening. You can go down to my room and make my bed ready for me and tidy up.”

The boy looked dubiously first at the speaker, then at me, as if he was not quite sure about the propriety of allowing me out of his sight, but finally obeyed.

“There’s a trusty youngster for you!” said the gentleman, laughing, as he disappeared. “Young Smith couldn’t have found a safer nurse for you anywhere.”

“I believe you are right,” said I.

“And how are you feeling? You’re looking better than when I saw you last, anyhow.”

“I never saw you before, did I?” I asked.

“No, you didn’t; but I saw you when you were brought in here the other evening. However, as Billy says, you mustn’t talk now. I suppose you heard me order him to make my bed. I always go to bed every morning at eleven. Young Smith and I are like Box and Cox, you know; he’s away all day, I’m away all night. Just when he’s finishing up work I’m beginning.”

“I wonder you can keep awake all the night,” I said.

“Not more wonderful than you keeping awake all day, my boy. In fact, there’s not much chance of a poor literary hack sleeping over his work. Now I wonder, when you read your newspaper in the morning, if you ever think of what has to be done to produce it. If you only did, I dare say you would find it more interesting than it often seems.”

And then my companion launched out into a lively description of the work of a newspaper office, and of the various stages in the production of a paper, from the pen and ink in the sub-editor’s room to the printed, folded, and delivered newspaper which lies on one’s breakfast-table every morning. I wish I could repeat it all for the benefit of the reader, for few subjects are more interesting; but it would take more time than we have to spare to do so.

Of course Mr Smith the elder—for so I had to call him to distinguish him from my friend his namesake—rattled on in this strain, more for the sake of keeping me interested and amused than any other reason. Still, his talk was something better than idle chatter, and I began to feel that here at last, among all my miscellaneous acquaintance, was a man worth knowing.

He gave me no chance of talking myself, but rattled on from one topic to another in a way which left me quite free to listen or not as I liked, and finally rose, much to my regret, to go.

“Now I must be off, or I shall have Billy up to hunt me off. Good-bye, my boy; glad to see you doing so well. You’ve a lot to be thankful for, and of course you are.”

“Will you come again?” I asked.

“Gladly; that is, if Billy allows me,” said he, laughing, and nodding kindly as he left the room.

“No wonder,” thought I, as I listened to his footsteps going down stairs—“no wonder Jack Smith found these lodgings pleasanter than Beadle Square.”

I saw Mr Smith frequently during the next few days. He usually came up to sit with me for half an hour or so in the morning, and was always the same cheery and interesting companion.

And yet I could not quite make him out. For when not talking or smiling his face used to wear a look of habitual trouble and restlessness, which made me suspect he was either making an effort to be cheery before me, or else that he was the victim of a constant battle between good spirits and bad.

However, just as I was getting to feel intimate with him, and looking forward to hear more about him than I had yet learned, my recovery came to a sudden and rather serious halt.

I was lying one evening propped up in my bed, with my damaged arm feeling comparatively comfortable, and myself in a particularly jovial frame of mind as I listened to Jack Smith attempting to instil into the mind of the volatile Billy the art of spelling d-o-g—dog.

“Now, Billy,” said the instructor, “you’ll never get on at this rate. That letter you’re pointing at is a B for Billy, and not a D.”

“That there B’s a caution,” growled the boy; “he’s always a-turnin’ up.”

“Time you knew him, then,” said Smith. “Now show us the D.”

Billy cocked his head a little to one side and took a critical survey of the alphabet before him. His eye passed once down and once up the procession, then looking up at Jack with a grin, he said, “He’s ’iding, I reckon, governor. That there dorg’ll have to start with a B after all.”

Our laughter at this philosophic observation was interrupted by an unwonted footstep on the stairs outside. It certainly was not Mr Smith, for he was out at his work; nor was it the doctor, our only other visitor, for he always came up two steps at a time, and his boots always squeaked. Who could our visitor be?

“Come in,” called Smith, as a knock sounded on the door.

To my utter astonishment and concern, Hawkesbury, with his sweetest smile, entered the room.

How had he found out my retreat? What did he want here? What would Jack Smith say? These were the questions which rushed through my mind as he closed the door behind him and walked into the room.

I glanced round at Jack. There was written anything but peace in his countenance, while Billy glared like a young bulldog ready to spring on the intruder.

“Well, Batchelor,” said Hawkesbury, in his blandest voice, addressing me and ignoring everybody else; “you’ll be surprised to see me here. The fact is, I couldn’t feel happy till I came to see you and tell you how sorry I was for your accident.”

My few days’ confinement and the opportunity for meditation they had afforded had served to give me an insight into Hawkesbury’s character which made me treat this speech suspiciously. I replied nothing, and felt very uncomfortable.

“It was most unfortunate,” proceeded Hawkesbury, helping himself to the chair. “You know—”

“Excuse me,” interrupted Smith at this point, in a tone which made me start; “this is my room, Hawkesbury, and I must ask you to go.”

The visitor’s face clouded with a quick shade of vexation, but immediately regained its chronic smile, as he said, “Ah, Smith! I should have said it was my friend Batchelor I came to see, not you.”

“You’re no friend of his,” retorted Smith, with rising wrath.

“Do you hear, nob,” broke in Billy, unable to restrain himself any longer; “you ain’t a-wanted here.”

Hawkesbury looked round with an amused smile.

“Really,” said he, “a most gratifying reception, and from a most unexpected quarter. Er—excuse me, Smith, I’m afraid it’s rather a strange request—would you mind allowing me to have a little private conversation with my friend?”

“No,” replied Smith, firmly.

“Really,” said Hawkesbury. “I must appeal to Batchelor himself.”

“I shall answer for Batchelor,” said Smith, not giving me time to reply. “Leave my room, please.”

“Do you hear? You leave the bloke’s room,” cried Billy. “Ef you don’t you’ll get a topper.”

Hawkesbury, whose colour had been rising during the last few moments, and whose assurance had gradually been deserting him, now turned round with a ceremonious smile to the last speaker as he rose to his feet and said, “If you desire it, I’ll go. I can submit to be ordered off by a shoeblack, but the son of a convict is—”

With clenched fist and crimson face Jack gave a sudden bound towards the speaker. But as suddenly he checked himself and walked gently to my bed, where I had started up ready to spring to my feet and back up my friend in what seemed a certain quarrel.

“What a cad I am!” he murmured, as he bent over me, and motioned me gently back to my pillow, “but the fellow nearly drives me mad.”

I was too exhausted by my effort to say anything.

Jack remained by my side while the unwelcome visitor slowly walked to the door. But if one of Hawkesbury’s enemies was disposed of, another remained. Billy, who had been a fuming and speechless witness of this last scene, now boiled over completely, and was to be kept in check no longer.

Wasting no words, he made a wild dash at the retreating intruder and closed with him. He would have closed with a lion, I firmly believe, if a lion had made himself obnoxious to Jack Smith.

Hawkesbury turned suddenly to receive the assault; an angry flush overspread his face, his hands clenched, and next moment Billy reeled back bleeding and almost senseless into the middle of the room, and the visitor had gone.

This was the event which put a check on my recovery.

To lie helpless and see Jack Smith insulted before my face would have been bad enough, but to hear him taunted with the very secret I had so miserably and treacherously let out was more than I could endure.

I don’t know what I did that evening, I was so weak and so excited. I have vague recollections of breaking out into passionate self-reproaches and wild entreaties for forgiveness; and of Jack Smith with pale and troubled face bending over me trying to soothe me, imploring me to be still, telling me twenty times there was nothing left to forgive. And then in the middle of the scene the doctor arrived, with serious face and hushed voice. He felt my pulse more carefully than ever, and took my temperature not once only, but several times. There was a hurried consultation in the corner of the room, of which all I heard were the words “most unfortunate” and “fever.” My usual supper of bread-and-butter and an egg gave place to a cup of beef-tea, which I could scarcely taste, and after that some medicine. Jack, with a face more solemn than ever, made his bed at the foot of mine, and smoothed my pillow for me and whispered—

“Be sure and call if you want anything.”

Then everything was silent and dark, and I began to realise that I was ill. I shall never forget that night. I tossed restlessly and ceaselessly all through it. In whatever position I lay I found no relief. My arm seemed to pain me more than ever before, my head ached, I was nearly suffocated with heat. And my mind was as restless as my body. One after another the follies and meannesses, the failures and sins of my life in London, rose up before me and stared me in the face. Try all I would, I could not get rid of them. I tried to think of other things—of books I had read, of stories I had heard, of places I had seen, of Stonebridge House, of Brownstroke—but no, the thought of my pitiful career in London, my debts, my evil acquaintances, my treachery to my friend, would come and come and come, and drive out all else. And all the while I seemed to see Jack’s solemn face looking reproachfully at me from the bottom of the bed, just as it had looked at me that morning weeks ago at Hawk Street. Once, instead of being at the bottom of the bed, I found it close beside me, saying—

“What is it, old boy?”

“Eh? nothing. I didn’t call.”

“Yes you did. Do try and lie still and get some rest.”

Lie still! As soon tell the waves to lie still in the storm as expect me, with my fever-tossed body and mind, to rest!

So the night wore on, and when the morning light struggled through the window it found me in a raging fever and delirious.

I must pass over the weeks that followed. I was very ill—as ill, so they told me afterwards, as I well could be, and live.

Jack watched me incessantly. I don’t know what arrangement he came to at Hawk Street, but while I was at my worst he never left my bedside day or night.

No one else was allowed up, except occasionally Billy, to relieve guard. With these two nurses to tend me—and never a patient had two such guardian angels!—I battled with my fever, and came through it.

I came through it an altered being.

Surely—this was the thought with which I returned to health—we boys, sent up to rough it in London, are not, after all, mere slung stones. There is One who cares for us, some One who comes after us when we go astray, some One who saves us when we are at the point of falling, if we will but cry, in true penitence, to Him!

I had had many and grievous lessons before I had found it out; but now I had, life seemed a new thing to me!

As my convalescence advanced and my bodily strength returned, my spirits rose within me, and I felt eager to be back at my post at Hawk Street. However, I had to exercise some patience yet. Meanwhile, with Billy (and occasionally Mr Smith), as my companion by day, and Jack by night, the time could hardly hang heavily.

“Well, Billy,” I said one morning when the doctor had been and told me that next week I might be allowed to sit up for an hour or so a day, “I shall soon be rid of this bed. I don’t know what would have become of me if it hadn’t been for you and Jack Smith.”

“Ga on,” said Billy, who, with his tongue in one cheek and his face twisting into all sorts of contortions, was sitting writing an exercise in a copy-book, “you don’t know what you’re torkin’ about.”

“Oh yes, I do, though,” I replied, understanding that this was Billy’s modest way of disclaiming any merit.

“More’n you didn’t when you was ’avin’ the fever!” observed the boy.

“What?” I inquired. “Was I talking much when I was ill?”

“You was so,” said Billy, “a-joring and a-joring and a-joring same as you never heard a bloke.”

“What was I saying?” I asked, feeling a little uneasy as to what I might have said in my delirium.

“You was a swearin’ tremenjus,” said the boy.

“Was I?” Alas! Jack would have heard it all.

“Yes, and you was a-torkin’ about your Crowses, and Wollopses, and Doubledaisies, and sich like. And you was a-tellin’ that there ’Orksbury (which I’d like to do for, the animal, so I would), as you was a convex son, and he wasn’t to tell no one for fear Mashing should ’ear of it. And you was a-crying out for your friend Smith to shine your boots, and tellin’ him you wouldn’t do it never no more. And you was a-singin’ out that there was a little gal a-bein’ run away with on a pony, and you must go and stop ’im. You was a-jawin’, rather.”

I could hardly help laughing at his description, though its details reminded me sadly of my old follies and their consequences.

The most extraordinary raving of all, however, was that which referred to my stopping the little girl’s runaway pony at Packworth years ago—an incident I don’t believe I had ever once thought of since.

It was curious, too, that, now it was called to memory, I thought of the adventure a good deal, and wished I knew what had become of the owner of that restive little pony. I determined to tell Jack about it when he came home.

“What do you think, Jack?” I said, as he was tucking me up for the night. “Billy has been telling me what I was talking about in my fever, and says one thing I discoursed about was a little girl who was being run away with by a pony.”

“Yes,” said Jack, laughing; “I heard that. It was quite a new light for you, old man, to be dreaming of that sort of romantic thing.”

“But it really happened once,” I said.

“No! where? I thought the Henniker and Mrs Nash were the only lady friends you ever had? Where was it?”

“At Packworth, of all places,” I said. “It was that day I went over to try and find you out—just before we came up to London, you know. I was walking back to Brownstroke, and met the pony bolting down the road.”

Jack seemed suddenly very much interested. “What sort of little girl was it?” he asked.

“I can’t exactly tell you. She was so frightened I had hardly time to look at her. But—”

“What sort of pony?” asked Jack.

“A grey one—and a jolly little animal, too!” I said. “But why do you ask?”

“Only,” said Jack, with a peculiar smile, “because it strikes me very forcibly the young person in question was my sister, that’s all!”

“What!” I exclaimed, in amazement, “your sister!—the little girl of the photograph! Oh, Jack, how extraordinary!”

“It is queer,” said Jack; “but it’s a fact all the same. I heard about it when I was last home. The pony took fright, so they told me, and—wasn’t there a nurse with her?”

“Yes, there was.”

“Yes; that was Mrs Shield. The pony took fright as she was walking beside it, and Mary would have come to grief to a dead certainty, so they both say, if a young gentleman hadn’t rushed up and stopped it. Why, Fred, old man,” said he, taking my hand, “I little thought I owed you all that!”

I took his hand warmly, but humbly.

“Jack,” I said, “I think it’s almost time you and I gave up talking about what we owe to one another. But,” I added, after a moment, “if you do want to do me a favour, just let us have a look at that photograph again, will you, old man?”

Chapter Twenty Eight.

How I found myself once more at Hawk Street.

In due time the doctor paid his final visit and gave me leave to return to Hawk Street.

I can’t describe how strange it seemed to be walking out once more in the open air, leaning on Jack’s arm, and feeling myself an active member of society.

The part of the town where Jack’s lodgings were situated was new to me. It could not have been worse than Beadle Square, but it wasn’t much better. This street was narrow and squalid and crowded, and presented no attractions either in the way of fresh air or convenience. Still, to me, any place that harboured Jack Smith would have been more homelike than the stateliest mansion.

“By the way,” said Jack, as we walked down to the office the first morning, “I suppose you don’t want to go back to Beadle Square.”

“Not if I can help it,” I said; “the only thing is, I suppose, I ought to tell my uncle. You know he paid my lodging there.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Jack. “I went down one day and saw Mrs Nash and told her what had become of you, and said she might let your bed to any one else. And I wrote to your uncle (I thought it best not to bother you by telling you at the time), and told him where you were and how you were getting on. He wrote back a civil note to say he was glad to hear you were getting better; and with regard to the lodgings, he had been just about to write and say that as you had now a respectable income at the office he would not be continuing to pay for your lodging; so that when you got well you might consider yourself free to do as you liked in that respect.”

“Awfully obliging of him,” said I.

“Well, it struck me as rather a cordial way of putting it,” remarked Jack, laughing.

“I had better look for quarters at once,” said I.

“Do nothing of the kind. Stay where you are!”

“What?” I exclaimed, in pleased astonishment. The idea had never occurred to me before. “How ever could I? As it is I’ve been turning Mr Smith out long enough.”

“He was talking to me about it the other day,” said Jack. “He finds that all his time is now required at the office of the newspaper he writes for, and therefore he has really no use for his room except as a bedroom. So that our room up stairs is at our complete disposal.”

“How jolly!” I exclaimed. “Nothing could have happened more delightfully.”

“Nothing,” said Jack, as pleased as I was; “and he says any time of an evening when he’s away we can use the lower room as if it was our own. Isn’t it brickish of him?”

I agreed heartily in the sentiment, and proceeded to Hawk Street with less weight on my mind than ever.

There, as was natural, I found myself an object of a good deal of interest and remark. Doubleday, who once during my illness had sent me a short note of sympathy by Smith, was the first to welcome me back to my old quarters.

“Here we are again, young ’un, alive and kicking,” cried he, clapping me on the back as I entered. “How his whiskers have grown, haven’t they, Wallop? Well, how’s your game leg?”

“It was my arm, not my leg,” I said.

“No! was it? I heard it was your off-leg and your spine and your skull that were smashed. That’s what made me so surprised to see you. Never mind, I’m glad to see you, young ’un, for there’s a ticklish bit of figure work to do. None of the others would look at it, so I’ve saved it up for you, my boy.”

“And I’m ready for it,” said I.

Crow and Wallop greeted me rather more shyly. I fancy they had had rather a fright when they heard how very ill I had been.

They shook hands rather sheepishly, and Wallop said something about the weather which had no actual bearing, on my recovery. I had come to the conclusion during my illness that Crow and Wallop had not been altogether profitable companions, and I was therefore glad they were not more demonstrative now.

But I had yet to meet Hawkesbury, and wished the operation well over; for however much I may once have believed in him, I now disliked him, and determined to have as little to do with him as possible.

“Ah, Batchelor,” cried he, coming up with outstretched hand, and beaming as if the incident in my sick-room weeks ago had never happened. “So glad to see you back. We have missed you greatly. How do you feel? You’re looking better than when I saw you last.”

I just took his hand and said, “Thank you,” as shortly as I could.

He appeared neither to notice my manner nor my tone.

“You’ve had a long spell of it,” said he. “I’d no idea a broken arm was such a serious thing. But I dare say you’ll be all the better for your long rest.”

I set to work to open my desk and get together my papers and pens, ready for work.

“It was a bad fall you had,” continued he, standing beside me as I was thus employed. “You have no idea how distressed I was when it happened. But Whipcord was really in such a shocking state that night that—”

“Can you give me a piece of blotting-paper?” I said to Doubleday across the desk.

He waited till I had got what I wanted, and proceeded, smiling as ever, “It really wasn’t safe for any of us. Masham, by the way, was very sorry to hear of your accident, and asked me to tell you so. I meant to do so the evening I called, but your friend was really so polite that I forgot all about it.”

I had stood it thus far, and kept to my resolve of saying as little as I could. But when he brought in Jack’s name it was all I could do to hold my peace.

I made an excuse to leave my place and consult a Directory, in the hopes of shaking him off, but there he was when I returned, ready to go on as benignly as ever.

“I’m sure, Batchelor,” said he, “it must have been greatly against you to be cooped up in that miserable lodging all the time, and in—what I should call—such uncongenial society. But when one is ill, of course one has just to put up with what one can get.”

My patience had reached its limit at last.

“My friend’s society is more congenial to me than yours is at present!” I said, colouring up and bending over my writing.

“I see,” said he, “he has got you under this thumb again, and means to keep you there.”

“Will you let me get on with my work?” I said.

“Oh, certainly!” said he, smiling blandly. “I merely wished to tell you how glad I was to see you back at last; but I dare say that doesn’t interest you.”

I made no answer, and, seeing that I was determined to hold no more conversation, he gently withdrew.

I felt quite relieved when he had done so, and still more to find that, for the first time in my life, I had been proof against his blandishments.

“What have you been doing to Petty-Cash?” whispered Doubleday to me, presently; “he looks so smiling and benevolent that I’m certain you must have given him mortal offence about something or other.”

“I don’t care if I have,” I said.

Doubleday whistled softly. “I say, young ’un,” said he, “your illness has smartened you up a bit, I reckon, eh?”

This, coming from the source it did, I felt to be a compliment. However, I had more calls upon my new resolutions before the day was over.

The partners arrived and received me—each in his own peculiar way—very kindly. Mr Merrett was good enough to say the work of the office had suffered a good deal in my absence, and Mr Barnacle said he hoped I had come back prepared to make up for lost time. To both which observations I listened respectfully, and returned once more to my desk.

The morning passed quickly and busily. I had made a plunge into the difficult task so considerately saved up for me by Doubleday, and felt quite refreshed by the array of figures to be dealt with. In fact, I was so engrossed with it that when Jack came and asked me if I was going out to lunch I said I really could not leave it now, but would take my lunch later on.

So he went, and several of the others, leaving me with Crow, Wallop, and Hawkesbury, in possession of the office.

The two former heroes had by this time somewhat recovered from their surprise at seeing me once more in the land of the living, and seemed disposed to wax facetious in proportion at my expense.

I dug my thumbs into my ears, in the hopes of getting on with my work, but it was not easy, and I had at last to give up the attempt.

“Jolly glad he’s not kicked the bucket, for one thing,” said Wallop.

“Why?” asked Crow, apparently surprised that there should be any reason for thankfulness in such an event.

“He owes me thirty bob, that’s all,” said Wallop.

It was true! It was one of the oldest of my debts, and one which had been greatly on my mind for many a day.

“Ah!” said I, feeling constrained to take some notice of the remark. “I’m afraid I’ve kept you out of that money a long time, Wallop.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Wallop. “When I want it I’ll drop on you for it, my boy.”

“I’ll try to pay it off as soon as ever I can,” I said.

I disliked Wallop, as I have said, and the thought that I owed him money was not at all pleasant to me.

My creditor laughed.

“There’s plenty more will be glad to hear you’re better,” said he. “There’s Shoddy I met the other week in a regular blue funk because he thought you’d bolted. He wanted to come down and see the governors here about his little bill, but I managed to pacify him. But he says if you don’t give him a call soon he’ll wake you up.”

“I’ll go and see him at once,” I said, feeling very uncomfortable.

“Then there’s the Twins. It seems you’re on their books for a matter of a sov. or so advanced you at odd times. They’ve been most affectionate in their inquiries about you.”

It wasn’t pleasant to be reminded thus on my first morning back at work of the burden of debt which still pressed on me from the old, and I humbly hoped bygone, days of my extravagance. Not even a broken arm or a dangerous fever will wipe off old scores.

Wallop rather enjoyed going through the catalogue of my debts.

“Then there’s Tucker, the pastrycook, wants half-a-sov. at the very least, and Weeden, the tobacconist, a florin for mild cigarettes, and—”

“Yes, yes,” I said; “I know all about it, and I’m going to pay them all.”

“That’s a good job,” remarked Wallop, “and the sooner you tell them all so the better. They’d all like to have your present address.”

“I’m not sure that that would console them much,” said Crow. “It’s rather a shadier place than the old one.”

“Yes, when you come to think of it, a fellow would get a bit shy when he read the address, ‘care of Tom Jailbird, Esquire, Up a Slum, Drury Lane.’”

“Look here!” cried I, suddenly starting up; “don’t you call my friend names, please.”

Nothing could have delighted the genial pair more than my excitement. They greeted my protest with laughter, and winking at one another, continued to talk among themselves.

“Good practice, I should think. Crow, living with a chap like that—get used to prison fare. Come all the easier later on.”

“Wonder if they practise picking one another’s pockets to keep their hands in, of an evening.”

“I’m told that jailbird has got an album full of tickets-of-leave.”

“Ah! His father must have travelled a good bit in his time.”

It was pitiful, paltry jesting, but it was more than I could stand.

“Will you stop?” I shouted.

“Nobody was speaking to you,” said Wallop.

“You were speaking of my friend!” I exclaimed.

“More shame to you for chumming up with such disreputable lot,” said Crow.

“Do you hear? stop it!” I shouted.

“We’ll stop it,” said Wallop, “when—”

I did not wait to hear more, but rushed upon the speaker.

The upshot might have been serious for me in my present weak condition, and being one against two. But before my blow could be returned Hawkesbury, who had so far been a silent witness to the scene, sprang from his place and pulled me away. I struggled to get free, but he held me firm, as he said, “Batchelor, don’t be foolish. You two, be quiet, will you, or I must report you to my uncle. Fighting is not allowed in here.”

“I didn’t want to fight,” said Wallop, putting up his hand to his smarting cheek, “but I’ll have it out with him.”

“Young prig!” growled Crow, savagely.

“You hear what I say,” said Hawkesbury. “I won’t allow it to go any further. Here, Batchelor, go to your seat, and don’t be absurd.”

This tone of authority and his unasked-for interference irritated me as much as ever the language of my two adversaries had done. Hawkesbury was always getting the pull of me in ways like this.

I retired sulkily to my seat, saying I would thrash any one who insulted Smith in my presence, at which the others sneered.

“All I can say is,” said Wallop, with his hand still up to his face, “if I don’t get that thirty shillings he owes me to-morrow, I’ll show him up in a way that will astonish him—that’s all.”

With which threat he took up his hat and went out, leaving me in a very agitated and uncomfortable frame of mind, as the reader may guess.

I would far sooner have been thrashed out and out by Wallop than be left thus under what Hawkesbury would certainly consider an obligation to him.

“I thought it best,” said he, in his insinuating way, “to interfere. You are really not well enough for that sort of thing, Batchelor.”

During the rest of the day my mind was too uneasy to permit me to make much progress with my work, and I was glad when evening came and I could escape with my friend.

“You look fagged,” said he, as I took his arm.

“I am rather,” said I, “and worried too, Jack.”

“What about?” he asked.

Then I told him all about my debts; and we spent the rest of the evening in a sort of committee of ways and means.

Taken separately my debts were none of them very large, but added all together their total was something appalling. Ten pounds would scarcely cover them, and that did not include what I owed the doctor.

It was a serious business, without doubt.

Wallop’s threat to insist on immediate payment, or else “show me up” before the partners and my other creditors, may have been mere bounce; but it may equally well have been in earnest, in which case I was ruined.

Jack’s one solicitude that evening was to keep me from fretting too much. But it is all very well to say, “Don’t fret,” and another thing to remove the cause of fretting. And that we could neither of us do.

Jack had no money. What little he had saved he had spent on books or sent home to Mrs Shield. As for Mr Smith, senior, even if I had cared to ask him to help me, I knew he had barely enough to keep body and soul together. The idea of borrowing from Doubleday occurred to me, but Smith promptly discouraged it. Besides, I had once asked him for a loan, and he had refused it, on the ground he never lent money to anybody.

“The only thing,” said Jack, “is to write home to your uncle.”

I could scarcely help smiling at the idea. I knew my uncle better than Jack Smith did, and I might as well hope to get blood out of a stone as expect him to pay for my extravagances in London.

However, Jack was so sure it was the right and only thing to do that I finally consented to sit down and make a clean breast of it, which I did in the following note:—

“Dear Uncle,—I am better now, and back at work. I am sorry to say, however, I am in a good deal of difficulty about money. Before my illness I had got into extravagant ways and run into debt. I enclose a list of what I believe I owe at the present moment. You will see—not including the doctor’s bill—it comes to £10 2 shillings 4 pence. The names marked with a star are clerks at the office who have lent me money, I am sorry to say, for gambling and other purposes. I don’t know what to do about paying them back. I thought if you wouldn’t mind advancing the amount I could pay you back so much a week out of my salary. I hope and trust you will help me in my difficulty. I need hardly say I have seen the folly of my old ways, and am determined to live carefully and economically in future. Do please write by return and help me.

“Your affect. nephew,—

“Fred. Batchelor.”

Jack approved of this effusion as businesslike and to the point.

“You haven’t gone out of the way to excuse yourself,” said he, “and I dare say it will go down all the better for that. If he doesn’t write and send up the money I shall be surprised.”

Poor Jack! A lot he knew about uncles of my sort!

However, I felt more comfortable to have written the letter, and if I could only have been sure Wallop’s threat was mere idle bluster I should have slept easily.

As it was, I had had rather a stirring day for my first one out, and at the end of it felt a good deal less game for work than at the beginning. Nothing could exceed Jack’s tenderness and anxiety to relieve me of as much worry as possible. When I was in bed he came and read aloud to me. It was Virgil he read—which he was working at for his examination. And I remember that evening lying half awake, half asleep, listening now to him, thinking now of my debts, mixing up Aeneas with Wallop, and Mr Shoddy with Laocoön, and poor old Priam with my uncle.

The following morning I rose only half refreshed, and made my way anxiously to the office. One of the first fellows I met was Wallop, who greeted my approach with a surly grin.

I felt sure at that moment he had meant what he threatened yesterday, and my heart quailed within me at the prospect.

“Well, young prig,” said he, “I suppose you’ve brought my money?”

“No,” said I; “I’m afraid I must ask you to wait a little longer. I hope you won’t do anything for a day or two, at any rate. I will do my best to get it by then.”

He laughed in my face, and evidently enjoyed my distress.

“You sung a different tune yesterday, my boy, when you hit me. Do you remember? That wasn’t the payment I wanted!”

“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” said I.

“Well, I mean to show you I pay my debts more punctually than you do,” said he; and with that he gave me a cuff on my head which sent me reeling half across the office.

I could not—I dare not—return it, and he knew it.

“There,” said he, laughing brutally; “now we’re quits! As to that thirty shillings, I’ll let you off, as it has been paid me.”

“Paid you!” I exclaimed, in utter bewilderment. “Who by?”

“Hawkesbury!”

Chapter Twenty Nine.

How I began to see Daylight through my Troubles.

Those of my readers who have read their Virgil will most likely remember an observation made by one of the gentlemen who figure conspicuously in the story of the Aeneid. He dreaded his hereditary enemies, the Greeks, under any circumstances; but he never dreaded them so much as when they came and offered him presents!

This was pretty much my feeling when I was told that my debt to Wallop had been paid for me by Hawkesbury.

There had been a time in my life when I almost liked Hawkesbury. More recently I had suspected him of being not quite the angel I once believed him. Later still I had felt my suspicion grow to very decided dislike. And now, at the moment when he made me his debtor for thirty shillings, I positively loathed him.

I could not guess his motive. I was certain it was not out of pure love for me or pity for Wallop. Indeed, I was pretty certain there was far more mischief than good in the action. I would sooner have owed Wallop thirty pounds than Hawkesbury thirty shillings. He knew it, too, and for that very reason paid my debt to Wallop.

“Whatever business of Hawkesbury’s is it?” I demanded of Wallop, as soon as I could find words to express myself.

“Goodness knows,” replied Wallop, with a laugh.

“But I won’t let him do it. I don’t want him to pay my debts. You must give him the money back, Wallop.” Wallop grinned delightedly.

“Oh, quite so. It’s rather likely, when I’ve been waiting for my money the best part of a year, I should decline to receive it when I’ve got the chance! No, my boy, you can settle with Hawkesbury now. You owe him the thirty bob, not me!”

What was I to do? I demanded an explanation of Hawkesbury as soon as he appeared.

“Wallop tells me you’ve paid him the thirty shillings I owed him,” said I.

“Oh, he shouldn’t have told you,” said Hawkesbury, with the meek air of a benevolent man who doesn’t like to hear his own good deeds talked about.

“I wish you hadn’t done it,” said I.

“Oh, you mustn’t think of it,” said he, blandly. “It was only because I heard him threaten to get you into trouble if you didn’t pay him, and I should have been so sorry if that had happened.”

“Thank you, but really I prefer to pay my own debts!”

He laughed as if it was a joke.

“I’m sure you do; but as I knew you couldn’t do it, I thought it would be a relief to you if I did it for you.”

Could he be in earnest? He talked as if I ought to be grateful to him instead of in a rage, as I was. Certainly it was a queer position to be in—storming at a fellow who has just saved you from debt, perhaps disgrace, possibly ruin, I couldn’t make out what to think of it.

“I daresay you thought you were doing me a good turn,” I said as civilly as I could, “but as it happens I wish you had let the thing alone.”

He sighed forgivingly and went to his desk.

The moment Jack and I got outside at dinner-time I unburdened my woes to him.

He was in as great if not a greater commotion than I was.

“What does he mean by it?” he exclaimed. “Fred, you must pay him back at once, whatever it costs you!”

“All very well,” said I, “but you know I’ve nothing.”

“Can’t you pawn anything? can’t you get a job of some sort to do? anything to pay him off. I shall be miserable as long as you owe him a farthing!”

He spoke with a vehemence that quite astonished me.—“You don’t mean to say you’re going to let yourself stop in his debt?” he exclaimed, when I did not answer.

“Not a second after I can get the money.”

“When will you hear from your uncle?”

“To-morrow morning if he writes by return. But I’ve no hopes from him.”

“I suppose it would not do to ask the partners,” said Jack.

I was thunderstruck at the very idea. For Jack to entertain it for a moment only showed how desperately in earnest he was.

We could get no light on the subject, and I had the pleasure of being reminded by Hawkesbury’s smile all day long that I was in his power, and saw no way out.

That whole evening Jack and I sat and discussed the situation. We even rose early, to consult Mr Smith the elder on his return to the lodgings. He soon appreciated our difficulty; but he could suggest no relief. For he was as poor as either of us, and had as few friends.

My uncle’s letter did not come that day or the next.

Meanwhile I knew no peace. Hawkesbury’s manner was more suave and condescending than ever.

To the rest of my fellow-clerks during those two days I was the most cross-grained and obnoxious comrade conceivable. My only relief seemed to be in quarrelling with somebody, and as they all laid themselves out to bait and tease me one way or another I had a pretty lively time of it.

My chief hope was (and Jack shared in it), that if my uncle had been determined not to help me at all he would probably have written by return. The delay might mean he was at least considering the matter.

At last, on the third day of my waiting, the postman knocked at our door. With beating heart I rushed to receive the letter which I knew must be for me.

It was, but it was not from my uncle, it was from Hawkesbury.

“My Dear Batchelor,” he wrote, “I am very sorry to see that I have given you offence by settling your debt with Wallop. I really meant it for the best, because I knew you could not pay, and I was afraid if it came to my uncle’s or Mr Barnacle’s knowledge it might be awkward for you, for I happen to know my uncle feels very strongly about clerks getting into debt, especially through gambling. I’m afraid I can’t undo what has been done, for Wallop will hardly give me back the money. So I write to tell you how sorry I am, and to say I hope you will forgive me. Please do not trouble about the repayment of the loan; you must take whatever time suits you. I trust this little matter will not make us worse friends than before.

“Yours sincerely,—

“E. Hawkesbury.

“P.S.—I write this as I shall be away from the office the next two days, while we are moving to our new house. When we are settled in I hope you will come and see us.”

What was I to think of it? For the last three days I had been losing no opportunity of snubbing this fellow, and to demonstrate to him that, so far from feeling obliged to him, I disliked him all the more for what he had done. In return for which he now writes me this beautiful letter, breathing forgiveness and considerateness, and absolutely apologising for having paid thirty shillings to save me from ruin!

Either he must be a paragon of the first water, or else—

I gave it up, and handed the letter across to Jack Smith. He read it, with knit brows, from beginning to end, and then a second time; after which he tossed it back to me and said, “Well, what do you think of that?”

“What do you?”

“Rot, every bit of it!”

I expected he would say so. “But, Jack,” I began.

“You don’t mean to say,” said Jack, “you’re going to let yourself be taken in by that stuff?”

“But unless he means what he says, what possible motive can he have for writing a letter like that?”

Jack did not answer. We did not discuss the matter further, but I went down to the office that morning with the letter in my pocket, heartily wishing I could make up my mind what to think of it all as easily as Jack Smith.

One thing, at any rate, was a comfort—I should not see Hawkesbury for two days.

But if I was to be spared the sight of one unwelcome person, I had in store for me another which I little expected. I was coming with Jack out of the office on the second evening afterwards, after a hard day’s work, wondering why my uncle did not write, and sighing inwardly at the prospect of seeing Hawkesbury back next day, when a stranger accosted me in the street.

At least, I thought him a stranger until, standing full in front of him, I saw his face and heard him speak.

“Oh, good evening, Mr Batchelor, sir! The governor’s compliments, sir—Mr Shoddy’s compliments—and he’ll be particularly glad if you’ll step round now, sir.”

I owed Shoddy three pounds, and this summons fell on my ear like a knell.

“Better go,” said Jack.

How sick Jack must be of me, thought I, by this time. Ever since I had been back with him he had been for ever worried either with my health or my debts or my office rows. I was half tempted to ask him not to come, but I could not bring myself to be sufficiently self-denying.

“What does Mr Shoddy want me for?” I asked of the assistant as we walked along.

“I believe, sir, between ourselves, it’s about your little account, sir. How do the clothes wear, sir? Nice stuff that tweed we made them of. Could do you a very nice suit of the same now, sir, dirt cheap. Two fifteen to you, and measure the coat. We should charge three guineas to any one else.”

It occurred to me to wonder why so great exception should be made in my favour, especially as I had owed my present bill so long. However, we let the fellow rattle on at his shoppy talk, and soon arrived at Mr Shoddy’s ready-made clothes establishment.

I felt rather like a criminal being brought up before a judge than a customer before the tailor of his patronage.

“Good evening, Mr Batchelor,” said the tailor. “Take a seat, sir.”

I did so, and Jack took another.

A long pause ensued.

“You wished to see me,” observed I.

“Well, yes, I do,” said the tailor. “The fact is, Mr Batchelor, you aren’t treating me well. Those clothes were sold you for cash, sir—cash down!”

“Yes, I’m afraid I have been rather slow in paying, Mr Shoddy,” said I.

“Quite so, sir! The question is, have you the amount with you now—three pounds plus six shillings for interest to date?”

“I certainly have not the money with me,” said I.

“Ah! Then you are prepared to give me security, of course? Now what do you say to my drawing on Messrs Merrett, Barnacle, and Company, at one month, for the amount? I should be satisfied with their bill.”

I nearly jumped off my seat with horror.

“Merrett, Barnacle, and Company pay my tailor’s bill! Oh, no! quite out of the question!” I exclaimed.

“Ah, that’s a pity! I should have liked their bill, and you could pay them by instalments.”

“I wouldn’t on any account have them spoken to on the subject,” said I.

“Well, perhaps your friend here—”

“No,” said Jack; “I’ve no money at all.”

“Your uncle possibly—”

How had the man heard that I had an uncle? He seemed to know all about me, and I began to get uncomfortable.

“My uncle, I fear, would not advance the money. I have already asked him, and had no reply.”

“This is rather awkward for you, sir,” said Mr Shoddy, coolly. “I quite hoped you would have been prepared with a proposal.”

“I might be able to pay you a shilling a week,” I faltered.

Mr Shoddy shrugged his shoulders. “Three pounds six is sixty-six shillings, interest six and six; seventy-two shillings and sixpence—seventy-two and a half weeks—one year and four and a half months to pay off. Thank you, sir; can’t do it.”

“I don’t know what to do if you won’t accept that,” I faltered.

“Three shillings a week, secured,” said the tailor, “would meet the case, I think. What do you think?”

“I could never keep it up, I fear,” said I; “but I’d try.”

“Thank you, sir. You draw your salary weekly, I believe?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Oh, then, if I just look in and see one of the principals and explain, he’ll stop the three shillings a week for me, which will save all trouble. What time are they generally at home?”

The cool resolve of the man to make my employers a party to my debt positively terrified me. I begged him to give up the idea, promised wildly to do all sorts of things to pay him, and entreated him to give me more time.

He was politely inexorable. “Pleased to oblige you, but, after a year, we must look after our little accounts, mustn’t we? Let’s see, to-morrow I’m engaged. I’ll look in on Friday and settle it.”

No argument or entreaty of mine could make him understand such a step would be ruination to me. He was firmly convinced a guarantee from the firm would be the best security for his money, and so, simply disregarding all my protests and appeals, gaily promised to see me again on Friday.

What was I to do? My only hope was in my uncle’s answer, and that, as the reader knows, was small enough.

The following morning it arrived. It was brief, and to the point:—

“Dear Nephew,—I hold that lads of your age cannot learn too soon that the people to pay debts are those who make them. I return your list, as it may be useful.

“Yours,—

“F. Jakeman.”

It was what I had expected. My last hope of a respite now gone to the winds!

We walked down disconsolately to the office. Hawkesbury was back in his place, smiling as usual. But the dread of Shoddy’s visit to-morrow drove away all thought for the present of resentment against Hawkesbury. I was even constrained to greet him civilly, and when he asked if I had received his letter, to say yes, I was much obliged.

On leaving the office that evening the tailor’s assistant was hanging about outside as before. I imagined he had some fresh message, and went up to him eagerly. “Well,” said I, “what is it?”

“Nothing that I know of,” said he. “I was just passing this way, and thought I’d see how you were getting on. No orders, I suppose? None of your young gentlemen want a nice cheap suit? Pleased to make you a consideration for the introduction. If one or two of you joined together and took a piece, could do the lot very reasonably indeed.”

So, not only was I to be exposed before my employers to-morrow, but meanwhile my movements were being watched, for fear I should run away, I suppose.

“Jack,” said I, as we walked along, “I believe you are right after all.”

“How?” said Jack.

“The only thing to do is to tell the partners all about it, before Shoddy comes to-morrow!”

“Well,” said Jack, “I don’t see it could be much worse than letting them hear all about it from him.”

With which consoling but desperate resolution we proceeded.

To beguile the time, we went round by Style Street.

A youth was standing having his boots blacked as we came up. We thought we recognised the figure—though till he turned round we could not recall his name. Then to our surprise we saw it was Flanagan.

But such a swell as he was! He had alarmed me more than once by the grandeur of his attire when I had met him at the parties of the “usual lot.” I had seen him rarely since. As for Jack, the two had scarcely met since they left Stonebridge House.

“Hullo, Batchelor,” he cried, as we approached, “that you? I heard you’d been ill, and—why, Smith,” he broke out, catching sight of my companion, “how are you? Haven’t seen you for ages! And the rum thing is I was speaking about you this very moment—wasn’t I, kid?”

“Yaas,” said Billy, with a grin.

“You know, Batchelor, you once introduced me to this young gentleman when we were rolling home one night after a spree—fearfully slow parties some of those!—and I’ve given him a job pretty often since—and he was just telling me about you. Lodging Drury Lane way, I hear?”

“Yes,” said I. There was something so genuine in the tone of my old schoolfellow that I could almost forgive him his grand clothes.

“I say, couldn’t you come along to my rooms to-night? I’m all by myself. Jolly to talk over old days. Come on, Smith.”

“Thanks,” said Smith, who, I could see, felt half shy of this old comrade, “but I have to work for an exam., and it’s coming off now in a week or two.”

“Well, Batchelor, you come,” said Flanagan.

I hesitated a moment, and then consented. The fact was, I suspected Flanagan might possibly get his clothes made at Shoddy’s. In which case, as to all appearance he must be a good customer, he might, I thought, use his influence with the tailor to prevent the threatened visit to-morrow.

So I went with him, much to his satisfaction, and we had a pleasant evening together. He confided to me his troubles. How he was getting tired of the “usual lot,” and of London altogether, and wanted his father to let him be a farmer. How he was always getting into trouble up here in town, living by himself, with far more money than he wanted, and no one “to pull him up,” as he called it. How he often recalled Stonebridge House with all its hardships, and wished himself back there instead of in this unsatisfactory world of London.

“If I could only grind like Smith,” said he, “it wouldn’t be so bad; but what’s the use of my grinding? In fact, what’s the use of my being up here at all, when I only get into rows, and spend one half of my time going to the dogs and the other in pulling up?”