John Jeffreys, as he stood in the street that October evening, had no
more idea what his next step was to be than had Mr Halgrove or the
motherly Mrs Jessop. He was a matter-of-fact youth, and not much given
to introspection; but the reader may do well on this particular occasion
to take a hasty stock of him as he walked aimlessly down the darkening
street.
He was nineteen years old. In appearance he was particularly ugly in
face and clumsy in build. Against that, he was tall and unusually
powerful whenever he chose to exert his strength. In mind he was
reputed slow and almost stupid, although he was a good classical scholar
and possessed a good memory. He was cursed with a bad and sometimes
ungovernable temper. He was honest and courageous. He rarely knew how
to do the right thing at the right time or in the right place. And
finally he had a bad name, and believed himself to be a homicide. Such
was the commonplace creature who, with a sovereign in his pocket and the
whole world before him, paced the streets of York that Tuesday night.
On one point his mind was made up. He must remain in York for the
present, prepared at a moment's notice to repair to Bolsover, should the
dreaded summons come. With that exception, as I have said, his mind was
open, and utterly devoid of ideas as to the future.
He directed his steps to the poor part of the town, not so much because
it was poor, as because it was farthest away from his guardian's. He
resolved that to-night at any rate he would indulge in the luxury of a
bed, and accordingly, selecting the least repulsive-looking of a number
of tenements offering "Cheap beds for Single Men," he turned in and
demanded lodging. To the end of his days he looked back on the "cheap
bed" he that night occupied with a shudder. And he was by no means a
Sybarite, either. Happily, he had still some sleep to make up; and
despite his foul bed, his unattractive fellow-lodgers, and his own
dismal thoughts, he fell asleep, in his clothes and with his bag under
his pillow, and slept till morning.
He partook of a cheap breakfast at a coffee-stall on one of the bridges,
and occupied the remainder of the time before the opening of business
houses in wandering about on the city walls, endeavouring to make up his
mind what calling in life he should seek to adopt. He had not decided
this knotty point when the minster chimes struck ten, and reminded him
that he was letting the precious moments slip. So he descended into the
streets, determined to apply for the first vacancy which presented
itself.
Wandering aimlessly on, he came presently upon a bookseller's shop,
outside which were displayed several trays of second-hand volumes which
attracted his attention. Jeffreys loved books and was a voracious
reader, and in the midst of his wearisome search for work it was like a
little harbour of refuge to come upon a nest of them here. Just,
however, as he was about to indulge in the delicious luxury of turning
over the contents of the tempting trays, his eye was attracted by a
half-sheet of note-paper gummed on to the shop window and bearing the
inscription, "Assistant wanted. Apply within."
Next instant Jeffreys stood within.
"I see you want an assistant," said he to the old spectacled bookseller
who inquired his business.
"That's right."
"Will you take me?"