Chapter Nine.
Samuel Shuckleford comes of Age.
Reginald, meanwhile, blissfully unconscious of the arrangements which were being made for him, spent as comfortable an evening as he could in the conviction that to-morrow would witness his dismissal from the Rocket, and see him a waif on the great ocean of London life. To his mother, and even to young Gedge, he said nothing of his misgivings, but to Horace, as the two lay awake that night, he made a clean breast of all.
“You’ll call me a fool, I suppose,” he said; “but how could I help it?”
“A fool! Why, Reg, I know I should have done the same. But for all that, it is unlucky.”
“It is. Even eighteen shillings a week is better than nothing,” said Reginald, with a groan. “Poor mother was saying only yesterday we were just paying for our keep, and nothing more. What will she do now?”
“Oh, you’ll get into something, I’m certain,” said Horace; “and meanwhile—”
“Meanwhile I’ll do anything rather than live on you and mother, Horrors; I’ve made up my mind to that. Why,” continued he, “you wouldn’t believe what a sneak I’ve been already. You know what Bland said about the football club in his letter? No, I didn’t show it to you. He said it would go down awfully well if I sent the fellows my usual subscription. I couldn’t bear not to do it after that, and I—I sold my tennis-bat for five shillings, and took another five shillings out of my last two weeks’ wages, and sent them half a sov. the other day.”
Horace gave an involuntary whistle of dismay, but added, quickly,—
“I hope the fellows will be grateful for it, old man; they ought to be. Never mind, I’m certain we shall pull through it some day. We must hope for the best, anyhow.”
And with a brotherly grip of the hand they turned over and went to sleep.
Reginald presented himself at the Rocket next morning in an unusual state of trepidation. He had half made up his mind to march straight to the manager’s room and tell him boldly what had happened, and take his discharge from him. But Horace dissuaded him.
“After all,” he said, “Durfy may think better of it.”
“Upon my word I hardly know whether I want him to,” said Reginald, “except for young Gedge’s sake and mother’s. Anyhow, I’ll wait and see, if you like.”
Mr Durfy was there when he arrived, bearing no traces of last night’s fracas, except a scowl and a sneer, which deepened as he caught sight of his adversary. Reginald passed close to his table, in order to give him an opportunity of coming to the point at once; but to his surprise the overseer took no apparent notice of him, and allowed him to go to his place and begin work as usual.
“I’d sooner see him tearing his hair than grinning like that,” said young Gedge, in a whisper. “You may be sure there’s something in the wind.”
Whatever it was, Mr Durfy kept his own counsel, and though Reginald looked up now and then and caught him scowling viciously in his direction, he made no attempt at hostilities, and rather appeared to ignore him altogether.
Even when he was giving out the “copy” he sent Reginald his by a boy, instead of, as was usually his practice, calling him up to the table to receive it. Reginald’s copy on this occasion consisted of a number of advertisements, a class of work not nearly as easy and far less interesting than the paragraphs of news which generally fell to his share. However, he attacked them boldly, and, unattractive as they were, contrived to get some occupation from them for his mind as well as his hand.
Here, for instance, was some one who wanted “a groom, young, good-looking, and used to horses.” How would that suit him? And why need he be good-looking? And what was the use of saying he must be used to horses? Who ever heard of a groom that wasn’t? The man who put in that advertisement was a muff. Here was another of a different sort:
“J.S. Come back to your afflicted mother and all shall be forgiven.”
Heigho! suppose “J.S.” had got a mother like Mrs Cruden, what a brute he must be to cut away. What had he been doing to her? robbing her? or bullying her? or what? Reginald worked himself into a state of wrath over the prodigal, and very nearly persuaded himself to leave out the promise of forgiveness altogether.
“If the young gentleman who dropped an envelope in the Putney omnibus on the evening of the 6th instant will apply to B, at 16, Grip Street, he may hear of something to his advantage.”
How some people were born to luck! Think of making your fortune by dropping an envelope in a Putney omnibus. How gladly he would pave the floor of every omnibus he rode in with envelopes if only he could thereby hear anything to his advantage! He had a great mind to stroll round by Number 16, Grip Street that evening to see who this mysterious “B” could be.
“To intelligent young men in business.—Add £50 a year to your income without any risk or hindrance whatever to ordinary work.—Apply confidentially to Omega, 13, Shy Street, Liverpool, with stamp for reply. None but respectable intelligent young men need apply.”
Hullo! Reginald laid down his composing-stick and read the advertisement over again: and after that he read it again, word by word, most carefully. £50 a year! Why, that was as much again as his present income, and without risk or interfering with his present work too! Well, his present work might be his past work to-morrow; but even so, with £50 a year he would be no worse off, and of course he could get something else to do as well by way of ordinary work. If only he could bring in £100 a year to the meagre family store! What little luxuries might it not procure for his mother! What a difference it might make in that dreary, poky Dull Street parlour, where she sat all day! Or if they decided not to spend it, but save it up, think of a pound a week ready against a rainy day! Reginald used to have loose enough ideas of the value of money; but the last few weeks had taught him lessons, and one of them was that a pound a week could work wonders.
“Apply confidentially.” Yes, of course, or else any duffer might snatch at the prize. It was considerate, too, to put it that way, for of course it would be awkward for any one in a situation to apply unless he could do it confidentially—and quite right too to enclose a stamp for a reply. No one who wasn’t in earnest would do so, and thus it would keep out fellows who applied out of mere idle curiosity. “None but respectable intelligent young men need apply.” Humph! Reginald’s conscience told him he was respectable, and he hoped he was also moderately intelligent, though opinions might differ on that point. “Omega”—that sounded well! The man knew Greek—possibly he was a classical scholar, and therefore sure to be a gentleman. Oh, what a contrast to the cad Durfy! “Liverpool.” Ah, there was the one drawback; and yet of course it did not follow the £50 a year was to be earned in Liverpool, otherwise how could it fail to interfere with ordinary business? Besides, why should he advertise in the Rocket unless he meant to get applications from Londoners?
Altogether Reginald was pleased with the advertisement. He liked the way it was put, and the conditions it imposed, and, indeed, was so much taken up with the study of it that he almost forgot to set it up in type.
“Whatever are you dreaming about?” said young Gedge. “You’ve stood like that for a quarter of an hour at least. You’ll have Durfy after you if you don’t mind.”
The name startled Reginald into industry, and he set the advertisement up very clearly and carefully, and re-read it once or twice in the type before he could make up his mind to go on to the next.
The thought of it haunted him all day. Should he tell Horace, or Gedge, or his mother of it? Should he go and give Durfy notice then and there? No, he would reply to it before he told any one; and then, if the answer was unsatisfactory—which he could not think possible—then no one would be the wiser or the worse for it.
The day flew on leaden wings. Gedge put his friend’s silence down to anxiety as to the consequences of yesterday’s adventure and did and said what he could to express his sympathy. Mr Durfy alone, sitting at his table, and directing sharp glances every now and then in his direction, could guess the real meaning of his pre-occupation, and chuckled to himself as he saw it.
Reginald spent threepence on his way home that evening—one in procuring a copy of the Rocket, and two on a couple of postage-stamps. Armed with these he walked rapidly home with Horace, giving him in an absent sort of way a chronicle of the day’s doings, but breathing not a word to him or his mother subsequently about the advertisement.
After supper he excused himself from joining in the usual walk by saying he had a letter to write, and for the first time in his life felt relieved to see his mother and brother go and leave him behind them.
Then he pulled out the newspaper and eagerly read the advertisement once more in print. There it was, not a bit changed! Lots of fellows had seen it by this time, and some of them very likely were at this moment answering it. They shouldn’t get the start of him, though!
He sat down and wrote—
“Sir,—Having seen your advertisement in the Rocket, I beg to apply for particulars. I am respectable and fairly intelligent, and am at present employed as compositor in the Rocket newspaper-office. I shall be glad to increase my income. I am 18 years of age, and beg to enclose stamp for a reply to this address.
“Yours truly,—
“Reginald Cruden.”
He was not altogether pleased with this letter, but it would have to do. If he had had any idea what the advertiser wanted intelligent young men for, he might have been able to state his qualifications better. But what was the use of saying “I think I shall suit you,” when possibly he might not suit after all?
He addressed the letter carefully, and wrote “private and confidential” on the envelope; and then walked out to post it, just in time, after doing so, to meet his mother and Horace returning from their excursion.
“Well, Reg, have you written your letter?” said his mother, cheerily. “Was it to some old schoolfellow?”
“No, mother,” said Reginald, in a tone which meant, “I would rather you did not ask me.” And Mrs Cruden did not ask.
“I think,” said she, as they stopped at their door—“I almost think, boys, we ought to return the Shucklefords’ call. It’s only nine o’clock. We might go in for a few minutes. I know you don’t care about it; but we must not be rude, you know. What do you think, Reg?”
Reg sighed and groaned and said, “If we must we must”; and so, instead of going in at their own door, they knocked at the next.
The tinkle of a piano upstairs, and the sound of Sam’s voice, audible even in the street, announced only too unmistakably that the family was at home, and a collection of pot hats and shawls in the hall betrayed the appalling fact, when it was too late to retreat, that the Shucklefords had visitors! Mrs Shuckleford came out and received them with open arms.
“’Ow ’appy I am to see you and the boys,” said she. “I suppose you saw the extra lights and came in. Very neighbourly it was. We thought about sending you an invite, but didn’t like while you was in black for your ’usband. But it’s all the same now you’re here. Very ’appy to see you. Jemima, my dear, come and tell Mrs Cruden and the boys you’re ’appy to see them; Sam too—it’s Sam’s majority, Mrs Cruden; twenty-one he is to-day, and his pa all over—oh, ’ow ’appy I am you’ve come.”
“We had no idea you had friends,” said Mrs Cruden, nervously. “We’ll call again, please.”
“No you don’t, Mrs Cruden,” said the effusive Mrs Shuckleford; “’ere you are, and ’ere you stays—I am so ’appy to see you. You and I can ’ave a cosy chat in the corner while the young folk enjoy theirselves. Jemima, put a chair for Mrs C. alongside o’ mine; and, Sam, take the boys and see they have some one to talk to ’em.”
The dutiful Sam, who appeared entirely to share his mother’s jubilation at the arrival of these new visitors, obeyed the order with alacrity.
“Come on, young fellows,” said he; “just in time for shouting proverbs. You go and sit down by Miss Tomkins, Horace, her in the green frock; and you had better go next Jemima, Cruden. When I say ‘three and away’ you’ve got to shout. Anything’ll do, so long as you make a noise.”
“No, they must shout their right word,” said Miss Tomkins, a vivacious-looking young person of thirty.
“Come close,” said she to Horace, “and I’ll whisper what you’ve got to shout. Whisper, ‘Dog,’ that’s your word.”
Horace seated himself dreamily where he was told, and received the confidential communication of his partner with pathetic resignation. He only wished the signal to shout might soon arrive. As for Reginald, when he felt himself once more in the clutches of the captivating Jemima, and heard her whisper in his ear the mysterious monosyllable “love,” his heart became as ice within him, and he sat like a statue in his chair, looking straight before him. Oh, how he hoped “Omega” would give him some occupation for his evenings that would save him from this sort of thing!
“Now call them in,” said Sam.
A signal was accordingly given at the door, and in marched a young lady, really a pleasant, sensible-looking young person, accompanied by a magnificently-attired young gentleman, who, to Horace’s amazement, proved to be no other than the melancholy Booms.
There was, however, no time just now for an exchange of greetings.
Mr Booms and his partner were placed standing in the middle of the floor, and the rest of the company were seated in a crescent round them. There was a pause, and you might have heard a pin drop as Samuel slowly lifted his hand and said in a stage whisper,—
“Now then, mind what you’re at. When I say ‘away.’ One, two, three, and a—”
At the last syllable there arose a sudden and terrific shout which sent Mrs Cruden nearly into a fit, and made the loosely-hung windows rattle as if an infernal machine had just exploded on the premises.
The shout was immediately followed by a loud chorus of laughter, and cries of,—
“Well, have you guessed it?”
“Yes, I know what it is,” said the pleasant young lady. “Do you know, Mr Booms?”
“No,” he said, sadly; “how could I guess? What is it, Miss Crisp?”
“Why, ‘Love me, love my dog,’ isn’t it?”
“Right. Well guessed!” cried every one; and amid the general felicitation that ensued the successful proverb-guessers were made room for in the magic circle, and Horace had a chance of exchanging “How d’ye do?” with Mr Booms.
“Who’d have thought of meeting you here?” said he, in a whisper.
“I didn’t expect to meet you,” said the melancholy one. “I say, Cruden, please don’t mention—her.”
“Her? Whom?” said Horace, bewildered.
Booms’s reply was a mournful inclination of the head in the direction of Miss Crisp.
“Oh, I see. All right, old man. You’re a lucky fellow, I think. She looks a jolly sort of girl.”
“Lucky! Jolly! Oh, Cruden,” ejaculated his depressed friend.
“Why, what’s wrong?” said Horace. “Don’t you think she’s nice?”
“She is; but Shuckleford, Cruden, is not.”
“Hullo, you two,” said the voice of the gentleman in question at this moment; “you seem jolly thick. Oh, of course, shopmates; I forgot; both in the news line. Eh? Now, who’s for musical chairs? Don’t all speak at once.”
“I shall have to play the piano now, Mr Reginald,” said Miss Jemima, making a last effort to get a word out of her silent companion. “I’m afraid you’re not enjoying yourself a bit.”
Reginald rose instinctively as she did, and offered her his arm. He was half dreaming as he did so, and fancying himself back at Garden Vale. It was to his credit that when he discovered what he was doing he did not withdraw his arm, but conducted his partner gallantly to the piano, and said,—
“I’m afraid I’m a bad hand at games.”
“Musical chairs is great fun,” said Miss Jemima. “I wish I could play it and the piano both. You have to run round and round, and then, when the music stops, you flop down on the nearest chair, and there’s always one left out, and the last one wins the game. Do try it.”
Reginald gave a scared glance at the chairs being arranged back to back in a long line down the room, and said,—
“May I play the piano instead? and then you can join in the game.”
“What! do you play the piano?” exclaimed the young lady, forgetting her dignity and clapping her hands. “Oh, my eye, what a novelty! Ma, Mr Reginald’s going to play for musical chairs! Sam, do you hear? Mr Cruden plays the piano! Isn’t it fun?”
Reginald flung himself with a sigh down on the cracked music-stool. Music was his one passion, and the last few months had been bitter to him for want of it. He would go out of his way even to hear a street piano, and the brightest moments of his Sundays were often those spent within sound of the roll of the organ.
It was like a snatch of the old life to find his fingers once more laid caressingly on the notes of a piano; and as he touched them and began to play, the Shucklefords, the Rocket, “Omega,” all faded from his thoughts, and he was lost in his music.
What a piano it was! Tinny and cracked and out of tune. The music was in the boy’s soul, and it mattered comparatively little. He began with Weber’s “last waltz,” and dreamed off from it into a gavotte of Corelli’s, and from that into something else, calling up favourite after favourite to suit the passing moods of his spirit, and feeling happier than he had felt for months.
But Weber’s “last waltz” and Corelli’s gavottes are not the music one would naturally select for musical chairs; and when the strains continue uninterrupted for five or ten-minutes, during the whole of which time the company is perambulating round and round an array of empty chairs, the effect is somewhat monotonous. Mrs Shuckleford’s guests trotted round good-humouredly for some time, then they got a little tired, then a little impatient, and finally Samuel, as he passed close behind the music-stool, gave the performer a dig in the back, which had the desired effect of stopping the music suddenly. Whereupon everybody flopped down on the seat nearest within reach. Some found vacancies at once, others had to scamper frantically round in search of them, and finally, as the chairs were one fewer in number than the company, one luckless player was left out to enjoy the fun of those who remained in.
“All right,” said Samuel, when the first round was decided, and a chair withdrawn in anticipation of the next; “I only nudged you to stop a bit sooner, Cruden. The game will last till midnight if you give us such long doses.”
Doses! Reginald turned again to the piano and tried once more to lose himself in its comforting music. He played a short German air of only four lines, which ended in a plaintive, wailing cadence. Again the moment the music ceased he heard the scuffling and scampering and laughter behind him, and shouts of,—
“Polly’s out! Polly’s out!”
“I say,” said Shuckleford, as they stood ready for the next round, “give us a jingle, Cruden; ‘Pop goes the Weasel,’ or something of that sort. That last was like the tune the cow died of. And stop short in the middle of a line, anyhow.”
Reginald rose from the piano with flushed cheeks, and said,—“I’m afraid I’m not used to this sort of music. Perhaps Miss Shuckleford—”
“Yes, Jim, you play. You know the way. You change places with Jim, Cruden, and come and run round.”
But Reginald declined the invitation with thanks, and took up a comic paper, in which he attempted to bury himself, while Miss Shuckleford hammered out the latest polka on the piano, stopping abruptly and frequently enough to finish half a dozen rounds in the time it had taken him to dispose of two.
Fresh games followed, and to all except the Crudens the evening passed merrily and happily. Even Horace felt the infection of the prevalent good-humour, and threw off the reserve he had at first been tempted to wear in an effort to make himself generally agreeable. Mrs Cruden, cooped up in a corner with her loquacious hostess, did her best too not to be a damper on the general festivity. But Reginald made no effort to be other than he felt himself. He could not have done it if he had tried. But as scarcely any one seemed afflicted on his account, even his unsociability failed to make Samuel Shuckleford’s majority party anything but a brilliant success.
In due time supper appeared to crown the evening’s delights. And after supper a gentleman got up and proposed a toast, which of course was the health of the hero of the occasion.
Samuel replied in a facetious County Court address, in which he expressed himself “jolly pleased to see so many friends around him, and hoping they’d all enjoyed their evening, and that if there were any of them still to come of age—(laughter)—they’d have as high an old time of it as he had had to-night. He was sure ma and Jim said ditto to all he said. And before he sat down he was very glad to see their new next-door neighbours. (Hear, hear.) They’d had their troubles, but they could reckon on friends in that room. The young fellows were bound to get on if they stuck to their shop, and he’d like to drink the health of them and their ma.” (Cheers.)
The health was drunk. Mrs Cruden looked at Reginald, Horace looked at Reginald, but Reginald looked straight before him and bit his lips and breathed hard. Whereupon Horace rose and said,—
“We think it very kind of you to drink our healths; and I am sure we are much obliged to you all for doing so.”
Which said, the Shucklefords’ party broke up, and the Crudens went home.