If I had flattered myself I had ceased to care about my friend Smith,
the events of the evening just described served to cure me of any
delusion. I had thrown myself recklessly into dissipation and riot, so
as to forget him; but now, as I lay on my bed and thought over what had
befallen me, my misery at losing him returned tenfold, aggravated by the
consciousness that now I deserved his friendship even less than ever.
"He's a gentleman, he is!" The words of the little shoeblack rang in my
ears all night long, echoed by another voice from within, "What are
_you_?" After all, had I not been doing my very best the last few days
to prove Jack's own description of me as a liar and a coward to be true?
The fellows at the office next morning were in a high state of glee over
the adventures of the previous evening.
"Wasn't it just about a spree?" said Wallop. "I never saw such a fellow
as young Batch for leading one into mischief. I used to think _I_ was a
pretty wild hand, but I'm a perfect sheep to him, ain't I, Dubbs?"
"You are so," replied Doubleday. "Batch, my boy, if you go on at the
rate you did last night, you'll overdo it. Take my word for that."
I had come to the office that morning determined to let every one see I
was ashamed of my conduct; but these insinuations, and the half flattery
implied in them, tempted me to join the conversation.
"It was you, not I, proposed ringing the bells," I said.
They all laughed, as if this were a joke.
"Well, that's a cool one if you like," replied Doubleday. "Why, it was
all we could do to keep you from wrenching off the knockers as well,
wasn't it, Crow?"
"Never thought we'd keep him from it," said Crow. "If the bobby hadn't
turned up, I do believe he'd have wanted to smash the windows also."
"You're making all this up," I said, half amused, half angry, and almost
beginning to wonder whether all that was being said of me was true.
"Not likely," said Doubleday; "the fact is, I couldn't have believed it
of you if I hadn't seen it. By the way, Wallop, is it true the Field-
Marshal was run in?"
"No, was he?" exclaimed Wallop, and Crow, and I, all in a breath.
"Well, I passed by Daly's this morning, and he told me he hadn't been
home all night, and he supposed he'd have to go and bail him out."
"What a game!" cried Wallop.
"You'd call it a game if you had to hand out forty shillings, or take a
week," replied Doubleday. "A nice expensive game this of yours, Master
Batchelor. It'll cost you more than all your eel-pies, and lobsters,
and flash toggery put together."
Fancy, reader, my amazement and horror at all this! It might be a joke
to all the rest, but it was anything but a joke to me. Instead of the
Field-Marshal it might have been I who was caught last night and locked
up in a police cell, and what then would have become of me? My
"friends" would all have laughed at it as a joke; but to me, I knew full
well, it would have been disgrace and ruin!
I was in no humour to pursue the conversation, particularly as Jack
Smith entered at that moment, composed and solemn as ever, without even
a glance at me.
My only escape from wretched memories and uncomfortable reflections was
in hard work, and that day I worked desperately. I was engaged in
checking some very elaborate accounts under Doubleday's direction the
whole day. It was a task which Wallop, to whom it fell by rights,
shirked and passed on to me, greatly to my indignation, a week ago. But
now it proved a very relief. The harder I worked, the easier my mind
became, and the more difficult the work appeared, the more I rejoiced to
have the tackling of it.
Our firm had received over a large cargo of miscellaneous goods from
India, which they were about to trans-ship to South America; and what I
had to do was first of all to reduce the value of the goods as they
appeared in Indian currency to their exact English value, and after
adding certain charges and profits, invoice them again in Spanish money.
"A nice spicy little bit of conjuring," as Doubleday described it, who,
rackety fellow as he was, always warmed up to business difficulties.
He and I agreed to stay and finish the thing off after the others had
gone, an arrangement I was very glad for all reasons to fall in with.
We worked away hammer-and-tongs for two hours (for it was a very lengthy
and intricate operation), exchanging no words except such as had
reference to our common task.
At last it was completed. The calculations and additions had all been
doubly checked, and the fair copies and their duplicates written out,
and then, for the first time, we were at leisure to think and speak of
other topics.
Few things tend to draw two fellows together like hard work in common,
and Doubleday and I, with the consciousness of our task well and
honestly accomplished, found ourselves on specially friendly terms with
one another.
Despite his extravagance and mischief, there had always been a good-
nature and a frankness about the head clerk which had made me like him
better than most of his companions either in or out of the office.
Although he had never been backward to lead others into trouble, he had
usually stopped short before any harm was done. Even in the
persecutions of Jack Smith, many of which he had instigated himself,
there was never any of the spite on his side which characterised the
conduct of Crow, Wallop, and Harris. And although he never professed to
admire my friend, he never denied him fair play when he was roused to
resistance.
"Well," said he, shutting up the inkpot, and throwing our rough copies
of the invoice into the waste-paper basket, "that's a good job done.
You're not a bad hand at a big grind, young Batchelor. Crow or Wallop
would have left me to do it all by myself."
Of course I was pleased at the compliment. I replied, "I rather enjoyed
it."
"Well, there's not another fellow in the office would do the same," said
he.
Wasn't there? I thought I knew better. "I think there's one other
fellow," I said, hesitatingly. "Eh--oh, Bull's-eye! Yes, you're right
there, and he'd have knocked it off smarter than you've done too, my
boy." There was a pause after this. We had both accidentally got on to
an awkward topic. Doubleday was the first to speak.
"I say, Batchelor," he went on, quite nervously for him, "excuse my
saying it, but it's my opinion you're a bit of a fool, do you know!"
This unexpected announcement, coming from this unexpected quarter,
naturally astonished me. "What do you mean?"
"Oh," said he, still rather embarrassed, "it's no concern of mine at
all, but when you came here about a year ago you were rather a nice
boy."
"Well," said I, not knowing exactly whether to be pleased or vexed.
"Well, you're not a nice boy now, you know!" I said nothing. I knew he
was right, and his abrupt words struck home harder than he thought for.
When Jack Smith, the night before, had called me a liar and a coward, I
had fired up angrily. But when the rackety Doubleday now told me I
wasn't a nice boy, I somehow felt a sudden pang of shame and humility
that was quite new to me.
"I suppose you're going to flare up," continued Doubleday, noticing my
silence, "when you've pumped up the words. I'll wait."
"No, no," said I, not looking up. "Go on."
"It doesn't concern me a bit how you and your precious friend get on,"
pursued my companion, cutting a quill pen, "and I see you're not in the
same boat now by any means. But that's no reason why you should make a
regular all-round ass of yourself in the way you're doing."