The Road to London
It was approaching evening as David Harbor swung out of the drive gates
of 'The Haven,' and turned his back upon the inhospitable house and the
stepmother who had behaved so disgracefully to him. His head high, a
queer sinking at the heart, but his courage undaunted for all that, he
pedalled swiftly through the village of Effington, nodded to the sour
old salt Jarney, who, by the way, always had a smile for David, sped
past the 'Three Pigeons' public-house, where the local tittle-tattle of
the place was dispensed, together with ale, and was soon out in the open
country.
'Time to sit down and think a little,' he said to himself, resting on
his pedals and allowing his machine to glide along down the incline till
it came of its own accord to a rest. 'Now, we'll sit down here and think
things out, and have a look into this affair. I must consider ways and
means.'
He was a practical young fellow, was David Harbor, and already the
seriousness of the move he had made was weighing upon him. Not that he
was inclined to hesitate or to go back, not that at all, only the future
was so clouded. His movements were so uncertain; the absence of some
definite plan or course of procedure was so embarrassing.
'Three pounds, thirteen shillings and fourpence halfpenny,' he said,
emptying his purse, and counting out the money as he sat on a roadside
boulder. 'Riches a month ago when I was at school, poverty under these
circumstances, unless--unless I can get some work and so earn money.
That's what I said I'd do and do it I will. Where? Ah, London!'
Like many before him, his eyes and thoughts at once swept in the
direction of the huge metropolis, at once the golden magnet which
attracts men of ambition and resource, and the haven wherein all who
have met with dire misfortune, all who are worthless and have no longer
ambition, can hide themselves and become lost to the world.
'Yes, London's the place,' said David, emphatically, pocketing his
money. 'I'll ride as far to-night as I can, eat something at a
pastrycook's, and sleep under a hay-stack. To-morrow I'll finish the
journey. Once in the city I'll find a job, even if it's only stevedoring
down at the docks.'
For a little while he sat on the boulder letting his mind run over past
events; for he was still somewhat bewildered. It must be remembered that
such serious matters as wills and bequests had not troubled his head
till that day. Boy-like, he had had faith in those whose natural
position should have prompted them to support the young fellow placed in
their care. He had had no suspicions of an intrigue, whereby his
stepmother wished to oust him from a fortune which his father's letter
had distinctly said was to become his. He had imagined that things
would go on as they were till he had finished with his engineering
studies; then it would be early enough to discuss financial matters. His
recent interview had been a great shock to him.
'I begin to see it all now,' he said. 'And I can understand now what Mr.
Jones, the solicitor, meant when last I saw him. He wanted to warn me
against Mr. Ebenezer, but did not dare to make any open statement. I'll
go to him: I'll take that letter.'
He had taken care to carry away with him everything he prized most, and
his father's correspondence was at that moment securely placed in an
inside pocket. David laid his fingers on the letters, and then read the
one in which Edward Harbor had referred to the disposal of his fortune.
'Yes, I'll take this to Mr. Jones,' repeated David, with decision. 'I've
always liked him, and father trusted him implicitly. But I'll ask for no
help; I mean to get along by myself, if only to show Mr. Ebenezer that I
can be as good as my word. There; off we go again. No use in sitting
still and moping.'
It was wonderful what a difference a plan made to him: David felt ever
so much happier. The future, instead of appearing as a huge dark cloud
before him, dwindled away till it was but a speck; his old, sunny looks
came back to a face somewhat harassed a little while before, and
thereafter David pedalled at a fine pace, placing the miles behind him
swiftly, and sending the colour to his cheeks. It was getting so dark
that in a few minutes he would have to light his lamp when he detected a
figure walking along the road in front of him, and as he came level
with the man the latter hailed him.
'Helloo there,' came in cherry tones, 'how many miles do you make it to
London?'
'Sixty-four,' answered David promptly. 'You're walking there?'
'Every inch of it,' came the hearty answer. 'I've done it before, and
will do it again. Railways are too expensive for the likes of me to
waste money on 'em. You off there too?'
David jumped from his saddle, and walked his machine beside the
stranger, who was obviously a sailor. His baggy breeches told that tale
distinctly, while the breeziness of the man, and his many nautical
expressions would, even without the assistance of a distinctive dress,
have made his profession more than probable.
'Got a week's shore leave, and mean to walk up to see the old people,'
said the stranger. 'Stoker Andus I am, from the _Indefatigable_. Who are
you? By the cut of your gib you'll be a gent same as our orfficers.
Ain't that got it?'
David laughed at the man's breeziness and straight way of asking
questions.
'I'm looking for a job,' he said promptly, 'though I believe I am what
you have described. But I've had a row at home, and now I'm off to find
work.'
The stoker, a man of some thirty years of age, came to an abrupt halt,
and swung round to have a close look at David. 'Run away, has yer,' he
exclaimed. 'Then, bust me, if you ain't a silly kid. I did the same once
when I was about your age. Ran from a home as wanted me, ran from
parents that knew what was best for me. I can see that I was a fool now
that I'm older. Jest send her astern, mister, and let's get in and talk
it over. Now, what's the rumpus? Done something you was expressly
ordered not to, eh? Got into debt, perhaps. Been smokin' and takin' the
governor's bacca? It's one of them, ain't it? And here are you a makin'
your mother that wretched--'
'Heave to for a bit,' cried David, laughing in spite of himself, and
unconsciously employing one of the stranger's nautical expressions. 'You
think I'm a fool, eh? Think I'm treating some one badly?'
From the very first he had taken a fancy to the handsome, clean-shaven
tar tramping his way to London, and he realised in a flash that the
honest fellow, with experience of his own behind him to help, was
endeavouring to give advice, and encourage what he considered to be a
truant to return home. Brusquely and in true sailor fashion Andus
answered him.
'If I'm aboard the right ship, and you've cleared off from a good home,
then you are a fool, a precious big 'un, too,' he cried. 'And there
ain't a doubt as you're treatin' some one badly; mostlike it's your
mother. P'raps it's your father. Anyways, let's drop anchor hereabouts
and put on a smoke. I can yarn when I'm smokin', and since it's dark
now, there's no need for more hurry.'
He led the way to a gate, sat himself on the top rail, and having
produced a cake of tobacco, a knife and a pipe, shredded some of the
weed into the latter.
'Well,' he began again, when he had got the weed burning, and huge
billows of smoke issuing from his lips. 'You've had a few seconds to
think it over. Andus ain't a fool, mind you, youngster, and he ain't
tryin' to give lessons to one as has heaps more eddication. But I've
seed one as was sorry for running away from home. That's me. I know one
as has never ceased to feel that he did wrong, and has suffered in
consequence. That's me again, all the time. And I ain't a goin' to fall
in alongside of another and keep me mouth shut when I know as he's
headin' straight up for the same rocks and shoals, and is in danger of
breakin' hisself to pieces. There you are. Take that from one who knows
what he's talking about.'
He lapsed into silence for a while, puffing smoke from his lips, and
occasionally looking down at David, who stood within a few feet of him.
As for the latter, the more the sailor talked, the more he liked the
man. There was an honest ring about his breezy tones, a direct manner
about the words he used that captivated our hero. Not for one moment was
he fearful that he himself would change his plans, whatever was said.
No, David had now considered his movements very thoroughly. He told
himself that it was not he who had behaved badly. It was his stepmother
and her husband. But, in case of error, he would put the facts before
this open-minded sailor.
'Supposin' you was to stop here to-night, and then ride back to-morrow,'
suggested Andus, cooly, as if he were saying the most commonplace thing.
'This home of yours ain't far, and you'd be there by breakfast time.
They'd be so glad to see you that the row would be forgotten. You'd
start in fresh again, with new paint above and below, and everything
ship-shape. What do you say to that, youngster?'
'That your intention is a good one, and your advice the same under usual
conditions,' declared David, warmly. 'But this isn't an ordinary running
away. I'll tell you how I came to leave home.'
He sat down on the rail of the gate and told Andus quietly how his
parents had treated him, and how he was sure that the two were
conspiring to oust him out of property meant for him by his dead father.
'In any case,' he ended, 'I was not wanted. I was to leave the house and
go into an office, though it was well known that I hoped to go to an
engineering college. I refused the office, and was told to clear out.
Now, tell me frankly what you think.'
The sailor dug the blade of his knife deep into the bowl of his pipe,
and stirred the contents thoroughly before he ventured to reply. There
was a deep line across his forehead, while his eyes were half closed.
David could tell that easily, for the moon was up now, and the night was
unusually bright. Then Andus struck flint and steel, and sucked flames
into his pipe till our hero thought he would never cease.
'Tell me about this solicitor,' he suddenly demanded. 'He was a friend
of your father's?'
'And of mine,' answered David. 'I like him. I am sure that he tried to
warn me against the man who married my stepmother.'
'Then jest listen here, youngster,' cried Andus, breezily. 'I take back
all the words I was flingin' at you. You ain't such a fool as I took
you for. What's more, I'm precious nigh certain that it's you that's
bein' done harm to, and not these here parents of yours. A precious fine
couple to be sure! Heavin' overboard on a dirty night wouldn't be too
much for 'em. Seems to me that they has the best of the argument at this
moment. From what I've heard they has the handlin' of the money and the
arrangement of things. They know everything, while you ain't got a one
to help you. But if you was to see this solicitor you'd be better off.
You get right off to him and ax fer his advice. Andus may be all very
well for guiding a chap back to his home when he's makin' a fool of
hisself, same as Andus did when he was young, but bust me if he's fit to
advise here. Get right off to London.'
'I will; meanwhile we'll spend the night together. What were you going
to do?' asked David, feeling better already for his chat with the
sailor.
'Why, sling me hammock under one of these here straw stacks,' cried
Andus. 'It'll be warm in there, and a chap can sleep better than in a
strange bed. To-morrow I'll be up at the first streak of light, and
headin' for the nearest village. I'll be able to eat a bit by then, and
afterwards I'll leg it for London.'
'Then I propose that we leg it now for the nearest village, have a meal
and then find a suitable stack under which to sleep. I'm real hungry;
I've had little since breakfast.'
Andus fell in with the arrangement willingly, and together they tramped
along the high road till they came to a village. There they obtained a
meal of bread and meat, washed down with cocoa, for Andus was one of
many, a rapidly increasing band in the Royal Navy, who are sworn
teetotallers.
'And now for another smoke and a doss under a stack,' cried the sailor,
as they left the village. 'The moon's that bright we might jest as well
push on for a while till we get sleepy. Then we'll get into a harbour o'
some sort, and lay to for the night. To-morrow afternoon you'll be in
London, and with a bit of luck I'll be there by nightfall. I often get a
carter or some such chap to give me a lift. Once a gent on a motor ran
me clean through; but that was unusual luck.'
'I'll send you up by train,' declared David generously. 'I haven't much,
but can spare enough for your ticket.'
'Then you jest won't,' came warmly from the sailor. 'I tell yer, sir, I
don't forget those days when I was a fool and ran from home. Bust me! I
hadn't too much cash, and well remember there wasn't a halfpenny to
spare. You ain't got such a big cargo aboard that you can afford to
heave some of it over. I'm a goin' to foot it.'
'You'll ride,' said David, with determination. 'It will bring me good
luck to do a good turn to a friend picked up on the road. Besides, I
shall have sufficient. I shall sell this bicycle the moment I get to
London. Then I shall be able to draw from the solicitor some of the
allowance I am entitled to. But I mean to work; I'll not hang about
depending on an allowance. I'll make a way for myself, if only to show
my stepmother that I can do so.'
The breezy sailor brought a hand down on his shoulders with such force
that David coughed and choked.
'That's you all the time,' he shouted. 'I could see when I first took a
squint at you through my weather eye that you wasn't one of the soft
kind. The kind fer instance that they turns out of a dry canteen, or a
grocery store. Makin' a way for yerself is one of the finest things a
man can have to do, only there's so few as realise it. But you'll do it;
I'm tryin' the same. There's advancement for every one as shows he means
to work. But here's a lot of stacks. Pipes out; dowse all lights. We
won't risk firing property that doesn't belong to us.'
They searched for a suitable spot, and very soon were stretched on a
mass of loose straw which had been piled beside one of the ricks.
Pulling a heap of it over their bodies a delicious feeling of warmth
soon came to them, and in a twinkling they were asleep. The sun
streaming on his face wakened David on the following morning.
'Now,' he shouted, waking Andus, 'a wash and then on for breakfast.
We'll walk together as far as the nearest station.'
Half an hour later David had the satisfaction of seeing Andus enter a
railway train, and of shaking his hand heartily as the latter steamed
out.
'Don't you wait a little bit,' called out the hearty sailor, waving his
hand in farewell. 'Go right off to that solicitor. Stick to your guns,
and you'll come through in the end.'
Far happier for the meeting with this wayfarer, and for the chat he had
had with him, David mounted his bicycle again, and pedalled briskly
along the main road for London. He no longer felt that doubt and
uncertainty that had oppressed him on the previous day. He had made his
plans, and a man of the world, an honest fellow gifted undoubtedly with
common sense, had approved of his actions. Henceforth he would push on
without a halt and without hesitation.
'I'll sell the bicycle, find rooms in which to live, and insert an
advertisement for work,' he told himself. 'Then I'll see Mr. Jones.'
It was an hour later before the even course of his journey was
disturbed. He was running gaily before a strong breeze, with a hot sun
streaming down upon him when in the far distance he saw a vehicle
trundling along the road. Rapidly overhauling it, he soon saw that it
was a brougham, with a coachman seated on the box, though whether there
were passengers in the vehicle he could not say; but within a few
minutes he came alongside, and, as he passed, caught a glimpse of two
ladies within. Then he swept on, pedalled past a traction-engine engaged
in hauling stones, and was soon on a clear road again. Then a loud shout
reached his ears, followed by others. He turned his head and looked over
his shoulder, with the consequence that the machine wobbled. Indeed, so
occupied was David with what was taking place in rear that he neglected
to guide his steed. In a moment therefore he ran into the ditch at the
side of the road, and was flung headlong into a hedge.
'That comes of staring over one's shoulder,' he said, picking himself up
at once. 'But there seems to have been an accident behind there. I saw
the horse in that brougham rear as it got opposite the traction-engine.
Then it dashed forward, and--why, the coachman has jumped from the box!
The coward! He's left those ladies to be dashed to pieces--the coward!'
The distance was so short that he was able to take in the whole
situation, and it was clear that the coachman on the box of the vehicle
had lost his head and his nerve. David had watched him holding to his
reins as the horse plunged; but the instant it bolted down the road the
man had leaped from his seat, and striking the road heavily had rolled
over and over into the ditch. Left to itself, the horse was coming along
the road at a mad gallop, the brougham swaying behind him in an alarming
manner, and threatening to capsize at any moment.
'George! nearly over that time,' gasped David. 'The horse is scared out
of its wits. It'll not stop till it has smashed the carriage and those
in it. Don't that coachman deserve to be kicked.'
He darted into the centre of the road, and watched the maddened creature
bearing down upon him. Behind, in the neighbourhood of the
traction-engine, he could see men waving their arms, and running along
the road, while a little nearer the coachman was sitting up in the
ditch, holding on to a damaged elbow. A head appeared at one of the
carriage windows for an instant, and David caught a glimpse of a very
frightened face. A scream even reached his ears; then he leaped back
from the road and seized his bicycle.
'I'll dodge that carriage,' he told himself. 'I'd never be able to keep
up with it at the rate the horse is going unless on my bicycle; but on
the machine I could do it. Anyway, I'll have a try.'
He swung himself into the saddle and pedalled gently along. By now he
could hear the scrunch of fast-revolving wheels on the macadam, while
more than one shriek came from the interior of the carriage. Then the
horse seemed to make directly for him. David spurted forward, his head
over his shoulder, and darted across to the far side of the road, just
escaping the feet of the maddened animal. In a twinkling the carriage
drew abreast of him, and for a while he raced along beside it, noticing
that on many an occasion it was within an ace of capsizing. Then a
brilliant manoeuvre occurred to him.
'Couldn't possibly get aboard from the side or front,' he told himself.
'The pedal of the bicycle would catch something, and I should come a
cropper beneath the wheels. I'll try the back; but it'll want doing.
That brute is going all out.'
The runaway horse was indeed galloping as hard as he could, faster, in
fact, than before, so that even had David wished to come alongside he
found it impossible, for the carriage had now drawn slightly ahead. But
with a desperate effort he lessened the distance, keeping directly
behind the vehicle so as to escape the breeze, which at that pace was of
his own making. Gradually he approached the rear of the carriage till he
was almost between the wheels. Then, quick as a flash, he leaped from
his saddle, abandoning his machine, and flung himself toward the back
axle of the vehicle. His fingers fastened upon it, and an instant later
he was jerked from his feet, and went dragging along the road. But he
was not beaten. David was no weakling, and soon made an alteration in
his position. With a jerk and a heave he regained his feet. A frantic
spring took him on to the axle, and after that he felt that victory was
before him.
'Over the top, on to the box, and then along the shafts,' he told
himself. 'No use trying to clamber along the sides. This beastly thing
is on the point of upsetting already, and with my weight added to one
side would topple over. Here goes for the top.'
It was not an easy task he had set himself by any means, for the
carriage wobbled dangerously, and there was no rail to cling to. But
David made light of risks; he never even considered them. He stood on
the axle now, and reaching up gripped the top. With a bound he was on
it, and thereafter had all his work cut out to prevent being thrown off
to either side. But slowly he won his way forward till near the box.
Then a sudden swerve of the horse sent him sliding to the right, till
legs and thighs left the roof of the vehicle. Even then he was not
beaten. With a wriggle and a heave he flopped forward to the edge of the
box seat, and as his body slid from the roof, he managed to grip the
rail. One foot by good fortune met with a step, and thanks to that and
his grip of the rail he was soon located where the driver had been. Once
there David was in his element. He dragged the whip from its socket,
stretched over the side of the box, and with a dexterous thrust of the
stick managed to hook it under the reins, which were trailing along the
road. In half a minute he had them in his hands. And then began a battle
which would have delighted the heart of a horse-master; for David coaxed
and endeavoured to control the maddened beast with both voice and rein.
'Whoa! steady boy!' he called, pulling firmly on the mouth. 'Whoa!
gently boy, gently!'
However, finding that nothing resulted, he leaned back in his seat,
braced his feet, and began to pull in earnest, sawing at the beast's
mouth. Within a minute the pace had lessened. Promptly he began to call
to the horse.
'Whoa! gently boy, gently.'
In less than five minutes he had brought him to a standstill, and
dropping from the box had the animal by the head, and was patting and
soothing him.
'Please get out and stand at one side,' he called to the ladies. 'The
traction-engine startled him and caused him to bolt. He is still a
little nervous, but in a few moments he will be calm again. It would be
better, however, to get out. Please hurry.'
To tell the truth David was half expecting the animal to bolt again, for
even as he spoke it reared up dragging him from his feet. But he had the
huge advantage of understanding horses, and, as is so often the case,
the frightened brute seemed to realise that. Sweating heavily and still
trembling, it finally stood still, allowing him to pat its neck.
Meanwhile a lady had descended, and had assisted another to follow her.
David looked at them curiously. Both were very white after such a
terrifying experience, but the elder of the two seemed to be more
indignant than frightened. She walked across to David and inspected him
critically.
'How did you manage to get on to the carriage?' she asked; and then,
when he had told her, 'I consider you to have behaved nobly. You saved
our lives, not to mention the carriage. It was a brave act, and I and my
daughter are more than obliged to you. As for our coachman he is a
coward. I shall dismiss him promptly.'
A flush of anger came to her cheeks, and a little later she turned to
face the delinquent. 'You can drive back alone. I will walk,' she said
severely, as the man came up with David's bicycle. 'You are not fit to
be driving ladies. You deserted your post in the most disgraceful
manner. Come, Charlotte, perhaps this gentleman will walk with us.'
'I will drive you if you wish,' declared David promptly. 'The coachman
can ride my bicycle. Which way, please?'
He hopped briskly into the driving seat, and picked up his reins in a
manner which gave confidence. Then, the ladies having entered the
vehicle and directed him, he set off down the road. Within half an hour
he pulled up in front of a country mansion, enclosed in fine grounds. At
once a groom was called from the stables, and David was invited to enter
the house.
'You will lunch with us of course,' said the elder lady. 'I am Mrs.
Cartwell. This is my daughter, and--ah, Richard come here.'
She beckoned to a young fellow crossing the hall at that moment and
introduced him as her son. Then in a few words she explained the
situation.
'By Jove! That was a fine thing to do,' exclaimed the young fellow, whom
David took to be about twenty years of age. 'A real plucky thing. How on
earth did you manage to clamber on to the carriage when it was going at
such a pace, while you were on a bike? But let me thank you a thousand
times for your action. You have undoubtedly saved mother's life.'
Very cordially did he shake David's hand, and thereafter did his utmost
to put our hero at his ease and make him feel at home. Then, after
lunch, he pressed him to stay a day or so, for the two young fellows
took instantly to one another.
'Come,' he said, 'you've nothing in particular to do. Off for a bicycle
tour I suppose? Stay here a day or two and have a little fishing with
me.'
'Can't, though many thanks all the same,' answered David, wishing that
he could remain. 'I'm not on a bicycle tour. I'm going to London to find
work. I've some important business to do there.'
In a little while his new friends became aware of the fact that our hero
was launching himself on the world, and though he did not tell them his
reasons for leaving home, they realised that he was justified.
'If you cannot stay, you can at least remember the address of this
house,' said Mrs. Cartwell. 'We shall be glad to receive a visit from
you at any time, and I shall expect you to write. And now we will no
longer detain you.'
They sent him away with further words of thanks, while Dick Cartwell
accompanied him some five miles on the journey.
'Mind,' he said, as they gripped hands for the last time, 'we shall
expect to see you again, and hope you will write. I feel that we haven't
half thanked you.'
David waved the words aside, and straddled his bicycle. 'I don't want
thanks,' he said abruptly. 'But I'd like to come down. I'll write when
I've found work and am getting on a little. For the present I have no
time and no right to laze and enjoy myself.'
He went off down the road waving to Dick, never dreaming that the two of
them would come together again under strange circumstances. Pedalling
hard, he made up for lost time, and just as the shades of evening were
falling, found his way into the great city of London.
'Please direct me to some little house where I can obtain a lodging,' he
asked of a policeman who was walking on the pavement.
The constable, a fine, burly fellow, surveyed our hero from head to
foot. Then he smiled at him, and brought a massive hand on to his
shoulder.
'Come along with me,' he said. 'My missus wants a lodger. I was told
this morning when I went off on duty that I was to try and hear of one.
You'd do for a time. How'd you like to come?'
David smiled back at him promptly. 'Splendid!' he cried. 'I'd be glad to
come. I shall be saved heaps of trouble hunting for a room.'
That night he slipped into a cosy bed between the cleanest sheets
feeling that fortune had been really kind to him; for since he left
home he had done nothing but make friends. There was Andus, the breezy
sailor, Mrs. Cartwell, to say nothing of Dick, her jovial son. And now
there was the constable; for a nicer fellow than Constable Hemming did
not exist, while his wife took a motherly interest in David. It was a
good start in life; but would the future be equally prosperous?