JACK SPARLING.
ABOUT a year had passed since Roger moved into his new shop, and his
prosperity had known no check.
Between work, friends, books, and helping Mr. Aylmer in the evening
school, his hands, head, and heart were all occupied. There was a
junior class in the evening school now, composed of errand boys,
crossing-sweepers, telegraph boys, and others whose days were occupied,
and Roger and his friend Richard Wilson, son of Mr. Wilson, of the Post
Office, taught this class turns about, thus setting Mr. Aylmer free for
the elder lads.
The Wilsons were very kind to Roger, and when their eldest boy finally
left school, they often asked him to their house, feeling that he
was a very safe companion for their boys. Indeed, Roger had used his
opportunities so well that he was now a fairly educated man; and a real
desire to be kind and courteous to every one made him a well-mannered
man too.
All this time, amid all his interests, Roger had not forgotten his
first and best friend, Jack Sparling. He had written several times to
the address Jack had given him, but his letters were returned, marked,
"Gone away and left no address."
Then Roger wrote to Mr. Avery, addressing his letter to the care of
Messrs. Waring & Co.; but he got no answer, though the letter did not
come back. He often thought of taking a holiday and going to Birmingham
in search of Jack; but he was so busy that somehow time slipped away,
and this holiday never was taken.
But now something happened which at once stirred up Roger's memory
of the time when he had come, hungry and friendless, to the "first
cutting" of the Sandsea Railway, and opened to him a chance of hearing
something of his dear old friend. The single line of rails to Sandsea
was no longer sufficient for the increased traffic, and a second was
to be laid down. And soon Roger heard that the contract for laying the
rails was undertaken by Waring & Co., the firm in whose service Avery
and Sparling had come there some years before. As soon as he knew that
the work was begun,—at the Sandsea end of the line, as before,—he went
down one evening to Sandsea, and set out to meet the men as they came
home from work.
"How well I remember that day!" he said to himself. "It was just here
that Mrs. Avery hurt herself—how the town has grown, for there were no
houses here then! That sprain of poor Bess Avery's ankle was a fine
piece of luck for me, though that is a heathenish way of talking of it.
Why, they are collecting their tools in the very same place! There is
the lorry, all just the same! Oh! I wonder, shall I have Jack by his
strong hand,—such a grip,—in a few minutes? I feel as if I were in a
dream, and that presently I shall wake up and find the dinner basket
on my arm, and feel the queer sinking that came over me when I saw the
food. It was the last time I ever was hungry—more than is pleasant. I
mean."
Here he reached the scene of action. The lorry had received its load,
and a good many of the men were sitting on it; but seeing a stranger,
they waited to see what he wanted. There were many strange faces, one
or two who might be acquaintances a little altered, but only two about
whom Roger felt no doubt, and neither of these was Jack Sparling.
Walking up to the stout man in white flannels, he held out his hand,
saying,—
"Mr. Avery, I can't mistake you! And that's Easy Deasy, isn't it?"
Avery looked at him, and said,—
"You have the advantage of me, sir."
While Deasy jumped off the lorry, a fine, tall strapping fellow, with a
magnificent red beard, and exclaimed in a voice which had lost none of
its brogue,—
"Boys honey! I hope he ain't some one I owed a few pence to when I was
here long ago!"
"Not a penny. Larry, don't you know me?" said Roger, laughing. "Mr.
Avery, where is Jack Sparling?"
Avery started and looked again.
"You don't mean to say as you—"
"It's himself—Roger Read," shouted Deasy. "And it's meself that's
proud to see you, Roger. We were talking of you this very day, and I
was wondering if I could find out what was become of you. But, Roger,
you're quite a gentleman, now I look at you!"
"Not much of that," Roger answered; "but I've done very well. I have a
shop in Kingsmore now. You come over and see me some evening, Deasy.
But—"
"A shop!" said Deasy. "Do you mean, a shop of your own?"
"Yes, a fishmonger's shop. But I want to—"
"Well now, boys,"' interrupted Deasy with comical gravity, "I was
telling you this very morning of the good turn Roger did me, and how
'twas the making of me; but I'm not so sure now that I'm grateful to
him. It seems to me that I oughtn't to have changed places with him.
He's had the best of it by far."
The men laughed, and one of them said,—
"Much good you'd ha' done, left to shift for yourself, Easy Deasy! Mr.
Read, you mind me, don't you? Jem Bowles—don't you remember?"
Roger remembered very well, but remembered nothing to Mr. Bowles'
advantage; besides, he was surprised to see that Avery had walked off
towards Sandsea, as if to avoid him.
"Is Jack Sparling not with you?" said he anxiously to Deasy.
"Jack Sparling! I haven't heard the sound of his name I don't know
when—lost sight of him, I have. Roger, will you walk back to Sandsea
with me?"
"No, I must catch up Avery; he surely can tell me more about Jack than
you know."
"He'll tell you more than you care to hear," muttered Deasy, as Roger
sped away; "but maybe he won't choose to tell him at all. I believe in
my heart he's ashamed. I always did think so."
Roger heard nothing of this. He ran after Avery, and soon overtook him.
"I want to ask you about old friends, Mr. Avery; your wife, who was so
good to me, and Jack Sparling! He's not with you now, Deasy says."
"My missis is right well, thank ye—well and hearty,—but there's too
many of us now for her to be coming away from home with me. We have six
now, four boys and two girls."
"But Jack, where is Jack, Mr. Avery?"
"Well, I don't know that I can tell you," said Avery slowly. "Jack
met with an accident, and left the place. He'd got a situation in the
establishment, you know, he were such a steady old chap, poor Jack!
And there was an accident—boiler bursted and killed two men and hurt a
many, and poor old Jack were badly hurt. Might better ha' been killed
outright."
"Oh, and to think I never knew—did you not get a letter from me? Where
is he, Mr. Avery—you surely must have some idea where he is?"
"I really can't say—I never had no letter. The truth is, blame was
laid upon Jack about the accident. He certainly made a mistake—he was
never a very bright fellow, you know—and he certainly opened a valve
that should ha' been shut, and shut one that should ha' been opened.
The coroner's 'quest laid the blame to him, but it was well known 'twas
only a mistake. Still, the rule of the firm is, that a man forfeits his
pension."
"For a mere accident? I call that hard lines! But you didn't lose sight
of him at once; where did you see him last?"
"In the hospital."
"And not after he came out?"
"No; I was away on a job, as it might be this here."
"And you are sure you know nothing more of him? My dear, good old Jack,
I must find him, no matter how long it takes me. Deasy may be able to
tell me something more."
He was turning to go in search of Deasy, when Avery said,—
"Look here, Roger. You've risen in the world, and are well thought of,
I make no doubt. You look like a gentleman. You take my advice, and
make no inquiry about poor old Jack."
"Mr. Avery, if every workman on the line, on every line in England,
told me that Jack Sparling had done anything to be ashamed of, I
shouldn't believe it! I do believe you know where he is; tell me at
once, and have done with it. Find him I will, with your help or without
it."
"Well, you were always obstinate, and it's no affair of mine—I s'pose I
must."
"Must what? Tell me where to find him? Why on earth should you keep it
back? What is the matter with you? Why, man, you look for all the world
as if you were ashamed of yourself!"
"Well, I ain't, then!" said Avery sulkily. "I said then, and I say now,
'Charity begins at home;' you're a great one for proverbs, and that's
a good one. It were the only difference Bess and me ever had, but I
ain't, ashamed; she's only a woman, and women are some of 'em so soft,
they'd take the bit out of their own mouth to give it away. If you must
know, then—Jack had to go to the workhouse, and he was drafted off to
his own native place, and I don't know where that is."
If Tom Avery really was not ashamed of himself, his countenance sorely
belied him.
Roger gazed at him for a few minutes in horror and amazement, and then
suddenly sat down on a pile of sleepers and cried like a baby.
"Oh, Jack, Jack! And I so well off and happy, never thinking, never
doing more than writing a bit of a letter, I that owed him so much!
Go on, Tom Avery, I see plain enough you did get my letter, and were
ashamed to answer it, but I'm not the man to reproach you. Bad as you
may be, I've been worse. I ought to have known there was something
wrong."
Avery stood, doubtful, for a few moments, and then walked on,
muttering,—
"I ain't a bit ashamed, 'Charity begins at home;' but if that young
chap goes to Birmingham on his search, I do hope he won't come across
Bess, I don't want to have her at me again."
Roger presently recovered himself and made the best of his way back to
Kingsmore. He went at once to Mr. Aylmer, to consult him as to the best
means of tracing Jack Sparling to his present abode. Mr. Aylmer said
that the officials of the Birmingham Workhouse would have some record
of the transaction; so, having provided as well as he could for his
business during his absence, Roger started off on his journey the very
next morning.
He had some difficulty when he reached Birmingham, having neglected to
ascertain the exact date of Jack's admission to the workhouse. But he
knew by this time how to get people to oblige him; and his Kingsmore
friends would have thought he had gone mad, could they have seen how
half-crowns and shillings slipped out of his hand. But he grudged
neither money nor trouble, and at last ascertained that Jack had been
passed on to Newcastle-on-Tyne, for which place he took the very next
train.
"Man called John Sparling, sent on from Birmingham? No need for me to
look at my books, sir; I know him well. Do you want to see him?" said
the Master of the Newcastle Workhouse, who seemed a good kind of man.
"He is out; he likes being sent out with a message, and I sent him to
post some letters, but he'll go round by St. Anne's Churchyard, for I
told him he needn't hurry. Some one he knew is buried there. He won't
be too long, he's such a good old fellow."
"Old!" Roger repeated. "He can't be old! Well, I suppose I cannot miss
the way if I go to meet him?"
"Stay, sir, there's some one at the gate—yes, it is he. Sparling! Come
in here."
The room in which the master had received Roger looked out into the
outer court; and the big gate, which made Roger think of a prison, had
just been opened to admit some one, but surely not Jack! Jack's hair
and beard had been as black as jet, this man's hair was white, and he
had but one arm, and walked with a crutch. Roger gazed in dismay; but
next moment the man was in the room, and a deep voice said,—
"Did ye call me, sir?"
Roger knew him now. He hurried over to him.
"Oh, Jack—Jack Sparling! I have found you at last."
Sparling looked at him, at first only surprised, then with a sudden
light in his eyes,—
"Well to be sure!" he said. "If it ain't the boy!"
Roger broke down utterly. The thin, worn face, with the queer grimace
instead of a smile, the grey hair, but the grave grey eyes with the old
affectionate look, and then the grasp of the big hand; but it was not
quite such a grasp as in the days of old.
"What's the matter, boy? Don't be making a fool of yourself," growled
Jack.
"I won't. Oh, Jack, I've had such a search for you."
And Roger quickly told him how he had heard from Avery about the
accident, and then set out to find him.
[Illustration]
"Ah," said Jack mournfully, "I were very unfortunate, and very foolish
too, to leave the work I could do as well as most, for work that wanted
brains more than strength. But my Master knows I did my best, and that
what happened, though it was my fault, was only a mistake, not a sin.
But it is only fair that I should bear the blame, and they're very kind
to me here, very kind."
"For all that, Jack, you won't sleep here another night! I have
prospered beyond my hopes; and I have a comfortable home, a good
business, and you will come home with me, and I'll take the best of
care of you. I owe you so much, Jack—if I gave you every penny I have,
I never could repay you—what you did for me was above all price."
But at first Jack would not hear of it; and Roger had to argue and
persuade, and at last succeeded only when he bethought himself of
saying how useful a really trustworthy assistant would be. Jack gave in
at last.
"I would not, if I thought I'd live to be a burden," he said. "But I
don't look to ever being an old man, you know. By the time you're ready
to look-out for a wife, I'll be away. God bless you, Roger, I'll go
with you."
Roger went out into the yard, where he found the master dawdling about,
waiting for him. After a short consultation with him, he went into the
town and repaired to a shop where they sold ready-made clothes, and
purchased a modest outfit for his friend. Returning to the workhouse
with his purchases in a neat box, he made Jack put off the grey uniform
of the workhouse, and put on a decent suit of dark cloth, in which Jack
declared shyly that he felt like a parson; but Roger could not help
assuring him that he certainly did not look like one.
There was now but one thing to be done before they set off for home;
it was to visit a certain grave with a small stone cross at its head,
in St. Anne's Churchyard. Roger asked no questions—he knew that
Jack's faithful heart was saying farewell to his long-lost Mary. Jack
stood and gazed, and said, "My lass!" and that was all. He was always
rather silent, and Roger took care not to speak to him until he seemed
inclined for it. Next day they reached Kingsmore.
Great was the surprise of all who knew Roger Read when they made
acquaintance with the friend he had brought home to live with him.
Just at first, no one, except Mr. Aylmer, liked him very much. Mr.
Aylmer took to him at once, and always said he was the truest, humblest
Christian he had ever known.
Jack delighted in telling the story of Roger's search for him. He had
no false shame about being found in the workhouse, or about being
dependent on Roger now. He had worked when he could. The Master knew he
couldn't work now, and put it into the boy's heart to love him.
And although deeply grateful for the love and tenderness which "the
boy," as he called Roger, showed to him, he never failed to tell him
plainly when he thought him in the wrong. He very soon saw that Roger's
danger lay in the direction of pride and self-satisfaction, and that he
was very hard upon the three boys he now had in his employment; and he
pointed out these faults with unsparing frankness.
"Roger," he said to him once, "you'll be a Pharisee if you don't mind;
and except me and Mr. Aylmer, everybody is trying to help you on to be
one. But I'm bound to tell you the truth, for it is all I can do in
return for all you are to me."
And Roger proved what a sound-hearted, honest young fellow he was, for
he listened to all these truths, laid them to heart, and loved his
friend all the better for telling them.
One day, not very long after Jack's arrival, he was sitting in the shop
while Roger wrote some business letters in the parlour behind it. A man
came quickly along the street and turned into the shop, as if in haste.
He did not look up, but said, "Is this Roger Read's shop?"
"Yes, I'll call him. Roger, you're wanted."
Roger came out. The visitor was Tom Avery.
"Well, Roger," he said, still keeping his eyes cast down, and speaking
in a sulky, injured tone, "our job is done, and I'm off to-morrow: I
just thought I'd look in and ask you, did you ever hear—but, indeed, I
suppose you never inquired—you thought better of it, no doubt, when you
took time to consider."
"You mean about Jack? No, I didn't, I was only too glad of the chance
to show him a little gratitude. Jack—here's our old friend, Mr. Avery."
Avery looked up now, and his face grew crimson. Jack held out his hand
at once, saying,—
"I didn't know ye, Avery! And how's Bess, and the young ones?"
"They're well, thank ye. Jack, I'm glad to see you here—I'm main glad
you're so comfortable and well off. I always knew Roger was a good
fellow—and I hope, Jack—"
"Well?" said Roger. "Go a-head—what do you hope?"
"That—that there's no ill-feeling between us, Jack. You know 'twasn't
with me as 'tis with Roger. I had wife and children to think of,
and—'Charity begins at home.'"
"All right," said Roger; "but you'd do well to ask yours to take a walk
occasionally."
And he marched back into his parlour without saying good-bye.
"I—hope there's no ill-feeling," repeated Avery, awkwardly.
"I hope not, Tom. There's none on my side. Mind you, I can't tell a
lie, and I did feel that you might ha' given me house-room when I left
the hospital, till I could look about and see if I could earn my keep
in any way. I won't deny that I thought, and that I think still, that
you might ha' done that, and Bess was more than willing.
"But I wasn't the one you injured, Tom. The workhouse did me no harm,
but you missed the doing of a kind act, and you know the Master would
ha' reckoned it as done to Himself; and I somehow doubt you're not the
happier for it. But as to forgiving you, I do that, Tom, hearty! Shake
hands—and give my love to Bess, and tell her I live like a prince now,
and am very happy and content."
Avery grasped the offered hand, and left the shop in silence.
"Is he gone?" said Roger, presently.
"He is, and you never said a kind word to him, and that wasn't right,
Roger. You may do something wrong yourself one day, and if you get the
measure you're inclined to give, you'll be in a bad way, boy."
For five years Jack Sparling lived with Roger, and those years made a
great change in the young man. No one could be much with so thorough a
Christian, and not learn from him, unless resolutely determined not to
learn. And Roger, to use his own words, was "right glad of the chance,
for I don't want to be a Pharisee."
But Jack never was strong after that terrible accident; and by degrees,
he failed more and more, until at last even Roger had to see and own
that his faithful friend was leaving him.
"Yes," said Jack, "'tis so, lad, I am going to the dear Master, so
don't you fret, Roger. I shall see my lass soon; and I give you my
advice, Roger, to look-out for a wife when I'm gone. There's that
pleasant, rosy-cheeked lass, Mary Wilson—the Post Office people, you
know, and they all like you well. She were telling me how she lost
her shilling when she were a child, and how you found it; and it's my
belief you'd have a good chance,—and you like a chance, you know,—of
getting that girl, and she's a good girl—reminds me of my Mary, in her
ways. Not in her looks, Mary never had that healthy colour in her face.
"You try for her, Roger,—don't settle down when I'm gone, all alone,
and turn yourself into a mill for making money; you will, if you have
no one to soften you a bit. It's your snare, Roger, and so I warn
you of it. It's all very well to do the best you can for yourself in
business, but you want to keep your heart sound too. The good Book
says,—
"'Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.'
"If you set it only upon doing well in business, it will get as hard as
a flint. Try to remember that it is by the Master's help you have got
on so well. He has blessed you and helped you, because He loved you so
that He died on the cross to save you. He wishes you to do to others
what you have done to me. Let Him have the first claim on your love and
service, and then learn fully to be unselfish by trying to win the love
of Mary Wilson. Dear me, boy, how happy we've been together. But Mary
has been waiting now a long time."
Roger did not argue the matter with him, but he privately told himself
that he had as much chance of getting Mary Wilson as of marrying a
princess, and at the same time, if he did not marry her, he did not
think he would ever marry at all. And Jack Sparling had been dead a
year and more before Roger began to think there might be a chance, and
he was not the man to lose it, if so. He had buried dear old Jack in
the Newcastle churchyard, beside his lass, and with his own hands he
had laid the little picture the faithful fellow had so often looked at
on his breast, as he lay in his coffin.
And the house was very lonely, and one could but fail. But Roger did
not fail; Mary liked him, her brother was his friend, and her parents
had the good sense to see that, however low down the ladder of life
Roger Read began, his wife was likely to be a happy woman, truly loved
and manfully cared for. And so there is a happy home in the neat rooms
over the shop of "Roger Read, Fishmonger."
He never lost Jack Sparling's influence; and though to the end of life,
he never willingly lost a chance, he yet kept the best chance steadily
in view. As he prospered, in many quiet ways, he gave a helping hand to
others. The words of the Bible that he loved to keep ever in his mind
were,—
"'What shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and
lose his own soul?' and 'Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least
of these My brethren, ye did it unto Me.'"
And I will only, in conclusion, ask my readers to remember, that though
in this story I have used the word Chance, because Roger used it, yet
in truth there is no chance—no element of doubt, in the choice that
concerns us all equally, and more than any earthly chance, be it never
so favourable. Each must make the decision for himself or herself—must
choose to serve God, and to believe in His Son—or to serve the world
and the Prince of this world. But concerning the ends of these two
roads, there is no chance—and so I sincerely hope that all who read
this may say, "'As for me, I will serve the Lord.'"
THE END.
Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London.