IN WHICH HENRY DECIDES
UP to the night of the fire, Henry had only been dreaming of what he
wished to do in the world of work. Unless one of his age has had his
fate sharply settled for him by being placed at some trade or
profession--for which he is usually unsuited--by the masterful action of
his parents, he has, at best, a nebulous vision of the path he will
pursue.
With natural instinct, and aided by the accident of Edward John's
business relations in Stratford, Henry had looked to literature through
the gateway of the book-shop--of all, the most unlikely. But he had been
shorn speedily of his illusions in that quarter.
A month in the establishment of Mr. Ephraim Griggs had left him
wondering if he were a footstep nearer his goal than he had been before
he bade farewell to Hampton. If the Temple of Literature which he had
builded in his brain had not exactly crumbled into nothingness, it was
no longer possible to rub shoulders with the slatternly Griggs and the
insipid Pemble, and still to dream dreams such as had held his mind when
he determined to fare forth an adventurer into the unknown realms of
Bookland.
The weeks dragged on wearily. So rude had been Henry's experience of the
second-hand book-shop, in disgust he had almost concluded that after all
there was as much glory in his father's business as in that of Mr.
Griggs. Trevor Smith, however, had appeared on the scene at an opportune
moment, and sent his thoughts off at a tangent.
Clearly, journalism was the high road to literature. It enabled one to
get into print, and that, at least, was a great matter.
Already the agreeable Trevor could pose as Henry's literary godfather.
He had allowed him to write one or two simple notes about the visit of a
circus to the town and the annual flower-show, and these had actually
appeared in type in the _Guardian_.
The fact that Trevor had twice borrowed half-a-crown from his
fellow-lodger, and had twenty times forgotten to repay, while he had
also assimilated innumerable examples of Mrs. Charles's baking, had
probably something to do with his readiness in opening his columns to
the youth. But that did not in the least detract from the bursting joy
with which Henry read his own little paragraphs a score of times; nor
did Edward John suspect that the first appearance of his young hopeful
in the splendour of print was due to such adventitious aid.
Henry's masterpiece was a letter to the editor of the _Guardian_
protesting against the charge of sixpence exacted for admission to view
the grave of Shakespeare. This was signed "Thespian," at the suggestion
of Trevor, who never by any chance wrote of actors or of the theatre,
but always of "sons of Thespis," or of "the temple of Thespis." Quite a
lively correspondence ensued in the columns of the paper, and it was a
great delight to Henry that he and Trevor Smith alone knew who the
correspondents were. Between them they did it all. Oh, Henry was
learning what journalism meant!
"Take my word for it, Henry, journalism's your game," his merry mentor
assured him. "That last par of yours about the Christ Church
muffin-struggle is nearly as good as I could have done myself. You're
cut out for a journalist as sure as eggs is eggs. All that you want is
an opportunity to show what's in you."
Yes, only the opportunity was awanting. And how to get it?
"Look at me," Mr. Trevor Smith continued, "I was only a common clerk in
the _Guardian_ office--a common clerk, mind you--but I had the sense to
learn shorthand, and got the first opening as a reporter--and here I
am!"
He helped himself to a luscious pear from the stock which Henry had just
received from home that day.
Indeed, these little bursts of confidence usually took place on the
evening Henry's weekly hamper arrived, but he had never noticed the
coincidence. A year or two later, perhaps, he might suspect there had
been some connection between the events; meanwhile, his bump of
observation had not been abnormally developed.
To-night the reporter appeared especially concerned for the welfare of
his young friend, and it occurred to him to ask if Henry had been trying
his hand at something more ambitious than mere paragraphs. He blushingly
admitted that he had.
"Then trot it out, my boy, and I'll tell you what it's worth in a couple
of ticks," said Trevor, quite unconcerned as to the length or character
of Henry's "something."
It is Nature's way that the rawest youths and maidens who desire to
follow a literary career invariably commence by writing essays on
aspects of life which world-worn men of fifty find impossible to discuss
with any approach to ripened knowledge. Henry's unpublished manuscript
now brought forth of his trunk proved to be a very long and absurdly
grandiloquent essay on "Liberty."
Neither the subject nor the wordiness of the manuscript dismayed the
hopeful Trevor, who took it in his hand and ran his eyes with lightning
rapidity over page after page.
"Ripping, my boy, ripping! That's the sort of stuff to make the critics
sit up."
Henry thrilled and reddened, but winced a little when he heard his
handiwork described as "stuff."
"Really? Do you think anybody would care to publish it?" he asked.
"Just the sort o' thing for the _Nineteenth Century_ or the
_Quarterly_," Trevor assured him gaily, although the rascal had never
set eyes on either of these reviews. "But I should hold it back a bit
until you have made your name, for the editors of these things never
give an unknown man a chance."
"Still, you think I ought to persevere?"
"Don't I just! I couldn't have written stuff like that at your age for a
mint of money. Take my tip, young 'un, you've got it in you to make a
name; and when you're riding down Fleet Street in your carriage and
pair, don't forget your humble servant who gave you the first leg-up.
That phrase of yours on the last page about liberty being born among the
stars and flying earthward to brighten all mankind is worthy of Carlyle
at his best."
"I always liked Carlyle; but I'll try very hard to do something even
better--I mean better than what I've written."
"And, by-the-by, my dear Henry, do you think you could stretch me
another half-crown? I'm rather rocky just now, but am expecting a tidy
sum for lineage next week," said Trevor, in an off-hand way, and
ignoring his friend's confusion, as he lifted his hat and prepared to go
out.
Henry stretched the half-crown--with difficulty, for it meant a week's
pocket-money--and when his companion had left he executed a wild dance
round the table. Ambition had been fired within him again. He determined
that not even the Slough of Despond, to which he likened the shop of Mr.
Griggs, would discourage him for a day in his onward march to that City
Beautiful where one's life was spent in writing fine thoughts for
mankind to read and remember.
The difficulty remained: how to get the opportunity? All the copy-book
maxims of his boyhood availed him nothing; all the stories of brave men
who seized opportunity instead of waiting for it to turn up, inspired,
encouraged, whispered of hope, but did not bring the situation to a
simpler issue.
Soon after this evening he determined to induce Trevor to come down from
his gorgeous generalisings to plain facts.
"It is all very well to say my essay is so good, but do you honestly
think I should go on writing things like that if I wish to become a
journalist?"
It took something out of Henry to put it so bluntly. Despite the
familiar manner in which Trevor addressed him, the youth, who was
naturally reticent, always spoke of him with deference due to one of
older years, and especially to one who was a real live journalist.
Henry, however, was gradually losing his country shyness, and the fact
that Mr. Trevor Smith continued in his debt to the extent of
seven-and-sixpence encouraged him to greater boldness in his dealings
with that slippery gentleman.
"I confess that I have had enough of old Griggs. There is nothing to
learn from him, and I do think I should like to get work on a newspaper.
Is there any chance of an opening on the _Guardian_ at Wheelton? I have
been pegging in at my shorthand for the last three weeks, you know."
"Well, since you put it that way, and since you seem to be dead set on
giving old Griggs the slip, there is one thing you could do," Trevor
admitted, now that he had been asked to come down to hard facts.
"What is that?" asked Henry eagerly.
"Get your gov'nor to shell out to old Spring, and he'll take you on like
a shot."
"Shell out?" said Henry, evidently not alive to Trevor's slang. "What do
you mean?"
"Why," returned his professional adviser, with a smile at the rustic
ignorance, "haven't you seen advertisements in the daily papers
something like this: 'The editor of a well-known provincial weekly has
an opening for journalistic pupil. Moderate premium. Small salary after
first six months'? There's your opportunity."
"Ah, I see the idea," said Henry, upon whom a light had dawned.
"What do you say to that?" Trevor pursued.
"Yes, that might do, and no doubt dad would 'shell out,' as you call it.
But is there any such vacancy at present?"
"If there isn't, the Balmy One--that's another of our pet names for Old
Springthorpe, the editor--will jolly soon make one, provided your pater
is ready with the dibs. Write your gov'nor about it, and if he's open to
spring twenty-five golden quid, leave the rest to me."
To Henry the suggestion seemed a good one, and he wondered that he had
waited so long before getting Trevor to bring the situation to so
practical an issue. The fact was, Mr. Smith rather liked the fun of
patronising the youth, to say nothing of his share in the weekly hamper,
and Henry's willingness to render slight but useful assistance by
attending an occasional meeting on his behalf. Accordingly, he had not
been anxious to lose his company too soon.
To Edward John Charles his son's letter, with its bold proposal, came
with somewhat of surprise. It had never occurred to him to couple the
Press with "Literatoor," but he said at once that if Henry felt
journalism was good enough for him, why, he would help him to become an
editor with as much pleasure as he would have set him up in the
egg-and-butter trade, had he been so minded.
Within a week the postmaster took another journey to Stratford, and
thence by train to Wheelton, together with Henry, to interview Mr.
Martin Springthorpe, editor of the _Wheelton Guardian_, to whom Mr.
Charles carried a letter of introduction from Trevor Smith, wherein that
gentleman averred he had taken great personal interest in the literary
work of Henry Charles, and had even been able to make use of sundry
items from his pen. He commended him to Mr. Springthorpe's best
consideration.
Trevor had also taken the trouble to write privily to his chief, saying
that he thought Mr. Charles would come down to the tune of
five-and-twenty pounds, and not to frighten him off by asking more.