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.”