Chapter Twenty Five.
How I took part in a not very successful Holiday Party.
Several weeks elapsed, and I was beginning to doubt whether Hawkesbury’s advice, after all, was good, when a general holiday occurred to break the monotony of my life both at Hawk Street and Beadle Square.
I had for some time meditated, if I had the funds, taking advantage of my next holiday to run down to my uncle’s. Not that I expected any particular welcome from him, but I longed to see the old familiar haunts of my childhood after my long imprisonment in London; and, even if there were no more congenial friend than Cad Prog to hail me, it would at least be a change from this dreary city, with its noise and bustle, and disappointed hopes and lost friendships.
But my intention in this direction was upset by a double reason. One was that I had no money. Indeed, my debts had got so far ahead of my means that it was clear a crisis in my financial affairs must soon come. The other reason was an invitation to join in a grand day’s excursion by road to Windsor.
It came from Hawkesbury.
“Are you doing anything particular on Monday?” he asked me, a day or two before the holiday.
“No; I half thought of going home, but I can’t afford that, so I may go to the British Museum.”
“Not a very cheerful place to spend a holiday,” laughed Hawkesbury. “What do you say to coming a quiet drive with me?”
Had the invitation come from Crow or Daly, or even Doubleday, I should have regarded it shyly. But Hawkesbury was a steady fellow, I thought, and not likely to lead one into mischief.
“I should like it awfully!” I said, “only—that is—I don’t think I can afford it.”
“Oh!” said he, smiling affably, “you shan’t be at any expense at all. It’s my affair, and I should like to take you with me.”
Of course my gratitude was as profuse as it was sincere.
“My idea was,” continued Hawkesbury, “to get a dogcart for the day and go somewhere in the direction of Windsor, taking our own provender with us, and having a jolly healthy day in the open air.”
Nothing could be more delightful or more in accordance with my own wishes.
“Will it be just you and I?” I asked.
“Well, these traps generally hold four. I thought perhaps Whipcord would come for one; he’s a good driver, you know, and a steady enough fellow when he’s by himself. And there’s a friend of mine called Masham I mean to ask as well.”
I would have preferred it if the expedition had been confined to Hawkesbury and myself, but I had no right to be discontented with the arrangements which had been made, and spent the next few days in eager anticipation.
I wondered what Jack Smith meant to do on his holiday; most likely he would be reading hard for his “Sam,” as Billy called it. It seemed shabby of me to go off on a spree and leave him to drudge; but, as Hawkesbury said when I referred to the matter, it would just show him what he missed by holding aloof, and make him all the more ready to try to get back my friendship.
Doubleday, when I told him of my plan for the day, snuffed up at it in no very pleasant way. But then he had always been jealous of Hawkesbury since giving up the petty-cash to his charge.
“All I can say is,” said he, “I’d think twice about going with that party, and I’m not so very particular. I suppose you never met Mr Masham, did you?”
“No,” said I.
“Ah!” he replied, laughing, “you’ll find him a very nice boy; just a little too strait-laced for me, but he’ll suit you.”
I could not make out whether this was in jest or earnest; in any case, I put it down to the petty-cash, and thought it a pity Doubleday should be so put out by a trifle.
“What are you going to do?” I asked him.
“Oh! I’m going to do my best to be cheerful in a mild way,” said he, “down the river. It’s a good job Hawkesbury’s booked you, my boy, for I meant to ask you to join us, and that would have done you out of your quiet day with Petty-Cash and his friends, which would be a pity.”
The Monday came at last, and opened perfectly. My spirits rose as I looked out and saw the blue cloudless sky overhead, and thought of the trees, and birds, and flowers, and country air I was so soon to be among.
I was to meet my party at the Horseshoe stables in the City, and thither I repaired in good time, in my smartest get-up, and with a shilling plum-cake under my arm, which I had made up my mind to take as my contribution to the commissariat of the expedition. I passed Style Street on my way, and came in for hilarious greeting from Billy.
“Hi! shine ’e boots, governor? My eye, there’s a nob! Shine ’e all over, governor. Ain’t you got ’em on, though? What’s up, mister?”
“See you again soon, Billy,” said I, bustling on. I was angry with him for the way he laughed, and for the description of me I knew quite well he would presently give to Jack Smith.
Early as I was at the rendezvous, Hawkesbury was before me, and with him his friend Masham. The latter was a queer-looking fellow of about thirty. He was pale and dark round the eyes, like a person who hadn’t slept for a week. His lips were large and red, and the lower part of his face a good deal too big for the upper. Altogether Mr Masham was neither a very healthy nor a very prepossessing-looking specimen; but Hawkesbury had told me he was clever and very amusing, so I supposed I oughtn’t to judge by appearances.
“Punctual as usual,” said Hawkesbury, as I approached. “Phil, this is my friend Batchelor I was telling you of.”
I wished secretly I knew exactly what he had been telling him of me.
“Oh,” said Masham, eyeing me all over, as he lit a cigar, and then held out his cigar-case to me. “What do you smoke, Batchelor?”
“I don’t smoke, thank you,” said I.
“Have you given it up, then?” said Hawkesbury. “You used to smoke at Doubleday’s parties.”
“Ah! I thought he looked like a chap that smoked,” said Masham, holding out his case again. “Don’t be modest, Batchelor. We’re all friends here.”
I didn’t like the style of this Masham. Indeed, I was a trifle afraid of him already, and half repented coming.
“I gave up smoking some weeks ago,” said I, determined not to give in if I could help. “I found I couldn’t afford it.”
“The very reason you should take a cigar now when you’ve a chance of getting one for nothing,” replied Masham, digging me pleasantly in the ribs.
“Thanks, I’d rather not, if you’ll excuse me,” I replied again.
“Can’t excuse you, my dear fellow. We’re all bound to be sociable to-day. At least, so I fancy.”
“Come, Batchelor,” said Hawkesbury. “We may as well humour him. I’d advise you to take a cigar. I’ll take one, too, to keep you company, though I hate them. They always make me feel sick.”
So saying, he took a cigar and lit it. I felt bound to do the same, not only to relieve myself of Masham’s importunity, but to avoid disturbing the harmony of our party at the very beginning of the day.
At this moment Whipcord arrived on the scene, as stylish as ever, with his hat all on one side of his head and his straw all on one side of his mouth.
“What cheer, my venerable chums?” he cried, as he approached. “Ah! Masham. You turned up again! I thought we’d lost—”
“That’ll do,” said Masham, with a significant jerk of his head towards me. “Have a weed?”
“Thanks, we’ll see about that later on. I’m off my smoke just now. Ah! young Batchelor, you there? Brought your boxing-gloves with you, I hope? Hot fellow with the gloves is Batchelor, Phil. Well, where’s your trap, Hawkesbury?”
“There it is coming out.”
Whipcord eyed it professionally and critically. He liked the dogcart, but didn’t think much of the horse.
“Do all right for a water-cart, I dare say,” observed he, “or cat’s meat. But I don’t see how we’re to get to Windsor and back with such a rheumatic old screw.”
“You’re out there, mister,” said the ostler, who was harnessing the animal. “You’ll find he ain’t such a screw as you think. You’ll need to keep a steady hand on him all the way, pertikler on the road home, or he’ll screw you a way you don’t fancy.”
Whipcord laughed.
“I’ll do my best,” he said. “He does look a sort of beast to be nervous of, certainly.”
The ostler grinned cynically, and we meanwhile mounted to our seats, Hawkesbury and Whipcord being in front, and I, much to my disgust, being placed beside Masham on the back seat.
Despite Whipcord’s desponding prophecies, our charger stepped out at a pretty fair pace, and in due time we began to shake off the dust of London from our wheels and meet the first traces of country.
For a considerable time my companion absorbed himself in his cigar—much to my satisfaction—and I, for fear of appearing anxious for conversation, betook myself to mine.
At length, however, after about half an hour thus occupied, Masham broke the silence.
“Know Hawkesbury well?” he asked.
“Pretty well,” I answered; “we were at school together first, and now we’re in the same office.”
“Nice boy at school?”
“Yes; I think so.”
“Not quite sure, eh?”
“I always got on well with him.”
“Yes, you would. Sort of a nest for bad eggs, that school, wasn’t it?”
“Yes—that is, a good many of the boys were a bad sort,” said I, not very comfortable to be undergoing this cross-examination.
“I understand. You weren’t, of course, eh?” said he, digging me in the ribs with his knuckles.
His manner was most offensive. I felt strongly inclined to resent it, and yet somehow I felt that to be civil to him would be the less of two evils.
“Hawkesbury doing well at the office, eh?”
“Certainly!” said I. “Why not?”
“See no reason at all. Worthy chap, Hawkesbury. Nice boy at home; great comfort to the old people.”
“Really,” said I, “you know him much better than I do.”
“Ah! should get to know Hawkesbury all you can. Moral chap—like you and me, eh?” and here followed another dig in the ribs.
This was getting intolerable. However, at this point Whipcord pulled up at a wayside inn, much to my relief. Anything was better than Masham’s conversation.
We halted a quarter of an hour, to give our horse time to get breath, as Whipcord explained, but, as it really seemed, to allow that gentleman and Masham to refresh themselves also.
When we started again my companion began almost immediately to resume the conversation, but this time it was of a less personal nature, though disagreeable enough.
For he made no secret at all that he was a youth of depraved tastes and habits, and insisted on addressing me as though I resembled him in these respects. He gave me what he doubtless intended to be a highly entertaining and spicy account of many of his escapades and exploits in town and country, appealing to me every few sentences as to what I should have said or done or thought in similar circumstances.
And when he had exhausted his stories of himself he told me stories of his friends, some of which were disgusting, some horrifying, and some stupid. But with it all he had an air as if he believed everybody at heart was bad, and as if morality and sobriety and unselfishness were mere affectation and cant.
Has any of my readers ever met such a one as Masham? I hope not. If he should, let him beware of him as the worst enemy a boy could encounter. For no poison is more deadly than that which strives to make one man lose all faith in his fellow-man.
I was so far infected by his manner that, though I felt ashamed to be sitting and listening to his bad talk, I dared not protest, for fear of appearing (what he would be sure to consider me), a hypocrite.
And so, unprofitably, the journey was beguiled, not without frequent stoppings and refreshings, each of which had the effect of exhilarating Whipcord’s spirits and making Masham’s tongue looser and looser.
At length Windsor was reached, and I looked forward to exchanging my undesirable companion for more interesting occupation in seeing over the town with its grand old castle.
But in this I was woefully disappointed. Whipcord drove straight up to an inn in the town, where he ordered the horse and trap to be put up, while we all entered the smoky coffee-room and discussed the desirability of having dinner.
“I thought we were going to picnic out of doors?” I said, mildly, in answer to Masham’s appeal whether we should not order dinner where we were.
“All very well if you could get your liquor laid on,” said Whipcord. “I fancy we’d better stay where we are. What do you say, Hawkesbury?”
“I’m sorry to disappoint Batchelor,” said Hawkesbury, smiling, “but I really think we shall get dinner more comfortably here. We’ve no plates or knives; and, as Whipcord says, there would be a difficulty about the beer.”
I was outvoted, and had to give up my idea of a rustic meal in the open air.
It was not a very pleasant dinner. Masham, despite Hawkesbury’s protests, persisted in interlarding it with his offensive stories, and Whipcord, who was taking very decided measures to excite his spirits, chimed in with his horsey slang, not unmixed with profanity.
“How are you getting on, Batchelor?” said the former presently to me. “Don’t be afraid of that bottle, man, it’s only whisky!”
“Don’t you believe him; it’s gin,” laughed Whipcord.
“I thought you said it was brandy,” said Hawkesbury.
“There you are!” said Masham. “One says one thing, one another, and one another. Now I tell you what, Batchelor shall be umpire, and we’ll each put five shillings on it, eh? What do you say to that?”
“I’d rather not bet,” replied Hawkesbury, “but I’d like to know what Batchelor says it is.”
“I’ll go half-sovs. with you on it,” said Whipcord.
“Done with you!” said Masham; “but Hawkesbury must go too, for if it’s brandy we both lose.”
“I’d rather not bet,” said Hawkesbury, “but if it will spoil your fun if I don’t I’ll join.”
“Thanks. Now, Batchelor, fill up, old toper, and give us your verdict.”
“I really am no judge of spirits,” said I. “Innocent babe,” said Masham, “how well he does it! But he doesn’t seem to know the rule in these cases,” added he, winking at the other two. “What rule?” I asked.
“Why, about hanging back. Half a tumbler for every twenty seconds, isn’t that it, Whipcord?”
“I thought it was a whole tumbler!”
“Ah, wouldn’t you take your time to decide, eh? Come now,” said Masham, taking out his watch, “we’ll start now.”
“Hold hard,” said Whipcord. “Surely we are to have glasses too, to see if he guesses right.”
“Very well, fill all round. Now, Batchelor.”
“I really can’t do it,” I said, faintly. “Five seconds gone!” bawled Masham, laughing. “Please, don’t be so foolish,” I cried, getting alarmed. “Hawkesbury, please stop them!”
“Ten seconds gone, eleven, twelve!”
“I tell you, I—”
“Seventeen, eighteen,” said Masham, rising and reaching out his arm for the bottle.
There was no help for it. I seized my glass and gulped down its contents. It made me cough and sputter, and my eyes watered, greatly to the amusement of my persecutors.
“What is it?” they all cried.
I could scarcely speak for anger and the burning in my throat.
“It’s a shame!” I began.
“That’s not what it is,” cried Whipcord. “Come, give it a name, or you’ll have to drink another!”
“Oh, brandy,” I almost shrieked, willing to do anything rather than that. “I say, Hawkesbury,” I said, reproachfully, “I didn’t expect you were bringing me to this sort of thing.”
“It is a shame,” he said to me aside. “I would have stopped it if I could; but don’t you see they were eager about their bet, and it was the only way of quieting them. Never mind.”
The rest of the afternoon passed away much as it had begun. After dinner we went down to the river and took a boat, in which Masham and Whipcord lay and slept all the time, while Hawkesbury and I rowed them about. It was with difficulty, about five o’clock, that we got them ashore again, and half led, half dragged them back to the inn.
“Come,” said Hawkesbury to Whipcord, “it’s time to be getting the trap ready for the start back, isn’t it?”
“Is it? Go and tell the fellow, some of you,” replied our driver. “I’ll be ready pretty soon,” said he, moving once more towards the bar.
“You surely aren’t going to drink any more,” cried I, taking his arm and trying gently to stop him.
He wrenched his arm loose and gave me a push back, saying, “Young prig! what’s it to do with you?”
“I think he wants to come too,” said Masham. “Come along, Batchelor.”
I had positively to run away to elude them, and made the pretext of going to the stable to see after the harnessing of the horse.
When this was done I sought for Hawkesbury.
“Do you think it’s safe for Whipcord to drive in the state he’s in?”
“Oh, yes. With a horse like that too. He’s pretending to be a great deal worse than he is, just to horrify you.”
It seemed ages before we actually started. Whipcord, in a most quarrelsome humour, had to be dragged almost by force from the bar. Hawkesbury, at the last moment, discovered that he was going without paying the bill; while Masham, having once made himself comfortable in the bar parlour, flatly refused to be moved, and had finally to be left behind.
The only consolation in this was that I had the tail of the dogcart to myself, which was infinitely preferable to the odious society of Masham.
It was nearly six when we finally started from Windsor and turned our horse’s head homeward. And this had been my day’s enjoyment!