MYDDLETON WEST still lived in the rooms over a fancy wool shop in Fetter
Lane, which he had rented when he first came to London. At times he had
thought of going into one of the Inns close by, and had inspected
chambers there, but he found so many ghosts on every landing that,
although a man of fair courage, he became affrighted. Over the fancy
wool shop in Fetter Lane, no shadows interfered. The Misses Langley kept
his rooms carefully dusted, seeing that the panel photograph of an
attractive young nurse, with a thoughtful face, never moved from its
position of honour on the mantelpiece. Myddleton West was getting on in
the world and earning agreeable cheques every month; like many young men
in this position, he found it difficult to increase his expenses without
taking inordinate pains. Consequently he gave up attempts in this
direction, and remained in Fetter Lane, writing early and late on any
subject that the world offered, finding this the only way to keep his
mind from the thoughtful young woman of the panel portrait. Rarely she
took brief holiday from the ward of which she was sister, and they met by
appointment at an aerated bread shop, where, over chocolate, she knitted
her pretty forehead and talked with the concentrated wisdom of at least
three hundred young women, on Myddleton West becoming urgent in his
protestations of love, reproving him with a quaint air of austerity that
at once annoyed and delighted him. He found no argument in favour of
their marriage that she did not instantly defeat by a proud reference to
the work which Fate had assigned to her. This was their only contentious
subject; once free of it they were on excellent terms, and West took her
on from the tea-rooms to private views and to afternoon performances at
the theatre, and to concerts, and was an enchanted man until the moment
came for her to fly back in her grey silk cloak to the hospital.
“Hullo!” said Myddleton West.
“Excuse me interrupting, sir, in your writing work.”
“Doesn’t matter, Miss Langley.”
“As I often say to my sister,” persisted the thin lady at the doorway,
“no one can possibly write sense if they’re to be continually broken in
on—if I may use the expression—and—”
“Somebody called to see me?” asked West, patiently.
“And badgered out of their life,” concluded the lady. “I’m sure writing
must be quite sufficient a tax on the brains without—”
“Miss Langley.”
“Sir to you.”
“Do I understand that some one has called to see me?”
“Mr. West,” confessed Miss Langley, with a burst of frankness, “some one
has called to see you.”
“Then,” said Myddleton West, definitely, “show them up.”
“It isn’t a them, sir, it’s only a bit of a lad.”
“Very well, show him up.”
West finished the sentence which he had commenced, and then, hearing a
slipping footstep, swung round in his chair again. A boy in a long worn
frock-coat, his bowler hat dented, stood at the doorway, white of face,
his under lip not quite under control.
“Wha’ cheer?” said the boy with an effort to appear at ease. “How goes
it with you?”
“Wait a bit,” said Myddleton West, rising and standing in front of the
fireplace. “Let me see now if I can remember you. Take off your hat.”
West dropped his pince-nez and peered across the room at the boy. “I’ll
have three shots,” he said presently. “Your name is Cumberland.”
“Not a bit like it.”
“I met you—let me see—at an inquest in Hoxton some years ago; I saw you
later at the police station.”
“You’re getting warmer. Now try the letter L.”
“And your name is Lincoln.”
“Bit more to the left.”
“Lancaster!”
“A bull’s-eye!” said the white-faced boy approvingly. “What’ll you ’ave,
cigar or a cokernut?” He staggered a little and caught the back of the
chair.
“Hungry?” asked West sharply.
“You are a good guesser,” replied Bobbie, slipping to the chair. “I
’aven’t had a thing to eat for—for a day and a half.”
Myddleton West snatched a serviette from the drawer and spread it on the
table in front of the boy. In another moment half a loaf of bread, a
knuckle of ham, and cheese were on the serviette; in much less than
another moment Bobbie had commenced.
“Excuse me wolfin’ me food,” said the boy with his mouth full. “Don’t
suppose you know what it is to be famishing. I’ve had rather rough times
the last few days.”
“But you went to the Poor Law schools surely. Did you run away?”
“Yes,” said Bobbie ruefully. “And I wish now I hadn’t. Can I trouble
you for a glass of water, sir?”
“Like some lemonade?” asked Myddleton West.
“So long as it’s moist, sir, and there’s plenty of it, I don’t mind what
it is.”
“And you’re not getting on well as an independent man?”
“I’m getting on,” said Bobbie, holding up the glass with a trembling
hand, “pretty awful.” He drank and smacked his lips appreciatively,
“Ah!” he said, “that’s something like!”
“Eat slowly.”
“Does it matter if I finish the bread, sir?”
“I shall be disappointed if you don’t.”
“Then rather’n cause you any annoyance,” said Bobbie with reviving
spirits, “I’ll undertake to clear it all up.”
The meal finished, the boy asked for a cigarette, and, smoking this with
great enjoyment, told Myddleton West his adventures. The journey back
from Brenchley had not been without drawbacks. At Orpington, Bobbie had
interfered on behalf of the gipsy’s wife, with the perfectly natural
result that she had turned on him indignantly, and both man and wife had,
in turns, thrashed him, and had then started him adrift without his
cornet. From Orpington to London he had walked.
“And now,” said Bobbie—“and now my difficulty is how to get back to the
’omes without looking a silly fool. What would you advise, sir?”
“I should send a wire,” counselled Myddleton West promptly. “Apologize
for your absence, and say that you will be there in a few hours.”
“It’d pave the way a bit,” acknowledged the boy.
“Here’s a form. Write the address of the Superintendent.”
“You must tell us what else to say.”
The telegram drawn up on the dictation of the newspaper man, seemed to
Bobbie an admirable document; one calculated to remove difficulties.
Miss Langley being summoned, the boy was conveyed to the kitchen
downstairs, where, furnished with a cake of yellow soap, he remained
under the tap for about ten minutes. This so much improved his
appearance that when Myddleton West started with him to take train at
Blackfriars, the two sisters forced upon his acceptance a triangular
chunk of seed cake and a gay almanack with a portrait of the Princess of
Wales, which Bobbie decided to take as a propitiatory offering to the
mother of Collingwood Cottage. The telegram was despatched from an
office in Fleet Street after Bobbie had read it through once more with
increased satisfaction.
“It ain’t too humble,” he said approvingly, “and it ain’t too much the
other way. Seems to me to hit the ’appy medium.”
The fares from Temple Station to Bishopsgate and from Liverpool Street to
the destination being ascertained from a railway time book, Bobbie agreed
to accept from Myddleton West the precise amount and no more. He showed
gratitude with less reserve than he would have exhibited in the years
before he entered the Homes, and, as he trotted beside the long-legged
journalist, he endeavoured politely to find a subject for conversation
that would be pleasing to his companion.
“How are you getting along with your young lady, sir?” he asked with
interest.
“No progress,” replied West.
“You don’t go the right way to work,” said Bobbie knowingly. “Women folk
can be managed if you only exercise a bit of what I call ingenuity.”
“I am always willing, Master Lancaster, to listen to the voice of
experience.”
“What you want to do,” said the young sage, changing step as they went
down Arundel Street, “is to be artful without lettin’ ’em see that you’re
artful.”
“I know of no plan,” said West, “by which, under modern conditions, you
can force a lady to marry you if she has decided not to do so.”
“Pretend there’s another lady,” suggested Bobbie;
“Always a risk that the announcement may be received with undisguised
satisfaction.”
“Can but give it a trial,” urged Bobbie. “If she’s an ordinary sort of
young lady, strikes me she’ll marry you like a shot. Is this my
station?”
“This is the Temple Station,” said West. “Buy your ticket and be careful
not to get out of the train before you get to Bishopsgate.”
“All right,” said Bobbie. “I’m old enough to take care of meself.”
“Let me know that you get down safely.”
“I shall be as right as rain now. I feel like twenty shillings in the
pound since I saw you, sir.”
“Good-bye,” said Myddleton West, holding out his hand, “and good luck to
you.”
“Good-bye,” said Bobbie, taking the hand awkwardly, “and good luck to
you, sir. You know what I mean. And I’m—I’m very much obliged for all
your—”
“There’s a train coming,” interrupted West. “Down you go.”
Bobbie, seated near the window of the impetuous underground train, held
tightly the large card intender for the mother of Collingwood Cottage,
and as he read advertisements in the compartment congratulated himself on
the change of circumstances that had come to him within the last hour.
He felt grateful for this, and decided that once safely back in the homes
and enjoying the sunshine of favour again, he would comport himself in a
manner that would be gratifying to those who wished him well. The bitter
days of the journey up from Brenchley had proved to him that the world
was full of unforeseen and highly inconvenient rocks for a boy who had no
one to pilot him; he must wait until he became older before he courted
the responsibility of taking charge of himself. In less than an hour he
would be through the gates of the Homes; the delicate matter of his
return would be all over, and the past few days could be sponged from
memory. So far as concerned the underground railway there could be no
complaint of delay, for the train seemed in a great hurry to get round
the circle, stopping momentarily at one or two stations in a breathless,
panting manner, as who should say, Oh, for goodness sake, don’t stop me,
I’m behind-hand as it is, some other time I’ll come round and stay, but
just now really—
Other passengers in the compartment went out at one of the stations, and
Bobbie stood up at the open window as the train hurried through the black
smoky tunnel. The train pulled up, gasping, at another station, starting
again immediately with a rough jerk that knocked the card out of Bobbie’s
hand on to the platform. He jumped out, picked up the portrait and
attempted to re-enter the compartment. The porters shouted,—
“Stan’ away from the train there!”
“Stan’ away, can’t you, stan’ away!”
“Whoa! Stop! You’ll break the door!”
The train pulled up suddenly in a great state of annoyance. At the end
of the platform, where the black tunnel began, the boy had been flung and
lay a mere bundle on the platform. The carriage door closed; the train
went on into the tunnel ill-temperedly. The entire staff and a few stray
passengers surrounded the senseless bundle on the platform.
“Here,” said the inspector to one of the porters, “you’re a ‘first aid’
man. See if you can tell what the damage is.”
“He’s ’urt,” said the “first aid” man, with a professional air.
“Yes, yes,” remarked the inspector, “we could have all guessed that.”
“It’s a case for the ’ospital,” said the “first aid” man cautiously. “I
don’t feel justified in trying my ’and at it.”
“Then,” said the inspector, “fetch the ambulance cart, someone, for the
poor little beggar, and let’s get him there as quick as possible. We
can’t have passengers dying about here.”