Chapter Twelve.
Horace learns an Art, pays a Bill, and lends a Helping Hand.
“I say, Cruden,” said Waterford to Horace one morning, shortly after Reginald’s departure from London, “I shall get jealous if you don’t pull up.”
“Jealous of me?” said Horace. “Whatever for?”
“Why, before you came I flattered myself I was a bit of a dab at the scissors-and-paste business, but you’ve gone and cut me out completely.”
“What rot!” said Horace, laughing. “There’s more than enough cutting out to do with the morning papers to leave any time for operating on you. Besides, any duffer can do work like that.”
“That’s all very well,” said Waterford. “There’s only one duffer here that can do as much as me and Booms put together, and that’s you. Now, if you weren’t such a racehorse, I’d propose to you to join our shorthand class. You’ll have to learn it some time or other, you know.”
“The very thing I’d like,” said Horace. “That is,” he added, “if it won’t take up all a fellow’s evenings. How often are the classes?”
“Well, as often as we like. Generally once a week. Booms’s washerwoman—”
“Whatever has she to do with shorthand?” asked Horace.
“More than you think, my boy. She always takes eight days to wash his collars and cuffs. He sends them to her on Wednesdays, and gets them back on the next day week, so that we always practise shorthand on the Wednesday evening. Don’t we, Booms?” he inquired, as the proud owner of that name entered the office at that moment.
“There you are,” sighed he. “How do I know what you are talking about?”
“I was saying we always worked up our shorthand on Wednesday evenings.”
“If you say so,” said the melancholy one, “it must be so.”
“I was telling Cruden he might join us this winter.”
“Very well,” said the other, resignedly; “but where are you going to meet? Mrs Megson has gone away, and we’ve no reader.”
“Bother you, Booms, for always spotting difficulties in a thing. You see,” added he, to Horace, “we used to meet at a good lady’s house who kept a day school. She let us go there one evening a week, and read aloud to us, for us to take it down in shorthand. She’s gone now, bad luck to her, and the worst of it is we’re bound to get a lady to take us in, as we’ve got ladies in our class, you see.”
At the mention of ladies Booms groaned deeply.
“Why, I tell you what,” said Horace, struck by a brilliant idea. “What should you say to my mother? I think she would be delighted; and if you want a good reader aloud, she’s the very woman for you.”
Waterford clapped his friend enthusiastically on the back.
“You’re a trump, Cruden, to lend us your mother; isn’t he, Booms?”
“Oh yes,” said Booms. “I’ve seen her, and—” here he appeared to undergo a mental struggle—“I like her.”
“At any rate, I’ll sound her on the matter. By the way, she’ll want to know who the ladies are.”
“It’ll only be one this winter, I’m afraid,” said Waterford, “as the Megsons have gone. It’s a Miss Crisp, Cruden, a friend of Booms’s, who—”
“Whom I met the other night at the Shucklefords’?” said Horace.
Booms answered the question with such an agonised sigh that both his companions burst out laughing.
“Dear old Booms can tell you more about her than I can,” said Waterford. “All I know is she’s a very nice girl indeed.”
“I agree with you,” said Horace; “I’m sure she is. You think so too, don’t you, Booms?”
“You don’t know what I think,” said Booms; which was very true.
One difficulty still remained, and this appeared to trouble Horace considerably.
He did not like to refer to it as long as the melancholy masher was present, but as soon as he had gone in to fetch the papers, Horace inquired of his friend,—
“I say, Waterford, do you mean to say he chooses the very night he hasn’t got a high collar to—”
“Hush!” cried Waterford, mysteriously, “it’s a sore question with him; but he couldn’t write if he had one. We never mention it, though.”
It is needless to say Mrs Cruden fell in most cordially with the new proposal. She needed little persuasion to induce her to agree to a plan which meant the bright presence of her son and his friends in her house, and it gave her special satisfaction to find her services on such occasions not only invited, but indispensable; and it is doubtful whether any of the party looked forward more eagerly to the cheery Wednesday evenings than she did.
It was up-hill work, of course, for Horace, at first; in fact, during the first evening he could do nothing but sit and admire the pace at which Miss Crisp, followed more haltingly by Booms and Waterford, took down the words of Ivanhoe as fast as Mrs Cruden read them. But, by dint of hard, unsparing practice, he was able, a week later, to make some sort of a show, and as the lessons went on he even had the delight of finding himself, as Waterford said, ‘in the running’ with his fellow-scholars. This success was not achieved without considerable determination on the boy’s part; but Horace, when he did take a thing up, went through with it. He gave himself no relaxation for the first week or two. Every evening after supper he produced his pencil and paper, and his mother produced her book, and for two steady hours the work went on. Even at the office, in the intervals of work, he reported everything his ears could catch, not excepting the melancholy utterances of Booms and the vulgar conversation of the errand-boy.
One day the sub-editor summoned him to the inner room to give him some instructions as to a letter to be written, when the boy much astonished his chief by taking a note of every word, and producing the letter in a few moments in the identical language in which it had been dictated.
“You know shorthand, then?” inquired the mild sub-editor.
“Yes, sir, a little.”
“I did not know of this before.”
“No, sir; I only began lately. Booms and Waterford and I are all working it up.”
The sub-editor said nothing just then, but in future availed himself freely of the new talent of his juniors. And what was still more satisfactory, it was intimated not many days later to Horace from headquarters, that as he appeared to be making himself generally useful, the nominal wages at which he had been admitted would be increased henceforth to twenty-four shillings a week.
This piece of good fortune was most opportune; for now that Reginald’s weekly contribution was withdrawn, and pending the payment of his first quarter’s salary at Christmas, the family means had been sorely reduced, and Horace and his mother had been hard put to it to make both ends meet. Even with this augmented pay it might still have been beyond accomplishment had not their income been still further improved in a manner which Horace little suspected, and which, had he known, would have sorely distressed him.
Mrs Cruden, between whom and the bright Miss Crisp a pleasant friendship had sprung up, had, almost the first time the two ladies found themselves together, inquired of her new acquaintance as to the possibility of finding any light employment for herself during the hours when she was alone. Miss Crisp, as it happened, did know of some work, though hardly to be called light work, which she herself, having just at present other duties on hand, had been obliged to decline. This was the transcribing of the manuscript of a novel, written by a lady, in a handwriting so enigmatical that the publishers would not look at it unless presented in a legible form. The lady was, therefore, anxious to get it copied out, and had offered Miss Crisp a small sum for the service. Mrs Cruden clutched eagerly at the opportunity thus presented. The work was laborious and dreary in the extreme, for the story was long and insipid, and the wretched handwriting danced under her eyes till they ached and grew weak. But she persevered boldly, and for three hours a day pored over her self-imposed task. When Horace returned at evening no trace of it was to be seen, only the pale face and weary eyes of his mother, who yet was ready with a smile to read aloud as long as the boy wished, and pretend that she only enjoyed a labour which was really taxing her both in health and eyesight.
Reginald had written home once or twice since his departure, but none of his letters had contained much news. He said very little either about his work or his employers, but from the dismal tone in which he drew comparisons between London and Liverpool, and between his present loneliness and days before their separation, it was evident enough he was homesick. In a letter to Horace he said,—
“I get precious little time just now for anything but work, and what I do get I don’t know a soul here to spend it with. There’s a football club here, but of course I can’t join it. I go walks occasionally, though I can’t get far, as I cannot be away from here for long at a time, and never of an evening. You might send me a Rocket now and then, or something to read. What about young Gedge? See Durfy doesn’t get hold of him. Could you ever scrape up six-and-six, and pay it for me to Blandford, whose address I give below? It’s something he lent me for a particular purpose when I last saw him. Do try. I would enclose it, but till Christmas I have scarcely enough to keep myself. I wish they would pay weekly instead of quarterly. I would be awfully obliged if you would manage to pay the six-and-six somehow or other. If you do, see he gets it, and knows it comes from me, and send me a line to say he has got it. Don’t forget, there’s a brick. Love to mother and young Gedge. I wish I could see you all this minute.”
Horace felt decidedly blue after receiving this letter, and purposely withheld it from his mother. Had he been sure Reginald was prosperous and happy in his new work, this separation would not have mattered so much, but all along he had had his doubts on both these points, and the letter only confirmed them.
At any rate he determined to lose no time in easing his brother’s mind of the two chief causes of his anxiety. The very next Saturday he appropriated six-and-six of his slender wages, and devoted the evening to finding out Blandford’s rooms, and paying him the money.
Fortunately his man was at home, an unusual circumstance at that hour of the night, and due solely to the fact that he and Pillans, his fellow-lodger, were expecting company; indeed, the page-boy (for our two gay sparks maintained a “tiger” between them) showed Horace up the moment he arrived, under the delusion that he was one of the guests. Blandford and his friend, sitting in state to receive their distinguished visitors, among whom were to be the real owner of a racehorse, a real jockey, a real actor, and a real wine-merchant, these open-hearted and knowing young men were considerably taken aback to find a boy of Horace’s age and toilet ushered into their august presence. Blandford would have preferred to appear ignorant of the identity of the intruder, but Horace left him no room for that amiable fraud.
“Hullo, Bland!” said he, just as if he had seen him only yesterday at Wilderham, “what a jolly lot of stairs you keep in this place. I thought I should never smoke you out. How are you, old man?”
And before the horrified dandy could recover from his surprise, he found his hand being warmly shaken by his old schoolfellow.
Horace, sublimely unconscious of the impression he was creating, indulged in a critical survey of the apartment, and said,—
“Snug little crib you’ve got—not quite so jolly, though, as the old study you and Reg had at Wilderham. How’s Harker, by the way?”
And he proceeded to stroll across the room to look at a picture.
Blandford and Pillans exchanged glances. Wrath was in the face of the one, bewilderment in the face of the other.
“Who’s your friend?” whispered the latter.
“An old schoolfellow who—”
“Nice lot of fellows you seem to have been brought up with, upon my word,” said Mr Pillans.
“I suppose he’ll be up for Christmas,” pursued Horace. “Jolly glad I shall be to see him, too. I say, why don’t you come and look us up? The mater would be awfully glad, though we’ve not very showy quarters to ask you to. Ah! that’s one of the prints you had in the study at school. Do you remember Reg chipping that corner of the frame with a singlestick?”
“Excuse me, Cruden,” began Blandford, in a severe tone; “my friend and I are just expecting company.”
“Are you? Well, I couldn’t have stayed if you’d asked me. Are any of the old school lot coming?”
“The fact is, we can do without you, young fellow,” said Mr Pillans.
Horace stared. It had not occurred to him till that moment that his old schoolfellow could be anything but glad to see him, and he didn’t believe it now.
“Will Harker be coming?” he inquired, ignoring Mr Pillans’ presence.
“No, no one you know is coming,” said Blandford, half angrily, half nervously.
“That’s a pity. I’d have liked to see some of the old lot. Ever since we came to grief none of them has been near us except Harker. He called one day, like a brick, but he won’t be up again till Christmas.”
“Good-night,” said Blandford.
His tone was quite lost on Horace.
“Good-night, old man. By the way, Reg—you know he’s up in the North now—asked me to pay you six-and-six he owed you. He said you’d know about it. Is it all right?”
Blandford coloured up violently.
“I’m not going to take it. I told him so,” said he. “Oh yes, you are, you old humbug,” said Horace, “so catch hold. A debt’s a debt, you know.”
“It’s not a debt,” said Blandford. “I gave it to him, so good-night.”
“No, that won’t do,” said Horace. “He doesn’t think so—”
“The fact is, the beggar couldn’t pay for his own dinner, and Blandford had to pay it for him. He managed it very neatly,” said Mr Pillans.
Horace fired up fiercely.
“What do you mean? Who’s this cad you keep about the place, Blandford?”
“If you don’t go I’ll kick you down the stairs!” cried Mr Pillans, by this time in a rage.
Horace laughed. Mr Pillans was his senior in years and his superior in inches, but there was nothing in his unhealthy face to dismay the sturdy school-boy.
“Do you want me to try?” shouted Mr Pillans.
“Not unless you like,” replied Horace, putting the money down on the table and holding out his hand to Blandford.
The latter took it mechanically, too glad to see his visitor departing to offer any obstacle.
“I’ll look you up again some day,” said Horace, “when your bulldog here is chained up. When Reg and Harker are up this Christmas, we must all get a day together. Good-night.”
And he made for the door, brushing up against the outraged Mr Pillans on his way.
“Take that for an impudent young beggar!” said the latter as he passed, suiting the action to the word with a smart cuff directed at the visitor’s head.
Horace, however, was quick enough to ward it off.
“I thought you’d try that on,” he said, with a laugh; “you’re—”
But Mr Pillans, who had by this time worked himself into a fury by a method known only to himself, cut short further parley by making a desperate rush at him just as he reached the door.
The wary Horace had not played football for three seasons for nothing. He quietly ducked, allowing his unscientific assailant to overbalance himself, and topple head first on the lobby outside, at the particular moment when the real owner of the racehorse and the real wine-merchant, who had just arrived, reached the top of the stairs.
“Hullo, young fellow!” said the sporting gentleman; “practising croppers, are you? or getting up an appetite? or what? High old times you’re having up here among you! Who’s the kid?”
“Stop him!” gasped Pillans, picking himself up; “don’t let him go! hold him fast!”
The wine-merchant obligingly took possession of Horace by the collar, and the company returned in solemn procession to the room.
“Now, then,” said Horace’s captor, “what’s the row? Let’s hear all about it. Has he been collaring any of your spoons? or setting the house on fire? or what? Who is he?”
“He’s cheeked me!” said Pillans, brushing the dust off his coat. “Hold him fast, will you? till I take it out of him.”
But the horse-racer was far too much of a sportsman for that.
“No, no,” said he, laughing; “make a mill of it and I’m your man. I’ll bet two to one on the young ’un to start with.”
The wine-merchant said he would go double that on Pillans, whereupon the sporting man offered a five-pound note against a half-sovereign on his man, and called out to have the room cleared and a sponge brought in.
How far his scientific enthusiasm would have been rewarded it is hard to say, for Blandford at this juncture most inconsiderately interposed.
“No, no,” said he, “I’m not going to have the place made a cock-pit. Shut up, Pillans, and don’t make an ass of yourself; and you, Cruden, cut off. What did you ever come here for? See what a row you’ve made.”
“It wasn’t I made the row,” said Horace. “I’m awfully sorry, Bland. I’d advise you to cut that friend of yours, I say. He’s an idiot. Good-bye.”
And while the horse-racer and the wine-merchant were still discussing preliminaries, and Mr Pillans was privately ascertaining whether his nose was bleeding, Horace departed in peace, partly amused, partly vexed, and decidedly of opinion that Blandford had taken to keeping very queer company since he last saw him.
The great thing was that Horace could now write and report to Reg that the debt had been paid.
His way home led him past the Rocket office. It was half-past ten, and the place looked dark and deserted. Even the lights in the editor’s windows were out, and the late hands had gone home. Just at the corner Horace encountered Gedge, one of the late hands in question.
“Hullo, young ’un!” he said. “Going home?”
“Yes, I’m going home,” said young Gedge.
“I heard from my brother yesterday. He was asking after you.”
“Was he?” said the boy half-sarcastically. “He does remember my name, then?”
“Whatever do you mean? Of course he does,” said Horace. “You know that well enough.”
“I shouldn’t have known it unless you’d told me,” said Gedge, with a cloud on his face; “he’s never sent me a word since he left.”
“He’s been awfully busy—he’s scarcely had time to write home. I say, young ’un, what’s the row with you? What makes you so queer?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said the boy wearily; “I used to fancy somebody cared for me, but I was mistaken. I was going to the dogs fast enough when Cruden came here; I pulled up then, because I thought he’d stand by me; but now he’s gone and forgotten all about me. I’ll—well, there’s nothing to prevent me going to the bad; and I may as well make up my mind to it.”
“No, no,” said Horace, taking his arm kindly; “you mustn’t say that, young ’un. The last words Reg said to me when he went off were, ‘Keep your eye on young Gedge, don’t forget’; the very last words, and he’s reminded me of my promise in every letter since. I’ve been a cad, I know, not to see more of you; but you mustn’t go thinking that you’ve no friends. If it were only for Reg’s sake I’d stick to you. Don’t blame him, though, for I know he thinks a lot about you, and it would break his heart if you went to the bad. Of course you can help going to the bad, old man; we can all help it.”
The boy looked up with the clouds half brushed away from his face.
“I don’t want to go to the bad,” said he; “but I sort of feel I’m bound to go, unless some one sticks up for me. I’m so awfully weak-minded, I’m not fit to be trusted alone.”
“Hullo, I say,” whispered Horace, suddenly stopping short in his walk, “who’s that fellow sneaking about there by the editor’s door?”
“He looks precious like Durfy,” said Gedge; “I believe it is he.”
“What does he want there, I wonder—he wasn’t on the late shift to-night, was he?”
“No; he went at seven.”
“I don’t see what he wants hanging about when everybody’s gone,” said Horace.
“Unless he’s screwed and can’t get home—I’ve known him like that. That fellow’s not screwed, though,” he added; “see, he’s heard some one coming, and he’s off steady enough on his legs.”
“Rum,” said Horace. “It looked like Durfy, too. Never mind, whoever it is, we’ve routed him out this time. Good-night, old man; don’t go down on your luck, mind, and don’t go abusing Reg behind his back, and don’t forget you’re booked to come home to supper with me on Monday, and see my mother. Ta-ta.”