We were going to have a boy—one who could fill up his time about the house—at first; but, as a matter of fact, our first billiard-marker, though he didn’t stay long, was a young fellow named Bright—“Charley Bright,” everybody about the place called him.
Poor Charley! His was a sad story. When we first knew him, he was living in one room over Mrs. Megwith’s shop. Mrs. Megwith has a little drapery and stationery shop, and sells nearly everything. He was quite the gentleman. You could tell that by the way he spoke, and by his clothes, which, though they were shabby, were well cut and well made, and you could see that he had once been what is called a “swell.”
He was very tall and very good-looking. He had dark, sparkling eyes, and always a high colour, and very pretty curly, dark hair. But, oh, he was so dreadfully thin! One day I said to Mrs. Megwith, “How thin your young man lodger is!” “Yes,” she said; “and it isn’t to be wondered at. I don’t believe he has anything to eat of a day but a few slices of bread and butter.”
“Is he so very poor?” I said.
“Poor! He owes me eight weeks’ rent, and I know that he’s pawned everything except what he stands upright in. I can’t find it in my heart to turn him out, he’s such a good-hearted fellow, and a perfect gentleman; but I can’t afford to lose the rent of the room much longer. He’s welcome to the tea and bread-and-butter; but the five shillings a week rent means something to a struggling widow woman with a family.”
How we got to know Charley Bright was through one or two of the young gentlemen bringing him, now and then, to have a drink. They had made his acquaintance, and he knew a lot about racing, and was a capital talker, and so they used to talk to him. I noticed once or twice when they stood him a drink he would ask for a glass of wine, and say, “Just give me a biscuit with it, please.” A biscuit, poor fellow!—it was a leg of mutton with it that he wanted—but nobody knew how terribly poor he was.
On the day after our billiard-room was opened Charley Bright came in by himself. Harry had gone up to London, to see about some business. “Mrs. Beckett,” he said, almost blushing; “I hear you want a billiard-marker. I wish you’d try me.”
“What!” I said, “you a billiard-marker?”
“Yes. I can play a very good game, and I wouldn’t mind what I did that I could do. I don’t want much. My meals in the house and a few shillings a week—just enough to pay my rent over the road.”
“Well,” I said, “we shall want a marker; but, of course, there will be money to take and one thing and the other, and we shall want a reference. Can you give us a reference?”