When I rose next morning I was nearly ill with misery and remorse. The
thought of Jack had haunted me all night long. I entertained all sorts
of forebodings as to what had become of him and what was to be the
result of my treachery to him. I pictured him gone forth alone and
friendless into the world, hoping to lose himself in London, giving up
all hope of a successful career, with his name gone and his prospects
blighted, and all my fault. Poor Jack! I might never see him again,
never even hear of him again!
As to hearing of him, however, I soon found that in one sense I was
likely to hear a good deal of him, now he was gone from Beadle Square.
Horncastle and his particular friends appeared that morning at breakfast
in a state of the greatest jubilation.
"Well, that's what I call a jolly good riddance of bad rubbish,"
Horncastle was saying as I entered the room. "I thought we'd make the
place too hot for him at last!"
"Yes, it was a job, though, to get rid of him."
"Bless you," said Horncastle, with the air of a hero, "a man doesn't
like hurting a fellow's feelings, you know, or we could have told him
straight off he was a beast. It was much better to let him see we
didn't fancy him, and let him clear out of his own accord."
"Yes, much better," answered a toady friend; "you managed it very well,
Horn, so you did."
"You see, when a fellow's a sneak and a cad he's sure to be
uncomfortable among a lot of gentlemen," said Horncastle, by way of
enlarging on the interesting topic.
If I had not been so miserable I should have felt amused at this
edifying conversation. As it was I was rather tempted to break into it
more than once, but I remembered with a pang that, though I had a friend
to stand up for yesterday, I had none to-day.
"I suppose now he's gone," sneered some one of the same set, "his
precious chum will be going too."
"I don't know," said Horncastle, pretending not to be aware that I was
in the room. "Batchelor's got some good points about him, and now the
other's gone he might improve if he stayed with us."
"Besides, he's got his lodgings paid for him, so I've heard," said
another.
"Yes, there's something in that. And on the whole he's a pretty
decent--hullo, Batchelor, I never knew you were here. So you've lost
your chum, eh?"
"You seem to know all about it," I growled, by no means won over by the
vague compliments bestowed on me.
"Oh, yes, I know all about it," cried Horncastle, mounting his high
horse, and offended at my tones. "We were too respectable for him here.
But we ain't going into mourning for him. And if you go too we shan't
blub. Shall we, you fellows?"
"Not exactly," replied the chorus, with much laughter.
I ate a miserable breakfast, and sallied forth disconsolately to my now
solitary walk to the office.
Would Jack Smith turn up at Hawk Street? That was a question which
exercised not only me but the other fellows who had witnessed
yesterday's catastrophe.
I hardly knew what to hope for. If he did come, I didn't know what I
should do, or how I should meet him. If he did not come, then I should
know I had driven him not only from me but from his very prospects in
life.
The general impression at Hawk Street was that he would not come.
Doubleday and Harris had a bet of a shilling on the event.
"If he does turn up," said Crow, "it'll show he means to brazen it out
before us all."
"Then you may be sure he'll come," said Wallop, "It was all very well
when we weren't supposed to know," said Harris, "but now it's all out he
doesn't expect us to treat him like an ordinary gentleman."
"It's certainly not anything to be proud of," remarked Hawkesbury,
pleasantly; "but--"
At that moment the door opened and Smith entered--solemn as ever, and to
all appearances perfectly composed and unconscious of the curiosity his
appearance occasioned.
But I who watched him narrowly could detect a quick, doubtful glance
round as he entered and took his usual place.
He never looked at me. On the contrary, he appeared to guess where I
was, and purposely avoided turning in that direction.
The fellows were evidently perplexed, and not quite pleased.
"You've won your bet," said Harris across the screen to Doubleday.
"Never mind, you've got your man," replied Doubleday.
"He seems awfully pleased with himself," said Crow.
"I wish my governor was a yellow-jacket, so I do," growled Wallop, "then
I could hold up my head like a gentleman. But he's only a merchant!"
All this was said in a loud voice, evidently for the benefit of Smith.
He, however, heeded it not, but quietly took his pen and blotting-paper
from his desk, and turning to Harris said, "I want that ledger to go on
with, if you'll unlock the safe, please."
Harris stared in astonishment. It had passed his comprehension how the
fellow could have the face to show up at the office at all, but for him
to have the audacity to address a fellow-clerk, and that fellow-clerk
Harris, of all people, seemed fairly to stun that worthy.
It took him fully half a minute to recover his speech. Then he
stammered out in white heat, "Eh? Do you know who you're speaking to--
you cad?"
"I'm speaking to you," said Smith, calmly.
"Then what do you mean by it, you son of a thief?" demanded Harris.
"When I want you to speak to me I'll ask you--there."
Smith looked up with a slight flush on his face.
"You seem to want to quarrel," he said. "I don't intend to quarrel.
I'll wait till you choose to unlock the safe."
This mild reply seemed to exasperate Harris far more than an angry
retort would have done. He was naturally short-tempered, and when
conscious that he was being worsted in an argument before his fellow-
clerks he was always particularly savage.
He walked up to Smith and demanded furiously, "Didn't I tell you I'm not
going to be spoken to by a low gaol-bird like you? If you don't hold
your tongue I'll give you such a thrashing as will make you remember
it."
"Come now, you fellows," said Doubleday, "if you must have a row, keep
it to yourselves. The governor will be here in a second. Plenty of
time for a shindy in the evening."
Even this interposition failed to put the irate Harris off his purpose.
Seizing a ruler, he struck Smith a blow on the shoulder with it that
resounded all through the office.
"There, you cowardly dog, take that for daring to speak to a gentleman!"
Smith sprang to his feet, his face flushed with sudden pain and anger.
At the same moment I, who had been a silent and miserable spectator of
the scene hitherto, could bear it no longer, and rushed forward to help
my old friend. He had clenched his fist and seemed about to return the
blow, when, catching sight of me, his face changed suddenly to one of
misery and scorn, as letting fall his arm he dropped again on to his
seat heedless of the second blow of his cowardly assailant.
Was ever misfortune like mine? Not only had I done my friend the worst
injury one fellow could do to another, but at the very moment when, at
least, he was about to show his comrades that all spirit had not been
crushed out of him, I had by my hateful presence baulked him of his
purpose, and made him appear before every one a coward!
And what a scorn his must be when he would rather submit tamely to a
cowardly blow than have me suppose that for a moment anything _I_ could
do would be of service to him!
However, Mr Merrett's arrival put an end to further altercation for the
present, and during the next few hours no one would have guessed what
fires were smouldering under the peaceful surface of the Hawk Street
counting-house.
As the evening approached I became more and more nervous and restless.
For, come what would of it, I had determined I _would_ speak to Jack
Smith.
He seemed to guess my intention, for he delayed leaving the office
unusually long, in the hope that I would leave before him. At last,
however, when it seemed probable we should be left alone together in the
counting-house, he took his hat and hurriedly left the office. I
followed him, but so stealthily and nervously that I might have been a
highwayman dogging his victim, rather than a friend trying to overtake a
friend.
Despite all my caution, he soon became aware of my intention. At first
with a half-glance back he started to walk rapidly away, but then,
seeing that I still followed, he stopped short and waited till I came up
with him.
Already I was repenting of my determination, and this attitude of his
quite disheartened me.
Still I could not draw back now--speak to him I must.
"Oh, Jack," I cried, as I came up. "It really wasn't my fault--indeed
it wasn't. I only--"
He put up his hand to stop me and said, his eyes blazing with
indignation as he did so, "You've been a liar and a coward!"
He may have been right. He was right! But the words were ill-judged
and rash. I had followed him ready to do anything to show my
contrition, ready to make any atonement in my power for the wrong I had
done him. One gentle word from him, one encouraging look, would have
made the task easy. But this angry taunt, deserved as it was--nay, just
because it was so fully deserved--stirred up in me a sudden sense of
disappointment and resentment which choked all other feelings.
This was my reward for the effort I had made! This was the friend I had
striven so desperately to recover!
He gave me no time to retort, even if I could have found the words to do
so, but turned on his heel and left me, humbled and smarting, to find
out that it would have been better far for me had I never tried to make
matters right with Jack Smith.
But I was too angry to be dispirited that night. His bitter words rang
in my ears at every step I took, and though my conscience cried out they
were just, my pride cried out louder they were cruel. I longed to get
out of their sound and forget the speaker. Who was he, a convict's son,
to accuse me as he had? Half an hour ago it had been I who had wronged
him. Now, to my smarting mind, it seemed as if it was he who was the
wronger, and I the wronged.
"Hullo, old fly-by-night," suddenly exclaimed a voice beside me, as I
walked slowly on my way; "what's the joke? Never saw such a fellow for
grinning, upon my honour. Why can't you look glum for once in a way,
eh, my mouldy lobster?"
I looked up and saw Doubleday, Crow, Wallop, and Whipcord, arm-in-arm
across the pavement, and Hawkesbury and Harris following on behind.
"Still weeping for his lost Jemima, I mean Bull's-eye," said Wallop,
"like what's his name in the Latin grammar."
It wasn't often Wallop indulged in classical quotations, but when he did
they were always effective, as was the case now.
My recent adventure had left me just in an hysterical mood; and try all
I would, I could not resist laughing at the very learned allusion.
"Bull's-eye be hanged!" I exclaimed, recklessly. "Hear, hear," was the
general chorus. "Come along," cried Doubleday. "Now you are sober you
can come along with us. Hook on to Whip. There's just room for five on
the pavement comfortably. Plenty of room in the road for anybody else.
Come on, we're on the spree, my boy, and no mistake. Hullo, old party,"
cried he to a stout old lady who was approaching, and innocently
proposing to pass us; "extremely sorry--no thoroughfare this way, is
there, Wallop? Must trouble you to go along by the roofs of the houses.
Now, now, don't flourish your umbrella at me, or I shall call the
police. My mother says I'm not to be worrited, doesn't she, Crow?"
"You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, a set of young fellows like
you," said the old lady, with great and very natural indignation,
"insulting respectable people. I suppose you call yourselves gentlemen.
I'm ashamed of you, that I am!"
"Oh, don't apologise," said Whipcord; "it's of no consequence."
"There's one of you," said the old lady, looking at me, "that looks as
if he ought to know better. A nice man you're making of him among you!"
I blushed, half with shame, half with bashfulness, to be thus singled
out, but considering it my duty to be as great a blackguard as my
companions, I joined in the chorus of ridicule and insult in a manner
which effectually disabused the poor lady of her suspicion that I was
any better than the others.
In the end she was forced to go out into the road to let us pass, and we
rollicked on rejoicing, as if we had achieved a great victory, and
speculating as to who next would be our victim.
I mention this incident to show in what frame of mind the troubles of
the day had left me. At any other time the idea of insulting a lady
would have horrified me. Now I cared for nothing if only I could forget
about Jack Smith.
We spent the remainder of the evening in the same rollicking way,
getting up rows here and there with what we were pleased to call the
"cads," and at other times indulging in practical jokes of all kinds, to
the annoyance of some passers-by and the injury of others.
More than once we adjourned to drink, and returned thence to our sport
more and more unsteady. As the evening grew later we grew more daring
and outrageous. Hawkesbury and Harris left the rest of us presently,
and, unrestrained even by their more sober demeanour, we chose the most
crowded thoroughfares and the most harmless victims for our operations.
Once we all of us trooped into a poor old man's shop who was too infirm
to come from behind the counter to prevent our turning his whole stock
upside down. Another time we considered it gentlemanly sport to upset
an orange barrow, or to capture a mild-looking doctor's boy and hustle
him along in front of us for a quarter of a mile.
In the course of our pilgrimage we came across the street in which Daly
and the Field-Marshal lodged, and forthwith invaded their house and
dragged them forth with such hideous uproar, that all the neighbours
thought the house must be on fire, and one or two actually went for the
engines.
About eleven we made a halt at a restaurant for supper, at the end of
which, I say it now with bitter shame, I scarcely knew what I was doing.
I remember mildly suggesting that it was time for me to be going home,
and being laughed to scorn and told the fun was only just beginning.
Then presently, though how long afterwards I can't say, I remember being
out in the road and hearing some one propose to ring all the bells down
a certain street, and joining in the assent which greeted the
proposition.
Whether I actually took part in the escapade I was too confused to know,
but I became conscious of Doubleday's voice close beside me crying,
"Look-out, there's a bobby. Run!"
Suddenly called back to myself by the exclamation, I ran as fast as my
legs could carry me. My conscience had reproached me little enough
during the evening's folly, but now in the presence of danger and the
prospect of disgrace, my one idea was what a _fool_ I had been.
Ah! greatest fool of all, that I had never discovered it till now, when
disgrace and ruin stared me in the face. It is easy enough to be
contrite with the policeman at your heels. But I was yet to discover
that real repentance is made of sterner stuff, and needs a hand that is
stronger to save and steadier to direct than any which I, poor blunderer
that I was, had as yet reached out to.
If I could but escape--this once--how I vowed I would never fall into
such folly again!
I ran as if for my life. The streets were empty, and my footsteps
echoed all round till it sounded as if a whole regiment of police were
pursuing me. My companions had all vanished, some one way, some
another. They were used to this sport, but it was new--horribly new to
me. I never thought I _could_ run as I ran that night. I cared not
where I went, provided only I could elude my pursuers. I dared not look
behind me. I fancied I heard shouts and footsteps, and my heart sank as
I listened. Still I bounded forward, along one street, across another,
dodging this way and that way, diving through courts and down alleys,
till at last, breathless and exhausted, I was compelled, if only for one
moment, to halt.
I must have run a mile at the very least. I had never run a mile before
that I knew of, and can safely say I have never run a mile since. But,
remembering that night, I have sometimes thought a fellow can never
possibly know how quickly he can get over the distance till some day he
has to run it with a policeman behind him.
When I pulled up and looked round me, my pursuers, if ever I had had
any, had disappeared. There was the steady tread of a policeman on the
opposite side of the road, but he, I knew, was not after me. And there
was the distant rumble of a cab, but that was ahead of me and not behind
me. I had escaped after all! In my thankfulness I renewed with all
fervour and sincerity my resolve to avoid all such foolish escapades for
the future, and to devote myself to more profitable and less
discreditable occupations.
As it was I dared not yet feel quite sure I was safe. I might have been
seen, my name and address might have been discovered, and the policeman
might be lying in wait for me yet, somewhere.
I slunk home that night down the darkest streets and along the shadiest
sides of them, like a burglar. I trembled whenever I saw a policeman or
heard a footfall on the road.
But my fears did not come to pass. I regained the City safely, and was
soon on the familiar track leading to Beadle Square.
As I crossed the top of Style Street the place seemed as deserted as the
grave. But my heart gave a leap to my mouth as suddenly I heard a voice
at my side and a bound, as of some one springing upon me from a place of
hiding.
It was only Billy, who had been curled up on a doorstep, but whose cat-
like vigilance had discovered me even in this light and at this hour.
"Well, you are a-doin' it neat, you are," said he, grinning profusely;
"where 'ave you been to, gov'nor?"
"What's that to do with you?" demanded I, to whom by this time the small
ragamuffin's impudence had ceased to be astonishing.
"On'y 'cos t'other bloke he was 'ere four hour ago, and I ain't see'd
you go by. I say, you're a-doin' it, you are."
"Has my fr-- has Smith been here this evening?" I asked.
"He are so; and I give 'im a shine to-rights, I did. But, bless you, he
was glum about the mazard, he was."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Ga on! As if you didn't know. `Wot's up, governor?' says I. `Things
is a-going wrong with me, Billy,' says he--so he does. `T'other bloke
been givin' you any jaw?' says I, meaning you, says I. `Never mind,
Billy,' says he--`you give me a good shine,' says he, `and I won't mind
the rest.' And there, I _did_ give he a proper shine. He's a
gentleman, he is!"
Jack Smith had still a friend. I had sacrificed him, but he had yet
another, more faithful and honest than ever I had been, ready to
champion his cause, and rejoicing to do him service.
I slunk home to Mrs Nash's that evening more disgusted and discontented
with myself than ever. My conscience, no longer to be kept down, was
reproaching me right and left. I had been a false friend, a vain, self-
righteous puppy, a weak, discreditable roysterer, without the courage to
utter one protest on the side of chivalry and right. And at last, at a
hint of danger, behold me a pitiful, abject coward, ready to vow
anything if only I might escape the threatened catastrophe.
Reader, as I curled myself up in bed that night you may imagine I had
little enough cause to be proud of myself!