"My Friend Smith" (continued 3)

“Only I’ve come after it,” faltered I.

“Have you, though? And who told you to do that, I’d like to know?”

“My uncle—that is I had a letter—” but here a general laugh interrupted my confession, and I felt very foolish indeed.

“So you’ve got an uncle, have you? Do you ever lend him your gold watch?”

This witticism was lost on me. I didn’t see the connection between my uncle borrowing my gold watch (if I had had one), and the situation at Messrs Merrett, Barnacle, and Company’s. But it would never do to make myself disagreeable.

“I’ve not got a gold watch, or a silver one either,” I said.

This seemed to occasion fresh merriment among my catechist and his fellows.

“Why don’t you say who told you to come?” demanded the clerk.

“I did say,” mildly replied I. “I got a letter.”

“What’s that to do with it? I got a letter to-day, didn’t I, Wallop, to tell me my washerwoman had changed her address. But that’s no reason for my coming here.”

This was perfectly sound reasoning. So I amended my explanation.

“I got a letter from Merrett, Barnacle, and Company.—”

“Messrs. Merrett, Barnacle, and Company, if you please,” put in the clerk.

“I beg your pardon,” said I, “from Messrs Merrett, Barnacle, and Company, telling me to be here at 10:15.”

“Oh. Why didn’t you say that before? What’s the use of prevaricating when it’s just as easy to tell the truth straight out, eh? What’s the time now?”

“Twenty past,” said I, looking at the clock.

“And you call that punctual? That’s a nice beginning, anyhow. What’s your name?”

“Batchelor,” said I.

This again appeared to afford amusement to the company in general; and one or two jokes at the expense of my name were forthcoming, which I bore with as good a grace as I could.

At length it pleased the clerk who had cross-examined me to get off his stool, and after poking the fire and consulting the directory, and skirmishing pleasantly with a fellow-clerk for a minute or two, to go to the door of the inner-room and knock there.

“Come in,” I heard a voice answer, and the clerk entered.

He emerged again in a moment and beckoned to me. Now was the time! I braced myself up to the ordeal, and not heeding the facetious dig in the ribs which the clerk gave me in passing, I put on my best face, and entered the awful presence.

Two gentlemen sat facing one another at the table, one of them old, the other middle-aged. These I instantly guessed to be Messrs Merrett and Barnacle. Mr Barnacle, the junior partner, who had a sharp voice and a stern face, undertook my examination, Mr Merrett only coming in occasionally with some mild observation.

“You are Batchelor,” said Mr Barnacle, when I had entered and carefully closed the door behind me. I noticed he held in his hand my original letter of application. “You are Frederick Batchelor. How is it you are late?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” faltered I, at this rather discouraging beginning, “but—”

And here I stuck. What was the use of trying to explain what still remained the fact?

Mr Barnacle eyed me keenly, and continued, “You are fourteen, you say, have just left school, and are good at arithmetic. What school were you at?”

“Stonebridge House, sir.”

“Where is that?”

“In Cliffshire.”

“And you think you would suit us?”

“I’d try, sir,” said I.

“Do you know what our work is?” said Mr Barnacle.

“No, sir, not exactly,” I replied.

“Generally speaking,” mildly put in Mr Merrett, “you’ve a sort of idea.”

“Yes,” said I, not quite sure whether I was telling the truth or not.

Mr Barnacle touched his bell, and the clerk appeared.

“Bring me the invoice-book, Doubleday.”

Mr Doubleday returned directly with a large account-book, which he deposited on the table before the junior partner.

Mr Barnacle pushed it towards me.

“I want a list made out of all the goods sent to Mr Walker, of Bombay, since the beginning of the year. Let me see you make it out.” Then touching his bell again, he said to Mr Doubleday, the clerk, “Here, Doubleday, give this boy some invoice paper and a pen, and let him write at your desk. He is to make a copy of all Walker’s invoices since the beginning of this year.”

“Yes, sir,” said Doubleday.

“Be particular that he receives no assistance, and bring me the sheets when completed. Batchelor, take this book and follow Mr Doubleday to the counting-house.”

“Do it as well as you can, without any help,” mildly put in Mr Merrett, by way of encouragement.

I followed my conductor in a state of terrible trepidation, feeling that all this wasn’t a bit like what I had expected my interview with Messrs Merrett, Barnacle, and Company to be.

“Here, hop up, young fellow,” said Mr Doubleday, pointing to a high stool at one of the desks, “and pull up your boot.”

I concluded this last expression meant make haste, and I accordingly pulled up my boot, and lost no time in setting myself to my task.

I was to make out a list of all that Walker of Bombay had had since the beginning of the year. I opened the big account-book; it contained a great many accounts, some long, some short. I began at the beginning, and searched through for any belonging to Walker of Bombay.

At length, after about twenty pages, I found an entry dated December 30th last year. That would not do; I was only to make a list of what had been sent this year; and yet, on looking again, I saw it noted that these goods, though entered on the 30th of December, had not been shipped till the 2nd of January. Here was a poser to begin with. I looked up and caught the eye of Doubleday, who, evidently enjoying my perplexity, was watching me.

“I say,” I ventured to say, “does he mean—”

“Hold your tongue, sir,” broke out the virtuous Doubleday. “Didn’t you hear Mr Barnacle say you were to get no assistance? What do you mean by it? I’m ashamed of you; so’s Wallop.”

“I shall mention the matter to the governor,” observed Wallop, with a grin at his ally.

“Oh, don’t,” I said. “I beg your pardon!” It was evidently hopeless to expect any light from without on the problem, so I decided for myself I would include the account in question. I was just beginning to copy it out, and to shut my ears to the chaff that was going on around me, when the counting-house door opened, and the solemn face of my friend Smith appeared, asking if Messrs Merrett, Barnacle, and Company were at home.

His quick eye detected me at once, and I felt very uncomfortable, lest he should misunderstand the state of affairs and jump to the conclusion that I had been already engaged by the firm. At all risks I determined to put him right on this point.

“I’m not taken on, Jack,” I said, before his question had been answered. “They’ve given me—”

“I’ll give you a box on the ears, young gentleman,” broke out the amazed Doubleday. “You’re forgetting yourself. Go on with your work. Now then, young hop-o’-my-thumb,” said he, addressing himself to Smith, “what do you want?”

Smith solemnly produced a letter, which he exhibited to the senior clerk.

“Oh, you’re after the place too, are you, young bull’s-eye?”

“Yes,” said Smith, solemnly, and apparently not aware that the last expression had been intended as a joke.

“Why don’t you laugh, eh?” cried Wallop; “we all laugh here when Doubles makes a joke; don’t we, Crow?”

Mr Crow, thus appealed to, replied, “Oh, of course. We don’t get much laughing, though.”

Mr Doubleday waxed red in the face at this, and rounded on Smith.

“Don’t go staring at me, do you hear? Look in the fireplace, can’t you? and then you won’t set alight to anything. Do you know this kid here?” added he, pointing at me over his shoulder.

“Yes,” replied Smith.

“Do you know he’s after the place?”

“Yes,” said Smith.

“Then what do you want to come after it for? One of you’s enough, ain’t it?”

Smith stared solemnly at the speaker, whereat that virtuous individual waxed once more very wroth.

“Look here, if you can’t cast your eyes somewhere else, young fellow, I’ll cast them for you, so now. Why don’t you answer my question?”

“I was told to be here at half-past ten,” replied Jack.

“Then what do you mean by coming at twenty-eight past, eh, you young ruffian? Stay outside the door till the right time.”

Smith obeyed solemnly, and for exactly two minutes remained outside. At the end of that period he returned.

Mr Doubleday, evidently perplexed for the moment how to get a rise out of him, announced him to the partners, and I saw him vanish into the inner-room.

“I say, Wallop,” said Doubleday, when he had disappeared, “I hope they’re not going to take on a couple of them.”

My heart bounded as I listened. The bare suggestion was delightful.

“I hope not,” said Wallop. “I don’t see what they want one for.”

“Oh, I do,” said Crow (who I supposed had hitherto been the junior), “he’ll be jolly useful, you know, running errands, and all that.”

“All I can say is, unless he does it better than you, he’ll be very little use.”

“There you go,” said Crow, in a sulk. “The more a fellow does for you the more you growl. You see if I get you any more cheap neckties. I’m always ashamed, as it is, to ask for ninepenny sailor’s knots and one-and-twopenny kid gloves at the shop.”

“Tell the truth—they’re one-and-three. I suppose you get one-and-twopenny and pocket the odd penny!”

This pleasant recrimination might have proceeded I know not how long, greatly to the detriment of my task, had not some one at the other desk changed the subject.

“Don’t you fret, you there,” said he, “the junior’s not for you at all. He’s for the imports. I told the governor we wanted a boy in our department last week.”

“You did!” exclaimed Doubleday. “Why, I told him we couldn’t possibly do without more help here in the exports a fortnight ago.”

I don’t know if any one saw my face when this glorious announcement was made. I could have danced on my desk for joy! Just suppose—suppose it should turn out that Jack Smith should be taken on in the export department and I in the import—or the other way round! I could hardly contain myself at the bare idea. Wouldn’t I be glad! I would get Wallop one-and-fourpenny gloves and only charge him one-and-three for them, to signalise the joyous event. I would let myself out as a slave to the entire office, if only Jack Smith and I were both taken on! How was he getting on in the partners’ room? I wondered. I hoped—

“I suppose you’ve done,” said Doubleday, looking round at this point; “if so you can hook it.”

“I haven’t quite,” said I, dashing back to my work.

I finished at last, and before Jack had come out of the inner-room too.

I handed my papers to Doubleday, who looked at them critically.

“Well,” he said, “that’s a pretty show. Have a look at this, Wallop, I say. Your youngest grandchild could make his sevens nearly as well as that!”

As Mr Wallop was about eighteen years old, I ventured to regard this language as figurative on the part of Mr Doubleday, and trusted the sevens were not quite as bad as he made out.

“All right,” said Doubleday, “you can cut home to your mother-in-law. You’ll probably hear no more about it. There’s millions of other loafers after the berth.”

“When will I know?” I faltered.

“Let’s see, this is the nineteenth century, ain’t it? Call again about the year two thousand. February the thirty-first’s the most convenient day for us, we’re all at home then. Ta-ta.”

I departed rather disconsolately, and waited half an hour outside in the street for Smith.

“Well,” said I, when presently he appeared, “how did you get on?”

“Not very grand,” said he. “I had to do some accounts like you. I heard one of the partners say yours were pretty good when the clerk brought them in.”

“Really?” cried I, with pleasure I could hardly disguise. “But, I say, Jack, unless you get on too, it’ll be an awful sell.”

“We can’t both get on,” said Jack.

“I don’t know,” said I. And I related what I had overheard in the counting-house.

Smith brightened up at this. A very little encouragement was enough to set us building castles in the air. And we did build castles in the air that morning as we paced the crowded city streets.

By the time these architectural exercises were over it was time for me to go back to the station and catch my train; but not before I had tried to extract from Jack what he had been doing with himself since he was expelled from Stonebridge House.

As before, he was very uncommunicative. All I heard was that the reason he didn’t get my letters at Packworth was that he had told me, or thought he had told me, to address my letters to “T,” and I had always addressed them to “J.” But even had I addressed them correctly, he would only have received the first, as a fortnight after he left Stonebridge he went to London, where he had hitherto been working as a grocer’s shop-boy. You should have seen the look of disgust with which he referred to this part of his life! But now, having seen Merrett, Barnacle, and Company’s advertisement, he was applying for their situation.

But in all his story he would tell me nothing about his home, or his relatives, so that as to knowing who my friend Smith was, or where he came from, I went back that afternoon to Brownstroke as much in the dark as ever. But I had found him!

Chapter Eleven.

How my Friend Smith and I entered on New Duties in New Company.

The two days which followed my eventful expedition to London were among the most anxious I ever spent. Young and unsophisticated as I was, I knew quite enough of my own affairs to feel that a crisis in my life had been reached, and that a great deal, nay, everything, depended on how my application for Merrett, Barnacle, and Company’s situation turned out. If I succeeded there, I should have made a start in life—modest enough, truly, but a start all the same—and who was to say whether from the bottom of the ladder I might not some day and somehow get to the top? But if I missed, I knew full well my uncle would take my affairs into his own hands, and probably put me to work which would be distasteful, and in which I should be miserable. So you see, reader, I had a good deal staked on my little venture.

The miserable thing was that I might never hear at all from the firm, but go on hoping against hope, day after day, in a suspense which would be worse than knowing straight off that I had failed. However, I kept up appearances before my uncle, for I didn’t want him to think it was no use waiting a little before he took me in hand himself. I spent several hours a day working up my arithmetic, making out imaginary invoices against every imaginable person, and generally preparing myself for office work. And the rest of my time I spent in cogitation and speculation as to my future destiny, and the merits and demerits of those enviable mortals, Doubleday, Wallop, and Crow, of the Export Department of Messrs Merrett, Barnacle, and Company.

On Tuesday morning two letters came for me with the London postmark, one in Jack Smith’s well-remembered handwriting, the other with the awful initials, “M., B., and Company,” on the seal.

I opened Smith’s letter first. It was very short.

“Dear Fred,—I hear to-day I have got the situation. I’m afraid that means you have missed it. I’m awfully sorry, old boy, that’s all I can say. I hope in any case you will come to London. I’ll write again. Ever yours,—Jack.”

I flung down the letter in a whirl of mingled feelings. That Jack Smith had got the situation I could not help being glad. But that I had lost it was simply crushing. Although I had kept reminding myself all along in words that the chances were very remote, I yet discovered how I had at heart been reckoning on my success almost to a certainty. And now I was utterly floored.

All this was the first hurried impression caused on my mind by my friend Smith’s letter; and for a minute I quite forgot, in my mortification, that I had in my hand another letter—a letter from Merrett, Barnacle, and Company themselves. Then suddenly remembering it, I called to mind also the vague rumour of two clerks being wanted in the office, and with new hope and wild anxiety I tore open the envelope.

Could I believe my eyes?

“Frederick Batchelor is informed that his application for junior clerkship is successful. He will be required to begin work on Monday next at 9 a.m.”

For the space of two minutes, reader, I knew not if I was standing on my head or my feet. I will pass over the excited day or two which followed. My uncle, of course, did what he could to check my glee. He said Merrett, Barnacle, and Company must be easily pleased, but they would soon find out their mistake, and that I might as well make up my mind to be dismissed after the first fortnight, and so on. I didn’t take it much to heart; and after the first gush did not trouble my relative much with my prospects.

I was, however, a little curious to know what proposal he would make about my board and lodging in the great metropolis, which, after all, was a matter of some little consequence to me.

He did not see fit to relieve my anxiety on this point until the very eve of my departure from Brownstroke, when he said, abruptly, “You will be gone before I’m down to-morrow, Frederick. Don’t forget the train starts at two minutes before six. I have arranged for you to lodge with Mrs Nash, whose address is on this card. There will be time to take your trunk round there before you go to your work. For the present I shall pay for your lodging.”

“Shall I get my meals there?” I ventured to ask.

“Eh! You must arrange about that sort of thing yourself; and take my advice, and don’t be extravagant.”

As my salary was to be eight shillings a week, there wasn’t much chance of my eating my head off, in addition to providing myself decently with the ordinary necessaries of life.

“I say I shall pay your lodging for the present, but before long I expect you to support yourself entirely. I cannot afford it, Frederick.”

It had never occurred to me before that I cost anything to keep, but the fact was slowly beginning to dawn on me, and the prospect of having shortly to support myself cast rather a damper over the pictures I had drawn to myself of my pleasant life in London.

“Good-bye,” said my uncle. “Here is half-a-sovereign for you, which remember is on no account to be spent. Keep it by you, and don’t part with it. Good-night.”

And so my uncle and I parted.

It was with rather subdued feelings that next morning I set out betimes for the station, lugging my small trunk along with me. That trunk and the half-sovereign I was not to spend comprised, along with the money which was to pay my fare, and the clothes I wore, the sum of my worldly goods. The future lay all unknown before me. My work at Hawk Street, my residence at Mrs Nash’s, my eight shillings a week, I had yet to find out what they all meant; at present all was blank—all, that is, except one spot, and that was the spot occupied by my friend Smith. I could reckon on him, I knew, whatever else failed me.

I caught my train without much difficulty, as I was at the station at least half an hour before it was due, and had a third-class carriage to myself all the way to London. There were not many people travelling at that early hour, and when I reached the great metropolis at seven o’clock the station and streets looked almost as deserted as on the former occasion they had been crowded.

Mrs Nash’s residence, so the card said, was in Beadle Square, wherever that might be. I was, however, spared the anxiety of hunting the place up, for my uncle had authorised me to spend a shilling in a cab for the occasion; and thus conveyed, after twistings and turnings which positively made my head ache, I arrived in state at my future lodging.

The “square” was, like many other City squares, a collection of tumbledown dingy houses built round an open space which might once have contained nothing but green grass and trees, but was now utterly destitute of either. There was indeed an enclosure within rusty and broken iron palings, but it contained nothing but mud, a few old beer-cans, and a lot of waste-paper, and one dead cat and one or two half-starved living ones. A miserable look-out, truly, as I stood on Mrs Nash’s doorstep with my trunk waiting to be let in.

A slatternly female, whom I supposed to be the servant, admitted me.

“Is Mrs Nash in?” said I.

“Yes, that’s me,” said the lady. “I suppose you’re young Batchelor.”

She spoke gruffly and like a person who was not very fond of boys.

“Yes,” said I.

“All right,” said she; “come in and bring your trunk.”

I obeyed. The place looked very dark and grimy, far worse than ever Stonebridge House had been. I followed her, struggling with my trunk, up the rickety staircase of a house which a hundred years ago might have been a stylish town residence, but which now was one of the forlornest ghosts of a house you ever saw.

I found myself at last in a big room containing several beds.

“Here’s where you’ll sleep,” said the female.

“Are there other boys here, then?” I asked, who had expected a solitary lodging.

“Yes, lots of ’em; and a bad lot too.”

“Are they Merrett, Barnacle, and Company’s boys?” I inquired.

“Who?” inquired Mrs Nash, rather bewildered.

I saw my mistake in time. Of course this was a regular lodging-house for office-boys generally.

“Leave your box there,” said Mrs Nash, “and come along.”

Leading to the floor below the dormitory, I was shown a room with a long table down the middle, with a lot of dirty pictures stuck on the wall, and one or two dirty books piled up in the corner.

“This is the parlour,” said she. “Are you going to board, young man?”

I looked at her inquiringly.

“Are you going to get your grub here or out of doors?” she said.

“Do the other boys get it here?” I asked.

“Some do, some don’t. What I say is, Are you going to or not?”

“What does it cost?” I said.

“Threepence breakfast and threepence supper,” said Mrs Nash.

I longed to ask her what was included in the bill of fare for these meals, but was too bashful.

“I think,” said I, “I had better have them, then.”

“All right,” said she, shortly. “Can’t have breakfast to-day; too late! Supper’s at nine, and lock-up at ten, there. Now you’d better cut, or you’ll be late at work.”

Yes, indeed! It would be no joke to be late my first morning.

“Please,” said I, “can you tell me the way to Hawk Street?”

“Where’s that?” said Mrs Nash. “I don’t know. Follow the tram lines when you get out of the square, they’ll take you to the City, and then—”

At this moment a youth appeared in the passage about my age with a hat on one side of his head, a cane in his hand, and a pipe, the bowl as big as an egg-cup, in his mouth.

“I say, look here, Mrs Nash,” said he, in a sleepy sort of voice; “why wasn’t I called this morning?”

“So you was,” said Mrs Nash.

“No, I wasn’t,” drawled the youth.

“That’s what you say,” observed the landlady. “I say you was; I called you myself.”

“Then you ought to have knocked louder. How do you suppose a fellow who was out at a party overnight is to hear you unless you knock hard? I shall be late at the office, all through you.”

Mrs Nash said “Shut up!” and the youth said “Shan’t shut up!” and Mrs Nash inquired why, if he was late, he did not go off instead of dawdling about there, like a gentleman?

This taunt seemed to incense the youth, who put his nose in the air and walked out without another word.

“There,” said Mrs Nash, pointing to his retreating form, “you’d best follow him; he’s going to the City, the beauty.”

I took the hint, and keeping “the beauty” at a respectful distance, followed in his lordly wake for about twenty minutes, until the rapidly-crowding streets told me I was in the City. Then, uncertain how to direct my steps, I quickened my pace and overtook him.

“Please can you tell me the way to Hawk Street?”

He took two or three good puffs out of his big pipe, and blew the smoke gracefully out of the corners of his mouth, and, by way of variety, out of his nose, and then said, in a condescending voice, “Yes, my man; first to the left and second to the right.”

He certainly was a very self-assured young man, and struck me as quite grand in his manners. I had positively to screw up my courage to ask him, “I say, you are one of Mrs Nash’s lodgers, aren’t you?”

He stared at me, not quite sure what to make of me.

“Only,” said I, by way of explanation, “I saw you there just now, and Mrs Nash said I’d better follow you.”

“Mrs Nash is a jolly sight too familiar. So are you.”

With which the stately youth marched on, his nose higher in the air than ever.

I was not greatly reassured by this first introduction, but for the time being I was too intent on reaching Merrett, Barnacle, and Company’s in good time to think of much beside. Fortunately my fellow-lodger’s direction was correct, and in a few minutes I found myself standing on familiar ground in Hawk Street.

When I entered the office the youth who rejoiced in the name of Crow was the only representative of the firm present. He was engaged in the intellectual task of filling up the ink-pots out of a big stone jar, and doing it very badly too, as the small puddles of ink on nearly every desk testified. He knew me at once, and greeted me with great alacrity.

“Hullo! young ’un, here you are. Look sharp and fill up the rest of these, do you hear? and mind you don’t make any spills!”

I proceeded to obey, while Mr Crow, quite a grandee now that there was some one in the office junior to himself, stood, with his legs apart, before the fireplace and read the Times, giving an occasional glance at my proceedings.

“Hold hard!” he cried, presently, in an excited manner, when, having filled all the ink-pots along one of the desks, I was proceeding to attack on the other side of the screen; “hold hard! you don’t want to fill up for the Imports, I say. They can do that themselves!”

Of course I agreed with him in this, and was just about restoring the jar to Mr Crow’s custody, when Jack Smith entered the office.

“Hullo! Jack,” I cried, feeling quite an old hand; “here you are. Isn’t it fine?”

“Rather,” said Jack, solemnly, returning my grasp. “I am glad.”

“So am I. I was in such a fright when—”

“Now then, you young ’un there,” said Crow, looking up from his paper, “don’t go dawdling, I say. Just stick fresh nibs in all the Export pens, and look sharp about it, too.”

“I’ll help you, Fred,” said Jack Smith, as I proceeded to obey.

“No, you won’t!” said Crow; “we don’t want you messing about in our department. You stick to your Imports.”

It was evident Exports and Imports at Messrs Merrett, Barnacle, and Company’s were not on absolutely brotherly terms. Anyhow I had to stick in the nibs unassisted.

Presently the other clerks began to drop in, among them Mr Doubleday, who was very witty on the subject of my appointment, and told Wallop he understood I was to be admitted into partnership next week, and would then sign all the cheques.

“All right!” said Wallop; “I’ll put off asking for a rise till next week.”

I was presumptuous enough to laugh at this, which greatly offended both the magnates. Doubleday ordered me to my desk instantly.

“Get on with your work, do you hear? and don’t stand grinning there!”

“What had I better do?” I inquired, mildly.

“Do?” said Mr Doubleday, proceeding to take up his pen and settle himself to work; “I’ll let you know what to— Look here. Crow,” he broke off, in a rage, pointing to one of the ink puddles which that hero had made, “here’s the same beastly mess again! Every Monday it’s the same—ink all over the place! Why on earth don’t you keep your messes to yourself?”

“That young ’un filled up to-day,” said Crow, coolly pointing to me.

I was so astounded by this false charge that I could hardly speak. At last I retorted, “I didn’t; you know I didn’t!”

“Yes, you did!” said Crow.

“I didn’t fill up that pot; it was done before I got here.”

“Don’t tell lies!” said Crow.

“I’m not telling lies!” cried I.

“Yes, you are!” said Crow. “I’m ashamed of you!”

“Oh, it was you, was it?” demanded Mr Doubleday, turning to me; “then just come and wipe it up. Look sharp!”

I was disposed to resist this piece of injustice to the utmost, but somehow the morning of my arrival it would hardly look well to figure in a row.

“I didn’t do it,” said I, in an agitated voice, “but I’ll wipe it up.”

“Look sharp about it, then!” said Doubleday, grinning at Wallop.

It is one thing to offer to wipe up an ink puddle, and quite another to do it.

“Now then!” said Doubleday, as I stood doubtfully in front of the scene of operation.

“I don’t know,” I faltered,—“I, that is—I haven’t got anything I can do it with.”

“What! not got a handkerchief!” exclaimed the head clerk, in apparent consternation.

“Yes; but I can’t do it with that. Wouldn’t some blotting—”

“Blotting-paper!—the firm’s blotting-paper to wipe up his messes! What do you think of that, all of you? Come, out with your handkerchief!”

Things looked threatening. I saw it was no use resisting. Even the Imports were standing on their stools and looking over the screen. So I took out my handkerchief and, with a groan, plunged it into the spilt ink.

Doubleday and the clerks evidently appreciated this act of devotion, and encouraged me with considerable laughter. My handkerchief and my hand were soon both the colour of the fluid they were wiping up, and my frame of mind was nearly as black.

“Now then,” said Doubleday, “aren’t you nearly done? See if there’s any gone down the crack there. Is there?”

I stooped down to inspect the crack in question, and as I did so Mr Doubleday adroitly slipped his pen under my soaking handkerchief, and, by a sudden jerk, lifted it right into my face.

At the same moment the door opened and Mr Barnacle entered! He looked round for a moment sharply, and then, passing on to the inner-room, said, “Doubleday, bring the two new office-boys into my room.”

If I had heard just the sentence of death pronounced on me I could hardly have been more horrified. My face and hand were like the face and hand of a negro, my collar and shirt were spotted and smeared all over with ink, and even my light hair was decorated with black patches. And in this guise I was to make my first appearance before my masters! Jack Smith’s expression of amazement and horror as he caught sight of me only intensified my own distress, and Doubleday’s stern “Now you’re in for it!” sounded hopelessly prophetic.

I could do nothing. To wipe my face with my clean hand, with the tail of my jacket, with my shirt-sleeve, could do no good. No; I was in for it and must meet my doom!

But I determined to make one expiring effort to escape it.

“Please, sir,” I cried, as we came to the door and before we entered, “I’m very sorry, but my face is all over ink. May I wash it before I come in?”

I was vaguely conscious of the titters of the clerks behind me, of the angry grip of Doubleday on one side of me, and of Smith’s solemn and horrified face on the other, and the next moment I was standing with my friend in front of Mr Barnacle’s awful desk.

He regarded me sternly for a moment or two, during which I suffered indescribable anguish of mind.

“What is the meaning of this?” said he. “I don’t understand it.”

“Oh, please, sir,” cried I, almost beseechingly, “I’m so sorry. I was wiping up some ink, and got some on my face. I couldn’t help.”

Mr Barnacle looked angry and impatient.

“This is no place for nonsense,” said he.

“Really I couldn’t help,” I pleaded.

There must have been some traces of earnestness visible, I fancy, on my inky face, for I saw Mr Barnacle look at me curiously as I spoke, while there was the faintest perceptible twitch at the corners of his lips.

“Go and wash at once,” he said, sternly.

I fled from his presence as if I had been a leper, and amid the merriment of my fellow-clerks sought the sink at the other end of the office and washed there as I had never washed before.

After much exertion, my countenance resumed something like its natural complexion, and the white skin faintly dawned once more on my fingers. My collar and shirt-front were beyond cleaning, but at the end of my ablutions I was, at any rate, rather more presentable than I had been.

Then I returned refreshed in body and mind to Mr Barnacle, whom I found explaining to Smith his duties in the Import Department. He briefly recapitulated the lecture for my benefit, and then dismissed us both under the charge of Mr Doubleday to our duties, and by the time one o’clock was reached that day, and I was informed I might go out for twenty minutes for my dinner, I was quite settled down as junior clerk in the Export Department of Merrett, Barnacle, and Company.

Chapter Twelve.

How my Friend Smith and I knocked about a Bit in our New Quarters.

Smith and I had a good deal more than dinner to discuss that morning as we rested for twenty minutes from our office labours.

He was very much in earnest about his new work, I could see; and I felt, as I listened to him, that my own aspirations for success were not nearly as deep-seated as his. He didn’t brag, or build absurd castles in the air; but he made no secret of the fact that now he was once in the business he meant to get on, and expected pretty confidently that he would do so.

I wished I could feel half as sure of myself. At any rate, I was encouraged by Jack Smith’s enthusiasm, and returned at the end of my twenty minutes to my desk with every intention of distinguishing myself at my work.

But somehow everything was so novel, and I was so curiously disposed, that I could not prevent my thoughts wandering a good deal, or listening to the constant running fire of small talk that was going on among my fellow-clerks. And this was all the less to be wondered at, since I myself was a prominent topic of conversation.

Mr Doubleday was a most curious mixture of humour, pomposity, and business, which made it very hard to know how exactly to take him. If I dared to laugh at a joke, he fired up, and ordered me angrily to get on with my work. And if I did become engrossed in the figures and entries before me, he was sure to trip me up with some act or speech of pleasantry.

“Why don’t you stick a nib on the end of your nose and write with it?” he inquired, as I was poring over an account-book in front of me, trying to make out the rather minute hieroglyphics contained therein.

I withdrew my nose, blushingly, to a more moderate distance, a motion which appeared greatly to entertain my fellow-clerks, whose amusement only added to my confusion.

“Hullo! I say,” said Doubleday, “no blushing allowed here, is there, Wallop?”

“Rather not. No one ever saw you blush,” replied Mr Wallop.

This turned the laugh against Doubleday, and I, despite my bashfulness, was indiscreet enough to join in it.

Mr Doubleday was greatly incensed.

“Get on with your work, do you hear? you young cad!” he cried. “Do you suppose we pay you eight bob a week to sit there and grin? How many accounts have you checked, I’d like to know?”

“Six,” I said, nervously, quite uneasy at Mr Doubleday’s sudden seriousness.

“Six in two hours—that’s three an hour.”

“Quite right; not bad for Dubbs, that, is it, Crow?” put in Wallop.

“No. He’s reckoned it up right this time.”

“I wish you’d reckon it up right now and then,” retorted Doubleday. “How about the change out of those two handkerchiefs?”

“There is no change,” said Crow, sulkily; “they were sixpence each.”

“What’s the use of saying that, when they are stuck up fourpence-halfpenny each in the window, you young thief?”

“You can get them yourself, then,” replied the injured Crow. “I’ll go no more jobs for you—there! I’m not the junior now, and I’m hanged if I’ll put up with it.”

“You’ll probably be hanged, whether you put up with it or not,” was Mr Doubleday’s retort, who, apparently desirous to change the conversation, suddenly rounded on me, as I was looking up and listening to the edifying dialogue.

“Now then, young Batchelor, dawdling again. Upon my word I’ll speak to Mr Barnacle about you. Mind, I mean what I say.”

“You’d better look-out, young turnip-top, I can tell you,” growled Crow; “when Dubbs means what he says, it’s no joke, I can tell you.”

On the whole my first afternoon’s work at Merrett, Barnacle, and Company’s was somewhat distracting, and by the time half-past six arrived I felt I had not accomplished quite as much as I had intended.

My first care on rejoining Jack was to sound him as to the possibility of his coming to lodge at Mrs Nash’s. To my delight he anticipated me by inquiring, “Have you got any place to lodge, Fred?”

“Yes,” said I, “and I only wish you’d come there too, Jack.”

“Whereabouts is it?” he asked.

“Mrs Nash’s, at Beadle Square. But you will come, won’t you?”

“Perhaps there’s not room.”

“Oh yes,” said I, taking upon myself to assert what I did not know, “there is. Come along, old man, it’ll make all the difference if we get together.”

“How much is it?” asked Jack, doubtfully.

“Come along, and we’ll ask,” said I, dragging him along.

He came, and together we bearded Mrs Nash in her den.

“I say, Mrs Nash,” said I, “my friend’s coming to lodge here, please.”

Mrs Nash eyed Jack suspiciously, and then said abruptly, “No room.”

“Oh, bother! Can’t he sleep with me, then?” I inquired.

“No,” replied she, “he can’t. It’s not allowed.”

“When will there be room?” Jack asked.

“Next week, may be.”

“Oh, how jolly!” I exclaimed. “Then you will come, Jack, won’t you?”

“How much is it?” inquired Jack of Mrs Nash.

“Three-and-six a week—in advance,” said Mrs Nash; “no tick.”

Jack pulled rather a long face.

“It’ll be a tight fit,” said he to me, “out of eight shillings a week.”

“Oh, I can pay part,” said I, too delighted at the prospect of Jack’s company to admit of any obstacle. “My uncle pays my lodging, you know, so I have the eight shillings all to myself.”

Jack, however, scouted the idea. After a little more parleying, to my unspeakable joy he told Mrs Nash he would come next week. I begged hard for him to be allowed to share my quarters in the meanwhile. The landlady was inexorable, so we had to submit.

Jack took me a long stroll through the London streets that evening, entertaining me with a description of his life as a grocer’s shop-boy, now happily at an end. I forbore to ask him any questions on the mysterious subject of his home, and he of course never referred to it. Our walk ended again at Beadle Square, where we parted for the night; he to return to some poor lodging in a distant part of the town, I to take part in the nine o’clock supper at Mrs Nash’s.

I was rather nervous as I approached the parlour where were congregated my fellow-lodgers, and heard the sound of their noisy voices and laughter. I half repented that I had committed myself to sup on the premises; it would have been so much less embarrassing to slip in just at ten o’clock and go straight to bed. However, I was in for it now.

I opened the door and entered the room. The parlour was full of boys—two dozen or more—of all ages, and engaged in all sorts of occupations. Some lounged lazily in front of the fireplace, some were indulging in rough horse-play in the corners, some were reading novels, some were writing, some were talking, some were laughing.

As I entered, however, everybody suddenly ceased his occupation and stared at me—everybody, that is, except the small group who were skirmishing in the corner nearest the door. These, with the most laudable presence of mind, took in my situation at once, and next moment I was one of the skirmishing party and having rather a lively time of it.

By this time the rest of the company had taken in the state of affairs.

“Pass him on there,” some one called, and I was accordingly passed on in rather a lively way to another party of skirmishers, who in turn, after buffeting me up and down a bit among themselves, passed me on to another group, and so on, till, with back and limbs and head all rather the worse for wear, I had performed the tour of the room and found myself finally pitched head-first into the embrace of the lordly youth who that morning had condescended to point out to me the way to Hawk Street.

“Look here,” cried he, kicking out somewhat savagely at my shins; “don’t you be so jolly familiar, do you hear? Look what you have done to my shirt-front!”

“I beg your pardon,” said I, rubbing my poor shin. “I couldn’t help—”

“Yes, you could, you young cad!” cried he, kicking again.

“No, I couldn’t, and—oh! I say, stop kicking, please!”

By this time most of the company had gathered round, some calling on the youth to “let me have it” others encouraging me “to go in and win.” I felt very greatly tempted, especially after the receipt of the third kick, to act on the suggestion given, and might have done so, had not Mrs Nash at that moment entered the room with the supper.

This interruption created a new diversion.

“I say, Mrs Nash,” cried my adversary, “who’s this kid? We don’t want him here.”

“You’ll have to have him whether you want him or not,” replied Mrs Nash, in her usual gracious way. “He’s a lodger here.”

“What do you want to shove another lodger in for when you know we’re chock-full?” demanded the youth.

“You hold your tongue, Mr Jackanapes,” replied Mrs Nash.

“I say, don’t you be so familiar,” cried the young gentleman, greatly offended. “My name’s Horncastle, not Jackanapes.”

“Very well, then, Mr Horncastle, you’d better hold your tongue.”

“I sha’n’t hold my tongue. You’ve got a spite against us, that’s what it is, or you wouldn’t go crowding us out with kids like this.”

“Crowding you out!” retorted Mrs Nash, scornfully. “You’ve got another kid coming next week, my beauty, so you’d better not talk of crowding out till then.”

“What! another besides this young cad? Oh, that’s too much! We won’t stand it. That’s all about that,” cried Mr Horncastle, in tones of utter disgust.

“Won’t you? Then you can cook your own sausages for supper, my man, and shell out what you owe on the nail. We’ll see who won’t stand it or not!”

This threat had the desired effect: Horncastle knuckled down as if by magic.

“Oh, don’t be a brute, Mrs Nash,” he said, in tones of agitation. “Do us those sausages, there’s a good body, and you can cram in half a dozen kids if you like.”

And so the question of my admission was settled satisfactorily, if not flatteringly, for me, and the fellows, the novelty of my appearance being once over, took no more notice of me than of any of the rest of their fellow-lodgers.

Mrs Nash’s establishment appeared to be one to which fond parents in the country, whose darlings were about to launch out on the sea of life in London, were invited to confide their sons, under the promise of a comfortable, respectable, and economical home.

As to the comfortable, we who were best able to judge did not admit the description a true one. As to the respectable, that was a matter of opinion. If each of us had been the only lodger there, the place would have been undoubtedly respectable, but with all the rest there, we each of us considered the society rather “mixed.” As to the economical, we were all agreed on that point. The place was fearfully and wonderfully economical!

By the time my first week in London was ended I had shaken down fairly well, both to my work at Merrett, Barnacle, and Company’s and my quarters at Mrs Nash’s. I still found the fellowship of Messrs Doubleday and Wallop and Crow rather distracting, and more than once envied Jack his berth among the Imports where, as a rule, silence reigned supreme. And yet I could hardly bring myself to dislike my fellow-clerks, who, all of them, as far as I had found out, were good-natured, and certainly very entertaining, and who, when they perceived that I was amused by their proceedings, relaxed a good deal in their attitude to me.

I gradually came to be on talking, if not on chaffing terms with several of the fellows, and found myself, I never exactly knew how, installed in the position, lately vacated by Mr Crow, of messenger and confidential commission agent to the company. Most of my twenty minutes in the middle of the day was thus taken up in buying articles of comfort or decoration for one and another of my seniors, or else changing books at the library, taking messages to other clerks in other offices, and otherwise laying myself out for the general good—a self-denial which brought me more kicks than halfpence, but which, all the same, served to establish my footing as a regular member of the Export fraternity at Merrett, Barnacle, and Company’s.

Smith, I discovered, was let in for something of the same work with the Imports, but to a much smaller extent. Indeed, he had so much less of it than me that I one day questioned him on the subject.

“I say, Jack, it seems to me the Exports want a jolly lot more things done for them than the Imports. To-day I’ve got to go to Mudie’s to change a book, then I’ve to get a scarf-pin mended for Crow, and buy a pair of flannel drawers for Wallop, and go and offer two shillings for a five-shilling mariner’s compass at the stores for Doubleday. I shall have to get my grub when I can to-day, I expect.”

“Oh!” said Jack, “the Imports wanted to let me in for that sort of thing, but I didn’t see the use of it, and told them so.”

“What did they say?” asked I, astonished at his boldness.

“They didn’t like it, of course,” said Jack; “but I don’t see why they shouldn’t do their own jobs.”

“Well,” said I, “I wouldn’t mind if I could stick out too, but somehow I’m in for it now.”

And off I started on my round of errands.

I was, however, greatly impressed with Jack’s cool treatment of the whole affair. I would as soon have dreamed of refusing to go an errand for Doubleday or Wallop as of flying. The office, I knew full well, would soon be made pretty hot for me if I did, and it was a marvel how Jack apparently got over the difficulty so easily. He was one of those fellows, you know, who seem to care absolutely nothing about what others think of them. It’s all one if fellows hate them or love them, and as for being influenced by any desire to cultivate the good graces of one’s neighbours, you might as well expect a bear to cultivate the good graces of a porpoise.

I soon began to suspect that Jack was not altogether comfortable in his new quarters, although he never hinted to the contrary. There were vague rumours which came across the partition of uncomfortableness which silently went on, and in which Jack took a prominent part; and an event which happened just a week after our arrival made the thing certain.

One morning, Mr Barnacle, apparently in a great hurry, looked in at the Import door and called out, “Smith, make me three copies of Elmore’s last consignment, at once, on foreign paper.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jack.

After a pause, I heard him say, “Will you lend me that entry-book, please, Harris, to make the copies from?”

“No,” curtly replied Harris; “I’m using it.”

“But Mr Barnacle says he must have it at once.”

“I can’t help that,” said Harris.

“That’s right, Harris!” said another voice; “pay him out for his beastly, selfish ill-nature!”

“Will you lend me the book, Harris?” again demanded Jack, in tones which I could tell were fast losing their calmness.

“No, I won’t! and what’s more, shut up your row!” replied Harris.

There was a pause, then I heard Jack get off his stool and march boldly to the door. He came out and passed solemnly through our office to the door of Mr Barnacle’s room, which he entered.

Next moment Mr Barnacle came out, very red in the face, and demanded, in a loud voice, “Who is it using the entry-book? Didn’t you hear me say the copies were to be made at once, sir? Let Smith have the book.”

“It’s on his desk,” replied Harris, meekly. “I was only ruling off the last line, to show where the account ended.”

“Copy it at once,” said Mr Barnacle, sharply; “the papers have to be down before twelve, and here’s five minutes wasted already.”

Smith silently went to work, and Mr Barnacle withdrew.

“Vile young sneak!” I heard Harris say; “I’ll pay you out for that!”

“I didn’t want to sneak. You should have given me the book,” replied Jack solemnly.

“I’ll give you something, see if I don’t!” was the reply.

I believe Jack did receive this promised something. He did not come out at mid-day till late, and then he was pale and flurried.

“Has Harris been bullying you?” I said.

“Been doing his best,” replied Jack, gloomily. “I don’t much care for him.”

This was quite enough. I could guess what it meant.

“I suppose you think I was a fearful sneak?” said Jack.

“No I don’t, old man!” said I.

I had, I must confess, felt a little doubtful on the subject; but, then, what else could he have done?

“I’m sorry I did it now,” said Jack solemnly; “I sha’n’t do it again.”

“What else could you do?” I asked.

“I shall have to knock Harris down, I suppose,” said Jack, so seriously that I stared at him in bewilderment.

Without doubt my poor chum was preparing a warm time for himself with the Imports at Merrett, Barnacle, and Company’s!

That same evening he entered on his new quarters at Mrs Nash’s, greatly to my joy, and greatly to the disgust of everybody else.

Horncastle, who had recovered from his temporary fright for the cooling of his sausages, was specially loud in his remonstrances.

“It’s no use your coming here,” he said, advancing in a menacing way towards Jack on his arrival. “We aren’t going to have you—there!”

And with that, as in my case, he emphasised his remark with a smart kick on Jack’s shins.

Jack was not a short-tempered fellow, but this unprovoked assault startled him out of his usual composure.

“You’d better not do that again,” said he, glaring at his adversary.

Horncastle did not do it again. I don’t know what it was, but at those words, and the glare that accompanied them, his foot, already raised for further action, dropped quietly beside the other.

“I shall do it again if I choose,” he said surlily.

“Then you’d better not choose,” quietly said Jack.

“You’ve got no business here, that’s what I say,” exclaimed Horncastle, falling back upon a safer line of attack.

“Why haven’t I?” said Jack. “I’m a clerk like you.”

“And you call yourself a gentleman too, I suppose?” sneered the other.

Jack always fired up when any reference of this kind was made.

“I don’t want you to tell me whether I am,” he retorted.

“Why, he’s a regular cad,” cried some one. “I know him well; I saw him selling penn’orths of nuts a week or two ago in the Borough.”

“You hear that,” said Horncastle, turning to Jack. “Was it so?”

“I don’t see what it’s got to do with you,” replied Jack; “but if you want to know, I was.”

“I thought so! I thought so!” exclaimed Horncastle; “a wretched shop-boy! Ugh! get away from me.”

And by one consent the company followed the example of their leader and left poor Jack isolated in a corner of the room, with only me to stand by him.

But he was not greatly afflicted by the incident, and made no attempt to assert his rights further. And after all we got on very well and had a very jolly evening without the help of Mr Horncastle and his friends, and slept quite as soundly after our day’s excitement as if we had been in the wholesale line all our lives.

Chapter Thirteen.

How my Friend Smith and I caught a Young Tartar.

The novelty of our life in London soon began to wear off. For the first week or so I thought I never should grow weary of the wonderful streets and shops and crowds of people. And the work at the office, while it was fresh, appeared—especially when enlivened by the pranks of my fellow-clerks—more of a game than downright earnest. My eight shillings a week, too, seemed a princely allowance to begin with, and even the lodging-house in Beadle Square was tolerable.

But after a month or so a fellow gets wonderfully toned down in his notions. I soon began to pine inwardly for an occasional escape from the murky city to the fresh air of the country. The same routine of work hour after hour, day after day, week after week, grew tame and wearisome. And I began to find out that even the lordly income of eight shillings a week didn’t make the happy possessor, who had to clothe and feed himself, actually a rich man; while as for Mrs Nash’s, the place before long became detestable. The fact is, that I, with no cheerier home than Brownstroke to look back on, became desperately homesick before three months in London were over; and but for my friend Smith, I might have deserted entirely.

However, Smith, solemn as he was, wouldn’t let me get quite desperate. He was one of those even-tempered sort of fellows who never gush either with joy or sorrow, but take things as they come, and because they never let themselves get elated, rarely let themselves get down.

“Fred,” he said to me one day, when I was in the dumps, “what’s wrong?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said I, “I’m getting rather sick of London, I think.”

“Not much use getting sick of it yet,” said he. “Time enough in fifty years.”

“Jack,” said I, “if I thought I had all my life to live here, I should run away.”

“You’re a duffer, old man. Aren’t you getting on at Hawk Street, then?”

“Oh yes, well enough, but it’s most fearfully slow. The same thing every day.”

Jack smiled. “They can’t alter the programme just to suit you.”

“Of course not,” I cried, feeling very miserable; “of course I’m an ass, but I’d sooner be back at Stonebridge House than here.”

“By the way,” said Smith, suddenly, “talking of Stonebridge House, who did you think I ran against to-day at dinner-time?”

“Who, old Henniker?” I inquired.

“Rather not. If I had, I think I should have been game for running away along with you. No, it was Flanagan.”

“Was it? I should like to have seen him. What’s he doing?”

“Not much, I fancy. He says his brother’s a solicitor, and he’s come up to loaf about in his office and pick up a little law.”

“Oh, I like that,” I cried, laughing. “Think of old Flanagan a lawyer. But didn’t he say where he was living?”

“Yes, Cabbage Street, in Hackney. I forget the number. I say, Fred, suppose we take a stroll this evening and try to find him out. It’ll do you good, a walk.”

I gladly consented. We gave Mrs Nash due notice that we should not be home to supper, and might possibly be out after ten, and then sallied forth. Hackney was a good four miles from Beadle Square, and by the time we had discovered Cabbage Street it was almost time to be returning. But having come so far we were resolved we would at least make an effort to find out our old schoolfellow. But the fates were against us. Cabbage Street was a new street of small houses, about a third of a mile long. Even if we had known the number it would have taken some time to discover the house; but without that information it was simply impossible. We did try. Jack took the left of the street and began knocking at the odd numbers, starting from 229; while I attacked the even numbers on the right side. But as far as we went no one knew of a Flanagan, and we had to give it up.

It was half-past nine when we finally abandoned the search and turned our faces Citywards once more.

“Horrid sell,” said Jack. “We shall have to find out where his brother’s office is from the Directory, and get at him that way.”

We walked back hard. Mrs Nash’s temper was never to be relied on, and it was ten to one she might lock us out for the night.

Luckily Jack was up to all the short cuts, and he piloted me through more than one queer-looking slum on the way.

At last we were getting near our journey’s end, and the prospect of a “lock-out” from our lodgings was looming unpleasantly near, when Jack took me by the arm and turned up a dark narrow passage.

“I’m nearly certain it’s got a way out at the other end,” he said, “and if so it will take us right close to the square.”

I followed him, trusting he was right, and inwardly marvelling at his knowledge of the ins and outs of the great city.

But what a fearful “skeery”-looking hole that passage was!

There were wretched tumbledown houses on either side, so wretched and tumbledown that it seemed impossible any one could live in them. But the houses were nothing to the people. The court was simply swarming with people. Drunken and swearing men; drunken and swearing women; half-naked children who swore too. It was through such a company that we had to thread our way down my friend Smith’s “short cut.” As we went on it became worse, and what was most serious was that everybody seemed to come out to their doors to stare at us. Supposing there were no way through, and we had to turn back, it would be no joke, thought I, to face all these disreputable-looking loungers who already were making themselves offensive as we passed, by words and gesture.

I could tell by the way Smith strode on that he felt no more comfortable than I did.

“You’re sure there’s a way through?” I said.

“Almost sure,” he answered.

At the same moment a stone struck me on the cheek. It was not a hard blow, and the blood which mounted to my face was quite as much brought there by anger as by pain.

“Come on!” said Smith, who had seen what happened.

Coming on meant threading our way through a knot of young roughs, who evidently considered our appearance in the court an intrusion and were disposed to resent it. One of them put out his foot as Smith came up with a view to trip him, but Jack saw the manoeuvre in time and walked round. Another hustled me as I brushed past and sent me knocking up against Jack, who, if he hadn’t stood steady, would have knocked up against some one else, and so pretty certainly have provoked an assault. How we ever got past these fellows I can’t imagine; but we did, and for a yard or two ahead the passage was clear.

“Shall we make a rush for it?” I asked of Jack.

“Better not,” said he. “If there is a way through, we must be nearly out now.”

He spoke so doubtfully that my heart sunk quite as much as if he had said there was no way through and we must turn back.

However, what lay immediately before us was obscured by a suddenly collected crowd of inhabitants, shouting and yelling with more than ordinary clamour. This time the centre of attraction was not ourselves, but a drunken woman, who had got a little ragged boy by the collar, and was beating him savagely on the head with her by no means puny fist.

“There!—take that, you young—! I’ll do for you this time!”

And without doubt it looked as if we were to witness the accomplishment of the threat. The little fellow, unable even to howl, reeled and staggered under her brutal blows. His pale, squalid face was covered with blood, and his little form crouching in her grip was convulsed with terror and exhaustion. It was a sickening spectacle.

The crowd pressed round, and yelled and laughed and hooted. The woman, savage enough as she was, seemed to derive fresh vehemence from the cries around her, and redoubled her cruel blows.

One half-smothered moan escaped the little boy’s lips as she swung him off his feet, and flung him down on the pavement.

Then Jack and I could stand it no longer.

“Let the child alone!” cried Jack, at the top of his voice.

I shall never forget the sudden weird hush which followed that unexpected sound. The woman released her grasp of her victim as if she had been shot, and the crowd, with a shout on their lips, stopped short in amazement.

“Quick, Fred!” cried Jack, flying past me.

He dashed straight to where the little boy lay, swept him up in his arms, and then, with me close at his heels, was rushing straight for the outlet of the court, which, thank Heaven! was there, close at hand. Next moment we were standing in the street which led to Beadle Square.

It all took less time to accomplish than it takes to write, and once out of that awful court we could hardly tell whether we were awake or dreaming.

The boy, however, in Jack’s arms settled that question.

“Come on, quick!” said Smith, starting to run again. “They’ll be out after us.”

We hurried on until we were in Beadle Square.

“What’s to be done?” I asked.

“We must take him in with us,” said Jack. “Look at the state he’s in.”

I did look. The little fellow, who seemed about eight years old, was either stunned by his last blow or had fainted. His face, save where the blood trickled down, was deadly pale, and as his head with its shock of black hair lay back on Jack’s arm, it seemed as if he could not look in worse plight were he dead.

“We must take him with us,” said Jack.

“What will Mrs Nash say?” was my inward ejaculation, as we reached the door.

All the lights were out. We knocked twice, and no one came. Here was a plight! Locked out at this hour of night, with a half-dead child in our charge!

“Knock again,” said Jack.

I did knock again, a wonderful knock, that must have startled the cats for a mile round, and this time it called up the spirit we wished for.

There was a flicker of a candle through the keyhole, and a slipshod footstep in the hall, which gave us great satisfaction. Mrs Nash opened the door.

At the sight of our burden, the abuse with which she was about to favour us faded from her lips as she gazed at us in utter amazement.

“Why, what’s all this? eh, you two? What’s this?” she demanded.

“I’ll tell you,” said Jack, entering with his burden; “but I say, Mrs Nash, can’t you do something for him? Look at him!”

Mrs Nash was a woman, and whatever her private opinion on the matter generally may have been; she could not resist this appeal. She took the little fellow out of Jack’s arms, and carried him away to her own kitchen, where, after sponging his bruised face and forehead, and giving him a drop of something in a teaspoon, and brushing back his matted hair and loosing his ragged jacket at the neck, she succeeded in restoring him to his senses. It was with a thrill of relief that we saw his eyes open and a shade of colour come into his grimy cheeks.

“What have you been doing to him?” said Mrs Nash.

“He was being knocked about,” said Jack, modestly, “and Batchelor and I got him away.”

“And what are you going to do with him?” inquired Mrs Nash, who, now that her feminine offices were at an end, was fast regaining her old crabbedness.

“He’d better go to bed,” said Smith. “I’ll have him in my bed.”

“No, you won’t!” said Mrs Nash, decisively.

“We can’t turn him out at this time of night,” said I.

“Can’t help that. He don’t sleep here, the dirty little wretch.”

“He’ll be murdered if he goes back,” said Jack.

“That’s no reason I should have my house made not fit to live in,” said Mrs Nash.

“He won’t do any harm, I’ll see to that,” said Smith, rising and taking the boy up in his arms.

“I tell you I ain’t going to allow it,” said Mrs Nash.

But Jack without another word carried off his burden, and we heard his footsteps go slowly up the stairs to the bedroom. I stayed for some little time endeavouring to appease Mrs Nash, but without much effect. She abandoned her first idea of rushing out and defending the cleanliness of her house by force of arms, but in place of that relieved herself in very strong language on the subject of Jack Smith generally, and of me in aiding and abetting him, and ended by announcing that she gave us both warning, and we might look-out for somebody else to stand our impudence (she called it “imperence”), for she wouldn’t.

When I went up stairs Jack and his small protégé were in bed and asleep. I was quite startled when I caught sight of their two heads side by side on the pillow. It looked for all the world like a big Jack and a little Jack.

“Wouldn’t Jack be flattered if I told him so!” thought I.

I was not long in following their example. All night long I dreamt of Flanagan and that dreadful court, and of those two heads lying there side by side in the next bed.

When I awoke in the morning it was very early and not yet light. I soon discovered that what had aroused me was a conversation going on in the next bed.

“Go on! you let me be!” I heard a shrill voice say.

“Hush! don’t make a noise,” said Jack. “I’ll take you home in the morning all right.”

“I ain’t done nothink to you,” whined the boy.

“I know. No one’s going to hurt you.”

“You let me be, then; do you ’ear?” repeated the boy. “What did you fetch me ’ere for?”

“You were nearly being killed last night,” said Jack.

“You’re a lie, I worn’t,” was the polite answer.

“Yes you were,” said Jack. “A woman was nearly murdering you.”

“That was my old gal—’tain’t no concern of yourn.”

Evidently there was little use expecting gratitude out of this queer specimen of mortality; and Jack didn’t try.

“You stay quiet and go to sleep, and I’ll give you some breakfast in the morning,” he said to his graceless little bed-fellow.

“You ain’t a-going to take me to the station, then?” demanded the latter.

“No.”

“Or the workus?”

“No.”

“Or old shiny-togs?”

“Who?”

“Shiny-togs—you know—the bloke with the choker.”

“I don’t know who you mean.”

“Go on!—you know ’im—’im as jaws in the church with ’is nightgown on.”

“Oh, the clergyman,” said Jack, hardly able to repress a smile. “No. I’ll take you back to your home.”

“To my old gal?”

“Yes, to your mother.”

“You ain’t a ’avin’ a lark with me, then?”

“No,” said Jack, pitifully.

With this assurance the small boy was apparently satisfied, for he pursued the conversation no longer, and shortly afterwards I fell off to sleep again.

When next I woke it was broad daylight, and Jack Smith was standing by my bed.

“Fred, I say, he’s bolted!” he exclaimed, in an agitated voice, as I sat up and rubbed my eyes.

“Who—the kid?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“He’s a nice amiable young specimen,” replied I. “When did he go?”

“I don’t know. When I woke up he was gone.”

“Well, it’s a good riddance,” said I, who really did not see why Jack should be so afflicted about such a graceless young ragamuffin. “Do you know Mrs Nash has given us both warning over this business?”

“I don’t care. But, I say, I wonder if he’s hiding anywhere.”

“Not he. He’s safe away, depend upon it, and if Mrs Nash had had any silver spoons they’d be safe away too.”

Jack began to dress thoughtfully, and then said, “I’m sorry he’s gone.”

“I don’t see why you should be,” I said. “The ungrateful young cad! If it hadn’t been for you he might have been killed.”

Jack smiled. “He doesn’t think so himself,” he said. “He told me I’d no business to interfere between him and his ‘gal,’ as he politely styles his mother. Poor little beggar! I dare say he’ll catch it all the worse now. Hullo! I say!” exclaimed Jack, feeling in his pockets. “I’m positive I had a shilling and two pennies in my pocket yesterday evening. I must have been robbed in that court!”

The money had evidently gone, and what was more, I made the pleasant discovery that a sixpence which I had in my pocket, as well as my penknife, were both missing!

Jack and I looked at one another.

“The young thief!” I exclaimed.

“Perhaps it was done in the court,” said Jack. “There was an awful crowd, you know.”

“All very well,” I replied; “but, as it happens, I had my knife out before I went to bed, to cut one of my bootlaces, and when I put it back in my pocket I distinctly remember feeling the sixpence there. No; our young hopeful’s done this bit of business.”

“I’m awfully sorry, Fred,” said Jack; “it was my fault bringing him here.”

We went down to breakfast in a somewhat perturbed state of mind. Here we found the assembled company in a state of great excitement. Mr Horncastle, who occupied a bed in the next dormitory to that where Jack and I slept, had missed his collar-stud, which he described as “red coral,” and complaining thereof to Mrs Nash, had been told by that lady that Smith and Batchelor had brought a young pickpocket into the house with them last night, and that being so, she was only surprised Mr Horncastle had not lost all the jewellery he possessed. Whereat, of course, Mr Horncastle was in a mighty state of wrath, and quite ready for poor Jack and me when we appeared.

“Oh, here you are. Perhaps you’ll hand me out half a sov., you two.”

“What for?” demanded I.

“Never you mind, but you’d better look sharp, or I’ll give you in charge!” said Horncastle, pompously.

“You’re funny this morning,” said I, utterly at a loss to guess what he was driving at.

“So will you be funny when you get transported for stealing!”

“What do you mean?” asked Smith, solemnly.

“Mean; why, I mean my collar-stud.”

A general laugh interrupted the speaker at this point, which did not tend to improve his spirits.

“What’s your collar-stud to do with me, or Batchelor?” demanded Smith, who evidently saw nothing to laugh at.

“Why, you’ve stolen it!” shouted Horncastle.

Smith gazed solemnly at the speaker.

“You’re a fool,” he said, quietly.

This cool remark drove the irate Horncastle nearly frantic. He advanced up to Smith with a face as red as the collar-stud he had lost, and cried, “Say that again, and I’ll knock you down.”

“You’re a fool,” quietly repeated Jack.

Horncastle didn’t knock him down, or attempt to do so. He turned on his heel and said, “We’ll see if we’re to be robbed by shop-boy cads, or any of your young thieving friends. I’ll complain to the police, and let them know you know all about it, you two.”

“I don’t know anything about it,” said I, feeling it incumbent on me to make a remark, “except that I don’t think a red bone collar-stud costs ten shillings.” This occasioned another laugh at the expense of Mr Horncastle, who retorted, “You’re a companion of thieves and blackguards, that’s what you are. I’ll have you kicked out of the house.”

And as if to suit the action to the word, he advanced towards me and aimed a vehement kick at my person.

I had just time to dodge the blow, but as I did so something knocked against my hand. Fancy my astonishment when, stooping to pick it up, I found that it was the missing red bone collar-stud, which had dropped into the leg of its stately owner’s trousers, and which this kick had unearthed from its hiding-place!

The laugh was now all against the discomfited Horncastle. Even those who had at first been disposed to side with him against Jack and me could not resist the merriment which this revelation occasioned, particularly when the stud, which Horncastle at once identified, was discovered to be an ordinary painted bone article, with a good deal of the red worn off, of the kind usually sold in the streets for a penny.

Jack and I had at least the relief of feeling that so far we ourselves were the only sufferers by our hospitality to our little ragamuffin acquaintance.

But more was to come of this adventure, as the reader will see.

Chapter Fourteen.