Little Looʼs fever “took the turn” that night. Cradock went away, of
course, now her own father was come; and the savage bargee would have
gone on his knees, and crawled in that fashion—wherein all fashion
crawls—down the rough stairs, every one of them, if the young man
would only have let him. We are just beginning to scorn the serfdom of
one mind to another. We begin to desire that no man should, without
fair argument, accept our dicta as equal to his own in wisdom. And I
fully believe that if fate had thrown us across Shakespeare, Bacon, or
Newton, we should now refer to our own reason what they said, before
admiring it. For, after all, what are we? What are our most glorious
minds? Only one spark more of God.
And yet the servience, not of the mind, but of the heart to a larger
one, is a fealty most honourable to the giver and the receiver. In
a bold independent man, such as Issachar Jupp was, this fealty was
not to be won by any of that paltry sentiment about birth, clanship,
precedency, position, appearance, &c., which is our national method of
circumcising the New Testament—it was only to be won by proof that the
other heart was bigger than his. Prove that once, and till death it was
granted.
Now, the small Loo Jupp being out of danger, and her father, grinning
like a gridiron with the firelight behind it, every day at her bedside,
the force of circumstances—which, in good English, means the want of
money—sent Cradock Nowell once more catʼs–cradling throughout London,
to answer advertisements. His heart rose within him every day as he set
out in the morning, and in the same relative position fell, as he came
home every evening.
“Do, sir, do,” cried Issachar Jupp, who never swore now, before
Cradock, except under strongest pressure; “do come aboard our barge.
Iʼve aʼmost a–got the appointment of skipper to the _Industrious
Maiden_, homeside of Nine Elms, as tight a barge as ever was built,
and the name done in gold letters. Fact, I may say, and not tell no
secrets; I be safe to be aboord of her, if my Loo allow me to go, and I
donʼt swear hard at the check–house. And, perhaps, I shall be able to
help it, after Loo so ill, and you such a hangel.”
“Well, I donʼt know,” replied Cradock, who could not bear to simulate
intense determination; “I should like a trip into the country, if I
could earn my wages as agent, or whatever it is. But suppose the canal
is frozen up before our voyage begins, Jupp?”
“Oh, d—n that!” cried Issachar, for the idea was too much for him,
even in Cradockʼs presence; “I never yet knew a long winter, sir, after
a wonderful stormy autumn.”
And in that conclusion he was right, to the best of my experience.
Perhaps because the stormy autumn shows the set of the Gulf Stream.
By this time more than a month had passed since Cradock and Wena
arrived in London; half his money was spent, and he had found no
employment. He had advertised, and answered advertisements, till he was
tired. He had worn out his one pair of boots with walking, for he had
thought it better to walk, as it might be of service to him to know
London thoroughly; and that knowledge can only be acquired by perpetual
walking. No man can be said to know London thoroughly, who does not
know the suburbs also—who, if suddenly put down at the Elephant and
Castle, or at Shoreditch Church, cannot tell exactly whither each
of the six fingers points. Such knowledge very few men possess; it
requires the genius loci—to apply the expression barbarously—as well
as peculiar calls upon it. Cradock, of course, could not attain such
knowledge in a month. Indeed, he was obliged to ask his way to so
well–known a part as Hammersmith, when he had seen an advertisement
for a clerk, to help in some coal–office there.
With the water quelching in his boots (which were worn away to the
welting)—for the sky was like the pulp of an orange, and the pavement
wanted draining—he turned in at a little gate near the temporary
terminus of the West London line. In a wooden box, with a kitchen
behind it, he found Mr. Clinkers; who thought, when he saw Cradʼs face,
that he was come to give a large order; and when he saw his boots, that
he was come to ask to be errand–boy. Clinkers was a familiar, jocular,
red–faced fellow, whom his friends were fond of calling “not at all a
bad sort.”
“Take a glass, mister,” said he, when Cradock had stated his purpose;
“wonʼt do you no harm such a day as this, and I donʼt fancy ‘twould
me either. Jenny! Jenny! Why, bless that gal; ever since my poor wife
died, sheʼs along of them small–coals fellows. Iʼll bet a tanner she
is. What do you say to it, sir? Will you bet?”
“Well,” replied Cradock, smiling, “it wouldnʼt be at all a fair bet. In
the first place, I know nothing of Miss Jennyʼs propensities; and, in
the second, I have no idea what the small–coals fellows are.”
The small–coals men are the truck–drivers and the greengrocers in
the by–streets, who buy the crushings and riddlings by the sack, at
the wharf or terminus, and sell them by the quarter hundred–weight,
weight, at a profit of two hundred per cent. Cradock might have known
this, but the Ducksacre firm was reticent upon some little matters.
Mr. Clinkers could not stop to explain; only he said to himself,
“Pretty fellow to apply for a clerkship in the coal–line, and not know
that!”
Jenny appeared at last, looking perfectly self–possessed.
“Jenny, you baggage, two tumblers and silver teaspoons in no time. And
the _little_ kettle; mind now, I tell you the _little_ kettle. Canʼt
you understand, gal, that I may want to shave with the water, but ainʼt
going to have the foot–tub?”
Jennyʼs broad face, mapped with coal–dust, grinned from ear to ear, as
she looked at her master saucily—a proof almost infallible of a very
genial government. She heard that shaving joke every day, and, the more
she heard it, the more she enjoyed it. So the British public, at a
theatre, or an election, appreciates a joke according to the square of
the number of the times the joke has been poked at it. Hurrah for the
slow perception, and the blunt knife that opens the oyster!
“Queer gal, that,” said Clinkers, producing his raw material; “uncommon
queer gal, sir, as any you may have met with.”
“No doubt of it,” replied Cradock; “and now for the cause of my
visit——”
“Hang me, sir, you donʼt understand that gal. I say she is the queerest
gal that ever lived out of a barge. You should see her when she gets
along of some of them small–coals fellows. Blow me if she canʼt twist
a dozen of them round her finger, sir.”
“And her master too,” thought Cradock; “unless I am much mistaken, she
will be the new Mrs. Clinkers.”
Jenny heard most of her masterʼs commentary as she went to and fro, and
she kept up a constant grin without speech, in the manner of an empty
coal–scuttle.
“Ah, sir, grief is a dry thing, a sad dry thing;” and Clinkers banged
down his tumbler till the spoon reeled round the brandy; “no business,
if you please now, not a word of business till we both be below the
fiddle; and, if it isnʼt to your liking, speak out like a man, sir.”
“Below the fiddle, Mr. Clinkers! What fiddle? I donʼt at all understand
you.”
“Very few people does, young man; very few people indeed. Scarcely any,
I may say, except Jenny and the cookshop woman; and the latter have got
encumbrances as quite outweighs the business. Ainʼt you ever heard of
the fiddle of a teaspoon, sir?”
“Oh, very well,” said Cradock, tossing off his brandy–and–water to
bring things to a point. It was a good thing for him that he got it,
poor fellow, for he was sadly wet and weary.
“Lor, now, to see that!” cried Clinkers, opening his eyes; “Iʼm blowed
if you mustnʼt be a Hoxford gent.”
“To be sure, so I am,” replied Cradock, laughing; “but I should not
have thought that you would have known—I mean, I am surprised that
you, at this distance, should know anything of Oxford men.”
“Tell you about that presently. Come over again the fire, sir. Up with
your heel–tap, and have another.”
“No, thank you, Mr. Clinkers. You are very kind; but I shall not take
one drop more.”
“Then you ainʼt been there very long, thatʼs certain. Now you have come
about this place, I know; though itʼs a queer one for a Hoxford gent.
‘Gent under a cloud,’ thinks I, the moment I claps eyes on you. Ah, I
knows the aristocraxy, sir. Now, what might be your qualifications?”
“None whatever, except such knowledge as springs from a good education.”
“Whew!” whistled Mr. Clinkers, and that sound was worth fifty sentences.
“Then you conclude,” said Cradock, not so greatly downcast, for he
had got this speech by heart now, “that I am not fitted for the post
offered in your advertisement?”
“Knows what they Hoxford gents is,” continued Clinkers, reflectively;
“come across a lot of them once, when I was gay and rattling. They
ran into my tax–cart, coming home from Ascot, about a mile this side
of Brentford. Famous good company over a glass, when they drops their
aristocraxy; they runs up a tick all over town, and leaves a Skye dog
to pay for it; comes home about four in the morning, and donʼt know the
latch from the scraper. Always pays in the end, though; nearly always
pays in the end—so a Hoxford tradesman told me—and interest ten per
cent. Differs in that from the medicals; the fast medicals never do
pay, sir.”
“Most unjust,” said Cradock, rising, “a most unjust thing, Mr.
Clinkers; you not only judge the present by the past, but you reason
from the particular to the universal—the most fruitful and womanlike
of the fallacies.”
“It ainʼt anything about fallacy, sir, that makes me refuse you,” cried
Clinkers, who liked this outburst; “Iʼll tell you just what it is. You
Hoxford scholars may be very honest, _but you ainʼt got the grease for
business_.”
Sorely down at heart and heel, Cradock plodded away from the yard of
the hospitable Clinkers, who came to the door and looked after him,
fearing to indulge his liking for that queer young fellow. But he had
taken Cradʼs address; for who knew but something might turn up?
“That man,” said Cradock to himself, “has a kindly heart, and would
have helped me if he could. He wanted to pay my fare back to town, but
of course I would not let him. It was well worth while to come all this
distance, and get wet through twice over, to come across a kind–hearted
man, when a fellow is down so. I began with applying for grand places;
what a fool I was! Places worth 150_l._ or 200_l._ a–year. No wonder I
did not get them: and what a lot of boot I have wasted! Now I am come
down to 50_l._ per annum, and 75_l._ would be a fortune. If I had only
begun at that mark, I might have got something by this time. ‘Vaulting
ambition doth oʼerleap itself.’ And I might have emigrated—good
Heavens! I might have emigrated upon the bounty of Uncle John, to some
land where a man is worth more than the cattle of the field. Only Amy
stopped me, only the thought of my Amy. Darling love, the sweetest
angel—stop, I am so unlucky; if I begin to bless her, very likely
sheʼll get typhus fever. After all, what does it matter what sort of
life I take to? Or whether, indeed, I take the trouble to take to any
at all? Only for her sake. A man who has done what I have lives no
more, but drags his life. Now Iʼll go in for common labour, work of the
hands and muscles; many a better man has done it; and it will be far
wiser for me while my brain is so loose and wandering. I wonder I never
thought of that. Isnʼt it raining, though! What we used, in the happy
days, to call ‘Wood Fidley rainʼ”.
The future chironax trudged more cheerfully after this decision. But he
was very sorry to get so soaked, for he had his only suit of clothes
on. He had brought but one suit of his own; and all he had bought with
the rectorʼs money was six shirts at 3s. 6d., and four pairs of cotton
hose. So he could not afford to get wet.
There could be no doubt that he was shabbily dressed, no rich game to
an hotel–tout, no tempting fare to a cabman; but neither could there be
any doubt that he was a pure and noble gentleman; that was as clear as
in the heyday of finest Oxford dandyism. Only he carried his head quite
differently, and the tint of his cheeks was gone. He used to walk with
his broad and well–set head thrown back, and slightly inclined to one
side; now he bore it flagging, drooping, as if the spring of the neck
were gone.
But still the brave clear eyes met frankly all who cared to look at
him; the face and gait were of a man unhappy but not unmanly. If, at
the time Sir Cradock condemned his only son so cruelly, he had looked
at him once, and read the sorrow so unmistakeable in his face, the old
man might have repented, and wept, and saved a world of weeping. A tear
in time saves ninety–nine; but who has the sense to yield it?
Soaked and tired out at last, he reached his little lodgings—quite
large enough for him, though—and found Black Wena warming the chair,
the only chair he had to sit on. Unluckily, he did not do what a man
who cared for himself would have done. Having no change of raiment—in
plain English, only one pair of trousers—he should have gone to bed at
once, or at any rate have pulled his wet clothes off. Instead of doing
so, he sat and sat, with the wet things clinging closer to him, and
the shivers crawling deeper, until his last inch of candle was gone,
and the room was cold as an icehouse, for the rain had turned to snow
at nightfall, and the fire had not been lit.
Wena sat waiting and nodding upwards, on the yard and a half of brown
drugget, which now was her chiefest _pulvinar_, and once or twice she
nudged her master, and whined about supper and bedtime. But Cradock
only patted her, and improved the turn of his sentence. He was making
one last effort to save from waste and ridicule his tastes and his
education. A craftsman, if he have self–respect, is worthy, valuable,
admirable, nearer to the perception of simple truth than some men of
high refinement. Nevertheless, it is too certain—as I, who know them
well, and not unkindly, can testify—that there is scarcely one in a
dozen labourers, even around the metropolis, who respects himself and
his calling. Whose fault this is, I pretend not—for pretence it would
be—to say. Probably, the guilt is “much of a muchness,” as in all
mismanaged matters. The material was as good as our own; how has it got
so vitiated? It is as lowering to us as it is to themselves, that the
“enlightened working–men of England” cannot go out for their holiday,
cannot come home from their work, cannot even speak among their own
children, and in the goodwifeʼs presence, without words, not of manly
strength, but of hoggish coarseness. In time this must be otherwise;
but the evil is not cured easily. The boy believes it manly to talk as
he hears his father talk; he rejoices in it the more, perhaps, because
the school forbids it. He does not know what the foul words mean; and
all things strange have the grandest range. Those words tell powerfully
in a story, with smaller boys round him upon the green, or at the
street–corner. And so he grows up engrimed with them, and his own boys
follow suit.
Cradock was young and chivalrous, and knew not much of these things,
which his position had kept from him; nor in his self–abandonment
cared he much about them. Nevertheless, he shrank unconsciously from
the lowering of his existence. And now he sat up, writing, writing,
till his wet clothes made little pools on the floor, while he answered
twenty advertisements, commercial, literary, promiscuous. Then he
looked at his little roll of postage–stamps, and with shivering fingers
affixed them. There were only fifteen; and it was too late to get any
more that night; and he felt that he could not afford to use them now
so rashly. So he ran out into the slushy streets, gamboged with London
snow, and posted those fifteen of his letters which were the least
ambitious. By this time he knew that the best chance was of something
not over–gorgeous. Wena did not go with him, but howled until he came
back. Then he gave the poor little thing, with some self–reproach at
his tardiness, all the rest of his cottage loaf, and his haʼporth
of milk, which she took with some protestations, looking up at him
wistfully now and then, to see whether he was eating.
“No, Wena, I canʼt eat to–night; bilious from over–feeding, perhaps.
But Iʼve done a good eveningʼs work, and weʼll be very plucky for
breakfast, girl, and have sixpenceworth of cold ham. No fear there of
making a cannibal of you, you innocent little soul.”
He was desperately afraid, as most young fellows from the country are,
of having unclean animals spicily served up by the London allantopolæ.
This terror is the result for the most part of rustic sham knowingness,
and the British love of stale jokes. However, beyond all controversy,
dark are the rites of sepulture of the measly pigs around London.
He crept, at last, beneath his scanty bedding—clean, although so
patched and threadbare—and the iron cross–straps shook and rattled
with the shudders that went through him.
Wena, who slept beneath the bed in a nest which she made of the
drugget–scrap, jumped upon the blanket at midnight, to know pray what
was the matter. Then she licked his face, and tried to warm him, in his
broken slumbers. That day he had taken a virulent cold, which struck
into his system, and harboured there for a fortnight, till it broke out
in a raging fever.
The next day, Cradock received a letter, of doubtful classicality, and
bearing the Hammersmith post–mark.
“RESPECTED SIR,—Was sorry after you streaked off yesterday that had
not kept you longer. You was scarce gone out of the gate as one might
say, when in comes a gent, no end of a nob, beats you as one might
say in some respects, and a head of hair as good. Known by the name
of Hearty,—Hearty Wibraham, Esquire, but friends prefers callin’ him
Hearty, such bein’ his character. And hearty he were with my brandy, I
do assure you, and no mistake. This gent say as he want to establish
a hagency for the sale of first–class Hettons to the members of the
_bone tons_: was I agreeable to supply him? So I say, ‘Certainly, by
all means, if I see my way to my money.’ And then he breaks out, in a
manner as would frighten some hands, about the artlessness of the age,
the suspiciousness of commercial gents, and confidence between man and
man. ‘Waste of time,’ says I; ‘coals is coals now, and none of them
leaves this yard for nothing. Better keep that sort of stuff,’ says I,
‘for the green young gent from Hoxford as was here just now.’ ‘What,’
says he, ‘Hoxford man after a situation?’ ‘ Yes,’ I says, ‘nice young
gent, only under a cloud.’ Says he, ‘I loves a Hoxford man; hope he
has got some money.’ ‘ For what?’ I says; ‘have you got anything good
for him to invest in?’ ‘Havenʼt I?’ he says; ‘take a little more
brandy, old chapʼ—my own brandy, mind you, blow me if he ainʼt a
hearty one. Well, I canʼt tell you half he said, not being a talkative
man myself, since the time as I lost Mrs. Clinkers. Only the upshot of
it is, I think you couldnʼt do no harm by callinʼ, if he write you as
he said he would.
“Yours to command, and hope you didnʼt get wet,
“ROBERT CLINKERS, Jun., for POKER, CLINKERS, and Co., Coal Merchants,
West London Terminuss, Hammersmith.
“N.B.—Coke supplied in your own sacks, on the most moderate terms.”
By the next delivery, Cradock got another letter, far more elegantly
written, but not half so honest.
“Mr. Hearty Wibraham, having heard of Mr. Charles Newman from a mutual
friend, Mr. Clinkers, of Hammersmith, presents his compliments to the
former gentleman, and thinks it might be worth Mr. Newmanʼs while
to call upon him, Mr. H. W., at six oʼclock this evening, supposing
the post to do its duty, which it rarely does. Hearty Wibraham, No.
66, Aurea Themis Buildings, Notting Hill district. N.B.—The above
is _bonâ fide_. References will be required. But perhaps they may be
dispensed with.
“H. W.”
“Well,” said Cradock to Wena, shivering as he said it, for the cold was
striking into him, “you see we are in request, my dear. Not that I have
any high opinion of Mr. Hearty Wibraham; as a gentleman, I mean. But
for all that he may be an honest man. And beggars—as you know, Wena,
dear, when you sit up so prettily—beggars must not be choosers. Do you
think you could walk so far, Wena? If you could, it would do you good,
my beauty; and Iʼll see that you are not run over.”
Wena agreed, rather rashly, to go; for the London stones, to a country
dog, are as bad as a mussel–bank to a bather; but she thought she
might find some woodcocks—and so she did, at the game–shops, and some
curlews which they sold for them—but her real object in going, was
that she had made some nice acquaintances in the neighbourhood, whom
she wanted to see again. She wouldnʼt speak to any low dog, for she
meant to keep up the importance and grandeur of the Nowell family, but
there were some dogs, heigho! they had such ways with them, and they
were brushed so nicely, what could a poor little country dog do but
fall in love with them?
Therefore Wena came after her master, and made believe not to notice
them, but she lingered now and then at a scraper, and, when she
snapped, her teeth had gloves on.
When Cradock and his little dog, after many a twist and turn, found
Aurea Themis Buildings, the master rang at the sprightly door, newly
grained and varnished. Being inducted by a young woman, with a most
coquettish cap on, he told black Wena to wait outside, and she lay down
upon the door–step.
Then he was shown into the “first–floor drawing–room,” according to
arrangement, and requested to “take a seat, sir.” The smart maid, who
carried a candle, lit the gas in a twinkling, but Cradock wondered why
the coal–merchant had no coals in his fireplace.
Just when he had concluded, after a fit of shivering, that this defect
was due perhaps to that extreme familiarity which breeds in a grocer
contempt for figs, Mr. Wibraham came in, quite by accident, and was
evidently amazed to see him.
“What! Ah, no, my good sir, not Mr. Charles Newman, a member of the
University of Oxford!”
“Yes, sir, I am that individual,” replied Cradock, very uncomfortable
at the prominent use of his “alias.”
“Then, allow me, sir, to shake hands with you. I am strongly
prepossessed in your favour, young gentleman, from the description I
received of you from our mutual friend, Mr. Clinkers. Ah, I like that
Clinkers. No nonsense about Clinkers, sir.”
“So I believe,” said Cradock; “but, as I have only seen him once, it
would perhaps be premature of me——”
“Not a bit, my dear sir, not a bit. That is one of the mistakes we
make. I always rely upon first impressions, and they never deceive me.
Now I see exactly what you are, an upright honourable man, full of
conscientiousness, but _not overburdened here_.”
He gave a jocular tap to his forehead, which was about half the width
of Cradockʼs.
“Well,” thought Cradock, “you are straightforward, even to the verge of
rudeness. But no doubt you mean well, and perhaps you are nearer the
truth than the people who have told me otherwise. Anyhow, it does not
matter much.” But, in spite of this conclusion, he bowed in his stately
manner, and said:
“If that be the case, sir, I fear it will hardly suit your purpose to
take me into your employment.”
“Ah, I have hurt your feelings, I see. I am so blunt and hasty. Hearty
Wibraham is my name; and hearty enough I am, God knows; and perhaps a
little too hearty. ‘Hasty Wibraham, you ought to be called, by Jove,
you ought,’ said one of my friends last night, and by Gad I think he
was right, sir.”
“I am sure I donʼt know,” said Cradock; “how can I pretend to say,
without myself being hasty?”
“I suppose, Mr. Newman, you can command a little capital? It is not at
all essential, you know, in a _bonâ fide_ case like yours.”
“Thatʼs a good job,” said Cradock; “for my capital, like the new one of
Canada, is below contempt.”
“To a man imbued, Mr. Newman, with the genuine spirit of commerce, no
sum, however small, but may be the key of fortune.”
“My key of fortune, then, is about twenty pounds ten shillings.”
“A very, very small sum, my dear sir; but I dare say some of your
friends would assist you to make it, say fifty guineas. You Oxford men
are so generous; always ready to help each other. That is why I canʼt
help liking you so. Thoroughly fine fellows,” he added, in a loud
aside, “thoroughly noble fellows, when a messmate is in trouble. Canʼt
apply to his family, I see; but it would be mean in him not to let his
friends help him. I do believe the highest privilege of human life is
to assist a friend in difficulties.”
Cradock, of course, could not reply to all this, because he was not
meant to hear it; but he gazed with some admiration at the utterer of
such exalted sentiments. Mr. Hearty Wibraham, now about forty–five
years old, was rather tall and portly, with an aquiline face, a dark
complexion, and a quick, decisive manner. His clothes were well made,
and of good quality, unpretentious, neat, substantial. His only piece
of adornment was a magnificent gold watch–chain, which rather shunned
than courted observation.
“No,” said Cradock, at last, “I have not a single friend in the world
to whom I would think of applying for the loan of a sixpence.”
“Well, we _are_ independent,” Mr. Wibraham still held discourse with
himself; “but Hearty Wibraham likes and respects him the more for
that. Heʼll get over his troubles, whatever they are. My good sir,”
he continued, aloud, “I will not utter any opinion, lest you should
think me inclined to flatter—the last thing in the world I ever would
do. Nevertheless, in all manly candour, I am bound to tell you that my
prepossession in your favour induces me to make you a most advantageous
offer.”
“I am much obliged to you. Pray, what is it?”
“A clerkship in my counting–house, which I am just about to open,
having formed a very snug little connexion to begin with.”
“Oh!” cried Cradock, for, green as he was, he would rather have had to
do with a business already established.
“I see you are surprised. No wonder, sir; no wonder! But you must know
that I shall have at least my _quid pro quo_. My connexion is of a
very peculiar character. In fact, it lies entirely in the very highest
circles. To meet such customers as mine, not only a man of gentlemanly
manners is required, but a man of birth and education. How could I
offer such a man less than 150_l._ per annum?”
“Your terms are very liberal, very liberal, I am sure,” replied
Cradock, reddening warmly at the appraisement of his qualities. “I
should not be comfortable without telling you frankly that I am worth
about half that yearly sum; until, I mean, until I get a little up to
business. I shall be quite content to begin upon 100_l._ a year.
“No! will you, though?” exclaimed Hearty Wibraham, flushed with a good
heartʼs enthusiasm. “You are the finest young fellow I have seen since
I was your age myself. Suppose, now, we split the difference. Say
125_l._; and I shall work you pretty hard, I can tell you. For we do
not confine our attention exclusively to the members of the Ministry,
and the House of Lords; we also deal with the City magnates, and take
a contract for Somerset House. And remember one thing; you will be in
exclusive charge whenever I am away negotiating. A man deserves to be
paid, you know, for high responsibility.”
“And where will the”—he hardly knew what to call it—“the office, the
counting–house, the headquarters be?”
“Not in any common thoroughfare,” replied Mr. Wibraham, proudly; “that
would never do for a business of such a character. What do you think,
sir, of Howard Crescent, Park Lane? Not so bad, sir, is it, for the
sale of the grimy?”
“I really do not know,” said Cradock; “but it sounds very well. When do
we open the books?”
“Monday morning, sir, at ten oʼclock precisely. Let me see: to–day
is Friday. Perhaps it would be an accommodation to you, to have your
salary paid weekly, until you draw by the quarter. Now, remember, I
rely upon you to promote my interest in every way consistent with
honour.”
“That you may do, most fully. I shall never forget your kind
confidence, and your liberality.”
“You will have two young gentlemen, if not three, wholly under your
orders. Also a middle–aged gentleman, a sort of sleeping partner, will
kindly attend _pro tem._, and show you the work expected of you. I
myself shall be engaged, perhaps, during the forenoon, in promoting the
interests of the business in a most important quarter. Now, be true to
me, Newman—I take liberties, you see—keep your subordinates in their
place, and make them stick to work, sir. And remember that one ounce
of example is worth a pound of precept. If you act truly and honestly
by me, as I know you will, you may look forward to a partnership at no
distant date. But donʼt be over–sanguine, my dear boy; there is hard
work before you.”
“And you will not find me shrink from it,” said Cradock, throwing his
shoulders back; “but we have not settled yet as to the amount of the
premium, or deposit, whichever it may be.”
“Thank you. To be sure. I quite forgot that incident. Thirty guineas, I
think you said, was all that would be convenient to you.”
“No, Mr. Wibraham; I said twenty pounds ten shillings.”
“Ah, yes, my mistake. I knew that there was an odd ten shillings. Say
twenty–five guineas. A mere matter of form, you know; but one which
we dare not neglect. It is not a premium; simply a deposit; to be
returned at the expiration of the first twelve months. Will you send it
to me by cheque? That, perhaps, would be the more convenient form. It
will save you from coming again.”
“I am sorry to say I cannot; for now I have no banker. Neither can I by
any means make it twenty–five guineas. I have stated to you the utmost
figure of my present census.”
“Ah, quite immaterial. I am only sorry for your sake. The sum will be
invested. I shall hold it as your trustee. But, for the sake of the
books, merely to look well on the books, we must say twenty guineas.
How could I invest twenty pounds ten shillings?”
This appeared reasonable to Cradock, who knew nothing about investment;
and, after reflecting a minute or two, he replied as follows:
“I believe, Mr. Wibraham, that I might manage to make it twenty
guineas. You said, I think, that my salary would be payable weekly.”
“To be sure, my dear boy, to be sure. At any rate until further
arrangements.”
“Then I will undertake to pay you the twenty guineas. Next Monday, I
suppose, will do for it?”
“Oh yes, Monday will do. But stop, I shall not be there on that
morning; and, for formʼs sake, it must be paid first. Let us say
Saturday evening. I shall be ready with a stamped receipt. Will you
meet me here at six oʼclock, as you did this evening?”
Cradock agreed to this, and Mr. Hearty Wibraham shook hands with him
most cordially, begging that mutual trust and amity might in no way be
lessened by his own unfortunate obligation to observe certain rules and
precedents.
In the highest spirits possible under such troubles as his were, Crad
strode away from Aurea Themis Buildings, and whistled to black Wena,
whom two of the most accomplished dog–stealers in London had been doing
their best to inveigle. Failing of skill—for Wena was a deal too
knowing—they at last attempted violence, putting away their chopped
liver and hoof–meat, and other baits still more savoury, upon which I
dare not enlarge. But, just as Black George, having lifted her boldly
by the nape of the neck, was popping her into the sack tail foremost,
though her short tail was under her stomach, what did she do but twist
round upon him, in a way quite unknown to the faculty, and make her
upper and lower canines meet through the palm of his hand? It wonʼt do
to chronicle what he said—I am too much given to strictest accuracy;
enough that he let her drop, in the manner of a red–hot potato; and
Blue Bill, who made a grab at her, only got a scar on the wrist. Then
she retreated to her step, and fired a royal salute of howls, never
ending, ever beginning, until her master came out.
“Wena, dear,” he said, for he always looked on the little thing as an
inferior piece of Amy, “you are very tired, my darling; the pavement
has been too much for you. Sit upon my arm, pretty. We are both going
to make our fortunes. And then you ‘shall walk in silk attire, and
siller hae to spare.’”
Wena nuzzled her nose into its usual place in Cradockʼs identicity,
and growled if any other dog took the liberty of looking at him. And
so they got home, singing snug little songs to each other upon the
way; and they both made noble suppers on the strength of their rising
fortunes.