If any one had told me a month before that I should quarrel with my
friend Smith, I should have laughed at the bare idea. But now the
impossible thing had happened.
That night as I lay awake in my bed I felt that I had not a friend in
the world. I had wounded, in the cruellest way, the only true friend I
ever had, and now I was to suffer for it. The words had come hastily
and thoughtlessly, but they had come; and Jack, I knew, regarded me as a
coward and a brute.
The next day we scarcely spoke a word to one another, and when we did it
was in so constrained a manner that it would have been more comfortable
had we remained silent. We walked to and from the office by separate
ways, and during the mid-day half-hour we lunched for the first time at
different eating-houses.
I longed to explain--to beg his pardon. But he was so stiff and distant
in his manner that I could not venture to approach him. Once I did try,
but he saw me coming and, I fancied, turned on his heel before I got up.
What was I to do? If this was to last, I should be miserable for ever.
Yet how could it end? Would I write him a letter, or would I get some
one to plead my cause for me? Or would I let him see how wretched I
was, and work on his feelings that way? It was all my fault, I knew.
Yet he might have come out a little and made a reconciliation easy.
Surely if he had really been my friend, thought I, he would not be so
quick to cast me off, and judge me by one or two hasty words!
What between an evil conscience, vexation, and disappointment, I was
that day about the most miserable fellow alive. The fellows at the
office all noticed and added to my discomfort by ostentatiously
condoling with me.
"Poor old chap!" said Doubleday; "he's been letting you have it, has he?
Awful shame."
"As if a fellow mayn't get screwed without his interfering," laughed
Crow.
"It's nothing of the sort," said I, as usual taking in earnest what was
meant as a jest; "I was never screwed."
Crow's only answer was a whistle, which greatly amused all the others.
"Never mind," said Doubleday, "come along with us to-night, old man;
we've got a little spree on, haven't we, Crow? We're going to get tea
and shrimps at the Magpie, and then going in a body to the Serio-Comics,
and finish up with a supper somewhere or other. Going to make a regular
night of it. Come along."
"I don't want to," I said; "besides, I can't afford it."
"Afford your great-grandmother! Why, a fellow who can entertain the
whole lot of us as you did can't be so very hard up, can he, Wallop? So
come, none of your gammon. You're coming with us to-night, my boy, and
old Bull's-eye can sit and scowl at himself in the looking-glass if he
likes."
I went with them, glad enough to get anywhere out of Jack's sight. We
had a "rollicking evening," as the fellows called it; which meant that
after a noisy and extravagant tea at the Magpie we adjourned in a body
to the performance, where we made quite as much noise as the rest of the
audience put together, after which we finished up with a fish supper of
Doubleday's ordering, at a restaurant, the bill for which came to two
shillings a head.
I was not in a condition to enjoy myself. The thought of Jack haunted
me all the evening and made me miserable. I fancied him walking back
from Hawk Street alone. He would stop to talk to Billy, I knew, and
then he would go on to Beadle Square and bury himself in his book till
bedtime. Would he ever think of me? Why, even the little shoeblack was
more to him now than I was.
I got home late--so late that Mrs Nash protested angrily, and
threatened to stand my irregularities no longer. Jack was not asleep
when I entered the room, but at sight of me he turned over in his bed
and drew the clothes round him. I was angry and miserable and made no
attempt to speak to him. But I could not sleep. The spirit seemed to
have gone out of my life in London, and I dreaded to-morrow as much as
ever I had hated to-day.
I rose early in the morning, and after a hurried breakfast started from
the house before Jack came down. At least I could take refuge in my
work at the office.
I had the place to myself for quite half an hour, when Hawkesbury
arrived.
"Well, Batchelor," said he, "you are industrious. I thought I should be
first to-day, but you are before me. Where's your friend Smith?"
"I don't know," I said, hurriedly.
"I'm afraid," said Hawkesbury, with his sweet smile, "you and Smith
haven't been getting on well lately. I noticed yesterday you never
spoke to one another."
"I'm not obliged to speak to him," I growled.
"Certainly not. In fact I think it's very kind indeed of you to make
him your friend under the circumstances."
Of course I knew what these last words meant. A day or two ago they
would have terrified me; but now in my mortified state of mind they
didn't even offend me.
"Jack and I always got on well," I said, "until he began to interfere
with my affairs. I didn't like that."
"Of course not; nobody does. But then you know he has always been a
sort of guardian to you."
"He was never anything of the sort," I retorted.
"Well," said Hawkesbury, pleasantly, but with a touch of melancholy in
his voice, "I never like to see old friends fall out. Would you like me
to speak to him and try to make it up?"
"Certainly not," I exclaimed. "If I want it, I can do that myself."
"What can he do himself?" cried Doubleday, entering at this moment with
Crow and Wallop, and one or two others of last night's party. "Was the
young un saying he could find his way home by himself after that supper
last night, eh? My eye, that's a good 'un, isn't it, Crow?"
"Nice gratitude," cried Crow, "after our carrying him home and propping
him up against his own front door."
"I wonder what his friend Smith thought of it?" said Wallop; "he must
have been shocked."
"When you fellows have done," I said, who had felt bound to submit to
all this with the best grace I could, "I'll get on with my work."
"What a joker the fellow is!" said Doubleday. "One would think he was
always at his work."
"I want to work now," I said. "I do indeed."
"Do you indeed?" said Doubleday, mocking my tones and making a low bow.
"Since when did you take a fancy for hard labour?"
"Hard labour?"
At that moment the door opened and Jack Smith entered.
I could notice the quick start he gave as the words fell suddenly on his
ear. He gave one scared look round the office, and then went quietly to
his desk.
At the sight of him there was an abrupt silence amongst us. Crow and
Wallop stopped short in the middle of their exclamation. Hawkesbury and
I buried ourselves in our work, and Doubleday, standing before the fire,
began to whistle softly.
Could anything have happened more awkwardly and suspiciously? Jack must
certainly believe we were all talking about him, and the ill-fated word
he had overheard would naturally suggest to him--
"When you've done laughing, young Batchelor," said Doubleday, stopping
short in his whistling, "we'll get to work."
This unexpected remark, which of course was a delicate way of calling
everybody's attention to my rueful countenance, served to put all the
rest of the company except myself at their ease, and Mr Barnacle's
entrance a minute afterwards put an end for the time to any further
conversation.
But the day dragged on miserably. What must Jack think of me? He would
be sure to believe the worst of me, and it was impossible for me to
explain.
"After all," I thought, "if he does choose to form wrong conclusions,
why should I afflict myself? No one was even speaking of him when he
entered the office. What business of mine is it to put him right?"
And then, as usual, I forgot all about the injury I had done him, all my
treachery, all my meanness, and instead felt rather aggrieved, and
persuaded myself it was I, not he, who was the injured person.
At dinner-time I ostentatiously went out arm-in-arm with Hawkesbury, and
when on returning I met Smith on the stairs I brushed past him as if I
had not seen him.
That afternoon I was called upon unexpectedly to go down to the docks to
see after the shipment of some goods. I was relieved to have the excuse
for being alone and getting away from the unpleasant surroundings of
Hawk Street.
It was late in the afternoon when I returned, so late that I almost
expected the fellows would some of them have left for the day. But as I
entered the office I noticed they were all there, and became aware that
something unusual was taking place. From the loud tones of the speakers
I concluded the partners had left for the day.
At first I could not tell whether it was a joke or a quarrel that was
being enacted; but it soon began to dawn on me. Jack Smith was being
set on by the others.
What his offence had been I could not quite gather, though I believe it
consisted in his insisting on using the ledger he was at work on till
the actual hour for ceasing work arrived, while Harris, who was
responsible for the locking-up of the books, and who wanted this evening
to go half an hour earlier, was demanding that he should give it up now.
"I must finish these accounts to-night," said Jack.
"I tell you I'm not going to be kept here half an hour just to please
you," replied Harris.
"We're not supposed to stop work till seven," said Jack; "that's the
time we always work to when Mr Barnacle is here. And it's only half-
past six now."
"What business of yours is it when we're supposed to work to, Mr Prig?"
demanded Harris, savagely. "You're under my orders here, and you'll do
what I tell you."
"I'm under Mr Barnacle's orders," said Jack, going on with his writing.
"You mean to say you're not going to do what I tell you?" asked Harris,
in a rage.
"I'm going to do what's right--that's all," said Smith, quietly.
"Right! You humbug! You're a nice respectable fellow to talk about
right to us, Mr Gaol-bird! As if we didn't know who you are! You son
of a thief and swindler! Right, indeed! We don't want to hear about
right from you!"
Jack gave one startled, scared, upward look as he spoke; but it was
turned not to the speaker, but to me. I shall never forget that look.
I could have sunk into the earth with shame and misery as I encountered
it.
He closed the ledger, and with white face and quivering lips took his
hat and walked silently from the office.
To me his manner was more terrible than if he had broken out into
torrents of passion and abuse. At the sight of his face that moment my
treachery and sin appeared suddenly in their true light before my eyes.
I had been false to my best friend, and more than false.
Who could tell if I had not ruined him? Vain and selfish fool that I
had been! Always thinking what others would think of me, and never how
best I could help him in his gallant struggle against his evil destiny.
I rushed wildly from the office after him, and overtook him on the
stairs.
"Oh, Jack," I cried, "it really wasn't my--oh! I'm so dreadfully sorry,
Jack! If you'll only let me explain, I can--"
He was gone. The door shut-to suddenly in my face, leaving me alone
with my misery, and shutting out my one hope of recovering my only
friend.
I returned miserable to the office--miserable and savage. Though I knew
I had only myself to blame for what had happened, I was fain to vent my
anger on the cowardly set who had used my secret against my friend. But
when I tried to speak the words would not come. I locked up my desk
dejectedly, and without a word to any one, and heedless of the looks and
titters that followed me, walked from the place.
Half way down the street I became aware of a footstep following
hurriedly, as if to overtake me. Could it be Jack? Was there yet a
chance? No, it was Hawkesbury.
"Oh, Batchelor," he said, "I am so sorry. It's most unfortunate the way
it came out, isn't it?"