GUS WINS A NAME.
AFTER that night, Gus could no longer call the back room home. Sally
Dent performed the task she described as "turning it out" on the
following day, and by night it was not only ready for another lodger,
but another lodger had possession of it. In the "turning-out" process,
Sally came upon the Bible, which she had already observed with much
interest. She was struck anew with the beauty of the embossed cover and
the watered silk lining.
"Here, Gus," she called to the boy, "you'd better let me keep this;
it's too good for you to 'ave knocking about. It'll be some set off
against all I've done and shall do for you. It isn't many folks would
take a strange brat into their 'omes; but I've a feelin' 'eart."
"It was father's," said Gus, looking wistfully at the book. "Sometimes
I used to read a bit of it to him."
"Well, maybe you shall read me a bit of it some day," said Sally; "it
won't be the first time I've listened to it. I used to go to church and
Sunday school reg'lar once; but I've no time to attend to religion now.
You'd best let me 'ave it, anyhow."
Gus said no more, feeling that it was useless to oppose Sally's wish.
She carried the Bible into her room, and there opened it once more, to
admire the beautiful style of the binding. Then she noticed that the
reading was not broken up into verses, as in the Bibles with which she
had been familiar. Glancing over a page, as this fact struck her, the
words met her eyes, "The wages of sin is death."
Sally closed the book, and put it from her hastily. The words had stung
her. The wages of sin! Was she earning those wages? She knew she was a
sinner, but the thought had never troubled her. She loved sin, but she
hated to think of death. She could enjoy the excitement of a funeral,
but it was awful to think of the time when she would lie cold, and
stiff, and dumb, as she had seen her lodger lie.
"Well, well," she muttered to herself; "it is what we must all come to,
good or bad."
Yet she knew there was a vast difference between the sinner's death and
the death of the righteous. But she hastily wrapped the Bible in brown
paper, and put it far from reach at the back of a high shelf; then
feeling "all of a tremble," betook herself for comfort to a certain
black bottle.
Sally found a corner for Gus in the cold, draughty attic in which
her two little boys slept. The old black trunk, the few worthless
possessions left in it, and his father's clothes, she sold, retaining
the money, to which she considered she had the best right. So Gus was
left with nothing to call his own save his very ragged clothes.
Sally had announced her intention of mending his rags, and, if
possible, setting him up with a few fresh garments; but her indolence
was such that her purposes were ever "halting" ones, and it was best
not to count upon the fulfilment of her good intentions.
Though Gus had now been several weeks at Lavender Terrace, he knew
little of the boys of Glensford. His father had discouraged his making
acquaintance with them, and had kept him as much as possible within the
house. But Sally had no notion of a boy's "hanging round" at all hours.
Gus was thrust into the society of the boys who disported themselves in
the lane.
On the day following his father's funeral, he was observed by them with
some curiosity.
"What's your name?" asked one of the boys.
"Gus," he answered.
"It were your father, wer'n't it, as were buried yesterday?"
"Yes."
"I thought so. Is it true what the folks were a-sayin', that he were a
broken-down gent, one of the swells?"
"He was a gentleman once," said Gus.
"A gentleman! My word! What do you call yoursel'? P'raps you're a gent
too?"
"No, I'm not," said Gus; "but I mean to be a gentleman some day."
"Well, if that ain't good! Look here, all you fellers, this chap says
he's goin' to be a gentleman. Don't he look it just? Look at his
breeches, look at his shoes! Oh, what a fine gentleman! Do hold me,
some one, I shall die of laughin'!"
The other boys roared with laughter as they gathered about Gus. He had
a sorry time of it. In vain he tried to escape from his tormentors;
they were all bigger and stronger than he, and when, hot with rage, he
tried to strike out with his tiny fists, their mirth increased tenfold.
They danced round him, they pelted him with mud, they plucked at his
garments till the rents therein were double their former size, and all
the while they shouted—"Gentleman, Gentleman Gus!"—till their voices
were hoarse.
Gus had won for himself a name. The title thus dubbed clung to him.
Henceforth he was known at Lavender Terrace as "Gentleman Gus."
Gus was at last delivered by the appearance of Sally Dent, who rushed
into the group, and administering blows indiscriminately, soon
scattered the boys. She was dismayed to see Gus' condition.
"Good gracious, boy!" she cried. "What did you want to go with those
big fellows for? A nice state they've put you in, and goodness knows
when I shall have time to set a stitch in your clothes. Indeed, it
strikes me they're past mendin'. But never mind, just come 'ere, and
look after the baby a bit."
Looking after the baby soon became the chief occupation of Gus' life.
It was weary work. He wondered sometimes if such a big, lumping baby
had ever been known before. Dragging it about in his arms, or sitting
with it on a doorstep, he had much time for meditation, and his mind
dwelt often upon his father.
Like many another child, he had hardly known that he loved his father
till his father was taken from him. Now he missed him sorely, and
longed to hear his voice again, telling him what he should do and what
not do. He did not forget the promise he had given to his father; but
it puzzled him greatly how he was to keep that promise. His father had
once been a gentleman, and he, Gus, had said that he would try to be a
gentleman. But what did it mean to be a gentleman? One day he ventured
to put a question on the subject to Mrs. Minn's eldest son.
"Dick," he said, "do you know anything about gentlemen?"
"Gentlemen! What do yer mean? Swells?"
"Yes," said Gus; "what sort of people are they?"
Now Dick was employed as an errand boy in a grocer's shop, and he was
besides a greedy devourer of cheap literature, so that he spoke as one
who knew.
"Fellers as 'ave got lots of tin, and don't do no work. They eats and
drinks the best of everythink, gets jolly drunk, and never pays their
bills if they can 'elp it. Oh, it's fine to be a gentleman!"
"Is it?" said Gus doubtfully. "Would you like to be a gentleman, Dick?"
"Wouldn't I just!" returned Dick, with a knowing wink. "I'd have the
times of it."
Dick's explanation only increased Gus' difficulties. Could that be
what his father meant by being a gentleman? Certainly his father had
been in the habit of getting drunk, but he had been most careful to
pay every penny they owed. Besides, his father had made him promise
never to touch strong drink; so, clearly, getting drunk did not belong
to being a gentleman. No; his father had said that a gentleman must be
brave, and honest, and truthful. Were there two kinds of gentlemen, Gus
wondered, or were Dick's ideas on the subject utterly mistaken?