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George Manville Fenn

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Title: The Story of Antony Grace

Author: George Manville Fenn

Illustrator: Gordon Browne

Release Date: July 25, 2011 [EBook #36852]

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF ANTONY GRACE ***

Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

George Manville Fenn

"The Story of Antony Grace"

Chapter One.

The Man in Possession.

Mr Rowle came the day after the funeral, walking straight in, and, nodding to cook, who opened the door, hung up his shabby hat in the hall. Then, to my surprise, he took it down again, and after gazing into it as Mr Blakeford used to do in his when he came over to our church, he turned it round, made an offer as if about to put it on wrong way first, reconsidered the matter, put it on in the regular way, and as it seemed to me drew his sword.

But it was not his sword, only a very long clay pipe which he had been carrying up his left sleeve, with the bowl in his hand. Then, thrusting the said hand into his tail-pocket, he brought out a little roll of tobacco, upon which was printed, as I afterwards saw, a small woodcut, and the conundrum, “When is a door not a door?”

“Ho!” said cook; “I suppose you’re the—”

“That’s just what I am, my dear,” said the stranger, interrupting her; “and my name’s Rowle. Introduced by Mr Blakeford; and just fetch me a light.”

“Which you’d best fetch this gentleman a light, Master Antony,” said cook; “for I ain’t going to bemean myself.”

As she spoke she made a sort of whirlwind in the hall, and whisked herself out of the place, slamming the door at the end quite loudly.

“Waxey!” said Mr Rowle, looking hard at me, and shutting one eye in a peculiar way. “Got a light, young un?”

“Yes,” I said, feeling sorry that cook should have been so rude to the visitor; and as I hurried into the study to get a match out of the little bronze stand, and lit the curled-up wax taper that my father used to seal his particular letters, I found that Mr Rowle had followed me, tucking little bits of tobacco in the pipe-bowl as he came.

He then proceeded to look about, stooped down and punched the big leather-covered chair, uttered a grunt, took the taper, lit his pipe, and began to smoke.

“Now then, squire,” he said, “suppose you and I have a look round.”

There was such a calm at-homeness about him that the thought struck me that he must somehow belong to the place now; and I gazed at him with a feeling akin to awe.

He was a little man in a loose coat, and his face put me greatly in mind of the cover of a new spelling-book. He was dressed in black, and his tail-coat had an enormously high collar, which seemed to act as a screen to the back of his half-bald head when he sat down, as he did frequently, to try the different chairs or sofas. It never struck me that the coat might have been made for another man, but that he had had it shaped to come down to the tips of his fingers, and so keep him warm. When he had taken off his hat I had noticed that his hair lay in streaks across the top of his head, and the idea occurred to me that his name might be Jacob, because he was in other respects so smooth.

I followed Mr Rowle as he proceeded to have what he called “a look round,” and this consisted in going from room to room, in every one of which he kept his hat on, and stood smoking as he gradually turned his eyes on everything it contained, ending with a grunt as of satisfaction at what he saw.

Every room was taken in turn, even to the kitchen, where our entry caused a sudden cessation of the conversation round the tea-table, and the servants turned away their heads with a look of contempt.

“That’ll do,” said Mr Rowle quietly; then, “Mary, my dear, you can bring me my tea in the study.”

No one answered, and as we went back I remember thinking that if Mr Rowle was to be the new master at Cedar Hill he would soon send our old servants away. He walked back, smoking all the time, and seated himself in my father’s chair, staring hard at me the while.

“Shut the door, young un,” he said at last, and when I had obeyed, “sit down, and make your miserable life happy.”

My face began to work, and I had to battle hard to keep back the tears, as for a few minutes I could not speak, but sat there feeling sure Mr Rowle must think me sulky and strange; and it troubled me, for the old man seemed disposed to be kind.

“Poor boy!” he said all at once, and his voice seemed to me to come out of a cloud of smoke; “so you’ve lost both your father and your mother?”

“Yes, sir!” I said piteously.

“Hah! so have I,” said Mr Rowle, and he went on smoking.

I was thinking as I tried to stare at him through the smoke, that this must have been a very long time ago, when he quite startled me by seeming to read my thoughts, as he said suddenly:

“Yes; that’s a long time ago.”

“Yes, sir; I thought it must be,” I ventured to say; and then there was a long silence, during which I sat there wanting to go away, but not daring to stir, lest Mr Rowle should think me rude, and still he smoked on.

“I say, young un,” he exclaimed, making me start out of a reverie, in which I was thinking how vexed mamma would have been to see Mr Rowle smoking in all the bedrooms, “s’pose you’d just come here to stop, which room should you sleep in?”

“The blue room’s the biggest and the best, sir,” I said, “but I like the little pink room the most.”

“Hah! then the pink room it must be,” he said, sending out such a long puff of smoke that I wondered how his mouth could have held it all. “I say, young un, ain’t it time Mary brought up my tea?”

“It’s past tea-time ever so much,” I said, “and her name’s Jane.”

He took hold of an old brass key hanging at the end of a thin steel chain, and dragged out a very big old silver watch, looked at it, shook it, and held it to his ear, and then lowered it down once more into its particular pocket.

“Then Mary—Jane won’t bring it,” said Mr Rowle.

As he spoke the door opened, and Jane, our housemaid, exclaimed sharply, “Now, Master Antony, I want you;” and I rose and followed her into the dining-room, where my solitary tea was spread out for me. I stood gazing at it when she left me in a miserable dejected way, for I felt as if I could not eat, and as if the tea when I poured it out would be bitter and salt as my tears; and then I began to think about Mr Rowle, and stole to the door, opened it, and stood listening to the laughing and talking in the kitchen.

“I wonder whether they will take Mr Rowle his tea,” I thought; and I leaned against the door, listening still, but there was no sign of any preparation. The strong smoke crept out into the hall, and in imagination I could see the little yellow man sitting back and smoking in the chair always used by my father.

At last I summoned up my courage and went to the study door, opened it, and asked Mr Rowle if he would come and have some tea.

“I will that!” he said with alacrity; “I never despise my beer, but a cup o’ tea’s my reglar drink.”

He followed me into the dining-room, and we sat down, I feeling very awkward, especially as Mr Rowle leaned across, lifted the pot, and gave me his peculiar wink.

“Silver?” he said.

“Yes, sir; and the coffee-pot and basin and jug too,” I replied.

“Hah! yes.”

It was very awkward, for there was only one teacup and saucer, and I did not like to ring for another; so I filled that and passed it to Mr Rowle, who sat smoking all the while.

“Thankye!” he said, nodding, and he was about to pour it into the saucer when he stopped short. “Hallo!” he said, “where’s your’n?”

“I—I have not got another cup,” I stammered.

“Worse disasters at sea!” he said. “Never mind; look ye here, I’ll have the saucer and you have the cup,” and pouring out the tea, he passed me back the cup, and the meal went on.

For the first time since his arrival Mr Rowle laid down his pipe, and after hewing off a great piece of bread, he proceeded to cut it up in little cubes, all six sides of which he buttered before he ate them, while I contented myself with a modest slice or two, for my appetite was gone.

It was a doleful meal, but he seemed to enjoy it, and after partaking of five or six saucerfuls he nodded at me again, took up and refilled his pipe, and then walked back to the study, where he sat smoking till ten o’clock, when he went up to bed.

I’m afraid that I was a very ignorant boy. Perhaps not so in the ordinary sense of the word ignorant, for I had been fairly educated, and besides being pretty forward with my Latin, I could have written a letter or carried on a decent conversation in French; but, living in a secluded part of the country, I was very ignorant about the matters of ordinary every-day life, and I found it hard to understand how it was that Mr Blakeford, the lawyer, should be allowed to do just as he pleased in our old house.

The terrible misfortunes that had come, one after the other, had seemed to stun me and take away my breath. One day we seemed to be all so happy together, and I was sitting reading to my invalid mother in the pleasant old room opening on to the lawn. And the next day I was holding my throbbing head in my bedroom, after crying till it ached as if about to split, while I tried again and again to believe that it was all some dreadful dream, that my father had been carried home dead, killed in an instant by a fall from his horse, and that my mother lay beside him in the darkened room, silent too in death, for the shock had been too great for her delicate frame.

All that followed seemed to me dreamlike and strange—the darkened house and the rustling sounds of the black dresses that were made for the servants; my own new black things and stiff black hat; the terrible stillness of the place, and the awe with which I used to gaze at the closed room upstairs; and lastly that dreadful darkest day when I was the companion of Mr Blakeford and an old uncle in the mourning coach which followed the hearse with its nodding plumes to the grave.

I wanted to be alone and sit and think, but those about me seemed to consider that it was their duty to try and comfort and cheer me in my affliction, when all they did was to worry me and make me more wretched than before. It troubled me, too, terribly, that people should think me callous and indifferent to my loss, when all the time my heart was throbbing, and I felt a sensation of desolation and misery that I tried my best to conceal.

I remember going on tiptoe towards the dining-room on the day of the funeral, dreading lest my new boots should make a noise, when, as I reached the mat at the door, I stopped short, for my uncle was saying roughly—

“Don’t seem to trouble him much.”

“No, of course not,” Mr Blakeford replied. “What can you expect? I dare say he’s thinking more of his new black clothes.”

I had to clench my hands and bite my lips to keep from bursting out into a passionate fit of weeping, and I stood there for some minutes, unable to move, as I heard all that was said.

“Well, it’s no business of mine,” said my uncle. “It was his own money.”

“Yes,” said Mr Blakeford, with a sigh. “I was his legal adviser, but he would not be advised.”

“Never would,” said my uncle. “All he thought of was catching butterflies and drying weeds in blotting-paper.”

“But he was a good man,” said Mr Blakeford.

“Bah! good? What, to plunge into speculation and ruin himself?”

“We are none of us perfect,” said Mr Blakeford.

“Who wants to be?” said my uncle. “Well, I wash my hands of the whole affair. You know where I am if you want me. He was never like a brother to me. I will do as you said.”

“Yes,” said Mr Blakeford, “of course. You may trust me, Mr Grace.”

“I don’t trust anybody,” said my uncle, just as one of the servants, coming along the passage, said kindly—

“Why don’t you go in, Master Tony?”

There was a sudden movement of a chair, and I saw Mr Blakeford come forward and look at me curiously as I entered in a shamefaced way. Then he exchanged glances with my uncle, and my heart sank as I felt that they both suspected me of having been listening on the mat.

It was only at nights when I was alone in my own room that I could cry as a half heart-broken boy of eleven can cry in the desolation of his heart. My uncle had gone away the day after the funeral, telling me shortly that I must be a man now, and mind what Mr Blakeford said; and Mr Blakeford had looked at me in his peculiar way, tightening his thin lips, and smiling strangely, but saying nothing.

I knew that some arrangements had been made about my future, but though I was the person most concerned, every one seemed to consider that I was only a boy, and no explanation was vouchsafed. So it was, then, that I rambled about the house and grounds almost alone, growing more and more thoughtful and wretched as the change oppressed me like a weight of lead.

As the days went on, though, and the first passionate feelings of grief gave way to a strange sense of despair, I began to take notice of what was passing around me. It seemed as if the servants in their new black dresses looked upon the change as a holiday. They had frequent visitors; there seemed to be always a kind of lunch in progress, and as I sat alone of an evening I could often hear laughter from the kitchen; and at last, unable to bear the solitude, I used to go into the study and sit down and stare at Mr Rowle.

It was not cheerful, even there, for Mr Rowle used to sit and stare at me. We rarely spoke. Still, it was company, and the old man did sometimes give me a nod, and say, in allusion to a burst of mirth from the kitchen—

“They’re keeping the game alive, young un?”

Chapter Two.

Mr Rowle and I Become Friends.

As I have said, in the days that followed, I used, when feeling very lonely, to go and sit and stare at Mr Rowle and he at me. Few words were spoken, but quite a friendship sprang up between us, and by degrees I learned what his position really was—that of man in possession, placed there by Mr Blakeford.

Mr Rowle was not an active busy man, but somehow he had a way with him that seemed to take charge of everything in the house. I verily believe that in a few moments he made a mental inventory of the contents of the room, and he quite offended Jane one morning by ringing the blue-room bell.

I was with him at the time, and after the ring had been twice repeated, Jane came bouncing upstairs, and, quite ignoring the presence of Mr Rowle, addressed herself sharply to me.

“I’m surprised at you, Master Antony, ringing the bells like that, knowing how busy I am. Whatever do you want?”

“It was me as rung, Jane, my dear,” said Mr Rowle. “What’s gone of those two little chayney candlesticks off this table?”

“I’ve took ’em down to clean, Master Antony, if you must know,” said Jane, addressing me spitefully. “You don’t suppose as I’ve took them away?”

She looked at me angrily, while I felt as if I had been accusing her unjustly.

“Oh no, my dear, of course not!” said Mr Rowle. “You’re too highly respectable a girl to do such a thing; but where I was once there was a housemaid as stole a little bronze pen-tray out of the study, and she was found out about it, and given into custody of the police, and got three months.”

Jane looked fiercely at him and whisked out of the room.

“Please, Mr Rowle,” I said, “the little pen-tray that mamma gave poor papa has—has—”

I could say no more, for the recollection of that birthday present, towards which I had subscribed some of my pocket-money, caused such a choking sensation that I was ready to break down once more, and I had to strive hard to keep it back.

“Gone out of the study, young un? Oh no, not it. You fancy as it has.”

“I’m sure it has gone, sir,” I said eagerly. “I was looking for it yesterday.”

“Ah, well, you’ll see when we get downstairs,” said Mr Rowle, and he went on from room to room, always sending a few puffs of smoke into each, till we went downstairs, meeting Jane on the way, looking very hot and indignant as she carried up the little china candlesticks, and sure enough, to my great surprise, on entering the study, there was the pen-tray in its familiar place.

“There; what did I tell you?” said Mr Rowle, laughing. “It was underneath some papers, or p’raps Jane took it down to give it a rub or two.”

“That must have been it, sir,” I said; and I went out to have a walk round the garden. But somehow everything looked so different: the grass had not been cut for days, the beds were rapidly growing weedy, and the flowers and fruit looked so different, or seemed to look so different, that I was glad to go back into the house, where I found another stranger, a little dapper, red-faced man, who nodded to me familiarly, and then resumed a conversation with Mr Rowle.

“My clerk will be here directly,” I heard him say, “and we’ll soon run over the inventory.”

“The sooner the better, I say, Mr Jevins, sir,” said Mr Rowle, “and then we shall know what we’re at.”

“You don’t mean—” began the newcomer.

“No, sir, I don’t, because I’ve had too sharp a hye on ’em; but there’s one young lady here as wouldn’t take nothing out of her reach, and if I was Mr Blakeford I’d make a clean sweep out, and the sooner the better.”

The little man drew a silver pencil-case out of his pocket, slid out a pen, and then, taking a little ink-bottle from another pocket, he took out the cork and balanced it on the top of a china figure; then, securing the ink-bottle to one of the buttons of his coat by a little loop, he pulled out a long pocket-book, drew from it an elastic band with a snap, opened it, and fastened the leaves back with the band, just as a tall, gaunt, elderly man came in with a pen behind one ear, a pencil behind the other, making him look in profile like some peculiar kind of horned snail.

I watched their acts with boyish interest as they proceeded methodically to set down the contents of room after room, punching the chairs, turning up the settees, feeling the curtains, and tapping the mirrors, till at the end of the second day, all being done, they closed their books with a snap, nodded to me, and after a short chat with Mr Rowle took their departure.

“Sale’s on Toosday week,” said that gentleman as I looked at him inquiringly. “What’s going to be done o’ you?”

“Done with me?” I said.

“Yes; where are you going to be?”

“I’m going to stop here,” I said.

“That can’t be, anyhow, young un. Haven’t you got any friends?”

“Yes,” I said; “there’s Dick Wilmot, but he’s at school.”

“I say, young un, what a precious innocent you are! Haven’t you never been away at school?”

“No, sir.”

“Where have you been, then?”

“Here at home with papa and mamma.”

“Lor’, what a shame, to be sure! Why, you don’t seem to know nothin’.”

“Indeed I do,” I said indignantly. “I can read, and write, and cipher, and I know a little botany, and Latin, and French, and papa was teaching me the violin.”

“What, the fiddle? Well, that may be some use to you; but as for t’others, bah! I never found the want of any on ’em. How old are you?”

“Just turned eleven, sir.”

“’Leven, and bless your ’art, young un, you’re about as innocent as a baby.”

“If you please, sir, I’m very sorry.”

“Sorry? So am I. Why, up in London I’ve seen boys of ’leven as was reglar old men, and know’d a’most everything. Lookye here, young un, don’t you know as your poor guv’nor died ever so much in debt through some bank breaking?”

“I heard poor papa say that the bank had shut its doors.”

“That’s right,” said Mr Rowle, nodding. “Well, young un; and don’t you know what that means for you?”

“No, sir,” I said.

“Phew?” replied, Mr Rowle, whistling; “well, p’raps it’s kindest to tell you, after all. Why, look here, young un, this place, with every stick in it, is going to be sold up—plate, linen, furniture, chayney, glass, and the house and all, and you’ll have to go to some of your friends, unless Mr Blakeford’s got his plans made for you.”

“Please, sir, I don’t think I’ve got any friends to go to,” I said; “I thought I was going to stay at home—at least, I hoped so,” I added despondently.

“It’s a rum go,” muttered Mr Rowle, as he raised his hat with one hand and re-arranged his hair with the stem of his pipe. “Ah, well, I s’pose I’ve no call to be putting things into your head, only I should like to see you not quite so innocent, and better able to look after yourself.”

Mr Rowle and I had many such conversations during the interval before the sale, in all of which he was so much troubled by what he called my innocence, that I began to look upon my ignorance of the world as something approaching a crime. I saw no more of Mr Blakeford or my uncle, and the days glided slowly by till just before the sale, when the servants came upon me one evening in the dining-room, to announce that they were going, and to say “good-bye.”

“Going?” I said; “what, all?”

“Yes,” said cook sharply, and I think there was a twinkle of moisture in her eyes; “yes, Master Antony, we’re all going, and we’ve come to say good-bye.”

I believe that cook would have taken me in her arms and hugged me in good motherly fashion, but for the third person. As it was, she shook hands very warmly and looked tenderly at me for a moment—not more—for her soul seemed to be aroused within her at the presence of Mr Rowle, at whom she darted the most furious of glances, an example followed by the other two maids; and then we were alone.

“Bless ’em!” said Mr Rowle, taking his pipe for a moment from his lips, and then going on smoking.

Chapter Three.

Mr Blakeford Shows His Teeth.

The morning of the sale arrived, and still no one took any notice of me. I had stood by in a melancholy fashion, and seen little tickets pasted or tied upon the various articles of furniture; the stair rods done up in bundles and the carpets in rolls. The chimney ornaments seemed to be holding a meeting in a corner of the sideboard recess, presided over by a bronze Neptune; and apparently deceived by the reflection of the sunshine, the steel fender had settled itself calmly on a table before the tall pier-glass as if it were a fire; the pictures looked down in the most melancholy way from the walls at the doleful chaos of furniture, all except one of her Majesty the Queen, and that seemed to follow me in a sorrowful, pitying fashion that made me gaze up at it again and again.

Wearied with wandering from room to room—all dust and confusion now—I turned to go upstairs. As I did so I passed the study, whose door was wide open, with Mr Rowle in the easy-chair smoking away, his hat on, and the wretchedness of the place with its piled-up bundles of books seeming to have no effect upon him whatever.

Upstairs matters appeared even worse, though it struck me that the rooms were not so dusty. After the “view” on the previous day the auctioneer’s men had arranged the things so that they would be handy for taking downstairs, and the grotesque positions they were now in suggested endless ideas. Pairs of sheets and blankets hung from pegs like so many culprits; towel-horses stood upon their heads, while chairs did acrobatic tricks, one at the bottom sustaining four or five piled up in a state of equilibrium; the tooth-brush trays all seemed to have been frightened into taking refuge in the ewers; while the bedsteads and toilet-tables appeared to think the place so dirty and untidy that they were holding up their trailing garments to keep them from being soiled.

On the previous day I had taken refuge in my favourite haunt, the summer-house, till the strangers had gone, and now, hearing the auctioneer’s men below, I was hurriedly taking a farewell glance round before once more making my retreat.

I had heard footsteps on the stairs, and supposed it to be one of the owners of the carpet-caps and aprons that lay tucked in a corner, when suddenly passing out of one of the bedrooms into the passage I came face to face with Mr Blakeford.

“Oh! you’re there, are you?” he said, in quite an ill-used tone, as if he had been hunting for me for days. “Why, where have you been hiding yourself?”

“Please, sir, I’ve been here all the time.”

“It’s false, sir. How dare you tell me such a lie! I was hunting for you all day yesterday and you were not here. I supposed you had run away.”

“If you please, sir,” I said, “I was in the summer-house—indeed!”

“Then how dare you tell me, sir, that you were here! Now look here, Master Antony Grace; don’t you try to trifle with me, for I’m not the man to be played with. You’ve been allowed to grow up in sloth, ignorance, and idleness; and now that out of pure charity I am going to take you into my office, you had better try to make yourself of some use, unless you want to be turned adrift and starved;” and he bent down and shook his finger in my face.

“Come to your office, sir?” I cried, wondering.

“Come to my office, sir, yes,” he snarled. “What else were you going to do? Did you think you were going to spend your life sticking pins through butterflies and running about picking buttercups and daisies, as you did with your defrauding scoundrel of a father?”

“How dare you say that!” I cried, as a fierce burst of passion swept over me at hearing him speak thus of my poor dead father.

I have some recollection of rushing at him with clenched fists, and being caught roughly by a strong hand, of being shaken, my ears sharply boxed, and of being then thrown panting, sobbing, and half heart-broken upon the floor, as Mr Blakeford stood over me.

“That’s your temper, is it, you young dog?” he cried; “but I’ll soon tame that down. What, am I to lose thousands of pounds by your cheating scoundrel of a father, and then, when to save his wretched brat from starvation I have arranged to give him a home, I am to have him turn and rend me? But I’ll soon cure all that, my fine fellow. You’ve got the wrong man to deal with, and it was quite time your career of spoiled child was over.”

He turned and left the room, and after crouching there sobbing for a few minutes, I got up in a stunned, hopeless way, brushed the dust off my clothes, and as I turned I caught a glimpse of my hot red face and wet eyes in the glass.

I was hastily removing the traces of the childish tears when I smelt the pungent odour of tobacco, and my first impulse was to run away and hide; but there was no way of escape, and I had to turn round and face Mr Rowle, who stood smoking in the doorway.

“What’s he been leathering you for?” he said, without removing his pipe.

“I—I struck him!” I panted out, trembling with shame and indignation.

“You? You hit Lawyer Blakeford?” he said, with a broad grin overspreading his face. “Come, I like that. I didn’t think there was so much stuff in you.”

“He—he—said false things about my poor dead father,” I faltered.

“And you tried to punch his head for it, young ’un; and serve him right, that’s what I say. Never mind: cheer up, young un; you’ll grow a man some day, see if you don’t. But, I say, look here, where are you going to stay? The house’ll be full of people directly.”

“I’m—I’m to go to Mr Blakeford—to his office, he says.”

“Whee-ew!” whistled Mr Rowle. “That’s it, is it? Your guv’nor owed him money, eh, and he’s going to take it out of you? I say, young un, you’re in for it.”

“Am I, sir?” I said, in a dull, despairing way, for I understood by his words that my future was not to be a very pleasant one, but just then I heard Mr Blakeford’s voice below, and Mr Rowle gave me a friendly nod and turned away, while I stood listening, expecting to be called.

I can recall those feelings that came over me to this day—shame, mortification, wounded pride, misery, and despair. What was to become of me? How could I ever live with a man who spoke so cruelly of one who had always been so firm and yet so gentle with me? No mother, no father, no one to say one kind and encouraging word to me but that poor rough man in possession, towards whom in those hours of misery my young heart went out with all its passion of childlike affection.

I was half stunned. Had I been so idle and spoiled a boy? I did not know, only that I had been very happy—that every lesson had been a pleasure, and those summer-day entomological and botanical rambles with my father times of joy and delight. It was all a puzzle, too, about my father and Mr Blakeford and their money matters, and of course I was too young to comprehend the legal instruments which empowered the solicitor to take possession of everything of which my father died possessed.

The entry of one of the porters made me creep hurriedly away, and going downstairs, I found room after room filling with the people coming to the sale, with the result that I crept into the garden and down the old laurel walk to the little summer-house at the bottom, where I shut myself in to lean my head against my arm and try to check the miserable tears that would come.

It was very weak and girlish, but I was only eleven, and during the past few days there had been so much to give me pain. I was heartily ashamed of my weakness, feeling all the time a kind of instinct that I ought to be more manly, and trying hard to become so, though now I can smile at the thought of the little, slight boy of eleven battling with his natural emotions, and striving to school them to his will.

It was very quiet and lonely down there, and in a few minutes I felt calmer and better, seating myself and wondering whether I ought not to go up and look for Mr Blakeford, as I watched the robin—an old friend of mine—hopping about amongst the twigs.

Perhaps it was a foolish idea. But it seemed to me then as if that bird, as it gazed at me with its large round eyes, could feel for my sorrow, and I felt a kind of envy of the little thing’s freedom from pain and care.

While I sat there thinking in my despondent way, the low humming of voices up at the house came to me, and now and then I could hear steps on the gravel paths, but that leading up to the summer-house was of short turf, so that I was suddenly surprised by hearing a fresh young voice exclaim:

“Oh, look here, mamma! What a nice summer-house!”

“Yes, my dear,” said some one, in cold, harsh tones. “The Graces knew pretty well how to take care of themselves. I haven’t patience with such ways.”

I jumped up angrily to go away, but I was too late, for the door opened suddenly, and I was face to face with a young girl of about my own age, and a tall thin lady, with a careworn, ill-used expression of countenance; and as she seemed to know who I was, she caught the girl’s arm and gave her a snatch, exclaiming:

“Come away, Hetty; it’s young Grace.”

The girl took her eyes unwillingly from mine, and as she accompanied the lady away, she turned round once, and I fancied I read in her looks sorrow for my position, and a desire to come and lay her little hand in mine.

I sat all through that dreary day alone, and getting faint and hungry—though my memories of my encounter with Mr Blakeford kept me from thinking much about the latter, and it must have been nearly five o’clock when the door once more opened, and Mr Rowle stood there, holding a bundle tied up in a red handkerchief in one hand; his pipe in the other.

“Why, here you are then, young ’un,” he said. “I thought old Blakeford had carried you off. Lookye here! you’re just right. I’m going to have a bit of wittles down here in peace, and you’ll join in.”

As he unfastened the bundle handkerchief and displayed a pork pie and a small loaf, he took a couple of table-knives from his tail-pocket.

“Borrowed,” he said, holding them up. “They’re a part of lot hundred and forty-seven. Stop a moment, let’s make sure.”

One hand dived into the breast-pocket of his old coat to bring out a dirty catalogue, leaf after leaf of which he turned over, and then, running a dirty thumb down one page he read out:

“Lot hundred and forty-seven: sixteen black—No, that ain’t it. Here it is, young ’un. Lot hundred and fifty-seven: two dozen and seven ivory balance-handle knives. Them’s them, and they won’t be none the worse for my using on ’em.”

Mr Rowle’s intentions were most friendly, but I could hardly eat a mouthful, and I was sitting watching him making heavy onslaughts upon the loaf when I heard Mr Blakeford’s voice calling me, and I started up, feeling as if I must run away.

“What are you up to?” said Mr Rowle, with his mouth full.

“Let me go,” I cried excitedly. “Let me run somewhere.”

“Gammon! Why, what for? You go out like a man and meet him, and if he gives it to you again, why, there, if I was you I’d take it like a man, that I would.”

I hesitated for a moment, and then took my rough friend’s advice by going out into the garden, where I found Mr Blakeford with a black bag in his hand.

“Take that,” he said harshly, and threw the bag towards me.

I was taken by surprise, caught at and dropped the bag, which burst open, and a number of papers tied with red tape fell out.

“Bah! you clumsy oaf,” he exclaimed angrily. “There, pick them up.”

I hastily stooped, gathered them together, and tremblingly replaced the packets in the bag, and as soon as it was closed followed my new master towards the gate, through which he passed to where a man was holding a thin pony attached to a shabby four-wheeled chaise.

“Jump up behind,” he said; and I climbed into the back seat, while he took the reins, got into the front, and fumbled in one pocket. “Here, catch!” he cried to the man, as he gave the reins a shake. The pony started off, and we had not gone a dozen yards before something hard hit me in the back, and turning sharply, I saw one of the big old-fashioned penny-pieces fall into the road, while the man who had thrown it after us was making a derisive gesture at Mr Blakeford, by which I concluded that he was dissatisfied with the amount that had been given him.

“Sold badly, very badly,” Mr Blakeford kept muttering, and at every word he gave the reins a jerk which made the pony throw up its head; and so he kept on muttering during our four-miles ride into the town, when he drove into a little yard where a rough-looking man was waiting, threw him the reins, and then turned to me.

“Jump down, and bring that bag.”

I jumped down, and as I did so leaped aside, for a large dog rushed out to the full extent of his chain and stood baying at me, till Mr Blakeford gave him a kick, and he disappeared into a kennel that had once been green. I followed the lawyer through a side door and into a blank-looking office cut in two by a wooden partition topped with little rails, over which hung old and new posting-bills, many of which papered the wall, so that look which way I would my eye rested on, “To be sold by auction,” “Estate,” or “Property,” in big black letters.

On one side of the partition were a high double desk and a couple of tall stools; on the other some cocoa-nut matting, a table covered with papers, a number of shelves on which stood black-japanned boxes, each of which had upon it somebody’s name or only initials in white letters, with perhaps the word “Exors.” after them; while on the chimney-piece were a letter-weigher, two or three large ink-bottles, and a bundle of quill pens.

It was growing dusk, and Mr Blakeford struck a match and lit a gas-jet over the fireplace, just in front of a yellow-looking almanack; and now I could see that the place was one litter of papers, parchments, and dust, save at the end, which was occupied by a bookcase full of great volumes all bound in leather about the colour of Mr Rowle’s skin.

“Sit down there,” he said shortly, and he pointed to one of the tall stools by the great desk; and as I climbed upon it he picked up the bag I had placed upon the desk, threw it upon the table, and walked out of the place.

“Like a man—take it like a man,” I said to myself as I recalled Mr Rowle’s words; and, pressing my teeth tightly and clenching my fists, I sat there fighting down the depressing feelings that came upon me in a flood, and wondering what I should have to do.

My musings were interrupted by the loud entry at the end of about half an hour of a cross-looking servant-girl, who banged a small tray containing a mug and a plate of bread and butter down before me.

“There’s your tea,” she said roughly; “and look here, I’m not going to wait on you. Bring the mug to the kitchen when you’ve done, and you’ll have to fetch it in future.”

I looked up at her very wistfully as she scowled at me, but I did not speak.

“Sulky, eh?” she said. “You’ll soon get that taken out of you here, I can tell you.”

With these words she whisked herself out of the office, the swing-door creaked dismally and banged behind her, and I was left to enjoy my meal.

At first I felt that I could not touch it, but I was faint and hungry, and after a few mouthfuls a boy’s young healthy appetite asserted itself, and I drank all the mean thin tea and finished the bread and butter.

Then I remembered that I was to take the things back to the kitchen. Where was the kitchen, and dare I leave that stool without Mr Blakeford’s orders?

I felt that I dare not, and therefore sat there patiently gazing about the room, my eyes resting longest on those bills which told of sales of furniture, as I wondered whether those who had belonged to the furniture had died and left a son alone in the world, as I seemed to be just then.

There was a clock, I found, in one corner—an old Dutch clock—that ticked away in a very silent, reserved fashion, giving further every hour a curious running-down noise, as if it were about to strike; but though I watched it patiently as the minute-hand passed on, it never fulfilled the expectations given, but confined itself to its soft subdued tick, tick, tick, tick, hour after hour.

Seven, eight, nine, ten had been marked off by that clock, and still I sat there, waiting, and wondering whether I was to sleep there as well as to have my meals; and then I heard a door bang, the sound of a footstep, and with a great tin candlestick in his hand Mr Blakeford entered the room.

Chapter Four.

I Become a Lawyer’s Clerk.

“This way!” he said abruptly, and there was a curious look in his face that I could not understand. “Here, hold this,” he cried, thrusting the candlestick into my hand; and I held it trembling as he crossed unsteadily to the gas-jet, turned it down, and then strode out of the office.

“There!” he said, opening a door, “up there; and get down in good time. You’ll have to clean the boots and things.”

“Up there” was up a flight of steps which led into a low sloping-ceiled chamber that had been evidently meant for a lumber-room, but had now been fitted up with an old stump bedstead with a coloured counterpane, a little corner washstand with a cracked jug, a strip of carpet, and a three-legged painted chest of drawers, which had gone down at one corner, and left a corresponding leg slightly raised in the air.

The place was cold and miserable, chilling to a degree, but it was clean; and as I looked round I was surprised by seeing on a chair a heap of my clothes and a brush and comb.

I had just finished looking round when I heard a noise below.

“You Antony!” shouted Mr Blakeford; “mind you put that candle out safely, and look sharp into bed.”

I obeyed by hastily undressing and putting out the candle to get quickly into bed. It was not to lie down, but, after once more battling with my weakness, to offer up the simple prayers I had been taught, and then, still upon my knees, but with my head drooping on to the pillow, falling fast asleep.

I awoke terribly depressed at daybreak, to listen to some noisy fowls close by, and then I could hear that the rain was pattering heavily down.

Ought I to get up then, or should I lie a little longer? I could not tell, but I recollected Mr Blakeford’s words, and as I did so the same wretched despondent feeling came over me as I thought of my helplessness, and trembled, feeling sure I should give offence.

There are few people who thoroughly realise the sufferings of a tenderly nurtured, sensitive boy when first called upon to battle with the world amongst unsympathising strangers. He is only a boy in their eyes, and they fail to give him credit for the same feelings as themselves, when too often he is far more finely strung, and suffers acutely from every unkind word and look. The very act of going from home is distressing enough, but when it is supplemented by his finding himself forced to make his first essays in some uncongenial task to which his hands and the brain that should guide are totally unaccustomed, a feeling of despair often takes possession of his young spirit, and is accompanied by a hopeless despondency that is long before it wears away.

I had had painful afflictions enough during the past weeks, so that I was anything but well prepared for my new life. Besides, I had been badly fed, and the natural sinking caused by the want of proper food terribly augmented my sense of misery.

The rain pattered down on the slates and skylight, while the water ran along the gutter and gurgled strangely in a pipe close to the corner where my bed was placed, as I lay wondering what I had better do. The office was below me, with its silent clock, but perhaps I should not be doing right, I thought, if I got up and went down to see the time. Perhaps, too, the place might be locked up.

I lay thinking in this undecided way till all my doubts were set aside, for there was a loud continuous ringing just outside my door, one which was kept up as if some angry person were sawing away at the wire with the full intention of dragging it down.

It agonised me as I jumped out of bed and began hastily to dress, for I felt as if it must be to rouse me up, and as if I had inadvertently been guilty of some lapse.

The bell stopped ringing as suddenly as it had begun, and with a feeling of relief I continued dressing, but only to start nervously as I heard Mr Blakeford’s voice at the foot of the stairs shouting my name.

“Do you hear that bell, sir?” he cried.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then make haste down; don’t be all the morning dressing.”

Then there was the loud banging of a door, and I hastily finished, and went down cautiously, found the office door at the end of the dim passage, and was just going in when the sharp voice of the servant arrested me.

“Here, you—what’s your name?” she said harshly.

“Antony, ma’am.”

“Ho! Then, Mister Antony, missus says you’re to make yourself useful. They’ve pretty well worked the flesh off my bones since I’ve been here, so you must just help to put a little on.”

I looked at her in amazement, and she certainly was not at all prepossessing, being a tall raw-boned woman of some three or four and twenty, in a hastily-put-on cotton dress, her hair rough and untidy, and displaying a general aspect of having spent as little time as possible upon her toilet.

“Now, then, don’t stand staring like that!” she said. “Come along here, and fill this scuttle.”

She led the way into the kitchen and pointed to a large coalscuttle, which I had to take and fill for her, after which she seemed to hesitate as to whether she should place the broom she held in my hands; but, probably under the impression that it would save her no trouble, she altered her mind, and went and fetched a large pair of dirty Wellington boots, which she threw down upon the floor.

“There, go into that shed and clean them and your own too, and mind you do ’em well,” she cried. “He’s a reg’lar wunner about his boots.”

My experience in boot-cleaning consisted in having seen the groom at home occasionally polish a pair, so I was no adept: but hastily setting to, I worked hard at the task, and succeeded indifferently well with the big Wellingtons before bestowing the same pains upon my own shoes.

I need hardly say that I was not very quick over my task, and so it happened that when I returned to the kitchen the fire was brightly burning, the kettle boiling, and my new friend, or enemy, seated at her breakfast.

“There, you can put ’em down,” she said, with her mouth full of bread and butter. “And now you’d best go and wait in the orfice till he comes. You’re too much of a gent, I s’pose, to have meals with me?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” I said, rather piteously.

“Don’t you? Well, then, I do. You’re to have your victuals in the orfice, and I s’pose they’ll send some out to you when they’re done, seeing as you’re took here out o’ charity.”

I felt a red spot burn in each cheek at these words, but I said nothing, only went sadly to the office, which looked terribly dim and gloomy in the morning light. The dust lay thick upon bill and parchment, and the drab books with their red patches upon their backs I could see by this light were old, discoloured, and worn.

Judging from the appearance of the place, in spite of the ink marks and well-stained blotting-paper, there was not much work carried on there, though, of course, I could not judge that then. All that struck me was that the place looked most melancholy, and that a gloomy yew-tree that half shaded one window was heavily laden with drops of rain.

Seeing my mug and plate upon the big desk, I remembered the words of the servant, and hastened to take them to the kitchen, where I was received with a scowl, and hastened to retreat back to the office.

I had been standing there about an hour, and had just noticed that the clock pointed to half-past eight, when I heard a light step behind me, and, turning round, there stood the girl I had seen in the garden at home.

Her bright, fresh young face was the first pleasant thing upon which my eyes had rested since I came the night before, and as we stood gazing at each other it seemed to me that I could read sympathy and welcome in her frank smile.

“Good-morning,” she said quietly, and held out her hand, which I was in the act of taking, when a wiry sharp voice cried loudly—

“Hetty! Hetty! where are you?”

“Here, mamma,” cried my visitor.

“Then you’ve no business there,” cried the same voice; and the owner—to wit, the lady I had seen in the garden—came in. “Go back to the parlour directly, miss; and mind this, you are never to come in here at all.”

The girl looked eagerly at me again, nodded, and tripped away, leaving a hopeful feeling behind that I could not explain.

“So you are young Grace,” said the lady, whom I presumed to be Mrs Blakeford, and I gazed wonderingly at her pained wrinkled face and weak-looking, wandering eyes. “Mind this: you are to keep in the office. I won’t have you in my rooms; and Mr Blakeford says you are not to be in the kitchen on account of the neighbours’ remarks. I’m sure I don’t know why we study people who never study us; and I’m pinched enough for money now, without having you thrown on to my housekeeping.”

“Now then, what are you doing there?” cried Mr Blakeford harshly, as he entered in his slippers. “Go and make the tea; what do you want to begin chattering to that boy for about our private affairs?”

Mrs Blakeford muttered something about being always wrong, and turned to go.

“Always wrong? Of course you are, when you will come meddling with what don’t concern you. Now then,” he cried, turning sharply round to me, “what are you staring at? Get a cloth and rub down that desk and table. Can’t you see how dusty they are?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, for it was very evident. “Then why don’t you go and do it, blockhead?”

I started to perform the task in great alarm; but I had no duster, and dared not ask him. Fortunately he was called away just then to his breakfast; but he seemed to me to be there still, gazing at me with his keen dark eyes, while his tightly closed thin lips seemed as if they were about to be drawn aside to bite.

As soon as I was alone I stole into the kitchen to ask for a duster.

“Don’t bother me; can’t you see I’m making toast?” was my greeting.

I could see she was making toast, and my attention was further called to it by the sharp ringing of a bell.

“Ah, ring away,” said the woman, going on with her task. “You may ring the bell down, and then I shan’t come till the toast’s done, do now then!”

“Please, Mary, is the—”

I turned upon hearing the pleasant little voice again, which stopped short as I looked round, and our eyes met once more.

“No, Miss Hetty, my dear, the toast ain’t done,” said the woman more softly; “and you may tell your ma that if she is in a hurry she must wait till her hurry’s over.”

“Don’t be cross, Mary,” said the child; and tripping across the kitchen, she ran up to where the woman was kneeling before the fender, kissed her cheek, and tripped out again.

“They may thank her for it, that they may,” grumbled Mary, as if speaking to the fire, “for if it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t stop a day longer in their nasty, disagreeable old house. There!”

The toast was by this time done, and Mary was scraping away at a burnt spot, when the bell began to ring more violently than before, with the result that, instead of running off with the toast, Mary deliberately placed it upon the fender and went across to one of the dresser drawers, out of which she took a clean duster.

“Ring away!” she grumbled. “There’s a duster for you, boy. And look here; you must be hungry. Stop a minute and I’ll cut you a slice. Ah, ring away! You don’t frighten me.”

To my horror, she coolly spread thickly a slice of bread, cut it, and handed it to me before buttering the toast with which she at last crawled out of the kitchen, while I literally fled to the office, laid the bread and butter on the desk, and stopped to listen.

At the end of half an hour the bell rang again, and soon after Mary came sulkily into the office with a mug of half-cold weak tea and some lumps, not slices, of bread and butter. These she thrust before me, and I was sadly making my breakfast when Mr Blakeford entered the place.

“Come, make haste!” he said sharply; and as I glanced up at him I read in his face that for some reason or another he had taken a great dislike to me. I could not tell then, nor did I know for long afterwards, why this was; but it grew more evident hour by hour that he hated the sight of my anxious young face, and that my sojourn with him was to be far from pleasant.

He took his seat at the table while I tried to finish my breakfast, but his coming had completely taken away my appetite, and at the end of a few minutes I hastened to take the mug and plate to the kitchen, and then returned to the office.

“Now, sir,” Mr Blakeford began, “just look here. Your father owed me a large sum of money when he died, and I have taken you on here quite out of compassion. Do you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” I faltered.

“Well, you’ve got to learn to be of use to me as soon as you can. You can write, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir—not very well,” I faltered.

“Of course you can’t. No boy brought up as you have been, without going to a school, could be expected to write a decent hand. But look here, you’ll have to try and write well; so take that paper to the desk and copy it out in a neat round hand.”

I took the paper with trembling hands, climbed to the desk, spread the sheet of foolscap ready upon a big piece of blotting-paper, and took up one of the pens before me.

Those were the days before steel nibs had become common, and the pen I took was a quill split up and spoiled.

I took another and another, but they were all the same; and then, glancing at the inkstand, I found that it was dry.

I hardly dared to do it, but he glanced up at me to see if I had begun, and I ventured to say that there was neither pen nor ink.

“Of course not, blockhead. Get down and fetch some off the chimney-piece.”

I gladly obeyed; and then, resuming my seat, with the words on the paper dancing before my eyes, made my first essay as Mr Blakeford’s clerk.

The writing before me was not very distinct, but I managed to decipher it pretty well, getting a little puzzled as to the meaning of “ads.” and “exors.,” with various other legal contractions, but after the first line or two going steadily on, for, bad as my education had been, I was able to write a boy’s neat round hand, consequent upon often copying out lists for my father, or names to label the collections we made.

I had been writing about half an hour, working away diligently enough, when I heard the chair on the other side of the partition scroop, and Mr Blakeford came up behind me. I fully expected a severe scolding or a blow when he took up my sheet of foolscap and scanned it over, but he threw it down before me again with a grunt.

Soon afterwards he rose and went out, leaving me busy over my task, writing till I grew giddy and my head began to ache.

About the middle of the day Mary came in with some bread and meat; and about six o’clock there was another mug of thin tea and some pieces of bread and butter. Then the night came on, the gas was lighted, and I finished my first day in what seemed to be, and really was, as I look back upon it now, little better than a prison.

The days crept slowly by as I took my place each morning at the desk, finding always something fresh to copy in a neat round hand, and at this I patiently toiled on, with my old griefs growing more dull as a little hope began to arise that I might soon see little Hetty to speak to again; but though from time to time I heard the voice and the sound of a piano upon which some one was industriously practising, she never came near the office.

Mr Blakeford seemed as brutal to everyone in the house as he was to me. The only person who did not seem afraid of him was Mary, and upon her his angry scoldings had no effect whatever. To me she was harsh and uncouth as on my first arrival, but, seeing that the amount given me for my meals was disgracefully small, after the first week she did take care that I had a sufficiency of food, although it only took one form.

I remember upon one occasion, having to go to the kitchen door, and finding her muttering angrily to herself, while upon seeing me she exclaimed:

“They’ve been going on about too much butter being used again. Come here!”

I went closer to her, and she hurried into the larder, and came out with a roll of fresh butter and a new loaf, cutting off a thick piece and plastering it excessively with butter.

“There!” she exclaimed, “you go back into the office, and don’t you show your face here again until you’ve eaten up every scrap of that. I’ll teach ’em to grumble about the butter.”

From that day forward Mary was always cutting me great slices of new bread and thickly spreading them with butter.

“There,” she used to say ungraciously, “I don’t like boys, but they shan’t half-starve you while I’m here.”

I was so moved by her unexpected kindness—for it really was done out of goodness of heart—that, having become somewhat hardened to being a confederate in this unlawful acquisition of provender, on one occasion I threw my arms round her neck and kissed her.

“Why, you impudent young scamp, what d’yer mean?” she exclaimed, in astonishment.

“Please, Mary,” I said, “I didn’t mean to be impudent; it was because you were so good to me.”

“Good? Stuff!” she said roughly, “I’m not good. There, get along with you, and don’t you do that again.”

I certainly should have run a good chance of being half-starved but for Mary and another friend.

One day when I opened my desk, I found just inside it a plate with an appetising piece of pudding therein, and concluded that it was Mary’s doing; but I could not be sure, for her benevolence always took the form of thick slices of bread and butter.

The next day there was a piece of cake; another day some apples; another, a couple of tartlets; and at last I determined to hide and see who was the donor of these presents, so welcome to a growing boy. I had made up my mind at last that they came from Hetty, and I was right; for going inside the large paper cupboard one day, instead of going out to fetch the newspaper according to custom, this being one of my new duties, I saw the office door gently open and Hetty’s little head peering cautiously in. Then, satisfied that no one was near, she ran lightly to the big desk; I heard it shut down hastily, and then there was a quiet rustling noise, the office door closed and she was gone.

This went on regularly, and at last one day it occurred to me that I should like to make her a present in return. I had a few shillings, the remains of my pocket-money, and I turned over in my own mind what I should give her. Cakes or sweets I voted too trifling, a doll too childish. What should I buy then? Suddenly I recollected that there were in a window in the little town some pretty silver brooches formed like a knot of twisted ribbon, and one of these I determined to buy.

It took three out of my five shillings; but it looked very pretty in its little box, reposing on pink cottonwool; and having secured it, I returned to my copying at the desk, to think out how I could make my gift.

Nothing was more simple. I wrapped up the little box neatly in a quarter-sheet of foolscap, sealed it with the office wax, and directed it in my best hand to “Miss Hetty Blakeford. From one who is very grateful.”

I felt very conscious and excited as I finished and laid it in the bottom of the desk, just where the presents were always placed for me, and to my great delight, when I looked again there was a plate of tart which the poor child had saved from her own dinner, and the packet was gone.

Chapter Five.

Mr Blakeford Suffers, and I Catch the Echo.

My life at Mr Blakeford’s knew but little change. It was one regular monotonous occupation—copy, copy, copy, from morning till night; and but for stolen bits of reading I believe I should have gone melancholy mad. I had no companions of my own age, no older friends to whom I could confide my troubles or ask for advice. Mr Blakeford was always stern and repellent; Mrs Blakeford, on the rare occasions when I encountered her, ill-used, and ready to say something about my being an extra expense. Only at rare intervals did I see little Hetty, and then it would be in the street, when I had been sent to the post, to fetch stamps, or on some such errand. Then I had a smile and a pleasant look to think about till our next encounter.

A year glided by in this fashion, during which time, in spite of his constant complaints, I must have grown very useful to Mr Blakeford, for my handwriting was clear and firm, and I copied a great many documents in the course of the month.

He was as brutal to me as ever, and never lost an opportunity of abusing me for my being an incumbrance, or saying something which sent me miserable to my room.

My tender point, and he knew it well enough, was an allusion to my father’s debt to him; and afterwards, when I went up wretched and low-spirited to bed, I used to make a vow that some day or another I would save enough money to pay him all my father owed, and so free his memory from what the lawyer always told me was a disgrace.

Quite eighteen months had elapsed, when it became evident to me that Mr Blakeford was in some trouble with one of his clients. This latter, a tall florid-looking farmer, had, as I learned from what I heard of their conversation, borrowed money from my employer upon some security, with the understanding that payment was not to be enforced so long as the heavy interest was provided for.

Mr Blakeford’s business seemed to consist a great deal in money-lending, and every now and then my old acquaintance, Mr Rowle, came to the office for instructions, and found time for a friendly chat.

Upon this occasion I noticed that Mr Blakeford was very anxious about the coming of some one to the office, and he spent a good deal of time in watching from one of the windows.

He was sternly examining a piece of copying that I had just finished, when there came three heavy knocks with a stick upon the outer door of the office.

Mr Blakeford turned yellow, and, catching me by the arm, whispered—

“It’s Mr Wooster. Antony, say I’m not at home. Say I’ve gone out. Quick.”

He pushed me towards the door, and I went to open it just as there were three more heavy knocks, and on drawing back the fastening, there stood Mr Wooster, the stout, tall, farmer-looking man, scowling and angry.

“Where’s Mr Blakeford?” he cried, catching me fiercely by the collar, and shaking a stout ash stick he carried.

“Please, sir—” I began.

“It’s a lie!” he roared; “he’s not out. Didn’t he tell you to say he was out?”

“Yes, sir,” I faltered, and he strode straight in; and as I followed, I saw him catch Mr Blakeford by the throat and pin him in his chair.

“Fetch the constable, Antony,” cried Mr Blakeford. “Quick!”

“Stop where you are, you young dog,” roared the farmer, “or I’ll kill you. Now, you scoundrel, what do you mean by seizing my goods, by putting your rascally man in possession after promising me in this office that you would never put me to any inconvenience?”

“If you have any complaint to make against me, Mr Wooster, employ your solicitor,” cried Mr Blakeford hoarsely.

“Hang your solicitor and the whole crew, you scoundrelly serpent!” roared the farmer. “You’ve ruined me, as you ruined that poor boy’s father, and a score more before him.”

“Antony—a constable—help!” cried Mr Blakeford, for he was yellow and green with fear.

“If Antony Grace stirs, I’ll crush him like I would a snail,” cried the farmer. “And now look here, you crawling snake; I trusted you because I didn’t believe any one could deliberately ruin another for the sake of a few pounds.”

“Mr Wooster, if you dare to strike me,” cried the miserable coward, “I shall proceed against you for assault.”

“So you may,” cried the farmer, with a bitter laugh; “and as you’ve got every penny I had, much good may it do you. Look here, Blakeford; if I knew that I should be transported for life to Botany Bay for what I’m going to do, I’d do it now.”

As he spoke, he spat in his hand, took a fresh grip of the ash stick, and, in spite or Mr Blakeford’s cries for help and mercy, he thrashed him till the stick broke in pieces; and then, taking him by the collar with both hands, he shook him till he was tired, and ended by throwing him back in his chair.

“There!” cried the farmer; “now do your worst, you cheating scoundrel. I’m satisfied; go and satisfy yourself, and much good may the money you have stolen from the poor, the fatherless, and the widow do you.”

As he said this he strode out of the office and banged the door.

I was half stunned with fear and horror, and I remember how thankful I felt that I had seen Mrs Blakeford go out with Hetty half an hour before. While the thrashing was going on Mary had opened the door and looked in, but as if it were no business of hers, she had gone out again, and I was left the sole spectator.

“Are you much hurt, sir?” I said in trembling tones as soon as we were alone.

“Yes,” he whispered hoarsely, and showing his teeth, “a good deal.”

“Shall I get you something, sir?”

“Yes,” he said, panting less hoarsely, “fetch that leather case out of the passage.”

I ran and fetched the heavy leather-covered box he meant, and placed it beside him, watching him anxiously, to see if he were better.

“Now, fasten both the doors,” he whispered, laying his hand upon his breast to keep down the panting as he drew his breath more easily, and wiped the perspiration from his face.

I obeyed him, and then returned to his side.

“Now unfasten that case, Antony,” he said in quite a faint whisper; and going down on one knee I unbuckled a thick strap that was round it, and was about to raise the lid, but it was locked.

“That will do,” he said, suddenly changing his tone as he seized me by the jacket collar with one hand, the strap with the other. “You young villain!” he hissed; “you dog! Didn’t I tell you to say I was out, and you let that bully in? I’ll give you such a lesson as you will never forget.”

I was half stupefied as he raised the thick strap, and then brought it heavily down in blow after blow, cutting me all over the body, across the face, hands, legs, anywhere, and causing the most intense pain. I writhed and twined and screamed out under the first few blows in my agony; then a feeling of blind passion came over me, and I caught at and struggled with him for the possession of the strap, but in vain; for he kept me at bay with one hand and continued to beat me cruelly till I fell and then, placing one foot upon my chest, he beat me again till his arm fell in weariness to his side.

“I’ll teach you to mind me another time,” he panted, as he gloated over me in his pitiful revenge for the beating he had himself received. “I’ll give you something to remember this day by;” and, as I rose, he once more began to strike me; but this time I caught at the strap and held it with hands and teeth, twisting it round me and holding on while he strove to drag it away.

My resistance seemed to half madden him as I still held on.

“Let go, you dog!” he roared, “let go!” but I held on the more tightly; when, beside himself with rage, as a loud knocking came now at the inner door, he caught up a heavy office ruler from the table and struck me so cruel a blow across the head that I staggered backwards, and should have fallen to the floor if the door had not been dashed in and Mary caught me up.

Chapter Six.

Under Mary’s Mask.

“You great coward!” she cried in a rage, as, sick, faint, and heavy, and seeing everything now as in a dream, I was lifted in her stout arms.

“Leave this room, woman!” I heard him say.

“Yes, and your house too, you wretch?” she retorted; and then I heard no more till I seemed to wake in a heavy, dull, throbbing fashion in the kitchen, where some one seemed to be wetting my head with water smelling very strongly of pickles.

The place looked as if it was early morning, and the walls, with the dresser, plates, and tureens, and the bright tin dish-covers, seemed to be going round and round, but not regularly, for it was as if they went up and down in a wavy billowy way, and all the time I seemed to feel terribly sick.

“Oh, if I was a man!” I heard Mary mutter; and then more softly, “There, don’t you cry, Miss Hetty; he ain’t killed. It’s left off bleeding now. You go to your mar’s work-basket and get me a strip of rag. You ain’t got any sticking-plaister, have you?”

“I’ve got some black court-plaister, Mary.”

“That’ll do, chucky; go and get it. Poor boy, he has had a beating!” she muttered as I heard Hetty’s steps crossing the kitchen floor.

“I’m—I’m better now, Mary,” I said faintly; and I tried to rise.

“No, you ain’t better, neither; and you’ll just lie quite still till your head’s done,” said Mary, in her rough ungracious way. “You needn’t be afraid about him; he’s gone to bed and sent for the doctor, because he pretends he’s so bad, and Mr Emmett the constable is upstairs with him, about going to the magistrates and taking up Mr Wooster for beating him; but he didn’t say nothing about taking his self up for beating you, a great ugly coward! Oh! here you are, are you?”

“Here’s some clean soft linen and the court-plaister,” I heard Hetty say with a sob.

“Where’s your mar?” said Mary.

“Upstairs in papa’s room.”

“Ho?” ejaculated Mary, “and I hope she’ll stay there. There, don’t you begin a-crying again. Hold his hair back while I put this bit on. There, it’s not going to bleed any more, and you needn’t get shuddering like that at the sight of a little blood. That’s the way. Poor boy, it was enough to knock down a hox. Never mind the wet hair; it’s only vinegar and water. That’s the way; we’ll soon strap it up. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Miss Hetty, but your par’s a brute.”

“Oh, Mary! I won’t stop in the kitchen if you say such things,” cried Hetty, stamping her little foot.

“Then you’d better go back into the parlour, my dear, for I shall say what I like in my own kitchen; so there now.”

“It’s very cruel and unkind of you, Mary.”

“And it’s very cruel and unkind of your par to keep this poor boy half-starved in that orfis.”

“He did not, Mary. I’m sure papa would not do such a thing.”

“And that’s why you go without half your dinner, and then take and put it in Antony’s desk.”

“Mary!”

“Ah, you may Mary as long as you like, but I’ve seen you do it.”

“Hush! pray don’t, Mary; he’ll hear you.”

“Not he, my dear. Poor boy! he’s dropped off asleep, and the best thing too. You’re asleep, aren’t you?”

I tried to answer “No,” but the faint deathly feeling came over me again as strongly as ever, and all seemed dark and silent once more.

It was getting dark when I awoke; for, from fainting, I must have lapsed into a heavy sleep, the result of exhaustion and the shock. My head ached, and I was very stiff and in great pain as I tried to raise myself from the pillow which propped me up in the great Windsor chair. Mary was seated opposite to me, crooning some ditty in a low voice as she sat sewing, the needle clicking against her thimble as she thrust it through the work.

The fire was burning brightly, the tea-things on the table, the pot on the hob, and some buttered toast upon the fender.

As I was gazing at her, and noticing the play of the flames over her red and rugged countenance, she suddenly raised her eyes, gazed full at me, and the harsh repulsive look passed away as she showed a set of white teeth in a pleasant smile, and rose and came to me, bending down and laying her hand upon my burning forehead.

“You won’t want no doctor,” she said; and to my utter astonishment she bent lower, kissed me, and then softly patted my cheek. “Poor boy,” she said, “it was a shame!”

I gazed up piteously and wildly, I believe, in her face, for it was so strange. She had always been so rough and harsh towards me, and her frequent donations of bread and butter seemed to have been given to me more out of spite to her employers than out of kindness to me; but now it was plain enough that under her rugged crust she possessed a true woman’s nature, and the ill-treatment I had received had completely made her my friend.

“I’ve been waiting all this time for you to wake and have tea,” she said, placing the pot and the toast on the table. “Now then, see if you can’t sit up and have some.”

“I couldn’t drink any, thank you,” I said faintly.

“Such stuff and nonsense! It’s quite fresh, and I’ve put in some extra as Miss Hetty give me. Come now, sit up and try, there’s a dear.”

I tried to sit up, but the pain was so great that I sank back, having hard work not to cry out; and seeing this, with a tenderness for which I should not have given her credit, she gently raised me and backed the pillows up, so as to support me; and then, finding that this was not sufficient, she ran out of the kitchen, to return in a few minutes, doubling up what I knew was her best shawl, which she now formed into a cushion.

“There, now we shall do,” she said cheerily; and, pouring out a cup of tea, she tasted and added milk till it was to her liking, and then held it to my lips.

It was like nectar, and I gave her a grateful look for that which seemed to impart new life to my bruised body.

“Now, you’ve got to eat some toast,” she said, and I stared at her in wonder, for it seemed to be a new Mary upon whom I gazed.

“I couldn’t eat a bit,” I said helplessly.

“But you must,” she said imperatively. “Now look here, you have had hardly anything since breakfast, and if you don’t eat, you can’t get well.”

I took the toast she held to me, and managed to eat it. That done, I had another cup of tea, and the sickly faint feeling I had had every time I moved seemed less overpowering; and at last I lay back there, listening helplessly to Mary as she chatted to me and washed up the tea-things.

“Don’t you trouble about them; they won’t come in my kitchen. He’s ill in bed, or pretending to be, and the doctor says he ain’t to move for a week. I hope he mayn’t for a month—a brute! I never see such a cowardly trick. I wish my William had him. He’s going to have the law of Mr Wooster, so Mr Emmett the constable told me; and him and the doctor’ll make out a nice case between ’em, I know. Pah! I hate lawyers and doctors. So you make yourself comfortable. I’ll be your doctor, and if they ain’t pretty civil to me, I’ll be your lawyer, too, and go to the madgistrits, see if I don’t. If I was you I wouldn’t stay with ’em a minnit after I got well. I shan’t; I’m sick of ’em.”

“I wish I could go, Mary,” I said, “but I don’t want to go now you’ve been so kind.”

“Kind! Stuff! It’s only my way. There ain’t a better-tempered girl nowheres than I am; only when you come to live in a house where the master’s a snarling, biting, growling hound, and the missus is a fault-finding, scolding, murmuring himidge, it’s enough to put out a hartchangel. But I say, if I was you, and could write such a lovely hand, I should send and tell my father and mother. Oh, I am sorry, dear—I forgot about your poor father and mother. But I would write and tell somebody.”

Mary’s allusion to my lovely handwriting was consequent upon my having copied a letter for her to one Mr William Revitts, who was a policeman in London. She had asked me to copy it for her, and direct it “proper,” because her hands were so dirty when she wrote that she was afraid he might not be able to read it. All the same, Mary’s hands seemed to have been perfectly clean, though the probabilities were that the said Mr William Revitts, “mi one dere willim,” would certainly not have been able to read the letter. In fact, I broke down over the very beginning by mistaking “one” for the number, and had to be corrected, Mary having meant to say own.

Her allusion to my parents touched a tender chord, and my face worked as I recalled the happy times gone by. “I have nobody to write to,” I said at last—“only my uncle.”

“Then I’d write and tell him, that I would.”

“I am not quite sure where he lives,” I said. “I never saw him till—till he came to the funeral.”

“But haven’t you got nobody belonging to you—no friends at all?”

“I think not,” I said helplessly. “No one who would help me.”

“Well, you are a one,” said Mary, pausing in the act of wiping out the tea-tray after half filling it and pouring the dirty water off at one corner. “Why, I’ve got no end o’ people belonging to me; and if that brute upstairs—as I wish he may ache bad for a week!—was to raise his hand against me, my William would be down and serve him worse than Mr Wooster did, I can tell him—a wretch!”

“Is that Mr William Revitts,” I asked, “the policeman?”

“Yes; but he wouldn’t come down here as a policeman, but as a gentleman, and he’d soon teach Mr Blakeford what he ought to—Yes! What is it?”

This was in answer to a shrill call for Mary in Mrs Blakeford’s voice, and that lady came in immediately after, to Mary’s great disgust.

“You must get hot water ready directly, Mary,” she began in an ill-used way. “I’m sure I don’t know what I shall do. He’s very bad indeed.”

“Oh, there’s lots of hot water,” said Mary shortly. “Biler’s full, and kettle’s full, and I’ll put on the great black saucepan and light the copper if you like.”

As she spoke Mary seized the big poker, and began stoking and hammering away at the fire in a most vicious manner, as if determined to vent her spleen upon Mr Blakeford’s coals.

“Your poor master’s dreadfully bad,” said Mrs Blakeford again, and she kept on looking at me in a way that seemed quite to indicate that I alone was to blame.

“Oh, yes, mum, I dessay he is, and so’s other people too, and wuss. I dessay he’ll get better again if he don’t die.”

Mrs Blakeford stared at Mary in a half-terrified way, and backed to the door.

“You ring the bell when you want it, and I’ll bring you a can of water upstairs,” continued Mary ungraciously.

“And couldn’t you help me a little in attending upon your master, Mary?”

“No, I couldn’t, mum,” she said shortly, “for I’m the worst nuss as ever was; and besides, I’ve got my kitchen work to do; and if you wants a nuss, there’s Mrs Jumfreys over the way would be glad to come, I dessay, only I ain’t going to have her here in my kitchen.”

Mrs Blakeford hastily backed out of the kitchen and retreated upstairs, while Mary’s rough mask dropped off as soon as she had gone.

“I wasn’t going to tell her as I nussed an invalid lady two years ’fore I came here,” she said, smiling. “Besides, I didn’t want to have nothing to do with him, for fear I should be tempted to give him his lotion ’stead of his physic, he aggravates me so. Lotions is pison, you know—outward happlication only.”

That night I had a bed made up down in the kitchen, and passed a weary, feverish time; but towards morning a pleasant feeling of drowsiness came over me. I fell asleep to dream that I was at home once more, and all was bright and sunshiny as I sat half asleep in the summer-house, when my mother came and laid her hand upon my forehead, and I opened my eyes to find it was Mary, ready to ask me whether I was better; and though the sweet, bright dream had gone, there was something very tender in the eyes that looked in mine.

Chapter Seven.

Dreams of the Great Magnet.

I was very stiff and sore, and there was a peculiar giddiness ready to assail me as soon as I moved, so Mary, in her double capacity of doctor and nurse, decided that I was not to attempt to walk about that day.

The consequence was that she made no scruple about dragging a little couch out of the parlour into the kitchen, and after I was dressed, making me lie down near the fire.

“If they don’t like it about the sofy, they must do the other thing,” she said, laughing. “I say, do you know what time it is?”

“No,” I replied.

“Half-past ten, and I’ve been waiting breakfast till you woke. You have had a sleep. I wouldn’t wake you, for I thought it would do you good.”

“I am better, a great deal,” I said.

“Yes; so you are. He ain’t, or pretends he ain’t. Miss Hetty’s been catching it.”

“Has she?”

“Yes; for wanting to know about you. Missus told her you were a wicked young wretch, and had half killed your master, and she was never to mention your name again.”

I was decidedly better, and in the course of the afternoon I got up and found that the various objects had ceased to waltz around. I made my way up to my bedroom, and for the first time had a look at myself in the glass, where I found that a sore feeling upon my face was caused by a couple of black marks which crossed each other at a sharp angle, and that high up above my temple, and just where the hair would cover it, there was a patch of black court-plaister, which was placed across and across in strips to cover a long and painful cut.

The days glided by; the weals on my face changed colour and began to fade, while the cut on my head grew less painful. I was thrown a good deal with Mary, for no work had been set me in the office, and Mr Blakeford kept his bed, being regularly attended by the doctor.

I found—Mary being my informant—that there was to be quite a serious case made of it, and Mrs Blakeford had told her that I was to be an important witness to the assault.

A fortnight had passed; and as I sat alone day after day in the office thinking of a plan that had suggested itself to my mind, but fearing to put it into execution, I had two visitors who completely altered my career in life.

The first came one morning as I was writing a letter to my uncle—a letter destined never to reach him—in the shape of the big farmer, Mr Wooster, who rapped sharply at the office door, and gazed sternly at me as I opened it and stood in the little passage.

“Where’s Blakeford?” he said sharply.

“Ill in bed, sir,” I said.

“It’s a lie, you young rascal,” he cried, catching me by the collar. “Here, how old are you?”

“Thirteen, sir.”

“And you can tell lies like that, eh? and without blushing?”

“It is not a lie, sir,” I said stoutly. “Mr Blakeford hasn’t been down since—since—”

“I thrashed him, eh?” he said, laughing. “It was a good thrashing too, eh, youngster? But, hallo! what’s the matter with your head?”

“A cut, sir.”

“What! Did you tumble down?”

“No, sir. It was done the day you—you beat Mr Blakeford.”

“How?”

I was silent.

“He—he didn’t dare to do it, did he?”

I was still silent.

“Look here, youngster, tell me the truth and I’ll give you a shilling.”

“I never told a lie yet, sir,” I said stoutly, “and I don’t want your shilling.”

He looked at me intently for a few moments, and then held out his hand. “Shake hands,” he said.

I placed mine in his, and he squeezed it so that he hurt me, but I did not flinch.

“I believe you, my lad. You don’t look like a lying sort, and I wish you were out of this. Now, tell me, did he make that cut on your head?” I nodded. “What with?”

“That ruler.”

“Humph! And what for?”

“Because I let you in on that day.”

“Hang him!” he cried, striding up and down the office, for he had walked straight in, “he’s a bigger scoundrel than I thought him. Now, look here, my man, there’s going to be an action, or a trial, or something, against me, and you’ll be the principal witness. Now, what are you going to do?”

“Going to do, sir?”

“Yes,” he said impatiently; “you’ll have to appear before the magistrates, and you’ll be asked all about my thrashing your master. What are you going to say?”

“I shall tell them the truth, sir.”

“No, you won’t, my boy. You’ll say what Mr Blakeford tells you to say.”

“I shall tell the truth, sir,” I said stoutly.

“Look here, my lad, if you tell the truth, that’s all I want; if you don’t, you’ll ruin me.”

“I’m sure I shall tell the truth, sir,” I said, colouring up and speaking earnestly.

“You’ll tell the magistrates, then, that I snatched up the poker and beat Mr Blakeford with that, eh?”

“No, sir, it was your walking-stick.”

“Was it anything like that?” he said, holding out the one he carried.

“Yes, sir, just like it. Here are the pieces, sir,” I said; and I took them out of my desk, where I had placed them.

“You’re a brave boy,” he cried, rubbing his hands; “so they are. Now look here, my boy: Mr Blakeford says I assaulted him with the poker. Just you button those pieces of stick up in your socket—no, give them to me; I’ll take them. Now; when the day comes, and I ask you to tell the truth about it, you speak out honestly, or, better still, go and hide yourself and never come near the court at all. There’s half-a-crown for you. What, you won’t take it! Well, just as you like. Good-bye!”

He shook hands with me again, and nodding in a friendly way, left the office.

He had not been, gone more than an hour when there was another knock at the door, and on opening it, I admitted Mr Rowle, who smiled at me as he took off his hat and smoothed his thin streaky hair across his bald head.

“Well, young un,” he said, “why, you’re growing quite a man. But what’s the matter with your forehead?”

I told him, and he gave a low, long whistle.

“I say, young un,” he said, “I dare say it ain’t no business of mine, but if I was you, I should look after another place. Perhaps, though, he wouldn’t let you go.”

“Mr Blakeford often says, Mr Rowle, that he wishes I was out of his sight.”

“Gammon!” said my visitor; “don’t you believe him. You do as you like; but if I was a boy like you, I wouldn’t stay here.”

I looked up at him guiltily, and he stared hard at me, as if reading my thoughts.

“Why, what’s wrong?” he said; “you look as red as a turkey cock!”

“Please, Mr Rowle—but you won’t tell Mr Blakeford?”

“Tell Mr Blakeford? Not I.”

“I mean to go up to London, and try and find my uncle.”

“Try and find him? What, don’t you know where he lives?”

“No, sir.”

“Humph! London’s a big place, you know.”

“Yes, sir, but I dare say I could find him.”

“What is he—a gentleman?”

“Yes, sir, I think so.”

“So don’t I, my boy, or he’d never have left you in charge of old Pouncewax. But lookye here now; out with it! What do you mean to do—give notice to leave, or are you going to cut?”

“Cut what, sir?”

“Cut what! Why, cut away—run up to London.”

I hesitated for a few moments and hung my head; then, looking up in my old friend’s face, as he thrust his hand into his cuff—and I expected to see him draw his pipe—I felt that I had nothing to fear from him, and I spoke out.

“Please, Mr Rowle, I’m so unhappy here, that I was going to run away.”

He caught me by the collar so sharply that I thought he was going to punish me; but it was only touring down his other hand with a sharp clap upon my shoulder.

“I’m glad of it, young un. Run away, then, before he crushes all the hope and spirit out of you.”

“Then you don’t think it would be very wrong, sir?”

“I think it would be very right, young un; and I hope if you find your uncle, he won’t send you back. If he wants to, don’t come: but run away again. Look here; you’ll want a friend in London. Go and see my brother.”

“Your brother, sir?”

“Yes, my brother Jabez. You’ll know him as soon as you see him; he’s just like me. How old do you think I am?”

“I should think you’re fifty, sir.”

“Fifty-eight, young un; and so’s Jabez. There, you go and put his name and address down. Fifty-eight he is, and I’m fifty-eight, so there’s a pair of us. Now, then, write away: Mr Jabez Rowle, Ruddle and Lister.”

“Mr Jabez Rowle,” I said, writing it carefully down, “Good. Now Ruddle and Lister.”

“Ruddle and Lister.”

“Commercial printers.”

“Com-mer-cial prin-ters.”

“Short Street, Fetter Lane.”

“Fetter Lane.”

“And now let’s look.” I handed him the scrap of paper.

“Why, it’s lovely. Copper-plate’s nothing to it, young un. There, you go up and see him, and tell him you’ve come up to London to make your fortune, and he’ll help you, I went up to London to make mine, young un.”

“And did you make it, sir?” I said eagerly. He looked down at his shabby clothes, smoothed his hair, and then, with a curious smile upon his face—

“No, young un, I didn’t make it. I made something else instead.”

“Did you, sir?”

“Yes, young un—a mess of it. Look here, I might have got on, but I learned to drink like a fish. Don’t you. Mind this: drink means going downwards into the mud; leaving it alone means climbing up to the top of the tree. Bless your young heart, whatever you do, don’t drink.”

“No, sir,” I said, “I will not;” but I did not appreciate his advice.

“There, you stick to that paper. And now, how much money have you got?”

“Money, sir?”

“Yes, money. London’s a hundred miles away, and you can’t walk.”

“I think I could, sir.”

“Well, try it; and ride when you’re tired. How much have you got?”

I took out my little blue silk purse, and counted in sixpences half-a-crown.

He looked at me for some few moments, and then stood thinking, as if trying to make up his mind about something.

“I’ll do it,” he muttered. “Look here, young un, you and I are old friends, ain’t we?”

“Oh, yes!” I said eagerly.

“Then I will do it,” he said, and untying his neckerchief, he, to my great surprise, began to unroll it, to show me the two ends that were hidden in the folds. “For a rainy day,” he said, “and this is a rainy day for you. Look here, young un; this is my purse. Here’s two half-sovs tied up in these two corners—that’s one for you, and one for me.”

“Oh, no, sir,” I said, “I’d rather not take it!” and I shrank away, for he seemed so poor and shabby, that the idea troubled me.

“I don’t care whether you’d rather or not,” he said, untying one corner with his teeth. “You take it, and some day when you’ve made your fortune, you give it me back—if so be as you find I haven’t succeeded to my estate.”

“Do you expect to come in for an estate some day, sir?” I said eagerly.

“Bless your young innocence, yes. A piece of old mother earth, my boy, six foot long, and two foot wide. Just enough to bury me in.”

I understood him now, and a pang shot through me at the idea of another one who had been kind to me dying. He saw my look and nodded sadly.

“Yes, my lad, perhaps I shall be dead and gone long before then.”

“Oh, sir, don’t; it’s so dreadful!” I said.

“No, no, my boy,” he said quietly; and he patted my shoulder, as he pressed the half-sovereign into my hand. “Not so dreadful as you think. It sounds very awful to you youngsters, with the world before you, and all hope and brightness; but some day, please God you live long enough, you’ll begin to grow very tired, and then it will seem to you more like going to take a long rest. But there, there, we won’t talk like that. Here, give me that money back?”

I handed it to him, thinking that he had repented of what he had done, and he hastily rolled the other half-sovereign up, and re-tied his handkerchief.

“Here,” he said, “stop a minute, and don’t shut the door. I shall soon be back.”

He hurried out, and in five minutes was back again to gaze at me smiling.

“Stop a moment,” he said, “I must get sixpence out of another pocket. I had to buy an ounce o’ ’bacco so as to get change. Now, here you are—hold out your hand.”

I held it out unwillingly, and he counted eight shillings and four sixpences into it.

“That’s ten,” he said; “it’s better for you so. Now you put some in one pocket and some in another, and tie some up just the same as I have, and put a couple of shillings anywhere else you can; and mind and never show your money, and never tell anybody how much you’ve got. And mind this, too, when anybody asks you to give him something to drink, take him to the pump. That’s all. Stop. Don’t lose that address. Gov’nor’s not down, I s’pose?”

“No, sir,” I said.

“All right then, I shan’t stay. Good-bye, young un. When are you going?”

“I’m not quite sure yet, sir.”

“No? Well, perhaps I shan’t see you again. Jabez Rowle, mind you. Tell him all about yourself, mind, and—good-bye.”

He trotted off, but came back directly, holding out his hand.

“God bless you, young un,” he said huskily. “Good-bye.”

Before I could speak again, the door closed sharply, and I was alone.

Chapter Eight.

I Take a Bold Step.

My head was in a whirl as soon as Mr Rowle had gone, and I sat at my desk thinking over my project, for I had felt for days past that I could not stay where I was—that I would sooner die; and night after night I had lain awake thinking of the, to me, terrible step I proposed to take. My life at Mr Blakeford’s had been such a scene of misery and torture, that I should have gone long enough before, had I dared. Now that I had grown older, and a little more confident, I had gradually nurtured the idea as my only hope, and the events of the past weeks had pretty well ripened my scheme.

As I sat there, I laid my arms on the big desk, and my head down upon them, trembling at my daring, as the idea took a far more positive shape than ever; and now a feeling of reluctance to leave had come upon me. Mary had been so kind; and then there was little Hetty, who had silently shown me so many tokens of her girlish goodwill.

I felt as I sat there, with the money and address in my pocket, that I must go now; and to act as a spur to my intentions, the words of Mr Wooster came trooping across my memory.

Would Mr Blakeford want me to go to the magistrates and say what was not true?

In imagination, I saw his threatening dark face before me, and his thin lips just parting to display his white teeth in that doglike smile of his, and I shuddered, as I felt how I feared him. It would be horrible to be threatened till I promised to say what he wished, and to lie to the magistrates with Mr Wooster’s threatening face watching me the while.

But he would not ask me to tell a lie, I thought, and I could not run away. Mary would never forgive me, and Hetty would think that I really did cause her father to be so beaten. No: I felt I could not go, and that somehow I must get away from the house, go straight to Mr Rowle’s lodgings, and give him back the money, which I had received upon such a false pretence.

It was all over. I felt the idea of freeing myself from my wretched slavery was one that could never be carried out, and I must wait patiently and bear my miserable lot.

Crack!

I leaped up as if I had been shot, to see Mr Blakeford, in dressing-gown and slippers, his hair cut short, and looking very pale, standing in the office, the ruler in his hand, with which he had just struck the table and made me start.

“Asleep?” he said sharply.

“No, sir,” I said, trembling as I looked at him over the partition. “No, sir, I was not asleep.”

“It’s a lie, sir, you were asleep. Come here.”

I descended from the stool, and opening the partition door, went slowly into his part of the office, and stood by the table, his dark eyes seeming to pierce me through and through.

“Been worked so hard since I was ill, eh?” he said sneeringly.

“No, sir, I—”

“Hold your tongue. What’s the matter with your head?”

“My head, sir?” I stammered.

“Yes, that half-healed cut. Oh, I remember, you fell down didn’t you?”

“Fell down, sir! No, I—”

“You fell down—pitched down—I remember, while climbing.”

“No, sir, I—”

“Look here, you dog,” he hissed between his teeth; “you fell down, do you hear? and cut your head when climbing. Do you understand?”

“No, sir, I—”

“Once more, Antony Grace, listen to me. If anyone asks you how you came by that cut, mind—you fell down when climbing—you fell down when climbing. If you forget that—”

He did not finish, but seemed to hold me with his eye as he played with the ruler and made it go up and down.

“Look here, my boy, you are my clerk, and you are to do exactly as I tell you. Now, listen to me. The day after to-morrow there is to be a case of assault brought before the magistrates, and you will be sworn as a witness. You let Mr Wooster in—curse him!—and you saw him come up to my table where I was sitting, and make a demand for money.”

“Please, sir, I did not hear him ask for money.”

“You did, sir,” he thundered; “and you saw him strike me with his stick.”

“Yes, sir, I saw him strike you,” I cried hastily. “Oh, you did see that, did you?” he said in sneering tones.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you see the stick break?”

“Yes, sir,” I said eagerly.

“Oh, come; I’m glad you can remember that. Then he caught up the poker and beat me with it heavily across the body, till the poker was bent right round; and at last, when I was quite stunned and senseless, and with the blood streaming from my lips, he left me half dead and went away.”

There was a pause here, during which I could not take my eyes from his. “You saw all that, didn’t you?”

“No, sir,” I said, “he did not take the poker.”

“What?”

“He did not take the poker, sir.”

“Oh! and he did not beat me with it till it was bent?”

“No, sir.”

“Go and fetch that poker,” he said quietly; and I went trembling, and picked it up, to find it quite bent. “There, you see?” he said.

“Yes, sir, it is bent.”

“Of course it is, Antony. You don’t remember that he struck me with it, eh?”

“No, sir,” I said, trembling.

“Ah, I shall have to refresh your memory, my boy. You remember, of course, about the blood?”

“No, sir.”

“What’s that on the floor?”

I looked down at the place to which he pointed with the bent poker, and there were some dark stains where I had fallen. Then, raising my eyes to his again, I looked at him imploringly.

“I shall soon refresh your memory, Antony,” he said, laughing silently, and looking at me so that I shivered again. “You will find, on sitting down and thinking a little, that you recollect perfectly well how Mr Wooster beat me cruelly with the poker, till it was bent like this, and left me bleeding terribly on the office floor. There, hold your tongue. You’ll recollect it all. Sit down and try and remember it, there’s a good boy. I’m better now, but I can’t talk much. Let me see, Antony, what time do you go to bed?”

“Nine o’clock, sir,” I faltered.

“Exactly. Well, don’t go to sleep, my boy. I’ll come up to you after you are in bed, and see if you remember it any better. Go back to your desk.”

I crept back, watching him the while, as he stood balancing the poker in his hand, and smiling at me in a way that made my blood turn cold. Then, throwing the poker back with a crash into the grate, he went out as silently as he had come, and I sat there thinking for quite two hours.

At the end of that time, I took a sheet of paper, and wrote upon it as well as my wet trembling hands would let me—

“My dear Mary,—

“Please don’t think me a very ungrateful boy, but I cannot, and I dare not, stay here any longer. When you read this I shall be gone, never to come back any more. Please tell Miss Hetty I shall never forget her kindness, and I shall never forget yours.

“I remain, your affectionate friend,—

“Antony Grace.

“P.S.—Some day, perhaps, we shall meet somewhere. I am very unhappy, and I cannot write any more. Mr Blakeford frightens me.”

This letter I doubled and sealed up in the old fashion, and kept in my pocket, meaning to post it, and at last, when I went into the kitchen to tea, I was half afraid to meet Mary. She noticed my pale face, and I told her the truth, that I had a bad headache, making it an excuse for going up to bed at eight o’clock, feeling as if the greatest event in my life were about to take place, and shaking like a leaf.

I felt that I had an hour to spare, and spent part of the time in making a bundle of my best clothes and linen. I tied up in a handkerchief, too, some thick slices of bread and butter, and some bread and meat that I had found that afternoon in my desk. Then, as the night grew darker, I sat thinking and asking myself, after placing my bundles ready, whether I should go at once, or wait till I heard Mr Blakeford coming.

I had just decided to go at once, feeling that I dare not face Mr Blakeford again, when I heard his voice downstairs, and started up, trembling in every limb.

“Where’s that boy?”

“Gone to bed,” said Mary surlily. Then I heard a door shut directly after, and breathed more freely. I felt that I must go at once, and stood in the middle of the room, shivering with nervous excitement, as I thought of the madness of the step I was about to undertake.

A dozen times over I felt that I dare not go, till the recollection of Mr Blakeford’s dark threatening face and sneering smile gave me strength, and made me call up the picture of myself before the magistrates telling all I knew about the assault, of course not saying anything about the poker, or my employer’s injuries; and then I began to think about meeting him afterwards.

“He’ll half kill me,” I thought; and stopping at this, I nerved myself for what I had to do, and putting on my cap, went to the door and listened.

I had spent so much time in indecision that the church clock was striking ten, and I started as I thought of Mr Blakeford being already upon the stairs.

From where I stood I could have seen the light shining out of the kitchen where Mary sat at work; but it was not there, and I knew that she must have gone up to bed.

It now flashed upon me that this was why Mr Blakeford had been waiting—he did not want Mary to interfere; and a cold chill came over me as I felt that he meant to beat me till I consented to say what he wished.

There was no time to lose, so, darting back, I caught up my two bundles, crept to the door, descended the stairs on tiptoe, and felt my heart beat violently at every creak the woodwork of the wretched steps gave.

Twice over a noise in the house made me turn to run back, but as there was silence once more, I crept down, and at last reached the mat in front of the office door.

At the end of the passage was the parlour, where I knew Mr Blakeford would be sitting, and as I looked towards it in the darkness, I could see a faint glimmer of light beneath the door, and then heard Mr Blakeford cough slightly and move his chair.

Turning hastily, I felt for the handle of the office door, which was half glass, with a black muslin blind over it, and moving the handle, I found the door locked. The key was in, though, and turning it, there was a sharp crack as the bolt shot back, and then as I unclosed this door, I heard that of the parlour open, and a light shone down the passage.

“He’s coming?” I said in despair; and for a moment, my heart failed me, so great an influence over me had this man obtained, and I stood as if nailed to the floor. The next moment, though, with my heart beating so painfully that it was as if I was being suffocated, I glided into the office and closed the door, holding it shut, without daring to let the handle turn and the catch slip back.

If he came into the office, I was lost, and in imagination, I saw myself with my cap on, and my bundles under my arm, standing trembling and detected before him. Trembling, indeed, as the light came nearer, and I saw him dimly through the black blind approaching the office door.

He was coming into the office, and all was over! Closer, closer he came, till he was opposite the door, when he stopped short, as if listening.

His face was not a yard from mine, and as I gazed at him through the blind, with starting eyes, seeing his evil-looking countenance lit up by the chamber candlestick he carried, and the grim smile upon his lips, I felt that he must hear me breathe.

I was paralysed, for it seemed to me that his eyes were gazing straight into mine—fascinating me as it were, where I stood.

He was only listening, though, and instead of coming straight into the office, he turned off sharp to the left, and began to ascend the stairs leading to my bedroom.

There was not a moment to lose, but I was as if in a nightmare, and could not stir, till, wrenching myself away, I darted across the office to the outer door, slipped the bolts, and turned the key with frantic haste, just as his steps sounded overhead, and I heard him calling me by name.

The door stuck, and I could not get it open, and all the time I could hear him coming. He ran across the room, every footstep seeming to come down upon my head like lead. He was descending the stairs, and still that door stuck fast at the top.

In a despairing moment, I looked behind me to see the light shining in at the glass door as he descended, and then my hand glided to the top of the door, and I found that I had not quite shot back the bolt.

The next moment it was free, the door open, and I was through; but, feeling that he would catch me in the yard, I tore out the key, thrust it into the hole with trembling fingers, and as he dashed open the inner door I closed the one where I stood, and locked it from the outside.

I had somehow held on to my bundles, and was about to run across the yard to the pump in the corner, place one foot upon the spout, and by this means reach the top of the wall, when I stopped, paralysed once more by the fierce barking of the dog.

To my horror I found that he was loose, for his hoarse growling came from quite another part of the yard to that where his kennel was fixed; and I stood outside the door, between two enemies, as a faint streak of light shot out through the keyhole, playing strangely upon the bright handle of the key.—“Are you there, Antony? Come back this moment, sir. Unlock this door.”

I did not answer, but stood fast, as the handle was tried and shaken again and again.

“You scoundrel! come back, or it will be worse for you. Leo, Leo, Leo!”

The dog answered the indistinctly heard voice with a sharp burst of barking; and as the sound came nearer, I seemed to see the animal’s heavy bull-head, and his sharp teeth about to be fixed in my throat.

The perspiration dripped from me, and in my horror I heard Mr Blakeford exclaim—

“You are there, you scoundrel, I know. I heard you lock the door. Come in directly, or I’ll half kill you.”

My hoarse breathing was the only sound I heard. Then, directly after, there were hasty steps crossing the office, and I knew he had gone round to reach the front.

There was not a moment to lose, and I was about to risk the dog’s attack, sooner than face Mr Blakeford, when a thought struck me.

I had the little bundle loosely tied up in a handkerchief, and in it the bread and meat.

This might quiet the dog; and with a courage I did not know I possessed, I hastily tore it open, and taking a couple of steps into the yard, called out, in a loud quick voice, “Here, Leo, Leo!” throwing the bread and meat towards where I believed the dog to be.

There was a rush, a snarling whine, and the dog was close to me for the moment. The next, as I heard him in the darkness seize the meat, I was across the yard, with one foot on the pump, and as I raised myself the front door was flung open, and I heard Mr Blakeford rush out.

Chapter Nine.

On the Road to London.

As Mr Blakeford ran down to the garden gate, I reached the top of the wall, from whence I should have dropped down, but that he was already outside, and would, I felt sure, have heard me. If I had then run away, it seemed to me that it would be the easiest of tasks for him to pursue me, and hunt me down.

If I stayed where I was, I felt that he would see me against the sky, and I knew he would pass close by me directly to reach the yard doors, when, half in despair, I threw myself flat down, and lay as close as I could, embracing the wall, and holding my bundle in my teeth.

I heard him pass beneath the wall directly, and enter the yard by the gate, which he closed after him, before running up to the office door and unlocking it, allowing a stream of light to issue forth just across where the dog was peaceably eating my provender.

“Curse him, he has gone!” I heard Mr Blakeford mutter, and my blood ran cold, as he made a hasty tour of the place. “I’ll have him back if it costs me five hundred pounds,” he snarled. “Antony, Antony! Come here, my boy, and I’ll forgive you.”

He stopped, listening, but of course I did not move; and then, in an access of rage, he turned upon the dog.

“You beast, what are you eating there?” he roared. “Why didn’t you seize him? Take that!”

There was a dull thud as of a heavy kick, a yelp, a whine, a snarl, and then a dull worrying noise, as if the dog had flown at his master, who uttered a loud cry of pain, followed by one for help; but I waited to hear no more, for, trembling in every limb, I had grasped my bundle and dropped from the wall, when with the noise growing faint behind me I ran with all my might in the direction of the London Road.

Hearing steps, though, coming towards me directly after, I stopped short, and ran into a garden, cowering down amongst the shrubs, for I felt certain that whoever it was in front would be in Mr Blakeford’s pay, and I waited some time after he had passed before continuing my flight.

I ran on that night till there was a hot feeling of blood in my throat, and then I staggered up to, and leaned panting upon, a hedge by the roadside, listening for the sounds of pursuit. A dog barking in the distance sounded to me like Leo, and I felt sure that Mr Blakeford was in hot chase; then I stumbled slowly on, but not for any great distance, my pace soon degenerating into a walk, till I regained my breath, when I ran on again for a time, but at a steady trot now, for I had not since heard the barking of the dog. Still I did not feel safe, knowing that at any moment Mr Blakeford might overtake me in his pony-chaise, when, unless I could escape by running off across country, I should be ignominiously dragged back.

At last, after several attempts to keep up my running, I was compelled to be content with a steady fast walk, and thus I trudged on hour after hour, till Rowford town, where I had spent so many wretched hours, was a long way behind.

I had passed through two villages, but so far I had not met another soul since leaving Rowford, nor heard the sound of wheels.

It was a very solitary road, leading through a pretty woodland tract of the country, and often, as I toiled on, I came to dark overshadowed parts, passing through woods, and I paused, not caring to go on. But there was a real tangible danger in the rear which drove me onwards, and, daring the imaginary dangers, I pushed on with beating heart, thinking of robbers, poachers, and highway men, as I tried to rejoice that there were no dangerous wild beasts in England.

At last, I could go no farther, but sank down perfectly exhausted upon a heap of stones that had been placed there for mending the road; and, in spite of my fears of pursuit, nature would have her way, and I fell fast asleep.

The sun was shining full upon me when I awoke, stiff and sore, wondering for a moment where I was; and when at last I recalled all the past, I sprang up in dread, and started off at once, feeling that I had been slothfully wasting my opportunity, and that now I might at any moment be overtaken.

As I hurried on, I looked down at my feet, to find that my boots and trousers were thickly covered with dust; but there was no one to see me, and I kept on, awaking fully to the fact that I was faint and hungry.

These sensations reminded me of the contents of the little handkerchief, and I wistfully thought of the bread and butter that I might have saved.

Then I stopped short, for the recollection of one bundle reminded me of the other, and it was gone. Where was it? I had it when I sank down upon that stone-heap, and I must have come away and left it behind.

In my faint, hungry state, this discovery was terribly depressing, for the bundle contained my good suit of mourning, besides my linen and a few trifles, my only valuables in this world.

“I must have them back,” I thought; and I started off to retrace my steps at a run, knowing that I had come at least a couple of miles.

It was dreadfully disheartening, but I persevered, gazing straight before me, lest I should run into danger.

It seemed as if that stone-heap would never come into sight, but at last I saw it lying grey in the distant sunshine, and forgetting my hunger, I ran on till I reached the spot, and began to look round.

I had expected to see the bundle lying beside the stone-heap, as soon as I came in sight, but there were no traces of it; and though I searched round, and in the long grass at the side, there was no bundle.

Yes; I was certain that I had it when I sank down, and therefore somebody must have taken it while I slept, for no one had passed me on the road.

I could have sat down and cried with vexation, but I had pretty well outgrown that weakness; and after a final glance round I was about to go on again, when something a hundred yards nearer the town took my attention, and, running up to it, I saw a pair of worn-out boots lying on the grass by the roadside.

They seemed to be nothing to me, and, sick at heart, I turned back and continued my journey, longing now for the sight of some village, where I could buy a little milk and a few slices of bread.

The sun was growing hot, and licking up the dew beside the dusty road, but it was a glorious morning, and in spite of my loss there was a feeling of hopefulness in my heart at being free from the slavery I had endured at Mr Blakeford’s. I thought of it all, and wondered what Mary would say, what Hetty would think, and whether Mr Blakeford would try to fetch me back.

As I thought on, I recovered the ground I had lost, and reached a pretty part of the road, where it dipped down in a hollow as it passed through a wood. It was very delicious and shady, and the birds were singing as they used to sing from the woods around my old home; and so sweet and full of pleasant memories were these sounds, that for the moment I forgot my hunger, and stood by a gate leading into the woods and listened.

My reverie was broken by the sound of wheels coming up behind me, and taking alarm on the instant, I climbed over the gate and hid myself, crouching down amongst the thick bracken that showed its silvery green fronds around.

I made sure it was Mr Blakeford in pursuit, and, once secure of my hiding-place, I rose up gently, so that I could peer in between the trees and over the high bank to the sloping road, down which, just as I had pictured, the four-wheeled chaise was coming at a smart trot, with Mr Blakeford driving, and somebody beside him.

My first impulse was to turn round and dash wildly through the wood; but I partly restrained myself, partly felt too much in dread, and crouched there, watching through the bracken till, as the chaise came nearer, I saw that a common, dusty, tramp-looking boy was seated beside Mr Blakeford, and the next moment I saw that he had my bundle upon his knee.

For a moment I thought I might be deceived; but no, there was no doubt about it. There was my bundle, sure enough, and that boy must have taken it from me as I lay asleep, and then met and told Mr Blakeford where he had seen me.

I was pretty nearly right, but not quite, as it afterwards proved. But meanwhile the chaise had passed on, Mr Blakeford urging the pony to a pretty good speed, and gazing sharply to right and left as he went along.

I had hardly dared to breathe as he passed, but crouched lower and lower, fancying that a robin hopping about on the twigs near seemed ready to betray me: and not until the chaise had gone by some ten minutes or so did I dare to sit up and think about my future movements.

The recollection of the dusty, wretched look of the lad who held my bundle set me brushing my boots and trousers with some fronds of fern, and feeling then somewhat less disreputable-looking, I ventured at last to creep back into the road and look to right and left.

I was terribly undecided as to what I ought to do. Go back I would not, and to go forward seemed like rushing straight into danger. To right or left was nothing but tangled wood, wherein I should soon lose myself, and therefore nothing was left for me to do but go straight on, and this I did in fear and trembling, keeping a sharp look-out in front, and meaning to take to the woods and fields should Mr Blakeford’s chaise again appear in sight.

For quite an hour I journeyed on, and then the roofs of cottages and a church tower appeared, making me at one moment press eagerly forward, the next shrink back for fear Mr Blakeford should be there. But at last hunger prevailed, and making a bold rush, I walked right on, and seeing no sign of danger, I went into the village shop and bought a little loaf and some wonderfully strong-smelling cheese.

“Did you see a gentleman go by here in a chaise?” I ventured to say.

“What, with a boy in it?” said the woman who served me.

I nodded.

“Yes, he went by ever so long ago. You’ll have to look sharp if you want to catch them. The gentleman was asking after you.”

I felt that I turned pale and red by turns, as I walked out into the road, wondering what it would be best to do, when, to my great delight I saw that there was a side lane off to the left, just a little way through the village, and hurrying on, I found that it was quite a byway off the main road. Where it led to I did not know, only that there was a finger-post with the words “To Charlock Bridge” upon it, and turning down I walked quite a couple of miles before, completely worn out, I sat down beside a little brook that rippled across the clean-washed stones of the road, and made the most delicious meal I ever ate in my life.

Bread and cheese and spring water under the shade of a high hedge, in which a robin sat—it looked to me like the one I had seen in the wood—and darted down and picked up the crumbs I threw it from time to time. As my hunger began to be appeased, and I had thoroughly slaked my burning thirst, by using my closed hand for a scoop, I began to throw crumbs into the bubbling brook, to see them float down for some distance, and then be snapped up by the silvery little fishes with which the stream seemed to swarm. All the while, though, my head had been constantly turning from side to side, in search of danger, and at last just as I was about to continue my journey, hoping to gain the London Road once more, I saw the danger I sought, in the shape of the boy with my bundle running across the fields, as if he had come from the high road, and was trying to get into the lane below me to cut me off.

I looked sharply behind me, expecting to see the chaise of Mr Blakeford, but it was not in sight; so, stooping down, I waded quickly through the brook, kept under the shelter of the hedge, and ran on steadily, so as not to be out of breath.

The water filled my boots, but it only felt pleasantly cool, and, as I thought, made me better able to run, while, as I raised my head from time to time, I could catch sight of the boy with the bundle running hard across field after field, and losing so much time in getting through hedges or over gates that I felt that I should be past the spot where he would enter the lane before he could reach it.

To my surprise, though, I found that the lane curved sharply round to the right, giving him less distance to run, so that when I tried hard to get by him, having given up all idea of hiding, I found that he had jumped over into the lane before I came up. Then to my horror, as I turned a sharp corner, I came straight upon him, he being evidently quite as much surprised as I at the suddenness of our encounter—the winding of the lane and the height of the hedges having kept us out of sight the one of the other, until the very last moment, when we came face to face, both dusty, hot, weary, and excited as two lads could be, and for the moment neither of us moved.

I don’t know how it was that I did not try to run off by the fields in another direction, but it seems to me now that I was stirred by the same savage instincts as an ostrich, who, seeing any hunter riding as if to cut him off, immediately forgets that there is plenty of room behind, and gallops across his pursuer’s track, instead of right away.

As I ran panting up, the lad stopped short, and my eyes falling upon my bundle, a new set of thoughts came flashing across my mind, making me forget my pursuer in the high road.

As for the lad, he stood staring at me in a shifty way, and it soon became evident that he gave me as much credit for chasing him as I did him for chasing me.

He was the first to speak, and calling up the low cunning of his nature, he advanced a step or two, saying:

“I say, you’d better hook it; that, gent’s a-looking for you.”

“You give me my bundle,” I said, making a snatch at it, and getting hold with one hand, to which I soon joined the other.

“’Taint your bundle,” he said fiercely. “Let go, or I’ll soon let you know. Let go, will yer?”

He shook at it savagely, and dragged me here and there, for he was the bigger and stronger; but I held on with all my might. I was horribly frightened of him, for he was a coarse, ruffianly-looking fellow; but inside that bundle was my little all, and I determined not to give it up without a struggle.

“Here, you wait till I get my knife out,” he roared. “It’s my bundle, yer young thief!”

“It is not,” I panted: “you stole it from me while I lay asleep.”

“Yer lie! Take that!”

That was a heavy blow on my chin which cut my lip, and seemed to loosen my teeth, causing me intense pain; but though for a moment I staggered back, the blow had just the opposite effect to that intended by the boy. A few moments before, I was so horribly afraid of him, that I felt that I must give up; now the pain seemed to have driven all the fear out of me, for, springing at him with clenched fists, I struck out wildly, and with all my might; the bundle went down in the dust, and, after a minutes scuffle, and a shower of blows, there, to my intense astonishment, lay the boy too, grovelling and twisting about, rubbing his eyes with his fists, and howling dismally.

“You let me alone; I never did nothing to you,” he whined.

“You did; you stole my bundle,” I cried, in the heat of my triumph.

“No, I didn’t. I on’y picked it up. I didn’t know it was yourn.”

“You knew I was by it,” I said.

“Yes; but I thought perhaps it weren’t yourn,” he howled.

“Now look here,” I said, “you give me what you took out of it.”

“I didn’t take nothing out of it,” he whined. “I was only going to, when that gent came along on the shay, and asked me where you was.”

“You’ve got my best shoes on,” I said. “Take them off.”

He pulled them off, having half spoiled them by cutting the fronts, to let his feet go in.

“Where’s that gentleman now?” I said.

“I don’t know,” he whined. “He said if I didn’t show him where you was, he’d hand me over to the police; and I cut off across the fields, when we was walking the pony up a hill.”

“You’re a nice blackguard,” I said, cooling down fast now, as the fear of Mr Blakeford came back. I was wondering, too, how to get rid of my conquest, when, just as I stooped to pick up the shoes, he shrank away, uttering a cowardly howl, as if I had aimed a blow at him; and, starting up, he ran back along the lane shoeless, and seemed making for the high road.

“He’ll tell Mr Blakeford,” I thought; and catching up the bundle, I hurried on in the opposite direction, till, finding the brook again cross the road, I hastily stooped down and washed my bleeding knuckles, before starting off once more, getting rid of the marks of the struggle a fast as I could, and looking back from time to time, in momentary expectation of seeing Mr Blakeford’s head above the hedge.

Chapter Ten.

Along the Towing-Path.

I felt in better spirits now. My rest and breakfast, and my encounter with the boy, had given me more confidence in myself. Then, too, I had recovered my bundle, replacing in it my shoes, and, after carefully wrapping them up, the remains of my bread and cheese.

Hour after hour I walked on, always taking the turnings that led to the right, in the belief that sooner or later they would bring me to the London Road, which, however, they never did; and at last, in the afternoon, I sat down under a tree and made a second delicious meal.

I passed, during the rest of that day’s journey, through a couple more villages, at the latter of which I obtained a large mug of milk for a penny; and at last, footsore and worn out, I found myself at nightfall far away in a pleasant pastoral country, where haymaking seemed to be carried on a good deal, from the stacks I passed. There were hills behind me, and hills again straight before me, the part where I was being very level.

“What am I to do?” I asked myself, for I could go no farther, and a feeling of desolation began to make my heart sink. “I must sleep somewhere—but where?”

The answer came in the shape of a haystack, one side of which was being cut away, and soon after, I was seated on the sweet-scented, soft stuff, feasting away once more, to drop at last, almost unconsciously, into a sweet sleep, from which I started up to find it quite dark, and that I was growing cold.

There was plenty of loose straw close by, as if threshing had been going on, and taking my bundle for a pillow, and nestling beneath the straw which I drew over the hay, I was soon fast asleep once more, only to wake up rested and refreshed as the birds were singing cheerily upon another sunshiny morning.

My toilet consisted in getting rid of the bits of straw and hay, after which I started to walk on once more, following a winding lane, which brought me out at a wooden bridge, crossing a river, down by whose pebbly side I finished my toilet, and rose refreshed and decent-looking, for my bundle contained my brush and comb.

There was a little public-house on the other side of the stream, with cows in a field hard by, and directing my steps there, after stopping on the bridge for a few minutes to gaze at the fish glancing in the sunshine, I found I could buy some bread and milk, the privilege being given me of sitting down on a bench and watching the sparkling river as I made my breakfast.

With every mouthful came hope and confidence. I felt as if I really was free, and that all I now had to do was to trudge steadily on to London. How long it would take me I did not know—perhaps a month. But it did not matter; I could continue to be very sparing of my money, so as to make it last.

It was a red-armed, apple-faced woman who gave me the mug, and she stared at me curiously, frightening me so much, lest she should ask me questions, that I hastily finished my milk, and, picking up the bread, said “good-morning,” and walked along by the side of the river, there being here a towing-path, upon which I soon encountered a couple of horses, the foremost of which was ridden by a boy with a whip, while they dragged a long rope which kept plashing down into the river, and then, being drawn taut, showered down pearly drops of water, which seemed to be smoothed out by a long, low, narrow barge, painted yellow and red, at the end of which was a man smoking, with his eyes half shut, as he leaned upon the tiller gear.

They were going against the stream, and their progress was slow, as I sat down and watched them go out of sight round the bend of the river.

“I wonder where this river runs to, and where I should go, if I walked all along this path?” I said to myself, and then like a flash, the idea came, right or wrong, I could not tell, that it must go on and on to London.

It was full of hope, that thought; so full that I leaped up, and trudged on so steadily, that at the end of an hour I again saw a couple of horses in front, drawing another barge, with the rope plashing in and out of the river; but this barge was going on in the same direction as I was, and as I drew nearer I began to envy the boy riding so idly on the foremost horse, and wished it were my fate to change places with him, for one of my feet was very sore.

It pained me a good deal; but, all the same, there was a joyous feeling of freedom to cheer me on, and I limped forward, thinking how I had nothing to fear now, no dreary copying to do, and then stand shivering, expecting blows, if I had omitted a word, or forgotten to cross some t. All was bright and beautiful, with the glancing river, the glorious green meadows, and the gliding barge going so easily with the stream.

There was a stolid-looking man holding the tiller of the barge, staring dreamily before him, and smoking, looking as motionless, and smoking nearly as much, as the chimney of the cabin beside him. The barge itself was covered with great tarred cloths of a dingy black, but the woodwork about the cabin was ornamented with yellow and scarlet diamonds and ovals carved in the sides.

The man took not the slightest notice of me as I limped on, gazing at him and the gliding barge, but smoked away steadily, and I went on, getting nearer and nearer to the horses, thinking as I did so of how pleasant it would be to lie down on that black tarpaulin, and glide along upon the shiny river without a care; and it seemed to me then, ill-used and weary as I was, that the life of a bargeman would be perfect happiness and bliss.

As I drew near the boy, who was sitting sidewise on the foremost horse, with a shallow round-bottomed zinc bucket hanging from the collar on the other side, I found that he was watching me as he whistled some doleful minor ditty, pausing every now and then to crack his whip and utter a loud “Jeet!”

This was evidently a command to the horses, one of which gave its head a toss up and the other a toss down, but paid no further heed, both continuing their steady way along the tow-path, while the boy went on with his whistling.

I gradually drew up closer and closer, as the whistling kept on, to find that about every minute, as if calculated exactly, but of course from mere habit, there was the crack of the whip, the loud “Jeet?” and the nod up and nod down of the two horses.

I trudged up close alongside the boy now, being anxious to learn where the river really did run, but not liking at first to show my ignorance, so we went on for some time in silence.

He was a rough, common-looking lad, with fair curly hair, and the skin of his face all in scaly patches where it had been blistered by the sun, and I took him to be about my own age. He was dressed in a loose jacket and a pair of cord trousers, both of which were several sizes too large for him, but the jacket-sleeves had been cut off above the elbow, and the trousers were rolled up above his knees, showing his bare legs and clean white feet. His coarse shirt was clean, what could be seen of it, but the tops of the trousers were drawn up by strings over his shoulders, so that they took the place of vest.

Altogether, even to his old, muddy, torn felt hat, through which showed tufts of his curly hair, he was ragged to a degree; but he seemed as happy as the day was long and as healthy as could be, as he whistled away, stared at me, and uttered another loud “Jeet!” going a little further this time, and making it “Jeet, Sammy—jeet, Tommair-y!”

The horses this time tightened the rope a little, but only for a few moments, when it fell back into the water with a plash, the barge glided on, the horses’ hoofs crushed the sandy gravel, and the rope whisked and rustled as it brushed along the thick growth of sedge by the water-side.

“Woss the matter with yer foot, matey?” said the boy at last, breaking the ice as he gave his whip another crack, and then caught and examined the thong.

“Sore with walking,” I said; and then there was another pause, during which he kept on whistling the minor air over and over again, while I waited for another opening.

“Why don’t you take off your shoes, matey?” he said. “They allus makes my feet sore. I don’t like shoes. Jeet, Tommair-y! Jeet, Sam-mair-y?”

This was a new light, and I thought, perhaps, I should be easier, for one shoe was constantly scraping the tendon at the back of my heel. So sitting down on the grass, I untied and slipped off my shoes, my socks following, to be thrust into my pocket, and I limped on, setting my feet delicately on the gravel, which hurt them, till I changed on to the short soft turf beside the path.

The barge had passed me, but I soon overtook it, and then reached the boy, who watched me complacently as I trudged on, certainly feeling easier.

“One on ’ems a-bleeding,” said my new friend then. “Shoes allus hurts. Jeet!”

“Yes, when you walk far,” I said, the conversation beginning to warm now.

“Walked far, matey?”

“Yes, ever so far. Have you come far?”

“Pistol,” I thought he said.

“Where?” I asked.

“Bristol. Jeet, Sammy!” Crack!

“All along by the river?”

“We don’t call it the river, we call it the canal here. It’s river farther up towards London.”

“Are you going to London?” I said.

“Yes. Are you?”

“Yes,” I said; and my heart was at rest, for I knew now that which I wanted to find out without asking. This river did go right to London, and I must be on the upper part of the Thames.

We went on for some little time in silence, and then my new friend began:

“Why don’t you go and paddle yer feet in the water a bit?”

It was a good suggestion, and the shallow sparkling water looked very delicious and cool.

“Tie your shoestrings together and hing ’em on to Tommy’s collar. You can hing yer bundle, too, if yer li-ak.”

I hesitated for a moment. One boy had already appropriated my bundle, but he had not the frank honest look of the one on the horse, and besides, I did not like to seem suspicious. So, tying the shoestrings together, I hung them on the tall hame of the collar, and the bundle beside them, before going quickly over the gravel down to the shallow water.

“Turn up yer trousers!” shouted the boy; and I obeyed his good advice, ending by walking along the shallow water close behind the tow-rope, the soft sand feeling delicious to my feet as the cool water laved and eased the smarting wound.

At last I walked out with my feet rested, and the blood-stain washed away, to run forward and join my companion, who looked at me in a very stolid manner.

“Hev a ride?” he said at last.

“May I?”

“Fey-ther!”

“Hel-lo-a!” came slowly from the barge.

“May this chap hev a ri-ad?”

“Ay-er!”

The boy slipped down off the horse with the greatest ease, and stuck his whip into a link of the trace.

“Now, then,” he said, “lay holt o’ his collar, and I’ll give yer a leg up.”

I obeyed him, and seizing my leg, he nearly shot me right over the horse, but by hanging tightly on to the collar I managed to save myself, and shuffled round into the proper position for riding sidewise, feeling the motion of the horse, in spite of a certain amount of boniness of spine, delightfully easy and restful.

“They’re all right,” the boy said, as I glanced at my bundle. “They won’t fall off. Are yer comf’able?”

“Yes, capital,” I said, and we journeyed on, my luck seeming almost too good to be believed.

We went on talking away, now and then passing another barge, when the ropes were passed one over the other boat, and the journey continued.

Soon afterwards I made my first acquaintance with a lock, and got down off the horse to stand by the barge and gaze in wonderment at the process. As it glided softly into the space between walls, a pair of great doors were shut behind it, and I and my new companion helped to turn handles, with the result that I saw the water foam and rush out, and the barge slowly sink down to a lower level, when a couple of great doors were swung open at the other end. There was a certain amount of pushing and thrusting, and the barge glided out into the river ten feet lower than it was before.

Then the rope was once more made fast, the horses tugged, and we went on again, but not far before a shrill voice shouted “Jack!” and my companion stood still till the barge came abreast of him, being steered close in, when I saw a woman lean over the side and hold out a basket, which the boy caught, and then ran after me once more, where I was mounted on the first horse.

“My dinner,” he said eagerly. “Got yourn?”

“Yes,” I said, colouring up as I pulled the remains of my bread and cheese out of my pocket, there being a large piece of the latter.

“Steak pudden to-day,” said my companion, hanging his basket on to the collar by my knee, and revealing a basin half full of savoury-odoured beef-steak pudding, which was maddening to me in my hungry state.

“I say, what a whacking great piece of cheese! I like cheese,” said my companion; “let’s go halves.”

Pride kept me back for a moment, and then I said—

“I’ll give you threepence if you’ll give me half your dinner.”

“I don’t want your threepence,” he said scornfully. “You shall have half if you give me half your new bread and cheese. Ourn’s allus stale. Look, here’s some cold apple puff too.”

So there was, and delicious it looked, sufficiently so to make my mouth water.

“Got a knife, matey?”

“Yes,” I said, “but—”

“I say, I tell you what,” said my would-be host. “Have you really got threepence?”

“Yes,” I said, and was about to say more, when Mr Rowle’s words occurred to me and I was silent.

“Then we’ll have half a pint o’ cider at the next lock, and twopen’orth o’ apples, shall us?”

“Yes,” I said, delighted at the prospect; and the result was that we two hearty boys soon finished pudding, puff, and the last scrap of the bread and cheese, after which my new friend shouted, “Mother!” The boat was steered in close, and the shrill-voiced woman took the basket back.

“Is your name Jack?” I said, as I descended, and we trudged on together slowly beside the horses, each of which was now furnished with a tin bucket hung from the top of its head, and containing some beans and chaff.

“Yes; what’s yourn?”

“Antony.”

“Ho!”

There was silence after this, for we came up to another lock, close by which was a little public-house, where Jack was sent to get a stone bottle filled with beer, and up to whose door he summoned me, and we partook of our half-pint of cider, Jack proving most honourable as to his ideas of half.

Then the beer having been passed on board, Jack’s mother and father taking not the slightest notice of me, the barge was passed through the lock, and Jack beckoned and waved his hand.

“You give me the twopence, and I’ll buy,” he said. “If we ask Mother Burke for twopen’orth all at once she won’t give us more than she would for a penny. Stop a moment,” he said, “you only give me a penny, and we’ll keep t’other for to-morrow.”

I handed a penny to him, and we went into the lock cottage, in whose lattice window were displayed two bottles of ginger-beer, a couple of glasses of sugar-sticks, and a pile of apples.

Our penny in that out-of-the-way place bought us a dozen good apples, and these we munched behind the horses as we trudged on slowly, mile after mile.

I did not feel tired now, and we boys found so much to talk about that the time went rapidly by. Jack’s father and mother did not trouble themselves about my being there, but towards six o’clock handed the boy out his tea in a bottle, whose neck stuck out of the basket that had held his dinner, and in which were some half a dozen slices of bread and butter.

“’Tain’t full,” said Jack, holding the bottle up to the light; “she might ha’ filled it. There is more brem-butter. Never mind, I’ll fill it up with water. You won’t mind?”

“No,” I said; but as a lock was then coming in sight, and a decent-looking village, an idea occurred to me. “Let’s buy a pen’orth of milk and put to it,” I said.

Jack’s eyes sparkled, and hanging the basket pro tem. on the hames, he cracked his whip, and we proceeded a little more quickly towards the lock, where I bought a twopenny loaf and some milk for our tea. I say ours, for Jack literally shared his with me.

“Where are you going to sleep?” said Jack to me at last, as the evening mists were beginning to rise on the meadows.

“I don’t know,” I said rather dolefully, for the idea had not occurred to me before.

“Come and bunk along o’ me.”

“Where?” I asked.

“Under the tarpaulin in front o’ the barge,” he said; “I allus sleeps there now, cos father says my legs gets in the way in the cabin.”

“But would your father mind?”

“Not he. He’ll go ashore as soon as we make fast for the night and lets the horses loose to feed. He wouldn’t mind.”

And so it turned out, for the barge was made fast to a couple of stout posts in a wider part of the canal, close to a lock where there was a public-house. The horses were turned out to graze on the thick grass beside the tow-path, and after a little hesitation I took my bundle and shoes and crept in beneath a tarpaulin raised up in the middle to make quite a tent, which Jack had contrived in the fore port of the barge.

“Ain’t it jolly and snug?” he cried.

“Ye-es,” I replied.

“On’y it won’t do to stop in when the sun gets on it, ’cos it’s so hot and sticky. I like it. Feyther can’t kick you here.”

This was a revelation. I had been thinking Jack’s life must be one of perfect bliss.

“Does your father kick you, then?”

“Not now. He used to when he came home after being to the public, when he was cross; but he didn’t mean nothing. Feyther’s werry fond o’ me. I wouldn’t go back to sleep in the cabin now for no money.”

Jack’s conversation suddenly stopped, and I knew by his hard breathing that he was asleep: but I lay awake for some time, peering out through a little hole left by the tarpaulin folds at the stars, thinking of Mr Blakeford and his pursuit; of what Mary would say when she read my letter; and from time to time I changed the position of my bundle, to try and turn it into a comfortable pillow; but, try how I would, it seemed as if the heel of one or other of my shoes insisted upon getting under my ear, and I dropped asleep at last, dreaming that they were walking all over my head.

Chapter Eleven.

My Vagabond Life Comes to an End.

Somehow or other that idea about my boots being in antagonism to me seemed to pervade the whole of my slumbers till morning, when one of them, I fancied, had turned terribly vicious, and was kicking me hard in the side.

I could not move, and the kicking seemed to go on, till a more vigorous blow than before roused me to consciousness; but still for a few moments I could not make out where I was, only that it was very dark and stuffy, and that. I felt stiff and sore.

Just then a gruff voice awoke my mind as well as my body, and I found that some one was administering heavy pokes through the tarpaulin with what seemed to be a piece of wood.

“All right, feyther,” cried Jack just then; and as we scrambled out from beneath the tent I found it was grey dawn, that a heavy mist hung over the river, and that Jack’s father had been poking at the tarpaulin with the end of a hitcher, the long iron-shod pole used in navigating the barge.

“Going to lie abed all day?” he growled. “Git them horses to.”

“Come along, matey; never mind your boots,” cried Jack, and he leaped ashore.

I did not like leaving my bundle behind, but I felt bound to help, and following Jack’s example, I helped him to catch the horses, which were soon attached to the tow-line thrown ashore by the bargeman, who cast loose the mooring ropes, and with the stars still twinkling above our heads we were once more on our way, Jack walking beside the horse and I barefooted beside him.

My feet did not pain me now, but I felt that to replace my boots would be to chafe them again, so I contented myself with letting them ride, while for the present I made my way afoot.

My proceedings as we went along seemed to greatly interest Jack, who stared hard as he saw me stoop down and wash my face and hands at a convenient place in the river, for a shake and a rub of his curly head seemed to constitute the whole of his toilet. My hair I smoothed as I walked by his side, while he looked contemptuously at my little pocket-comb.

“That wouldn’t go through my hair,” he said at last. Then in the same breath, “Old woman’s up.”

I turned to see how he knew it, expecting his mother to be on the little deck: but the only thing visible besides Jack’s father was a little curl of smoke from the iron chimney in front of the rudder.

“That means brakfass,” said Jack, grinning; “don’t you want yourn?”

I said I did, and asked how soon we should get to a lock where I could buy some bread and milk.

“Don’t you waste your money on bread and milk,” said my companion, “there’ll be lots o’ brakfass for both on us. You wait till we get farther on and we can get some apples and a bottle of ginger-beer.”

It seemed so fair an arrangement that when the shrill voice summoned Jack to fetch his breakfast I shared it with him, and so I did his dinner and tea, while we afterwards regaled ourselves with fruit, and sweets, and cider, or ginger-beer.

This went on day after day, for though the pace was slow I found that I could not have got on faster. Besides which, I had endless rides, Jack’s proceedings with me never once seeming to awaken either interest or excitement on the part of his parents. In fact, Jack’s father seemed to occupy the whole of his time in leaning upon the tiller and smoking, with the very rare exceptions that he might occasionally make use of the hitcher in rounding some corner. As for the passing of other barges, the men upon them seemed to do the greater part of the necessary work in lifting tow-ropes. At the locks, too, he would stolidly stare at Jack and me as we turned the handles with the lock-keeper, and then perhaps grunt approval.

Jack’s mother appeared to spend all her time in cooking and other domestic arrangements, for she never showed herself on deck except to announce the readiness of a meal by a shrill shout for her boy, rarely speaking a word to him at such times as he took his food from her hands.

Life on the river seemed to breed taciturnity, and though we boys generally had something to say, for the most part we jogged on silently with the horses, who hung their heads and kept on their course as if half asleep.

To me it was a dreamy time of constant journeying by the shining river; for at last we passed through a lock into the Isis, and then continued our way on and on through locks innumerable till we passed out again into what I suppose must have been the Grand Junction or Regent’s Canal—to this day I am not sure which. The hundred miles or so I was to have walked to London must have been more than doubled by the turnings and doublings of the river; but I was never tired, and Jack never wearied of my society. There was always something to see in the ever-changing scenery, and sometimes, if we came to a stoppage early in the evening, Jack brought out a rough line and a willow wand, and we fished for perch by some rushing weir.

I could have been content to go on for ever leading such a free, enjoyable life, like some young gipsy, so peaceable and happy seemed my existence as compared to that with Mr Blakeford; but at last, after a very long, slow journey, we began to near the metropolis, the goal of my wanderings, and one evening the pleasant communings of Jack and myself were suddenly brought to an end.

We had been making slow progress along the canal as it wound now amongst houses and large buildings. The pleasant fields were far behind, and the water was no longer bright. It seemed, too, as if we had left the sun behind, while the tow-path had long grown so hard and rough that I was glad to get my boots out of the bundle in which they were tied up and wear them once again.

“Here, you sir,” Jack’s father shouted to me from the barge, “you must sheer off now.”

It was said in a rough, peremptory fashion that was startling: but he took no further notice of me, only went on smoking, and I went back to Jack, who was now seated on the horse just as at our first meeting.

“Feyther say you must go now?”

“Yes,” I said dolefully.

“Then you’d better cut off. I say, feyther!”

“Hullo!”

“Lash the tiller, and go and get his bundle and chuck it ashore.”

The great rough fellow methodically did as he was told—fastening the rudder, going slowly forward, and fishing out my bundle from under the tarpaulin, and turning to me:

“Ketch!” he shouted, and he threw the bundle from the barge to the shore, where I caught it, and he slowly plodded back, after giving me a friendly nod.

I took my bundle under my arm and rejoined Jack, who was whistling his minor air, and then we boys looked at each other dolefully.

“Aintcher going?” said Jack at last.

“Yes,” I said, “I’m going directly.” Then, quickly pulling out a little penknife I had in my pocket, I held it to Jack. “Will you have that, Jack?” I said.

His eyes sparkled as he took it, but he did not speak.

“Do you think I might give your father something for letting me come up along with you?” I said.

Jack stared in a dull, stolid way for a moment, the idea being so novel to him. Then his face lit up and he checked the horses.

“Hold on, fey-ther,” he shouted; and as if it was quite right to obey his son’s words, the great fellow steered the long barge so that it came close in.

“There’s a beer-shop,” said Jack, pointing to a place close by the towing-path, all glorious with blue and gold announcements of Barclay, Perkins and Co.’s Entire. “You go and get a pot o’ porter—it’s threepence ha’penny, mind—and give it the old man; we’ll wait.”

I ran up to the door of the public-house and asked the man in shirt-sleeves and white apron for a pot of porter, which he drew in the bright pewter vessel, and I paid for it with one of my sixpences, received my change, and then had to make solemn assurance that I would bring back the pot before I was allowed to take it down to the canal-side, where Jack and his father were waiting.

The latter’s face was as stolid as ever as I went up to him; but there was a little extra opening of his eyes as he saw the foaming liquid in the bright pewter and stretched out his hand.

“Beer ain’t good for boys,” he said gruffly; and then, blowing off the froth, he put the vessel to his lips, and slowly poured it all down, without stopping, to the very last drop; after which he uttered a heavy sigh of either pleasure or regret, and brought his eyes to bear on me.

“Feyther likes a drop o’ beer,” said Jack.

“Ketch!” said “father,” and he threw the empty pot to me, which luckily I caught, and stood watching him as he went to the tiller. “Go on!”

Jack gave me a nod, cracked his whip, and the horses drew the slack rope along the cindery tow-path till it was tight. Jack’s father paused in the act of refilling his pipe and gave me another nod, and Jack’s mother’s head came above the hatchway to stare at me as the barge moved, and I stood watching it with my bundle under my arm and the bright pewter vessel in my hand.

My reverie was interrupted by a shout from the public-house door, and I took the pot back, to return once more to the towing-path, sick at heart and despondent, as I thought of the pleasant days of my short vagabond career.

It was like parting with very good friends, and I sat down at last upon a log, one of a pile of timber, full of regrets; for these rough people had in their way been very kind to me, and I thought that perhaps I should never see them any more.

Chapter Twelve.

My First Night in Town.

I did not sit thinking long, for I felt that I must be up and doing. The long barge had crept silently away and was out of sight, but I felt that after my dismissal I ought not to follow it; so I crossed a bridge over the canal and went on and on between rows of houses and along streets busy with vehicles coming and going, and plenty of people.

For the first half-hour I felt that everybody knew me and was staring at the boy who had run away from Mr Blakeford’s office; but by degrees that idea passed off and gave place to another, namely, that I was all alone in this great city, and that it seemed very solitary and strange.

For above an hour I walked on, with the streets growing thicker and the noise and bustle more confusing. I had at last reached a busy thoroughfare; gas was burning, and the shops looked showy and attractive. The one, however, that took my attention was a coffee-shop in a side street, with a great teapot in the window, and a framed card on which I read the list of prices, and found that a half-pint cup of coffee would be one penny, and a loaf and butter twopence.

My money was getting scarce, but I was tired and hungry, and after staring at that card for a long time I thought I would venture to go in, and walked right up to the door. I dared, however, go no farther, but walked straight on, turned, and came back, and so on several times, without being able to make up my mind; but at last, as I was still hovering about the place, I caught sight of a policeman advancing in the distance, and, fully assured that it must be Mary’s friend, Mr Revitts, in search of me, I walked breathlessly into the coffee-house and sat down at the nearest table.

There were several men and lads seated about, but they were all, to my great relief, reading papers or periodicals, and I was recovering my equanimity somewhat, when it was upset by a bustling maid, who came as I thought fiercely up to me with a sharp “What’s for you?”

“A cup of coffee, if you please,” I stammered out.

“And roll and butter?”

“Yes, please,” I said, somewhat taken aback that she should, as I felt, have divined my thoughts; and then, in an incredibly short space of time, a large cup of steaming coffee and a roll and pat of butter were placed on the table.

After timidly glancing round to find that it was no novel thing for any one to enter a coffee-house and partake of the fare before me, I proceeded to make my meal, wishing all the while that Jack had been there to share it, and wondering where he was, till at last the coffee was all drunk, the roll and butter eaten, and after paying what was due I stole off once more into the streets. I went on and on in a motiveless way, staring at the wonders ever unfolding before me, till, utterly wearied out, the thought struck me that I must find a resting-place somewhere, for there were no haystacks here, there was no friendly tarpaulin to share with Jack, and, look where I would, nothing that seemed likely to suggest a bed.

I had wandered on through wide, well-lighted streets, and through narrow, poverty-stricken places, till I was in a busy, noisy row, along the pavement of which were broad barrows with flaming lamps, and laden with fish, greengrocery, and fruit. There was noise enough to confuse anyone used to London; to me it was absolutely deafening.

I had seen by a clock a short time before that it was nearly ten, and my legs ached so that I could scarcely stand; and yet, in the midst of the busy throng of people hurrying here and there, I alone seemed to be without friend or home.

I had been wandering about in a purposeless way for a long time, trying to see some one who would win my confidence enough to make me ask where I could obtain a night’s lodging, when I suddenly became aware that a big lad with a long narrow face and little eyes seemed to be watching me, and I saw what seemed to me so marked a resemblance to the young scoundrel who had stolen my bundle, that I instinctively grasped it more tightly and hurried away.

On glancing back, I found that the boy was following, and this alarmed me so that I hastened back into the big street, walked along some distance, then turned and ran as hard as I could up one street and down another, till at last I was obliged to stop and listen to make sure whether I was pursued.

To my horror I heard advancing steps, and I had just time to shrink back into a doorway before, by the dim light of the gas, I saw the lad I sought to avoid run by, and as soon as his heavy boots had ceased to echo, I crept out and ran in the other direction, till, completely worn out, I sat down upon a doorstep in a deserted street, and at last dropped off fast asleep.

I was startled into wakefulness by a strange glare shining in my face, and, looking up, there was a round glowing eye of light seeming to search me through and through.

For a few moments I could do nothing but stare helplessly and then started nervously as a gruff voice exclaimed—“Here; what’s in that bundle?”

“My clothes and clean shirt, sir,” I faltered. “Let’s look.”

My hands shook so that I was some time before I could get the handkerchief undone; but in the meantime I had been able to make out that the speaker was a policeman, and in my confusion at being awakened out of a deep sleep, I associated his coming with instructions from Mr Blakeford.

At last, though, I laid my bundle open on the step, and my questioner seemed satisfied.

“Tie it up,” he said, and I hastened to obey. “Now, then, young fellow,” he continued, “how is it you are sitting here asleep? Why don’t you go home?”

“Please, sir, I came up from the country to-day, and I ran away from a boy who wanted to steal my bundle, and then I sat down and fell asleep.”

“That’s a likely story,” he said, making the light of the lantern play upon my face. “Where were you going?”

“I don’t know, sir. Yes I do—to Mr Rowle.”

“And where’s Mr Rowle’s?”

“It’s—it’s—stop a minute, sir. I’ve got the address written down. It’s at a great printing-office.”

As I spoke I felt in my pockets one after the other for the address of Mr Rowle’s brother, but to my dismay I found that it was gone, and, search how I would, there was no sign of it in either pocket. At last I looked up full in the policeman’s face, to exclaim pitifully—“Please, sir, it’s gone.”

“Is it now?” he said in a bantering, sneering tone. “That’s a wonder, that is: specially if it warn’t never there. Look here, young fellow, what have you come to London for?”

“Please, sir, I’ve come to seek my fortune.”

“Oh, you have, have you? Now look here, which are you, a young innocent from the country, or an artful one? You may just as well speak out, for I’m sure to find out all about it.”

“Indeed I’ve come up from the country, sir, to try and get a place, for I was so unhappy down there.”

“Then you’ve run away from your father and mother, eh?”

“No, sir; they are both dead.”

“Well, then, you’ve run away from home, eh?”

“No, sir,” I said sadly; “I haven’t any home.”

“Well, what’s got to be done? You can’t stop here all night.”

“Can’t I, sir?”

“Can’t you, sir? Why, what a young gooseberry it is! Have you been to London before?”

“No, sir.”

“When did you come up?”

“Only this evening, sir.”

“And don’t you know that if I leave you here some one’ll have your bundle, and perhaps you too, before morning?”

“I was so tired, sir, I fell asleep.”

“Come along o’ me. The best thing I can do for you’s to lock you up till morning.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He burst out into a roar of laughter as he turned off the light of his bull’s-eye.

“Come along, youngster,” he said, “it’s all right, I see. Why, you are as green as a gooseberry.”

“Am I, sir?” I said piteously, for I felt very sorry that I was so green, as he called it, but I was too much confused to thoroughly understand what he meant.

“Greener, ever so much. Why, if you’d gone down Covent Garden to sleep amongst the baskets you’d have got swept up for cabbage leaves.”

“Covent Garden Market, sir? Is that close here?” I said.

“As if you didn’t know,” he replied, returning to his doubting vein.

“I’ve heard my papa speak of it,” I said, eager to convince him that I was speaking the truth. “He said the finest of all the fruit in the country went there, and that the flowers in the central—central—”

“Avenue?” suggested the constable.

“Yes, central avenue—were always worth a visit.”

“That’s so. And that’s what your papa said, eh?”

“Yes, sir, I have heard him say so more than once.”

“Then don’t you think, young fellow, as it looks very suspicious for a young gent as talks about his papa to be found sleeping on a doorstep?”

“Yes, sir, I suppose it does,” I said, “but I have no friends now.”

“Well, you’d better come along o’ me, and tell your tale to the inspector. I’m not going to leave you here. He’ll soon get to know the rights of it. You’ve run away, that’s what you’ve done.”

“Yes, sir,” I said; “I did run away, but—”

“Never mind the buts, youngster. You’ll have to be sent back to your sorrowing friends, my absconding young sloper.”

“No, no, no?” I cried wildly, as he took hold of my cuff. “Don’t send me back, pray don’t send me back.”

“None o’ that ’ere now,” he said, giving me a rough shake. “You just come along quietly.”

“Oh, I will, sir, indeed I will!” I cried, “but don’t, pray don’t send me back.”

“Why not? How do you know but it won’t be best for yer? You come along o’ me sharp, and we’ll soon physic your constitution into a right state.”

The agony of dread that seized me at that moment was more than I could bear. In imagination I saw myself dragged back to Mr Blakeford, and saw the smile of triumph on his black-looking face, as he had me again in his power, and, boy as I was then, and full of young life and hopefulness, I believe that I would gladly have jumped into the river sooner than have had to trust to his tender mercies again.

In my horror, then, I flung myself on my knees before the policeman, and clasped his leg as I appealed wildly to him to let me go.

“If you sent me back, sir,” I cried piteously, “he’d kill me.”

“And then we should kill him,” he said, laughing. “Not as that would be much comfort to you. Here, get up.”

“You don’t know what I suffered, sir, after poor papa and mamma died. He used me so cruelly, and he beat me, too, dreadfully. And now, after I have run away, if he gets me back he will be more cruel than before.”

“Well, I s’pose he wouldn’t make it very pleasant for you, youngster. There, come: get up, and you shall tell the inspector, too, all about it.”

“No, no, no,” I cried wildly, as in spite of his efforts to get me up I still clung to his leg.

“Come, none of that, you know. I shall have to carry you. Get up.”

He seized me more roughly, and dragged me to my feet, when with a hoarse cry of dread, I made a dash to escape, freed my arm and ran for freedom once again, as if it were for my life.

Chapter Thirteen.

P.C. Revitts.

In my blind fear of capture I did not study which way I went, but doubling down the first turning I came to, I ran on, and then along the next, to stop short directly afterwards, being sharply caught by the constable from whom I had fled, and who now held me fast.

“Ah! you thought it, did you?” he said coolly, while, panting and breathless, I feebly struggled to get away. “But it won’t do, my lad. You’ve got to come along o’ me.”

“And then I shall be sent back,” I cried, as I tried to wrestle myself free. “I’ve never done any harm, sir; and he’ll half kill me. You don’t know him. Pray let me go.”

“I know you to be a reglar young coward,” he said roughly. “Why, when I was your age, I shouldn’t have begun snivelling like this. Now, then, look here. You ain’t come to London only to see your Mr Hot Roll, or whatever you call him. Is there any one else you know as I can take you to? I don’t want to lock you up.”

“No, sir, nobody,” I faltered. “Yes, there is—there’s Mr Revitts.”

“Mr who?”

“Mr Revitts, sir,” I said excitedly. “He’s a policeman, like you.”

“Ah, that’s something like a respectable reference!” he said. “What division?”

“What did you say, sir?”

“I said what division?”

“Please, sir, I don’t know what you mean.”

“Do you know P.C. Revitts, VV division?”

“No, sir,” I said, with my heart sinking. “It’s Mr William Revitts I know.”

“Which his name is William,” he muttered. Then, aloud, “Here, come along.”

“No, no, sir,” I cried in alarm. “Don’t send me back.”

“Come along, I tell yer.”

“What’s up?” said a gruff voice; and a second policeman joined us.

“Don’t quite know yet,” said the first man; and then he said something in a low voice to the other, with the result that, without another word, I was hurried up and down street after street till I felt ready to drop. Suddenly my guide turned into a great blank-looking building and spoke to another policeman, and soon, after a little shouting, a tall, burly-looking constable in his buttoned-up greatcoat came slowly towards us in the whitewashed room.

“Here’s a lad been absconding,” said my guide, “and he says he’ll give you for a reference.”

“Eh! me?” said the newcomer, making me start as he stared hard in my face. “Who are you, boy. I don’t know you.”

“Antony Grace, please, sir,” I faltered.

“And who’s Antony Grace?”

“There, I thought it was a do,” said the first constable roughly. “What d’yer mean by gammoning me in this way? Come along.”

“No, sir, please. Pray give me time,” I cried. “Don’t send me back. Please, Mr Revitts, I have run away from Mr Blakeford, and if I am sent back to Rowford he’ll kill me. I know he will.”

“’Old ’ard, Smith,” said the big constable. “Look here, boy. What did you say? Where did you come from?”

“Rowford, sir. Pray don’t send me back.”

“And what’s the name of the chap as you’re afraid on?”

“Mr Blakeford, sir.”

“I’m blest!”

“What did you say, sir?”

“I said I’m blest, boy.”

“Then you do know him?” said the first constable.

“I don’t quite know as I do, yet,” was the reply.

“Well, look here, I want to get back. You take charge of him. I found him on a doorstep in Great Coram Street. There’s his bundle. If he don’t give a good account of himself, have it entered and lock him up.”

“All right,” said the other, after a few moments’ hesitation.

“Then I’m off,” said the first man; and he left me in charge of the big constable, who stood staring down at me so fiercely, as I thought, that I looked to right and left for a way of escape.

“None o’ that, sir,” he said sharply, in the words and way of the other, whose heavy footsteps were now echoing down the passage. “Lookye here, if you try to run away, I’ve only got to shout, and hundreds of thousands of pleecemen will start round about to stop yer.”

As he spoke he pushed me into a Windsor arm-chair, where I sat as if in a cage, while he held up one finger to shake in my face.

“As the Clerkenwell magistrate said t’other day, the law’s a great network, and spreads wide. You’re new in the net o’ the law, young fellow, and you can’t get out. Just look here, we knows a deal in the law and police, and I can find out in two twos whether you are telling me the truth or doing the artful.”

“Please, sir—”

“Hold your tongue, sir! You can make your defence when your time comes; and mind this, it’s my dooty to tell you that what you says now may be used in evidence again you.”

Thus silenced, I stood gazing up in his big-whiskered face, that seemed to loom over me, in the gaslight, and wondered why there should be so much form and ceremony over taking my word.

“Now look here,” he said pulling out a notebook and pencil, like the auctioneer’s, only smaller, and seeming as if he were going to take an inventory of my small person. “Now, look here,” he repeated, moistening the point of his pencil, “you told Joe Smith you knowed me, and I never set eyes on you afore.”

“Please, sir,” I said hastily, “I told him I know Mr Revitts, who’s in the police.”

“Yes, and you said you had run away from Rowford and a Mr Blake—Blake—What’s his name?”

“Blakeford, sir,” I said despondently, for it seemed that this was not my Mr Revitts.

“Blakeford. That’s right; and he ill-used you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He’s a little fair man, ain’t he, with blue eyes?” And he rustled the leaves of his notebook as if about to take down my answer.

“No, sir,” I cried eagerly; “he’s tall and dark, and has short hair, and very white teeth.”

“Ho! Tall, is he?” said the constable, making believe to write, and then holding out his pencil at me. “He’s a nice, kind, amiable man, ain’t he, as wouldn’t say an unkind word to a dorg?”

“Oh no, sir,” I said, shuddering; “that’s not my Mr Blakeford.”

“Ho! Now, then, once more. There’s a servant lives there at that house, and her name’s Jane—ain’t it?”

“No, sir, Mary.”

“And she’s got red hair and freckles, and she—she’s very little and—”

“No, no,” I cried excitedly, for after my heart had seemed to sink terribly low, it now leaped at his words. “That isn’t Mary, and you are saying all this to try me, sir. You—you are Mr William Revitts, I know you are;” and I caught him eagerly by the arm.

“Which I don’t deny it, boy,” he said, still looking at me suspiciously, and removing my hand. “Revitts is my name. P.C. Revitts, VV 240; and I ain’t ashamed of it. But only to think of it. How did you know of me, though?”

“I wrote Mary’s letters for her, sir.”

“Whew! That’s how it was she had so improved in her writing. And so you’ve been living in the same house along a her?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, “and she was so good and kind.”

“When she wasn’t in a tantrum, eh?”

“Yes, sir, when she wasn’t in a—”

“Tantrum, that’s it, boy. We should ha’ been spliced afore now if it hadn’t been for her tantrums. But only to think o’ your being picked up in the street like this. And what am I to do now? You’ve absconded, you have; you know you’ve absconded in the eyes of the law.”

“Write to Mary, please, sir, and ask her if it wasn’t enough to make me run away.”

“Abscond, my lad, abscond,” said the constable.

“Yes, sir,” I said, with a shiver, “abscond.”

“You didn’t—you didn’t,” he said in a half hesitating way, as he felt and pinched my bundle, and then ran his hand down by my jacket-pocket. “You didn’t—these are all your own things in this, are they?”

“Oh yes, sir!” I said.

“Because some boys when they absconds, makes mistakes, and takes what isn’t theirs.”

“Do they, sir?”

“Yes, my lad, and I’m puzzled about you. You see, it’s my duty to treat you like a runaway ’prentice, and I’m uneasy in my mind about what to do. You see, you did run away.”

“Oh yes, sir, I did run away. I was obliged to. Mr Blakeford wanted me to tell lies.”

“Well, that seems to come easy enough to most people,” he said.

“But I am telling the truth, sir,” I said. “Write down to Rowford, and ask Mary if I’m not telling the truth.”

“Truth! Oh, I know that, my boy,” he said kindly. “Here, give’s your hand. Come along.”

“But you won’t send me back, sir?”

“Send you back? Not I, boy. He’s a blackguard, that Blakeford. I know him, and I only wish he’d do something, and I had him to take up for it. Mary’s told me all about him, and if ever we meets, even if it’s five pounds or a month, I’ll punch his head: that’s what I’ll do for him. Do yer hear?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Now, what’s to be done with you?”

I shook my head and looked at him helplessly.

He stood looking at me for a few moments and then went into another room, where there was a policeman sitting at a desk, like a clerk, with a big book before him. I could see him through the other doorway, and they talked for a few minutes; and then Mr Revitts came back, and stood staring at me.

“P’r’aps I’m a fool,” he muttered. “P’r’aps I ain’t. Anyhow, I’ll do it. Look here, youngster, I’m going to trust you, though as you’ve absconded I ought to take you before a magistrate or the inspector, but I won’t, as you’re a friend of my Mary.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

“And if you turn out badly, why, woe betide you.”

“Please, sir, I won’t turn out badly if I can help it; but Mr Blakeford said I was good for nothing.”

“Mr Blakeford be blowed! I wouldn’t ask him for a character for a dorg; and as for Mary, she don’t want his character, and he may keep it. I’ll take her without. I wouldn’t speak to any one like this, youngster; but you know that gal’s got a temper, though she’s that good at heart that—that—”

“She’d nurse you so tenderly if you were ill,” I said enthusiastically, “that you wouldn’t wish to be better.”

He held out his hand and gave mine a long and solemn shake.

“Thankye, youngster,” he said, “thankye for that. You and I will be good friends, I see. I will trust your word, hang me if I don’t. Here, come along.”

“Are you—are you going to take me up, sir?” I faltered, with a shiver of apprehension.

“I’m a-going to give you the door-key where I lodges, my lad. I’m on night duty, and shan’t be home till quarter-past six, so you may have my bed and welcome. Now, look here,” he said, “don’t you go and let anybody fool you. I’m going to show you the end of a long street, and you’ll go right to the top, then turn to the right along the road till you come to the fourth turning, and on the right-hand side, number twenty-seven, is where I lodges. Here’s the key. You puts it in the lock, turns it, shuts the door after you, and then goes gently upstairs to the second-pair back.”

“Second-pair back, sir?” I said dubiously.

“Well there, then, to the back room atop of the house, and there you may sleep till I come. Now then, this way out.”

It was a change that I could not have believed in, and I accompanied the constable wonderingly as he led me out of the police-station and through several dark-looking streets, till he stopped short before a long dim vista, where straight before me two lines of gaslights stretched right away till they seemed to end in a bright point.

“Now, then,” he said, “you can’t make any mistake there.”

“No, sir.”

“Off you go then to the top, and then you’ll find yourself in a big road.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Turn to the right, and then count four streets on the right-hand side. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go down that street about halfway, till you see a gaslight shining on a door with number twenty-seven upon it. Twenty-seven Caroline Street. Now, do you understand? Straight up to the top, and then it’s right, right, right, all the way.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Good luck to you then, be off; here’s my sergeant.”

I should have stopped to thank him, but he hurried me away; and half forgetting my weariness, I went along the street, found at last the road at the end, followed it as directed, and then in the street of little houses found one where the light from the lamp shone as my guide had said.

I paused with the key in my hand, half fearing to use it, but summoning up my courage, I found the door opened easily and closed quietly, when I stood in a narrow passage with the stairs before me, and following them to the top, I hesitated, hardly knowing back from front. A deep heavy breathing from one room, however, convinced me that that could not be the back, so I tried the other door, to find it yield, and there was just light enough from the window to enable me to find the bed, on which I threw myself half dressed, and slept soundly till morning, when I opened my eyes to find Mr Revitts taking off his stiff uniform coat.

“Look here, youngster,” he said, throwing himself upon the bed, “I dessay you’re tired, so don’t you get up. Have another nap, and then call me at ten, and we’ll have some breakfast. How—how—” he said, yawning.

“What did you say, sir?”

“How—Mary look?”

“Very well indeed, sir. She has looked much better lately, and—”

I stopped short, for a long-drawn breath from where Mr Revitts had thrown himself upon the bed told me plainly enough that he was asleep.

I was too wakeful now to follow his example, and raising myself softly upon my elbow, I had a good look at my new friend, to see that he did not look so big and burly without his greatcoat, but all the same he was a stoutly built, fine-looking man, with a bluff, honest expression of countenance.

I stayed there for some minutes, thinking about him, and then about Mary, and Mr Blakeford, and Hetty, and I wondered how the lawyer had got on before the magistrates without me. Then, rising as quietly as I could, I washed and finished dressing myself before sitting down to wait patiently for my host’s awakening.

The first hour passed very tediously, for there was nothing to see from the window but chimney-pots, and though it was early I began to feel that I had not breakfasted, and three hours or so was a long time to wait. The room was clean, but shabbily furnished, and as I glanced round offered little in the way of recreation, till my eyes lit on a set of hanging shelves with a few books thereon, and going on tiptoe across the room, I began to read their backs, considering which I should choose.

There was the “Farmer of Inglewood Forest,” close by the “Old English Baron,” with the “Children of the Abbey,” and “Robinson Crusoe.” Side by side with them was a gilt-edged Prayer-book, upon opening which I found that it was the property of “Mr William Revitts, a present from his effectinat friend Mary Bloxam.” On the opposite leaf was the following verse:—

“When this yu see, remember me,
And bare me in yure mind;
And don’t forget old Ingerland,
And the lass yu lef behind.”

The Bible on the shelf was from the same source. Besides these were several books in shabby covers—Bogatsky’s “Golden Treasury,” the “Pilgrim’s Progress,” and the “Young Man’s Best Companion.”

I stood looking at them for a few minutes, and then reached down poor old “Robinson Crusoe,” bore it to the window, and for the fourth time in my life began its perusal.

In a very short time my past troubles, my precarious future, and my present hunger were all forgotten, and I was far away from the attic in North London, watching the proceedings of Robinson in that wonderful island, having skipped over a good many of the early adventures for the sake of getting as soon as possible into that far-away home of mystery and romance.

The strengthening of his house, the coming of the savages, the intensely interesting occurrences of the story, so enchained me, that I read on and on till I was suddenly startled by the voice of Mr Revitts exclaiming:

“Hallo, you! I say, what’s o’clock?”

Chapter Fourteen.

Breakfast with the Law, and what Followed.

I let the book fall in a shamefaced way as my host took a great, ugly old silver watch from beneath his pillow, looked at it, shook it, looked at it again, and then exclaimed:

“It’s either ’levin o’clock or else she’s been up to her larks. Hush!”

He held up his hand, for just then a clock began to strike, and we both counted eleven.

“Then she was right for once in a way. Why didn’t you call me at ten?”

“I forgot, sir. I was reading,” I faltered; for I felt I had been guilty of a great breach of trust.

“And you haven’t had no breakfast,” he said, dressing himself quickly, and then plunging his face into the basin of water, to splash and blow loudly, before having a most vigorous rub with the towel. “Why, you must be as hungry as a hunter,” he continued, as he halted in what was apparently his morning costume of flannel shirt and trousers. “We’ll very soon have it ready, though. Shove the cloth on, youngster; the cups and saucers are in that cupboard, that’s right, look alive.”

I hastened to do what he wished, and in a few minutes had spread the table after the fashion observed by Mary at Mr Blakeford’s, while Mr Revitts took a couple of rashers of bacon out of a piece of newspaper on the top of the bookshelf, and some bread and a preserve jar containing butter out of a box under the table. Next he poured some coffee out of a canister into the pot, and having inserted his feet into slippers, he prepared to go out of the room.

“Bedroom, with use of the kitchen, for a single gentleman,” he said, winking one eye. “That’s me. Back in five minutes, youngster.”

It must have been ten minutes before he returned, with the coffee-pot in one hand and the two rashers of hot sputtering bacon in the other, when in the most friendly spirit he drew a chair to the table, and saying, “Help yourself, youngster,” placed one rasher upon my plate and took the other upon his own.

“I say, only to think of my mate coming upon you fast asleep in London,” he said, tearing me off a piece of bread. “Why, if he’d been looking for you, he couldn’t ha’ done it. Don’t be afraid o’ the sugar. There ain’t no milk.”

I was very hungry, and I gladly began my breakfast, since it was offered in so sociable a spirit.

“Let’s see. How did you say Mary looked?”

“Very well indeed, sir,” I replied.

“Send me—come, tuck in, my lad, you’re welcome—send me any message?”

“She did not know I was coming, sir.”

“No, of course not. So you’ve come to London to seek your fortune, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where are you going to look for it first?” he said, grinning.

“I don’t know, sir,” I said, rather despondently.

“More don’t I. Pour me out another cup o’ coffee, my lad, while I cut some more bread and scrape. Only to think o’ my mate meeting you! And so Mary looks well, does she?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And ain’t very comfortable, eh?”

“Oh no, sir! It’s a very uncomfortable place.”

“Ah, I shall have to find her a place after all! She might just as well have said yes last time, instead of going into a tantrum. I say, come; you ain’t half eating. I shall write and tell her I’ve seen you.”

If I was half eating before, I was eating nothing now, for his words suggested discovery, and my being given up to Mr Blakeford: when, seeing my dismay, my host laughed at me.

“There, get on with your toke, youngster. If I tell Mary where you are, you don’t suppose she’ll go and tell old Blakeford?”

“Oh no, sir! she wouldn’t do that,” I said, taking heart again, and resuming my breakfast.

“And I say, youngster, suppose you don’t say sir to me any more. I’m only a policeman, you know. I say, you were a bit scared last night, weren’t you?”

“Yes, sir—yes, I mean, I was very much afraid.”

“Ah, that’s the majesty of the law, that is! Do you know, I’ve only got to go into a crowd, and just give my head a nod, and they disperse directly. The police have wonderful power in London.”

“Have they, sir?”

“Wonderful, my lad. We can do anything we like, so long as it’s men. Hundreds of ’em ’ll give way before a half-dozen of us. It’s only when we’ve got to deal with the women that we get beat; and that ain’t no shame, is it?”

“No, sir,” I said, though I had not the faintest notion why. “You’re quite right,” he said; “it ain’t no shame. What! Have you done?”

“Yes, sir—yes, I mean.”

“Won’t you have that other cup of coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

“Then I will,” he said, suiting the action to the word. “Well, now then, youngster, what are you going to do, eh?”

“I’m going to try and find Mr Rowle’s brother, sir, at a great printing-office,” I said, searching my pockets, and at last finding the address given me. “Perhaps he’ll help me to find a situation.”

“Ah, p’r’aps so. They do have boys in printing-offices. Now, if you were a bit bigger you might have joined the police, and got to be a sergeant some day. It’s a bad job, but it can’t be helped. You must grow.”

“I am growing fast, sir,” I replied.

“Ah, I s’pose so. Well, now lookye here. You go and see Mr Rowle, and hear what he says, and then come back to me.”

“Come back here?” I said, hesitating.

“Unless you’ve got somewhere better to go, my lad. There, don’t you mind coming. You’re an old friend o’ my Mary, and so you’re an old friend o’ mine. So, for a week, or a fortnight, or a month, if you like to bunk down along o’ me till you can get settled, why, you’re welcome; and if a man can say a better word than that, why, tell him how.”

“I—I should be very, very grateful if you would give me a night or two’s lodging, sir,” I said, “and—and I’ve got six shillings yet.”

“Then don’t you spend more than you can help, youngster. Do you know what’s the cheapest dinner you can get?”

“No, sir—no, I mean.”

“Penny loaf and a pen’orth o’ cheese. You come back here and have tea along o’ me. I don’t go on duty till night. There, no shuffling,” he said, grinning. “If you don’t come back I’ll write and tell old Blakeford.”

I could see that he did not mean it, and soon after I left my bundle there, and started off to try if I could find Mr Rowle’s brother at the great printing-office in Short Street, Fetter Lane.

Chapter Fifteen.

“Boys Wanted.”

I went over the address in my own mind to make sure, and also repeated the directions given me by Mr Revitts, so as to make no mistake in going into the City. Then I thought over again Mr Rowle’s remarks about his brother, his name, Jabez, his age, and his being exactly like himself. That would, I thought, make it easy for me to recognise him; and in this spirit I walked on through the busy streets, feeling a good deal confused at being pushed and hustled about so much, while twice I was nearly run over in crossing the roads.

At last, after asking, by Mr Revitts’ advice, my way of different policemen when I was at fault, I found myself soon after two in Short Street, Fetter Lane, facing a pile of buildings from the base of which came the hiss and pant of steam, with the whirr, clang, and roar of machinery; while on the doorpost was a bright zinc plate with the legend “Ruddle and Lister, General Printers;” and above that, written on a card in a large legible hand, and tacked against the woodwork, the words “Boys Wanted.”

This announcement seemed to take away my breath, and I hesitated for a few minutes before I dared approach the place; but I went up at last, and then, seeing a severe-looking man in a glass box reading a newspaper, I shrank back and walked on a little way, forgetting all about Mr Jabez Rowle in my anxiety to try and obtain a situation by whose means I could earn my living.

At last, in a fit of desperation, I went up to the glass case, and the man reading the newspaper let it fall upon his knees and opened a little window.

“Now then, what is it?” he said in a gruff voice.

“If you please, sir, there’s a notice about boys wanted—”

“Down that passage, upstairs, first floor,” said the man gruffly, and banged down the window.

I was a little taken aback, but I pushed a swing-door, and went with a beating heart along the passage, on one side of which were rooms fitted up something like Mr Blakeford’s office, and on the other side a great open floor stacked with reams of paper, and with laths all over the ceiling, upon which boys with curious pieces of wood, something like long wooden crutches, were hanging up sheets of paper to dry, while at broad tables by the windows I could see women busily folding more sheets of paper, as if making books.

It was but a casual glance I had as I passed on, and then went by a room with the door half open and the floor carpeted inside. There was a pleasant, musical voice speaking, and then there was a burst of laughter, all of which seemed out of keeping in that dingy place, full of the throb of machinery, and the odour of oil and steam.

At the end of the passage was the staircase, and going up, I was nearly knocked over by a tall, fat-headed boy, who blundered roughly against me, and then turned round to cry indignantly—

“Now, stoopid, where are yer a-coming to?”

“Can you tell me, please, where I am to ask about boys being wanted?” I said mildly.

“Oh, find out! There ain’t no boys wanted here.”

“Not wanted here!” I faltered, with my hopes terribly dashed, for I had been building castles high in the air.

“No; be off!” he said roughly, when a new character appeared on the scene in the shape of a business-looking man in a white apron, carrying down an iron frame, and having one hand at liberty, he made use of it to give the big lad a cuff on the ear.

“You make haste and fetch up those galleys, Jem Smith;” and the boy went on down three stairs at a time. “What do you want, my man?” he continued, turning to me.

“I saw there were boys wanted, sir, and I was going upstairs.”

“When that young scoundrel told you a lie. There, go on, and in at that swing-door; the overseer’s office is at the end.”

I thanked him, and went on, pausing before a door blackened by dirty hands, and listened for a moment before going in.

The hum of machinery sounded distant here, and all within seemed very still, save a faint clicking noise, till suddenly I heard a loud clap-clapping, as if a flat piece of wood were being banged down and then struck with a mallet; and directly after came a hammering, as if some one was driving a wooden peg.

There were footsteps below, and I dared not hesitate longer; so, pushing the door, it yielded, and I found myself in a great room, where some forty men in aprons and shirt-sleeves were busy at what at the first glance seemed to be desks full of little compartments, from which they were picking something as they stood, but I was too much confused to notice more than that they took not the slightest notice of me, as I stopped short, wondering where the overseer’s room would be.

At one corner I could see an old man at a desk, with a boy standing beside him, both of them shut up in a glass case, as if they were curiosities; in another corner there was a second glass case, in which a fierce-looking man with a shiny bald head and glittering spectacles was gesticulating angrily to one of the men in white aprons, and pointing to a long, narrow slip of paper.

I waited for a moment, and then turned to the man nearest to me.

“Can you tell me, please, which is the overseer’s office?” I said, cap in hand.

“Folio forty-seven—who’s got folio forty-seven?” he said aloud.

“Here!” cried a voice close by.

“Make even.—Get out; don’t bother me.”

I shrank away, confused and perplexed, and a dark, curly-haired man on the other side turned upon me a pair of deeply set stern eyes, as he rattled some little square pieces of lead into something he held in his hand.

“What is it, boy?” he said in a deep, low voice.

“Can you direct me to the overseer’s office, sir?”

“That’s it, boy, where that gentleman in spectacles is talking.”

“Wigging old Morgan,” said another man, laughing.

“Ah!” said the first speaker, “that’s the place, boy;” and he turned his eyes upon a slip of paper in front of his desk.

I said, “Thank you!” and went on along the passage between two rows of the frame desks to where the fierce-looking bald man was still gesticulating, and as I drew near I could hear what he said.

“I’ve spoken till I’m tired of speaking; your slips are as foul as a ditch. Confound you, sir, you’re a perfect disgrace to the whole chapel. Do you think your employers keep readers to do nothing else but correct your confounded mistakes? Read your stick, sir—read your stick!”

“Very sorry,” grumbled the man, “but it was two o’clock this morning, and I was tired as a dog.”

“Don’t talk to me, sir; I don’t care if it was two o’clock, or twelve o’clock, or twenty-four o’clock. I say that slip’s a disgrace to you; and for two pins, sir—for two pins I’d have it framed and stuck up for the men to see. Be off and correct it.—Now, then, what do you want?”

This was to me, and I was terribly awe-stricken at the fierce aspect of the speaker, whose forehead was now of a lively pink.

“If you please, sir, I saw that you wanted boys, and—”

“No; I don’t want boys,” he raved. “I’m sick of the young monkeys; but I’m obliged to have them.”

“I am sorry, sir—” I faltered.

“Oh yes; of course. Here, stop! where are you going?”

“Please, sir, you said you didn’t want any boys.”

“You’re very sharp, ain’t you? Now hold your tongue, and then answer what I ask and no more. What are you—a machine boy or reader?”

“If you please, sir, I—I don’t know—I thought—I want—”

“Confound you; hold your tongue!” he roared. “Where did you work last?”

“At—at Mr Blakeford’s,” I faltered, feeling bound to speak the truth.

“Blakeford’s! Blakeford’s!—I know no Blakeford’s. At machine?”

“No, sir! I wrote all day.”

“Wrote? What, wasn’t it a printing-office?”

“No, sir.”

“How dare you come wasting my time like this, you insolent young scoundrel! Be off! Get out with you! I never knew such insolence in my life.”

I shrank away, trembling, and began to retreat down the avenue, this time with the men’s faces towards me, ready to gaze in my red and guilty countenance, for I felt as if I had been guilty of some insult to the majesty of the printing-office. To my great relief, though, the men were too busy to notice me; but I heard one say to another, “Old Brimstone’s hot this morning.” Then I passed on, and saw the dark man looking at me silently from beneath his overhanging brows; and the next moment, heartsick and choking with the effects of this rebuff, the swing-door was thrown open by the fat-headed boy coming in, and as I passed out, unaccustomed to its spring, the boy contrived that it would strike me full in the back, just as if the overseer had given me a rude push to drive me away.

I descended the stairs with the spirit for the moment crushed out of me; and with my eyes dim with disappointment, I was passing along the passage, when, as I came to the open door of the carpeted room, a man’s voice exclaimed—

“No, no, Miss Carr, you really shall not. We’ll send it on by one of the boys.”

“Oh, nonsense, Mr Lister; I can carry it.”

“Yes, yes; of course you can, but I shall not let you. Here, boy, come here.”

I entered the room nervously, to find myself in presence of a handsome, well-dressed man, another who was stout and elderly, and two young ladies, while upon the table lay a parcel of books, probably the subject of the remark.

“Hallo! what boy are you?” said the younger man. “Oh! one of the new ones, I suppose.”

“No, sir,” I said, with voice trembling and my face working, for I was unnerved by the treatment I had just received and the dashing of my hopes; “I came to be engaged, but—but the gentleman upstairs turned me away.”

“Why?” said the elder man sharply.

“Because I had not been in the printing-office, sir.”

“Oh, of course!” he said, nodding. “Of course. We want lads accustomed to the trade, my man.”

“You should teach him the trade, Mr Ruddle,” said one of the young ladies quickly, and I darted a look of gratitude at her.

“Too busy, Miss Carr,” he said, smiling at her. “We don’t keep a printer’s school.”

“I’ll teach him,” whispered the young man eagerly, though I heard him; “I’ll teach him anything, if you’ll promise not to be so cruel.”

“What a bargain!” she replied, laughing; and she turned away.

“I don’t think we need keep you, my lad,” said the young man bitterly.

“Indeed!” said the other young lady; “why, I thought he was to carry our parcel of books?”

“But he is a strange boy, my dear young ladies,” said the elder man; “I’ll ring for one from the office.”

“No; don’t, pray!” said the lady addressed as Miss Carr quickly. “I don’t think we will carry the parcel. You will carry it for us, will you not?”

“Oh, yes, indeed I will!” I cried eagerly; and I stepped forward, for there was something very winning in the speakers voice.

“Stop a moment, my man,” said the elder gentleman rather sternly, while the younger stood biting his lips; “where do your father and mother live?”

Those words made something rise in my throat, and I looked wildly at him, but could not speak.

He did not see my face, for he had taken up a pen and drawn a memorandum slip towards him.

“Well; why don’t you speak?” he said sharply, and as he raised his eyes I tried, but could not get out a word, only pointed mutely to the shabby band of crape upon my cap.

“Ah!”

There was a deep sigh close by me, and I saw that the young lady addressed as Miss Carr was deadly pale, and for the first time I noticed that she was in deep mourning.

“My dear Miss Carr!” whispered the young man earnestly.

“Don’t speak to me for a minute,” she said in the same tone; and then I saw her face working and lip quivering as she gazed wistfully at me.

“Poor lad!” said the elder man abruptly. Then, “Your friends, my boy, your relatives?”

“I have none, sir,” I said huskily, “only an uncle, and I don’t know for certain where he lives.”

“But you don’t mean that you are alone in the world?” said the young man quickly, and he glanced at the lady as he spoke.

“Yes, sir,” I said quietly, for I had now recovered myself, “I am quite alone, and I want to get a situation to earn my living.”

The elder gentleman turned upon me and seemed to look me through and through.

“Now, look here, young fellow,” he said, “you are either a very unfortunate boy or a designing young impostor.”

“Mr Ruddle!” exclaimed Miss Carr indignantly; and I saw the young man’s eyes glitter as he gazed at her sweet, sad face, twenty times more attractive now than when she was speaking lightly a minute before.

“I don’t want to be harsh, my dear, but here we are obliged to be firm and business-like. Now, boy, answer me; have you been to a good school?”

“No, sir,” I said, speaking sharply now, for his use of the word “impostor” stung me; “I was educated at home.”

“Humph! where do you come from?”

“Rowford, sir.”

“Town on a tall hill?”

“No, sir,” I said in surprise; “Rowford is quite in a hole; but we lived four miles from Rowford, sir, on the Cawleigh road.”

“Then you know Leydon Wood.”

“Oh yes, sir! that’s where papa used to take me to collect specimens.”

“Humph! Don’t say papa, my boy. Boys who go into the world to get their living don’t speak of their papas. John Lister!”

“Wait a minute, Ruddle,” said the younger man, whose back was towards us; and I saw that he was leaning over Miss Carr and holding her hand. “If you wish it,” he whispered softly, “it shall be done.”

“I do wish it,” she said with an earnest look in her large eyes as she gazed kindly at me; and the young man turned round, flushed and excited.

I was shrinking away towards the door, pained and troubled, for I felt that I had no business there, when Mr Lister motioned me to stop, and said something to the elder gentleman.

He in turn screwed up his face, and gave the younger a comical look.

“Your father would not have done so, John Lister,” he said. “What am I to say, Miss Carr?”

For answer the young lady rose and went and laid her hands in one of his.

“If you please, Mr Ruddle,” she said in a low musical voice, “it will be a kindly act.”

“God bless you, my dear,” he said tenderly. “I believe if I were with you long you’d make me as much your slave as you have John Lister.”

“Then you will?”

“Yes, my dear, yes, if it is really as he says.”

She darted an intelligent look at me, and then hastily pulled down her crape veil as Mr Lister followed her to her chair.

“Come here, my lad,” said Mr Ruddle, in quiet business-like tones. “We want boys here, but boys used to the printing trade, for it does not answer our purpose to teach them; we have no time. But as you seem a sharp, respectable boy, and pretty well educated, you might, perhaps, be willing to try.”

“Oh, if you’ll try me, I’ll strive so hard to learn, sir!” I cried excitedly.

“I hope you will, my boy,” he said drily, “but don’t profess too much; and mind this, you are not coming here as a young gentleman, but as a reading-boy—to work.”

“Yes, sir. I want to work,” I said earnestly.

“That’s well. Now, look here. I want to know a little more about you. If, as you say, you came from near Rowford, you can tell me the names of some of the principal people there?”

“Yes, sir; there’s Doctor Heston, and the Reverend James Wyatt, and Mr Elton.”

“Exactly,” he said gruffly; and he opened a large book and turned over a number of pages. “Humph! here it is,” he said to himself, and he seemed to check off the names. “Now, look here, my man. What is the name of the principal solicitor at Rowford?”

“Mr Blakeford, sir,” I said with a shiver, lest he should want to write to him about me.

“Oh, you know him?” he said sharply.

“Yes, sir. He managed papa’s—my father’s—affairs,” I said, correcting myself.

“Then I’m sorry for your poor father’s affairs,” he said, tightening his lips. “That will do, my lad. You can come to work here. Be honest and industrious, and you’ll get on. Never mind about having been a gentleman, but learn to be a true man. Go and wait outside.”

I tried to speak. I wanted to catch his hands in mine. I wanted to fling my arms round Miss Carr, and kiss and bless her for her goodness. I was so weak and sentimental a boy then. But I had to fight it all down, and satisfy myself by casting a grateful glance at her as I went out to wait.

I was no listener, but I heard every word that passed as the ladies rose to go.

“Are you satisfied, my dear?” said Mr Ruddle.

“God bless you?” she said; and I saw her raise her veil and kiss him.

“God bless you, my dear!” he said softly. “So this little affair has regularly settled it all, eh? And you are to be John’s wife. Well, well, well, my dear, I’m glad of it, very glad of it. John, my boy, I would my old partner were alive to see your choice; and as for you, my child, you’ve won a good man, and I hope your sister will be as fortunate.”

“I hope I shall, Mr Ruddle,” said the other lady softly.

“If I were not sixty, and you nineteen, my dear, I’d propose for you myself,” he went on laughingly. “But come, come, I can’t have you giddy girls coming to our works to settle your affairs. There, be off with you, and you dine with us on Tuesday next. The old lady says you are to come early. I’m afraid John Lister here won’t be able to leave the office till twelve o’clock; but we can do without him, eh?”

“Don’t you mind what he says, Miriam,” said Mr Lister. “But stop, here’s the parcel. I’ll send it on.”

“No, no. Please let that youth carry it for us,” said Miss Carr.

“Anything you wish,” he whispered earnestly; and the next moment he was at the door.

“You’ll carry this parcel for these ladies,” he said; “and to-morrow morning be here at ten o’clock, and we’ll find you something to do.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” I said eagerly; and taking the parcel, I followed the ladies into Holborn, and then along Oxford Street to a substantial row of houses near Cavendish Square, where the one I looked upon as my friend paused at a large door and held out her hand to me.

“I shall hope to hear from Mr Lister that you have got on well at the office,” she said in her sweet musical voice. “Recollect that you are my protégé, and I hope you will do me credit. I shall not forget to ask about you. You will try, will you not?”

“Oh yes,” I said hoarsely, “so hard—so very hard!”

“I believe you will,” she said, taking the parcel from my hand; “and now good-bye.”

The next moment I was standing alone upon the pavement, feeling as if a cloudiness had come over the day, while, as I looked down into my hand, it was to see there a bright new sovereign.

Chapter Sixteen.

Plans for the Future.

I went straight back to Mr Revitts, and only when nearly there did I remember that I had not thought to ask about Mr Rowle. But I felt it did not matter now, for I had obtained a situation, and he could not be annoyed to find that I was coming to the same establishment.

Mr Revitts was enjoying himself when I reached his room; that is to say, he was sitting in his dingy old red-flannel shirt and his blue uniform trousers, with his sleeves rolled well up above the elbow, reading the police news in a daily paper and smoking a short black pipe, with the wreaths of smoke floating out of the open window.

“Here you are then, my lad,” he said, “just in time. You and I will go out and have a bit o’ something at the cookshop. Did you find your friend?”

“No, sir—no Mr Revitts,” I said, correcting myself, “I forgot to ask for him.”

He let his paper fall in his lap and stared hard at me.

“Now, look here, my lad,” he said, expelling a large cloud of smoke, “I don’t want you to commit yourself, and it’s my dooty to tell you that whatever you say will be—No, no, nonsense. Come, speak out. What are you laughing at? What have you been doing?”

Hereupon I told him my adventure, my eyes sparkling with delight.

“And a whole sovereign into the bargain!” he cried as I finished. “Let’s look at it.”

I handed him the bright new golden coin, and he span it up in the air, caught it dexterously, and bit it. Then he tried it three or four times on the table, as a shopman would a piece of money on a counter, and ended by making believe to thrust it into his pocket.

“It’s a good one,” he said, “and I think I shall stick to it for your board and lodging last night and this morning. What do you say?”

“I think you ought to be paid, sir,” I said eagerly, “for you were very good to me.”

He stared hard at me for a few moments, and then thrust the sovereign back in my hand.

“I’ve seen a good many boys in my time,” he said, “but I’m blessed if ever I run again one like you. Why, you’ve got plenty of pluck, or else you wouldn’t have run away; but of all the simple—well, I won’t say simple, but green—of the green chaps I ever did come across you are about the greenest.”

I flushed up far from that tint at his words, for there was the old complaint again about my greenness.

“Please, Mr Revitts, I’m very sorry I’m so green,” I said, looking at him wistfully; “perhaps it’s because I’ve always lived in the country.”

He stared harder at me.

“Come here,” he said sharply, and going to the window, he placed me between his knees, laid a great hand upon each of my shoulders grasping them firmly, and gazed straight into my eyes. “Look here, youngster,” he said angrily, “is it R or F? Are you trying to humbug me? Because, if so, it won’t do: I’m too old.”

“Humbug you, sir?” I said wonderingly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“That you don’t,” he said, dropping his fierce way and sinking back smiling. “’Struth, what a boy you are!”

I gazed at him in a troubled way, for I felt hurt.

“I’m very sorry, Mr Revitts,” I said, “and I hope you don’t think I would do anything to deceive you,” for that “R or F” puzzled me.

“Deceive me? Not you, my boy. Why, you couldn’t deceive a sparrer or a hoyster. Why, you’re as transparent as a pane of glass. I can see right through you and out on the other side.”

“I’m afraid I am very stupid, sir,” I said sadly. “I’ll try to learn to be more clever. I don’t know much, only about books, and natural history, and botany, but I’ll try very hard not—not to be so—so—green.”

“Why, bless your young heart, where have you been all your life? You’re either as cunning as—No, you ain’t, you really are as innocent as a lamb.”

“I’ve always been at home with papa and mamma, sir.”

“Sir, be hanged! My name’s William Revitts; and if you and me’s going to be good friends, my boy, you’ll drop that sir-ing and mistering, and call me plain Bill.”

“Should you like it, sir, if I did?” I asked anxiously.

“No, sir, I shouldn’t. Yes, I should. Now then, is it to be friends or enemies?”

“Oh, friends, please,” I said, holding out my hand.

“Then there’s mine, young Antony,” he cried seizing it in his great, fingers. “And mind, I’m Bill, or old Bill, whichever you like.”

“I’m sure—Bill, I should be glad to be the best of friends,” I said, “for I have none.”

“Oh, come now, you said that Polly was very good to you.”

“What, Mary? Oh yes!”

“Well, then, that’s one. But, I say, you know you mustn’t be so precious innocent.”

“Mustn’t I, sir?”

“What!” he cried, bringing his hand down crash on the table.

“Mustn’t I, Bill?”

“That’s better. No: that you mustn’t. I seem to look upon you as quite an old friend since you lived so long with my Polly. But, I say, your education has been horribly neglected. You’re quite a baby to the boys up here at your age.”

“But papa was so anxious that I should learn everything,” I said, as I thought of Mr Ruddle’s words, “and we had lessons every day.”

“Hah! Yes; but you can’t learn everything out o’ books,” he continued, looking at me curiously. “You never went away to school, then?”

“No. I was going in a month or two.”

“Hah! and it was put off. Well, we can’t help it now, only you mustn’t be so jolly easy-going. Everybody here will glory in taking you in.”

“Do you mean cheating me?”

“That’s just what I do mean. Why, some chaps would have nailed that sov like a shot, and you’d never have seen it again. You see, I’m in the police, and we couldn’t stoop to such a thing, but I know lots o’ men as would say as a sov was no use to a boy like you, and think as they ought to take care of it for you.”

“Well, wouldn’t that be right, Mr Revitts?” I said.

“No, it wouldn’t, young greenhorn,” he cried sharply, “because they’d take care of it their way.”

“Greenhorn?” I said eagerly. “Oh, that’s what you mean by my being green! You mean ignorant and unripe in the world’s ways.”

“That’s just what I do mean,” he cried, slapping me on the shoulder. “Brayvo! that’s the result of my first lesson,” he continued admiringly. “Why, I’m blessed if I don’t think that if I had you here six months, and took pains, I could make a man of you.”

“Oh, I wish you would,” I cried excitedly. “I do so want to be a true, good man—one such as papa used to speak of—one who could carve his way to a noble and honourable career, and grow to be loved and venerated and held in high esteem by the world at large. Oh, I would try so hard—I’d work night and day, and feel at last, that I had not tried in vain.”

“He-ar! he-ar! Brayvo, brayvo, youngster! Well done our side! That’s your style!” he cried, clapping his hands and stamping his feet as I stopped short, flushed and excited with the ideas that had come thronging to my brain, and then gazed at him in a shamefaced and bashful manner. “That’s your sort, my boy, I like that. I say, did your father teach you that sorter thing.”

“Yes. Mr Rev.—Yes, Bill.”

“I say, your par, as you called him, wasn’t a fool.”

“My papa,” I said proudly, “I mean my dear father, was the best and kindest of men.”

“That I’ll lay sixpence he was. Why, I was feeling quite out of heart about you, and thinking you such a hinnocent young goose that I shouldn’t know how to help you. Why, lookye here, I’ve been kicking about in the world ever since I was ten, and been in the police six years, and I couldn’t make a speech like that.”

“Couldn’t you, sir—Mr—I mean Bill?”

“No, that I couldn’t. Why, I tell you what. You and I’ll stick together and I don’t know what we mightn’t make of you at last—p’r’aps Lord Mayor o’ London. Or, look here, after a few years we might get you in the police.”

“In the police?” I faltered.

“To be sure, and you being such a scholard and writing such a hand—I know it, you know. Lookye here,” he continued, pulling out a pocket-book, from one of the wallets in which he drew a note I had written for Mary, “I say, you writing such a hand, and being well up in your spelling, you’d rise like a air balloon, and get to be sergeant, and inspector, and perhaps superintendent, and wear a sword! You mark my words, youngster; you’ve got a future before you.”

“Do you think so?”

“I just do. I like you, young Antony, hang me if I don’t; and if you stick to me I’ll teach you all I know.”

“Will you?” I said eagerly.

“Well, all I can. Just hand me that paper o’ tobacco. Thankye. I’ll have just one more pipe, and then we’ll go to dinner.”

He filled and lit his pipe, and went on talking.

“First and foremost, don’t you get trying to smoke.”

“No, I will not,” I said.

“That’s right. It’s all very well for men, a little of it; but I don’t like to see boys at it, as too many tries just now. I often sees ’em on my beat, and I never feel so jolly happy as when I come across one looking white after it about the gills, and so sick he can’t hold his head straight up. But, as I was a-saying, you stick to me and I’ll teach you all I can, and I know two or three things,” he continued, closing one eye and opening it again.

“You must, sir.”

“Yes; there’s some clever chaps I have to deal with sometimes—roughs and thieves and the like; but they have to get up very early in the morning to take me in.”

“Do they, sir—Bill?” I said wonderingly.

“There, now you’re getting innocent again,” he said sharply. “You don’t mean to tell me as you don’t understand that?”

“Oh yes, I do: you mean that they would have to get up very early to master you—say at daybreak.”

“What a young innocent you are,” he cried, laughing; and then seeing my pained look, he slapped me on the shoulder again. “It’s all right, my boy. You can’t help it; and you’ll soon learn all these things. I know a lot, but so do you—a sight o’ things I don’t. Why, I’ll be bound to say you could write a long letter without making a single mistake in the spelling.”

“Yes, I think I could,” I said innocently. “Both papa and mamma took great pains with me over that.”

“Look at that, now!” he said. “Why, I couldn’t write two lines in my pocket-book without putting down something as the sergeant would chaff.”

“Chaff?” I said, “cut-up stuff for horses?”

“Yes: that’s it,” he said, grinning. “Stuff as they cut up. There, you’ll soon know what chaff is, my lad. But, you know, all the same, and speaking quite fair, I do maintain as spelling ain’t square.”

“Not square?”

“I mean fair and square and above-board. Them as invented spelling couldn’t have been very clever, or they’d have made everything spelt as it sounded. Why, it only seems natural to spell doctor’s stuff f-i-z-z-i-k, and here you have to stick in p’s, and h’s, and y’s, and s’s, and c’s, as ain’t wanted at all.”

“It is puzzling, certainly,” I said.

“Puzzling? Puzzling ain’t nothing to it. I can write a fair round hand, and spell fast enough my way. Our sergeant says there isn’t a man on our station as can write such a nice looking report; but when it comes to the spelling—there, I won’t tell you what he said about that!”

“But you could soon improve your spelling.”

“Think so?” he said eagerly. “Oh no, I don’t fancy we could.”

“I am sure you could,” I said. “The best way is to do dictation.”

“Dictation? What, ordering about?”

“Oh no; not that sort of dictation. I mean for me to read to you from a book and you write it down, and then I mark all the misspelt words, and you write them down and learn them.”

“Look at that now!” he exclaimed. “To be sure, that’s the way. Now, you know, I bought a spelling-book, that didn’t seem to do no good; so I bought a pocket dictionary, and that was such a job to go through, so full of breakneck words as no one never heard of before, that I give that up. Why, you ain’t innocent after all. Would you mind trying me?”

“Mind! no,” I cried; “we could use either a slate or paper.”

“So we could, and do it with either a pencil or a pen. I say, come: fair and square, I’ll teach you all I know if you’ll teach me all you know.”

“That’s agreed,” I said.

“Done for you,” he cried, shaking hands. “And now my pipe’s out, and we’ll go and have dinner. Wait till I roll down my sleeves and get on my stock. Why, you and I will be as jolly as can be here. It’s rather a long way to go to your work, but you must get up a bit earlier. Two miles night and morning won’t kill you; and I’ve been thinking what we’ll do. You’ve got your sovereign. We’ll go to a place I know, and buy one o’ them little iron fold-up bedsteads and a mattress and pillow and blanket, and stand it there. It’s breaking into your sov, but then you’ll have the bit o’ furniture, which will be your property, so the money won’t be wasted. What do you say?”

I was delighted, and said so.

“Well, then, lookye here,” he continued, as he took great pains with his hair and whiskers before the glass, and then put on and buttoned up his uniform coat, to stand before me a frank, manly fellow of about thirty, “you’re my company this week, and after that you shall put so much of your salary into the stock to pay for living, and we shall both be free and independent, and what’s left you can shove in the bank.”

“In the bank?”

“Yes, savings-bank. I don’t mind telling you as an old friend I’ve got forty-four pun ten there.”

“Mary has thirty-seven pounds in a savings-bank,” I said.

“Now there’s for you!” he said.

“Yes, she told me so; but perhaps I oughtn’t to have told you.”

“Well,” he said seriously, “I s’pose you oughtn’t, because it was told you in confidence, but I’m glad you did. She never told me.”

“Did you ever tell her how much you had saved?”

“No, that I didn’t, only as I was saving, so it’s all fair. Look here, youngster—I mean Antony,” he said, after standing staring in the glass for a few minutes, “I tell you what it is, you coming up has about brought matters to a head.”

“Has it, Bill?”

“Yes, it hayve, my boy. Do you know, I don’t for the life of me know why we two have been waiting; do you?”

“No,” I said shaking my head.

“No, nor more don’t Mary, I’ll bet a sixpence. We got engaged to one another, and then we said as it wouldn’t be sensible, to get married at once, as we might both see some one we liked better, don’t you see?”

“Yes,” I said, feeling puzzled all the same, “it was very prudent.”

“I could have got married lots o’ times since, but I’ve never seen a girl as I liked so well, and I s’pose Mary hasn’t seen a chap, for she keeps on writing.”

“Oh yes; and she thinks a deal of you. She’s very proud of you.”

“Is she, though?” he said, with a satisfied smile, and giving his head a shake in his stock. “Well, then, I tell you what: I’ll write and ask Mary to say the day, and then meet her at the station. We’ll take a little bigger place, and she’ll come up and make us both comfortable. What do you say to that?”

I clapped my hands, and he stood smiling in an exceedingly simple way, and looking like a very big overgrown boy, for a few moments, before turning himself round to me.

“See that,” he said, in a quiet business-like way. “I was laughing at you for being soft and green just now, and I’m blessed if I don’t feel as if I was ten times worse. Come along, company, it’s ever so late, and my report says hot mutton chop, a cup of tea, and some bread and butter.”

That evening, after a hearty meal, for which Revitts insisted upon paying, there was just time to make the purchases he proposed, which almost melted the whole of my sovereign, and then it was time for him to go on duty.

“They’ve cost a deal,” he said thoughtfully, “but then you’ve still got the money, only in another shape. Now, you get back home and take in the things when they come, and then sit and read a bit, and afterwards go to bed. I wouldn’t go out, if I was you.”

We parted, and I followed out his directions, being shrewd enough to see that he thought me hardly fit to be trusted alone.

The next morning I woke to find it was half-past six, and that Revitts had come home and was preparing for bed. He looked tired out, and was very black and dirty, having been, he said, at a fire; but he was not too much fatigued to give me a friendly bit or two of advice as to getting my breakfast and going down to the office.

“Have a good breakfast before you start, my boy, and get some bread and cheese for your lunch—that’s twopence. When you come back you’ll find the tea-things out, and you can make dinner and tea too.”

In good time I started, leaving Revitts sleeping off his night’s fatigue, and about ten minutes to ten I was at the door of the great printing-office, flushed with exercise and dread, but eager all the same to make a beginning.

I hesitated as to whether I should go in at once or wait till it struck ten, but I thought that perhaps I might be some time before I saw Mr Ruddle, so I walked straight in, and the man reading the paper in his gloss case looked up at me in a very ill-used way as I stopped at his window.

“You again?” he said gruffly. “Well, what is it?”

“If you please, I’ve come to work,” I said.

“Work? Why, it’s ten o’clock. Why weren’t you here at eight?”

“Mr Ruddle said ten o’clock, sir, and I want to see him.”

“Oh!” he said gruffly, as if he were the gatekeeper of an earthly paradise. “Well, I s’pose you must pass in. Go on.”

I went on into the passage, feeling as if the doorkeeper was the most important personage there, and as if the proprietors must make a practice of asking permission to go into their own place.

I went, then, nervously down the passage till I came to the door of the room where I had seen Messrs Ruddle and Lister. It was ajar, and there were loud voices talking, and though I knocked they went on.

“Stern firmness is one thing, Grimstone,” I heard Mr Ruddle saying, “and bullying another.”

“But you don’t consider, sir, that I bully the men, do you?” said another voice which was quite familiar to me.

“You may call it what you like, Grimstone. There, I’m busy now.”

There was a sharp step, and the door was flung wide open and closed, when my friend the overseer, who had been so rough to me on the previous day, came out and pretty nearly knocked me down.

Chapter Seventeen.

My First Literary Efforts. I Make Another Friend.

The overseer and I stood in the dim light gazing at one another for a few moments, during which I seemed to read in his sharp, harsh face an air of resentment at my presence.

“Hallo!” he said, in an angry voice, and evidently rejoicing at having encountered some one upon whom he could vent a little of the anger seething within him. “What, are you here again, you young vagabond? Didn’t I tell you yesterday to go about your business? Be off with you, or I’ll send for a policeman. How dare you! What do you mean?”

“But please, sir,” I remonstrated.

“Will you be off?” he roared; and I felt that I was about to be driven from the place, when the proprietor’s door was sharply opened and Mr Lister appeared.

“Confound it all, Grimstone,” he cried, “what’s the matter now? Look here, sir; I will not have this bullying and noise in the place.”

“Your father never spoke to me like that, Mr John, when he was alive.”

“My father put up with a great deal from you, Grimstone, because you were an old and faithful servant of the firm; but that is no reason why I, his son, should submit to what is sometimes bordering on insolence.”

“Insolence, Mr John?”

“Yes, Grimstone, insolence.”

“What is the matter?” said Mr Ruddle, coming out.

“Mr John says I’m insolent, Mr Ruddle,” said the overseer angrily; “was I ever insolent to you, sir, or his father?”

“Well, if you want the truth, Grimstone, you often were very insolent, only we put up with it for old acquaintance’ sake. But what’s the matter now?”

“I was just speaking to this young vagabond, who persists in hanging about the place, sir, when Mr John came out and attacked me, sir.”

“Don’t call names, Grimstone,” said Mr Lister hotly. “This young vagabond, as you call him, is a fresh boy whom Mr Ruddle has taken on, and whom I desire you to treat kindly.”

“Why didn’t he speak, then,” said the overseer angrily; “how was I to know that he was engaged? In Mr Lister senior’s time the engaging of boys for the office was left to the overseer.”

He stalked off, evidently in high dudgeon, leaving the masters gazing at one another.

“He grows insufferable,” said Mr Lister angrily. “One would think the place belonged to him.”

“Yes, he is rough,” said Mr Ruddle; “but he’s a good overseer, John, and a faithful old servant. He was with us when we first began. Well, my boy, you’ve come then; now go upstairs to the composing-room, and ask Mr Grimstone to give you a job; he’ll be a bit cross, I dare say, but you must not mind that.”

“No; sir; I’ll try not.”

“That’s right,” he said, giving me a friendly nod, and I hurried upstairs and walked right through the composing-room to Mr Grimstone’s glass case.

He saw me coming, but, though I tapped softly at the door several times, he refused to take any notice of me for some minutes, during which I had to stand uncomfortably aware of the fact that I had given terrible offence to this man in authority, by allowing myself to be engaged downstairs after he had bade me go.

He was busy, pen in hand, looking over some long, narrow pieces of paper, and kept on turning them over and over, making his spectacles flash as he changed his position, and directing the top of his very shiny bald head at me, till at last he raised it, gave a start, and turned as if astonished at seeing me there; but it was poor pantomime and badly done.

“Well, what is it?” he said.

“If you please, sir, Mr Lister sent me up to ask you to give me a job.”

“Me give you a job,” he said, in a menacing tone; “why, I thought you would be hanger-on down below, and not come up into the office, where you’d get your nice white hands dirtied. What job can I give you? What can you do? What do you know? Here, Smith, take this boy, and give him a page of pie to dis.”

The big, fat-headed boy came up from a distant part of the room, scowled at me, and led me to one of the desk-like frames, upon which were four large open trays full of compartments of various sizes.

“Here you are!” he said, “lay holt;” and he thrust a little heavy square paper packet into my hands. “It’s burjoyce,”—so it sounded to me; “look alive, and then come for another.”

He went away, leaving me balancing the heavy packet in my hand. It was about the size and thickness of a small book, but what next to do with it, or how I was to do it, I, did not know.

Of course I know now that it was the petty, contemptible revenge of a little-minded man to set me, a totally uninstructed novice, to do that which an old practised compositor will shelve if he can, as an uncongenial task. To “dis a page of burjoyce pie” was, in fact, to distribute—that is, place in its proper compartments, or in the case—every large and small letter, space and point, of a quantity of bourgeois, or ordinary newspaper type, that had been accidentally mixed, or “pied” as it is technically termed. The distribution of an ordinary page or column of type is comparatively easy, for the skilled workman reads it off word by word, and drops the letters dexterously in the compartment assigned; but in “pie” the letters and spaces are all jumbled, and the task is troublesome and slow.

There was I, then, with about as easy a task as if I had been suddenly handed the various parts of a watch, and told to put them together; and I felt helpless and ashamed, not daring to interrupt any of the busy men intent upon their work at the various frames.

An hour must have elapsed before I felt that I dare venture to go towards Mr Grimstone’s glass case, and I was about desperately to tell him that I was ignorant and helpless, and quite unfit to do what he had set me, when the dark, stern-eyed man I had seen on the previous day came round by where I stood.

He gazed at me curiously, and gave me a nod, and was passing on, when I desperately exclaimed:

“If you please, sir—”

“Eh? What, is it, my boy?” he said.

“I was told, sir, to dis this pie,” I said, fearful that I was making some absurd blunder about the word pie.

“Well, why don’t you do it? Get the sponge off the stone and give it a good soaking in a galley.”

“I’m very sorry, sir,” I said, encouraged by his quiet, kind way, “but I don’t know how.”

“Haven’t you been in a printing-office before?”

“No, sir.”

“And never distributed type?”

“No, sir.”

“How absurd! Who set you to do it?”

“Mr Grimstone, sir.”

“But does he know that you have never handled type?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ass?” he muttered. “Here, come along with me, my man. No; better not, perhaps. Leave that packet alone, my boy. There, lay it down. Stand here and try and learn the case.”

“Learn the case, sir?” I said, with my heart sinking within me at being given another impossible task.

“Yes, it’s very easy; only wants time,” he said kindly; “Here, pick up one of these pieces of type,” he continued, dexterously taking up a little thin bit of black metal, “like this, and turn it in your fingers, and see what letter is stamped on the end, and then put it back in the same compartment of the case.”

“Is that tray the case, sir?”

“Yes, quite right, go on. You can come and ask me anything you don’t know.”

I darted a grateful look at him, and eagerly began my task, though in fear and trembling, lest Mr Grimstone should come and find fault because I had not “dis’d the pie.”

Few people, I think, realise the sufferings of a sensitive boy at school, or at his first launching into life, when set to some task beyond his perception or powers. The dread of being considered stupid; the fear of the task-masters, the strangeness, the uncongenial surroundings, all combine to make up a state of mental torture that produces illness; and yet it is often ridiculed, and the sufferer treated with cruelty for non-performance of that which, simple to the initiated, is to him in his ignorance an utter impossibility.

It was with a sense of relief I cannot describe that I began to lift the metal types one by one, looked at them, and put them back; and I was not long in finding out that, while the capital letters in the upper of the two trays before me ran nearly regularly A, B, C, D, and so on, and beneath them the figures 1, 2, 3, 4, etc, the lower case was a perfect puzzle.

The compartments were not like those above, all small squares, and the same size, but some were very large, and some very small; some were long, and some were square; but I found that they were made upon a regular plan. For instance, there was one very large compartment nearly in the middle at the top of the lower tray, that was evidently six times as big as the small compartments; while below and beside it were many more that were four times as big as the small ones; others being only twice as big.

I naturally examined the large compartment first, and found it full of little thin slips of metal nearly an inch long, at the end of each of which, and beautifully formed, was the letter e. There was no doubt about it, and it was evident that there were more e’s than anything else. Then under it I found the compartment full of h’s, and away to the left, n’s and m’s; t’s, d’s, u’s, o’s, a’s, and r’s were in other large compartments, and it gradually dawned upon my mind that these letters were placed where they would be handiest for use, and that there was the largest number of those that would be most frequently required.

My surmise was quite right, and with this idea as the key, I soon found out that little-used x and z were in very small numbers, in the most out-of-the-way parts of the tray, just as were the double letters ae and oe, etc. One compartment close under my hand, and very full, puzzled me the most, for the pieces of metal therein were short, and had no letters on the end; and at last, after trying in vain to understand their meaning, I determined to ask the dark man next time he passed, and went on trying to master my task with the strange clicking noise made by the men going on all round.

I hardly dared glance about, but in the casual glimpses I stole, I began to understand now that the men about me were picking up, letter by letter, the types, to form words, and arranging them in little curiously shaped tools they held in their hands.

I had been busily learning my letters for about half an hour, when the big, fat-headed boy came up to me.

“Now then!” he said, in a bullying tone that was a very good imitation of the overseer’s, “done that page?”

“No!” I said.

“You ain’t?”

“No; I did not know how.”

“Oh, you’ll catch it, just, when Mr Grimstone knows. You ain’t coming here to do just as you like; and I tell you what it is—”

“Well, what is it, boy?” said a quiet, stern voice, and my heart, gave a joyful thump as I saw the dark man come up.

“Please, he ain’t dis’d this here pie.”

“No; he did not know how. I set him to learn the case.”

“But Mr Grimstone said he was to—”

“Jem Smith, do you know you are a fool?” said the dark man quietly.

“I dessay I am, Mr Hallett, but Mr Grimstone said as this boy was to—”

“And if you don’t go about your business I shall box your ears.”

“No, you—”

He did not finish his sentence, for there was something in the deep-set dark eyes which had such an effect upon him that he sneaked off, and I turned to my protector.

“Would you please tell me why these little things have no letters on their ends, sir?” I said.

“Because they are spaces, my boy. Don’t you remember in reading a book there is a little distance between every word?”

“Yes, sir,” I said eagerly; “and after a full stop there’s a bigger space.”

“To be sure!” he said, smiling, and his pale face looked less stern and severe. “Look: these little things, as you call them, but as we call them, thick spaces, go between every word, and these square ones after a full stop. How are you getting on?”

“I know that’s e, sir.”

“Yes; go on.”

“And that’s h, and that o, and u—m—a—r—i—s—o—n—t,” I said, touching the boxes in turn.

“Good, very good,” he said, “and what is that?”

“That, sir?—d.”

“No, it is p. And that?”

“Oh, that is b.”

“No, it is q. Now you know the meaning of mind your p’s and q’s. You must learn the difference, and try to recollect this; all the letters, you see, are reversed, like a seal.”

“Like the motto on papa’s seal. Yes, I see, sir,” I said eagerly.

“That’s right, my boy,” he said looking at me curiously. “Go on, I am too busy to stay.”

“Now! what’s all this?” said Mr Grimstone, bustling up with Jem Smith.

“Please, sir,” said the latter, “I telled him as he was to—”

“I found the boy unable to do what was set him, Mr Grimstone,” said my protector quietly, “and told him to go on with learning his case. The boy has never been in an office before.”

“That was for me to know, Mr Hallett,” cried the overseer, growing red in the face. “What the devil do you mean by—”

“Interfering, Mr Grimstone? I did it because I was sure you were too good a manager to wish time to be wasted in this large office. And—I must ask you, please when you speak to me, to omit these coarse expressions.”

“Of all the insolence—”

“Insolent or not, sir,” said the dark man sternly, “have the goodness to remember that I always treat you with respect, and I expect the same from you. Excuse me, but a quarrel between us will not improve your position with the men.”

Mr Grimstone looked at him furiously; and turning redder in the face than ever, seemed about to burst into a tirade of angry language, but my protector met his look in a way that quelled him, and turning upon the fat-headed boy, who was looking on open-mouthed, the overseer gave him a sounding box on the ear.

“What are you standing gaping there for, you lazy young scoundrel?” he roared; “go and wash those galleys, and do them well.”

Then, striding off, he went into his glass case, while Jem Smith, in a compartment at the end of an avenue of cases, began to brush some long lengths of type, and whenever I glanced at him, he shook his fist, as he showed his inflamed eyes red with crying and his face blackened by contact with his dirty hands.

My protector, Mr Hallett, had left me at once, and I saw no more of him for some time, as I worked away, sorry at having been the innocent means of getting him into a quarrel. At last, just as I was very intent in puzzling out the difference between p’s and q’s I started, for the great lubberly boy came up close behind me.

“I’ll give you a warming when you goes out to dinner, see if I don’t,” he whispered; but he shuffled off directly, as Mr Hallett came towards me, saw that I was busy, and after giving me a friendly nod, went back, leaving his calm, strangely stern face so impressed upon me, that I kept finding myself thinking of him, his eyes seeming to stare at me from out of every box.

But still I worked on, feeling each moment more and more sure of my way, and at last in a fit of enterprise I set to work and managed to find the letters forming my own name, and laid them side by side.

I felt no little nervous dread as dinner-time approached, for Jem Smith’s warming was in waiting; but as one o’clock struck, Mr Hallett came up to me while the other men were hurrying off, and said kindly:

“Did that boy threaten you?”

“He—he said something, sir,” I replied, hesitating.

“I thought so. He’s gone now, so don’t go out to dinner, my man. I can give you a little of mine. I’ll speak to him before you go to-night.”

Chapter Eighteen.

My Friend Jem Smith Makes Me Ambitious.

I was receiving my first lessons in the fact that there is as much good-will as ill-will in the world—in other words, that there really is, as has been so poetically expressed, a silver lining to every cloud; and I gladly availed myself of Mr Hallett’s kind offer, following him to his frame, as they called the skeleton desks that supported the cases, and there sitting down close by him to partake of some bread and meat which he brought out carefully wrapped in a clean white napkin.

“Don’t be afraid, my boy,” he said, “make a good meal; and I should advise you, for the present, to bring your dinner with you and eat it here. Better than going into the streets.”

He then ate his own dinner quickly, and without taking the slightest notice of me beyond seeing once that I had a sufficiency of the bread and meat, but took out an oblong memorandum-book, and began busily drawing and making some calculation.

As he worked at this, I sat and had a good look at him, and could see that his large, massive head was covered with crisp dark hair that was already slightly sprinkled with grey. From time to time he raised his eyes from his book to look up, as if diving into the distance, or trying to catch some idea that was wandering away from him, and at such moments his deeply set eyes had a curiously intense look about them, while his forehead was deeply marked with thoughtful lines.

I don’t think he was more than thirty, but he looked, so to speak, vigorously old, or, rather, worn like some piece of steel that has been used hard, but has grown sharper and more elastic by that use. He was a tall, well-made man, but thin and spare, giving the idea of one who was ascetic in his habits and devoting himself to some particular end.

He did not speak to me again, and I was not sorry, for there was that in his face and ways that rather repelled than attracted, and I somehow felt that if he, in his quiet, firm way, were angry with me, I should be more alarmed than by the noisy bullying of Mr Grimstone, the overseer.

Two o’clock was signalled by the coming back of the compositors, who resumed their white aprons and rolled up their sleeves, when the sharp clicking noise went on as before. Mr Hallett, at the first entrance of one of his fellow-workmen, had shut his book with a snap, and thrust it into his breast, rolled up the napkin, and then, turning to me with a nod,—

“Two o’clock, my boy,” he said. “Get on with your work.”

As he spoke he resumed his own, and I went back to my case.

I had hardly been there ten seconds, and was diligently making sure which was the compartment containing the letter u, which had a terribly strong resemblance to the letter n, when Mr Grimstone suddenly pounced on me from round the end of the case. I say pounced, for it was so wonderfully like a cat coming upon a mouse. He seemed surprised and disappointed at finding me there, though I did not comprehend his looks then, and after staring hard for a moment or two, he went away.

The hours glided away, and I was so interested in what I was doing, that I hardly noticed the lapse of time, while, long before the afternoon was past, the work the men were engaged upon seemed so attractive that I felt impelled to imitate them by trying to pick up the letters forming various words, and then replacing them in the different boxes.

The first time it was rather difficult, but the second time I got on pretty well, and I was just beginning for the third time, when Mr Hallett came round my way and caught me in the act. I felt very guilty, but he seemed to approve, and walked away, to return directly with a little sliding steel thing, such as the men were using.

“Here’s a stick, my boy; try and place the letters, nick uppermost, in that.”

I took the stick, as he called it, and found that as fast as I placed a letter in, it seemed to do its best to jump out again; then one letter got upon another, or two or three appeared to quarrel and join in a regular squabble, so that their awkwardness and utter refusal to lie quietly side by side at last put me in a profuse perspiration.

I was busily fumbling about when Mr Grimstone, whose voice I had often heard scolding different men, came round, saw what I was doing, and snatched the composing-stick away.

“Tchah! What waste of time! Come along here,” he cried angrily, and I followed him to his glass office, where he sat down upon a worn stool. “Now then,” he said, sharply, “I’ve decided to give you a trial.”

I remember thinking that he was very stupid to assume that he had full authority, when I knew that he had not, but, of course, I was silent.

“And now mind this, sir: I am overseer here, and what I say I will have done, I have done. You hear?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“And now we understand one another.”

Saying this, he bounced down from his stool again, and led me to the end of the large room and through a door into a dirty place with a great leaden sink, water, and brushes, and a pot containing some liquid.

Jem Smith was there, having just brought in a long narrow tray containing a column of type.

“Here, Smith, show this boy how to wash a galley; and see that he does it well.”

Jem Smith grinned at me as soon as we were left alone, and I saw plainly enough that he meant to have some compensation for the box on the ear he had received; but I tried hard to contain myself, and meant to submit patiently to anything that might follow.

“Here, ketch hold o’ that galley,” he said sharply, “and look here, young man, don’t you get trying to play the sneak here, and begin getting old Hallett to take your part. He’s only a sneak, and everybody here hates him ’cause he won’t take his beer. You keep away from him, or it’ll be the worse for you. I’ve only got to tell the other boys, and they’ll make it so warm for you as you’ll wish as you’d never come here. Now, then, why don’t you ketch hold o’ that galley?”

“I don’t know what a galley is,” I said sturdily.

“Don’t know what a galley is,” he said, imitating my way of speaking; “you’re a pretty sort of fellow to come and get work at a printing-office. There, ketch holt, stoopid: that’s the galley; put it here, and you needn’t be so precious frightened of getting your fingers black. There’s the brush, dip it, and fetch all that ink off.”

I took the brush, dipped it in the liquor in the pot, and on brushing the surface of the type found that the strong solution easily brought off all the black ink; and I ended as instructed, by thoroughly rinsing the type and placing it to drain.

This done, I had to wash several more galleys, with the result that I was made tolerably black; and to make matters worse, my companion brought in a black roller of some soft material, and dabbed it against my cheek.

I plucked up my spirit and felt ready to strike out, but somehow I kept my anger down, and after washing the roller in turn, I was allowed to dry my hands and clean my face, which Jem Smith persuaded me to do with the strong solution of potash, making it tingle smartly; and, but for the rapid application of pure water, I believe the skin would have been made sore.

This seemed to afford the young ruffian intense delight, and taking up the brush, he dipped it in the potash and tried to brush my hair.

I retreated from him as far as I could, but he got between me and the door, and with the malignant pleasure felt by some boys in persecuting those who are weaker than themselves, he caught me by the collar.

“Just you call out, that’s all,” he said, “and I’ll half kill you. Hold still, you little sneak. You make so much noise as’ll reach outside, and I’ll jump on you.”

We were close beside the lead sink and the pot of solution-lye, as the printers call it; and now a new idea seemed to come into the spiteful young wretch’s mind, for, throwing down the brush, he seized hold of me with both hands, and as we struggled, being much the stronger, he got behind me, thrust his knee violently into my back, and brought me down kneeling before the great earthen pot. And now for the first time I saw what he intended to do, namely, to thrust my face and head into the black caustic solution, and, in spite of my resistance, he got it down lower and lower.

I might have shrieked out for help, and I might have cried for mercy; but, moved partly by his threats, partly by shame, I refrained, and made use of all my strength to escape, but in vain; strive as I would, he forced me down lower and lower, and then by one quick effort placed a hand on the back of my head and thrust it right into the filthy water.

Fortunately for me it was but a momentary affair, and the next instant he allowed me to struggle up and run blindly to the sink, where, perhaps, a little alarmed by his success, he filled a bowl with clean water, leaving the tap running, as I strove to sluice off the blinding, tingling fluid.

I was in the midst of this, and with soaked necktie and collar, kept on bathing my face and hair, when I heard Mr Grimstone’s voice at the door, and hastily thrust my fingers into my ears to clear them.

“What’s he doing?”

“Washing hisself, sir.”

“Washing himself?”

“Yes, sir; he said it was such a nasty dirty job to brush galleys that he must have a good clean.”

“Where’s the towel?” I said blindly, for my eyes smarted so that I dare not open them, and they grew so painful that I hurried once more to the sink and bathed them with clear water before pressing my hair as dry as I could, and then using my handkerchief to wipe my face.

I now opened my eyes, and saw that there was a very dirty jack-towel on a roller behind the door, to which I hastily ran.

“Look here, sir,” said Mr Grimstone, as I hastily rubbed away at my head; “we can’t have these goings-on here. What have you been doing?”

“I think he’s been using the lye, sir,” cried the young hypocrite. “I told him it was only for the type.”

“It isn’t true, sir,” I cried indignantly; when a compositor came up to the door, and Mr Grimstone was called away.

The moment he was gone, Smith darted at me, and thrust his doubled fist hard against my face.

“You say a word agen me,” he said, “and I’ll half kill yer. I’ll smash yer, that I will, so look out.”

He went out of the place, leaving me hot and indignant, rubbing away at my tingling head, which I at length got pretty dry and combed before a scrap of glass stuck by four tacks in a corner; and when I had finished it was in time to see the men just returning from their tea and resuming their work.

Not being told to do anything else, I went back to the case, and continued to learn the boxes, not much the worse for my adventure, only feeling uncomfortably wet about the neck.

At last the clock pointed to eight, and, following the example of the rest, I hurried out of the great office, eager to get back to Mr Revitts before he went on duty, for I wanted to ask him a question.

I got up to the street in Pentonville just as he was coming out of the house, and in answer to his “Halloa! here you are, then,” I caught hold of his arm.

“Bill!” I exclaimed, panting with excitement, “can you teach me how to fight?”

Chapter Nineteen.

William Revitts On Lessons.

Sometime passed before William Revitts replied in full to my question. He had, of course, asked me what I meant, and I had explained to him the treatment I had received, but his duties and mine kept us a great deal apart. One night, however, when he had returned to day-duty, he was seated in his shirt-sleeves talking to me, and said all of a sudden: “Yes, I could teach you how to fight, Antony.”

“And will you?” I said eagerly.

“Give me my ’bacco and pipe off the chimney-piece.”

I handed them to him, and waited patiently while he filled and lighted his pipe, and then all at once, along with a puff of smoke, he exclaimed:

“No, I sha’n’t. Fighting’s all blackguardism, as I know as well as most men. I’ve had the taking up of some of the beauties as go in for it, and beauties they are. I don’t say as if I was you I wouldn’t give that Master Jem Smith an awful crack for himself if he meddled with me again; but I should do it when I was in a passion, and when he’d hurt me. You’ll hit as hard again then, and serve him right. Now let’s have a turn at spelling.”

We did “have a turn at spelling,” and I dictated while Revitts wrote, varying the task with bits of advice to me—absurd enough, some of them, while others were as shrewd and full of common-sense.

By that time I had rapidly begun to fish up odds and ends of experience, such as stood me in good stead, and, in spite of what was really little better than contemptible persecution on the overseer’s part, I was making some little way at the printing-office.

I shall not soon forget the feeling of pride with which on the first Friday night I heard my name called out by a business-like clerk with a book, after he had summoned everyone in the room, and received from him a little paper-bag containing my wages.

“You haven’t been full time, Grace,” he said, entering the sum paid in a book; “but the firm said I was to pay you for the week, as you were a beginner.”

As soon as I thought I was unobserved, I counted out seven shillings, a sum that showed that I was a little favoured, for honestly I believe that I was not worth that amount to my employers.

Hardly had I made sure of my good fortune than I had a visit from Jem Smith, who came up grinning.

“Now, then,” he said, “old Grim’s gone for the night, and you’ve got to come down and pay your footing.”

I stared at him in my ignorance, but, fully under the impression that something unpleasant was meant, I resolutely determined to stay where I was, and I was saved from further persecution by Mr Hallett coming up, which was the signal for Jem Smith to sneak off. I asked Hallett what was meant, and he explained to me that it was a custom for working men on entering a new place to pay for some beer for their fellow-workmen.

“But don’t you pay a penny to the young wolves,” he said, and I determined that I would not.

I was well on in the second week, and during the intervening days I had been set to every dirty and objectionable task Mr Grimstone could invent for me, but I did them patiently and well. I had seen nothing of my employers, and but little of Mr Hallett, who seemed too busy to take much notice of me; but he somehow had a knack of turning up in emergencies, just when I required help and counsel, showing that he kept an eye upon me for my good.

I noticed as I sat beneath a frame eating my dinner in the composing-room that he always employed a good deal of his time in drawing or calculating, and I found, too, that he was no great favourite with his fellow-workmen, who nicknamed him the steam-engine, because he worked so rapidly and did so much. It was very plain, too, that the overseer hated him, giving him the most difficult and unpleasant tasks, but they were always willingly done by Mr Hallett, who was too good a workman to be spared.

I had just completed the washing of some very dirty type one day, and, according to orders, made my way up to Mr Grimstone’s glass case, very dirty and grubby-looking, no doubt, when I stared with surprise on seeing there before me a little cleanly-shaven man who, except in clothes, was the exact counterpart of Mr Rowle.

Somehow or other I had been so occupied, and my mind so intent upon the task given me, that I had thought no more about asking to see him; and now, here he was, Mr Rowle’s twin brother, in angry altercation with the overseer, while Jem Smith stood in the door. The latter had been let off a good many dirty, tasks of late, and I had succeeded to them, but the promotion he had received did not seem to have been attended with success.

“Now look hero, Grimstone,” the little man was saying, “you needn’t bark at me, for I don’t care a pinch of snuff for all your snarls. I asked you to send me up the best boy you had, to read, and you sent me your worst.”

“Mr Rowle, it is false, sir.”

“And I say it is true, and that you did it all out of your crass obstinacy and determination to be as disagreeable as you can to everybody in the place.”

“I sent you up one of my best boys, Mr Rowle.”

“And I say you sent me your very worst—as thick-headed, stupid a dunce as ever entered the place. Look here,” he continued, flourishing a sheet of manuscript in one hand, a long slip of printed paper in the other. “He can’t read that plain piece of writing, and as to the print, why, he’s little better.”

“No such thing, sir,” said Mr Grimstone, fuming.

“Don’t tell me ‘no such thing,’” said the little man fiercely. “Why, the biggest fool in the office would do better. Here, boy,” he cried to me, as I stood there with my hands as black as dirty type could make them; “come here.”

I went up to him.

“He’s no good,” said Mr Grimstone sharply. “He has only just come.”

“Don’t talk to me, sir,” cried Mr Rowle angrily. “You can’t pick out a decent boy, so I must do it myself. Here, boy, read that out aloud.”

I took the piece of paper with trembling hands, doubting my own power to read the lines of crabbed writing, and feeling that even if I could read it I should give dire offence to the overseer by so doing; but I could not help myself, and raising the piece of manuscript written closely on a sheet of ruled foolscap, I saw that it was just such a legal document as I had often copied at Mr Blakeford’s. In fact, something of the old feeling of dread that I used to experience when receiving such a paper from him made a huskiness come in my throat, but clearing my voice, I began:

“‘And the aforesaid deponent also saith that in such a case it would be necessary for the said lessor, his heirs, executors, administrators, and assigns, to make over and deliver, whenever and wheresoever the aforesaid lessee, his heirs, executors, administrators or assigns should desire him so to do—”

“Stop!” said the little man tightening his lips and taking a pinch of snuff. “You did not read that exactly as it’s written there.”

“No, sir,” I said, “‘executors, administrators, and assigns,’ were all contracted.”

“There!” he exclaimed, turning to the overseer triumphantly, “What did I say? Here’s the first boy I meet, fresh from the lye-tub, and he reads it straight off without a blunder, and better than you could have read it yourself. Here, boy, read that.”

He took a letter from his pocket, written in a terribly puzzling hand, and placed it before me.

I took it, hesitated for a moment, and then began:

“‘My dear sir,—I have given the most careful consideration to your proposal, and I am quite willing to—to—to—to—’ If you please, sir, I’m very sorry,” I stammered, “but I can’t make out that word.”

“No, boy, nor I neither. I don’t believe the writer can. There, go and wash those dirty hands,” he continued, snatching the letter from me.

“No: stop!” cried Mr Grimstone wrathfully; “I want that boy here.”

“Then you may take your great clever noodle, Jem Smith,” said the little man.

“Mr Rowle, I will not have my rules and regulations broken in this way, sir.”

“Hang you and your rules,” said the little man. “Have a pinch? No? Then let it alone.”

“I cannot and will not spare that boy,” cried Mr Grimstone, motioning away the snuff-box.

For answer the little man tightened his lips, snapped-to the lid of his snuff-box, hastily took a pinch, snapped his fingers in the overseer’s face, and taking me by the shoulder, marched me before him towards the door, and past Mr Hallett’s frame.

“Here, get your jacket, my lad,” said the little man. “You can wash your hands upstairs.”

Mr Hallett nodded to me and looked, as I thought, pleased as I passed him, and preceding my new taskmaster, I went up to the next floor, where he led me to a glass case, exactly like that occupied by Mr Grimstone and the reader in his room, the sides being similarly decorated with slips of paper hanging from nails.

He showed me where to wash, and, this done, I was soon by his side, reading steadily on to him various pieces of manuscript, while, spectacles on nose, he pored over and made corrections on the margins of the printed slips of paper that were constantly being brought to him by a youth who printed them from the column galleys at a small hand-press.

I got on pretty well, for my home training had made manuscript easy to me. In fact, I had often copied pieces for my father, containing letters from various naturalist friends, while my sojourn at Mr Blakeford’s had made anything of a legal character perfectly clear.

That night, when it was time to go, and I had had no greater unpleasantness to contend with than several severe fits of sneezing brought on when the little man used his snuff-box, I timidly asked him if I was wanted the next day, for as yet no opportunity had served for making known my knowledge of his brother.

“Wanted!” he cried; “why, I had serious thoughts of locking you up, boy, so as to make sure of you to-morrow. Wanted! Yes: I’ve got you, and I mean to keep you; and if Grimstone says another word—but only let him. Look here: you are very stupid yet, but you’ll soon improve; and mind this, come with clean hands and face to-morrow, and clean apron.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, and then I hesitated.

“Well, what is it?”

“Please, sir, you are Mr Jabez Rowle, are you not?”

“Yes, and what then?” he said shortly.

“Only, sir, that Mr Peter Rowle, who is a friend of mine, said I might mention his name to you.”

“Oh, he did, did he? Well, he need not have taken the trouble. There, be off, and mind you are here in good time.”

This was damping, especially as Mr Jabez Rowle took snuff viciously, and stood staring before him, tapping his box, and muttering angrily, in which state I left him, and made the best of my way home.

I was in good time next morning, but, all the same, there sat Mr Jabez Rowle in his glass case waiting for me, and as I entered and said “Good-morning, sir,” he just nodded shortly and pointed with the penholder in his hand to a piece of paper.

“Go on?” he said; and, taking it up, I began to read.

“Not quite so fast, and say par when you come to a fresh paragraph.”

I read on, making a good many blunders in my anxiety to be right, but, I presume, getting on very well, for Mr Rowle found but little fault, as he seemed to dart his pen down at every error in the slip proofs before him—turned letters, p’s where q’s should be, and b’s for d’s; c’s were often in the place of e’s; and then there were omissions, repetitions, absence of spaces or points, a score of different little omissions on the compositor’s part; and, besides all these, the busy pen made marks and signs that were cabalistic to me.

This had gone on about a couple of days, and I was reading away to him what I believed was a prayer in a chancery-bill, when Mr Jabez suddenly laid down his pen, took out his snuff-box, and said, looking me full in the face, “How’s Peter?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“I say, how’s Peter?”

“How’s Peter, sir?”

“Don’t pretend to be stupid, boy, when you’re as sharp as a needle,” he cried, tapping the desk angrily with his snuff-box. “Didn’t you say you knew my brother Peter?”

“Oh yes, sir! he was very kind to me, but I haven’t seen him for some weeks. He was quite well then.”

“Humph! look old?”

“He looks very much like you, sir.”

“Then he does look old. We’re very fond of one another, boy, but we; always quarrel; so we never meet. ‘And your petitioner furthermore sayeth—’”

“I beg your pardon, sir.”

“‘And your petitioner furthermore sayeth’—get on, boy: go on.”

I dashed at the manuscript again, for he had resumed his work, and read on to the end, for he made no further inquiries about his brother.

I soon grew quite accustomed to reading, and found that Mr Jabez Rowle meant what he said about keeping to me, for I was regularly installed as reading-boy, and, as I have said, I was delighted with the change. I often met Jem Smith, and, from his looks, it was evident that he bore me no good will, and, to be frank, I felt rather revengeful for his treatment. One day, during the dinner hour, I went down into the lower part before the men came back, and, after getting some slips which Mr Rowle had told me to have ready for him, my enemy pounced upon me, coming in at the door just as I was about to leave.

“Now I’ve got yer, then,” he cried, with a malicious grin, and, rushing at me, I had only time to evade the first onslaught by running round the frames, when a hot chase ensued, ending in my being brought to bay, and receiving blow after blow from my stronger antagonist.

I did all I could to defend myself, till, closing with me, he held me tight with one arm, and struck me so cruelly in the face, that it roused me to greater efforts, and, after a short wrestle, I was free.

It was but a moment’s respite before he dashed at me again, and, in my rage and desperation, I struck out at him so fiercely that my fist caught him full between the eyes, making him stagger and catch at the first object he could to save himself, and the result was that he pulled over a full case of small type. There was a crash, I uttered a cry, and some twenty pounds of type were scattered in confusion all over the floor.

Before I had recovered from my horror, the door was thrown open, and Mr Grimstone came hurrying in.

“What’s this—what’s this?” he cried.

“Please, sir, Grace was playing larks with one of the cases, and he let it fall.”

“Then Mr Grace shall soon find out what it is to destroy the property of the firm in this wanton way,” he cried.

“Indeed, sir—” I began.

“Not a word, sir—not a word!” he cried. “Smith, go about your work. You, Grace, pick up every bit of that pie at once.”

“But please, sir, I did not knock it down, and Mr Rowle is waiting for me.”

“Pick it up, sir.”

“But Mr Rowle—”

“Pick it up, sir.”

I was so hot and excited that I was about to declare angrily that I would not, when I caught Mr Hallett’s eyes gazing fixedly at me, and without a word, but feeling half-choked with anger and indignation, I fetched a galley and began to pick up the fallen type.

I had not been engaged in my uncongenial task many minutes before Mr Jabez Rowle came down to see where I was, and I noticed that there was quite a triumphant look in Mr Grimstone’s eyes as he said I must stay and pick up all the type, the matter being compromised on the understanding that as soon as the metal was picked up I was to resume my reading upstairs, and, by Mr Grimstone’s orders, stay in every dinner-time and get to the office an hour sooner every morning till I had set up and distributed the whole of the pie.

How I dwelt on the injustice of that task! It was one which seemed to give Mr Grimstone great satisfaction, for it took my inexperienced fingers many weeks, and I had to toil very hard. But all the same, it was no waste of time, for it gave me dexterity in handling type such as I should not otherwise have had.

I had suffered a great deal from anxiety lest some morning Mr Blakeford should step into the office and claim me; for, unpleasant as were my dealings with Mr Grimstone, Jem Smith, and through the latter with several of the other boys, I thoroughly enjoyed my present existence. Revitts was very kind, and, in spite of his sharp abruptness, I did not dislike quaint old Mr Jabez Rowle, who seemed never to be happy unless he was correcting proofs.

My dread arose from the thought that Revitts might in some communication to Mary be the cause of her naming my whereabouts to the lawyer. Then I was afraid that Mr Ruddle might write down and make inquiries. Lastly, that Mr Jabez Rowle might mention me in writing to his brother. But I grew more reassured as it became evident that Mr Ruddle had not written, while Mr Jabez Rowle said one day, just in the middle of some corrections:

“Ah, I’m very fond of Peter, so I never write to him.”

Then, too, I found that Mr Revitts never wrote to Mary without, in a half-bashful way, showing me the letter.

“Lookye here,” he would say, “we said we’d help one another, lad. Some o’ these days you’ll want to write such a letter as this here, and so you may as well see how it’s done. Then you can just shove your pen through where the spellin’ ain’t quite square, and I’ll write it out again. I don’t know as it’s quite right to let her get thinking as I’m such a tip-topper at spellin’, but she came the same game with me over the writing, making me think as she’d improved wonderful, when it was you; so it’s six o’ one and half-a-dozen o’ t’other. What do you say?”

“I don’t think Mary meant to deceive you, Bill,” I said. “Poor girl, she had to work very hard, and her hands were not used to holding a pen. I don’t suppose she ever thought of saying who wrote for her. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in trying to improve your spelling.”

“No, there ain’t, is there, lad?”

“Nothing at all. Mr Hallett says we go on learning all our lives.”

“Hah! I suppose we do. What would you do then?”

“I should tell Mary I helped you.”

“So I will—so I will,” he said, in his quiet simple way; for as sure as the subject Mary was in question, all William Revitts’ sharp police-constable ways dropped off, and he was as simple and smiling as a child.

“Give my love to her, Bill,” I said.

He looked heavily and steadily at me for a few moments, and then in a very stupid way he began:

“I say, youngster, do you think Mary is fond of you?”

“I’m sure she is—very,” I said.

He fidgeted in his chair, and then continued:

“And you like her?”

“Very, very, very much. She was horribly cross at first, but towards the last nobody could have been kinder.”

“I say, how old are you?”

“Between thirteen and fourteen,” I said.

“Ah, to be sure; of course, lad, so you are,” he said, brightening up and shaking hands. “Yes, I’ll give your love to her. I say, boy, it won’t be long first,” he continued, rubbing his hands.

“Won’t it?” I said, easily divining what he meant.

“No, not long now, for we’ve been engaged a precious long while.”

Chapter Twenty.

The Wayzegoose.

Long before the fallen type was sorted I had heard rumours of the annual holiday and dinner of the employés of the firm; and on a delicious autumn morning I found myself in a great covered van, one of three conveying the large party down to Epping Forest.

According to old custom, the members of the firm did a great deal to encourage the affair, supplying a large proportion of the funds required, and presiding at the dinner at an inn in the forest.

Boy-like, I was very eager to go, and looked forward to joining in a projected game at cricket; but, somehow, when we reached the inn, after a drive made noisy by a good deal of absurd mirth, the result of several calls at public-houses on the way to give the horses hay and water, the pleasure seemed to be taken a good deal out of the affair, and the presence of Mr Grimstone did not tend to make me feel upon the highest pinnacle of enjoyment.

Somehow or another the boys seemed to look upon me as a sort of butt, and, headed by Jem Smith, they had played several practical jokes upon me already, so that at last I was standing wistfully looking on instead of playing cricket, and wishing I was alone, when a handsome waggonette was driven by, and to my surprise I saw in it Mr Ruddle, Mr Lister, his partner, and the two young ladies whom I had met on my first day in Short Street.

As I started forward and took off my cap, Miss Carr saw me, and smiled and nodded: and then as I stood gazing after the departing carriage, a change seemed to have come over the day, and I began to wonder whether I should see them again, and, if so, whether they would speak to me, when a hand was laid upon my shoulder, and turning round, there stood Mr Hallett.

“Well, my solitary little philosopher,” he said, in a quiet, half-cynical way, “what are you doing? Not playing with the boys at cricket, and not drinking more beer than is good for you, according to the immemorial custom of a British workman taking a holiday?”

“No,” I said, “I was looking after that carriage.”

“Carriage? Oh, that! Well, what was there in it to take your attention?”

“Mr Ruddle and Mr Lister were in it, with Miss Carr and her sister.”

“What, in that?” he said. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir, quite sure. Miss Carr nodded to me.”

“Nodded? to you, Grace?”

“Oh yes, Mr Hallett, it was through Miss Carr that I was engaged;” and I told him how it happened.

“And so you are not going to play cricket?” he said dreamily, as he stood gazing wistfully in the direction taken by the waggonette.

“No, thank you,” I replied sadly. “I’d rather not.”

“Well, I’m going for a ramble in the forest. Dinner will not be ready for two hours. Will you come?”

“Oh yes, sir.”

“Come along then, Grace, and well throw away the work for one day, and enjoy the country.”

I had never seen him look so bright and pleasant before. The stern, cold, distant air was gone, and his eyes were bright and eager. He seemed to unbend, and it was delightful to find him take so much interest in me as he did.

“Well,” he exclaimed, as we turned right into the wood by the first narrow foot-path, “and how are you getting on with the pie?”

“Very slowly, sir,” I said sadly.

“Never mind, my boy; patience, and you will do it all; and it will not hurt you.”

“But it was so unjust, sir. It was Smith who upset it.”

“Ah! and he said it was you?”

“Yes, sir; and it was a lie.”

“I thought as much; a young rascal! but never mind, Grace. I would rather be the lad who manfully bears an injustice like a hero, than be the big successful blackguard who escapes his punishment by a contemptible lie.”

“So would I, sir,” I said, swallowing down something which seemed to rise in my throat as I gazed in his bright, intelligent face.

“Bah! It was a pitiful bit of triumph for the young idiot; but never mind, my lad: work at it and finish it like a man, and it will be a piece of self-denial that you may be proud of to the end of your days.”

We walked on for some distance in silence, he evidently thoroughly enjoying the beauty of the forest as we rambled on, knee-deep in ferns and heather, and I feeling that the old days were coming back, such as I used to love when wandering with my father through one of our woods, botanising or collecting bird and insect. Almost involuntarily as Mr Hallett took off his soft felt hat to let the breeze blow on his broad white forehead, I began, as of old, to pick a specimen here and there, till, after being in a musing fit for some time, he suddenly noticed what I was doing, and became interested.

“What have you got there?” he said, pointing to a plant I had just picked.

“Oh, that’s a twayblade,” I replied, “one of the orchis family.”

“Indeed,” he said, looking at me curiously, “and what is this?”

“Oh, a very common plant—dog’s mercury.”

“And this, Grace?” he continued, pointing to another, with its bulbous roots in the water.

“Water hemlock, sir.”

“Why, Antony Grace, you are quite a young botanist,” he said, smiling and showing his white teeth, while I gazed up at him wonderingly, he seemed so changed.

“I only know a little that papa—I mean my father, taught me.”

“He used to take you for walks, then, my boy?”

“Oh, such delicious walks, sir.”

“And you learned a good deal? Look! What a great toadstool! Don’t handle it, my boy, some of these things are very poisonous.”

“This is not, sir,” I said eagerly; “this is Boletus edulis, and very good eating.”

“Indeed; and pray what does Boletus edulis mean?”

“The eatable boletus, sir. There is a family of fungi called the boleti, sir, and you can easily tell them, because they are all full of pores, or little holes, underneath, while the ordinary agarics have gills like this.”

I picked up one with a brilliant scarlet top as I spoke, and showed him the white gills beneath.

“And has that a name?” he said.

“Oh yes; that is a very poisonous and rather rare specimen: it is Russula emetica.”

“Why, Grace,” he said, laying his hand on my shoulder, “you and I must come for country walks together. You must take me for a pupil. Good heavens?” he muttered, “how one does live to find out one’s ignorance.”

His whole manner from that moment was changed towards me. He seemed to throw off his mask of cold reserve, and laughed and chatted; ran up banks to get rare ferns, and climbed a tree to look at a late wood-pigeon’s nest, so that the time flew by till, on referring to his watch, he found that we should have enough to do to get back to the dinner.

“I would rather stay in the forest,” he said.

“So would I, sir,” I replied rather dolefully.

“But no,” he continued, “the firm are very kind, and we should be wanting in respect if we stayed away. Come along; you sit beside me, and we’ll slip off afterwards and have another run.”

We hurried back just in time for the dinner, but I did not get a place by Mr Hallett; and as soon as this was over speech-making began. It did not interest me, for my eyes were fixed upon a kind of gallery above the heads of the people at the upper table, in which I could see Miss Carr and her sister had taken their places, apparently to listen to the speeches made by Mr Ruddle and Mr Lister in turn.

They seemed, however, to pay little attention to them after the first, and as I sat watching them, and wishing Miss Carr could see me, to my disappointment I saw them rise to go, just as, after a good deal of whispering between Mr Grimstone, Mr Jabez Rowle, and Mr Hallett, the latter, evidently unwillingly, rose to propose the health of the firm.

At the first sound of his voice I saw Miss Carr pause and stay her sister, and as he went on, she paid more and more attention, leaning over the rail to catch every word, while he, quite unconscious of the presence of such listeners, warmed to his task, and in well-chosen vigorous language, spoke in praise of the firm, and, at the same time, urged his fellow-workmen to give them in the future their best support as earnestly as they would promise it upon this present day.

He grew eager and excited as he spoke, and carried his eloquent speech on to such a climax that he sat down amidst a perfect tempest of cheering, both Mr Ruddle and Mr Lister leaving their seats afterwards to go and quietly shake hands with him, Mr Grimstone all the while apparently seeing in him a rival, for he scowled ominously, and Mr Jabez Rowle completely emptied his box of snuff.

My eyes, though, were principally fixed upon the ladies in the little gallery, and I was near enough to see that Miss Carr’s lips were parted, and her eyes looked eager and strange as she leaned forward more and more, till the speech was at an end. The next time I looked, she was gone.

Soon after I felt some one pull my arm, and starting round, there stood Mr Hallett, and hurriedly following him out of the hot, noisy room, we made our way once more into the forest.

As we rambled on, delighted with the delicious coolness and the sweet scents of the woodlands, Mr Hallett asked me a few questions about myself, soon learning my little history, while my respect for him had increased as I found out more and more how different he was from the ordinary workmen at the office. He was evidently a scholar, and seemed to have a great depth of knowledge in mechanical contrivances.

“We must know more of one another, Grace,” he said; “I am glad we have been together to-day. What do you do on Sundays?”

I explained that when Mr Revitts was off duty we went for a walk.

“And pray who is Mr Revitts?” he said.

I explained that he was a policeman, and had been very kind to me since I had lodged with him in town.

“I am quite alone in London, you see, Mr Hallett,” I said in an old-fashioned way at which I now can smile.

He nodded, and seemed thoughtful for a few minutes.

“Mine is not a very cheerful home, Grace,” he said at length; “but if you will come and spend a Sunday—say Sunday week—with us, I shall be glad to see you. Will you come?”

“I should be so glad,” I cried, and then I stopped short.

“What is it?” he said.

“Mr Revitts will be off duty that day, sir; and he would be so disappointed if I were not at home. He has been so very kind to me.”

Mr Hallett looked amused.

“Do you mind, sir?” I said.

“No, Grace. You are quite right,” he quietly said. “Always be faithful to your friends. You shall come next Sunday instead,” he added, as we turned into a beautiful little glade that looked bright and golden with the setting sun. “Never throw a trusted friend over for the sake of one you believe to be—”

He stopped short, for we had come suddenly upon two ladies, one of whom was Miss Carr.

Chapter Twenty One.

In the Forest.

Miss Carr started slightly on seeing my companion, and it seemed to me that she coloured for the moment, but she recovered her composure on the instant, responded to Mr Hallett’s salute with a quiet bend of the head, and turned at once to me, talking in a sweet grave way, as if there were no one else present, though Mr Hallett stood close by me, hat in hand.

“Antony,” she said, laying; her hand upon my shoulder, “I am very glad to see you again. Mr Ruddle tells me that you are striving very hard, and that you have already made a step upwards. Mind, though I do not see you, I always hear how you progress, and, now that you have begun so well, I have no fear for your future. Are you happy and comfortable where you are?”

“Oh yes, ma’am,” I said, flushing red with pride and pleasure, as I gazed in her face; “and—and I have made such good friends.”

“Indeed!” she said quickly. “I hope you are careful.”

“Oh yes, ma’am; Mr Revitts is very good to me, and Mr Hallett, here.”

Miss Carr turned her face to him for the moment, and once more there was a slight flush upon her cheeks; then she seemed very pale.

“I am glad to hear it,” she said, in a firm, distinct tone; “and I hope your friend Mr Hallett will remember your unprotected position, and advise you for your good.”

Mr Hallett was about to speak, but she had turned from him, and now laid her other hand upon my shoulder.

“Good-bye, Antony,” she said; “you know where I live; come to me if ever you should require help. And mind this, I shall expect you to fight hard and rise. It is no disgrace to be a common workman,”—she glanced hastily, and as if in apology, towards Mr Hallett, as she spoke—“My dead father was but a workman, but he rose to a higher position in life, and I think those who fight the battle well and are self-made, are quite as worthy of honour and respect as those who are born to wealth. Good-bye.”

I could not speak, but I stood there gazing in her bright animated face, and listened to the sweet grave voice, whose every word seemed to fix itself in my mind. I was only recalled from my dreamy state by those words “good-bye,” and the sight of the soft white hand that she held out.

It was from no sentimental feeling of politeness that I acted as I did, for I felt moved to my very soul, and the same feelings came over me that had animated me in the past days in my pleasant old home. I loved Miss Carr—loved her with the same sweet wholesome love that, a boy feels towards a tender mother, and my eyes felt suffused, and things looked dim, as with quite a natural effort I took the hand extended to me, kissed it, and held it for a moment against my cheek. Then it seemed to glide from my hold, there was a faint rustle of silken garments over the heath and grass, and Mr Hallett and I were alone.

I turned to speak to him, to find that he was still standing, hat in hand, gazing down the path by which the sisters had gone; then it seemed to me that he drew a long breath as he stood looking at me apparently, but evidently recalling that which was past.

“Oh, Mr Hallett!” I cried enthusiastically, and with all the impulsiveness of a boy; “isn’t she beautiful?”

“As beautiful as true, Grace,” he said softly, and his manner seemed reverent and strange.

“She was so kind to me—spoke so kindly for me when I first came to the office,” I cried.

“Yes, my boy,” he said in the same low, soft voice; “you are very fortunate—you have found a true friend.”

“And I will try,” I cried. “She shall find that I have remembered what she told me.”

“Come and sit down here, my boy,” he said, throwing himself upon a patch of heath and fern. “Let’s forget the smell of oil and steam and printing-ink for a time. Come and tell me all about your meeting with Miss Carr.”

I was eager to tell him, and I had a willing listener, and as I sat there at his feet I told him of the interview at the office, and all about how Mr Lister seemed so attentive to Miss Carr: what he had said, and how he seemed to love her. In my ignorance I dwelt at length upon even Mr Ruddle’s words of congratulation, talking rapidly and well in my enthusiasm—blind and ignorant that I was—for I could not read then why the lines in Stephen Hallett’s face grew deeper and more marked, nor yet why his eyelids should droop down, and then his head, till it rested upon one hand, while the other plucked slowly at the strands of grass and scraps of heath.

Once or twice I thought he was asleep, but if I stopped he spoke to me softly, asking some questions till I had done, when he startled me again with inquiries about myself and my old life, gradually winning from me all I had to tell.

The sun had set, and the soft evening shadows were descending as we still sat there drinking in the moist fresh air of the forest, till, as if rousing himself from a dream, Mr Hallett rose hastily, and I too sprang to my feet.

“Come, Grace,” he said, with an effort to be cheerful, “we must get back to the inn, or we shall be left behind. One minute, though; let us walk along here.”

I looked at him wonderingly as he strode hastily to where we had met the ladies, and I saw that he had removed his hat as he stood gazing slowly around.

It might have been from the heat, but I do not think so now; and he was just turning away, when I saw him stoop hastily and snatch from among the ferns a grey kid glove.

“Why, that must be Miss Carr’s,” I said eagerly.

“Yes,” he replied softly; “it is Miss Carr’s.”

He stood holding it pressed in his hand; and his brow was knit, and he stood gazing straight before him, struggling with himself before saying, as he doubled the glove:

“You must take it back, my boy. You will see her again; perhaps I never shall.”

I looked at him curiously as I took the glove, for he seemed so strange, but the next moment his dreamy manner was cast aside, as he clapped me on the shoulder.

“Come, Grace,” he said; “no, I will not call you Grace,” he added, laughing; “it sounds as if you were a girl, and you are rather too girlish, my boy; I will call you Antony in future.”

“Yes, do, please, Mr Hallett,” I said; though I flushed a little at being called girlish.

“Come along, then. Our pleasant day has nearly come to an end.”

“Yes,” I said with a sign; “pleasant days do so soon come to an end.”

“To be sure they do,” he cried; “but never mind, my boy; others will come.”

“Yes,” I sighed; “and miserable ones, too, full of Grimstone, and Jem Smith, and pie, and mistakes.”

“Of course,” he cried; “bitters, all of them, to make life the sweeter. Why, Antony—no, Tony’s better—why, Tony, if you could be always revelling in good things, such a day as this would not have seemed so delightful as it has.”

“And it has been delightful!” I cried, as we walked on, my friend resting his hand almost affectionately upon my shoulder.

“Yes,” he said softly; “a day to be marked with a white stone—a tombstone over the grave of one’s brightest hopes,” he added, very, very softly; but I caught the import of his words, and I turned to him quite a troubled look, when there was a sound of cheering some distance away. “Come, Tony,” he said cheerfully, “there are our men hurrahing. We must join them now.”

“Do you know what time we were to start back, sir?” I said.

“Eight o’clock,” he replied, taking out an old-fashioned gold watch, and then starting. “Why, Tony, my lad, it’s past nine. Come along, let’s run.”

We started off, and ran at a steady trot till we reached the inn, to find that the cheering had been when the vans set out.

“Yes, they was a-cheerin’ away like fun,” said our informant, a rather beery-looking public-house hanger-on. “What, are you two left behind?”

“Yes,” said Mr Hallett, shortly. “How long have they been gone?”

“More’n quarter of ’n ’our,” said the man; “and I say, they just was on—all of ’em. The driver o’ the last one couldn’t hardly hold his reins.”

“What time did Messrs Ruddle and Lister go?”

“Who?” said the man.

“The gentlemen with the waggonette.”

“What, with them two gals? Oh! more’n ’n ’our ago. They wasn’t on.”

“How can we get back to town?”

“Walk,” said the man; “’less you like to take a fly.”

“It is very tiresome, Tony,” said Mr Hallett. “Are you a good walker?”

“Pretty well,” I said. “How far is it?”

“Twelve or thirteen miles. Shall we try it?”

“Oh yes,” I said. “It’s a beautiful night, and we shall see plenty of moths.”

“Come along, then, my boy,” he cried; and away we went.

Our long rest since dinner had made me better able to manage the task; and I noticed that Mr Hallett did all he could to lighten the way by talking, and he could talk well. As, then, we trudged along the wide, firm road, he told me a little about himself and his home; and so it was that I learned that he had an invalid mother and a sister, who were dependent upon him; that his early life had been in the country, where his father had been a surgeon, and that on his father’s death he had been compelled to come to London.

“To seek your fortune, Mr Hallett?” I asked.

“Well, yes, if you like to call it so, Tony,” he said, laughing. “Ah, my boy, let me give you advice that I am only too loth to take myself—don’t degenerate into a dreamer.”

“A dreamer, Mr Hallett?”

“Yes, boy; one whose mind is set on what people call making a fortune—that miserable style of enthusiast, who ignores the present in his search for something that he may never find, and which, even if he does, he may never enjoy. Tony, my boy, don’t heed what people say about this being a miserable world and a vale of tears; it is a very beautiful and a very glorious world with heights and mountains bright in the sunshine of truth. We all have to wander down into the valley sometimes, but there are other times when we are in the sunshine on the heights. When we are there, let’s take it and enjoy it, and not sit down and grumble, and strive to climb to another mountain, close by, that seems higher and brighter than the one we are on. Take what fate sends you, my dear boy, and take it patiently. Use your strength to bear it, and—there, let’s come back out of the imaginary into the rear—go on setting up your pied type, and enjoy the pleasure after of having won a victory, or, in the present case, stride out manfully. Every step takes us nearer to London; and when we have got there, and have slept off our fatigue, we can laugh at our adventure. Why, we must be halfway there now. But how you limp!”

“I’m afraid it’s my boot rubs my foot, sir,” I said, wincing.

“Tut, tut!” he exclaimed. “This won’t do. Sit down and have a rest, and let’s think, Tony.”

“Oh, I can go on yet, sir,” I said hastily.

“No, no; sit down, my boy, sit down,” he said; and I sat down upon a bank. “I can’t carry you, Tony,” he said kindly. “I could manage you for a couple of miles or so; I don’t think I could get you right up home. We are unlucky to-night, and—there is something turning up.”

“On ahead, Tony. Yonder is a roadside inn, with a couple of hay-carts. Come along, my lad, and well see if one of them cannot be turned into a chariot to convey us to London Town.”

I limped on beside him to where the hay-carts were standing by a water-trough at the roadside, the horses tossing their nose-bags so as to get at the oats at the bottom, and the carters just coming out of the public-house.

“Can you give us a lift on to London?” said Mr Hallett. “This boy has turned lame.”

“What’ll you stand?” said the man heavily.

“A couple of pints,” said Mr Hallett.

“All right; up you get,” said the man. “You must lie atop o’ the hay. I only goes to Whitechapel, you know.”

“That will do,” said Mr Hallett. And together we climbed up, and lay down, twelve or fifteen feet above the road, on the top of the sweet-scented trusses of hay; the carter cracked his whip, and away we went jolting over the road, with the stars above us, and my couch seeming delicious to my weary limbs, as the scent seemed to bring up my sleeping place by the hay-rick, when I ran away from Rowford and my slavery at Mr Blakeford’s house.

“That’s one of the peculiarities of the true-born Briton, Tony,” said Mr Hallett, after a pause.

“What is, sir?”

“The love and reverence for beer. If I had offered that man sixpence or a shilling to give us a ride, he would have laughed me to scorn. Two pints of beer, you see, carry us right to town, and another pint would have acted like a return ticket to bring us back.”

“To bring us back?” I said in drowsy accents; and, trusting to my companion to save me from a fall, I dropped into a heavy dreamless sleep, from which I was aroused by Mr Hallett, who shook my arm and told me that we were once more in town.

Chapter Twenty Two.

William Revitts is Angry.

Mr Hallett saw me right to the door of my lodgings before he left me, shaking hands warmly as he said “Good-night,” and altered it to “Good-morning.”

I was thoroughly awake now, and somewhat refreshed as I ascended the stairs very gently, having risen now to the honour of a latchkey. It was Revitts’ turn for day-duty, and I was unwilling to disturb him, so I had slipped off my boots, and cautiously turning the handle of the door, I entered, to find, to my surprise, a light burning, and Mr Revitts buttoned up in his uniform and with his heavy hat upon his head.

“Oh, here you are, then,” he cried roughly.

“What, not in bed!” I said.

“In bed? How was I going to bed? I was just orf to the station to send word round as you was missing, and to make inquiries where the vans went from.”

“Oh, Mr Revitts! Oh, Bill, I am sorry!” I cried.

“Don’t you Bill me, young man,” he cried. “Now, lookye here. Was it an accident to the van as made you late?”

“No,” I said; “it was—”

“There!” he cried, bringing his fist down heavily upon the table. “I won’t hear another word. I won’t listen to you. Those vans was doo back at ten thirty—say eleven, and it’s now two forty-five.”

“Yes, Bill, but—”

“Don’t Bill me,” he cried; and, running to the corner of the room, he caught up a black silver-topped cane, with shabby silk tassels. “Look here,” he said; “for the last hour or two I’ve been thinking whether, as your best friend, I oughtn’t to give you a good wilting down, only you’re such a man now that I can’t stoop to hit the feller as I’ve made my friend.”

“But will you listen to me, Bill?” I cried angrily.

“No, I won’t,” he said, throwing down the cane. “You’ve been up to your larks, you have, and I tell you what it is, I won’t have larks.”

“I haven’t,” I cried.

“You have, sir, so don’t deny it. What am I to say to my Mary when she comes up, if she finds you going wrong? I won’t have larks, so there’s an end of it, d’ye hear? There, you needn’t look sulky, and you won’t go and lodge somewhere else. You’ll stay here and I won’t have no larks. I know what it means; I’ve seen boys begin with stopping out o’ nights, and I know what sort o’ chickens they turn out. Stopping out late o’ nights an’ larks means going to the bad; and you ain’t going to the bad if I know it.”

“I couldn’t help it, Bill; I’ve been along with Mr Hallett.”

“Then I’ll punch Mr Hallett’s head,” he cried in a rage, as he stamped up and down the room, till some one rapped at the ceiling of the floor below. “No, I won’t. I’ll pay him a visit in full uniform with my bracelet on, that’s what I’ll do with him.”

“Don’t be so foolish, Bill,” I cried, as in imagination I saw Mr Revitts stalking along amongst the frames at the office, as if about to take Mr Hallett into custody.

“Foolish?” he cried. “And look here, once for all, don’t you Bill me. As for that Hallett, he’s a bad ’un, that’s what he is, and I’ll let him know—carrying on larks with a youngster like you.”

“Mr Hallett’s a gentleman,” I said indignantly.

“Oh, is he?” said Revitts excitedly; “then I’d rather be a pore police-constable. Why, I never so much as took you inside a public to have half-a-pint o’ beer, I was so particular over your morals; and your precious gentleman takes you to dozens, and keeps you out till two forty-five. Why, you make the whole room smell o’ beer.”

“I don’t, Bill,” I cried; “it’s that hay. Look here, it’s sticking to my clothes.”

“Then, what ha’ yer been sleeping under haystacks for, when here was your own bed waiting for you? That’s the way. That’s the first step to being a rogue and a vagabond. Do you know, young fellow, as I could have taken you and locked you up, and had you afore the magistrates next morning, if I’d found you lying under haystacks?”

“What a dear old stupid you are, Bill,” I cried, half angry, half amused; for he had talked so fast and been in such a rage, that I could not get a chance to explain.

“Am I?” he cried, just as if I had added fresh fuel to the flame. “If I am—I’m honest, so now then. That’s more than your Mr Hallett can say. But I haven’t done with him yet.”

“Why don’t you be quiet, Bill?” I said.

“Quiet, when you get out on larks?”

“You won’t let me speak.”

“Let you speak! No, I won’t. Here have I been worried to death about you, thinking all the chaps had got on, and that the van was upset, and all the time it was your games.”

“We went strolling about the forest, Bill,” I said, as I removed my stockings and bathed my sore feet, “and had to walk ever so much of the way home, and that’s what made me so late.”

He snatched up my boots from where I had set them, and found that they were covered with dust.

“But you said you’d been sleeping in the hay,” he said stubbornly.

“Yes; on the top of a hay-cart, coming up to Whitechapel, and I went to sleep.”

Revitts began rubbing his ear in a puzzled way; and then, as if seized by a bright idea, he took out his notebook and pencil.

“Now look here,” he said, making believe to take down my words and shaking his pencil at me in a magisterial way. “Why should you have to walk nearly all the way home, because you went for a stroll in the woods with that there Hallett?”

This last with a contemptuous emphasis on the name of my companion.

“Why, I told you, Bill. When we got back to the inn the last van had gone.”

“There; now, you’re shuffling,” he said. “You never said a word about the van being gone.”

“Didn’t I, Bill? Well, I meant to say so. Mr Hallett thought it would be much nicer to go for a walk in the woods than to sit in that hot room where the men were drinking and smoking, so we did, only we stopped too long.”

Revitts shut his pocket-book with a snap, scratched his head with the end of his pencil, wetted the point between his lips, and had another scratch; then pushed the pencil into the loop at the side, replaced the book in his breast, and buttoned it up tight, as he stood staring hard at me. Then he coughed behind his hand, rubbed his ear again, unbuttoned his coat, buttoned it up tightly, cleared his throat again, and then said:

“Well, it was circumstantial evidence, cert’nly.”

“It’s too bad, Bill,” I said, in an injured tone; “you had no business to doubt me.”

“More I hadn’t, old lad,” he replied in a deprecating way. “But you know, Ant’ny, I had been a-sitting here wait-wait-waiting and thinking all sorts o’ things.”

“Why didn’t you go to bed?”

“I’d been thinking, old lad, that being a holiday, you might be hungry, and look here.”

He opened the little cupboard and took out a raised pork pie and a bottle of pale ale.

“I’d got the cloth laid and the knives and forks out ready, but I got in such a wax about one o’clock that I snatched ’em all off and cleared ’em away.”

“And why did you get in a wax, Bill?” I said. “You ought to have known me better.”

“So I ought, old lad,” he said penitently; “but I got thinking you’d chucked me over, and was out on larks with that there Hallett; and it ain’t nice to be chucked over for a chap like that, specially when you seem to belong to me. You’ll shake hands, won’t you, Tony?”

“Of course I will.”

“And I won’t doubt you another time; let’s have the pie, after all.”

We did; and in a dozen ways the good fellow strove to show me his sorrow for his past doubts, picking me out the best bits of the pie, foaming up my glass with the ale, and when I expressed my fears of not being awake in time for the office, he promised to call me; and though he never owned to it, I have good reason for believing that he sat up writing out corrections in an old dictation lesson, calling me in excellent time, and having the breakfast all ready upon the table.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Mr Hallett at Home.

Punctual to the appointed time, I rang the topmost of four bells on the doorpost of one of the old-fashioned red-brick houses in Great Ormond Street, and a few minutes after it was opened by Mr Hallett, whose face lit up as he offered me his hand.

“That’s right, Antony!” he exclaimed; “now we’ll go upstairs and see the ladies, and then you and I will have a walk till dinner-time.”

I followed him up the well-worn, uncarpeted stairs to the second floor, where he introduced me to his mother, a stern, pale, careworn-looking woman in a widow’s cap, half sitting, half reclining in a large easy-chair.

“How do you do?” she said, wearily, as she gazed at me through her half-closed eyes. “You are Stephen’s friend. I am glad to see you; but you are very young,” she added in an ill-used tone.

“Not a very serious failing, mother dear,” said Mr Hallett cheerfully.

“No,” said Mrs Hallett, “no. I am sorry we have not a better place to receive him in.”

“Tut—tut, dear,” said Mr Hallett. “Antony Grace comes to see us, not our rooms or our furniture.”

I had already glanced round the large, old-fashioned room, which was shabbily furnished, but scrupulously clean, while everything was in good taste, and I hastened to say something about how glad I was to come.

“Yes,” said Mrs Hallett wearily; “it is very polite and nice of you to say so, but it is not the home I expected for my old age.”

“My mother is—”

“You always used to call me mamma, Stephen,” said Mrs Hallett, with the tears in her eyes.

“Did I love you any more tenderly then, dear?” he said, bending over her and kissing her wrinkled forehead with reverent affection, and then placing his lips upon her hand.

“No, Stephen, no,” she cried, bursting into a fit of sobbing; “but—but we might cling to some of our old respectability, even if you will persist in being a workman and lowering our family by wearing aprons like a common man.”

“There, there, dear, don’t fret,” he said cheerfully. “You are in pain this morning. I am going for a walk with Antony Grace, and we’ll bring you back a bunch of flowers.”

“No, no, don’t—pray don’t, Stephen,” said Mrs Hallett querulously; “you cannot afford it, and it only puts me in mind of happier days, when we had our own garden, and I was so fond of my conservatory. You remember the camellias?”

“Yes, yes, dear,” he said, passing his arm round her; “and some day you shall have your conservatory again.”

“Never, Stephen—never, while you are so obstinate.”

“Come, come, dear,” he said, kissing her again; “let me put your pillow a little more easy, and we won’t talk of the past; it cannot interest Antony Grace. Where has Linny hidden herself?”

“I suppose she is seeing after the cooking,” said Mrs Hallett querulously. “We have no servants now, Mr Grace.”

“No, Antony,” said Mr Hallett, laughing; and I could not help contrasting the man I saw before me—so bright, airy, and tender in his ways—with the stern, rather grim-looking workman of the office. “No servants; I clean my own boots and help with the cooking, too. It is inconvenient, for my dear mother here is a great invalid.”

“Helpless for seventeen years, Mr Grace,” said the poor woman, looking at me piteously. “We used to have a carriage, but we have none now. Stephen is very kind to me, only he will be so thoughtless; and he is so wanting in ambition, clever as he is.”

“There, dear, we won’t talk about that now,” said Mr Hallett. “Come Antony; my sister will not show herself, so we’ll find her blooming in flour, or carving potato rings, or handling a truncheon bigger than that of your friend Mr Revitts as she makes the paste. Oh, here she is!”

A door opened as he spoke, and I quite started as a bright, pretty girl entered, and came forward smiling pleasantly to shake hands. She seemed to bring sunshine into the room, and, damped as I was by Mrs Hallett’s reception and the prospect of a dull, cheerless day, the coming of Miss Hallett seemed quite to change the state of affairs.

“I am very glad to see you,” she said, showing her little white teeth. “Stephen has so often talked about you, and said he would bring you home.”

“Ah, me, yes, home!” sighed Mrs Hallett, glancing round the shabby apartment.

Not that it seemed shabby any longer to me, for Linny, in her tight, well-fitting, plain holland dress, white collar and cuffs, and with her long golden-brown, naturally curling hair, seemed to me to radiate brightness all around. For she certainly was very pretty, and her large, well-shaded eyes seemed to flash with animation as she spoke.

“Antony Grace and I are going for a walk, Linny, and we shall come back hungry as hunters. Don’t make any mistake in the cooking.”

She nodded and laughed, and her fair curls glistened in the light, while Mrs Hallett sighed again; and it struck me that she was about to say something in disparagement of the dinner, but she did not speak.

“Come along then, Antony,” said Mr Hallett; and, after kissing the invalid, he led the way down stairs, and we strolled off towards Regent’s Park.

As we left the house, the shadow seemed to come down again over Mr Hallett’s face, and from that time I noticed that he seemed to lead a double life—one in which he was bright and merry, almost playful, before his mother and sister; the other, a life of stern, fixed purpose, in which his soul was bent upon some pursuit.

He shook off his gloom, though, directly, and we had a good walk, during which he strove hard to make himself a pleasant companion, chatted to me of myself, hoped that I made use of my spare time, and read or studied in some way, promising to help me with my Latin if I would go on.

“It wants an effort, Antony,” he said; “especially after a hard day’s work at the office.”

“Yes,” I said, with a sigh; “I do feel tired of reading when I get back.”

“Never mind,” he said; “make an effort and do something. It is only the first start. You’ll soon grow interested in what you are doing; and recollect this, my boy, learning is a treasure that no one can take away.”

“Yes, my father used to say so, Mr Hallett,” I said thoughtfully, as I glanced sidewise at my companion’s face as we lay on the turf close by the water.

“What an imitation of the country this is, Antony!” he said, with a sigh. “I love the country. I could live there always.”

“Yes, I don’t like London, Mr Hallett,” I said; “but—but do you study anything in your spare hours?”

He turned round upon me sharply, and his eyes seemed to look me through and through.

“Did my mother say anything to you?” he exclaimed. “Oh no! of course not—you were not alone. Yes, Antony, I do study something—a great deal—in my spare hours.”

“Oh yes, of course. I know you do, Mr Hallett,” I cried. “I’ve seen you take out your pocket-book and draw and make calculations.”

He looked at me again in a curious, suspicious way that set me wondering, and then, jumping up:

“Come, Antony,” he cried, with a forced laugh, “it is time we were off. Linny will be wanting to go to church, and we shall be punished if we are late for dinner.”

He chatted merrily all the way back, and I had no opportunity of asking him what he studied. Dinner was waiting, and a very pleasant simple meal it was, only that Mrs Hallett would sprinkle everything with tears. I noticed that really, as well as metaphorically, she dropped a few into her glass of beer, a few more into the gravy, of which she had the best share, soaked her bread with others, and still had a few left to drop into her portion of red-currant and raspberry tart. Nothing was nice, poor woman—nothing was comfortable; and while Linny took her complaints with a pettish indifference, Mr Hallett left his place from time to time, to attend to her at her little table in front of her easy-chair, waiting upon her with the tenderness of a woman, smoothing back her hair, and more than once kissing her on the forehead before resuming his place.

“No, Stephen,” she said, several times; “I have no appetite—nothing tempts me now.”

He bent over and whispered to her, evidently in a tender, endearing way, but her tears only flowed the faster, and she shook her head despondently.

“Cheese, Stephen?” she said in her peevish way, towards the end of the repast. “You know my digestion is such that it will not bear cheese. At least,” she said, “you would have known it if you had had ambition enough to follow your father’s profession.”

“Ah! I ought to have known better, dear,” he said, smiling pleasantly; “but doctors starve in London, mother. There are too many as it is.”

“Yes, of course, of course,” said the poor woman tearfully; “my advice is worthless, I suppose.”

“No, no, dear, it is not,” said Mr Hallett, getting up and laying his hand upon that of the invalid. “Come, let me take your plate. We’ll have the things away directly, and I’ll read to you till tea-time, if Antony won’t mind.”

“Is Linny going out this afternoon?” said Mrs Hallett querulously.

“Yes, mamma, and I shall be late,” said Linny, colouring, apparently with vexation, as she glanced at me, making me feel guilty, and the cause of her disappointment.

“We won’t keep you, Linny,” exclaimed Hallett; “go and get ready. Antony, you will not mind, will you? My sister likes to go to church of an afternoon; it is nicer for her than the evening.”

“Oh no, I won’t mind,” I said eagerly.

“All right, then; be off, Linny. Antony and I will soon clear away the pie—eh, Antony?”

I laughed and coloured at this double entendre, which Mrs Hallett did not comprehend, for as Linny with a grateful look hurried out of the room, the invalid exclaimed fretfully:

“I wish you would say tart, Stephen, my son. If you will persist in working as a mechanic, and wasting your time in fruitless schemes—”

“Hush, mother!” said Mr Hallett, with an uneasy glance at me.

“Yes, my son; but I cannot bear you to forget all our old genteel ways. We may be poor, but we can still be respectable.”

“Yes, yes; of course, dear,” said Mr Hallett nastily, as he saw that his mother was about to shed tears. “Come, Antony, let’s be waiters.”

I jumped up to assist him, just as Linny, looking very rosy and pretty in her bonnet and jacket, hurried out of a side room, and kissing her mother, and nodding to us, hastened downstairs.

“Ah?” said Mrs Hallett, with another sigh, “we ought not to be reduced to that.”

“To what, dear?” said Mr Hallett, as he busily removed the dinner things.

“Letting that young and innocent girl go about the streets alone without a protector, offering herself as a prey to every designing wretch who casts his eyes upon her fresh, fair face.”

“My dear mother,” said Mr Hallett, laughing, “London is not quite such a sink of iniquity as you suppose, and you have tutored Linny too well for there to be any occasion for fear. There, come, lean back and rest till we have done, and then I will read you one of your favourites.”

Mrs Hallett allowed herself to be gently pressed back in her seat, and lay there still complaining that a son of hers should have to stoop, and also ask his visitor to stoop, to such a degrading toil.

“Oh, Antony doesn’t mind, dear,” he said cheerfully. “We do worse things than this at the office—eh, Antony?”

“That we do, Mr Hallett,” I cried, laughing.

“Yes,” said Mrs Hallett, “at the office. Ah, well, I suppose it is of no use to complain.”

She complained all the same, at everything, while Mr Hallett bore it with a most patient manner that set me wondering. He was never once irritable, but took every murmur in a quiet, resigned way, evidently excusing it on the score of his mother’s sufferings.

Then he got out a book to read to her, but it would not do. Then another and another one, supposed to be her favourite authors; but nothing would do but Dodd’s “Thoughts in Prison,” and the reading of this cheerful volume went on till Linny came back, as I noticed, looking hot and flushed, as if she had been hurrying; and she glanced, as I thought, suspiciously at me, her brother not raising his eyes from his reading.

Then followed tea, and a walk with Mr Hallett, and after that supper, when he walked part of the way home with me.

“Good-night, Antony,” he said. “I hope you have not found your visit too gloomy an one to care to come again.”

“Will you ask me again?” I said eagerly.

“To be sure. My poor mother is a little fretful, as you saw; but she has been an invalid now these seventeen years, and she misses some of the comforts of the past. Good-night, my boy.”

“Good-night, Mr Hallett;” and we parted—he to walk slowly away, bent of head and serious, and I to begin thinking of his unwearying patience and devotion to his invalid mother: after which I recalled a great deal about Linny Hallett, and how pretty and petulant she seemed, wondering at the same time that neither mother nor brother took any notice of her flushed and excited look as she came in from church.

“Hullo! got back, then?” said Mr Revitts, rather grumpily, as I entered the room. “Had a pleasant day?”

“Oh yes, Bill, very!” I exclaimed.

“Oh yes! It’s all very fine, though, and it’ll be all Hallett soon. But you have got back in decent time. Well, I’m tired, and I’m off to bed.”

An example I followed directly after.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Linny’s Secret.

My visit to Great Ormond Street was the first of many. In a short time the office labours with Mr Jabez Rowle were merely the mechanical rounds of the day; and, like Stephen Hallett, I seemed to live only for the evening, when I took my Latin exercises and translations to him, he coming down from the attic, where he worked at some project of his own, concerning which poor murmuring Mrs Hallett and her daughter were forbidden to speak, and then returning, after making the corrections.

I felt a good deal of curiosity about that attic, but Mr Hallett had told me to wait, and I waited patiently, having, young as I was, learned to school myself to some extent, and devoted myself to my studies, one thought being always before my mind, namely, that I had to pay Mr Blakeford all my father’s debt, for that I meant to do.

I had grown so much at home now at the Halletts’, that, finding the door open one evening, I walked straight in, knocked twice, and, receiving no answer, tried the door, which yielded to my touch, swung open, and I surprised Linny writing a letter, which, with a flaming face, she shuffled under the blotting-paper, and held up a warning finger, for Mrs Hallett was fast asleep.

“Where’s Mr Hallett?” I said.

“In Bluebeard’s chamber,” cried Linny playfully; “I’ll go and tell him you are here.”

I nodded, thinking how pretty she looked with her flushed cheeks, and she went softly to the door, but only to come back quickly.

“Antony, dear,” she whispered, laying her hand on my shoulder, “you like me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” I replied.

“Did you see what I was doing?” she continued, busily readjusting my neckerchief, and then looking me full in the face.

“Yes; you were writing a letter.”

She nodded.

“Don’t tell Stephen,” she whispered.

“I was not going to.”

“He would want to know who I was writing to, and ask me such a lot of questions. You won’t tell him, will you?”

“No,” I said, “not unless he asks me, and then I must.”

“Oh, he won’t ask you,” she said merrily; “no fear. Now I’ll go and tell him.”

I sat down, wondering why she should want to keep things from her brother, and then watched Mrs Hallett, and lastly began thinking about the room upstairs—Old Bluebeard’s chamber, as Linny playfully called it—and tried to puzzle out what Stephen Hallett was making. That it was something to improve his position I was sure, and I had often thought of what hard work it must be, with so little time at his disposal, and Mrs Hallett so dead set against what she openly declared to be a folly, and miserable waste of money.

My musings were brought to an end by the reappearance of Linny, who came down holding her pretty little white hand to me.

“There, sir,” she said, “you may kiss my hand; and mind, you and I have a secret between us, and you are not to tell.”

I kissed her hand, and she nodded playfully.

“Now, sir, Bluebeard’s chamber is open to you, and you may go up.”

“Go? Upstairs?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, stroking her pretty curls; “the ogre said you were to go up.”

“Are you—sure?” I said.

“Sure? Of course. There, go along, or you’ll wake mamma.”

I went softly upstairs, with my heart beating with excitement, turning my head, though, as I closed the door, and seeing Linny drawing her letter hastily from under the blotting-paper.

It was before the shabby door of a sloping-roofed back attic that I paused for a moment to knock, Stephen Hallett’s clear, calm voice uttering a loud “Come in,” and I entered to find him seated before a large old deal kitchen table, upon which were strewed various tools, pieces of iron and brass, old clock-wheels, and spindles. At one end was fitted a vice, and at the other end what seemed to be the model of some machine—or rather, a long, flat set of clock-works, upon which Hallett was evidently engaged.

“Well, Antony,” he said, looking up at me in a weary, disappointed way; “glad to see you, my boy.”

“Why, you are busy,” I exclaimed, looking with all a boy’s curiosity at the model, or whatever it was before me.

“Yes,” he said, “I generally am. Well,” he added, after a pause, as he seemed to derive rest and amusement from my curiosity, “what do you think of my sweetheart?”

“Your sweetheart?”

“Yes, my sweetheart, of which poor mother is so jealous. There she is.”

“I—I don’t understand you,” I said.

“Well, the object of my worship—the thing on which I lavish so much time, thought, and money.”

“Is—is that it?” I said.

“That’s it,” he replied, enjoying my puzzled looks. “What do you think of it?”

I was silent for a few moments, gazing intently at the piece of mechanism before I said: “I don’t know.”

“Look here, Antony,” he said, rising and sweeping away some files and pieces of brass before seating himself upon the edge of the table: “do you know why we are friends?”

“No, but you have been very kind to me.”

“Have I?” he said. “Well, I have enjoyed it if I have. Antony, you are a gentleman’s son.” I nodded.

“And you know the meaning of the word honour?”

“I hope so.”

“You do, Antony; and it has given me great pleasure to find that, without assuming any fine airs, you have settled down steadily to your work amongst rough boys and ignorant prejudiced men without losing any of the teachings of your early life.” I looked at him, wondering what he was about to say. “Now look here, Antony, my boy,” he continued; “I am going to put implicit faith in your honour, merely warning you that if you talk about what you have seen here you may do me a very serious injury. You understand?”

“Oh yes, Mr Hallett,” I cried; “you may depend upon me.”

“I do, Antony,” he said; “so let’s have no more of that formal ‘Mr’ Let it be plain ‘yes’ and ‘no;’ and now, mind this, I am going to open out before you my secret. Henceforth it will be our secret. Is it to be so?”

“Yes—oh yes!” I exclaimed, flushing with pride that a man to whom I had looked up should have so much confidence in me.

“That’s settled, then,” he said, shaking hands with me. “And now, Antony, once more, what do you think of my model?”

I had a good look at the contrivance as it stood upon the table, while Hallett watched me curiously, and with no little interest. “It’s a puzzle,” I said at last. “Do you give it up?”

“No; not yet,” I said, leaning my elbows on the table. “Wheels, a brass table, a roller. Why, it looks something like a mangle.” I looked at him, and he nodded.

“But you wouldn’t try to make a mangle,” I said. “It might do to grind things in. May I move it?”

“No; it is out of gear. Well, do you give it up?” He rose as he spoke, and opened the attic window to let in the pleasant, cool night air, and then leaned against the sloping ceiling gazing back at me.

“I know what it would do for,” I said eagerly, as the idea came to me like a flash. “What?”

“Why, it is—it is,” I cried, clapping my hands, as he leaned towards me; “it’s a printing machine.”

“You’re right, Antony,” he said; “quite right. It is the model of a printing machine.”

“Yes,” I said, with all a boy’s excitement; “and it’s to do quickly what the men do now so slowly in the presses, sheet by sheet.”

“Yes, and in the present machines,” he said. “Have you noticed how the machines work?”

“Oh, yes!” I said; “often. The type runs backwards and forwards, and the paper is laid on by boys and is drawn round the big roller and comes out printed.”

“Exactly,” he said. “Well, Antony, you have seen the men working at the presses?”

“Yes.”

“It is hard work, and they print about two hundred or two hundred and fifty sheets an hour, do they not?”

“Yes; I believe so.”

“And the great clumsy machines print six or seven hundred an hour. Some a thousand.”

“And will your machine do more?” I asked.

“Antony,” he cried, catching my arm in his—and his face lit up as we stood by that attic window—“if my machine succeeds it will be the greatest invention of the age. Look, boy; do you see what I mean to do?”

“N-no,” I said; “not yet.”

“No; of course not,” he cried. “It has been the work of years to think it out, and you cannot grasp it yet. It has grown month by month, my boy, till it has assumed so great a magnitude that I shrink at times, half crushed by my own offspring. There seems to be too much—that I attempt to climb too high—and when I give up almost in despair it lures me on—beckons me in my dreams, and points to the success that might be achieved.”

I looked at him wonderingly; he seemed to be so transformed.

“I began with quite a small idea, Antony,” he continued. “I will show you. My idea was this. You see now, my boy, that with the present machine the type is laid on a table, and it goes backwards and forwards under a great iron cylinder or roller, grinding continually, and being worn out.”

“Yes, I know; the type gets thick and blurred in its fine upstrokes.”

“Exactly,” he said, smiling. “Well, Antony, I tried to invent a simple process of making a mould or seal, when the type was ready, and then—”

“Making a solid block of fresh type in the big mould. I know,” I cried.

“Right, my boy, right,” he cried; “and I have done it!”

“But does it want a machine like that?”

“Oh no,” he replied: “that grew out of the idea. I was not satisfied then with my solid block of type, which might be used and then melted down again. It struck me, Antony, that it would be better if I made that solid block curved, so as to fit on a big cylinder, and let it go round instead of the paper. I could then print twice as many.”

“Ye-yes,” I said, “but I hardly see it.”

“I will show you presently, my boy,” he replied. “Well, I worked at that idea till I felt satisfied that I could carry it out, when a greater idea came.”

He paused and wiped his forehead, gazing now, though, out at the starry night, and speaking in a low earnest voice.

“It seemed to me then, Antony, that I ought to do away with the simple, clumsy plan of making men or boys supply or lay-on paper, sheet by sheets as the machine was at work.”

“What could you do?” I said.

“Ah, that was the question. I was thinking it over, when going through Saint Paul’s Churchyard I saw in one of the draper’s shops a basket of rolls of ribbon, and the thing was done.”

“How?” I asked.

“By having the paper in a long roll, a thousand yards upon a reel, to be cut off sheet by sheet as it is printed between the cylinders.”

“But could you get paper made so long?”

“To be sure,” he said; “the paper-mills make it in long strips that are cut up in sheets as they are finished. In my machine they would be cut up only when printed. Now, what do you say?”

“It’s like trying to read Greek the first time, Mr Hallett,” I said. “My head feels all in a muddle.”

“Out of which the light will come in time, my boy. But suppose I could make such a machine, Antony, what would you say then?”

“It would be grand!” I exclaimed.

“It would make a revolution in printing,” he cried enthusiastically. “Well, will you help me, Antony?” he said, with a smile.

“Help you! May I?”

“Of course. I shall be glad; only, remember, it is our secret.”

“You may trust me,” I said. “But it must be patented.”

“To be sure. All in good time.”

“It will make your fortune.”

“I hope so,” he said dreamily, “For others’ sake more than mine.”

“Yes,” I cried; “and then you could have a nice place and a carriage for Mrs Hallett, and it would make her so much happier.”

“Yes,” he said, with a sigh.

“And you could be a gentleman again.”

He started, and a curious look came over his face; but it passed away directly, and I saw him shake his head before turning to me with a smile.

“Antony,” he said quietly, “suppose we build the machine, the castles in the air will build themselves. I tell you what; you shall work sometimes and help me to plan; but, as a rule, while I file and grind you shall read some Latin or German author, and you and I can improve ourselves as we go.”

“Agreed!” I cried, and then the rest of the night was spent—a very short night, by the way—in examining the various parts of the little model, Hallett seeming to give himself fresh ideas for improvements as he explained the reason for each wheel and spindle, and told me of the difficulties he had to contend with for want of proper tools and the engineer’s skill.

“I want a lathe, Antony,” he said; “and a good lathe costs many pounds, so I have to botch and patch, and buy clock-wheels and file them down. It takes me a whole evening sometimes wandering about Clerkenwell or the New Cut hunting for what I want.”

“But I can often help you in that way,” I said, “and I will.”

We went down soon after to a late supper, Hallett jealously locking up his attic before we descended. Mrs Hallett had gone to bed and Linny was reading, and jumped up as if startled at our entrance.

Hallett spoke to her as we sat down to supper, and I noticed that he seemed to be cold and stern towards her, while Linny was excited and pettish, seeming to resent her brother’s ways, and talked to me in a light, pleasant, bantering manner about Bluebeard’s secret chamber.

I noticed, too, that she always avoided her brother’s eye, and when we parted that night Hallett seemed a good deal troubled, though he did not tell me why.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Seven-and-a-Half and a Bonus.

It was the common talk at the office that Mr Lister was going to be married soon to the rich Miss Carr; and one day, when I was busily reading to Mr Jabez Rowle—who, snuff-box before him, kept drawing in his breath, hissing viciously, and sometimes smacking his lips as he dug his pen into some blunder in the slips before him—Mr Grimstone came bustling in, with his spectacles shining as much as his bald head, his scanty hair standing straight up, and, what was very rarely the case, a smile upon his face.

“Well, Rowle,” he said, rubbing his hands, “how is it this morning?”

“Foul—foul foul,” said Mr Jabez, with a dab at a stop he had missed before. “Those fellows of yours make more literals every day.”

“I’m always telling them of it, Rowle, always,” said Mr Grimstone, nodding his head sharply. “How does this boy get on?”

“Fairly—fairly,” said Mr Rowle, screwing himself round upon his stool, and gazing full in the overseers face. “Now, then, Grimstone, what is it?—what’s on the cards?”

“Oh, nothing—nothing. I only looked in. Give me a pinch!”

Mr Rowle handed his little brown box, and Mr Grimstone refreshed himself with a pinch before handing back the snuff to Mr Rowle, who also took a pinch loudly, and with a defiant flourish, while I took up a slip and a pen, and began to practise reading and correcting, a thing Mr Rowle always encouraged.

Grimstone had evidently come in for a gossip, business being rather slack, following a good deal of night-work and the finish of an important order; and after another pinch and an allusion to the political topic of the day, they seemed to forget my presence and went on talking.

“When’s the happy day to be?” said Mr Grimstone.

“What, Lister’s? Oh, I don’t know: soon, I suppose. Seen her?”

“Yes, twice,” said Mr Grimstone, giving his lips a smack; “beautiful!”

“So I hear,” said Mr Jabez Rowle; “plenty of money too, I suppose.”

“50,000 pounds, and more to come. I never had such luck.”

“I never wanted it,” said Mr Jabez Rowle with a growl. “I don’t know why a man should want to tie himself up to a woman.”

“Not with 50,000 pounds and more to come, eh?” said Mr Grimstone waggishly.

“Might have tempted me twenty years ago,” growled Mr Jabez; “it wouldn’t now.”

“S’pose not. You’re too warm, Rowle—much too warm. I say, though,” he continued, lowering his voice, but quite ignoring me, “is a certain person safe?”

“A certain person?”

“Yes, you know. Suppose, for instance, he quietly asked you to let him have 500 pounds for a few months at seven-and-a-half and a bonus, would you, always considering that he soon touches 50,000 pounds and more to come, would you let him have it?”

Mr Jabez took a pinch of snuff furiously, shut the box with a loud snap, and, evidently completely thrown of his guard, exclaimed:

“Hang him for a fool! Curse me if ever I do so again.”

“What do you mean?” said Mr Grimstone, milling up, “Do you mean to say I’m a fool?”

“No, no: he is, to go and blab.”

“Blab?”

“Yes, to let it out to you.”

“I say! What do you mean?” said Mr Grimstone again.

“Mean? Why, you as good as said he told you I had let him have 500 pounds at seven-and-a-half and a bonus. Lent on the strength of his going to marry a woman with 50,000 pounds and more to come.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“Whew!” whistled Mr Grimstone, snatching the snuff-box out of Mr Jabez Rowle’s hand, taking a vigorous pinch, and scattering so much of the fine brown dust in the air that I should have had a violent fit of sneezing if I had not become hardened to its effects.

The two stared at one another for a minute, and Mr Jabez now snatched the box back and took a hearty pinch, some of which went on to his shirt-front—and some upon his sleeve.

“Why, you don’t mean to say that he has borrowed 500 pounds of you?” said Mr Grimstone, in a whisper.

“But I do mean to say it,” replied Mr Jabez. “How came he to tell you? I never told a soul.”

“He didn’t tell me,” said Mr Grimstone thoughtfully.

“Then who did?”

“No one.”

“Then how came you to know?” said Mr Jabez, passing his box. “Why, you don’t mean to say he has been to you for five hundred?”

Mr Grimstone nodded.

“And offered you seven-and-a-half, and a bonus of thirty pounds?”

Mr Grimstone nodded again, and this time it was Mr Jabez Rowle’s turn to whistle.

“He wanted it done quietly, and I, after a bit, agreed to do it. But though we ain’t friends over business matters, Jabez Rowle, I know you to be a man of strong common-sense and integrity, and I thought you would give me a good bit of advice. But this seems to alter the case. Would you lend it?”

“Humph! Two five hundreds are not much out of fifty thousand,” said Mr Jabez; “but what does he want the money for? ’Tain’t for the business.”

“No,” said Mr Grimstone, “because he said he didn’t want Mr Ruddle to know. I say, what would you do? I shouldn’t like to offend Lister.”

“Do? Well, I’ve lent the money,” said Mr Jabez, taking a savage pinch.

“And would you do the same if you were me?” replied Mr Grimstone. “It’s a lot of money; years of savings, you know, and—”

He made some kind of gesticulation, and I fancy he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder at me.

“Look here, Grace,” said Mr Rowle, “go downstairs and ask Mr Ruddle to send me up Mr Hendry’s letter about his book.”

I got down off my stool, and left them together in the glass case, going straight down to the office, where, in place of Mr Ruddle, I round Mr Lister, and told him my business.

“I don’t know where it is,” he replied. “I leave it till Mr Ruddle comes in. But look here, Grace, I wanted you. Miss Carr was asking how you got on. Take this note there—you know where she lives—and give it to her herself. But before you go up there take this note to Norfolk Street, Strand. No answer.”

He took four written slips of stamped blue paper from his pocket, and I saw him write across them, blot them hastily, and refold and place them in a letter, which he carefully sealed. After which, I noticed that he tore off and destroyed the piece of blotting-paper that he had used. I thought no more of it then, but it came up in connection with matters that afterwards occurred.

I hurried upstairs, and told Mr Jabez Rowle that Mr Lister wanted me to go out, Mr Grimstone being still in close conference with him in the glass case.

“Where are you going, boy?” said the latter.

“To Miss Carr’s with a note, sir,” I said; and the two old men exchanged glances of intelligence.

“All right, Grace,” said Mr Jabez, nodding; “we’re not busy. You can go.”

I hurried away, thinking no more of them or their conversation; but I was obliged to go into the composing-room below, to hurry up to Mr Hallett’s frame, where, stern-looking and half-repellent, he was rapidly setting a piece of manuscript.

“I’m going to Miss Carr’s,” I whispered, while my face glowed with pleasure.

“Indeed!” he said, starting; and my bright face might have been reflected in his, such a change passed over his speaking countenance.

“I’ve to take a note from Mr Lister and to wait for an answer,” I said; and I felt startled at the rapid change as he heard these last words. “Are you ill?” I cried anxiously.

“No—no,” he said hastily, and his voice sounded hard and harsh. “Go away now, I am very much pressed for time.”

I left him, wondering, for I could not read him then, and bounding down the stairs, I was soon in Fleet Street, and soon after in Norfolk Street, Strand.

I quickly found the number and the door, with a large brass plate thereon bearing the name “Brandsheim,” and in small letters in the corner “Ground Floor.”

A boy clerk answered my knock, and I was told to sit down in an outer office while the clerk went in with the note and to see if Mr Brandsheim was at home.

Mr Brandsheim was at home, and was ushered into his presence, to find him a dark, yellow-looking man with a wrinkled face and very keen eyes. He quite startled me for the moment, for, though not in personal appearance in the slightest degree resembling Mr Blakeford, there was a something about him that suggested that worthy and his ways.

He was dressed in the first style of fashion, a little exaggerated. He might have been a slave of the great Plutus himself, for round his neck and lashing his chest was a thick gold chain; diamond rings were on the fingers of each hand; a great opal and diamond pin was in his black satin stock; at his wrists were jewelled sleeve-links that glistened and sparkled when he moved. There was nothing sordid about him, for he sat in an easy-chair at a polished secretary; there was a Turkey carpet beneath his feet, and the furniture of the room was massive and good; but, all the same, I had no sooner entered the place than I began to think of Mr Blakeford and Mr Wooster, and I involuntarily wondered whether this man could be in any way connected with my late employer, and whether I had unconsciously walked into a trap.

As my eyes wandered about the room in search of tin boxes containing different people’s affairs, of dusty parchments and sale bills, I felt better; for they were all absent. In their place were large oil pictures against the walls, hung, and leaning back, resting on the floor. On a sideboard was a row of little stoppered bottles with labels hanging from their necks in a jaunty fashion, and in the bottles were richly tinted liquids—topaz, ruby, purple, and gold. They might have been medicines, but they looked like wines, and I felt sure they were, as I saw piled upon the floor some dozens of cigar-boxes.

Mr Brandsheim might have been a picture dealer, a wine merchant, or an importer of cigars, for in those days I had yet to learn that he was a bill-discounter who contrived that his clients should have so much in cash for an acceptance, and the rest in old masters, Whitechapel Havanas, and Hambro-Spanish wines.

Mr Brandsheim’s words somewhat reassured me, as he nodded pleasantly to me and smiled.

“Sit down, my man,” he said; “sit down, and I’ll soon be ready for you. Let me see—let me see.”

He busied himself behind his secretary, rustling papers and making notes, and now and then looking at me and tapping his teeth with a heavy gold pencil-case, while I furtively watched him and wondered how he managed to make his jet black hair so shiny, and why it was he spoke as if he had been poking cottonwool up his nose, till it suddenly occurred to me that he must be a German.

“Ah!” he said, at last; “let me see—let me see—let me see—see—see. Mr Lister quite well?”

“Yes, sir; quite well, thank you.”

“That’s right. Let me see—let me—how’s business?”

“Oh! we’ve been very busy, sir. The men have often had to stop up all night to get things finished.”

“Have they really, though?” he said, nodding and smiling; “and did you stay up, too?”

“No, sir; I read for Mr Jabez Rowle, and he said he wouldn’t sit up all night and upset himself for anybody.”

“Mr Jabez Rowle is quite right, my lad.”

“He said, sir, his work was so particular that after he had been correcting for twelve hours his eyes and mind were exhausted, and he could not do his work properly.”

“Mr Jabez Rowle is a man of business, my lad, evidently. And Mr Lister, is he pretty busy?”

“I think he comes to the office every day.”

“Have a glass of wine, my lad,” he said, getting up and taking a decanter, glass, and a dish of biscuits from a cellaret. “No. Good sherry won’t hurt you. Take some biscuits, then.”

I took some of the sweet biscuits, and Mr Brandsheim nodded approval.

“I won’t keep you long,” he said; “but I must compare these papers. You are not going anywhere else, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir; I am going up to Westmouth Street, Cavendish Square.”

“Indeed! Hah! that’s a good walk for you; or, no, I suppose Mr Lister told you to take a cab?”

“No, sir,” I said colouring; “I am going to walk.”

“Oh, absurd! Too far. Lawrence,” he cried, after touching a bell, and the boy clerk appeared, “have a cab to the door in ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That will pay for the cab, my lad,” continued Mr Brandsheim, slipping a couple of shillings into my hand. “I must keep you waiting a little while. Let me see—let me see—you didn’t go to the races, I suppose?”

“Oh no, sir.”

“Mr Ruddle and Mr Lister did, eh?”

“Mr Lister did, sir, I believe. Mr Ruddle never goes, I think.”

“Doesn’t he, though? How strange! I always go. Let me see—five hundred and sixty-six is—is—So Mr Lister’s going to be married, eh?”

“Yes, sir, I believe so.”

“That’s right. Everybody should marry when the time comes. You will some day. I hope the lady’s young and rich.”

“She’s beautiful, sir,” I said, with animation, feeling sorry, though, the next moment, for I did not like the idea of this man being so interested in her.

“Is she, though?” he said insidiously. “But you’ve not seen her.”

“Oh yes, sir, more than once.”

“Have you, though? Well, you are favoured. Let me see,” he continued, consulting a little thick book which he took from a drawer. “Seven hundred and fifty and two hundred and—er—er—oh, to be sure, yes; I think I heard who it was to be. Beautiful Miss Wilson, the doctor’s daughter. Let’s see, she’s very poor, though.”

I did not want to say more, but he seemed to lead me on, and get answers from me in an insidious way that I could not combat; and in spite of myself I said:

“No, sir, it is Miss Carr; and she is very rich.”

“You don’t say so!” he exclaimed, staring at me in surprise. “You don’t mean the Carrs of Westmouth Street?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I am surprised,” he exclaimed. “Lister’s a lucky dog. Why, I see, you dog!” he said, in a bantering way, “you carry the love-letters backwards and forwards.”

“Oh no, sir, I—”

“Hush, hush, hush! Not a word. I won’t listen to you. Don’t betray your master’s secrets, my lad. You’re a confidential messenger, and must clap a seal upon your lips.”

“But, sir, I—”

“No, no. How much?” he said, with mock severity. “Don’t speak, don’t interrupt me; I’m reckoning up. Let me see—let me see—ha! that’s it exactly. There we are,” he continued, fastening down a note and handing it to me. “Run along, my young Mercury, and if I were you I should make cabby drive me to Oxford Street for a shilling, and save the other. That’s the way to grow rich. Off you go. Take care of this.”

He thrust a letter into my hands, and almost pushed me out of the room, so that I had not time to speak; and before I had quite recovered from my confusion, I was in the cab, and heard the boy clerk say:

“Put him down at Oxford Circus.”

Then the wheels began to rattle, and the door to jangle, and I sit feeling angry with myself for saying so much about Mr Lister and Miss Carr, as I recalled William Revitts’ advice, often given, to “let other people talk while you make notes.”

The thought of where I was going soon drove my interview with Mr Brandsheim out of my head, and getting out of the cab at the Circus, I made the best of my way to the great imposing house in Westmouth Street, rang, and asked to see Miss Carr.

The man-servant looked at me rather dubiously, and asked my name. Then, bidding me sit down in the great sombre-looking hall, he went up the heavy staircase, and came back to bid me follow him.

I noticed as I went upstairs that the place was heavily but handsomely furnished. There were pictures on the walls of staircase and landing, and the stone steps were covered with a rich thick carpet. The wealthy look of the place, however, did not seem to abash me, for the atmosphere of refinement in which I found myself recalled old days; and the thoughts of the past seemed strengthened, as I was ushered into a prettily furnished little drawing-room, all bright with flowers, water-colour drawings, and books, from a table strewn with which latter Miss Carr arose to welcome me.

And again the feeling was strengthened at her first words:

“Ah, Antony!”

For the printing-office, Mr Revitts’ shabby room, Hallett’s attic, my own downfall, were forgotten, and, bright and eager, I half ran to meet her, and caught her extended hand.

Her sad face brightened as she saw the eager pleasure in my eyes, and retaining my hand, she led me to a couch and seated herself by my side.

“Then you had not forgotten me?” she said.

“Forgotten you?” I cried reproachfully, “I have been so longing to see you again.”

“Then why did you not come?”

“Come!” I said, with the recollection of my present state flashing back; and my heart sank as I replied, “I did not dare; I am so different now. But I have a note for you, Miss Carr.”

I took Mr Lister’s note from my pocket, and gave it to her, noticing at the time that she took it and laid it quietly down, in place of opening it eagerly.

“I shall always be glad to see you, Antony, that is, so long as you prove to me that you have not been unworthy of my recommendation.”

“I will always try,” I cried eagerly.

“I feel sure you will,” she said. “Mr Ruddle tells me you are rising fast.”

I coloured with pleasure, and then reddened more deeply as I saw that she noticed me, and smiled.

“But now, come, tell me of yourself—what you do and how you get on;” and by degrees, almost without questioning, I told her all my proceedings. For somehow, it seemed the highest delight to me to be once more in the society of a refined lady. Her looks, her touch, the very scent emanating from her dress and the flowers, seemed so to bring back the old days that I felt as if I were once more at home, chatting away to my mother. And so the time slipped by till I imperceptibly found myself telling Miss Carr all about my old pursuits—our life at homeland my favourite books, she being a willing listener, when, suddenly, a clear, silvery-toned clock began to strike and dissolved the spell. The old drawing-room, the lawn beyond the French window, the scent of the flowers, seemed to pass away to give place to the great printing-office and my daily work, and with a choking sensation in my throat, I remembered what I was—the messenger who had forgotten his errand, and I started to my feet.

“Why, Antony!” exclaimed Miss Carr, “what is it?”

“I had forgotten,” I said piteously; “I brought you a note; Mr Lister will be angry if I do not take back the answer.”

The aspect of Miss Carr’s face seemed to change from a look of anxious wonder to one of sternness. There was a slight contraction of the handsome brow, and her voice was a little changed as she said quietly—

“Sit down again, Antony; both you and I have much to say yet.”

“But—the letter, ma’am?” I faltered.

“The letter can wait,” she replied. Then, smiling brightly as she took my hand once more, “You cannot take back the answer till I write it; and come, I am alone to-day; my sister is away upon a visit; you shall stay to lunch and dinner with me, and we’ll read and talk till we are tired.”

“Oh!” I ejaculated.

“Do you not wish to stay?” she said smiling.

I could not speak, for the old childish weakness that I had of late nearly mastered was almost conqueror again. It did get the better of my voice, but I involuntarily raised her soft white hand to my lips, and held it there for a few moments; while her eyes, even as they smiled upon me, seemed half-suffused with tears.

“I will write to Mr Lister presently,” she said at last, “and tell him I detained you here. That will, I am sure, be quite sufficient; so, Antony, you are my visitor for the rest of the day. And now tell me more about yourself.”

I could not speak just then, but sat thinking, Miss Carr watching me the while; but we were soon chatting away pleasantly till the servant came and announced lunch.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Sunshine.

As we went down into the handsome dining-room I seemed to be in a dream, in the midst of which I heard Miss Carr’s voice telling the servant he need not wait; and as the door closed she laid her hand upon my shoulder and led me to the front of a large picture of a very beautiful woman, standing with her arm resting upon the shoulder of a grey-haired massive-looking man, not handsome, but with a countenance full of intelligence and force.

We stood silently before them for few moments, and then Miss Carr spoke:

“Can you tell who those are, Antony?” she said.

“Your papa and mamma,” I said, looking from the picture to her face.

“My dear father and mother, Antony,” she said, in a low, sweet voice; and her lips moved afterwards while she stood gazing up at them, as if saying something to herself.

I remember feeling well satisfied that I had on my best clothes that morning. I had reluctantly taken to them, but my others had grown so bad that I had been obliged. Then, too, there was a feeling of gratification that my hands were clean, and not stained and marked with ink. I remember feeling that as I took up the snowy table-napkin. All the rest was so dreamy and strange, only that I felt quite at home, and troubled by no sense of awkwardness. Moreover, Miss Carr’s behaviour towards me, as she intently watched my every action, became more and more warm, till it seemed to me as if I were in the society of some very dear sister; and a couple of hours later I felt as if we had known each other all our lives.

Upstairs once more she played to me, and smiled with pleasure as I picked out my favourite old pieces from the various operas; and at last she swung herself round upon the music-stool, and rose to draw my arm through hers, walking me thoughtfully up and down the room.

“What should you like to be, Antony?” she said half-playfully, “a soldier?”

“There’s something very grand about being a soldier,” I said thoughtfully, “when he fights to save his country; but no, I’m afraid I should be a coward.”

“A sailor, then?”

“No, Miss Carr,” I said, shaking my head. “I should either like to be a barrister or a doctor. I think I should like to be a doctor. No, I should like to be an engineer, and help Mr Hallett with his—”

I stopped short and coloured, for I felt that I had nearly betrayed my friend.

“Well?” she said in a strange, hesitating way, “Mr Hallett’s what?”

“Please don’t think me ungrateful, Miss Carr,” I said, “but I cannot tell you. Mr Hallett trusted to me the secret of what he is making, and I cannot say more. Yes, I may say that he is busy over a great invention.”

I fancied she drew her breath as if it caught and gave her pain, but her face was like marble as she went on.

“Antony, you are quite right,” she said; “and if I had ever had any doubts about your being a gentleman’s son, these words would have removed it. So you would like to be an engineer?”

“Yes,” I said, “very much.”

She continued walking up and down the room, and then went on:

“You lodge, you say, with a Mr Revitts, a policeman. Is he respectable and nice?”

“He’s the dearest, best old fellow in the world?” I said with animation. “Old?”

“No, no,” I said, laughing. “I meant good and kind by old.”

“Oh,” she said, laughing. “But tell me, Antony; is he particular with you?”

“Oh yes; he quite watches me, to make sure what I do, and where I go.”

“Would you like to go to different and better lodgings?”

“Oh no,” I said. “He is going to be married soon to Mary, who was so good to me at Mr Blakeford’s, and they would be so disappointed if I left.”

“He watches over you, you say?”

“Yes, Miss Carr. He was very angry that night when I stopped out late with Mr Hallett, when we had to walk part of the way back.”

“And—and this Mr Hallett, is—is he a proper companion for such a boy as you?”

“Mr Hallett is a gentleman, although he is now only a common workman,” I said proudly.

“But a youth like you would be easily deceived.”

“Oh no!” I cried; “don’t think that, Miss Carr. I would not give up Mr Hallett for anything. You don’t know him,” I said almost indignantly. “Why, when his father died, he, poor fellow, had to leave college, and give up all his prospects to gain a living anyhow, to keep his poor sick mother and his sister.”

“He has a sister?”

“Yes: so very pretty: Linny Hallett. I go there, and read Latin and German with Mr Hallett, while he works at his—his great invention. Oh, Miss Carr, if you could see him, so good and tender to his invalid complaining mother, you would say I ought to be only too proud of my friend!”

She was pressing my hand as she hastened her steps up and down the room. Then, loosing my hand suddenly, she walked quickly to the window, and threw it open, to stand there for a few minutes gazing out.

“The room was too warm, Antony,” she said in a quiet, composed way; and her pleasant smile was back upon her face as she returned to me. “Why, we were quite racing up and down the room. So you read German, do you? Come, you shall read a bit of Goethe to me.”

“I’m afraid—”

“That you are not perfect, Antony?” she said, laughing in a bright, eager way. “Neither am I. We will both try and improve ourselves. Have you well mastered the old, crabby characters?”

“Oh yes,” I said, laughing. “My mother taught me them when I was very young.”

“Why, Antony,” she cried, snatching the book from my hands at the end of half an hour; “you ought to be my master. But come, it is nearly dinner-time, and we must dress.”

“Dress?” I said, falling down from the seventh heaven to the level of Caroline Street, Pentonville, and bouncing back to the second floor.

“Well,” she said, smiling; “you would like to wash your hands.”

The rest of that evening was still more dreamlike than the day. I dined with Miss Carr, and afterwards she encouraged me to go on talking about myself, and present and past life. I amused her greatly about Revitts, and his efforts to improve his spelling; and she smiled and looked pained in turn, as I talked of Mary and my life at Mr Blakeford’s.

“I should like to know Mary,” she said, laughing; “Mary must be a rough gem.”

“But she is so good at heart!” I cried earnestly, for I felt pained at the light way in which she spoke of poor Mary.

“I am sure she is, Antony,” said Miss Carr, looking at me very earnestly; and then I began to talk of Mr Hallett, and how kind and firm he had been.

To my surprise, she stopped me, her voice sounding almost harsh as she said quietly:

“You are learning through a rough school, Antony, and are fast losing your homelike ways, and childlike—well—innocence; but you are still very impressionable, and ready to take people for what they seem. Antony, my boy, you will make many enemies as well as friends. Count me always among the latter, and as your friend I now say to you, do not be too ready to make friendships with men. I should rather see you with a good companion of your own age.”

“Yes, Miss Carr,” I said; “but if you knew Mr Hallett—”

She held up her hand, and I stopped, for she seemed to turn pale and to look angry.

“Antony,” she said, as the tea was brought in, “you will soon have to go, now, and I have not written the answer to the letter you brought.”

“No, Miss Carr,” I said; and I could have added, “neither have you read it.”

“It is too late, of course, for you to take an answer back, so I shall send one by post. Do not be alarmed,” she said, smiling, as she divined my thoughts; “no one will be angry with you for staying here. It was my wish.”

“And your wish would be law with Mr Lister,” I thought.

“I shall expect you to write to me,” she continued, “and set down any books you require. Do not be afraid to ask for them. I will either lend or buy them for you.”

She was pouring out the tea as she spoke, and I took the cup from her hand, watching her thoughtfully the while, for she seemed to have grown strange and quiet during the last few hours; and it set me wondering whether she would ever be so kind to me again. In fact, I thought I must have done something to offend her.

That thought was chased away after tea, when we both rose, and she held out her hands to me with a very sweet smile, which told me the time had arrived when I must go.

“And now, Antony, you must come and see me again, often. Good-bye.”

I could not speak, but stood clinging to her hands for a few minutes.

“Don’t think me foolish,” I said, at last; “but it has seemed so strange—you have been so kind—I don’t know why—I have not deserved it.”

“Antony,” she said, laying one hand upon my shoulder, and speaking very softly and slowly, “neither do I know why, only that your simple little story seemed to go home to my heart. I thought then, as I think now, that when I lost both those who were near and dear to me, my sister and I might have been left penniless, to go out and struggle in the world as you have had to do. Once more, good-bye. Only strive on worthily, and you shall always find that I am your friend.”

The next minute I was in the street, dull, depressed, and yet elated and joyful, while I ran over again the bright, sunshiny hours that had been so unexpectedly passed, as I hastened northward to join Revitts, for it was one of his home nights.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Linny is out Late.

I noticed that there was growing trouble at the Halletts’, and more than once, when I went up, I found Linny in tears, which, however, she hastily concealed.

This was the case on the night following my visit to Miss Carr, whose words, “that I need be under no uneasiness,” were verified. The fact that I had been sent out by Mr Lister was sufficient for Mr Jabez Rowle; and when, during the next day, I encountered Mr Lister himself, he nodded to me in quite a friendly way, and said, “How are you?”

Mrs Hallett was asleep, and I went upstairs softly, tapped at Hallett’s room door, and went in, to find him deeply immersed in his task, over which he was bending with knitted brows, and evidently in doubt.

“Ah, Antony,” he said, “here we are, as busy as usual. How did you get on last night?”

“With Revitts?”

“Yes; was it not your lesson-night?”

“Yes,” I said; “but I thought perhaps you meant at Miss Carr’s!”

He dropped the file with which he had been at work and stared at me.

“Where did you say?” he exclaimed.

“Mr Lister sent me with a note to Miss Carr, and she kept me there all day.”

He drew in his breath with a hiss, caught up the file and went on working, while I chattered on, little thinking of the pain I was causing the poor fellow, as I rapturously praised Miss Carr and her home, and told him by degrees how I had spent the day.

I was too intent on my narration to pay much heed to Hallett’s face, though in fact I hardly saw it, he kept it so bent over his task, neither did I notice his silence; but at last, when it was ten o’clock, and I rose to go, he rose too, and I saw that he was rather paler than usual.

“Are you ill, Hallett?” I said anxiously. “How white you look.”

“Ill? oh no, Antony. I have been sitting too much over my model. You and I must have another run or two into the country, and put roses in our cheeks.”

He looked at me with a smile, but there was a weary, haggard look in his eyes that troubled me.

“Come, you must have a scrap of supper before you go,” he said; and in spite of my protest he led me into the sitting-room, where Mrs Hallett was seated by the shaded lamp reading, and the supper-cloth was laid half across the table.

“Yes,” she said, looking up, as she let fall her book; “it’s time you came, Stephen. It’s very, very, very cruel of you to leave me alone so long.”

“My dear mother,” he said tenderly, “I did not know you were by yourself. Where is Linny?” he said anxiously.

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Mrs Hallett querulously. “You are always either out or upstairs with your playthings.”

“For Heaven’s sake, mother, be just,” Hallett exclaimed, with a burst of energy, such as I had not seen in him before. “Don’t goad me at a time like this. Where, I say, where is Linny?”

“Goad you, Stephen! No, I don’t goad you,” whimpered the poor woman. “I cannot help myself; say what you will to me. You neglect me, and Linny is always running out.”

“Has Linny gone out now, mother?” exclaimed Hallett.

“Yes, yes, and I am left all alone—a poor helpless invalid.”

“Where has Linny gone, mother?”

“I don’t know, Stephen. She said there was something to fetch. How can I tell?” and she burst into tears.

“Mother, dear mother,” cried Hallett, bending over her and kissing her, “pray, pray don’t think me unkind; I am working for you, and Linny too.”

“But if you would only be more ambitious, Stephen—if you would only try your poor father’s profession.”

“I cannot—you know I cannot, dear,” he said appealingly.

“No, no, no,” sobbed the poor woman; “always some low mechanic’s pursuit. Oh dear, oh dear! If it would only please God to take me, and let me be at rest!”

“Mother, dear mother,” whispered Hallett, “be reasonable. Pray, dear, be reasonable, and bear with what does seem like neglect; for I am indeed working for you, and striving to make you a happier and better home. Believe this of me, and bear with me, especially now, when I have two troubles to meet that almost drive me mad. Linny, dear: think of Linny.”

“Shall I go now, Mr Hallett?” I said, for the scene was terrible to me, and I felt hot with indignation at one whom I looked upon as the most unreasonable of women.

“No, Antony; stay, I may want you,” he said sternly. “Now, mother,” he continued, “about Linny. She must not be allowed to go out at night like this.”

“No, my son,” said Mrs Hallett piteously; “and if you had taken my advice the poor child would not have been degraded to such menial tasks.”

“Mother,” said Hallett, with more sternness than I had yet heard him use in speaking to her, “it is not the mere going out shopping that is likely to degrade your child. The time has come when I must insist upon knowing the meaning of these frequent absences on Linny’s part. Has she gone out to-night on some necessary errand?”

“I—I don’t know, Stephen; she said she must go.”

“Tell me, mother—I beg, I insist,” he exclaimed, “what you are keeping from me.”

“Nothing, nothing, Stephen,” sobbed the poor woman. “You’ll kill me with your un kindness before you’ve done.”

“Do you mean to tell me that you do not know where Linny has gone, mother?”

“Yes, yes, Stephen; I do not know.”

“Has—has she gone to meet anyone?”

“I don’t know, Stephen; I think so.”

“Who is it, mother?” exclaimed Hallett.

“I don’t know, Stephen; indeed I don’t know. Oh, this is very, very cruel of you!”

“Mother,” said Hallett, “is this just and kind to me, to keep such a secret from my knowledge? Oh, shame, shame! You let that weak, foolish child keep appointments with a stranger, and without my knowledge—without my knowing it, who stand to her in the place of a father. It must be stopped at once.”

“Let me go, Hallett, please,” I whispered.

“Yes; go, Antony; it is better that you should not be here when Linny comes back. Good-night—good-night.”

I hurried downstairs, and let myself out, feeling miserable with the trouble I had seen, and I was just crossing Queen Square when I saw Linny coming in the opposite direction.

She caught sight of me on the instant and spoke.

“Where did you leave Stephen?” she said hastily; and I saw that she was flushed and panting with haste.

“With Mrs Hallett,” I said.

“Was he scolding because I was out?”

“Yes.”

She gave her head a hasty toss and turned away, looking prettier than ever, I thought, but I fancied, as we stood beneath a lamp, that she turned pale.

Before she had gone half-a-dozen steps I was by her side.

“Well? What is it?” she said; and now I saw that she was in tears.

“Nothing,” I replied; “only that I am going to see you safe home.”

“You foolish boy,” she retorted. “As if I could not take care of myself.”

“Your brother does not like you to be out alone at night,” I said quietly; “and I shall walk with you to the door.”

“Such nonsense, Antony! Ah, well, just as you like;” and she burst into a mocking laugh.

I knew this was to hide from me the fact that she was in tears; and I walked beside her in silence till we had nearly reached the door, when we both started, for a dark figure suddenly came up to us.

“Oh, Steve, how you frightened me!” exclaimed Linny with a forced laugh.

“Did I?” he said calmly; and then he held out his hand to me and pressed mine.

He did not speak, but that pressure of his hand meant thanks, I thought, for what I had done; and once more I set myself to reach Caroline Street, thinking very seriously about Linny Hallett, of her mother’s weakness and constant complaints, and of the way in which Stephen Hallett seemed to devote himself to them both.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

We Complete the Model.

Matters did not improve at Great Ormond Street as the months rolled on. There was evidently a serious estrangement between Linny and Stephen Hallett; and in my frequent visits I saw that she was as wilful as she was pettish, and that she was setting her brother at defiance. Mrs Hallett was more piteous and complaining than ever, and her son grew haggard and worn with care.

Once or twice, when Linny went out, Hallett had insisted upon going with her, when she had snatched off her hat and jacket, exclaiming:

“It does not matter; I can go when you are away. I am not a child, Stephen, to be treated in such a way as this.”

He stood looking down at her, more in sorrow than in anger, and beckoning me to follow, he went up to his attic and turned to his model, but sat down thinking, with his head upon his hand.

“Can I do anything to help you, Hallett?” I said anxiously; and he roused himself directly, and smiled in my face.

“No, Antony,” he said, “nothing. I could only ask you to follow her, and be a spy upon her actions, and that would degrade us both. Poor child! I cannot win her confidence. It is my misfortune, not my fault. I am no ladies’ man, Antony,” he continued bitterly. “Here, let us try the model. I meant to have finished to-night; let us see how my mistress behaves.”

He often used to speak in a laughing way of the model as his mistress, after Mrs Hallett telling him one day that it was the only thing he loved.

It was then about nine o’clock, and putting aside reading for that evening, I helped him to fit together the various parts. The framework had been set up and taken down and altered a score of times, for, as may be supposed in such a contrivance as this, with all its complications, it was impossible to make every part at first in its right proportions. In fact, I found out that for quite a couple of years past Hallett had been slowly and painfully toiling on, altering, re-making, and re-modelling his plans. It was always the same. No sooner had he by patient enterprise nearly finished, as he thought, than he would find out that some trifle spoiled the unity of the whole machine, and he had had to begin nearly all over again.

“There, Antony,” he said, on the night in question, as he laid down the last wheel, one that he had had specially made for the purpose, “I have got to the end of my thinking to-night. I have looked at the model in every direction; I have tried it from every point of view, and if it is not a success now, and will not work, I shall throw it aside and try no more. What are you smiling at, boy?”

“Only at you,” I said, laughing outright, for we were now, when at his house, on the most familiar terms.

“And why?” he said, half amused, half annoyed.

“I was thinking of what you so often say to me when I am discouraged and can’t get on.”

“What do you mean?”

“‘Never say die!’” I replied, laughing. “I know you’ll try again, and again, till you get the thing right and make it go.”

“Should you?” he said, looking at me curiously.

“Of course I would,” I cried, with my cheeks flushing. “I never would give up with a puzzle at home, and this is only a big puzzle. It seems, too, as if we always get a little bit nearer to success.”

“Yes,” he said, nipping his lips together; “that’s what makes it so enticing. It seems to lure me on and on, like a will-o’-the-wisp in a marsh. You’re right, Antony, my lad; never say die! I must and will succeed.”

“Hurray!” I cried, pretending to throw up my cap. “Success to Hallett’s great invention! Patent, of course?”

“Yes,” he said, with a sigh; “but where is the money to come from for the patent?”

“Suppose we finish it first,” I said, laughing.

“Right, my young wisepate,” he cried; “but, good heavens! it’s eleven o’clock. Come, sir, pack off home to your lodging.”

“Why, I thought we were to set the model going to-night?” I said, in a disappointed tone.

“Yes, I did mean it,” he said, fitting a couple of cog-wheels one into the other. “But it is too late now.”

“Let’s try for another hour,” I said eagerly.

“No, no, my boy. I don’t like you to be out so late. Mr Revitts will be annoyed.”

“He’s away on duty,” I said. “Just another hour, and then you can walk part of the way home with me.”

“Well, just an hour,” he said, with his pale face flushing with pleasure; and we set to at once, he fitting together, while I polished and oiled wheels and spindles, and handed them and the various screws to him to fit in their places.

The model was as intricate as a clock, and there were endless little difficulties to combat; but there was something so fascinating in the task as the bright brass wheels were placed in order, and it begat such an intense longing to see it in motion, executing in miniature the great desire of Hallett’s life, that we forgot all about time, and kept steadily on till there were only a few screws to insert and nuts to tighten, and the task would be done.

Hallett looked up at me as he re-trimmed the lamp by which we worked, and I across the table at him, laughing at his puzzled face, for we had unconsciously been at work over three hours, and it was past two.

“This is dreadful, Antony,” he exclaimed, with a comical look of chagrin on his face. “I seem fated to lead you into all sorts of dissipation. What are we to do? I cannot let you go home so late as this. You must lie down here.”

“I’m not a bit sleepy,” I said, “but I am hungry.”

“Then you shall have some supper,” he said dreamily, and with his eyes fixed upon his model, forgetting me the next moment, as with his dexterous fingers he tried the action of one or other of the wheels.

“It’s a pity to leave it now,” I cried.

“Yes, yes,” he said with a sigh; “it is a pity: but it must be left. I dare—”

He ceased talking, becoming completely abstracted in his task of screwing on a nut, and without speaking I helped and watched and helped until quite an hour and a half more had glided by, when with a look of triumph he stood erect, for the task was done.

“She’s finished, Antony,” he cried, and in the elate eager face before me I seemed to see some one quite different to the stern, quiet compositor I met daily at the great printing-office by Fetter Lane.

I was as delighted as he, and together we stood gazing down at the bright, beautiful bit of mechanism—the fruit of years of toil and endless thought; but as I gazed at it a strange dull feeling of anxiety came over me, and I glanced timorously at Hallett, for the thought flashed across my mind:

“What will he say now if it fails?”

I literally trembled with dread as this thought forced its way home, and with a choking sensation at my throat I watched his eager, elated face each moment becoming more joyous and full of pride; and the more I witnessed his pleasure, the more I feared lest his hopes should be dashed.

“Why, it’s daybreak, Antony,” he said, drawing up the blind. “My poor boy, what a thoughtless wretch I am. It is cruel to you. Come and lie down directly.”

“No,” I said eagerly, “I want to see the model going.”

“And so do I, Antony,” he cried passionately; “but now the time has come, my boy, I dare not try. I feel a horrible dread of failure, and I must cover it over with a cloth, and leave it till I feel more calm.”

He took up the large black cloth with which he had been in the habit of covering it from the dust, and stood gazing down at the bright brass model which had begun to glisten in the soft pure morning light now stealing in from amidst the London chimney-pots, while a couple of sparrows seated upon the parapet set up a cheery chirp.

I felt that I dared not speak, but as if I should have liked to lead him away from the infatuation of his life. Somehow I knew that it would break down, and the anguish he must feel would be something I could not bear to see; and yet, combined with this, I shared his longing to see the model at work—the beautiful little piece of mechanism that was to produce a revolution in printing—turning easily, smoothly, and well.

As I gazed at his eager, anxious face, the pale light in the sky changed to a soft warm flush; bright flecks of orange and gold sent their reflections into the dingy garret, and seemed to illumine Hallett’s countenance, as with straining eyes and parted lips he stood there cloth in hand.

“Antony,” he said, in a low hoarse voice, “I am a coward. I feel like a gambler who risks his all upon a stake, and dare not look upon the numbers—upon the newly cast dice. No, no, I dare not try it now; let it rest till to-night.”

As he spoke he covered it carefully with the black cloth, but only to snatch it away, apostrophising it the while.

“No, no,” he cried; “it is like covering you with a pall and saying you are dead, when, you, the birth of my brains, are ready to leap into new life—new life indeed—the life of that which has had no existence before. Antony, boy,” he said exultingly, “what time could be more fitting than the birth of a new day for my invention to see the light? Throw open the window and let in the glow of sunshine and sweet fresh air. It is unsullied yet, and it will give us strength for our—for our—”

He hesitated, and his exulting tone changed to one of calm resignation. It was as if he had felt the shadow of failure coming on, and he said softly:

“Our triumph, Antony; or, God help me, fortitude to bear our failure!”

I had opened the window, and the soft, refreshing morning air floated into the room, seeming to bring with it a suggestion of the scents of the sweet, pure country; and now, in the midst of the silence, broken only by the chirping of the sparrows, and the distant rattle of the wheels of some market-cart, I saw Hallett’s countenance grow stern as he placed a little reel of thin paper, narrow as a ribbon, upon a spindle, and then, motioning to me to go to the handle which was to set the model in motion, he stood there with set teeth, and I turned.

There was a clicking, humming noise, the whirring of wheels, and the rattle of the little cogs; the ribbon of paper began to run off its spool, and pass round a tiny cylinder; and at that moment the little model seemed illumined by a brilliant ray of sunshine, which darted in at the open window. Then the light seemed to be glorifying Hallett’s face, and I was about to utter a cheer, when I felt a jar, and a shock from the fingers that held the handle run right up my arm. There was a sharp, grating noise, a tiny, piercing shriek as of tortured metal; and in place of the busy glistening, whirring wheels an utter stillness. A cloud crossed the rising sun, and with a bitter sigh Hallett stooped down and picked up the black cloth, which he softly and reverently drew over the wreck of his work, as I stood with dilated eyes looking at him aghast.

“Poor model,” he said softly, “dead so soon!” and with a sad, weary air of resignation as he smiled at me: “it was a very short life, Antony. Let us go down, my boy. You must be wearied out.”

I followed him on to the landing without a word, and after he had locked up the attic he led the way softly to the sitting-room, where he lit a fire and we had some breakfast, for it was too late to think of bed. Shortly afterwards we walked down together to the office, and I saw him no more till the day’s work was done.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Another Wakeful Night.

Stephen Hallett was in too much trouble to speak to me about the model that evening. Mrs Hallett was in tears, and full of repinings, and Linny was out, it seemed, when her brother had returned.

I soon found that he did not wish me to stay, and being tired out, I made the best of my way back to Caroline Street, and went to bed to sleep heavily, dreaming that Hallett and I were working away at the model, but as fast as ever we got it nearly to perfection, Mr Blakeford came and stood by to throw in the pieces of the stick with which he had been beaten by Mr Wooster, and every time he did so the little model was broken.

Then the whole scene of the flogging seemed to take the place of Hallett’s attic, and I saw Mr Blakeford sit down in a chair, panting, bloody, and exhausted, and he kept on saying in a low hoarse voice, “Antony, lad, water!”

It was very terrible to see him sitting there by the light of the office gas, for though I wanted to help him, the power was not there, and, strive how I would, I could not get to his side, or fetch what he asked for.

“Antony, lad, water!”

His voice sounded like a groan, and I knew he must be very bad; but still I could not help him, and the bitter moan with which he appealed to me seemed to cut me to the heart.

“Antony, lad, water!”

There it was again, and I started up to find myself in bed, with a candle burning in the room, and Revitts, with his hat on the floor, his coat torn open, and his face besmeared with the blood flowing from a cut in the forehead, was seated close beside his bed, evidently half fainting.

“Antony, lad, water?” he moaned; and leaping out of bed and hurrying on some clothes, I tried to give him what help I could, but in a strangely confused way; for I was, as it were, in a dream, consequent upon the deep sleep succeeding a night without my usual rest. I held a glass of water to his lips, however, from which he drank with avidity. And then, awakening more to the state in which he was, and realising that it was not a dream, I set to work and sponged and bound up the cut with a handkerchief, to find, however, to my horror, that there was another terrible cut on the back of his head, which was also bleeding profusely.

My next idea was to go for a doctor, but I reflected that I ought to first bind up the other wound, and this I did, leaving him in the chair, with his chest and head lying over on the bed, looking so white that a chill of horror shot through me, for I fancied that he was dying.

I knew there was a doctor’s two streets off, and I ran to where the red bull’s-eye in the lamp shone out like a danger signal; rang the night-bell; heard a window above me open, and, after explaining my business and what was the matter, the medical man promised to come.

I ran back to find that Revitts had not moved, but that my attempts to bandage his wounds had proved to be ineffectual. I did what more I could, though, and then sat horror-stricken and silent, holding the poor fellow’s hand, speaking to him at intervals, but eliciting nothing but a moan.

It seemed as if the doctor would never come, and I was about to rouse up some of the people in the house when I heard the bell, and ran to admit him.

He looked curiously at me as I stood there, candle in hand, and as I closed the door he said gruffly:

“A drunken fall, I suppose?”

“Oh no, sir,” I said hastily. “Mr Revitts never drinks.”

“Humph?” he ejaculated; and I led him up to where Revitts sat.

“Policeman, eh?” said the doctor; “this is a job for the surgeon to the division, my man. Mustn’t leave him to bleed to death, though.”

He slipped off his coat, and, exerting his strength, lifted poor Revitts on to the bed, after which he removed my bandages and made an examination.

“Hold the candle nearer, boy, nearer still. That’s right. You won’t singe his hair. If you do it won’t matter, for I must clip it off short. Humph! some one has given him a pretty topper with a thick stick, and he must have fallen with his head on the edge of a step. Terrible cuts?”

“But will they kill him, sir?” I faltered, feeling quite sick at the sight of the wounds.

“We won’t let them, my man. Come, hold up, you mustn’t, let that turn you faint.”

“I—I won’t, sir,” I said.

“That’s right, my man. Nothing like a little will and determination. We men must leave fainting to the girls. That’s right; basin and sponge and towel. We’ll soon put him straight. Now that case out of my pocket. That’s well. Hold the candle nearer. No snuffers? Well, use your fingers. Dirty trick, but handy—fingery, I ought to say.”

He kept on talking—half-playfully, while with his bright scissors he clipped the hair away close from Revitts’ forehead, and then, cutting up some plaister in strips, he rapidly bandaged the cuts, after bringing the edges of the wounds together with a few stitches from a needle and some silk.

“Poor fellow! he has got a sad knocking about,” the doctor said kindly, for now the annoyance at being called out of bed was over he was deeply interested in his case. “I wonder some of his fellow-constables did not take him to the hospital. Where did you find him?”

I told him how I was astonished by finding Revitts at my bedside.

“Ah yes, I see,” he said. “Hurt and half-insensible, and nature intervenes. Education says, Take him to the hospital; instinct bids him, animal-like, creep to his hole to die.”

“To die, sir?” I cried, catching his hand.

“Die? No: nonsense, boy. I was only speaking metaphorically. Don’t you see?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“No, you don’t, you young humbug,” he retorted sharply. “You don’t know what a metaphor is.”

“Yes, sir, it’s a figure of speech in which one idea is used instead of another.”

“Hallo!” he said; “why, how do you get your living?”

“I’m a reading-boy at a printer’s, sir.”

“Oh! Are you? I should have thought you were reading-boy to a professor of language. Well, we mustn’t forget our patient. Give me a glass, boy.”

“Will a teacup do, sir?”

“Oh yes, and a teaspoon. That’s right,” he said; and, emptying a little phial into the cup, he proceeded to give poor Revitts some of the stimulus it contained.

“There,” he said, “he’s coming round, poor fellow; but I daresay he’ll be a bit shaky in the head. He mustn’t get up; and you must give notice at his station as soon as it’s light, or to the first policeman you see.”

“But you don’t think he’ll die, sir?”

“Die, my man? No. A great stout fellow like that is not likely to die from a crack or two on the head.”

I drew a long breath of relief, and soon after the doctor left, bidding me not be alarmed if I found his patient slightly delirious.

It was no pleasant task, sitting there alone, watching by my poor friend, and many times over I felt so alarmed at his condition that I rose to go and rouse up some of the people of the house; but whenever I reached the door the doctor’s reassuring words came back, and, feeling that he must know what was right, I sat by the bedside, holding Revitts’ hand till towards morning, when he began to move uneasily and to mutter and throw about his arms, ending by seeming to wake from a troubled sleep.

“Where am I?” he said sharply.

“Here at home, in bed,” I said.

“Who’s that?”

“It is I, Bill, don’t you know me?”

“Yes, yes, I know you!” he said. “Oh, my head, my head!”

“What was it? How was it done?” I said.

There was a pause, and then, in a weary way:

“I don’t know—I can’t recollect. Everything’s going round. Yes, I know: I heard a little girl call out for help, and I saw a fellow dragging her towards an open door, and I went at him.”

“Yes, Bill. Well?”

“That’s all. I don’t know anything else. Oh, my head, my head!”

“But did he hit you?” I asked.

“Yes, I think so, and I went down,” he groaned; “and I don’t know any—any more, but I should know that fellow out of a thousand, and—”

He began muttering to himself, and as I bent over him I fancied I made out the word “staff,” but all else was unintelligible, and the poor fellow sank into a heavy sleep which seemed likely to last.

Soon after seven I got the landlady to come and sit with him while I ran to the police-station, and told the inspector on duty about Revitts’ state.

“There,” he exclaimed to another officer, “I told you so. He’s too steady a fellow to have gone wrong. All right, my man, I’ll send on the surgeon, and we’ll see what’s to be done. You don’t know how it was?”

I told him all I knew, and then ran on to Hallett’s to ask him to get me excused at the office.

I found him looking very pale, but Linny was not visible; and then I told him about Revitts’ state.

“It’s very strange,” he exclaimed. “Linny came home in trouble last night. She said some man had insulted her, and when she called for help a policeman ran up; and she left them struggling together while she made her escape and came home.”

“Then it must have been Revitts who helped her,” I said; and I then told him that I wanted to stay with the poor fellow.

“I’ll arrange all that for you, Antony,” he said quietly; and I made the best of my way back to Caroline Street, to find that poor Revitts had not moved, only kept on muttering where he had been laid by the doctor; and I took the watcher’s place, made tea for him, and spoke to him again and again, but without result.

The police surgeon came soon after with the inspector I had seen, asked me a few questions as he examined the injuries, and then I saw him tighten his lips.

“Hadn’t he better be taken to the infirmary, sir?” the inspector asked.

“No,” was the reply; “he must not be moved.” Then, turning to me: “You had better get some one to come and nurse him, my lad,” he said; “mother, sister, or somebody. I’ll call in again in the evening.”

I knew from this that the poor fellow must be seriously hurt, and had I wanted confirmation, I had it in the delirious mutterings that now came from his lips.

I sat by him in great trouble, wondering what I should do, when the doctor I had fetched called in, who, on learning that the divisional surgeon had been, nodded his satisfaction and turned to go.

“Please tell me, sir,” I said, “is he very, very bad?”

“Well, bad enough, my lad; you see, he has got concussion of the brain, and I daresay he will be ill for some time, but I do not anticipate anything serious. He must have a nurse.”

As soon as he had gone I sat and thought for a few minutes what I ought to do. Miss Carr was very kind and generous. If I asked her she would pay for a nurse; but no, I would not ask her without first consulting Hallett. He would help me in my difficulty, I felt sure, especially as it was probable that Linny was the girl poor Revitts had protected. But Hallett would not be back till evening, and then perhaps he would—no, he would be sure to come in.

I sat thinking, and the landlady came up, full of bewailings about her injured lodger, and in her homely way promised to come and wait on him from time to time. Then a bright thought occurred to me. I would write and tell Mary that Revitts was hurt, for I felt that she ought to know, and hastily taking pen and paper, I wrote her word that my friend was very ill, and asked her to tell me the address of some of his relations, that I might send them word. I did not forget to add a postscript, urging her to secrecy as to my whereabouts, for my dread of Mr Blakeford was as great as ever.

Seizing my opportunity when Revitts was more quiet, I slipped out and posted the letter, running back panting to find that a lady had come—so the landlady said—during my absence, and, rushing upstairs I stood staring with amazement on finding Linny in the room taking off her jacket and hat.

“You here, Linny?” I exclaimed.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Why not?”

“Was it you, then, that poor Revitts helped last night?”

“Yes,” she said, with a shiver, and she turned white. “Yes, poor fellow. It was very brave of him, and I have come to help him in return.”

“But does—does Stephen know?”

“How can he,” she said meekly, “when he is at the office?”

“But I am sure he would not approve of your coming,” I said stoutly.

“I can’t help that,” she replied quietly. “He will think it his duty to find fault, and I think it mine to come and help to nurse this poor fellow who was hurt in serving me.”

“But your mother—Mrs Hallett?”

“I have arranged for some one to go in and wait upon her till I go back,” said Linny quietly. “Now, what had I better do?” I could think of nothing better than to suggest some beef-tea, and she snatched at the notion, running out to fetch the material; and soon after having it simmering by the fire, while she tidied the room in a way only possible to a woman; and as she busied herself in a quiet, quick fashion, I could not help noticing how pale and subdued she seemed. It was very evident that her nerves had had a severe shock on the previous night, and as I gazed at the pretty, soft little face and figure, bending themselves so earnestly to the task in hand, I could hardly believe it was the same giddy, coquettish girl who caused her brother so much concern.

The day wore slowly by, and in spite of my efforts and real anxiety, I could not keep awake, but caught myself dozing off sometimes to start up, feeling horribly guilty, and ready to excuse myself to Linny on the plea that I had had hardly any sleep for two nights.

“The more need for me to come, Antony,” she said quietly, and bidding me lie down for an hour or two, she took out her work and, seated herself by the sick man’s pillow.

She woke me up at last to have a sort of tea-dinner with her, after I had seen that Revitts remained perfectly insensible, and then the evening wore on, the surgeon came and nodded his satisfaction at finding a nurse there, said that the patient was going on all right, but must have time, and took his leave.

At half-past eight, just as I had anticipated, Hallett arrived, and started with surprise on seeing his sister.

“You here?” he said, with an angry look upon his brow.

“Yes, Stephen,” she said quietly; “I have come to help nurse him.”

“It was an ill-advised step,” he said sternly. “You did not know that this was the man who protected you.”

“I felt so sure of it that I came to see,” she replied. “Don’t be angry with me, Stephen,” she whispered. “I owned to you last night that I was in fault, and meant to do better.”

“Yes, and refused to answer my questions,” he replied. “You do not tell me whom you went to see.”

“Is it not enough that I have promised you I’ll go no more?” she replied with quivering lips.

“Yes, yes, my child,” he said tenderly, as he took her in his arms and laid his cheek against her forehead. “It is enough, and I will not press you. Dear Linny, indeed I strive for your good.”

“I know that, Stephen,” she cried with a wild burst of tears, and, flinging her arms round his neck, she kissed him again and again. “My own brave, good brother,” she said; “and I’ve been so ungrateful and selfish! Oh, Stephen, I’m a beast—a wretch!” she sobbed.

“Hush, hush, little one,” he said; and then, starting, he held her at arm’s length and gazed full in her eyes. “Why, Linny,” he exclaimed, as a light seemed to have flashed across his mind, “it was that man—you went to meet—who insulted you.”

She turned away her face, and hung her head, shivering as he spoke, and weeping bitterly.

“It was,” he cried; “you do not deny it. The villain!”

“Please, please don’t, Stephen,” she sobbed in a low, piteous voice.

“Linny!” he cried hoarsely; and his face looked terrible. “If I knew who it was, I believe I should kill him?”

“Stephen,” she wailed, “pray—pray! We are not alone.”

“There is only Antony here,” he said, “and he is like a brother.” Then, making an effort over himself, he strained the little panting figure to his breast, and kissed her tenderly. “It is all past, my darling,” he said to her softly, and he smoothed her hair with his hand, as if she had been his child. “I’ll say no more, dear, for you have promised me.”

“Yes; and I will keep my word, Stephen.”

He kissed her again, and loosed her, to stand with brows knit with trouble.

“I do not like your coming here, Linny,” he cried at last.

“Why not, dear?” she said, laying her hands upon his shoulder. “It is an earnest of my promise. He came to me when I was in trouble.”

“Yes,” he said; “you are right,” and after looking at the patient he sat down and talked to us in a low tone.

“Is it not nearly time for you to go back, Linny?” Hallett said at last.

“Back!” she said; “I am going to sit up with Antony; the poor fellow must not be left. The doctor said so.”

Hallett took a turn up and down the room, and then stopped.

“You have had no sleep for two nights, Antony,” he said. “Lie down. I will sit up with my sister, and watch by poor Revitts’ side.”

I protested, but it was in vain; and at last I lay down in my clothes to watch the faces of brother and sister by the shaded lamp, till my eyes involuntarily closed, and I opened them again to see the two faces in the same positions, but without the lamp, for there was the morning light.

Chapter Thirty.

Revitts’ Nurse Arrives.

Hallett left quite early, to see that Mrs Hallett was properly attended to, and he moreover undertook to speak to either Mr Ruddle or Mr Lister about my absence, as, joined to my desire to stay with poor Revitts, Hallett wished me to bear his sister company.

Our patient was on the whole very quiet, but at times he moved his head to and fro and talked loudly, much being unintelligible, but I saw Linny’s countenance change several times as she heard him threaten the man he looked upon as an enemy.

“Can I do anything for you?” said Linny to him on one occasion, as he tried to raise himself upon his arm and stared at her wildly.

“’Taint as if I’d got my staff out to him, you know,” he said in a whisper. “He’s a coward, that’s what he is, and I shall know him again, and if I do come acrost him—ah!”

Linny shrank away, with her eyes looking wild and strange, so that I thought she was frightened by his words, and I interposed and put my arm under the poor fellow’s head.

“Lie down, Bill,” I said. “Does your head hurt you?”

“I don’t mind about my head,” he muttered, “but such a coward; treat a little bit of a girl like that. Where’s my notebook? Here, it’s time I went. Where’s that boy?” he cried angrily; “I know what London is. I won’t have him stop out of a night.”

He sank back exhausted, and as I turned from him to speak to Linny, I saw that she was in tears.

“He frightens you,” I said; “but you needn’t be afraid.”

“Oh no! I’m not,” she cried; “it’s only because I’m low and nervous. I shall be better soon.”

The surgeon came twice that day, and said the case was serious, but that there was no cause for alarm.

“He gives no clue, I suppose, to who struck him, my boy?” he said.

“No, sir,” I replied; “he talks about some man, and says he would know him again.”

“The police are trying hard to find out how it was. If they could find the girl it would be easy.”

I was just going to say, “Here she is, sir!” when I happened to glance at Linny, who was pale as ashes, and stood holding up her hand to me to be silent.

This confused me so that I hardly understood what the surgeon said, only that he wanted a stronger and more mature person to attend to Revitts; but when I told him that the landlady came up to help he was satisfied, and left, saying that he should come in again. He was no sooner gone than Linny caught me by the arm.

“Oh, what an escape!” she cried; “Antony, you know how wilful and cruel I have been to poor Steve?”

“Yes,” I said, nodding my head.

“And you know how I have promised him that I will always do as he wishes?”

“Yes, I know that too,” I said; “and I hope you will.”

“I will—indeed I will, Antony,” she wailed; “but please promise me, pray promise me, that no one shall ever know besides us that it was I whom Mr Revitts here—a—protected.”

“But the wretch of a fellow who behaved so badly to you, and beat poor Revitts like this, ought to be punished.”

“No, no—no, no?” she cried excitedly; “let it all pass now, Antony—dear Antony, for my sake.”

“I like you, Linny,” I said; “but I like dear old Revitts, too. He has been the best of friends to me, and I don’t see why a friend of yours should escape after serving him like this.”

“He—he is not a friend of mine now,” she said, half hysterically; “but, dear Antony, I could not bear for him to be punished. It was in a fit of passion. I had made him angry first. Please, please don’t say any more—I cannot bear it!”

She sank down on the hearth-rug, covering her face with her hands and sobbing bitterly, while I felt, boy-like, powerless to say anything to comfort her, till I exclaimed:

“Well, I won’t tell or say anything I know, Linny, if you will keep your word to Stephen.”

“I will—indeed I will, dear Antony,” she cried, starting up and catching both my hands. “I was very, very foolish, but I know better now, and it—it—it is all past.”

She said those last words in such a piteous, despairing way, looking so heart-broken, that my sympathies were now all on her side, and I promised her again that I would not tell Revitts or the police that she was the girl who had been in question. I repented of my promise later on, but at my time of life it was not likely that I should know how ready a woman who loves is to forgive the lapses of him who has won her heart, and of course I could not foresee the complications that would arise.

The surgeon came again, as he had promised, and after the examination of the patient, ordered some ice to be obtained to apply to his head, and directly he had gone I started off to fetch it, thinking as I did so that Hallett would soon be with us.

I was not long in getting a lump of bright, cold, clear ice, and on hurrying back, I heard voices in the room, when, to my surprise and delight, there stood Mary, but looking anything but pleased. She had thrown a large bundle on the floor, her large Paisley shawl across the foot of the bed, her umbrella on the table, and a basket crammed full of something or another was on a chair.

As for Mary herself, she was standing, very red in the face, her arms akimbo, her bonnet awry, and a fierce angry look in her eyes, before poor Linny, who was shrinking away from her, evidently in no little alarm.

“Oh, Antony?” she cried, “I’m so glad you’ve come! Who is this woman?”

“Who’s this woman, indeed!” cried Mary, now boiling over in her wrath; “‘this woman’ indeed! Perhaps you’ll tell her that I’m a poor deceived, foolish, trusting creature, who left her place at a moment’s notice to come and nuss him, and then find as I ain’t wanted, and that he’s already got his fine doll of a madam to wait on him.”

“Oh, Mary!” I cried; “you dear foolish old thing!”

“Yes, of course, that’s what I said I was, Master Antony, and even you turn agen me. But I might have known that such a fellow as William Revitts would have half-a-dozen fine madams ready to marry him.”

This was accompanied by pantings, and snorts, and little stamps of the foot, and a general look about poor Mary as if she were going to pull off her bonnet, jump upon it, and tear down her hair.

“Oh, you foolish old thing!” I cried, flying at her and literally hugging her in my delight at seeing her so soon, in the midst of my trouble.

“Be quiet, Master Antony,” she cried wrathfully, but throwing one arm round me as she spoke, in reply to my embrace. “But I won’t stand it, that I won’t.”

“But, my good woman,” faltered Linny.

“Don’t you ‘good woman’ me, slut!” cried Mary furiously. “I was going to give up and let you nurse him and till him, for aught I cared, but I won’t now. He’s engaged to me these four years, and he’s mine, and this is my place and room, and out you go, and the sooner the better; and—as for B—B—B—Bill—do take your hand from before my mouth, Master Antony! You’re a boy and don’t understand things. Now, then, madam, you pack!”

“Mary, be quiet!” I cried; “this is Mr Hallett’s sister, who kindly came to help nurse poor Bill till you could come. Bill does not know her; he never saw her before, but once.”

“Only once?” said Mary suspiciously.

“No, and then only for a minute. How could you be so foolish?”

“Because—because—because—” said Mary, bursting out into a passion of sobbing, “because my heart was half broke about my boy, and I only stopped to pack up a bundle and came—and then—when I found that pretty darling here, I—I—oh, my dear—my dear—my dear!” she cried, flinging herself on her knees at Linny’s feet, clutching her dress, and burying her wet face in the folds; “please—please—please forgive me, and don’t take no notice of my mad, foolish words. I’ve—I’ve—I’ve got such a temper! It’s a curse to me—and I was nearly distracted. Some day, p’r’aps, you’ll feel as bad and jealous as I did. Please—please forgive me!”

“Oh, yes, yes, yes!” cried Linny, whose tears now began to flow, and who, kneeling down in turn, drew poor Mary’s face to her breast, and the two remained thus, while I went and looked out of the window.

“Please—pray—forgive me!” sobbed Mary.

“Oh yes, yes, I do, indeed!” whispered Linny. “Antony is right; I never saw Mr Revitts but once, and I believe he is a very good man, and loves you dearly.”

“That he is, and that he does,” cried Mary, raising her red face, and throwing back her hair. “Though I don’t know why he should care for such a crooked-tempered, rough-tongued thing as I am.”

I thought I could understand why, as I saw Mary’s lit-up face, with her bonnet fallen back, and in spite of her distress looking quite as handsome as she was warm-hearted.

“But you do forgive me, dear?” she faltered, kissing Linny’s hands again and again.

“Forgive you?” cried Linny, kissing her ruddy cheek, “of course I do; you couldn’t help making the mistake.”

And, as if feeling that she was the cause of the trouble, Linny gave her such a look of tender sympathy that poor Mary was obliged to crouch down quite low on the floor again, and hug herself tight, and rock to and fro.

Immediately after, though, she was hastily wiping her eyes on the silken strings of her bonnet, which she tore off and sent flying to the other end of the room before dashing at me and giving me a hug, and then going down on her knees by Revitts’ pillow, and laying her cheek against his bandaged forehead.

“My poor old boy,” she whispered softly, “as if I could stay a minute from him!”

The next moment she was up, and giving a great gulp, as if to swallow down the emotion caused by Revitts’ appearance, she forced a smile upon her face, completely transforming it, and quickly but quietly dashed at her basket.

“I hadn’t time to do much, my dears,” she said to Linny and me collectively: “but I thought a pair o’ soles and a chicken must be right for the poor boy. Now, if you’ll only tell me where he keeps his pepper and salt, and the frying-pan and saucepans, I can get on. My sakes, poor boy, what a muddle he did live in, to be sure!”

We had to stop Mary in her culinary preparations by assuring her that the doctor had ordered only beef-tea.

“Then he may have chicken-broth, my dears,” she said; “I’m an old nuss, you know, though I wouldn’t attend to Mr Blakeford—eh, Master Antony?—for fear I should give him his lotion for outward application inside. But I can nuss, and not a step do I stir from this floor till I’ve made my poor old Bill well. Oh, if I only knew who done it!” she cried, with a flash of fierce rage; and as she glanced at Linny, the latter shrank away guiltily. Mary read her action wrongly, and plumped herself once more at the poor girl’s feet.

“Don’t you mind me, my dear!” she cried kissing her hands and her dress. “I’m a stupid, rough, jealous thing, and I was all on fire then, but I’m not now, and I humbly ask your pardon; as I says, God bless you, for coming to help my poor dear boy!”

There was another burst of sobbing here, and another embrace, when Mary jumped up again, all smiles, to apply a little fresh ice to the patient’s head, and gently coo over him, as if he were a baby.

After which, and having satisfied herself that the chicken-broth was progressing favourably, poor Mary felt it her duty to plump at Linny’s feet again, but she jumped up in confusion, as she heard the stairs crack as if some one were coming, and then she looked inquiringly at me, as the door softly opened and Hallett came in.

“Mr Hallett,” I said, “this is my dear old Mary, Mr Revitts’ friend, and she’s come up to nurse him. Mary, this is Miss Hallett’s brother.”

“Which I’m glad to see him,” said Mary, making a bob, and then growing redder in the face as she glanced at Linny, as if afraid that her late ebullition would be exposed.

“And I’m very glad to see you, Mary,” said Hallett, smiling and holding out his hand, which Mary took after interposing her clean pocket handkerchief, on the score that she had been cooking. “Antony often talked to me about you.”

“Have he, though?” said Mary, darting a gratified look at me.

“Often, of your great kindness to him. Your coming has helped us out of a great difficulty.”

“And your dear sister’s coming’s put my heart at rest, for I didn’t know, sir, what gin-drinking wretches might be neglecting my poor boy.”

“And how is the patient?” said Hallett, going to the bedside.

“The doctor says he is going on all right,” I replied.

“Is he a good doctor?” said Mary sharply.

“He is certain to be an eminent man,” said Hallett quietly; and his words partially pacified Mary.

“Because if he ain’t,” said Mary, “money shan’t stand in the way of his having the best in London.”

“Mary,” said Hallett, in his quiet telling way, and with a look that made poor Mary his firm friend, “a good surgeon will tell you that he can do much, but that the recovery of a patient principally depends upon the nurse. I see that Mr Revitts is safe in that respect, and I shall be only too glad to hear of his getting well.”

Mary seemed to have a ball rising in her throat, for she could not speak, and this time she forgot to place her pocket handkerchief over her hand, as she caught that of the visitor and kissed it.

“You can be quite at rest, Antony,” Hallett said then. “Mr Ruddle said he was sorry to hear about your friend, and he should leave it to your good sense to come back to work as soon as you could. Mr Lister is away—ill.”

I fancied that he knit his brows as he spoke, but it may have been fancy. Then, turning to Linny, he said:

“I am glad you are set at liberty, Linny. Our mother is very unwell, shall we go now?”

Linny nodded her assent, and put on her hat and jacket; but before they went Mary found it necessary to go down on her knees again, and in a whisper to ask Linny’s pardon; all of which Hallett took as an expression of gratitude, and shook hands warmly as he left.

I went with him down to the door to say good-night, and as we parted I asked him not to think I was neglecting him, now he was in such trouble with his model.

“I do not, my dear boy; and I never shall think ill of you for being faithful to your friends. Good-night; the model is buried for the present. When you can come again, we’ll try once more to bring it back to life.”

I stood watching them as they went together beneath the street lamps, and I was glad to see Linny clinging trustingly to her brother’s arm.

“Poor Linny!” I thought to myself. “She’s very fond of somebody who behaves badly to her. I wonder who it can be.”

Chapter Thirty One.

How Mary Broke Down.

Few as the minutes of my absence had been, Mary had done a good deal towards tidying up the room, and as I entered I could see her bonnet and shawl hanging lovingly up against the wall, side by side with poor Bill’s hat and greatcoat, just as if they had newly entered into the holy state of matrimony. There was beginning to be an appetising odour of chicken in the room, the bundle was tucked out of sight, the chairs in order, and it was plain to see that a clever housewife had been at work.

“Oh my, how you have growed, my dear!” whispered Mary ecstatically. “I never did see a boy improve so. And only to think of your running away from old Blakeford and finding out.”

She ran here to the bed to see if her sweetheart was all right, and then turned to me with open arms.

“Give us a kiss, dear,” she cried, and in a moment I was hugged tight in her arms and kissed and fondled again and again. “I am glad to see you, you can’t tell how glad,” she cried softly, “and it was good of you to write. No sooner did I get your letter, than I ups and tells Mrs Blakeford as I was going away directly, because my friend in London was ill.”

“But you did not say I wrote, Mary?” I cried in agony.

“Do you think I was such a silly, my dear? No, I’d got the letter safe in here,” she said, thrusting her hand inside her dress. “Well, as I was saying—stop a moment—let me look at the broth.”

She raised the lid, shut it again, had another look at Revitts, and then went on:

“Who should come in but old Blakeford, and he said gruffly that they couldn’t snare me, and, ‘Can’t spare me!’ I says; ‘well, you just must, for I’m going.’

“‘Then we shan’t pay you your wages,’ says old Blakeford. ‘Then I will make you,’ says I, ‘So now then. I’m not going to have people die for want of help, to please you.’

“‘Who is it then as is dying?’ says Mrs Blakeford.

“‘It’s my sweetheart, mum, if you must know,’ I says.

“‘Then all I can say is, that it’s very indelicate of you, a young unmarried woman, to go up and nurse a single man.’

“‘No more indelicate, mum,’ I says, ‘than for you to want me to nuss Mr Blakeford when he was ill.’

“‘But you didn’t do it,’ she says.

“‘No, mum,’ I says, ‘but you wanted me to, and what’s more, if the whole world and his wife come to me and told me it wasn’t right for me to go, I should go; so now then.’

“‘But when will you come back then, Mary?’ says Mrs Blakeford.

“‘Not at all, mum,’ I says, ‘for after going and nursing a single man as is dying for aught I know, I shan’t be fit company for the folks in this house. I’m going now directly, mum, and I shall leave my box and send for it and my wages too.’”

Here Mary had another look at the patient and the cooking.

“I wasn’t long getting off, I can tell you, and glad enough I was to get away. I’d ha’ left long enough ago, only I didn’t want to make any more changes till the big one, and there was only one as I minded leaving.”

“And that was little Hetty,” I said, as I understood her big change to mean her marriage.

“Yes, my dear, you’re right—little Hetty; and she came and sobbed and cried ever so, with her dear arms round my neck, till I told her that perhaps I might see you, and asked her if I might take you her love; and she sent it to you, and said she always wore your brooch.”

“And is she quite well?” I said, with sparkling eyes.

“Yes, and grows the neatest, prettiest, best girl that ever was. And now, my dear, I’m come to nuss my pore William till he’s well, and then—”

“Yes, Mary?” for she had paused.

“I shall get a place somewhere in London; for I shan’t go back.”

Then, after another look at the patient, she came back to me.

“Could you drink a cup o’ tea, dear?” she said.

“Yes, Mary, and you must want something.”

“Well, my dear, I do begin to feel a bit faint, for I hadn’t only just begun my breakfast when your letter came, and I haven’t had nothing since.”

The result was that the kettle was soon made to boil, and Mary seemed quite delighted to be pouring out for me and making the toast.

“Lor’, my dear, now it do seem like old times!” she cried.

“Only you’ve grown to look so handsome and well, Mary,” I said.

“Do I, my dear? Well, I am glad. Not as I care myself, but some people might. But, Lor’, I never looked well down at old Blakeford’s. My! what a row there was because you run away—”

“Was there?” I said with a shudder, half pleasure, half delight.

“Warn’t there?” said Mary, who kept running to the bedside at the slightest movement. “Bless your ’art, old Blakeford was nearly mad, and Miss Hetty ’most cried her eyes out, till I told her you’d be happier away, and then she cried ’em out more than ever, for fear her par should catch you. He was out days and days, until his leg got so bad he was really obliged to go to bed. The dog bit him, you know, the night you run away. Then there was the upset before the magistrates, and that Mr Wooster somehow managed to get the day, because master—I mean old Blakeford—hadn’t got the right witness. And that made master—I mean old Blakeford—worse. And now I don’t think I’ve any more to tell you, only you ain’t half eating your toast. My sakes! it do put me in mind of old times, for it was precious dull when you was gone.”

“Were you cross with me for running away, Mary?”

“I was then, for not telling me, but I soon got to think it was quite right.”

“I hope it was, Mary,” I said; “but did you ever see old Mr Rowle?”

“What, that yellow little man? oh, often; he used to come and talk to me about you, and when I said you was very ungrateful for running away, he used to stick up for you. He didn’t come very often, though,” continued Mary, correcting herself, “because he couldn’t smoke in my kitchen, else I believe he’d have come every night to talk about you.”

A slight moan from poor Revitts took Mary to the bedside, and very soon after she insisted upon my lying down and going to sleep a bit, and when I awoke the next morning, Mary was looking as fresh and wakeful as ever.

I don’t know to this day how Mary managed, for she never seemed to close an eye, but to be always watching over her “pore boy.” When I talked about her going to bed, she only laughed, and said that “a good nuss never wanted no sleep.”

“And now, my dear, you’ve been kep’ away from your work,” she said; “so, as soon as you’ve had your breakfast, you be off. I can manage till you come back. I don’t hold with neglecting nothing.”

She would not hear of opposition, so I left her the field, and went down to the office, where I saw Mr Hallett looking very pale and stern, and soon after I was at my old work, reading to Mr Jabez Rowle, who seemed very glad to see me back, complimenting me on my reading, by saying I was not quite so stupid as my substitute had been.

When I returned to Caroline Street, I found Mary in consultation with the landlady, who then descended, and, to my great delight, Revitts was, if anything, better.

Mary was very glad to see me back, and began to unfold her plans, to wit, that she had found that the front room was to let furnished, and she had taken it of Mrs Keswick, the landlady; for my use.

“It will be better for all of us, my dear,” she said, “so just you hold your tongue.”

I sat up late with Mary that night, and the next, and the next, talking about the past and the future, and still she seemed to get no sleep; but she always laughed about it, and declared that she went to sleep with one eye at a time. Be that as it may, a more patient, untiring nurse man never had, and right through poor Revitts’ weary state of delirium she was always by his pillow, always smiling and cheerful through the worst crisis, till, one night, when I returned to be met by her on the stairs; and, finger on lips, she led me into the front room, to fall on my neck, and silently sob as if her heart would break.

“Oh, Mary, Mary!” I said, “he’s worse; and I thought he seemed so much stronger this morning.”

“No, no, dear,” she sobbed, “he’s better. He opened his eyes this afternoon and knowed me, and said: ‘Ah, Mary, old gal, is that you?’”

Poor woman! The pent-up suffering that had been longing to burst forth, and which had all been hidden behind her mask of smiles, had come pouring out, and for the next half-hour Mary sobbed and wept in a quiet way till I was in despair. Then, to my surprise, she got up in a business-like manner, wiped her eyes, and smiled once more.

“There!” she exclaimed, “I’m better now.”

Chapter Thirty Two.

Coming Off.

With Revitts better there was no occasion for me to stop in of an evening, and as soon as I could I went on to the Halletts’, where I was warmly welcomed by the whole family. Mrs Hallett had a string of troubles to tell me, and interspersed with them I had narratives of how different matters used to be.

Linny was very affectionate and kind, but I could see that she looked pale and troubled. Her pretty face lighted up though, whenever her brother spoke, and I noted the air of satisfaction in Hallett’s face as he realised how his sister was keeping to her promise.

“Well, Antony,” he said cheerily, as soon as Mrs Hallett had retired, which was always before nine, Linny going away to attend upon her. “What do you say: shall we go and look at the model?”

“Yes,” I said eagerly; “I’ve been longing to have another turn at it.”

“You are not wearied out then?”

“Wearied out?” I cried, laughing; “no, and I never shall be till I see it a success.”

He sighed, but there was a smile upon his lip at the same time; and leading the way upstairs, we were soon busy over the model.

I saw at a glance that it had remained untouched, covered with the black cloth, ever since that unfortunate morning, so that I did not need his confirming words as he spoke:

“I thought I would leave it till you came.”

That night and many more were taken up in separating and repairing the broken parts of the little piece of mechanism, and then came the difficult task—how to contrive so that it should not again break down.

The days flew by and became weeks, and the weeks months, but still the problem was not solved. Experiment after experiment was tried without effect, and it seemed as if Hallett’s clever brain could only bring the work up to a certain point. Then it required the powers of a second brain to carry it on to perfection.

Meanwhile Revitts had gradually recovered, and more than once related to Mary and me how, on that unfortunate night, he had been attracted by a slight scuffle and a woman’s cry; that he had run up, and the woman had clung to him, which so enraged the man that he had struck him with the heavy stick that he carried, and that was all.

“Should you know the woman again?” I asked, feeling very guilty as the possessor of Linny’s secret.

“No,” he said. “She was only a little thing, quite a girl, and she had her veil down; but I should know the man, and if ever I do get hold of him, if I don’t give him a wunner my name ain’t Revitts.”

He was still too ill to resume his duties, but he used to go out for a walk every day, leaning on Mary’s arm, Mary herself now taking to the room that had been engaged ostensibly for me.

“It’s a-coming off, Antony,” said Revitts to me one night, when I had returned from the office in high glee; for I had received a note from Miss Carr, saying that she wished to see me the next day, she having just returned to town with her sister from a long round of visits, following a tour on the Continent.

“Coming off?” I said, looking from him to Mary and back.

“Don’t you take any notice or his nonsense,” cried Mary, running her arm up to the elbow in one of Revitts’ stockings.

“’Tain’t nonsense,” said Revitts, rubbing his hands softly; “it’s a-coming off soon as ever I’m quite well.”

“’Tain’t,” said Mary tartly. “I’m going to take another place as soon as ever you’re fit to leave.”

“Yes, my dear, so you are,” said Revitts, smiling at me in a soft, smooth, sheepish way; “a place as you won’t never leave no more.”

“It’s all stuff, Master Antony, and I’m not,” cried Mary.

“Tantrums won’t save you from it now, my dear,” said Revitts, shaking his head and pointing to the wall. “I says to myself as soon as ever I began to be able to think again, and see that there shawl and bonnet a-hanging so comfortable-like up again my greatcoat and hat—I says to myself, I says, she’s hung up her bonnet now and give in, and it can be Mrs William Revitts as soon as ever I like.”

“It’s all stuff and nonsense, I tell you. Don’t listen to him, Master Antony.”

“That ain’t a real tantrum,” said Revitts, rubbing his hands; “she’s give in—she’s give in.”

“I declare I wouldn’t have come a-nigh you, Bill, if I’d knowed you’d go on like that before Master Antony,” cried Mary, who was perfectly scarlet.

“Master Antony’s a gentleman,” said Revitts, “and he bears witness that you’ve give in; and, tantrums or no tantrums,” he cried, bringing his hand down upon the table with a bang, “you don’t go away no more. Look at that!”

He took a blue official envelope from his pocket and opened it, took out a letter, and smoothed it upon his knee.

“That’s dictation, that is, Antony. That’s what that is,” he cried, holding up his chin, and giving his head an official roll, as if to settle it in a stock that he was not wearing.

“Why, where did you get that letter?” cried Mary.

“Brought me this afternoon while you was out shopping,” said Revitts triumphantly. “Look here, Antony, that ain’t directed to P.C. Revitts, that ain’t;” and he handed me the envelope, which I read aloud:

“‘To Sergeant Revitts, VV Division, Caroline Street, Pentonville.’”

“‘Sergeant Revitts!’” he said, rising and buttoning up his coat, but pausing to reach down his stiff, shiny stock and buckle it on. “‘Sergeant Revitts,’ if you please; and if,” he said, walking up and down the room excitedly, “it ain’t Inspector Revitts some day, and after that Sooperintendent and a sword, my name ain’t Bill.”

“Hurrah!” I cried; “I am glad;” and then I caught his arm, for, poor fellow, he was very weak yet, and needed the chair Mary placed for him to sit down.

“And you so ill and weak still, and talking about such stuff,” she cried hastily.

“I’m getting round fast enough,” said Revitts; “it was only the ‘sergeant’ took my breath away a bit; that’s all. It’s all right, Antony. It’s a-coming off, ain’t it, Mary, my dear?”

“I am glad, Bill. But they couldn’t have made a better man a sergeant if they’d tried,” said Mary evasively.

“I said it was a-coming off,” said Revitts, “ain’t it?”

He leaned forward, and looked at Mary; she, with the stocking on one arm, and the long darning-needle in her hand, held it as if to keep him off. I saw Mary’s scarlet face gradually raised till her eyes met his, and then a soft, foolish-looking smile began to dawn upon one corner of her lips, pass over to the other, and gradually make them open to show her white teeth, before running right up, and half-closing her eyes. The same kind of smile, but much larger, appeared on Revitts’ face; and there they sat, smiling at one another, till I took up my cap and went out—even my exit being unnoticed—for another good servant was veritably lost to society. Mary’s “tantrums” were at an end.

Chapter Thirty Three.

I Have Another Lesson in Love.

I felt rather nervous about asking for leave, but summoning up courage the next day, I knocked at the principal’s door, and Mr Ruddle’s voice bade me come in.

“Well, Grace,” he said, nodding to me pleasantly, “I wanted to see you.”

I looked at him wonderingly.

“Only to say how glad I was to hear such a good account of you from Mr Rowle.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“But Mr Grimstone doesn’t give you much praise,” he continued, with rather a droll look in his eyes; “so I’m afraid you are a very ordinary sort of boy after all. Well, what do you want?”

“I had a note from Miss Carr, sir, saying she would like to see me to-day. Can I be spared?”

“Oh yes, certainly—certainly,” said the old gentleman. “And look here, my man, you’ve made a good friend in that lady. Try and deserve it—deserve it.”

“I will try, sir,” I said.

“That’s right,” he said; “and try hard.—Well, Grimstone, what is it?”

The overseer looked from me to his principal and back again, before rustling some papers in his hand in an ill-used way.

“It’s very hard on me, sir, that more attention isn’t paid to the business. Here are you and me toiling and moiling all day long to keep the customers right, and Mr John at races and steeplechases, and Lord knows what—anything but the business!”

“You’re always grumbling, Grimstone,” said Mr Ruddle testily. “Here, let me see.—You needn’t wait, Grace, you can go.”

I thanked him and hurried off, leaving the two immersed in some business matters, and thinking of nothing else now but my visit.

There was a warm welcome for me at Westmouth Street, and Miss Carr’s eyes looked bright and satisfied, I thought; but I could not help seeing that she was paler and thinner than when I saw her last.

“Well, Antony,” she said, after seating me beside her; “it seems an age since we met. What have you been doing?”

I told her—busy at the office, and also about Mr Revitts.

“Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “I was in the neighbourhood of Rowford last month, and I—”

“You were down there?” I said eagerly.

“Yes, Antony, and I had a long chat with the old clergyman there, when he visited my friends. He knew your father and mother.”

“Oh yes,” I said, as a flood of recollections came back.

“And he asked me very kindly about you, saying he thought Mr Blakeford had behaved very badly to Mr Grace.”

“I mean to pay Mr Blakeford every penny my dear father owed him,” I said, flushing, and getting up from the couch. “He shall not dare to speak ill of the dead.”

Miss Carr looked at me curiously, and I thought her manner was more tender to me as she took my hand and once more drew me to her side.

“About this Mr Revitts, Antony,” she said; “I think the time has come now when you should have different lodgings.”

“Oh, Miss Carr!” I exclaimed, “he has been so kind to me, such a good friend; and now poor Mary has come up, and they are going to be married, and Mary would be terribly disappointed if I went to lodge anywhere else. He’s Sergeant Revitts now: he has been promoted.”

“If Mr and Mrs Revitts set up a home of their own, that would be different,” she said thoughtfully. “But in your new position, Antony, you ought to be better provided for than while you were at the office.”

“In my new position?” I said, hesitating.

“Yes,” she said, smiling; and as I gazed in her face I thought what a happy man Mr Lister must be. “You said you would like to be an engineer, when I saw you last.”

“Oh yes,” I said, “and then I could help Mr Hallett with his model.”

There was a little spot of colour in each of her cheeks as I spoke, and a slight knitting of her brows; but she went on:

“I have consulted Mr Ruddle, who has spoken to the proprietors of a large engineering firm, and they have engaged to take you as a pupil.”

“Oh, Miss Carr!” I cried.

“But understand, Antony, that it is not merely sitting in an office and handling pen and drawing instruments: as I understand, the pupils have to learn to use lathe and tool, so as to thoroughly understand their profession. Shall you mind that?”

“Mind it?” I said. “Do you think I mind dirtying my hands? Why, my father had a regular workshop, where we used to make and mend. Besides, if I learn all that, I can help Mr Hallett.”

“Antony,” she said, in a weary, half-annoyed way, “don’t talk to me of Mr Hallett. My dear boy, you must not be a hero-worshipper.”

“I don’t know what a hero-worshipper is,” I said, feeling hurt; “but Mr Hallett has been so good to me that it would be ungrateful if I did not love and respect him.”

The two little spots of colour came in her cheeks again, and there was a strange twitching of her brows.

“Kinder to you than Mr Revitts?” she said softly.

“Oh, he’s not like William Revitts,” I said eagerly. “I can’t quite explain it; he’s so different. I like Revitts, but I always seem to have to teach him. Mr Hallett teaches me, Miss Carr. I think he will be a great man.”

“You foolish boy!” she cried, in a nervous, excited way. “There, then: it is settled. You will go and see Mr Girtley, at his office in Great George Street, Westminster, and you may hid adieu to the printing-office, and make your first start towards being a professional man as soon as ever you like.”

“I—I can never be grateful enough to you, Miss Carr,” I said, in a trembling voice.

“Oh yes, my dear boy, you can. Work on and succeed, and you will more than repay me.”

“Then I shall soon be out of debt,” I said joyfully.

“I hope so, Antony,” she said sadly; “but don’t be too sanguine.—Yes?”

“Mr Lister, ma’am,” said the servant who had entered. “He would be glad if you would see him for a few minutes.”

“Did—did you tell him I was not alone?” said Miss Carr, whose face seemed to have turned cold and stern.

“No, ma’am, I only took his message.”

“Show Mr Lister up,” she said, in a quiet dignified way; and, as the footman left the room—“Go in there, Antony, and wait until Mr Lister has gone. He will not stay long.”

She pointed to the folding-doors that opened into a larger drawing-room, followed me, and pointing to a table covered with books, returned, leaving the door ajar.

The various illustrated books were no little attraction, but the thought of becoming an engineer, and perhaps being of service to Mr Hallett, kept me from looking at them, and the next moment I heard the little drawing-room door open, and Mr Lister’s voice, every word being perfectly audible.

“Ah, my dear Miriam!” he exclaimed; “why, my dear girl, you look quite pale.”

I felt very guilty, and as if I were listening purposely to the words passing in the next room; so, taking up a book, I tried to read it, but in spite of my efforts every word came plain and clear, and I heard all.

“I have been a little unwell,” said Miss Carr quietly.

“My poor girl!” he said tenderly. “Ah, you have been away too much! Miriam, dear, I want you to listen to me to-day. When am I to make you my prisoner, and keep you from these errant ways?”

There was no reply, and a dead silence seemed to fall.

“Why, Miriam, darling,” said Mr Lister, in a tender voice, “you are more unwell than I thought for; why not have advice?”

“No, no,” she said hastily. “I am quite well, indeed, John.”

“Then why are you so cold and strange and distant? Have I offended you, darling?”

“Oh no, John; indeed, no.”

“I could not visit you more frequently, Miriam. I could not join you abroad, for, as you know, my circumstances are only moderate, and I have to keep very, very close to the business. Ruddle does not spare me much. Are you annoyed because you think I slight you?”

“Oh no, no, John—indeed no.”

“Yes, that is it,” he cried; “you think I ought to have come down when you were staying at Rowford.”

“Can you not believe me, John,” she said coldly, “when I tell you that there are no grounds for such a charge? You ought to know me better now.”

“I do know you better, my own, my beautiful darling,” he cried passionately; “but you drive me nearly mad. We have been engaged now so many weary months, and yet I seem to occupy no warmer position in your heart than when I first met you. It is dreadful!”

I heard him get up and walk about the room, while she sat perfectly silent.

“You rebuff me,” he cried angrily. “You are cold and distant; my every advance is met by some chilly look. Good heavens! Miriam, are we engaged to be man and wife, or not?”

“You are unjust, John, in your anger,” said Miss Carr in her low, sweet voice. “I do not rebuff you, and I am never intentionally cold. Indeed, I try to meet you as the man who is to be my husband.”

“And lover?” he said, with an almost imperceptible sneer.

“As my husband,” she said quietly; “a holier, greater title far than that of lover. We are not girl and boy, John Lister, and I do not think that you would love and respect me the more for acting like some weak, silly school-girl, who does not know her own mind.”

“She would at least be warmer in her love.”

“But not nearly so lasting,” said Miss Carr, in a low, almost pathetic voice. “I look upon our engagement as so sacred a thing that I think we ought not to hurry on our marriage as you wish. Besides, was it not understood that we should wait awhile?”

“Yes; that was when some tattling fool told you about my losses over that race, and I suppose made out that I was in a hurry to win the heiress, so as to make ducks and drakes of her money.”

“You hurt me,” she said softly; “no one ever hinted at such a degrading idea.”

“Just when a fellow had gone into the thing for once in a way. Of course I was unlucky, and a good job too. If I had won I might have been tempted to try again. Now I have done with racing and betting and the rest of it for ever.”

“I had not thought of that affair, John, when I spoke as I did. I promised you I would forget it, and I had forgotten it, believe me.”

“Oh yes, of course,” he said bitterly.

“I am speaking frankly and openly to you, John,” continued Miss Carr gently; “and I want you to think as I do, that, in taking so grave a step as that which joins two people together for life, it should be taken only as one makes a step from which there is no recall.”

“Miriam!” he exclaimed, and he seemed to stop short in front of her, “I am a hot, impetuous fellow, and I love you passionately, as you know, and have known since the day when first we met. Have I ever given up the pursuit?”

“No,” she said, half-laughingly. “You did not let me rest, nor did our friends, until we were engaged.”

“Of course not. There, come now, you look more like your own dear self. I want to ask you a question.”

“Yes, John. What is it?”

He cleared his voice and hesitated, but only to speak out firmly at last.

“Do you think—have you ever thought me such a cur that I wanted you for the sake of your money?”

“John, this is the second time that you have brought up my fortune to-day. There is no need to answer such a question.”

“But I beg—I desire—I insist upon knowing,” he cried passionately.

“You have your answer in the fact that you are standing before me talking as you are. If I believed for an instant that you had such sordid thoughts, our engagement would be at an end. I would sooner give you the money than be your wife.”

“Of course, yes: of course, my own dear, noble girl!” he cried excitedly. “Then why all this waiting—why keep me at arm’s length? Come now, darling, let us settle it at once.”

“No, John,” she said calmly. “I cannot yet consent.”

“Your old excuse,” he cried, striding up and down the room.

“I never held out hopes to you that it would be soon,” she replied; and I felt that she must be looking at him wistfully.

“But why—why all this waiting, dear?” he said, evidently struggling with his anger, and striving to speak calmly.

“I have told you again and again, dear John, my sole reason.”

“And what is that?” he said bitterly; “it must have been so trifling that I forget it.”

“You do not forget it, indeed,” she said tenderly. “I ask you to wait, because I wish, when I marry you, to be sure that I am offering you a true and loving wife.”

“Oh, if that’s all,” he said laughingly, “I’m satisfied as you are; and on my soul, Miriam, I wish you had not a penny, so that all ideas of self-interest might be set aside!”

“They are set aside, dear John,” she said calmly.

“Well then, love, let there be an end to this miserable waiting and disappointment. If I did not know thoroughly your sweet disposition, and that you are so far above all silly coquettish ways, I should say that you were trifling with me, to make me more eager for the day.”

“You know me better.”

“I do, my darling,” he said in a low impassioned voice, which I heard quite plainly, though I had gone to the window and was looking out into the street. “Then let us settle it at once. I am in your hands, Miriam, as I have been from the day I first set eyes upon you. At present I am wretched—miserable—my whole thoughts are of you, and I feel at times half-mad—that I cannot wait. Do you wish to torture me?”

“No.”

“Then be my dear honoured wife in a week’s time—a fortnight? What, still shaking your head? Well, then, there: I am the most patient of lovers—in a month from to-day?”

“No, no, I cannot,” she said; and in place of being so calm she spoke now passionately. “You must wait, dear John, you must wait.”

“Then there is something,” he cried, in a low, angry voice. “Some wretch has been maligning me.”

“Indeed no.”

“You have been told that I am wasteful and a spendthrift?”

“I should not have listened to any such charge.”

“Then that I am weak, and untrustworthy, and gay?”

“I should have told anyone who hinted such a thing that it was a lie.”

“Then,” he cried hoarsely, “there is some one else; you have seen some one you like better!”

“John! Mr Lister! You hurt my wrist.”

“You do not answer me,” he cried, his voice growing more hoarse and intense, while I stood there with my heart palpitating, feeling as if I ought to run to Miss Carr’s help.

“I will not answer such a question,” she said angrily; “but I will tell you this: that I have looked upon myself as your betrothed wife; do not make me think upon our engagement with regret.”

“Forgive me, Miriam, pray forgive me,” he said in a low, pleading voice. “It is my wretched temper that has got the better of me. Say you forgive me, Miriam, or I shall be ready to make an end of myself. There, there, don’t take away this little hand.”

“Leave me now, I beg of you,” she said in a low, pained voice.

“Yes, directly, sweet,” he whispered; “but let there be an end of this, my darling. Say—in a month’s time—you will be my wife, and then I shall know I am forgiven.”

“I forgive you your cruel, passionate words, John,” she said, in such a tone that I began once more to look out of the window, wondering whether Mrs John Lister would be as kind to me as Miss Carr.

“And, in a month to-day, you will make me a happy man?”

“I cannot promise that,” she said after a pause.

“Yes, yes, you can, dearest—my own love!” he cried; and I felt now as if I should like to open the window and step out on the balcony.

“No, I cannot promise that, John,” she repeated. “You must—we must wait.”

“Then it is as I say,” he cried, evidently springing up from her feet, and stamping up and down the room. “You are a cruel, cold, heartless girl, and I’ll come begging and pleading no more. Our engagement holds good,” he said bitterly; “and you shall name the day yourself, and we shall be a happy pair, unless I have blown out my brains before we’re wed.”

I heard the little drawing-room door close loudly, descending steps, and then the front door shut almost with a bang, and from where I stood I saw Mr Lister, looking very handsome and well dressed, with a bouquet in his button-hole, stride hastily down the street, cutting at imaginary obstacles with his cane, and as he turned the corner I heard from the next room a low moan, and Miss Carr’s voice, saying:

“God help and teach me! I am a wretched woman! How shall I act?”