The day that witnessed my departure from Stonebridge House found me, I
am bound to confess, very little improved by my year or two's residence
under that dull roof. I do not blame it all on the school, or even on
Miss Henniker, depressing as both were.
There is no reason why, even at a school for backward and troublesome
boys, a fellow shouldn't improve, if he gave his mind to it. But that
is just where I failed. I didn't give my mind to it. In fact, I made
up my mind it was no use trying to improve, and therefore didn't try.
The consequence was, that after Jack Smith left, I cast in my lot with
the rest of the backward and troublesome boys, and lost all ambition to
be much better than the rest of them.
Flanagan, the fellow I liked best, was always good-humoured and lively,
but I'm not sure that he would have been called a boy of good
principles. At any rate, he never professed to be particularly
ambitious in any such way, and in that respect was very different from
Hawkesbury, who, by the time he left Stonebridge House, six months
before me, to go to a big public school, had quite impressed me with the
worth of his character.
But this is a digression. As I was saying, I left Stonebridge House a
good deal wilder, and more rackety, and more sophisticated, than I had
entered it two years before. However, I left it also with considerably
more knowledge of addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division;
and that in my uncle's eye appeared to be of far more moment than my
moral condition.
"Fred," he said to me the day after I had got home, and after I had
returned from a triumphant march through Brownstroke, to show myself off
to my old comrades generally, and Cad Prog in particular--"Fred," said
my uncle, "I am going to send you to London."
"To London!" cried I, not knowing exactly whether to be delighted, or
astonished, or alarmed, or all three--"to London."
"Yes. You must get a situation, and do something to earn your living."
I ruminated over this announcement, and my uncle continued, "You are old
enough to provide for yourself, and I expect you to do so."
There was a pause, at the end of which, for lack of any better remark, I
said, "Yes."
"The sooner you start the better," continued my uncle. "I have marked a
few advertisements in that pile of newspapers," added he, pointing to a
dozen or so of papers on his table. "You had better take them and look
through them, and tell me if you see anything that would suit you."
Whereat my uncle resumed his writing, and I, with the papers in my arms,
walked off in rather a muddled state of mind to my bedroom.
Half way up stairs a sudden thought occurred to me, which caused me to
drop my burden and hurry back to my uncle's room.
"Uncle, do you know the Smiths of Packworth?"
My uncle looked up crossly.
"Haven't you learned more sense at school, sir, than that? Don't you
know there are hundreds of Smiths at Packworth?"
This was a crusher. I meekly departed, and picking up my papers where I
had dropped them, completed the journey to my room.
It had been a cherished idea of mine, the first day I got home to make
inquiries about my friend Smith. It had never occurred to me before
that Smith was such a very common name; but it now dawned slowly on me
that to find a Smith in Packworth would be about as simple as to find a
needle in a bottle of hay.
Anyhow, I could write to him now without fear--that was a comfort. So I
turned to my newspapers and began to read through a few of the
advertisements my uncle had considerately marked.
The result was not absolutely exhilarating. My uncle evidently was not
ambitious on my account.
"Sharp lad wanted to look after a shop." That was the first I caught
sight of. And the next was equally promising.
"Page wanted by a professional gentleman. Must be clean, well-behaved,
and make himself useful in house. Attend to boots, coals, windows,
etcetera. Good character indispensable."
I was almost grateful to feel that no one could give me a good character
by any stretch of imagination, so that at any rate I was safe from this
fastidious professional gentleman. Then came another:
"News-boy wanted. Must have good voice. Apply Clerk, Great Central
Railway Station."
Even this did not tempt me. It might be a noble sphere of life to
strive to make my voice heard above a dozen shrieking engines all day
long, but I didn't quite fancy the idea.
In fact, as I read on and on, I became more and more convinced that my
splendid talents would be simply wasted in London. Nothing my uncle had
marked tempted me. A "muffin boy's" work might be pleasant for a week,
till the noise of the bell had lost its novelty; a "boy to learn the art
of making button-holes in braces" might perhaps be a promising opening;
and a printer's boy might be all very well, but they none of them
accorded with my own ideas, still less with my opinion of my own value.
I was getting rather hopeless, and wondering what on earth I should say
to my uncle, when the brilliant idea occurred to me of looking at some
of the other advertisements which my uncle hadn't marked. Some of these
were most tempting.
"A junior partner wanted in an old-established firm whose profits are
£10,000 a year. Must bring £15,000 capital into the concern."
There! If I only had £15,000, my fortune would be made at once!
"Wanted a companion for a nobleman's son about to travel abroad."
There again, why shouldn't I try for that? What could a nobleman's son
require more in a companion than was to be found in me?
And so I travelled on, beginning at the top of the ladder and sliding
gently down, gradually losing not only the hope of finding a situation
to suit me, but also relinquishing my previous strong faith in my own
wonderful merits. I was ready to give it up as a bad job, and go and
tell my uncle I must decline all his kind suggestions, when, in an
obscure corner of one paper, my eye caught the following:
"Junior clerkship. An intelligent lad, respectable, and quick at
figures, wanted in a merchant's office. Wages 8 shillings a week to
commence. Apply by letter to Merrett, Barnacle, and Company, Hawk
Street, London."
I jumped up as if I had been shot, and rushed headlong with the paper to
my uncle's study.
"Look at this, uncle! This will do, I say! Read it, please."
My uncle read it gravely, and then pushed the paper from him.
"Absurd. You would not do at all. That is not one of those I marked,
is it?"
"No. But they were all awful. I say, uncle, let's try for this."
My uncle stared at me, and I looked anxiously at my uncle.
"Fred," said he sternly, "I'm sorry to see you making a fool of
yourself. However, it's your affair, not mine."
"But, uncle, I'm pretty quick at figures," said I.
"And intelligent and respectable too, I suppose?" added my uncle,
looking at me over his glasses. "Well, do as you choose."
"Will you be angry?" I inquired.
"Tut, tut!" said my uncle, rising, "that will do. You had better write
by the next post, if you are bent on doing it. You can write at my
desk."
So saying he departed, leaving me very perplexed and a good deal out of
humour with my wonderful advertisement.
However, I sat down and answered it. Six of my uncle's sheets of paper
were torn up before I got the first sentence to my satisfaction, and six
more before the letter was done. I never wrote a letter that cost me
such an agony of labour. How feverishly I read and re-read what I had
written! What panics I got into about the spelling of "situation," and
the number of l's in "ability"! How carefully I rubbed out the pencil-
lines I had ruled, and how many times I repented I had not put a "most"
before the "obediently"! Many letters like that, thought I, would
shorten my life perceptibly. At last it was done, and when my uncle
came in I showed it to him with fear and trembling, and watched his face
anxiously as he read it.
"Humph!" said he, looking at me, "and suppose you do get the place, you
won't stick to it."
"Oh yes, I will," said I; "I'll work hard and get on."
"You'd better," said my uncle, "for you'll have only yourself to depend
on."
I posted my letter, and the next few days seemed interminable. Whenever
I spoke about the subject to my uncle he took care not to encourage me
over much. And yet I fancied, gruff as he was, he was not wholly
displeased at my "cheek" in answering Merrett, Barnacle, and Company's
advertisement.
"Successful!" growled he. "Why, there'll be scores of other boys after
the place. You don't expect your letter's the best of the lot, do you?
Besides, they'd never have a boy up from the country when there are so
many in London ready for the place, who are used to the work. Mark my
word, you'll hear no more about it."
And so it seemed likely to be. Day after day went by and the post
brought no letter; I was beginning to think I should have to settle down
as a newspaper-boy or a page after all.
At the end of the week I was so disheartened that I could stay in the
house no longer, but sallied out, I cared not whither, for a day in the
fresh air.
As I was sauntering along the road, a cart overtook me, a covered
baker's cart with the name painted outside, "Walker, Baker, Packworth."
A brilliant idea seized me as I read the legend. Making a sign to the
youth in charge to stop, I ran up and asked, "I say, what would you give
me a lift for to Packworth?"
"What for? S'pose we say a fifty-pun' note," was the facetious reply.
"I could do with a fifty-pun' note pretty comfortable."
"Oh, but really, how much? I want to go to Packworth awfully, but it's
such a long way to walk."
"What do you weigh, eh?"
"I don't know; about seven stone, I think."
"If you was eight stun I wouldn't take you, there! But hop up!"
And next moment I found myself bowling merrily along in the baker's cart
all among the loaves and flour-bags to Packworth.
My jovial driver seemed glad of a companion, and we soon got on very
good terms, and conversed on a great variety of topics.
Presently, as we seemed to be nearing the town, I ventured to inquire,
"I say, do you know Jack Smith at Packworth?"
The Jehu laughed.
"Know him--old Jack Smith? Should think I do."
"You do?" cried I, delighted, springing to my feet and knocking over a
whole pyramid of loaves. "Oh, I _am_ glad. It's him I want to see."
"Is it now?" said the fellow, "and what little game have you got on with
him? Going a grave-diggin', eh?"
"Grave-digging, no!" I cried. "Jack Smith and I were at school
together--"
The driver interrupted me with a loud laugh.
"Oh, my eye, that's a good 'un; you at school with old Jack Smith! Oh,
that'll do, that'll do!" and he roared with laughter.
"But I really was," repeated I, "at Stonebridge House."
"You was? How long before you was born was it; oh my eye, eh?"
"It was only last year."
"Last year, and old Jack lost the last tooth out of his head last year
too."
"What! has he had his teeth out?" cried I, greatly concerned.
"Yes, and all his hair off since you was at school with him," cried my
companion, nearly rolling off the box with laughter.
"What do you mean?" I cried, in utter bewilderment at this catalogue of
my friend's misfortunes.
"Oh, don't ask me. Old Jack Smith!"
"He's not old," said I, "not very, only about sixteen."
This was too much for my driver, who clapped me on the back, and as soon
as he could recover his utterance cried, "My eyes, you _will_ find him
growed!"
"Has he?" said I, half envious, for I wasn't growing very quickly.
"Ain't he! He's growed a lump since you was at school together," roared
my eccentric friend.
"What is he doing?" I asked, anxious to hear something more definite of
poor Jack.
"Oh, the same old game, on'y he goes at it quieter nor he used. Last
Sunday that there bell-ringing regular blowed him out, the old covey."
A light suddenly dawned upon me.
"Bell-ringing; old covey. That's not the Jack Smith I mean!"
"What!" roared my companion, "you don't mean him?"
"No, who?" cried I, utterly bewildered.
"Why, old Jack Smith, the sexton, what was eighty-two last Christmas!
You wasn't at school with him! Oh, I say; here, take the reins: I can't
drive straight no longer!" and he fairly collapsed into the bottom of
the cart.
This little diversion, amusing as it was, did not have the effect of
allaying my anxiety to hear something about my old schoolfellow.
My driver, however, although he knew plenty of Smiths in the town, knew
no one answering to Jack's description; and, now that Packworth was in
sight, I began to feel rather foolish to have come so far on such a
wild-goose chase.
Packworth is a large town with about 40,000 inhabitants; and when,
having bidden farewell to the good-natured baker, I found myself in its
crowded bustling streets, any chance of running against my old chum
seemed very remote indeed.
I went to the post-office where my two letters had been addressed, the
one I wrote a year ago, just after Jack's expulsion, and the other
written last week from Brownstroke.
"Have you any letters addressed to `J'?" I asked.
The clerk fumbled over the contents of a pigeon-hole, from which he
presently drew out my last letter and gave it to me.
"Wait a bit," said he, as I was taking it up, and turning to leave the
office. "Wait a bit."
He went back to the pigeon-hole, and after another sorting produced,
very dusty and dirty, my first letter. "That's for `J' too," said he.
Then Jack had never been to Packworth, or got my letter, posted at such
risk. He must have given me a false address. Surely, if he lived here,
he would have called for the letter. Why did he tell me to write to
Post-Office, Packworth, if he never meant to call for my letters?
A feeling of vexation crossed my mind, and mingled with the
disappointment I felt at now being sure my journey here was a hopeless
one.
I wandered about the town a bit, in the vague hope of something turning
up. But nothing did. Nothing ever does when a fellow wants it. So I
turned tail, and faced the prospect of a solitary ten-mile walk back to
Brownstroke.
I felt decidedly down. This expedition to Packworth had been a
favourite dream of mine for many months past, and somehow I had never
anticipated there would be much difficulty, could I once get there, in
discovering my friend Smith. But now he seemed more out of reach than
ever. There were my two neglected letters, never called for, and not a
word from him since the day I left Stonebridge House. I might as well
give up the idea of ever seeing him again, and certainly spare myself
the trouble of further search after him.
I was walking on, letters in hand, engaged in this sombre train of
thought, when suddenly, on the road before me, I heard a clatter of
hoofs accompanied by a child's shriek. At the same moment round a
corner appeared a small pony galloping straight towards where I was,
with a little girl clinging wildly round its neck, and uttering the
cries I had heard.
The animal had evidently taken fright and become quite beyond control,
for the reins hung loose, and the little stirrup was flying about in all
directions.
Fortunately, the part of the road where we were was walled on one side,
while the other bank was sloping. I had not had much practice in
stopping runaway horses, but it occurred to me that if I stood right in
the pony's way, and shouted at him as he came up, he might, what with me
in front and the wall and slope on either side, possibly give himself a
moment for reflection, and so enable me to make a grab at his bridle.
And so it turned out. I spread out my arms and yelled at him at the top
of my voice, with a vehemence which quite took him aback. He pulled up
dead just as he reached me, so suddenly, indeed, that the poor child
slipped clean off his back, and then, before he could fling himself
round and continue his bolt in another direction, I had him firmly by
the snaffle.
The little girl, who may have been twelve or thirteen, was not hurt, I
think, by her fall. But she was dreadfully frightened, and sat crying
so piteously that I began to get quite alarmed. I tied the pony up to
the nearest tree, and did what I could to relieve the young lady's
tribulation, a task in which I was succeeding very fairly when a female,
the child's nurse, arrived on the scene in a panic. Of course my little
patient broke out afresh for the benefit of her protectress, and an
affecting scene ensued, in the midst of which, finding I was not wanted,
and feeling a little foolish to be standing by when so much crying and
kissing was going on, I proceeded on my way, half wishing it had been my
luck to secure that lively little pony for my journey home.
However, ten miles come to an end at last, and in due time I turned up
at Brownstroke pretty tired, and generally feeling somewhat down in the
mouth by my day's adventures.
But those adventures, or rather events, were not yet over; for that same
evening brought a letter with the London postmark and the initials M.,
B., and Company on the seal of the envelope!
You may fancy how eagerly I opened it. It ran as follows:
"Messrs. Merrett, Barnacle, and Company are in receipt of Frederick
Batchelor's application for junior clerkship, and in reply--"
"What?" I gasped to myself, as I turned over the leaf.
"--would like to see Batchelor at their office on Saturday next at
10:15."
I could hardly believe my eyes. I rushed to my uncle and showed him the
letter.
"Isn't it splendid?" I cried.
"Not at all," replied he. "Don't be too fast, you have not got the
place yet."
"Ah, I know," said I, "but I've a chance at least."
"You have a chance against a dozen others," said my uncle, "who most
likely have got each of them a letter just like this."
"Well, but, of course, I must go on Saturday?"
"You still mean to try?" said my uncle.
"Why yes," said I resolutely. "I do."
"Then you had better go to town on Saturday."
"Won't you go with me?" I inquired nervously.
"No," said my uncle; "Merrett, Barnacle, and Company want to see you,
not me."
"But--" began I. But I didn't say what I was going to say. Why should
I tell my uncle I was afraid to go to London alone?
"Where am I to live if I do _get_ the place? London's such a big place
to be in."
"Oh, we'll see to that," said my uncle, "in due time. Time enough for
that when you get your place."
This was true; and half elated, half alarmed by the prospect before me,
I took to my bed and went to sleep.
My dreams that night were a strange mixture of Merrett, Barnacle, and
Company, the little girl who fell from the pony, Jack Smith, and the
jovial baker; but among them all I slept very soundly, and woke like a
giant refreshed the next day.
If only I had been easy in my mind about Jack Smith, I should have been
positively cheerful. But the thought of him, and the fact of his never
having called for my letters, sorely perplexed and troubled me. Had he
forgotten all about me, then? How I had pictured his delight in getting
that first letter of mine, when I wrote it surreptitiously in the
playground at Stonebridge House a year ago! And I had meant it to be
such a jolly comforting letter, too; and after all here it was in my
pocket unopened. I must just read it over again myself. And I put my
hand in my pocket to get it. To my surprise, however, only the last of
the two letters was there, and high or low I could not find the other.
It was very strange, for I distinctly remembered no having it in my hand
after leaving Packworth. Then suddenly it occurred to me I must have
had it in my hand when I met the runaway pony, and in the confusion of
that adventure have dropped it. So I had not even the satisfaction of
reading over my own touching effusion, which deprived me of a great
intellectual treat.
However, I had other things to think of, for to-morrow was Saturday, the
day on which I was to make my solitary excursion to London in quest of
the junior clerkship at Merrett, Barnacle, and Company's.