Chapter Five.
Freddy and Teddy.
John Jeffreys, as he stood in the street that October evening, had no more idea what his next step was to be than had Mr Halgrove or the motherly Mrs Jessop. He was a matter-of-fact youth, and not much given to introspection; but the reader may do well on this particular occasion to take a hasty stock of him as he walked aimlessly down the darkening street.
He was nineteen years old. In appearance he was particularly ugly in face and clumsy in build. Against that, he was tall and unusually powerful whenever he chose to exert his strength. In mind he was reputed slow and almost stupid, although he was a good classical scholar and possessed a good memory. He was cursed with a bad and sometimes ungovernable temper. He was honest and courageous. He rarely knew how to do the right thing at the right time or in the right place. And finally he had a bad name, and believed himself to be a homicide. Such was the commonplace creature who, with a sovereign in his pocket and the whole world before him, paced the streets of York that Tuesday night.
On one point his mind was made up. He must remain in York for the present, prepared at a moment’s notice to repair to Bolsover, should the dreaded summons come. With that exception, as I have said, his mind was open, and utterly devoid of ideas as to the future.
He directed his steps to the poor part of the town, not so much because it was poor, as because it was farthest away from his guardian’s. He resolved that to-night at any rate he would indulge in the luxury of a bed, and accordingly, selecting the least repulsive-looking of a number of tenements offering “Cheap beds for Single Men,” he turned in and demanded lodging. To the end of his days he looked back on the “cheap bed” he that night occupied with a shudder. And he was by no means a Sybarite, either. Happily, he had still some sleep to make up; and despite his foul bed, his unattractive fellow-lodgers, and his own dismal thoughts, he fell asleep, in his clothes and with his bag under his pillow, and slept till morning.
He partook of a cheap breakfast at a coffee-stall on one of the bridges, and occupied the remainder of the time before the opening of business houses in wandering about on the city walls, endeavouring to make up his mind what calling in life he should seek to adopt. He had not decided this knotty point when the minster chimes struck ten, and reminded him that he was letting the precious moments slip. So he descended into the streets, determined to apply for the first vacancy which presented itself.
Wandering aimlessly on, he came presently upon a bookseller’s shop, outside which were displayed several trays of second-hand volumes which attracted his attention. Jeffreys loved books and was a voracious reader, and in the midst of his wearisome search for work it was like a little harbour of refuge to come upon a nest of them here. Just, however, as he was about to indulge in the delicious luxury of turning over the contents of the tempting trays, his eye was attracted by a half-sheet of note-paper gummed on to the shop window and bearing the inscription, “Assistant wanted. Apply within.”
Next instant Jeffreys stood within.
“I see you want an assistant,” said he to the old spectacled bookseller who inquired his business.
“That’s right.”
“Will you take me?”
The man glanced up and down at his visitor and said doubtfully,—
“Don’t know you—are you in the trade?”
“No, I’ve just left school.”
“What do you know about books?”
“I love them,” replied the candidate simply.
The bookseller’s face lit up and shot a glow of hope into the boy’s heart.
“You love them. I like that. But take my advice, young fellow, and if you love books, don’t turn bookseller.”
Jeffreys’ face fell.
“I’m not afraid of getting to hate them,” said he.
The man beamed again.
“What’s your name, my lad?”
“John Jeffreys.”
“And you’ve just left school? What school?”
Alas! poor Jeffreys! It cost him a struggle to utter the name.
“Bolsover.”
“Bolsover, eh? Do you know Latin?”
“Yes—and Greek,” replied the candidate.
The bookseller took up a book that lay on the table. It was an old and valuable edition of Pliny’s Epistles.
“Read us some of that.”
Jeffreys was able fairly well to accomplish the task, greatly to the delight of the old bookseller.
“Capital! You’re the first chap I ever had who could read Pliny off.”
Jeffreys’ face lit up. The man spoke as if the thing was settled.
“How will fifteen shillings a week and your meals suit you?” said he.
“Perfectly!” replied the candidate.
“Hum! you’ve got a character, of course?”
Poor Jeffreys’ face fell.
“Do you mean testimonials?”
“No. You can refer to some one who knows you—your old schoolmaster, for instance.”
“I’m afraid not,” faltered the boy.
The man looked perplexed.
“Couldn’t get a character from him—why not?”
“Because I ran away from school.”
“Oh, oh! Did they ill-treat you, then, or starve you? Come; better tell the truth.”
“No—it wasn’t that. It was because—” Jeffreys gave one longing look at the shelves of beloved books, and an appealing glance at his questioner—“It was because I—nearly killed a boy.”
The man whistled and looked askance at his visitor.
“By accident?”
“Partly. Partly not. But I assure you—”
“That will do,” said the man; “that’s quite enough. Be off!”
Jeffreys departed without another word. Like Tantalus, the tempting fruit had been within reach, and his evil destiny had come in to dash it from his lips. Was it wonderful if he felt disposed to give it up and in sheer desperation go back to Bolsover?
The whole of the remainder of that day was spent in spiritless wandering about the streets. Once he made another attempt to obtain work, this time at a merchant’s office. But again the inconvenient question of character was raised, and he was compelled to denounce himself. This time his confession was even more unfeelingly received than at the bookseller’s.
“How dare you come here, you scoundrel?” exclaimed the merchant in a rage.
“Don’t call me a scoundrel!” retorted Jeffreys, his temper suddenly breaking out.
“I’ll call a policeman if you are not out of here in half a minute. Here, you boys,” added he, calling his six or eight clerks, “turn this wretch out of the place. Do you hear?”
Jeffreys spared them the trouble and stepped into the street, determined to die before he laid himself open to such an indignity again.
His last night’s experience at a common lodging-house did not tempt him to seek shelter again now, and as it was a fine mild night even at that time of year he trudged out of York into one of the suburbs, where at least everything was clean and quiet. He had the good fortune in a country lane to come across a wagon laid up by the roadside, just inside a field—a lodging far more tempting than that offered by Mr Josephs, and considerably cheaper. The fatigues and troubles of the day operated like a feather-bed for the worn-out and dispirited outcast, and he slept soundly, dreaming of Forrester, and the bookshop, and the dog Julius.
Next morning the weary search began again. Jeffreys, as he trudged back to the city, felt that he was embarked on a forlorn hope. Yet a man must live, and a sovereign cannot last for ever. He passed a railway embankment where a gang of navvies were hard at work. As he watched them he felt half envious. They had work to do, they had homes to return to at night, they had characters, perhaps. Most of them were big strong fellows like himself. Why should he not become one of them? He fancied he could wheel a barrow, and ply a crowbar, and dig with a spade, as well as any of them; he was not afraid of hard work any more than they were, and the wages that kept a roof over their heads would surely keep a roof over his.
As he sat on a bank by the roadside and watched them, he had almost resolved to walk across to the foreman and ask for a job, when the sound of voices close to him arrested him.
They were boys’ voices, and their talk evidently referred to himself, “Come along, Teddy,” said one. “He won’t hurt.”
“I’m afraid,” said the other. “He’s so ugly.”
“Perhaps that’s how he gets his living—scaring the crows,” said the first speaker.
“He looks as if he meant to kill us.”
“I shall fight him if he tries.”
Jeffreys looked round and had a view of the valiant speaker and his companion.
They were two neatly dressed little fellows, hand-in-hand, and evidently brothers. The younger—he who considered his life in danger—was about eight, his intrepid brother being apparently about a year his senior. They had little satchels over their shoulders, and parti-coloured cricket caps on their little curly heads. Their faces were bright and shining, the knees of their stockings were elaborately darned, the little hands were unmistakably ink-stained, and their pockets were bulged out almost to bursting.
Such was the apparition which confronted the Bolsover “cad” as he sat slowly making up his mind to become a labourer.
The younger brother drew back and began to cry, as soon as he perceived that the terrible villain on the bank had turned and was regarding them.
“Freddy, Freddy, run!” he cried.
“I shan’t,” said Freddy with a big heave of his chest. “I’m not afraid.” The fluttering heart beneath that manly bosom belied the words, as Freddy, dragging his brother by the hand, walked forward.
Jeffreys did not exactly know what to do. Were he to rise and approach the little couple the consequences might be disastrous. Were he to remain where he was or skulk away, he would be allowing them to believe him the ruffian they thought him, and that lane would become a daily terror to their little lives. The only thing was to endeavour to make friends.
“What are you afraid of?” said he, in as gentle a manner as he could. “I won’t hurt you.”
The sound of his voice caused the smaller boy to scream outright, and even the elder trembled a little as he kept himself full front to the enemy.
“You little donkeys, I’m a schoolboy myself,” said Jeffreys. This announcement had a magical effect. The younger brother stopped short in his scream, and Freddy boldly took two steps forward.
“Are you a boy?” inquired the latter.
“Of course I am. I was in the top form. I’m older than you, though.”
“I’m ten,” replied the proud owner of that venerable age.
“I’m nine in February,” chimed in the still-fluttered junior.
“I’m about as old as you two put together. How old’s that, Freddy?”
“Nineteen,” said Freddy.
By this time Jeffreys had gradually descended the bank and stood close to the two small brothers.
“Bravo, young ’un, you can do sums, I see!”
“Compound division and vulgar fractions,” said Freddy confidentially.
Jeffreys gave a whistle of admiration which won the heart of his hearer.
“Are you going to school now?” inquired the latter.
“No; I’ve left school,” said Jeffreys, “last week.”
“Last week! why, it’s only the middle of the term. Were you sent away?”
Jeffreys began to feel uncomfortable in the presence of this small cross-examiner.
“I got into trouble and had to leave.”
“I know why,” said the younger brother, plucking up courage.
“Why?” inquired Jeffreys, with an amused smile.
“Because you were so ugly!”
Jeffreys laughed. “Thank you,” said he.
“Was it because you killed the master?” asked the more matter-of-fact Freddy.
Poor Jeffreys winced before this random shot, and hastened to divert the conversation.
“Whose school do you go to?” he inquired.
“Trimble’s; we hate her,” said the two youths in a breath.
“Why? Does she whack you?”
“No; but she worries us, and young Trimble’s worse still. Do you know the school?”
“No. What’s the name of the house?”
“Oh, Galloway House, in Ebor Road. It wasn’t so bad when Fison was there,” continued the open-hearted Freddy; “but now he’s gone. Trimble’s a cad.”
“We hate her,” chimed in the original Teddy.
“We hope the new master will be like Fison, but I don’t believe Trimble can get any one to come,” said Freddy.
Jeffreys pricked up his ears and asked a good many questions about the school, which the youthful pair readily and gaily replied to, and then suggested that if Trimble was such a cad the boys had better not be late.
“Have some parliament cake?” said Freddy, opening his satchel and producing a large square of crisp gingerbread.
Jeffreys had not the heart to refuse a little piece of this delicacy, and enjoyed it more than the most sumptuous meal in an hotel. Teddy also insisted on his taking a bite out of his apple.
“Good-bye,” said the little fellow, putting up his face in the most natural manner for a kiss. Jeffreys felt quite staggered by this unexpected attention, but recovered his presence of mind enough to do what was expected of him. Freddy, on the other hand, looked rather alarmed at his young brother’s audacity, and contented himself with holding out his hand.
“Good-bye, little chap,” said Jeffreys, feeling a queer lump in his throat and not exactly knowing which way to look.
Next moment the two little brothers were trotting down the road hand-in-hand as gay as young larks. Jeffreys thought no more about the navvies, or the delights of a labourer’s life. A new hope was in him, and he strolled slowly back into York wondering to himself if angels ever come to men in the shape of little schoolboys.
It was still early when he reached the city. So he spent sixpence of his little store on a bath in the swimming baths, and another sixpence on some breakfast. Then, refreshed in body and mind, he called at the post-office. There was nothing for him there. Though he hardly expected any letter yet, his heart sunk as he thought what news might possibly be on its way to him at that moment. The image of Forrester as he lay on the football field haunted him constantly, and he would have given all the world even then to know that he was alive. Hope, however, came to his rescue, and helped him for a time to shake off the weight of his heart, and address himself boldly to the enterprise he had in hand.
That enterprise the acute reader has easily guessed. He would offer his services to the worthy Mrs Trimble, vice Mr Fison, resigned. He never imagined his heart could beat as quickly as it did when after a long search he read the words—“Galloway House. Select School for Little Boys,” inscribed on a board in the front garden of a small, old-fashioned house in Ebor Road.
The sound of children’s voices in the yard at the side apprised him that he had called at a fortunate time. Mrs Trimble during the play-hour would in all probability be disengaged.
Mrs Trimble was disengaged, and opened the door herself. Jeffreys beheld a stoutish harmless-looking woman, with a face by no means forbidding, even if it was decidedly unintellectual.
“Well, young man,” said she. She had been eating, and, I regret to say, had not finished doing so before she began to speak.
“Can I see Mrs Trimble, please?” asked Jeffreys, raising his hat. The lady, finding her visitor was a gentleman, hastily wiped her mouth and answered rather lest brusquely.
“I am the lady,” said she.
“Excuse me,” said Jeffreys, “I called to ask if you were in want of an assistant teacher. I heard that you were.”
“How did you hear that, I wonder? I suppose he’s a friend of that Fison. Yes, young man, I am in want of an assistant.”
“I should do my best to please you, if you would let me come,” said Jeffreys. And then, anxious to avoid the painful subject of his character, he added, “I have not taught in a school before, and I have no friends here, so I can’t give you any testimonials. But I am well up in classics and pretty good in mathematics, and would work hard, ma’am, if you would try me.”
“Are you a steady young man? Do you drink?”
“I never touch anything but water; and I am quite steady.”
“What wages do you expect?”
“I leave that to you. I will work for nothing for a month till you see if I suit you.”
Mrs Trimble liked this. It looked like a genuine offer.
“Are you good-tempered and kind to children?” she asked.
“I am very fond of little boys, and I always try to keep my temper.”
His heart sank at the prospect of other questions of this kind. But Mrs Trimble was not of a curious disposition. She knew when she liked a young man and when she didn’t, and she valued her own judgment as much as anybody else’s testimonials.
“You mustn’t expect grand living here,” she said.
“I was never used to anything but simple living,” said he.
“Very well, Mr —”
“Jeffreys, ma’am.”
“Mr Jeffreys, we’ll try how we get on for a month; and after that I can offer you a pound a month besides your board.”
“You are very kind,” said Jeffreys, to whom the offer seemed a magnificent one. “I am ready to begin work at once.”
“That will do. You’d better begin now. Come this way to the schoolroom.”