The reader may picture my horror and astonishment on discovering Billy's
secret. And the strangest part of it was that the graceless youth
appeared to be utterly unconscious that he had done anything wrong. On
the contrary, his jubilant face and triumphant voice showed plainly that
he considered he had done a fine--a splendid thing.
I endeavoured to reason with him; he flared up as if I were trying to
defraud Jack Smith of his new boots. I warned him of the punishment
that would follow if he were caught. He gloried in the risk he ran. I
told him it was wicked to steal--even for other persons. He retorted,
"It wasn't no concern of mine."
Altogether it seemed hopeless to disenchant him with his exploit, and I
therefore left him, wholly at a loss to make out this strange puzzle of
a boy.
I was still more perplexed when, next morning, Jack Smith appeared at
the office wearing the identical new pair of boots which had been the
cause of all my horror!
I waited impatiently for the hours to pass, when I should be at liberty
to pay my usual visit to Billy.
He was sitting there grimly, unlike his usual manner, evidently
expecting me.
"Well," said I, "what have you done with those boots?"
"'Tain't no concern of yourn!"
"But he was wearing them to-day."
"In course he was!" said Billy, brightening a little.
"Did you tell him you had--had stolen them?"
"Yaas," replied the boy, gruffly.
"And he took them?" said I, in astonishment.
"Ain't you saw them on 'im?" demanded he, evidently disliking this
catechism.
"Billy," said I, "I can't understand it."
"You ain't no call to!" was the polite reply; "'tain't no concern or
yourn."
"It is my concern if other people are robbed," I said. "Don't you know,
if I chose, I could fetch a policeman and get you locked up?"
"In course you could! Why don't yer?"
Was there ever such a hopeless young scamp?
"Whose shop did you take them from?" I asked.
"Trotter's, aside of our court. Go and tell him!" replied he,
scornfully.
"How would you like any one to steal away one of your brushes?"
"I'd give 'em a topper!"
"But that's just what you've done to Trotter," I argued.
"Well, why don't you fetch him to give me a topper?" he replied.
I gave it up. There was no arguing with a boy like this. If there had
been, there would have been no further opportunity that night, for as I
stood by, puzzling in my mind what to say to bring home to the graceless
youth a sense of his iniquity, he began picking up his brushes and
shouldering his box.
"Where are you going so early?" I asked.
"Don't you like to know?" retorted he.
"Yes, I would."
"Well, if you must know, I'm a-going to the racket school!"
"The what?" I exclaimed.
"Racket school."
"Oh! ragged school, you mean. Where is it? I didn't know you went.
They ought to teach you better there than to steal, Billy," I said.
"Oh!" replied the boy, with a touch of scorn in his voice, "that there
bloke's a-going to learn me, not you!"
"What! does Smith teach at the ragged school, then?"
"In course he do! Do you suppose I'd go else?"
And off he trotted, leaving me utterly bewildered.
Jack Smith teaching in a ragged school! Jack Smith wearing a pair of
boots that he knew were stolen! What could I think?
At any rate, I was resolved to be no party to Billy's dishonesty. At
any cost, since I had not the heart to deliver up the culprit to
justice, I must see that the victim was repaid. He might never have
noticed the theft; but whether or no, I should have no rest till his
loss had been made good.
It was no time to mince matters. My own funds, as the reader knows,
were in a bad state. I owed far more than I could save in half a year.
But I had still my uncle's half-sovereign in my pocket, which I had
hitherto, despite all my difficulties, kept untouched. An emergency had
now arisen, thought I, when surely I should be justified in using it.
As long as I remained a party to Billy's dishonesty I was, I felt,
little better than a thief myself, and that I could not endure, however
bad in other respects I might have been.
I went straight to Trotter's shop. A jovial, red-faced woman stood at
the door, just about to shut up for the night.
"I want to see Mr Trotter," said I.
"Mrs Trotter, you mean, I suppose?" said the woman. "I'm the lady."
"Can I speak to you for a minute?" I said.
"Yes--half an hour if you like. What is it?"
"It's something private."
"Bless us, are you going to offer to marry me, or what?" exclaimed she;
"come, what is it?"
"Have you--that is, did you--the fact is, I don't know whether you
happen to have missed a pair of boots," I said, falteringly.
She made a grab at my arm.
"So you're the thief, are you? A nice trade you've started at, young
master, so I can tell you!"
"Oh," I cried, in the utmost alarm and terror, "you're quite wrong, you
are indeed. I never touched them--I only--I--I know who did, that's
all."
Mrs Trotter still held me fast.
"Oh, you know who did, do you?"
"Yes--he's a--" I was going to say "shoeblack," but I stopped myself in
time, and said, "a little boy."
She released her grasp, greatly to my relief, and waited for me to go
on.
"And I really don't think he knows any better," said I, recovering my
confidence.
"Well," she said, eyeing me sharply.
"Well," I said, "I know the proper thing would be to give him up to the
police."
"That's what I'd do to you in a minute, if you'd stolen them," she said.
"I've rather an interest in the little boy," I said nervously, "and I
thought if you wouldn't mind telling me what the boots came to, I'd ask
you to let me pay for them. I don't think he'll do it again."
"Well, it's a very queer thing," said the woman; "what a popular young
thief your friend must be! Why, I had a young gentleman here yesterday
evening asking the very same thing of me!"
"What!" I exclaimed, "was it Jack Smith?"
"I don't know his name, but he'd a pair of black eyes that would
astonish you."
"That's him, that's him!" I cried. "And he wanted to pay for the
boots?"
"He did pay for them. I shall make my fortune out of that pair of
boots," added she, laughing.
This, then, explained his wearing the boots that morning. How quick I
had been to suspect him of far different conduct!
"You'd better keep your money for the next time he steals something,"
observed Mrs Trotter, rather enjoying my astonishment; "he's likely to
be a costly young treat to you at this rate. I hope the next party he
robs will be as lazy about her rights as me."
I dropped my uncle's half-sovereign back into my purse, with the rather
sad conviction that after all I was not the only honest and righteous
person in the world.
The next morning, on my arrival at Hawk Street rather before the time (I
had taken to being early at the office, partly to avoid arriving there
at the same time as Smith, and partly to have the company of young
Larkins, of postage-stamp celebrity, in my walk from Beadle Square), I
found Doubleday already there in a state of great perturbation.
"What do you think," he cried, almost before I entered the office--"what
do you think they've done? I knew that young puppy's coming was no good
to us! Here have I been here twelve years next Michaelmas, and he not a
year, and blest if I haven't got to hand over the petty cash to my lord,
because old Merrett wants the dear child to get used to a sense of
responsibility in the business! Sense of rot, I call it!"
It certainly did seem hard lines. Doubleday, as long as I had been at
Hawk Street, had always been the custodian of all loose cash paid into
the office, which he carefully guarded and accounted for, handing it
over regularly week by week to be paid into the bank.
It is never pleasant when a fellow has held an office of trust to have
it coolly taken from him and handed to another. In this case no one
would suspect it meant any lack of confidence; for Doubleday, even his
enemies admitted, was as honest as the Bank of England; but it meant
elevating another at his expense, which did not seem exactly fair.
"If the darling's such a big pot in the office," growled Doubleday,
"they'd better make him head clerk at once, and let me run his errands
for him."
"Never mind," said I, "it'll be so much less work for you."
"Yes, and a pretty mess the accounts will get into, to make up for it."
Hawkesbury entered at this moment, smiling most beautifully.
"How punctual you two are!" said he.
"Need to be punctual," growled Doubleday, "when I've got to hand you
over the petty cash."
"Oh!" said Hawkesbury; "the petty cash? My uncle was saying something
about my keeping it. I think it's a pity he couldn't let it stay where
it was; you're so much more used to it than I am. Besides, I've plenty
of work to do without it."
"I suppose I shall get some of your work to do for you," said
Doubleday--"that is, if I'm competent!"
Hawkesbury laughed softly, as if it were a joke, and Doubleday relapsed
into surly silence.
It was still some minutes before the other clerks were due. Hawkesbury
used the interval in conversing amiably with me in a whisper.
"I'm afraid Doubleday's put out," said he. "You know, he's a very good
sort of fellow; but, between you and me, don't you think he's a trifle
too unsteady?"
What could I say? I certainly could not call Doubleday steady, as a
rule, and yet I disliked to have to assent to Hawkesbury's question.
"He's very steady in business," I said.
"Yes; but at other times I'm afraid he's not," said Hawkesbury. "Not
that I'm blaming him. But of course, when a fellow's extravagant, and
all that, it _is_ a temptation, isn't it?"
"Do you mean a temptation to be dishonest?"
"Well, it's rather a strong way of putting it. I don't suppose for a
moment Doubleday is not perfectly trustworthy; no more does my uncle."
"I should think not," said I, rather warmly.
"Of course not," said he, sweetly; "but you know, Batchelor, prevention
is better than cure, and it seems the kindest thing, doesn't it, to put
temptation quite out of a fellow's reach when one can?"
"But," observed I, "it seems to me you are taking it out of Doubleday's
reach and putting it into your own."
For an instant a shade of vexation crossed his face, but directly
afterwards he laughed again in his usual amused manner.
"You forget," said he, "I live at home, and haven't the chance of
following Doubleday's example, even if I wished to. In fact, I'm a
domestic character."
He seemed to forget that he had frequently accepted Doubleday's
hospitality and joined in the festivities of the "usual lot."
"I thought you lived at your uncle's?" said I.
"Oh, no! My father's rectory is in Lambeth. But we're just going to
move into the City. I don't enjoy the prospect, I can assure you! But
I say, how are you and your friend Smith getting on now?"
He was always asking me about my friend Smith.
"The same as usual," said I.
"That's a pity! He really seems very unreasonable, considering he has
so little to be proud of."
"It's I that have got little to be proud of," replied I.
"Really, Batchelor, you are quite wrong there. I think it's very
generous the way you have always stuck to him--with certainly not much
encouragement."
"Well," said I, "I shall have another attempt to make it up with him."
Hawkesbury mused a bit, and then said, smilingly, "Of course, it's a
very fine thing of you; but do you know, Batchelor, I'm not sure that
you are wise in appearing to be in such a hurry?"
"What do you mean?" I said.
"I mean, I shall be as glad as any one to see you two friends again: but
if you seem too eager about it, I fancy you would only be demeaning
yourself, and giving him a fresh chance of repulsing you. My advice as
a friend is, wait a bit. As long as he sees you unhappy about it he
will have a crow over you. Let him see you aren't so greatly afflicted,
and then, take my word for it, he'll come a good deal more than half way
to meet you."
There seemed to be something in this specious advice. I might, after
all, be defeating my own ends by seeming too anxious to make it up with
Jack Smith, and so making a reconciliation more difficult in the end. I
felt inclined, at any rate, to give it a trial.
But the weeks that followed were wretched weeks. I heard daily and
regularly from Billy all the news I could gather of my friend, but
before Smith himself I endeavoured to appear cheerful and easy in mind.
It was a poor show. How could I seem cheerful when every day I was
feeling my loss more and more?
My only friends at this time were Hawkesbury and Billy and young
Larkins. The former continued to encourage me to persevere in my
behaviour before Smith, predicting that it would be sure, sooner or
later, to make our reconciliation certain. But at present it did not
look much like it. If I appeared cheerful and easy-minded, so did
Smith. The signs of relenting which I looked for were certainly not to
be discovered, and, so far from meeting me half way, the more
unconcerned about him I seemed, the more unconcerned he seemed about me.
"Of course he'll be like that at first," said Hawkesbury, when I
confided my disappointment one day to him, "but it won't last long.
He's not so many friends in the world that he can afford to throw you
over."
And so I waited week after week. I saw him daily, but our eyes scarcely
ever met. Only when I glanced at him furtively I thought him looking
paler and thinner even than usual, and longed still more intensely to
call him my friend and know why it was.
"Most likely he's fretting," said Hawkesbury, "and will soon give in.
It's a wonder to me how he's held out so long."
"Unless he speaks to me soon, I'll risk everything and speak to him."
"I can quite understand your anxiety," said my counsellor, "but I really
wouldn't be too impatient."