CHAPTER V
IN WHICH HENRY DECIDES
Up to the night of the fire, Henry had only been dreaming of what he wished to do in the world of work. Unless one of his age has had his fate sharply settled for him by being placed at some trade or profession—for which he is usually unsuited—by the masterful action of his parents, he has, at best, a nebulous vision of the path he will pursue.
With natural instinct, and aided by the accident of Edward John's business relations in Stratford, Henry had looked to literature through the gateway of the book-shop—of all, the most unlikely. But he had been shorn speedily of his illusions in that quarter.
A month in the establishment of Mr. Ephraim Griggs had left him wondering if he were a footstep nearer his goal than he had been before he bade farewell to Hampton. If the Temple of Literature which he had builded in his brain had not exactly crumbled into nothingness, it was no longer possible to rub shoulders with the slatternly Griggs and the insipid Pemble, and still to dream dreams such as had held his mind when he determined to fare forth an adventurer into the unknown realms of Bookland.
The weeks dragged on wearily. So rude had been Henry's experience of the second-hand book-shop, in disgust he had almost concluded that after all there was as much glory in his father's business as in that of Mr. Griggs. Trevor Smith, however, had appeared on the scene at an opportune moment, and sent his thoughts off at a tangent.
Clearly, journalism was the high road to literature. It enabled one to get into print, and that, at least, was a great matter.
Already the agreeable Trevor could pose as Henry's literary godfather. He had allowed him to write one or two simple notes about the visit of a circus to the town and the annual flower-show, and these had actually appeared in type in the Guardian.
The fact that Trevor had twice borrowed half-a-crown from his fellow-lodger, and had twenty times forgotten to repay, while he had also assimilated innumerable examples of Mrs. Charles's baking, had probably something to do with his readiness in opening his columns to the youth. But that did not in the least detract from the bursting joy with which Henry read his own little paragraphs a score of times; nor did Edward John suspect that the first appearance of his young hopeful in the splendour of print was due to such adventitious aid.
Henry's masterpiece was a letter to the editor of the Guardian protesting against the charge of sixpence exacted for admission to view the grave of Shakespeare. This was signed "Thespian," at the suggestion of Trevor, who never by any chance wrote of actors or of the theatre, but always of "sons of Thespis," or of "the temple of Thespis." Quite a lively correspondence ensued in the columns of the paper, and it was a great delight to Henry that he and Trevor Smith alone knew who the correspondents were. Between them they did it all. Oh, Henry was learning what journalism meant!
"Take my word for it, Henry, journalism's your game," his merry mentor assured him. "That last par of yours about the Christ Church muffin-struggle is nearly as good as I could have done myself. You're cut out for a journalist as sure as eggs is eggs. All that you want is an opportunity to show what's in you."
Yes, only the opportunity was awanting. And how to get it?
"Look at me," Mr. Trevor Smith continued, "I was only a common clerk in the Guardian office—a common clerk, mind you—but I had the sense to learn shorthand, and got the first opening as a reporter—and here I am!"
He helped himself to a luscious pear from the stock which Henry had just received from home that day.
Indeed, these little bursts of confidence usually took place on the evening Henry's weekly hamper arrived, but he had never noticed the coincidence. A year or two later, perhaps, he might suspect there had been some connection between the events; meanwhile, his bump of observation had not been abnormally developed.
To-night the reporter appeared especially concerned for the welfare of his young friend, and it occurred to him to ask if Henry had been trying his hand at something more ambitious than mere paragraphs. He blushingly admitted that he had.
"Then trot it out, my boy, and I'll tell you what it's worth in a couple of ticks," said Trevor, quite unconcerned as to the length or character of Henry's "something."
It is Nature's way that the rawest youths and maidens who desire to follow a literary career invariably commence by writing essays on aspects of life which world-worn men of fifty find impossible to discuss with any approach to ripened knowledge. Henry's unpublished manuscript now brought forth of his trunk proved to be a very long and absurdly grandiloquent essay on "Liberty."
Neither the subject nor the wordiness of the manuscript dismayed the hopeful Trevor, who took it in his hand and ran his eyes with lightning rapidity over page after page.
"Ripping, my boy, ripping! That's the sort of stuff to make the critics sit up."
Henry thrilled and reddened, but winced a little when he heard his handiwork described as "stuff."
"Really? Do you think anybody would care to publish it?" he asked.
"Just the sort o' thing for the Nineteenth Century or the Quarterly," Trevor assured him gaily, although the rascal had never set eyes on either of these reviews. "But I should hold it back a bit until you have made your name, for the editors of these things never give an unknown man a chance."
"Still, you think I ought to persevere?"
"Don't I just! I couldn't have written stuff like that at your age for a mint of money. Take my tip, young 'un, you've got it in you to make a name; and when you're riding down Fleet Street in your carriage and pair, don't forget your humble servant who gave you the first leg-up. That phrase of yours on the last page about liberty being born among the stars and flying earthward to brighten all mankind is worthy of Carlyle at his best."
"I always liked Carlyle; but I'll try very hard to do something even better—I mean better than what I've written."
"And, by-the-by, my dear Henry, do you think you could stretch me another half-crown? I'm rather rocky just now, but am expecting a tidy sum for lineage next week," said Trevor, in an off-hand way, and ignoring his friend's confusion, as he lifted his hat and prepared to go out.
Henry stretched the half-crown—with difficulty, for it meant a week's pocket-money—and when his companion had left he executed a wild dance round the table. Ambition had been fired within him again. He determined that not even the Slough of Despond, to which he likened the shop of Mr. Griggs, would discourage him for a day in his onward march to that City Beautiful where one's life was spent in writing fine thoughts for mankind to read and remember.
The difficulty remained: how to get the opportunity? All the copy-book maxims of his boyhood availed him nothing; all the stories of brave men who seized opportunity instead of waiting for it to turn up, inspired, encouraged, whispered of hope, but did not bring the situation to a simpler issue.
Soon after this evening he determined to induce Trevor to come down from his gorgeous generalisings to plain facts.
"It is all very well to say my essay is so good, but do you honestly think I should go on writing things like that if I wish to become a journalist?"
It took something out of Henry to put it so bluntly. Despite the familiar manner in which Trevor addressed him, the youth, who was naturally reticent, always spoke of him with deference due to one of older years, and especially to one who was a real live journalist. Henry, however, was gradually losing his country shyness, and the fact that Mr. Trevor Smith continued in his debt to the extent of seven-and-sixpence encouraged him to greater boldness in his dealings with that slippery gentleman.
"I confess that I have had enough of old Griggs. There is nothing to learn from him, and I do think I should like to get work on a newspaper. Is there any chance of an opening on the Guardian at Wheelton? I have been pegging in at my shorthand for the last three weeks, you know."
"Well, since you put it that way, and since you seem to be dead set on giving old Griggs the slip, there is one thing you could do," Trevor admitted, now that he had been asked to come down to hard facts.
"What is that?" asked Henry eagerly.
"Get your gov'nor to shell out to old Spring, and he'll take you on like a shot."
"Shell out?" said Henry, evidently not alive to Trevor's slang. "What do you mean?"
"Why," returned his professional adviser, with a smile at the rustic ignorance, "haven't you seen advertisements in the daily papers something like this: 'The editor of a well-known provincial weekly has an opening for journalistic pupil. Moderate premium. Small salary after first six months'? There's your opportunity."
"Ah, I see the idea," said Henry, upon whom a light had dawned.
"What do you say to that?" Trevor pursued.
"Yes, that might do, and no doubt dad would 'shell out,' as you call it. But is there any such vacancy at present?"
"If there isn't, the Balmy One—that's another of our pet names for Old Springthorpe, the editor—will jolly soon make one, provided your pater is ready with the dibs. Write your gov'nor about it, and if he's open to spring twenty-five golden quid, leave the rest to me."
To Henry the suggestion seemed a good one, and he wondered that he had waited so long before getting Trevor to bring the situation to so practical an issue. The fact was, Mr. Smith rather liked the fun of patronising the youth, to say nothing of his share in the weekly hamper, and Henry's willingness to render slight but useful assistance by attending an occasional meeting on his behalf. Accordingly, he had not been anxious to lose his company too soon.
To Edward John Charles his son's letter, with its bold proposal, came with somewhat of surprise. It had never occurred to him to couple the Press with "Literatoor," but he said at once that if Henry felt journalism was good enough for him, why, he would help him to become an editor with as much pleasure as he would have set him up in the egg-and-butter trade, had he been so minded.
Within a week the postmaster took another journey to Stratford, and thence by train to Wheelton, together with Henry, to interview Mr. Martin Springthorpe, editor of the Wheelton Guardian, to whom Mr. Charles carried a letter of introduction from Trevor Smith, wherein that gentleman averred he had taken great personal interest in the literary work of Henry Charles, and had even been able to make use of sundry items from his pen. He commended him to Mr. Springthorpe's best consideration.
Trevor had also taken the trouble to write privily to his chief, saying that he thought Mr. Charles would come down to the tune of five-and-twenty pounds, and not to frighten him off by asking more.