Chapter Twenty Eight.
How I found myself once more at Hawk Street.
In due time the doctor paid his final visit and gave me leave to return to Hawk Street.
I can’t describe how strange it seemed to be walking out once more in the open air, leaning on Jack’s arm, and feeling myself an active member of society.
The part of the town where Jack’s lodgings were situated was new to me. It could not have been worse than Beadle Square, but it wasn’t much better. This street was narrow and squalid and crowded, and presented no attractions either in the way of fresh air or convenience. Still, to me, any place that harboured Jack Smith would have been more homelike than the stateliest mansion.
“By the way,” said Jack, as we walked down to the office the first morning, “I suppose you don’t want to go back to Beadle Square.”
“Not if I can help it,” I said; “the only thing is, I suppose, I ought to tell my uncle. You know he paid my lodging there.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Jack. “I went down one day and saw Mrs Nash and told her what had become of you, and said she might let your bed to any one else. And I wrote to your uncle (I thought it best not to bother you by telling you at the time), and told him where you were and how you were getting on. He wrote back a civil note to say he was glad to hear you were getting better; and with regard to the lodgings, he had been just about to write and say that as you had now a respectable income at the office he would not be continuing to pay for your lodging; so that when you got well you might consider yourself free to do as you liked in that respect.”
“Awfully obliging of him,” said I.
“Well, it struck me as rather a cordial way of putting it,” remarked Jack, laughing.
“I had better look for quarters at once,” said I.
“Do nothing of the kind. Stay where you are!”
“What?” I exclaimed, in pleased astonishment. The idea had never occurred to me before. “How ever could I? As it is I’ve been turning Mr Smith out long enough.”
“He was talking to me about it the other day,” said Jack. “He finds that all his time is now required at the office of the newspaper he writes for, and therefore he has really no use for his room except as a bedroom. So that our room up stairs is at our complete disposal.”
“How jolly!” I exclaimed. “Nothing could have happened more delightfully.”
“Nothing,” said Jack, as pleased as I was; “and he says any time of an evening when he’s away we can use the lower room as if it was our own. Isn’t it brickish of him?”
I agreed heartily in the sentiment, and proceeded to Hawk Street with less weight on my mind than ever.
There, as was natural, I found myself an object of a good deal of interest and remark. Doubleday, who once during my illness had sent me a short note of sympathy by Smith, was the first to welcome me back to my old quarters.
“Here we are again, young ’un, alive and kicking,” cried he, clapping me on the back as I entered. “How his whiskers have grown, haven’t they, Wallop? Well, how’s your game leg?”
“It was my arm, not my leg,” I said.
“No! was it? I heard it was your off-leg and your spine and your skull that were smashed. That’s what made me so surprised to see you. Never mind, I’m glad to see you, young ’un, for there’s a ticklish bit of figure work to do. None of the others would look at it, so I’ve saved it up for you, my boy.”
“And I’m ready for it,” said I.
Crow and Wallop greeted me rather more shyly. I fancy they had had rather a fright when they heard how very ill I had been.
They shook hands rather sheepishly, and Wallop said something about the weather which had no actual bearing, on my recovery. I had come to the conclusion during my illness that Crow and Wallop had not been altogether profitable companions, and I was therefore glad they were not more demonstrative now.
But I had yet to meet Hawkesbury, and wished the operation well over; for however much I may once have believed in him, I now disliked him, and determined to have as little to do with him as possible.
“Ah, Batchelor,” cried he, coming up with outstretched hand, and beaming as if the incident in my sick-room weeks ago had never happened. “So glad to see you back. We have missed you greatly. How do you feel? You’re looking better than when I saw you last.”
I just took his hand and said, “Thank you,” as shortly as I could.
He appeared neither to notice my manner nor my tone.
“You’ve had a long spell of it,” said he. “I’d no idea a broken arm was such a serious thing. But I dare say you’ll be all the better for your long rest.”
I set to work to open my desk and get together my papers and pens, ready for work.
“It was a bad fall you had,” continued he, standing beside me as I was thus employed. “You have no idea how distressed I was when it happened. But Whipcord was really in such a shocking state that night that—”
“Can you give me a piece of blotting-paper?” I said to Doubleday across the desk.
He waited till I had got what I wanted, and proceeded, smiling as ever, “It really wasn’t safe for any of us. Masham, by the way, was very sorry to hear of your accident, and asked me to tell you so. I meant to do so the evening I called, but your friend was really so polite that I forgot all about it.”
I had stood it thus far, and kept to my resolve of saying as little as I could. But when he brought in Jack’s name it was all I could do to hold my peace.
I made an excuse to leave my place and consult a Directory, in the hopes of shaking him off, but there he was when I returned, ready to go on as benignly as ever.
“I’m sure, Batchelor,” said he, “it must have been greatly against you to be cooped up in that miserable lodging all the time, and in—what I should call—such uncongenial society. But when one is ill, of course one has just to put up with what one can get.”
My patience had reached its limit at last.
“My friend’s society is more congenial to me than yours is at present!” I said, colouring up and bending over my writing.
“I see,” said he, “he has got you under this thumb again, and means to keep you there.”
“Will you let me get on with my work?” I said.
“Oh, certainly!” said he, smiling blandly. “I merely wished to tell you how glad I was to see you back at last; but I dare say that doesn’t interest you.”
I made no answer, and, seeing that I was determined to hold no more conversation, he gently withdrew.
I felt quite relieved when he had done so, and still more to find that, for the first time in my life, I had been proof against his blandishments.
“What have you been doing to Petty-Cash?” whispered Doubleday to me, presently; “he looks so smiling and benevolent that I’m certain you must have given him mortal offence about something or other.”
“I don’t care if I have,” I said.
Doubleday whistled softly. “I say, young ’un,” said he, “your illness has smartened you up a bit, I reckon, eh?”
This, coming from the source it did, I felt to be a compliment. However, I had more calls upon my new resolutions before the day was over.
The partners arrived and received me—each in his own peculiar way—very kindly. Mr Merrett was good enough to say the work of the office had suffered a good deal in my absence, and Mr Barnacle said he hoped I had come back prepared to make up for lost time. To both which observations I listened respectfully, and returned once more to my desk.
The morning passed quickly and busily. I had made a plunge into the difficult task so considerately saved up for me by Doubleday, and felt quite refreshed by the array of figures to be dealt with. In fact, I was so engrossed with it that when Jack came and asked me if I was going out to lunch I said I really could not leave it now, but would take my lunch later on.
So he went, and several of the others, leaving me with Crow, Wallop, and Hawkesbury, in possession of the office.
The two former heroes had by this time somewhat recovered from their surprise at seeing me once more in the land of the living, and seemed disposed to wax facetious in proportion at my expense.
I dug my thumbs into my ears, in the hopes of getting on with my work, but it was not easy, and I had at last to give up the attempt.
“Jolly glad he’s not kicked the bucket, for one thing,” said Wallop.
“Why?” asked Crow, apparently surprised that there should be any reason for thankfulness in such an event.
“He owes me thirty bob, that’s all,” said Wallop.
It was true! It was one of the oldest of my debts, and one which had been greatly on my mind for many a day.
“Ah!” said I, feeling constrained to take some notice of the remark. “I’m afraid I’ve kept you out of that money a long time, Wallop.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Wallop. “When I want it I’ll drop on you for it, my boy.”
“I’ll try to pay it off as soon as ever I can,” I said.
I disliked Wallop, as I have said, and the thought that I owed him money was not at all pleasant to me.
My creditor laughed.
“There’s plenty more will be glad to hear you’re better,” said he. “There’s Shoddy I met the other week in a regular blue funk because he thought you’d bolted. He wanted to come down and see the governors here about his little bill, but I managed to pacify him. But he says if you don’t give him a call soon he’ll wake you up.”
“I’ll go and see him at once,” I said, feeling very uncomfortable.
“Then there’s the Twins. It seems you’re on their books for a matter of a sov. or so advanced you at odd times. They’ve been most affectionate in their inquiries about you.”
It wasn’t pleasant to be reminded thus on my first morning back at work of the burden of debt which still pressed on me from the old, and I humbly hoped bygone, days of my extravagance. Not even a broken arm or a dangerous fever will wipe off old scores.
Wallop rather enjoyed going through the catalogue of my debts.
“Then there’s Tucker, the pastrycook, wants half-a-sov. at the very least, and Weeden, the tobacconist, a florin for mild cigarettes, and—”
“Yes, yes,” I said; “I know all about it, and I’m going to pay them all.”
“That’s a good job,” remarked Wallop, “and the sooner you tell them all so the better. They’d all like to have your present address.”
“I’m not sure that that would console them much,” said Crow. “It’s rather a shadier place than the old one.”
“Yes, when you come to think of it, a fellow would get a bit shy when he read the address, ‘care of Tom Jailbird, Esquire, Up a Slum, Drury Lane.’”
“Look here!” cried I, suddenly starting up; “don’t you call my friend names, please.”
Nothing could have delighted the genial pair more than my excitement. They greeted my protest with laughter, and winking at one another, continued to talk among themselves.
“Good practice, I should think. Crow, living with a chap like that—get used to prison fare. Come all the easier later on.”
“Wonder if they practise picking one another’s pockets to keep their hands in, of an evening.”
“I’m told that jailbird has got an album full of tickets-of-leave.”
“Ah! His father must have travelled a good bit in his time.”
It was pitiful, paltry jesting, but it was more than I could stand.
“Will you stop?” I shouted.
“Nobody was speaking to you,” said Wallop.
“You were speaking of my friend!” I exclaimed.
“More shame to you for chumming up with such disreputable lot,” said Crow.
“Do you hear? stop it!” I shouted.
“We’ll stop it,” said Wallop, “when—”
I did not wait to hear more, but rushed upon the speaker.
The upshot might have been serious for me in my present weak condition, and being one against two. But before my blow could be returned Hawkesbury, who had so far been a silent witness to the scene, sprang from his place and pulled me away. I struggled to get free, but he held me firm, as he said, “Batchelor, don’t be foolish. You two, be quiet, will you, or I must report you to my uncle. Fighting is not allowed in here.”
“I didn’t want to fight,” said Wallop, putting up his hand to his smarting cheek, “but I’ll have it out with him.”
“Young prig!” growled Crow, savagely.
“You hear what I say,” said Hawkesbury. “I won’t allow it to go any further. Here, Batchelor, go to your seat, and don’t be absurd.”
This tone of authority and his unasked-for interference irritated me as much as ever the language of my two adversaries had done. Hawkesbury was always getting the pull of me in ways like this.
I retired sulkily to my seat, saying I would thrash any one who insulted Smith in my presence, at which the others sneered.
“All I can say is,” said Wallop, with his hand still up to his face, “if I don’t get that thirty shillings he owes me to-morrow, I’ll show him up in a way that will astonish him—that’s all.”
With which threat he took up his hat and went out, leaving me in a very agitated and uncomfortable frame of mind, as the reader may guess.
I would far sooner have been thrashed out and out by Wallop than be left thus under what Hawkesbury would certainly consider an obligation to him.
“I thought it best,” said he, in his insinuating way, “to interfere. You are really not well enough for that sort of thing, Batchelor.”
During the rest of the day my mind was too uneasy to permit me to make much progress with my work, and I was glad when evening came and I could escape with my friend.
“You look fagged,” said he, as I took his arm.
“I am rather,” said I, “and worried too, Jack.”
“What about?” he asked.
Then I told him all about my debts; and we spent the rest of the evening in a sort of committee of ways and means.
Taken separately my debts were none of them very large, but added all together their total was something appalling. Ten pounds would scarcely cover them, and that did not include what I owed the doctor.
It was a serious business, without doubt.
Wallop’s threat to insist on immediate payment, or else “show me up” before the partners and my other creditors, may have been mere bounce; but it may equally well have been in earnest, in which case I was ruined.
Jack’s one solicitude that evening was to keep me from fretting too much. But it is all very well to say, “Don’t fret,” and another thing to remove the cause of fretting. And that we could neither of us do.
Jack had no money. What little he had saved he had spent on books or sent home to Mrs Shield. As for Mr Smith, senior, even if I had cared to ask him to help me, I knew he had barely enough to keep body and soul together. The idea of borrowing from Doubleday occurred to me, but Smith promptly discouraged it. Besides, I had once asked him for a loan, and he had refused it, on the ground he never lent money to anybody.
“The only thing,” said Jack, “is to write home to your uncle.”
I could scarcely help smiling at the idea. I knew my uncle better than Jack Smith did, and I might as well hope to get blood out of a stone as expect him to pay for my extravagances in London.
However, Jack was so sure it was the right and only thing to do that I finally consented to sit down and make a clean breast of it, which I did in the following note:—
“Dear Uncle,—I am better now, and back at work. I am sorry to say, however, I am in a good deal of difficulty about money. Before my illness I had got into extravagant ways and run into debt. I enclose a list of what I believe I owe at the present moment. You will see—not including the doctor’s bill—it comes to £10 2 shillings 4 pence. The names marked with a star are clerks at the office who have lent me money, I am sorry to say, for gambling and other purposes. I don’t know what to do about paying them back. I thought if you wouldn’t mind advancing the amount I could pay you back so much a week out of my salary. I hope and trust you will help me in my difficulty. I need hardly say I have seen the folly of my old ways, and am determined to live carefully and economically in future. Do please write by return and help me.
“Your affect. nephew,—
“Fred. Batchelor.”
Jack approved of this effusion as businesslike and to the point.
“You haven’t gone out of the way to excuse yourself,” said he, “and I dare say it will go down all the better for that. If he doesn’t write and send up the money I shall be surprised.”
Poor Jack! A lot he knew about uncles of my sort!
However, I felt more comfortable to have written the letter, and if I could only have been sure Wallop’s threat was mere idle bluster I should have slept easily.
As it was, I had had rather a stirring day for my first one out, and at the end of it felt a good deal less game for work than at the beginning. Nothing could exceed Jack’s tenderness and anxiety to relieve me of as much worry as possible. When I was in bed he came and read aloud to me. It was Virgil he read—which he was working at for his examination. And I remember that evening lying half awake, half asleep, listening now to him, thinking now of my debts, mixing up Aeneas with Wallop, and Mr Shoddy with Laocoön, and poor old Priam with my uncle.
The following morning I rose only half refreshed, and made my way anxiously to the office. One of the first fellows I met was Wallop, who greeted my approach with a surly grin.
I felt sure at that moment he had meant what he threatened yesterday, and my heart quailed within me at the prospect.
“Well, young prig,” said he, “I suppose you’ve brought my money?”
“No,” said I; “I’m afraid I must ask you to wait a little longer. I hope you won’t do anything for a day or two, at any rate. I will do my best to get it by then.”
He laughed in my face, and evidently enjoyed my distress.
“You sung a different tune yesterday, my boy, when you hit me. Do you remember? That wasn’t the payment I wanted!”
“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” said I.
“Well, I mean to show you I pay my debts more punctually than you do,” said he; and with that he gave me a cuff on my head which sent me reeling half across the office.
I could not—I dare not—return it, and he knew it.
“There,” said he, laughing brutally; “now we’re quits! As to that thirty shillings, I’ll let you off, as it has been paid me.”
“Paid you!” I exclaimed, in utter bewilderment. “Who by?”
“Hawkesbury!”