A week sufficed to put Hawkesbury quite at his ease at Hawk Street. And
it sufficed also to reconcile most of the clerks to the new arrival.
For Hawkesbury, although he proved plainly he was aware of his position
and prospects, showed no inclination to be stiff or unfriendly with his
new associates. On the contrary, he took a good deal of trouble to make
himself agreeable, and succeeded so well that in less than a week
Doubleday pronounced him "not such a cad as he might be," which was very
great praise from him.
Jack Smith, however, was irreconcilable. He seemed to have an
instinctive dislike to his old schoolfellow, and resented the least
approach on his part to friendliness. It was in vain I argued with him
and urged him.
"I'm sure he's civil enough," I said.
"I'm glad to hear it."
"Why ever are you so down on him? I'm sure he would only be too glad to
be friendly."
"I don't like him," said Jack.
"At any rate," said I, "you need not take so much trouble to make an
enemy of him. Some day you may be sorry for it."
Jack did not answer, and I saw it was no use pursuing the unpleasant
topic. But I was vexed with him. Why should he consider himself better
than all of us who had accepted the proffered friendship of our new
comrade?
"Young Batch," said Doubleday one morning about a week after
Hawkesbury's arrival, "come up to my diggings this evening. The other
fellows are coming up, and the new boss too."
This was rather an awkward question, as since Jack's return I had not
gone out, and I imagined every one would conclude it was no use inviting
me without him.
"I know what you're going to say," said Doubleday, noticing my
hesitation. "You'll ask Bull's-eye's leave, and then tell me. Here,
Bull's-eye, Smith--whatever your name is--I want young Batch to come up
to supper with me this evening, and like a dutiful boy he says he can't
come till you give him leave. What do you say?"
"Don't be an ass, Doubleday!" I cried, quite ashamed and confused to
stand by and hear Smith thus appealed to. "I--I'm afraid I can't come
this evening."
"Previous engagement?" said Doubleday, with a wink.
"No," I said; "I'm going for a walk with Smith."
"I'm going to stay here late to-night," said Jack, quietly, "I want to
catch up some work." I wished I knew what he meant by it. "All serene!
then the young 'un can come to us, can't he?" said Doubleday.
"Thanks," said I, not appearing to notice that the question was
addressed to Smith.
My decision appeared to afford much amusement to the other clerks.
"Landed at last!" said Doubleday, mopping his face with his handkerchief
and puffing like a man who had just gone through some great exertion.
I did not join in the laughter that followed, and spent the rest of the
day rather uncomfortably. In the evening I left Jack at his desk.
"I hope you don't mind my going," I said. He looked up, half vexed,
half astonished. "What do you mean?" he replied. "Surely it's nothing
to do with me?"
"Oh, I know. But I wouldn't care to do it if you didn't like it.
Besides, I feel rather low going when you're not asked too."
"I shouldn't go if I was asked," replied Jack.
"Why not?" I inquired.
"I've something better to do with my time and my money than that sort of
thing," he replied, quietly.
I went up to Doubleday's that evening more uneasy in my mind than I had
been for a long time. I was angry with him for asking me; I was angry
with myself for going; and I was angry with Smith because I felt his
rebuke was a just one.
"Hullo, young un!" cried my host as I entered his now familiar lodgings;
"all waiting for you. Why, how glum you look! Has the Lantern been
lecturing you? or have you been having a dose of cold eel-pie on the
road? or what? Come on. You know all these fellows. By the way, my
boy, glorious news for you! Don't know what we've all done to deserve
it, upon my honour, but Abel here has knocked out one of his front
teeth, so there'll be no more trouble about spotting him now."
Abel grinned and exhibited the gap in his jaw which had called forth
this song of thankfulness from our host.
"How ever did you do it?" I asked, glad to turn the conversation from
myself.
"Ran against a lamp-post," replied the mutilated Twin.
This simple explanation caused much merriment, for every one chose to
believe that Abel had been intoxicated at the time, and as Abel himself
joined in the laugh, it was easy to see that if that had been the cause
of the accident, neither he nor any one else would be greatly ashamed of
it.
"What would Jack think?" I could not help saying to myself.
Hawkesbury walked over to where I was and shook hands. "I'm glad you've
come," said he, sweetly smiling; "I was afraid you would be prevented."
"No, I'd nothing to prevent me," replied I, colouring up.
"I fancied you would prefer staying with your friend Smith, or that he
might not like you to come."
"Smith is working late at the office to-night," I replied, shortly.
"Now you fellows!" cried Doubleday, "if you want any grub, sit down.
Batch, old man, will you take that end of the table? you're used to
lobsters, I know."
Once more I blushed to the roots of my hair, as I obeyed in as
unconcerned a manner as I could.
"What's the joke about the lobster?" asked Hawkesbury, innocently.
I wished the ground would open and swallow me. Was that unlucky
lobster, then, to haunt me all the days of my life?
"There was no joke about it, I can tell you that!" said Whipcord, with a
significant grimace; "was there, Daly?"
"Well, I don't know," said Daly, looking mysterious; "there was one
rather good joke about it, if what I was told is true."
"What's that?" demanded the company.
"It was paid for!"
Don't you pity me, reader? I was obliged to join in the laugh, and
appear to enjoy it.
"They're rather down on you," said Hawkesbury, amiably.
"Oh, they like their little joke," said I.
"So they do--who's got the butter?" said Doubleday--"so does everybody--
hang it, the milk's burnt; don't you taste it burnt, Field-Marshal?
I'll give my old woman notice--so does everybody, except--the muffins,
please, Crow--except your precious friend Smith. I don't suppose he
ever enjoyed a joke in his life now, or--help yourself, Hawkesbury--or
saw one either, for the matter of that, notwithstanding his bull's-
eyes."
"I don't know," said I, relieved again to divert the talk from myself,
and glad at the same time to put in a mild word for my friend, "I think
Smith has a good deal of fun in him."
"I'd like to know where he keeps it," said Crow; "I never saw it."
"Oh! I did," said Hawkesbury, "at school. He was a very amusing fellow
at school, wasn't he, Batchelor? Did Batchelor ever tell you of the
great rebellion that he and Smith got up there?"
I had not told the story, and was there and then called upon to do so--
which I did, much to the gratification of the company.
"Why don't you bring this mysterious Mr Smith down to show to us one
evening?" asked Whipcord. "We're always hearing about him. I'd like to
see him, wouldn't you, Twins?"
"Very," replied Abel, who evidently had been thinking of something else.
"I'm not sure," said I, "whether he'd come out. I don't think he cares
much about visiting."
"I hope he doesn't think it's wrong to visit," said the Field-Marshal.
"No, not that," said I, sorry I had embarked on the subject; "but
somehow he doesn't get on, I think, in company."
"I should rather say he doesn't!" said Crow--"at any rate, at Hawk
Street, for a more stuck-up, disagreeable, self-righteous prig I never
saw."
"I think," said Hawkesbury, mildly, "you judge him rather hardly, Crow.
Some of us thought the same at school; but I really think he means
well."
"Yes," said I, ready to follow up this lead, "his manner's against him,
perhaps, but he's a very good fellow at bottom."
"Besides," said Hawkesbury, "he really has had great disadvantages. He
has no friend at all in London, except Batchelor."
This was flattering, certainly, and naturally enough I looked sheepish.
"I beg your pardon," said Hawkesbury, suddenly perceiving his error, "I
meant that he has very few friends at all; isn't that so, Batchelor?"
"Yes," said I, "very few."
"Wasn't he in a grocer's shop, or some place of the kind, before he came
to us?" asked Doubleday.
"Yes," I answered.
"No wonder he's a rough lot," said Whipcord. "I should have thought his
governor might have done better for him than that."
"But," I said, feeling flurried by all this, and hardly knowing what I
said, "he hasn't got a father--that is--I mean--"
"What do you mean?" asked Flanagan.
I was in a dreadful plight. Every one must have seen by my confusion
that I was in a fix, and how was I to get out of it?
"Eh, what about his father?" demanded Doubleday.
"Oh," said I, "he's living abroad."
"Where, Botany Bay?" asked Daly, with a laugh.
I felt my face grow scarlet, and my whole manner utterly confused and
guilty-looking, as I pretended not to hear the question, and turned to
speak to Crow about some other matter. But my assailants were too quick
for me. My manner had roused their curiosity and excited their
suspicions, and I was not to be let off.
"Eh? Is that where he resides?" again demanded Daly.
"I really can't say where he lives," I replied, abruptly, and in a tone
so unlike my ordinary voice that I hardly recognised it myself.
I was conscious of a startled look on the faces of one or two of the
company as I said this, and of a low whistle from Crow.
What had I done?
"I don't think," said Hawkesbury, with his usual smile, "your friend
Smith would be grateful to you, Batchelor, for letting the cat out of
the bag like this."
"What cat?" I exclaimed, in an agitated voice. "You are all mistaken,
indeed you are. Smith's father is not a--I mean he's merely away for
his health, I assure you."
"Rather a lingering illness," drily replied the Field-marshal, amid
general laughter, "if it's kept him abroad all these years."
"If you will take my advice, Batchelor," said Hawkesbury, "you'll be
careful how you tell everybody a thing like this. It's not a pleasant
sort of thing to be known of a fellow."
"Indeed, indeed," I cried once more, almost beside myself with terror
and rage, "you're all wrong. I wish I'd said nothing about it. Won't
you believe me?"
"Delighted," said Whipcord, who with every one else had been enjoying my
dismay, and laughing at my efforts to extricate myself. "You say
Smith's governor is a--"
"No--it's false. I was telling a lie!" I cried, in tones of misery
which any ordinary mortal would have pitied. "I don't know what he is.
I never heard of him. Indeed, indeed, I was only speaking in fun."
Thus wildly did I hope by a shield of lies to hide the secret which I
had--by my manner more than my words--betrayed.
"I'm afraid, Batchelor," said Hawkesbury, with a grave but sweet smile,
"you either are not telling quite the truth, or you are speaking in fun
about a very serious matter."
"Oh yes, you're right," I cried; "I've been telling lies; upon my honour
I have."
"Upon his honour he's been telling lies," said Daly. "The fellow _will_
have his joke. Never saw such a joker in all my days."
I would fain have rushed from the place, but I dared not. Every word I
said involved me deeper, and yet I could not leave them all like this
without one effort at least either to recover my secret--Jack's secret--
or else to appeal to their confidence and generosity.
It was evident they were not disposed to believe anything I told them,
except the one hideous fact. And that, though I had not uttered it in
so many words, every one believed from my lips as if I had been
inspired.
I sat in abject misery while the meal lasted, listening to the brutal
jests made at the cost of my absent friend, and knowing that I was
responsible for them all.
Directly supper was over I appealed to Doubleday.
"I do hope you won't say anything about this at the office, Doubleday,"
I said, imploringly. "It would be such a dreadful thing for it to get
out."
"Then it is true?" demanded Doubleday.
"No--that is--I--I--don't know," responded I, "but oh! don't say
anything about it."
"Bless me, if you don't know," said he, "why do you make such a fuss?
Take my advice, young un, and don't say any more about it to any one.
You've done very well so far, and if you want the fellows to forget all
about it you'd better not remind them of it so much."
"But, Doubleday," I implored once more, "out of friendship for me--"
"Out of friendship for you let me offer you a cigar," said Doubleday.
"Now you fellows, what's it to be--whist, nap, poker, or what?"