AMONG NEW FRIENDS
SATURDAY, the 23rd of July, will always remain a red-letter day in the
history of Henry Charles. Even at this distance of time he could
doubtless recall every feature of the day as the train that carried him
steamed into the station. The languorous atmosphere of a hot summer
afternoon, the steady drizzle of warm rain, the flood of water around a
gutter-grating in Main Street, caused by a collection of straw and
rotten leaves--even that will always appear when a vision of the day
arises before his memory. The station platform had been freshly strewn
with sawdust on account of the weather, and the pungent smell of that is
not forgotten. Thus it is that the commonest features of our
surroundings, noted under exceptional circumstances, are automatically
registered for ever by our senses.
Edgar Winton, the reporter at whose home Henry was to lodge, had
undertaken to meet his new colleague at the station, and pilot him to
the house. But by some mischance he was not there, and the young
adventurer stood for a moment lonely and disappointed, while the train
in which he had travelled continued on its journey.
His belongings, however, were not embarrassing, and for all his fragile
looks Henry was still robust as any country lad. Nor did his sense of
dignity come between him and the shouldering of his load up the steep
and shabby main street of the town, and along sundry shabbier by-streets
to the semi-genteel district of Woodland Road, where at No. 29 was the
home of the Wintons.
Mrs. Winton seemed to be as amiable a landlady as good Mrs. Filbert, and
more refined. Henry felt at once that so far as home-life was concerned
his lines had fallen again in pleasant places. He had now risen to the
dignity of a separate room, small indeed, and almost crowded with the
single iron bedstead, the tiny dressing-table and chair, which, together
with a few faded chromographs on the walls, made up its entire
furnishing. It was on the second storey of the house, which had only two
flats, and looked across a kitchen-garden to the back of a row of still
smaller houses. By way of wardrobe accommodation, the back of the door
was generously studded with hooks for hanging clothes. For the privilege
of sleeping here Edward John had agreed to pay on behalf of his son the
weekly sum of four shillings, and Mrs. Winton was to cook such food as
Henry required, charging only the market prices.
As it was late afternoon when Henry had reached his lodging, and Edgar
was expected home for tea at five o'clock, Mrs. Winton's new guest,
after a somewhat perfunctory toilet, descended to the parlour to await
the coming of his fellow-worker. A copy of the _Guardian_ for that week
lay on the easy chair in which the landlady asked Henry to rest himself,
and he was presently reading with close attention the weighty
observations of his future chief, who spoke "From the Editor's Chair"
like any pope _ex cathedra_.
Mrs. Winton having removed the vase of dusty "everlasting flowers,"
which stood _solus_ in the middle of the faded green serge cloth that
covered the oval table, and spread on the latter a cloth of snowy linen,
busied herself in arranging the tea things.
Henry noted that cups and saucers were set for five, and as he only knew
of four in the household, including Edgar's father and himself, he fell
to wondering who the fifth might be. Undoubtedly his powers of
observation had been sharpened from contact with the Stratford
representative of the _Guardian_.
The preparations for the evening meal had just been completed when the
outer door was opened, and Edgar, a fresh-complexioned young fellow of
nineteen, arrived, full of apologies for having been unable to meet his
guest, as he had been unexpectedly called upon to attend an inquest at
the "Crown" Inn.
"And an interesting case it is, by Jove!" he exclaimed brightly. "A man
has shuffled off this mortal coil by--what d'you think?"
"Poison or a razor," suggested Henry, out of the fulness of his
knowledge of poor humanity.
"Nothing so common for Johnnie Briggs the bookie. Everybody knows
Johnnie, and he meant to make a noise when he snuffed out. Up to the
eyes in debt, I fancy. He has choked himself with a leather boot-lace,
and Wiggins in the High Street is as proud as Punch because it was one
of his laces. Isn't it funny?"
"It's very horrible," said Henry, who could not help showing in his
looks the feeling of disgust aroused within him by Edgar's levity in
speaking of so bad an occurrence.
"Horrible! Why, I think it's stunning, and old Spring will be as mad as
a march hare because Johnnie didn't perform his dramatic exit in time
for this week's edition of the _Guardian_. The _Advertiser_ will be out
next Wednesday with full details, and we don't appear till Friday. It's
always the way; that Wednesday rag gets all the spicy bits. But there,
don't let us start talking shop all at once. I'm famished. How are you?"
But before Henry could describe his condition, a bright young woman of
some eighteen years had entered the parlour, to be introduced
unceremoniously as "My sister Flo--Mr. Henry Charles."
Here, then, was number five, and a very acceptable tea-table companion,
thought Henry, though the blushing and mumbling with which he said how
pleased he was to meet her showed him to be as awkward in the presence
of the fair sex as he was new to the jargon of journalism. He dared
hardly lift his eyes to look the new-comer in the face, but on her part
there was no evidence of shyness.
Over the tea-cups--for Mr. and Mrs. Winton had now come in, and all were
seated at the table--Henry began to feel more at home among the family,
and Mr. Winton proved to be a quiet, homely person, though Henry noticed
that Edgar lost to some extent his high spirits when his father came on
the scene. Evidently the Wintons were people "in reduced circumstances,"
for both the father and mother showed signs of superior breeding.
"I hope you will get on all right at the _Guardian_," Mr. Winton
remarked. "You won't be short of work, if Edgar is a sample. He's always
slogging away at something. If it's not the police courts, it's a
political meeting, or a--"
"Tea-fight, dad."
"Slang again, Eddie," put in Flo.
"Yes. Edgar delights in these flippancies; his trade seems to induce
that," said Mrs. Winton. "Will you pass your cup, Mr. Charles?"
As Henry handed his cup to Flo, almost dropping it in the excitement of
being dubbed "Mister," Edgar took up his mother's words, and exclaimed,
with simulated indignation:
"Trade! Who calls it a trade? Remember, mater, that journalism is a
profession--the Fourth Estate!"
"There's not much profession about attending inquests on suicides, and
writing about the drunks and disorderlies," Flo remarked, fearless of
her brother's displeasure.
"Come, come now," interposed Mr. Winton, who had not spoken since Edgar
broke in upon his remarks. "You mustn't give our young friend too low an
opinion of his new business," and turning to Henry, he remarked: "It is
your first appointment, is it not?"
"Yes, I have only done some odds and ends for the _Guardian_ when at
Stratford. Of course, I'm hoping to do some good work here, but we must
do the small things before we are able to do the great ones, I think."
A long speech for Henry to make before company, and not performed
without an effort.
"True, indeed, for only those who can do the little things well can do
the great things well," was Mr. Winton's comment.
"And I was only joking," added Flo, looking archly at Henry, whose eyes
immediately contemplated the lessening liquid in his cup. "Journalism is
all very well, I'm sure, but newspaper fellows are so conceited that I
think we need to take some of the side off them."
"Who's talking slang now?" from Edgar.
"Well, it may be slangy, but it's true; and I hope Mr. Charles won't
fall into the habit of talking as if, because a man writes paragraphs in
a printed paper, he knows more than Solomon."
"I'm afraid I know very little, Miss Winton. I'm here to learn." Oh,
Henry was becoming quite a tea-table success.
"And I'm sure we hope you will find your new work up to your
expectations. I have never met Mr. Springthorpe myself," said Mr.
Winton, as he rose and retired to the living-room, which was
half-kitchen, to smoke his evening pipe, while Flo helped her mother to
clear away the tea-things and restore the dusty immortelles to their
place of honour.
"The dad says he has never met Mr. Springthorpe, and a good thing for
his idea of journalism. Not that old Spring doesn't strike you well
enough at first meeting; but you'll soon find him out," Edgar said to
Henry when they were alone in the parlour.
"He seemed very considerate, I thought, when my father and I called on
him. A little pompous, perhaps."
"Oh, you've noticed that! You'll see more of it by-and-by. But he can be
wonderfully considerate when there is a nice little premium attached to
a new pupil. Your pater must have come down handsome on the spot, for
the Balmy One has been swaggering around in a new frock-suit and shiny
topper since you were engaged. Let me be frank with you, and tell you at
once that you needn't expect anything of value out of our gorgeous
chief. What you learn you'll have to pick up from Bertram and myself,
and from Yardley the sub."
"I understood that I was really Mr. Springthorpe's pupil."
"You're not the first that understood that; but really it doesn't
matter, for you'll get there all the same, as they say in the song.
You'll have lots to do and you'll soon learn, but don't fancy old Spring
is going to sit down and teach you. His duty ends when he converts your
premium into clothing for the outer, and refreshment for the inner man.
A good sort, but fond o' the bottle, like so many clever journalists."
"And were you a pupil also before you became a full reporter?"
"Not on the _Guardian_. I served six months as a junior on the
_Advertiser_, and received the order of the sack at the end of that
time, as they had no further use for services which had begun to require
a weekly fifteen bob. Luckily, the _Guardian_ was in a hole at the time,
both the chief reporter and his assistant having given notice, and the
pupil then flourishing was a hopeless youngster, who has since returned
to the business of his father, who is in the aerated water trade. So I
was engaged at once, and on the noble salary of fifteen bob a week I
remain to this day, although I was promised an increase at the end of
twelve months, and I have been on the staff for sixteen. I occasionally
pick up a bit of lineage, and that helps to pan out, you know; but I'm
only hanging on until something better turns up elsewhere, and then
good-bye to the _Guardian_. My ambition is Birmingham."
"Birmingham! Wouldn't you rather like to get to London?"
"Who wouldn't? But I have the sense to know I'm not cut out for Fleet
Street. In any case, no London editor would look at a man from
Wheelton. You must have experience on a good provincial daily before
thinking of London Town."
"I'm surprised, for Mr. Trevor Smith told me of many London editors who
used to be on local papers like--our own."
"Trevor Smith is an ass. He knows as much about journalism as a monkey
knows of algebra. He can't write for nuts. Most of his copy has to be
rewritten by Yardley before it's fit to print."
Henry heard this unflattering description of his friend with some
dismay, but remembered that Trevor had given him a very similar account
of Edgar. He was beginning to know something of that brotherly feeling
which always exists between fellow-craftsmen.
Winton showed himself very companionable, and in the evening took Henry
for a walk round the town, in the course of which they visited the
police station, where he was introduced as "the new _Guardian_ man."
This connection between the Press and the Police was one to which Henry
would yet learn to attach much importance.
On the Sunday he attended church with Mr. Winton and Edgar in the
morning, and would have gone again in the evening if Edgar and his
father had been so disposed, but it seemed to be the rule of the house
for the female side to attend the evening service, as in the morning
they were engaged in household duties. Edgar confessed to Henry that he
didn't reckon much of church-going, and only went to please the dad. He
further avowed that he thought religion a lot of rot, and that most
journalists were atheists. He had heard that George Augustus Sala
believed in eternal punishment, but that was about all the religion he
knew of among knights of the pen.
Henry, who had been reared in the quiet atmosphere of a church-loving
home, and had never listened to doubts about religion, heard Edgar's
opinions with some dismay, but did not venture to dispute them. He had
an uneasy feeling that the more he saw of men the less they justified
his ideals, and he began to wonder whether, if he had to let slip his
illusions of daily life, he would not also have to modify his religious
convictions.