The gentleman who entered the room was a middle-aged man, of striking
appearance. In face and person he seemed worn and feeble. He walked
with a slight stoop; his cheeks were hollow and slightly flushed, and
his brow was furrowed by lines which would have appeared deep even in a
much older man. But as soon as he began to talk his face lit up, his
eyes sparkled, and there was a ring in his voice which was more like
Jack Smith himself than his older and more sedate namesake.
For this stranger, I guessed at once, must be the other Mr Smith with
whom Jack lodged.
At sight of him Billy stopped abruptly in the middle of his sentence,
and, putting his hand up to his forelock, saluted him with his usual
familiar grin.
"Ah, William, my worthy friend, you here?" the gentleman said, almost
gaily, as he entered. "I heard I should find you on duty. You must
introduce me to this sick gentleman, and ask him if I shall disturb
him."
Billy grinned in a confused sort of way, not knowing exactly how to do
the honours. Then, looking at me and jerking his thumb in the direction
of the stranger, he said, "This here's the cove from downstairs!"
The gentleman approached my bedside and said, gently, "Am I disturbing
you? I found a note from my fellow-lodger when I got in just now,
asking me to call up and see how you were getting on."
"It's very kind of you," said I. "I hope you can stay a bit."
"Certainly; I've nothing to do."
Billy, however, did not apparently favour this suggestion.
"This 'ere cove," said he, pointing to me, "ain't to jaw, mister!"
"Quite right, William," said the gentleman; "I'll see he doesn't. I'll
do all the talking and he shall do the listening. You can go down to my
room and make my bed ready for me and tidy up."
The boy looked dubiously first at the speaker, then at me, as if he was
not quite sure about the propriety of allowing me out of his sight, but
finally obeyed.
"There's a trusty youngster for you!" said the gentleman, laughing, as
he disappeared. "Young Smith couldn't have found a safer nurse for you
anywhere."
"I believe you are right," said I.
"And how are you feeling? You're looking better than when I saw you
last, anyhow."
"I never saw you before, did I?" I asked.
"No, you didn't; but I saw you when you were brought in here the other
evening. However, as Billy says, you mustn't talk now. I suppose you
heard me order him to make my bed. I always go to bed every morning at
eleven. Young Smith and I are like Box and Cox, you know; he's away all
day, I'm away all night. Just when he's finishing up work I'm
beginning."
"I wonder you can keep awake all the night," I said.
"Not more wonderful than you keeping awake all day, my boy. In fact,
there's not much chance of a poor literary hack sleeping over his work.
Now I wonder, when you read your newspaper in the morning, if you ever
think of what has to be done to produce it. If you only did, I dare say
you would find it more interesting than it often seems."
And then my companion launched out into a lively description of the work
of a newspaper office, and of the various stages in the production of a
paper, from the pen and ink in the sub-editor's room to the printed,
folded, and delivered newspaper which lies on one's breakfast-table
every morning. I wish I could repeat it all for the benefit of the
reader, for few subjects are more interesting; but it would take more
time than we have to spare to do so.
Of course Mr Smith the elder--for so I had to call him to distinguish
him from my friend his namesake--rattled on in this strain, more for the
sake of keeping me interested and amused than any other reason. Still,
his talk was something better than idle chatter, and I began to feel
that here at last, among all my miscellaneous acquaintance, was a man
worth knowing.
He gave me no chance of talking myself, but rattled on from one topic to
another in a way which left me quite free to listen or not as I liked,
and finally rose, much to my regret, to go.
"Now I must be off, or I shall have Billy up to hunt me off. Good-bye,
my boy; glad to see you doing so well. You've a lot to be thankful for,
and of course you are."
"Will you come again?" I asked.
"Gladly; that is, if Billy allows me," said he, laughing, and nodding
kindly as he left the room.
"No wonder," thought I, as I listened to his footsteps going down
stairs--"no wonder Jack Smith found these lodgings pleasanter than
Beadle Square."
I saw Mr Smith frequently during the next few days. He usually came up
to sit with me for half an hour or so in the morning, and was always the
same cheery and interesting companion.
And yet I could not quite make him out. For when not talking or smiling
his face used to wear a look of habitual trouble and restlessness, which
made me suspect he was either making an effort to be cheery before me,
or else that he was the victim of a constant battle between good spirits
and bad.
However, just as I was getting to feel intimate with him, and looking
forward to hear more about him than I had yet learned, my recovery came
to a sudden and rather serious halt.
I was lying one evening propped up in my bed, with my damaged arm
feeling comparatively comfortable, and myself in a particularly jovial
frame of mind as I listened to Jack Smith attempting to instil into the
mind of the volatile Billy the art of spelling d-o-g--dog.
"Now, Billy," said the instructor, "you'll never get on at this rate.
That letter you're pointing at is a B for Billy, and not a D."
"That there B's a caution," growled the boy; "he's always a-turnin' up."
"Time you knew him, then," said Smith. "Now show us the D."
Billy cocked his head a little to one side and took a critical survey of
the alphabet before him. His eye passed once down and once up the
procession, then looking up at Jack with a grin, he said, "He's 'iding,
I reckon, governor. That there dorg'll have to start with a B after
all."
Our laughter at this philosophic observation was interrupted by an
unwonted footstep on the stairs outside. It certainly was not Mr
Smith, for he was out at his work; nor was it the doctor, our only other
visitor, for he always came up two steps at a time, and his boots always
squeaked. Who could our visitor be?
"Come in," called Smith, as a knock sounded on the door.
To my utter astonishment and concern, Hawkesbury, with his sweetest
smile, entered the room.
How had he found out my retreat? What did he want here? What would
Jack Smith say? These were the questions which rushed through my mind
as he closed the door behind him and walked into the room.
I glanced round at Jack. There was written anything but peace in his
countenance, while Billy glared like a young bulldog ready to spring on
the intruder.
"Well, Batchelor," said Hawkesbury, in his blandest voice, addressing me
and ignoring everybody else; "you'll be surprised to see me here. The
fact is, I couldn't feel happy till I came to see you and tell you how
sorry I was for your accident."
My few days' confinement and the opportunity for meditation they had
afforded had served to give me an insight into Hawkesbury's character
which made me treat this speech suspiciously. I replied nothing, and
felt very uncomfortable.
"It was most unfortunate," proceeded Hawkesbury, helping himself to the
chair. "You know--"
"Excuse me," interrupted Smith at this point, in a tone which made me
start; "this is my room, Hawkesbury, and I must ask you to go."
The visitor's face clouded with a quick shade of vexation, but
immediately regained its chronic smile, as he said, "Ah, Smith! I
should have said it was my friend Batchelor I came to see, not you."
"You're no friend of his," retorted Smith, with rising wrath.
"Do you hear, nob," broke in Billy, unable to restrain himself any
longer; "you ain't a-wanted here."
Hawkesbury looked round with an amused smile.
"Really," said he, "a most gratifying reception, and from a most
unexpected quarter. Er--excuse me, Smith, I'm afraid it's rather a
strange request--would you mind allowing me to have a little private
conversation with my friend?"
"No," replied Smith, firmly.
"Really," said Hawkesbury. "I must appeal to Batchelor himself."
"I shall answer for Batchelor," said Smith, not giving me time to reply.
"Leave my room, please."
"Do you hear? You leave the bloke's room," cried Billy. "Ef you don't
you'll get a topper."
Hawkesbury, whose colour had been rising during the last few moments,
and whose assurance had gradually been deserting him, now turned round
with a ceremonious smile to the last speaker as he rose to his feet and
said, "If _you_ desire it, I'll go. I can submit to be ordered off by a
shoeblack, but the son of a convict is--"
With clenched fist and crimson face Jack gave a sudden bound towards the
speaker. But as suddenly he checked himself and walked gently to my
bed, where I had started up ready to spring to my feet and back up my
friend in what seemed a certain quarrel.
"What a cad I am!" he murmured, as he bent over me, and motioned me
gently back to my pillow, "but the fellow nearly drives me mad."