"Do you think--"
But he got no farther just then, for we had not noticed a group of
idlers who, attracted by our presence in the court, and curious to know
our business, had gathered round, and now began, half in jest, half in
earnest, to hustle us, crying--
"Go on home. Go and teach yourselves. We don't want none of your ABC."
We thought it wise to walk slowly on, without appearing to be running
away.
About half way up the court, however, a further stoppage occurred.
This was occasioned by the appearance of another stranger in the court
besides ourselves--a clergyman, who, with a small but offence-less crowd
at his heels, was making a grand tour of the various houses and flats.
He was a tall, kindly-looking man, with hair just turning white, who
looked like a man who did not spare himself or live for himself. He had
a pleasant word for everybody, however unpleasant and unpromising they
might seem, and bore all the remarks and jests of unfriendly loafers
with great good-humour and composure.
The sight of him in the midst of our difficulties was most welcome. We
quickened our steps to meet him. The knot of roughs who were following
us looked on this as a rout, and set up a yell of defiance. Others,
seeing us walking rapidly away, joined in the demonstration, and one or
two, not content with following us with their voices, followed us with
stones.
Just as we came up to the clergyman a stone intended for one of us
whizzed past my ear, and struck him on the cheek. He never moved a
muscle, or even looked to see where it came from, but walked on to meet
us.
"Oh! sir," said Jack, stepping forward, "we're so glad to meet you.
We're looking for a little boy called Billy, who lives in this court,
who generally comes to our ragged school, but wasn't there this evening.
He's a shoeblack. Do you know where he lives?"
"I wish I could tell you," said the clergyman, "but this is my first
visit here. Where is your school?"
"Oh, it's not properly a school, but Billy and sometimes one or two
others come to our lodgings, and learn to write and read. He has never
missed before. That's what makes me fear something is wrong."
At that moment the object of our search stood before us, with his usual
grin wider than ever.
"What cheer, blokes?" was his greeting. "Oh, 'ere, governor, I reckon
you're a-goin' to turn me up 'cos I wasn't at the racket school. But my
old gal, she's a-missin'. She's always a-skylarkin' somewheres, she is,
and I was a-lookin' for her."
"Have you found her?" asked Jack, whose pleasure at finding his young
_protege_ was unconcealed.
"Found 'er! No; but I knows where she is."
"Where?"
"In the station, for smashin' winders. Ain't she a wonner?"
"My poor boy!" said the clergyman, sympathisingly.
"Ga on! I ain't your boy. Don't know yer; I'm this 'ere bloke's chap,
and I ain't a-goin' to be larned by no one else."
It was impossible to avoid smiling at this frank declaration, seriously
as it was uttered.
"When did your mother get into trouble?" asked Jack.
"This very afternoon, bless 'er old 'art. She was on the fly all
yesterday, a-goin' on any'ow. So I comes round afore the racket school,
to see if she was a-coolin' down, and, there! if she 'adn't hooked it!
I 'as a good look up and down the court, but she'd walked. So I cuts to
the nighest station, and sees a pal o' mine outside. `It's all right,'
says he; `she's in there,' meaning the lock-up. `Wot was she up to?'
says I. `Winders agin,' he says. So she's all safe, she is."
"I tell you what it is, Billy," said Smith. "I'm afraid you let her
spend the money you get for blacking boots on drink. That's what gets
her into trouble."
"That ain't no concern of yourn," said Billy. Then, suddenly correcting
himself, he added, "Leastways it ain't no concern of these here two
blokes. Mister, I say, governor, is it too late for to learn me to-
night?"
"Yes, it's too late to-night; but we'll have the school to-morrow
instead. Where will you live while your mother's away?"
"Oh, ain't you funny!" said the boy, with a grin. "As if a chap liked
me lived anywheres!"
"Well," said Jack, taking my arm, and not desirous to prolong the
discussion, "mind you turn up to-morrow, Billy."
"No fears," cried Billy, with a grin, accompanying us for a step or two,
walking on his hands.
"That's a most extraordinary lad," said the clergyman.
"There's a lot of good in him," responded Smith.
"And you are doing your best to bring it out," said the clergyman.
"Which way are you going?" said he, when presently with no further
adventure we had got through the court.
"To Drury Lane," said I.
"Ah, down this street. That's my way too. Will you just come into my
house and have a bit of supper?"
Jack never liked accepting invitations, but there was something so
friendly and simple-minded about this clergyman that it would almost
have seemed rude to say no.
"This is quite a new part of the town to me," said he, as we walked
along. "I suppose you know it well?"
"Yes," said I, "we lived close here for some months."
"I wished you lived here still," he said. "I want workers of your sort
in my new parish."
He insisted on including _me_ in his compliments, not knowing how little
I deserved them.
"My walk this evening," said he, "is really the first serious voyage of
discovery I have made in my parish, and the result is not very
encouraging. It seems a very low neighbourhood, worse a good deal than
I expected. However, there will be all the more to do."
There was something so modest and yet so resolute in the way he spoke
that we both liked him.
His house, a dull-looking City rectory, was at the end of the street,
and here we halted.
"We're rather in a state of confusion here," said he, as he rang the
bell, "we only moved in this week. So you must take us as you find us."
We entered, and were ushered into a pleasant parlour, which appeared to
be the only completely furnished room at present.
"Is Mr Edward at home?" asked our host of the servant.
"Yes, sir, he's upstairs."
"Ask him to come down," said he, "and bring in supper."
He explained to us that Edward was his son, whom he would like us to
know.
"I'm often sorry for him," said the father; "he has no mother, and I am
too much occupied to be much with him. I wish he had some _good_
friends in London."
He emphasised the word "good," as much as to say that some of his son's
friends were not very desirable.
The servant brought in supper, and said that Master Edward would be down
presently.
Meanwhile our host chatted pleasantly, chiefly about his parish and his
plans for improving it. I could not help admiring him more and more as
he went on. He was not, to all appearance, a very clever man, but there
was an honest ring about all he said which made me feel that, had I only
known him in the months past I might have been spared many of my follies
and troubles.
At last there was a step in the hall outside, and the door opened. What
was our amazement and consternation when we beheld in Edward, the good
clergyman's son--Hawkesbury!
Our consternation, however, hardly exceeded his, on seeing who his
father's visitors were. And as for the clergyman himself, the sight of
our mutual astonishment fairly took him aback.
It was half a minute at least before any one could sufficiently recover
his surprise to speak. During the interval my great fear was how Smith
would act. I knew he detested Hawkesbury, and believed him to be a
hypocrite and a deceiver, and I knew too that he was rarely able to
contain himself when face to face with the fellow. How he would behave
now, a guest in the father's house, I could not imagine. Fool that I
was! I was always doubting my friend!
"Why, how is this," said Mr Hawkesbury, "you seem to know one another?"
"Yes," said I, "Hawkesbury here is at Merrett, Barnacle, and Company's
with Smith and me."
"How very curious!" said the clergyman; "and, to be sure, I neither knew
your names, nor you mine. Well, as you all know one another, I needn't
introduce you."
"Father," said Hawkesbury, standing still at the door, "I want to speak
to you a moment, please."
"Yes, presently; but come in now, Edward, we are waiting to begin
supper. Now, what an odd coincidence to come across you in this way!"
"I want to speak to you, father," again said Hawkesbury.
The father looked vexed as he turned towards his son.
Smith rose at the same moment and said, holding out his hand to Mr
Hawkesbury, "I think, if you will excuse us, we had better go, sir."
"What, before supper! why, how is this?"
"I think your son would rather not have us here," said Jack, solemnly.
The father looked in amazement, first at us, then at his son, who once
more asked to speak to his father.
The good man, in evident bewilderment, begged us to excuse him for a
moment. But Jack, taking my arm once more, said, before our host could
leave the room, "Good-night, sir. Thank you very much for your
kindness."
And before I well knew where I was, we were standing out in the street.