THE START
With tears and sighs Willie Seymour produced his desk for his
relative's inspection. It was a little rosewood desk which his mother
had given him to keep his papers in, and envelopes, and his own
particular pens, and his stamps, and his money, and his treasures.
Bailey proceeded to inspect it.
"Where's the key?"
"Don't take the money, Bertie. Mamma sent it me to buy a birthday
present with, and I've spent sevenpence already. It was two shillings
she sent."
"Oh, you've spent sevenpence, have you! Then I've half a mind to give
you a licking for spending such a lot. Do you think your mother sent
you money to chuck about all over the place? She told me to look after
you, and so I will. Give me the key."
From a miscellaneous collection of odds and ends, which bulged out the
pockets of his knickerbockers, the key was produced.
"Don't take the money, Bertie!"
Bailey unlocked the desk with a magisterial air.
"If your mother knew that you'd spent sevenpence, what d'ye think
she'd say to me? She'd say, 'I told you to look after him, and here
you let him go chucking the money I sent him to buy a birthday present
into his stomach, and making himself as ill as I don't know what! Is
that the way to buy a birthday present? Nice affectionate lad you
are!'"
At this point Bailey, having discovered the one and fivepence, held it
in his hand.
"I shall put this money into my pockets, and I shall take care of it
for you, and when you want it, you come to me and ask for it. D'ye
hear?"
At this point he slipped the money into his trousers pocket.
Willie wept.
"What are you snivelling for? If you don't stop I'll take care of your
desk as well. Now I think of it, Wheeler wants just such a desk as
this. I shouldn't be surprised if he gave me sevenpence for it; it
would just come in handy."
Bailey subjected the desk to a critical examination.
"I'll tell Mr. Fletcher if you take my desk away."
"What, sneak, would you? As it happens, I don't care for you or Mr.
Fletcher either."
Bertie tucked the desk under his arm and moved to the door. Willie
flung his head upon his arms and burst into a passion of tears. At the
door Bertie turned and surveyed the child.
"Here, take your desk. Think I want the thing!"
He flung the desk towards his cousin. Falling on the edge of a form,
it burst open, and the contents were thrown out of it. Leaving Willie
to make the best of a bad case, and pick up his ill-used property,
Bertie marched away with the one and fivepence in his pocket.
That one and fivepence was all the cash he could secure. He made one
or two efforts in the course of the day to increase his capital by the
addition of a penny or two, but the efforts were in vain. None of the
smaller boys had any money; some of the seniors he suspected were in
possession of funds, but in face of their refusal to oblige him with a
temporary loan he did not feel justified in taking them by the throats
and putting into practice any theory of their money or their life. He
suspected he might get neither; sundry knocks and bruises he might be
the richer for, but they were riches for which he had no longing. One
particularly gallant attack he made upon a suspected seat of capital
does not deserve to go unchronicled.
The suspected seat of capital was Mr. Shane. Chancing to pass the
schoolroom on his way downstairs, a glimpse he caught of some one
within brought him to a standstill. He entered; he shut the door
behind him for precaution's sake, being unwilling that his friends
should intrude upon what he perceived might be a delicate interview.
In a corner of the schoolroom was Mr. Shane. He sat with his elbows
resting on the desk and his head resting on his hands. So absorbed was
he in his own meditations that he paid no heed to Bailey's entrance.
Bertie watched him in silence for a moment or two, then he made his
presence known.
"I say, Mr. Shane."
Mr. Shane started and looked up. His face was very pale, there were
traces of what were suspiciously like tears about his eyes, and his
whole appearance was as of one who had received a sudden blow. Without
speaking he stared at Bailey, whose presence evidently took him by
surprise. Seeing that the other held his peace, Bertie came to the
point.
"Can you lend me a shilling or two?"
"Lend you a shilling or two!"
"I daresay you'll think it like my cheek to ask you, and so it is;
but--I'm in an awful hole, I really am. I know I've not been such a
civil beggar as I might have been, but--I never meant any harm;
and--I'm sorry about that grammar, I really am; I'd buy you another if
I'd got the money, upon my word I would--I don't know what I wouldn't
do for you if you'd lend me a shilling or two--especially if you'd make
it three."
In spite of himself Bertie grinned, and his eyes glistened at the idea
of spoiling the usher. Mr. Shane stared at him, as well he might. He
spoke with a sort of little pause between each word, as though he were
doubtful if he had heard aright.
"You want me to lend you a shilling or two?--me?"
"Yes. I'll let you have it back as soon as, I can, and I'm in an awful
hole, or I wouldn't ask you. Do lend it me!"
Mr. Shane stood up, with a curious agitation in his air.
"I haven't got it."
"Not got it I Not got a shilling or two! Oh, I say, come!"
"I haven't got a penny in the world."
"Not got a penny in the world! Oh, I say, aren't you piling it on!"
"Not a penny; not a penny in the world; not one. I'm a beggar!"
Mr. Shane's agitation was so curious, and the air with which he
proclaimed himself a beggar was so wild, that Bertie's surprise grew
apace. He wondered whether, as he might himself have phrased it, the
usher had a tile loose in his head.
"See!" Mr. Shane turned his coat-tail pockets inside out. There was
nothing in them. "See!" He followed suit with the pockets in his
trousers. They also were void and empty. "Nothing! nothing! not a sou!
Mr. Fletcher engaged to pay me sixteen pounds a year. There's fifteen
shillings owing from last term. I couldn't afford to buy myself a pair
of boots when I came back. Look at my boots." Mr. Shane held up his
boots, one after the other. Bertie stared at them; they were very much
the worse for wear. "And now he tells me that I'm to leave this very
day, leave in the very middle of the term, without a penny-piece. He
says he cannot let me have a penny-piece. I've worked hard for my
money; he knows I've worked hard for my money; he knows I've been
cruelly used; and yet he sends me away in the middle of the term a
beggar, and with fifteen shillings owing from last term. What am I to
do! My mother lives at Braintree. I can't walk all the way to
Braintree in Essex, especially in such boots as these; and she hasn't
any money to give me when I get there, and I can't get another
situation in the middle of the term. It's cruel, cruel, cruel! I'm a
beggar, and I shall have to go to the workhouse and sleep in the
casual ward, and break stones before they let me leave in the morning.
It's wicked cruelty! I don't care who hears me say it, so it is!"
Mr. Shane's agitation, though real enough, was also sufficiently
grotesque. With his pockets turned inside out, and his collar and
necktie all awry, he paced about the schoolroom, swinging his arms,
speaking in his thin, cracked tones, the tears running down his
cheeks, half choked with passion. It was the grotesque side of the
usher's woe which appealed to Bailey.
"You don't mean to say Mr. Fletcher won't pay you your wages?"
"I do, I do! He says he hasn't got it; he says he doubts if he has
five shillings to call his own. What right has he to engage an usher
if he has not got five shillings of his own? How does he expect to pay
me, and fifteen shillings owing from last term? How am I to walk to
Braintree in Essex in these boots without a penny in my pocket? and
what will my mother say when I get home--if I ever do get home--with
no money in my pocket, and turned out of a situation in the middle of
a term? It's a cruel, wicked shame, and I'll shout it out in the
middle of the road! I don't care what they say, I will! I won't go
without my money, if it's only the fifteen shillings left owing from
last term!"
"Then I suppose you can't lend me a shilling or two?"
"Lend you a shilling or two! How can I? It's for you to advance a loan
to me. Bailey, you've been a wicked boy to me ever since I came, and
now to come and ask me to lend you money! You're all wicked about the
place."
"I've got one and fivepence." Bailey held the money in his hand.
"One and fivepence! Bailey, it's your duty to lend me that one and
fivepence. You can't want money, your parents will send you the means
to take you home. And here am I without a penny. How am I to walk all
the way to Braintree in Essex in these boots without a penny in my
pocket? It is a wicked thing that I should ever have been induced to
accept such a situation. It's your duty to make amends for your
uniform bad conduct, and to sympathise with me in my distress. You
ought to lend me that one and fivepence. Won't you lend it to me,
Bailey?"
Bertie went through the familiar pantomime of putting his fingers to
his nose.
"Me lend you one and fivepence--ax your grandmother! You must think me
jolly green."
He thrust the hand which still held the one and fivepence into his
trousers pocket, and turning on his heel marched with an air of great
deliberation to the door. At the door he turned, and again addressed
the usher.
"If I were you, old Shane, I'd go to Fletcher, and I'd say, 'Fork up,
Fletcher, or I'll give you one in the eye;' and then if he didn't fork
up I'd give him a couple of good fine black ones. He'd look nice with
a couple of black eyes, would Fletcher; and, if you like, I'll come
with you now and see you do it."
He paused; but seeing that Mr. Shane gave no immediate signs of acting
on this useful hint he went on,--
"You haven't got the spirit of an old dead donkey. You'd let anybody
have a kick at you. You're a regular all-round Molly, Shane."
With this frank expression of heart-felt sympathy for Mr. Shane's
distress he left the room, and banged the door behind him. His
enterprise, though displaying boldness, had been a failure; he had not
succeeded in adding to his capital. As he walked away from the
schoolroom he meditated upon the matter.
"One and fivepence isn't much--not to run away with--but Mr. Bankes
said he'd only ninepence-halfpenny; I'm better than that. Still, I'd
like another shilling or two; one and fivepence doesn't go far,
stretch it how you will. But if I can't get more I'll make it do,
somehow. If Mr. Bankes managed with ninepence-halfpenny I don't see
why I shouldn't do with one and fivepence. Something is sure to turn
up directly I am off."
It occurred to him that perhaps Mr. Bankes might have had something
else besides his ninepence-halfpenny--something in the shape of food,
valuables, or extra clothing, or some other unconsidered trifle of
that kind. Bertie perceived that if he put into execution his plan of
immediate flight he would have to go as he was, with his one and
fivepence and nothing else. He had a misty recollection of having read
somewhere of a young gentleman, just such another hero as himself, who
started on his exploration of the world with baggage in the shape of a
red cotton handkerchief, which contained a clean shirt, some bread and
cheese, and, if his memory served him, a pair of socks which his
little sister had neatly darned for him on the night before his
setting out.
Bertie would have to start without even this amount of luggage. Nor
could he understand that he would be much worse off on that account;
the bread and cheese might be useful--if he remembered rightly, the
young gentleman referred to had eaten his bread and cheese about ten
minutes after starting--but for the shirt and socks he could perceive
no use whatever. He had a sort of idea that either those sort of
things would not be required, or else that they could be had for
asking when he was once out in the world.
But his chief fear was, and it kept him on tenter hooks throughout the
day, that his grand exploit would be nipped in the bud, altogether
frustrated, by his being prematurely fetched home. He lived at Upton,
a little town in Berkshire, not twenty miles away. It would not take
long for Mr. Fletcher's communication to reach his home, and it was
quite within the range of possibility that a messenger would be
immediately despatched to fetch him. In that case he would sleep that
night in a paternal bed, and farewell to the Land of Golden Dreams.
The flitting had already commenced. By the afternoon some of the boys,
who lived close by, had already gone. The packing progressed briskly.
He had seen with his own eyes his boxes locked and corded. It was with
very mixed sensations that he had himself assisted at the process.
Within those well-worn receptacles was he locking and cording the Land
of Golden Dreams! At the mere thought of such a thing he could have
shed unheroic tears. At any moment he might be called, he might be
greeted by a familiar face, he might be whirled away in a cab at the
rate of four or five miles an hour, with his luggage on the roof of
the vehicle, and then--farewell to the Land of Golden Dreams.
He might have put an end to his uncertainty by starting at once on his
progress through the world. But he had made up his mind that that was
not the thing. To run away in broad daylight, like an urchin who had
stolen a twopenny loaf, with half a dozen yelping curs at his heels
and not impossibly the country folks all grinning--who could connect
romance with such an undignified departure? No, night was the thing
for him--silent, mysterious night; and, above all, the witching hour.
That was the time for romance! Under the cold white moon, and across
the moonlit meadows, when all the world was sleeping--then he could
conceive a flight into the world of mystery and of magic, and of Lands
of Golden Dreams. So he had decided that as nearly as possible
midnight should be the moment for his adventures to begin.
The choice of such an hour put difficulties in his way. First of all,
there was the difficulty of being sure of the time. He did not himself
possess a watch, and he could not rely upon some distant church clock
informing him of the passage of the night. Fortunately he remembered
that Tom Graham, who slept in a bed next door but one to his,
possessed a watch. He would time his departure by Tom Graham's watch.
Then there was the difficulty of egress--how was he to get away? In
his strong desire to play the more heroic part, he would have liked to
have dropped from the window of his bedroom some thirty-five feet on
to the paving-stones of the courtyard below. But then he reflected
that he would not improbably break his neck, and it would be just as
well not to begin his adventures by doing that; that sort of thing
would come in its proper place a little later on. He might knot his
sheets together, and form an impromptu rope, and descend by means of
that: there were charms about the idea which commended themselves to
him. He had seen a picture somewhere of a gallant youth descending by
means of such a rope a tower apparently a mile or two in height; it
was an unpleasant night and the youth was whirled hither and thither
by the tempestuous winds. Had his bedroom been a couple of miles
from the ground, why then--Bailey smacked his lips, and his eyes
glistened--but as it wasn't he discarded the idea. He sighed to think
that they build none of those lofty towers now--at least, so far as
he was aware.
No; for the present it was sufficient to get away. Let him first get
clear away, and then he would have adventures fast enough. He decided
that the old familiar schoolroom window would suffice for the
occasion. He would get out of that.
But the chief difficulty he had to face was the terrible risk which
existed of his being fetched away. One boy after another went; hour
after hour passed; a bare handful of young gentlemen remained. They
had dinner, such as it was; but Bertie had lost his appetite, and was
for the nonce contented with meagre fare. They had tea, which was
postponed to the latest possible hour, and which when it came
consisted of a liquid which such boys as partook of it declared was
concocted of the tea leaves which had remained at breakfast, and which
was accompanied by thick slices of unbuttered bread. But Bertie never
grumbled; he ate his bread and he drank his tea without suggesting
anything against its quality.
The evening passed. The number of boys was still more diminished, yet
for Bailey no one came. The clock pointed to an hour at which it was
declared that no one could come now--it was half-past nine. The usual
hour for bed was half-past eight, but the boys had been kept up in the
expectation and possible hope that at Mecklemburg House it would not
be necessary for them to go to bed at all. Now they were ordered to
their rooms.
Bertie could have danced, and sung, and stood on his head, and
comported himself generally like a juvenile madman; but he refrained,
His time was coming; he would be able to comport himself as he liked
in two hours and a half, but at present the word was caution.
It was arranged that all the boys who remained should sleep in the
same room. There were only five: Edgar Wheeler, Tom Graham, little
Willie Seymour, a boy whose parents were in India named Hagen, and
commonly called Blackamoor, and Bertie Bailey. The first into bed was
Bailey. Not a word was to be got out of him edgeways. He was a model
of good behaviour. He even pressed the others to hurry into bed,
to go to sleep, to let him sleep. They slept long before he did.
He lay awake tingling all over. He listened to their regular
respirations--Hagen was a loud snorer and always set up a signal of
distress--and when he was sure they were asleep he hugged himself in
bed. Then he sat up, being careful to make as little noise as
possible, and in the darkness peered at his sleeping comrades. Their
gentle breathing and Hagen's stentorian snores were music in his ears.
Then he lay back in bed again, biding his time.
He heard a clock strike the half-hour--half-past ten. It was a church
clock. He wondered which. The night was calm, and the sound travelled
clearly through the air; it might have been a long way off. And
then--then he went to sleep.
It was not at all what he intended--very much the other way. He had
supposed that he had only to make up his mind to lie awake till twelve
o'clock to do it. But he was wrong; the strain at which he had kept
his faculties through the day had told upon him more than he had
supposed.
He awoke with a start--with a consciousness that something was wrong.
He listened for a moment, wondering what strange thing had roused him.
Then he remembered with a flash. The time had gone and he had slept.
With a half-stifled cry he sprang up in bed. What time was it? Had he
really slept? Only for a minute or two, he felt sure. He groped his
way to Graham's bed. That young gentleman slept with his watch beneath
his pillow; Bailey was awkward in his attempts to get at it without
waking the sleepy owner.
He got it, and took it to the window that he might see the time.
Half-past two! soon it would be light--Bertie was almost inclined to
think it was getting lighter now. He gave a cry of rage, and the watch
dropped from his hand to the floor. Startled, he turned to see if the
sleepers were awakened by the noise. He held his breath to listen.
They slumbered as before. He picked up the watch and placed it on the
mantelshelf, not caring to run the risk of rousing Graham by replacing
it beneath his pillow. As he did so, he noticed that the glass was
broken, shattered in the fall.
With great rapidity he dressed himself, only pausing for a moment to
see that the one and fivepence was safe. His slippers were packed; he
had come to bed in his boots. Holding them in his hand, in his
stockinged feet he stole across the room, carefully turned the handle
of the door, went out, and shut the door behind him.
He met with no accident on his way to the schoolroom. Within five
minutes of his leaving his bed he was standing among the desks and
forms. The blinds had not been drawn: the moonlight flooded the
room--at any rate, the moon had not gone down. He was going to carry
out so much of his plans--he was to fly through a moonlit world.
Perhaps after all the little accident which had caused him to shut his
eyes was not of much importance. Certainly, the sleep had refreshed
him; he felt capable of making for the Land of Golden Dreams without
requiring to pause upon the way.
Among the moonlit desks and forms he put his boots on; laced them up;
then, with a careful hand, slipped the hasp of the familiar window,
raised the sash, got out, and lowered himself to the ground. It was
only when he was on the ground that he remembered that he was without
a cap. He put his hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and
produced an old cricket cap which he had privately secured when he was
supposed to be assisting at the packing.
Then he started for the Land of Golden Dreams.