Chapter Twenty Three.
How I began to discover that I was not a very Nice Boy after all.
If I had flattered myself I had ceased to care about my friend Smith, the events of the evening just described served to cure me of any delusion. I had thrown myself recklessly into dissipation and riot, so as to forget him; but now, as I lay on my bed and thought over what had befallen me, my misery at losing him returned tenfold, aggravated by the consciousness that now I deserved his friendship even less than ever.
“He’s a gentleman, he is!” The words of the little shoeblack rang in my ears all night long, echoed by another voice from within, “What are you?” After all, had I not been doing my very best the last few days to prove Jack’s own description of me as a liar and a coward to be true?
The fellows at the office next morning were in a high state of glee over the adventures of the previous evening.
“Wasn’t it just about a spree?” said Wallop. “I never saw such a fellow as young Batch for leading one into mischief. I used to think I was a pretty wild hand, but I’m a perfect sheep to him, ain’t I, Dubbs?”
“You are so,” replied Doubleday. “Batch, my boy, if you go on at the rate you did last night, you’ll overdo it. Take my word for that.”
I had come to the office that morning determined to let every one see I was ashamed of my conduct; but these insinuations, and the half flattery implied in them, tempted me to join the conversation.
“It was you, not I, proposed ringing the bells,” I said.
They all laughed, as if this were a joke.
“Well, that’s a cool one if you like,” replied Doubleday. “Why, it was all we could do to keep you from wrenching off the knockers as well, wasn’t it, Crow?”
“Never thought we’d keep him from it,” said Crow. “If the bobby hadn’t turned up, I do believe he’d have wanted to smash the windows also.”
“You’re making all this up,” I said, half amused, half angry, and almost beginning to wonder whether all that was being said of me was true.
“Not likely,” said Doubleday; “the fact is, I couldn’t have believed it of you if I hadn’t seen it. By the way, Wallop, is it true the Field-Marshal was run in?”
“No, was he?” exclaimed Wallop, and Crow, and I, all in a breath.
“Well, I passed by Daly’s this morning, and he told me he hadn’t been home all night, and he supposed he’d have to go and bail him out.”
“What a game!” cried Wallop.
“You’d call it a game if you had to hand out forty shillings, or take a week,” replied Doubleday. “A nice expensive game this of yours, Master Batchelor. It’ll cost you more than all your eel-pies, and lobsters, and flash toggery put together.”
Fancy, reader, my amazement and horror at all this! It might be a joke to all the rest, but it was anything but a joke to me. Instead of the Field-Marshal it might have been I who was caught last night and locked up in a police cell, and what then would have become of me? My “friends” would all have laughed at it as a joke; but to me, I knew full well, it would have been disgrace and ruin!
I was in no humour to pursue the conversation, particularly as Jack Smith entered at that moment, composed and solemn as ever, without even a glance at me.
My only escape from wretched memories and uncomfortable reflections was in hard work, and that day I worked desperately. I was engaged in checking some very elaborate accounts under Doubleday’s direction the whole day. It was a task which Wallop, to whom it fell by rights, shirked and passed on to me, greatly to my indignation, a week ago. But now it proved a very relief. The harder I worked, the easier my mind became, and the more difficult the work appeared, the more I rejoiced to have the tackling of it.
Our firm had received over a large cargo of miscellaneous goods from India, which they were about to trans-ship to South America; and what I had to do was first of all to reduce the value of the goods as they appeared in Indian currency to their exact English value, and after adding certain charges and profits, invoice them again in Spanish money.
“A nice spicy little bit of conjuring,” as Doubleday described it, who, rackety fellow as he was, always warmed up to business difficulties.
He and I agreed to stay and finish the thing off after the others had gone, an arrangement I was very glad for all reasons to fall in with.
We worked away hammer-and-tongs for two hours (for it was a very lengthy and intricate operation), exchanging no words except such as had reference to our common task.
At last it was completed. The calculations and additions had all been doubly checked, and the fair copies and their duplicates written out, and then, for the first time, we were at leisure to think and speak of other topics.
Few things tend to draw two fellows together like hard work in common, and Doubleday and I, with the consciousness of our task well and honestly accomplished, found ourselves on specially friendly terms with one another.
Despite his extravagance and mischief, there had always been a good-nature and a frankness about the head clerk which had made me like him better than most of his companions either in or out of the office. Although he had never been backward to lead others into trouble, he had usually stopped short before any harm was done. Even in the persecutions of Jack Smith, many of which he had instigated himself, there was never any of the spite on his side which characterised the conduct of Crow, Wallop, and Harris. And although he never professed to admire my friend, he never denied him fair play when he was roused to resistance.
“Well,” said he, shutting up the inkpot, and throwing our rough copies of the invoice into the waste-paper basket, “that’s a good job done. You’re not a bad hand at a big grind, young Batchelor. Crow or Wallop would have left me to do it all by myself.”
Of course I was pleased at the compliment. I replied, “I rather enjoyed it.”
“Well, there’s not another fellow in the office would do the same,” said he.
Wasn’t there? I thought I knew better. “I think there’s one other fellow,” I said, hesitatingly. “Eh—oh, Bull’s-eye! Yes, you’re right there, and he’d have knocked it off smarter than you’ve done too, my boy.” There was a pause after this. We had both accidentally got on to an awkward topic. Doubleday was the first to speak.
“I say, Batchelor,” he went on, quite nervously for him, “excuse my saying it, but it’s my opinion you’re a bit of a fool, do you know!”
This unexpected announcement, coming from this unexpected quarter, naturally astonished me. “What do you mean?”
“Oh,” said he, still rather embarrassed, “it’s no concern of mine at all, but when you came here about a year ago you were rather a nice boy.”
“Well,” said I, not knowing exactly whether to be pleased or vexed.
“Well, you’re not a nice boy now, you know!” I said nothing. I knew he was right, and his abrupt words struck home harder than he thought for. When Jack Smith, the night before, had called me a liar and a coward, I had fired up angrily. But when the rackety Doubleday now told me I wasn’t a nice boy, I somehow felt a sudden pang of shame and humility that was quite new to me.
“I suppose you’re going to flare up,” continued Doubleday, noticing my silence, “when you’ve pumped up the words. I’ll wait.”
“No, no,” said I, not looking up. “Go on.”
“It doesn’t concern me a bit how you and your precious friend get on,” pursued my companion, cutting a quill pen, “and I see you’re not in the same boat now by any means. But that’s no reason why you should make a regular all-round ass of yourself in the way you’re doing.”
I looked up inquiringly. “I don’t quite understand,” I said, meekly.
“Well, I suppose you don’t exactly imagine you’ve anything to be proud of over last night’s performances?” said he.
“No, I was ashamed of myself for that,” I said.
“Humph! I suppose you’d come again to-night and do the same thing if I asked you?”
I hesitated. “I don’t think—” I began, but there pulled up. I knew well enough I would go if he asked me.
“Of course you would,” said he; “you’d go anywhere. Just because a fellow a peg above you asks you, you’ll go and make a fool of yourself and risk every chance you’ve got, because you’ve not the pluck to make yourself disagreeable!”
How true it all was! Yet why had I never seen it before?
“I’m afraid—I’m sure you’re right,” I said.
“I don’t flatter myself,” went on Doubleday, beginning on a new quill, “I’m very particular. I dare say I’m about as rackety a lot as any you’d pick up near here. But somehow I’ve no fancy for seeing a fellow going to the dogs out of sheer folly. It spoils my pleasure, in fact.”
“I have been a fool, I know,” I said.
“Of course you have, and so you will be unless you kick. Well, I’m off now,” added he, taking up his hat. “I dare say I’ve offended you, and you’ll call me an officious humbug. I may be a fool for concerning myself about a young muff like you; but anyhow I’ve told you what I think of you. So good-night, young un.”
He left abruptly, before even I could say good-night, or thank him.
That night, as I walked home solitary, I felt more humble and less satisfied with myself than I had done for many a month.
One good sign was that I was by no means disposed this time to launch out into the extravagant resolutions to turn over a new leaf which had marked my former repentances. In fact, I said to myself, I won’t resolve to do anything; but, God helping me, do something I will. And the first thing to do would be to get back my old friend Smith. For since I lost him everything had gone wrong with me.
And yet, now, how was it possible for me even to speak to him?
In the midst of these reflections I reached Style Street, where I suddenly became aware that something unusual was taking place. A small crowd was collected round the spot where Billy was usually in the habit of pursuing his business, and loud voices proclaimed that the occasion was one of anything but peace.
Curiosity tempted me to draw near, and a strange sight met my view as I did so. The central figures of the group were Billy and his “old gal,” whom I recognised at once as the woman who had so vehemently ill-used him in the court that memorable evening weeks ago. She was a sad spectacle, more than half drunk, with every trace of tenderness and womanliness stamped out of her features.
If I had not recognised her by her appearance I should probably have done so by her occupation at that moment, for she was engaged in chastising her offspring with all the vehemence and all the cruelty of her former performances. But in the present case there was a difference. Billy, instead of taking his castigation meekly, as before, was violently resisting by shout and kick the attentions of his relative. This it was which appeared to render the transaction so particularly interesting to the onlookers.
“Go it, young bantam-cock,” some one was crying as I approached, “let her have it.”
“Give it up, do you hear, or I’ll murder you!” shrieked the woman.
Billy replied nothing, but continued fighting tooth and nail. I never saw a child of his age so desperately active. He struggled not so much to escape his mother’s blows aimed at himself, as to elude the clutches she made at a necktie he wore round his throat, which I at first glance recognised as having formerly belonged to Jack Smith.
This article of toilet the woman seemed as determined on having as her son was resolved on keeping. She probably considered it of some value—enough, at any rate, to pawn for drink; and Billy’s violent refusal to give it up only roused her the more to secure it.
It was a revolting spectacle to watch, this struggle between mother and child. The one sparing neither blow nor curse, the other silent and active as a cat, watching every movement of his adversary, and ready for the slightest chance of escape. The crowd, careless of the rights of the case, cheered on both, and only interfered when the woman, having secured the boy in her grip, bade fair to bring the interesting encounter to too abrupt an end.
I dared not interfere, even if I had been able, but was forced to stand wedged up in the crowd to watch the issue of the struggle. And it was not long in coming. Amid loud cheers from the onlookers, Billy contrived for the seventh or eighth time to wriggle himself free from the clutches of his well-nigh frantic assailant, dealing her at the same time a blow on the arm with the blacking-brush he had all along retained in his hand. The surprise and pain of the blow, the jeers of the bystanders, and the tipsy rage of the woman combined to drive her nearly mad. With a fearful yell and threat she literally flung herself in wild fury upon her little victim. But the wary Billy was too quick for her. Stepping lightly aside, he eluded her reach, and left her to fall forward with a heavy crash on the pavement amid the howls and cheers of the brutal crowd.
Quick as thought the boy snatched up his box and brushes, and dived head-first into the crowd just where I stood. There was a cry of “Stop him!”
“Fetch him back!” on all hands, and one young fellow near me actually made a grab at the poor boy and caught him by the arm. It was no time for ceremony or parley. It had been all I could do to stand still and watch the sickening spectacle. Now it should not be my fault if, just to please a party of blackguards, the whole thing was to be repeated.
With an angry shout of “Let him go!” I sprang at the fellow and struck him full on the chest. He dropped Billy as if he had been red-hot iron, and turning with livid face to me, stared at me for a single moment, and then tearing off his coat and clenching his fists rushed at me.
For all I know he might have annihilated me, but at that moment arose a cry of “Police!” at the sound of which the crowd dispersed like beetles before a candle, my antagonist being among the first to go, leaving me and Billy alone on the scene, from which even the tipsy woman had vanished.
It was not till the coast was all clear that Billy deposited his box or noticed my presence. The exciting scene which was just over seemed in no way to have disturbed the young gentleman’s equanimity. He favoured me with one of his most affable grins and saluted me with one of his habitual somersaults as he said, “Shine ’e boots, master? T’other bloke he was ’ere at ten past seving.”
“Hadn’t you better go somewhere else?” I said. “Your mother will be back after you.”
“Well,” said Billy, in his usual touchy way, “she ain’t no concern of yourn.”
“Aren’t you afraid of her hurting you?”
“’Urting me!” cried the boy, in tones of the utmost contempt, as if he had not been half-murdered once a week for the last eight years. “No fear! Ain’t you funny? But she ain’t a-going to collar this ’ere choker; not if I knows it!” said he, taking off his new article of decoration with a flourish and holding it up.
The well-worn and used-up necktie did not certainly look worth the battle that had been waged over it.
“Why are you so particular about this?” I asked, half guessing beforehand what the reply would be.
“Pertikler!” he cried, “why, that there bloke give me this ’ere!”
Nothing evidently could have been more conclusive to Billy’s mind. I felt almost jealous to find how much truer Jack’s new friend was than his old one.
“Was he here long this evening?” I asked, presently.
“Yaas; he was jawing nigh on half a’ hour, he was, while I gi’en him a shine. But, bless you, them boots of his is pretty nigh ’andy wore out, and I tell him so. ‘Never mind, Billy,’ says he; ‘I’ll be getting a new pair soon when I’ve got the money saved,’ says he. ‘I mean to get a good strong pair,’ says he, ‘double-soled and plates on the ’eels, my boy,’ he says, ‘and you shall polish them up every night for me.’ ‘That I will,’ says I. Bless you, governor, that there bloke’ll ’ave the shiniest pair of boots in town.”
It was a sight to see the little grimy face glow as he expatiated on the grateful theme.
“I suppose he didn’t—did he say anything about me?” I asked, hesitatingly.
“Yaas,” said Billy. “Says I to him, ‘So t’other bloke,’ (meaning you), ‘has lagged off,’ I says. ‘Yes,’ says he, ‘we don’t live together no more?’ says he. ‘I know all about it,’ says I; ‘I seen the animal,’ (meaning you), says I, ‘o’ Toosday.’ ‘Did you?’ says he. ‘Yaas,’ I says, ‘and nice and boozy he was,’ I says, ‘at eleving o’clock o’ night,’ I says. ‘Did he say anything about me?’ he says; and I told him, and he says he must go off, he says, ’cos he didn’t want to be ’ere, he says, when you come. He do talk beautiful, he does.”
I went on my lonely way more humbled than ever, but more determined, if possible, to recover my lost friend; yet thinking little or nothing of the greater and ever-present Friend against whom I had sinned so grievously.
But it was not to be for many days yet.
Smith always avoided me at the office in the same marked way, so that it was utterly impossible to make any advances to a reconciliation. The idea of writing to him occurred to me more than once, but the thought that he might throw my letter into the fire unread deterred me. No, the only thing was to bear my humiliation and wait for a chance.
Doubleday’s lecture had wrought a considerable change in my habits. Although I found it impossible all at once to give up consorting with “the usual lot,” especially those of them (now not a few), to whom I owed money, I was yet a good deal more chary of my complaisance, and less influenced by their example in ordinary matters. I succeeded, greatly to my own satisfaction and much to every one else’s surprise, in making myself distinctly disagreeable on more than one occasion, which Doubleday looked upon as a very healthy sign, and which, though it involved me in a good deal of persecution at the time, did not seriously affect my position as a member of their honourable society.
How I wished I might once more call Jack Smith my friend, and cast off once for all these other shallow acquaintances!
During these wretched weeks Billy became my chief comforter, for he of all people was the only one I could talk to about Jack.
I always arranged my walks by Style Street so as to pass his “place of business” after the time when I knew Jack would have left, and then eagerly drank in all the news I could hear of my lost friend.
One evening, a week after the adventure with Billy and his mother just recorded, the boy greeted me with most extraordinary and mysterious demonstrations of importance and glee. He walked at least half a dozen times round his box on his hands before he would say a word, and then indulged in such a series of winks and grimaces as almost drove me into impatience.
“Whatever’s the matter with you?” I asked, when this performance had been going on for some time “Oh my!—ain’t it a game?” he chuckled.
“What’s a game?” I demanded.
“Why—oh, ain’t you a flat, though?—why, them there boots!”
“What boots? Why can’t you talk sense?”
“Why, that there bloke’s boots. When I was a-shinin’ of ’em, if the sole of one on ’em don’t come clean off!” he cried, with a grin.
“I don’t see anything so very amusing in that,” I replied.
“He’s gone off to get ’em sewed on,” continued the boy, beaming all over; “and he’s a-coming back this way to show me. Bless you, they’ll never sew that there sole on. The upper wouldn’t hold it—you see if it does.”
“He will have to get a new pair,” I said.
“Why, he ain’t got the browns. He’s a-saving up, but it’ll be a month afore he’s got the brass.”
Here Billy positively laughed, so that I felt strongly inclined to give him a box on the ear for his levity.
“And it’s been a-rainin’ all day,” continued he, jocularly “and the streets is all one marsh of muck.”
“Poor fellow!” said I. “I wish I could lend him a pair of mine.”
“Ga on!” cried Billy, scornfully, dropping on his knees before his box.
“I say, guv’nor,” said he, in a sudden mysterious tone, “can you keep it mum?”
“Yes—what?” I asked.
He looked carefully up the street and then down, and then all round. No one was near. He moved so as to let the light of a neighbouring lamp-post shine full on the pavement, as with jubilant face he lifted up his box and disclosed—a pair of new double-soled lace boots!
“Them’s for him,” he said, in an excited whisper.
“For him? Why, Billy, wherever did they come from?”
His grimy face turned up to mine all aglow with pride and triumph as he answered, “Stole ’em!”