"Oh," said he, "you must turn that place up. I know it. One of our
fellows was there once. It's an awfully seedy place to belong to."
"The worst of it is," said I--who, since my evening at Doubleday's, had
come to treat him as a confidant--"that my uncle pays my lodging there;
and if I went anywhere else he'd tell me to pay for myself."
"That's awkward," said Doubleday, meditatively; "pity he should stick
you in such a cheap hole."
"I don't think, you know," said I, feeling rather extinguished by
Doubleday's pitying tone, "it's such a very cheap place. It's three-
and-six a week."
Doubleday gazed at me in astonishment, and then broke out into a loud
laugh.
"Three-and-six a week! Why, my dear fellow, you could do it cheaper in
a workhouse. Oh, good gracious! your uncle must be in precious low
water to stick you up in a hole like that at three-and-six a week. Do
you know what my lodgings cost, eh, young 'un?"
"No," said I, very crestfallen; "how much?"
"Fifteen bob, upon my honour, and none too grand. Three-and-six a week,
why--I say, Crow!"
"Oh, don't go telling everybody!" cried I, feeling quite ashamed of
myself.
"Oh, all serene. But it is rather rich, that. Good job you don't get
your grub there."
I did not tell Doubleday that I did get my "grub" there, and left him to
infer what he pleased by my silence.
"Anyhow," said he, "if you must hang on there, there's nothing to
prevent your knocking about a bit of an evening. What do you generally
go in for when your friend Bull's-eye's at home? I mean what do you do
with yourselves of an evening?"
"Oh," said I, "they've got a parlour at Mrs Nash's, and books--"
Once more Doubleday laughed loud, "What! a parlour and books included
for three-and-six a week! My eye! young 'un, you're in luck; and you
mean to say you--oh, I say, what a treat!--do you hear, Crow?"
"Please!" I exclaimed, "what's the use of telling any one?"
"Eh--oh, all right, I won't tell any one; but think of you and Bull's-
eye sitting in a three-and-six parlour without carpets or wall-papers
reading _Tim Goodyboy's Sunday Picture-book_, and all that."
I smiled faintly, vexed though I was. "They've novels there," I said,
grandly.
"No! and all for three-and-six too! No wonder you're snug. Well, no
accounting for tastes. I wonder you don't ask me to come and spend an
evening with you. It _would_ be a treat!"
The result of this conversation and a good many of a similar character
was to make me thoroughly discontented with, and more than half ashamed
of, my lot. And the more I mixed with Doubleday and his set, the more I
felt this. They all had the appearance of such well-to-do fellows, to
whom expense seemed no object. They talked in such a scoffing way of
the "poor beggars" who couldn't "stand" the luxuries they indulged in,
or dress in the fashionable style they affected.
After six months, the clothes with which I had come to London were
beginning to look the worse for wear, and this afflicted me greatly just
at a time when I found myself constantly in the society of these
grandees. I remember one entire evening at Doubleday's sitting with my
left arm close in to my side because of a hole under the armpit; and on
another occasion borrowing Mrs Nash's scissors to trim the ends of my
trousers before going to spend the evening at Daly's.
That occasion, by the way, was the Tuesday when, according to
invitation, I was to go up to the lodgings of Daly and the Field-
Marshal, there to meet my old schoolfellow Flanagan.
I had looked forward not a little to this meeting, and was secretly glad
that he would find me one of a set represented by such respectable and
flourishing persons as Doubleday and Daly. When, a fortnight before,
Smith and I had hunted up and down his street to find him, I knew
nothing of "what was what" compared with what I did now. I was
determined to make an impression on my old schoolfellow; and therefore,
as I have said, trimmed up the ends of my trousers with Mrs Nash's
scissors, invested in a new (cheap), necktie, and carefully doctored the
seam under my armpit with ink and blacking.
Thus decorated I hurried off to my host's lodgings. The first thing I
saw as I entered the door filled me with mortification. It was
Flanagan, dressed in a loud check suit, with a stick-up collar and a
horseshoe scarf-pin--with cloth "spats" over his boots, and cuffs that
projected at least two inches from the ends of his coat sleeves.
I felt so shabby and disreputable that I was tempted to turn tail and
escape. I had all along hoped that Flanagan would be got up in a style
which would keep me in countenance, and make me feel rather more at home
than I did among the other stylish fellows of the set. But so far from
that being the case, here he was the most howling swell of them all.
Before I could recover from the surprise and disappointment I felt he
had seen me, and advanced with all his old noisy frankness.
"Hullo! here he is. How are you, Batchelor? Here we are again, eh?
Rather better than the Henniker's parlour, eh?"
I forgot all my disappointment for a moment in the pleasure of meeting
him. In voice and manner at least he was the Flanagan of old days. Why
couldn't he dress rather more quietly?
Daly was there in all his glory, and the Field-Marshal as lank and
cadaverous as ever; and besides ourselves there was Whipcord with the
straw in his mouth, and one or two other fellows belonging to our host's
particular set. The supper was quite as elaborate and a good deal more
noisy than that at Doubleday's. I sat next to Flanagan, and hoped to be
able to get some talk with him about old days; but I found he was far
too much taken up with the fun that was going on to be a very attentive
listener. And so I felt more than ever extinguished and out of it, and
all my fond hopes of making an impression on my old schoolfellow
speedily vanished.
"What are you going to do?" said Whipcord, when the meal was over.
"I don't care," said Daly; "cards if you like."
"Oh, bother cards," was the reply; "let's have a ramble out of doors for
a change."
"Hullo! Whip, how is it you're down on cards?" said the Field-Marshal.
"I thought you always won."
There was something not very nice in the tone of the cadaverous man of
war which roused the ire of the virtuous Whipcord.
"What do you mean, you--who says I always win at cards?"
"You generally win when I'm playing against you," said the Field-
Marshal.
"Look here," said Whipcord, very red in the face, and chewing his straw
in an agitated manner, "do you mean to insinuate I cheat at cards, eh,
you--?"
"I never said anything of the kind," replied the Field-marshal; "I said
you generally won, that's all. What's the use of making an ass of
yourself?"
I began to perceive by this time that Mr Whipcord was excited by
something more than the Field-Marshal's talk. The fact was, he had
drunk too much, and that being so, it was worse than useless to reason
with him.
"Who says I generally win at cards?" shouted he. "I'll fight any one
that says so: if you like, I'll take the lot of you."
The laugh which greeted this valiant challenge only enraged the excited
youth the more.
He broke out into language which seemed to be only too ready to his
lips, and again shouted, "I'll teach you to call me a cheat, I will!
I'll teach you to call me a blackleg, so I will! I'll teach you to call
me--"
"A howling jackass," put in the Field-Marshal, whose chief vocation it
seemed to be to goad on his irate guest.
"Yes, I'll teach you to call me a howling jackass!" cried Whipcord,
turning short round on me, and catching me by the throat.
"Me! I never called you a howling jackass!" cried I, in astonishment
and alarm.
"Yes, you did, you young liar; I heard you. Wasn't it him?" he cried,
appealing to the company in general.
"Sounded precious like his voice," said one of the fellows, who, as I
had scarcely opened my mouth the whole evening, must have had a rather
vivid imagination.
"Yes, I know it was you. I knew it all along," said Whipcord, shifting
his straw from side to side of his mouth, and glaring at me, half-
stupidly, half-ferociously.
"It wasn't, indeed," said I, feeling very uncomfortable. "I never said
a word."
Whipcord laughed as he let go my throat and began to take off his coat.
I watched him in amazement. Surely he was not going to make me fight!
I looked round beseechingly on the company, but could get no comfort out
of their laughter and merriment.
Whipcord divested himself of his coat, then of his waistcoat, then he
took off his necktie and collar, then he let down his braces and tied
his handkerchief round his waist in the manner of a belt, and finally
proceeded to roll up his shirt-sleeves above the elbows.
"Now then," said he, advancing towards me in a boxing attitude, "I'll
teach you to call me a thief!"
I was so utterly taken aback by all this, that I could scarcely believe
I was not dreaming.
"I really didn't call you a thief," I said.
"You mean to say you won't fight?" cried my adversary, sparring up at
me.
"Hold hard!" cried Daly, before I could answer. "Of course he's going
to fight; but give him time to peel, man. Look alive, Batchelor, off
with your coat."
"I'm not going to fight, indeed," said I, in utter bewilderment.
"Yes you are," said Flanagan, "and it won't be your first go in either,
old man. I'll back you!"
One or two of the fellows pulled off my coat--my poor seedy coat. I
remember even then feeling ashamed of the worn flannel shirt, out at
elbows, that was below it, and which I had little expected any one that
evening to see.
"Will you have your waistcoat off?" said Daly.
"No," replied I.
"Better," said Flanagan, "and your collar too."
This was awful! My collar was a paper one, and pinned on to the shirt
in two places!
"No!" I cried, in desperation at these officious offers; "let me alone,
please."
"Oh, all serene! But he's got the pull of you."
Perhaps if I had had a clean linen shirt on, with studs down the front,
I might have been more tractable in the matter of peeling.
It had by this time gradually dawned on me that I was in for a fight,
and that there was no getting out of it. My adversary was bigger than I
was, and evidently far more at home with the customs of the prize-ring.
I would fain have escaped, but what could I do?
Meanwhile the table was hurriedly pushed into a corner of the room and
the chairs piled up in a heap.
"Now then!" cried the Field-Marshal, who, in some miraculous manner, now
appeared as backer to the fellow with whom a few minutes ago he had been
quarrelling--"now then, aren't you ready there?"
"Yes," said Flanagan, rolling up my shirt-sleeves; "all ready! Now
then, old man, straight out from the shoulder, you know. Keep your toes
straight, and guard forward. Now then--there!"
I was in for it then; and, being in for it, the only thing was to go
through with it, and that I determined to do.
My adversary advanced towards me, half prancing, with his hands high,
his elbows out, his face red, and his straw jerking about like a steam-
engine. It might be showy form, I thought, but from the very little I
knew of boxing it was not good. And the closer we approached the more
convinced of this I was, and the more hope I seemed to have of coming
out of the affair creditably.
Now, reader, whoever you are, before I go further I ask you to remember
that I am recording in this book not what I ought to have done, but what
I did do. You will very likely have your own opinions as to what I
should have done under the circumstances. You may think that I should,
at all costs, have declined to fight; you may think I should have
summoned the police; you may think I should have stood with my hands
behind my back till my face was the size of a football, and about the
same colour; or you may think I was right in standing up to hit my man,
and doing all I knew to demolish him. Do not let me embarrass your
judgment; my duty just now is merely to tell you what did happen.
As I expected, Whipcord's idea seemed to be to knock me out of time at
the very beginning of the encounter, and therefore during the first
round I found it needed all my efforts to frustrate this little design,
without attempting on my part to take the offensive.
As it was, I did not altogether succeed, for, Whipcord being taller than
I, I could not help coming in for one or two downward blows, which,
however, thanks to my hard head, seemed more formidable to the
spectators than they really were.
"Not half bad," was Flanagan's encouraging comment when in due time I
retired to his side for a short breathing space. "I never thought you'd
be so well up to him. Are you much damaged?"
"No," said I.
"Well, you'd best play steady this next round too," said my second. "He
can't hold out long with his elbows that height. If you like you can
have a quiet shot or two at his breastplate, just to get your hand in
for the next round."
This advice I, now quite warmed up to the emergency, adopted.
Whipcord returned to his sledge-hammer tactics, and as carelessly as
ever, too; for more than once I got in under his guard, and once, amid
terrific plaudits, got "home"--so Flanagan called it--on his chin, in a
manner which, I flattered myself, fairly astonished him.
"Now then, Whip, what are you thinking about?" cried the Field-Marshal;
"you aren't going to let the young 'un lick you, surely?"
"Time!" cried Daly, before the bruised one could reply; and so ended
round two, from which I retired covered with dust and glory.
I felt very elated, and was quite pleased with myself now that I had,
stood up to my man. It seemed perfectly plain I had the battle in my
own hands, so I inwardly resolved if possible to bring the affair to an
end in the next round, and let my man off easy.
Conceited ass that I was! To my amazement and consternation, Whipcord
came up to the scratch on time being called in an entirely new light.
Instead of being the careless slogger I had taken him for, he went to
work now in a most deliberate and scientific manner. It gradually
dawned on me that I had been played with so far, and that my man was
only now beginning to give his mind to the business. Ass that I had
been! Poor wretch that I was!
Before the round had well begun I was reeling about like a ninepin. The
little knowledge of pugilism I had, or thought I had, was like child's
play against the deliberate downright assault of this practised hand. I
did what I could, but it was very little. The laughter of my opponents
and the gibes of my backers all tended to flurry me and lose me my head.
Let me draw a veil over that scene.
My opponent was not one of the sort to give quarter. He had had a blow
of mine on his chin in the last round, and he had heard the laughter and
cheers which greeted it. It was his turn now, and he took his turn as
long as I could stand up before him. It seemed as if "time!" would
never be called. I was faint and sick, and my face--
Ah! that last was a finishing stroke. I could keep my feet no longer,
and fell back into Flanagan's arms amidst a perfect roar of laughter and
applause.
At that moment the shame was almost more bitter to me than the pain.
This then was the result of my high living! This was what I had got by
turning up my nose at my lot in Beadle Square, and aspiring to associate
with my betters! This was the manner in which I was to make an
impression on my old schoolfellow, and improve my footing with my new
friends! No wonder I felt ashamed.
"You'd better invest in a little raw beefsteak," said Flanagan; "that's
what will do you most good."
This was all the comfort I got. The fight being over, everybody lost
his interest in me and my opponent, and, as if nothing had happened,
proceeded to re-discuss the question of playing cards or taking a walk.
I was left to put on my poor shabby coat without help, and no one
noticed me as I slunk from the room. Even Flanagan, from whom I had at
least expected some sympathy, was too much taken up with the others to
heed me; and as I walked slowly and unsteadily that night along the
London streets, I felt for the first time since I came to the great city
utterly friendless and miserable.
When I returned to Beadle Square every one had gone to bed except one
boy, who was sitting up, whistling merrily over a postage-stamp album,
into which he was delightedly sticking some recent acquisition. I could
not help thinking bitterly how his frame of mind contrasted at that
moment with mine. He was a nice boy, lately come. He kept a diary of
everything he did, and wrote and heard from home every week. The
fellows all despised him, and called him a pious young prig, because he
said his prayers at night, and went to a chapel on Sundays. But, prig
or not, he was as happy as a king over his stamps, and the sight made me
(I knew not why), tenfold more miserable.
"Hullo!" said he, stopping whistling as I came in, "there's a letter for
you. I say, if you get any foreign stamps at your office I wish you'd
save them for me, will you? Look, here's a jolly Brazil one; I got it--
what's the matter?"