"You promised to tell me what you have done to-day," she said.
"There is very little to tell. I did what I could, which consisted simply of walking about, and looking in shop-windows. I went out without any distinct idea in my mind; I thought that something might happen, and I was disappointed. Everything and everybody seemed to be going along nicely, and not to be in want of me. It occurred to me to consider what I was fit for. I looked into the windows of a boot-shop. What do I know of boots and shoes, except how to put them on my feet? Literally nothing. The same with haberdashers, the same with grocers, the same with jewellers, the same with every kind of shop. Then, trades; I don't know one. Printers, engravers, carpenters, watchmakers, and that kind of thing--you have to serve an apprenticeship before you can hope to earn money by them. I felt like a fish out of water. There seemed to be no groove for me, nothing that I could take hold of. I am really puzzled, Nansie."
"My poor Kingsley!" murmured Nansie.
"But, there," he said, snapping his fingers, "it will not mend matters to worry about them. Nil desperandum, and a fig for the world and its cares! If only to-morrow would not come!"
He certainly had the gift of giving dull care the go-by; and in another minute he was the same light-hearted, pleasant-humored, irresponsible being he had ever been, and was doing his best with his whimsical talk to make Nansie forget the serious position in which they were placed.
[CHAPTER XVIII.]
Some indication has been given of the success of Timothy Chance's service with Mr. Loveday. There are men, like Kingsley Manners, who, being suddenly thrust upon the world to shift for themselves, find themselves plunged into a sea of difficulties, extrication from which is impossible except by some unexpected windfall of fortune. There are others who are so well armed for difficulties that the encountering of them serves as an incentive and a spur. What depresses one elevates the other; what makes one despondent makes the other cheerful. It is chiefly a matter of early education, in which adversity is frequently a factor for good. Partly, also, it is a matter of adaptability.
It may be taken for granted that wherever Timothy Chance fell he would fall upon his feet, and that he would be among the first to take advantage of an opportunity. A hard-working, faithful servant, but with an eye to his own interests. It is running far ahead of events to state that when he was a middle-aged man, with a house of his own, there stood upon a bracket in his private room the image of a hen fashioned in gold--a valuable ornament; for the gold was of the purest, and the bird was of life-size; and that the sense of possession imparted a satisfaction to Timothy Chance far beyond its value. He amused himself by the fancy that the fowl of gold was an exact reproduction of the living fowl which he had rescued from the fire in the schoolhouse, and which had laid an egg in Mr. Loveday's shop on the day of Timothy's return to London. The goose of the fable that laid golden eggs was an insignificant bird in comparison with Timothy Chance's first fowl. There was at first a difficulty respecting its habitation. Mr. Loveday's shop had no backyard, and for the sake of cleanliness it could not be kept in the house. There were, however, plenty of backyards in the immediate vicinity of Church Alley, and to the proprietor of one of these Timothy betook himself, arranging to pay rent in kind, that is to say (for we are approaching legal ground), one new-laid egg per week, or, in default, its full retail value, seven farthings. For it was not long before Timothy discovered that he could dispose of a limited number of new-laid eggs--the day of laying being guaranteed--to private persons at that rate per egg. Timothy's hen was certainly a wonderful layer; during the first thirty-one days of its tenancy of the Whitechapel backyard it laid no fewer than twenty-six eggs, which, deducting five for rental, left twenty-one to the good. A retired butterman, who should undoubtedly have been a good judge, engaged to take them all at the price above mentioned, and at the end of the month the account stood thus:
| s. | d. | |
| 21 rent-paid eggs at 1 ¾d. | 3 | 0¾ |
| Less food for fowl, at the rate of ½d. per day | 1 | 3½ |
| _ | __ | |
| Leaving a net profit of | 1 | 9¼ |
This is a precise copy of the account made out by Timothy Chance, on the termination of the month; and with the figures, clear and well-shaped, before him, Timothy devoted himself to thought. His service with the seller of second-hand books had served him in good stead. He had rummaged out from among the stock at least a score of books treating of fowls and their produce, and he had studied them attentively. Some were old, one or two were of late years, and they all pointed to one fact--that money was to be made out of eggs. Most of the writers deplored the fact that the English people were so blind to their own interests as to systematically neglect a subject so fruitful. One of the treatises dealt in large figures--to wit, the population of Great Britain, and the number of eggs by them consumed annually; further, the number of eggs laid in the kingdom, and the number we were compelled to import to satisfy the demand, amounting not to scores but to hundreds of millions. Timothy's eyes dilated. One daring enthusiast went so far as to print pages of statistics to prove that if government took the affair in hand it could, in a certain number of years (number forgotten by the present chronicler), pay off the national debt. This, perhaps, was too extravagant, but the fact remained, and appeared incontrovertible, that money was to be made out of eggs. Here was plain proof--one shilling and ninepence farthing made out of one hen in a single month.