Chapter Nineteen.
How Hawkesbury put in an Appearance at Hawk Street.
When I woke in the morning and called to mind Jack’s confidence of the night before, I could hardly believe I had not dreamt it.
I had always guessed, and I dare say the reader has guessed too, that there was some mystery attached to my friend’s home. But I had never thought of this. No wonder now, when other boys had tormented him and called him “gaol-bird,” he had flared up with unwonted fire. No wonder he had always shrunk from any reference to that unhappy home. But why had he told me all about it now? I could almost guess the reason. For the last month or two he had been back at the nearest approach to a home that he possessed, at his old nurse’s cottage at Packworth, with her and his sister. And now, leaving them, and coming back once more to work in London, a home-sickness had seized him, and an irresistible craving for sympathy had prompted him to tell me his secret.
“And it shall be safe with me,” I said to myself.
We did not refer to the subject again that day, or for several days. Indeed, I almost suspected he repented already of what he had done, for his manner was more reserved and shy than I had ever known it. He seemed to be in a constant fright lest I should return to the subject, while his almost deferential manner to me was quite distressing. However, we had our work to occupy our minds during most of the day.
“Slap bang, here we are again!” cried Doubleday, as we entered the office together that morning. “What cheer, Bulls’-eye? Awfully sorry we haven’t got the decorations up, but we’re out of flags at present. We’re going to illuminate this evening, though, in your honour—when we light the gas.”
“Awfully glad you’re back,” said Crow. “The governors have been in an awful way without you to advise them. We’ve positively done nothing since you went, have we, Wallop?”
“No—except read his life in the Newgate Calendar,” said Wallop, who had not forgotten his knock down on the day Jack left.
All this Jack, like a sensible man, took quietly, though I could see, or fancied I saw, he winced at the last reference.
He quietly took his old place, and proceeded to resume his work just as if he had never been absent, wholly regardless of the witticisms of his comrades.
“We’ve drunk his health now and then in his absence, haven’t we, Batch, old man?” said Doubleday again, addressing me.
I did not at all like to be thus drawn into the conversation, but I was forced to answer. “Yes, now and then.”
“Let’s see, what was the last sentiment—the other night up at Daly’s, you know; what was it, Crow?”
“Oh, Doubleday!” cried I, suddenly, in terror at the turn the talk was taking, “would you look at this invoice, please? Only twelve cases are entered, and I’m certain thirteen were shipped.”
“Eh, what?” exclaimed Doubleday, who in business matters was always prompt and serious; “only twelve entered? how’s that? Why, you young idiot!” said he, taking up the paper; “can’t you read what’s straight in front of your nose? ‘A set of samples, not invoiced, in case Number 13.’”
“So it is, to be sure,” exclaimed I, who, of course, knew it all along, and had only raised the alarm in order to interrupt Doubleday’s awkward talk. “Thanks.”
This expedient of mine, disingenuous as it was, was successful. Before Doubleday could get back to his desk and take up the thread of his conversation where he left it, Mr Merrett entered the office. He walked straight up to Jack’s desk, and said, heartily, “Well, Smith, my man, we’re glad to see you back. Are you quite well again?”
“Quite well, thank you, sir,” said Smith, rising to his feet, and flushing with pleasure at this unexpected attention from the head of the firm.
I felt quite as proud as he did, and still more so when presently Mr Barnacle arrived, and after first looking over his letters and glancing at his Times, touched the bell and said he wished to speak to Smith.
“They’re going to make a partner of you,” said Doubleday, mockingly, as he delivered the message. “Never mind; you won’t forget your old servants, I know.”
“Talking of partners,” said Harris, of the Imports, over the screen, when Jack had gone in obedience to the summons, “we’re to have the new chap here next week.”
“What’s his name?” asked Doubleday.
“Don’t know. He’s a nephew, I believe, of old Merrett’s. The old boy told me the other day he was to come into my department to learn the business. He says I’m to teach him all I know, as he wants him to get on.”
“That’s pleasant. I suppose he’s to be shoved over our heads, and tell us all what to do.”
“Never fear,” said Harris; “I sha’n’t teach him too much. But the governor says he’s a ‘youth of good principles and fair attainments,’ and thinks I shall like him.”
Crow whistled.
“‘Good principles and fair attainments!’ That’s a good un. I guess he’s come to the wrong shop with those goods. Nobody deals in them here that I know of.”
“Speak for yourself,” retorted Doubleday, sententiously. “No one suspected you of going in for either, but Batchelor and I flatter ourselves we are a little in that line.”
“Well, if you are,” said Wallop, breaking in, “all I can say is, young Batchelor had better show his principle by stepping round to Shoddy’s and paying his bill there, or he may ‘attain’ to something he doesn’t expect.”
“What do you mean?” I said. “I’ve only had the things a fortnight, and he said I needn’t pay for them for a month.”
“No doubt he did,” said Wallop, not observing that Jack had by this time returned from the partners’ room, and was seated once more at his desk. “No doubt he’d have let you go on tick for a twelve month, but when he finds you owe all round to the butcher and baker and candlestick maker, no wonder he gets a bit shy. Why, only yesterday—”
“Will you mind your own business?” I exclaimed, desperately, not knowing how to turn the talk.
“Only yesterday,” continued Wallop, complacently, evidently noticing and enjoying my confusion, “he was asking me what I thought of your credit. Shoddy and I are chummy you know, Crow.”
“Will you shut up and let me get on with my work?” I cried, despairingly.
“I told him,” continued Wallop, deliberately, “I knew you only had twelve bob a week, and that, though you were a very nice boy, I would advise him to proceed with caution, as I knew for a fact—”
I sprang from my seat, determined, if I could not silence him by persuasion, I would do it by force. However, he adroitly fortified himself behind his desk, and proceeded, greatly to the amusement of every one but Jack, “I knew for a fact you owed a pot of money at the tuck shop—”
Here the speaker had to pause for the laughter which this announcement had elicited.
“And that the Twins had advanced you getting on for half-a-sov., besides—”
There was no escape. I sank down in my seat and let him go on as he liked.
I had the satisfaction of hearing a full, true, and particular account of my debts and delinquencies, which every one—I could not for the world tell how—seemed to know all about, and I had the still greater satisfaction of knowing that my friend Smith was hearing of my extravagances now for the first time, and not from my lips.
What would he think of me? How strange he must think it in me not to have trusted in him when he had confided to me his own far more important secret. I felt utterly ashamed. And yet, when I came to think of it, if I had acted foolishly, I had not committed a crime. Why should I be ashamed?
“I say,” I began, when that evening we were walking home, rather moodily, side by side—“I say, you must have been astonished by what those fellows were saying to-day, Jack.”
“Eh? Well, I couldn’t quite make it out.”
“They are always chaffing me about something,” I said.
“Then it was all a make-up of Wallop’s about what you owed?”
“Well, no—not exactly. The fact is, I do owe one or two little accounts.”
“Do you?” said Jack. “It’s a pity.”
I did not quite like the tone in which he said this. It may have been that my conscience was not quite clear as to my own straightforwardness in this matter. I was not obliged to tell him everything, to be sure; but then, no more was I obliged to try to deceive him when I did tell him. At any rate, I felt a trifle irritated, and the rest of our walk proceeded in silence till we reached Style Street. Here we found Billy at his old sport, but evidently expecting us.
“Shine ’e boots, governor!” cried he, with a profound grin.
Jack put his foot upon the box, and the young artist fell-to work instantly.
“I’ll stroll on,” I said, out of humour, and anxious to be alone.
“All serene!” replied Jack, solemnly as usual.
By the time he turned up at Beadle Square I had somewhat recovered my equanimity, and the rest of the evening was spent in talking about indifferent matters, and avoiding all serious topics. Among other things, I told Jack of the expected addition to the staff at Hawk Street, which interested him greatly, especially as the new-comer was to work in the Import department.
“I hope he’ll be a nice fellow,” he said. “What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. He’s a nephew of Merrett’s, they say, and a good fellow. He’s coming in as a clerk at first, but Harris says he’s to be taken in as a partner in time.”
“Then he’s only a boy yet?”
“I suppose so—seventeen or eighteen.”
Of course there was a considerable amount of speculation and curiosity as to the new arrival during the week which followed. I think most of us were a little jealous, and Doubleday was especially indignant at the fellow’s meanness in being the governor’s nephew.
“Of course, he’ll peach about all we do,” growled he, “and give his precious uncle a full, true, and particular account every evening of everything every one of us has been up to during the day. And the worst of it is, one can’t even lick the beggar now and then, like any other fellow.”
It undoubtedly was hard lines, and we all sympathised not a little with the chief clerk’s grievance.
Our suspense was not protracted. On the appointed day Mr Merrett arrived, accompanied by a slender youth of about eighteen, at sight of whom Jack and I started as though we had been shot. The new-comer was no other than our former schoolfellow, Hawkesbury.
If a skeleton had walked into the office we could not have been more taken aback. Of all persons in the world, who would have guessed that this fellow whom we had last seen at Stonebridge House, and had never even heard of since should turn up now as the nephew of our employer, and as one of our own future chiefs at the office?
“Gentlemen,” said Mr Merrett, “this is my nephew, Mr Hawkesbury. I trust you will all be good friends. Eh! what!”
This last exclamation was occasioned by Hawkesbury’s advancing first to me and then to Smith, and shaking our hands, much to the surprise of everybody.
“These two gentlemen were at school with me, uncle,” he said, by way of explanation. “It is quite a pleasant surprise to me to see them again.”
“Very singular,” said Mr Merrett; “I’m glad of it. You’ll get on all the better. Harris; perhaps you will allow Mr Hawkesbury to assist you for a day or two, just while he is learning the work.”
So saying, the senior partner vanished into his own room, leaving Hawkesbury in the midst of his new comrades.
I did not know whether to be glad or sorry. For myself, though I never quite liked Hawkesbury, I had always got on well with him, and been disposed to believe him a well-meaning fellow.
But on Jack Smith’s account I felt very sorry, and not a little uneasy, for they had never “hit” it, and from what I could judge never would.
However, for the present at any rate, such apprehensions seemed to be groundless, for Hawkesbury, naturally a little ill at ease among so many strangers, appeared to be glad to claim the acquaintance of one of them, and sat down beside him and began to talk in quite a cordial manner.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” he said again; “who would have thought of seeing you and Batchelor in Uncle Merrett’s office?”
“We’ve been here several months,” replied Jack, not quite as cordially, I could see, as his old schoolfellow.
“Have you? I’m afraid I shall never learn as much as you have,” he said, with his old smile.
“Now then, young governor,” said Harris, “when it’s quite convenient to you we’ll get to work. Don’t put yourself out, pray; but if you can spare the time from your friend, I should like you to add up this column.”
Hawkesbury looked a little astonished at this speech, but at once replied, with a smile, “You are Mr Harris, I suppose? I shall be glad to learn what you can teach me.”
If Harris had expected to put the new-comer down by his witticisms he was sorely mistaken. Hawkesbury coolly seated himself at the desk beside him, and, with the air more of a man inspecting the work of another than of a learner seeking information, he examined the papers and books handed to him and catechised Harris as to their contents.
It was evident that he was fully aware from the beginning of his own position at the office, and that he wished us all to be aware of it also. He adopted a patronising air towards me and Jack and the other clerks, as if we were already in his employment and doing his work.
“A jolly cool hand,” growled Doubleday to Crow, in an undertone most unusual to him when the principals were out of hearing. “I’m glad I’m not Harris.”
“Now then, Harris,” said Crow, “mind how you dot your p’s and q’s, old man—I mean your i’s.”
Hawkesbury looked up from his work and said, smiling, “I think Mr Harris dots his i’s very well. What did you say is entered in this column, Harris?”
This was nothing short of a snub to Crow, who was quiet for the rest of the day.
After business, as Jack and I were proceeding to walk home, Hawkesbury came up and joined our party.
“Which way are you going?” inquired he. “I’ll join you, if I may.”
We could hardly say no, and yet we neither of us relished the offer. However, he did not appear to notice our reluctance, and walked along with us, conversing in his usual pleasant way.
“I hope we shall be good friends at the office,” he said, after a long uncomfortable pause.
“I hope so,” said I, who knew it was not much use to rely on Jack Smith to keep up the conversation.
“I dare say you know,” said he, “that my uncle’s idea is for me some day to join him and Mr Barnacle, but of course that depends on how I get on.”
“Yes,” said I, as there was a pause here.
“In any case I hope that won’t make any difference between us old schoolfellows,” he continued. “I hope not,” again I replied.
“Where are you living in London?” he presently asked. I told him, and he thereupon proceeded to make further kind inquiries as to how we liked our quarters, if we had nice friends, what we did with ourselves, and so on. All of which it fell-to my lot to answer, as Jack Smith showed no inclination to assist me.
At length we reached the top of Style Street, where, as usual, the athletic Billy was at his sports. I really believe he spent the entire time he was not blacking boots in walking round and round his box on the palms of his hands with his feet up in the air.
At the sight of his patron he dropped promptly to attention.
“Well, Billy,” said Smith, “are you ready for me?” Billy grinned all over his face, as he replied, “Yaas,” and at once fell-to work.
Hawkesbury watched the incident with interest, not quite sure what to make of it, and rather taken aback to have our walk thus abruptly stopped.
“Old gal’s bolted agin,” observed Billy, in the middle of his task. “’Ave any of you blokes saw her?”
“No,” said Smith, “when did she go?”
“Last night,” said Billy. “She give me a dose fust, and when I came round, if she ain’t sloped along of all my browns. She’s a rum un.”
Poor Billy, what a picture of his domestic life was this!
“Bless you, though,” continued he, breathing hard on to the toes of Jack’s boot, “she’ll turn up. When she’s done them browns she’ll step round for more. Bless her old soul!”
“You ought to keep your money where she can’t find it,” suggested Jack.
“’Tain’t no concern of yourn where I keep my brass. Oh, my eye, there’s a nob!” cried he, suddenly perceiving Hawkesbury, who all this time had been looking on and listening in bewilderment. “Shin’e boots next, cap’n? Oh my, ain’t he a topper?”
This last appeal was made to Jack, whose boots were now clean, and who, of course, did not reply.
“Who’s your friend?” said Hawkesbury to him, with a smile.
“My friend’s a shoeblack,” drily replied Smith.
“All, a curious little fellow. Well, as I dare say you’ve plenty to say to one another, I’ll be going. Good-bye,” and he shook hands with us both and departed.
That evening Jack and I had a long and painful discussion about Hawkesbury. As usual, he had not a good word to say for him, while I, on the contrary, thought that at any rate he might be well-meaning.
“All I can say is,” said Jack, “it wouldn’t take much to make me leave Hawk Street now.”
“Oh, don’t say that!” I cried, miserable at the bare idea.
“Don’t be afraid,” said he, bitterly. “A convict’s son can’t get taken on anywhere, and I shall just have to stay where I am as long as there are the people at home to depend on me.”
He said this in such a sad tone that my heart bled for him. Alas! there seemed to be anything but happy days in store for my friend Smith.