IN PETERSHAM PARK
Bertie looked at Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins, and Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins looked
at him, and husband and wife looked at one another.
"And have you had a nice sleep, my dear?"
Bertie vouchsafed no reply to the lady's question, continuing to look
at her with his characteristically dogged look in his eyes.
"And how long have you been awake, my dear? Have you only just now
woke?"
Bertie threw the clothes from off him, and turned to Mr. Jenkins.
"I won't go home, even if you do go and tell my mother, you old
sneak!"
This uncomplimentary epithet was applied to Mr. Jenkins with such
sullen ferocity, that that gentleman started and looked even more
discomfited than he had done before. Bertie got out of bed and stood
upon the floor.
"Give me my clothes, and let me go; you've no right to keep me here."
Mr. Jenkins was apparently speechless, but his quicker-witted wife was
voluble enough.
"Certainly, my dear. No one wants to keep you, lovey. You pay us what
you owe and you're as free as the air!"
"I don't owe you anything."
"Not anything for a young gentleman like you; it's only six shillings,
my dear."
"Six shillings!"
"Yes, six shillings. Would you like your bill, my dear? Jenkins, go
and get the young gentleman his bill."
"You're a lot of thieves!"
"Oh, thieves are we? Very well, if you like to think us so, my dear.
But I shouldn't have thought that a young gentleman like you would
have liked to rob poor people of the money he owes for his board and
lodging. And if you talk about thieves, my dear, Jenkins will go for a
policeman, and a policeman will soon show you who's the thief, if you
don't pay us what you owe, my lovey. And I shouldn't be surprised if,
when he heard as how you'd runned away, the policeman wasn't to take
and lock you up at once, my pet. Now, Jenkins, you come along with me,
and while I makes up the young gentleman's bill you go and fetch a
policeman, because as he thinks we're thieves, he do."
While the lady delivered herself of this voluble string of
observations she had gradually approached the door. Before Bertie had
perceived her design, she had pushed her husband through the door, and
was through herself; the door was shut, the key turned in the lock,
and Bertie was a prisoner.
"Now we'll see who's thieves!" the lady was heard to observe outside.
"Now, Jenkins, you go and get a policeman this instant minute, and
mind you bring a good big one, too!"
Very few boys would be so foolish as to, what is rather erroneously
termed run away; sneak away would perhaps be the correct phrase. If in
any given million we were to put it that there is one such being, we
should perhaps be stating a larger average than actually exists. But
we may be pretty sure, that for even that young gentleman the
adventures which had befallen Bertie Bailey at the very outset would
have been quite sufficient; he would have devoted the small remainder
of his energies to running, _i.e_., sneaking, back again.
But Bertie Bailey was made of sterner stuff; he was of those young
gentlemen who have to learn their lessons a good many times over
before they can get the meaning of what they have learnt into their
heads. Those who reach the end of this story will find that he did
learn his lesson to the end, and that it was a terrible lesson too,
but the ending was not yet.
So soon as he understood that he was a prisoner, Bertie cast about for
some method of escape. In his heart he could not but allow that the
commencement of his journey had not been so successful as he had
intended that it should be. But he was naturally slow to admit a
failure. And to think that the ingenious Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins should
make capital out of his misfortunes; that was an idea he by no means
relished.
Fortunately, the lady had left his clothes behind. It occurred to
Bertie that she might perceive her error and return to fetch them. To
prevent any likelihood of that he put them on. Then he looked about to
find a path to freedom.
The window immediately caught his eye. It was a very little one, in
the fashion of a double lattice, which opened outwards. But Bertie
resolved that it was large enough for him. He opened it carefully and
peeped out. It was apparently a window at the side of the house,
looking out upon a narrow passage-way.
Had Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins known the character of their guest, they
would never have been so foolish as to think the bird was safe while
he had the command of that convenient window. It was only some ten or
twelve feet above the ground, and to Bertie the drop was nothing.
He lost no time in putting it to the test. First peering up and down
the narrow passage, to see that no one was in sight and that no other
window commanded a view of his operations, he brought the only chair
the room contained up to the window and commenced to climb through it,
feet foremost. The operation was a delicate one, but the size of the
window precluded any other mode of egress. Even as it was, when he was
about half way through he discovered that he was stuck fast. For a few
disagreeable moments he feared that he would have to remain in that
uncomfortable position till Mrs. Jenkins returned to secure her prey.
He wriggled and twisted, but for a time in vain. Suddenly, however, he
did more than he intended; for the result of a desperate effort was to
precipitate him so rapidly backwards that he was only just able to
grasp the old-fashioned, narrow, wooden window sill with his right
hand in time to prevent himself from falling in a heap upon the
ground. He hung for a second, to give himself chance to recover from
the shock, then he loosened his hold, and, dropping, alighted on his
feet upon the ground; and no sooner was he on the ground than, without
waiting to see if there was any one about, he dashed helter skelter
down the passage at the top of his speed.
He was not pursued. On that point his mind was soon at rest. Mr. and
Mrs. Jenkins were probably too much engaged with other matters to
think of the possibility of their guest effecting his escape. The
passage led, by a succession of devious turnings, into the Richmond
Road. When he reached the main thoroughfare Bertie ceased to run.
Under the railway arch, past the shops, past the cricket field, into
the lanes beyond, went Bertie. He had had nothing to eat that morning,
he had not a farthing in his pocket; he had no conception where money
was to come from unless it tumbled from the skies; yet he went
unhesitatingly forward, as though all the world was at his feet, and
all its wealth was in his pocket.
Past Ham Common into Petersham, and now he began to think that perhaps
he was a little hungry. Delicious recollections of the morning meal of
yesterday floated through his mind. A dish of ham and eggs he would
have welcomed as a dish worthy of the gods; but there were no ham and
eggs for him just then.
The road was dusty; the previous rains had disappeared, and the mud
was turned to dust. By the time he reached Bute House he had made up
his mind that the dust and heat combined were a little more than he
quite relished. By then, too, he had no doubt but that he was hungry
and thirsty too.
Suddenly the sound of voices fell upon his ear; of children's voices,
of their laughter, of their cries of pleasure as they called to one
another. He looked through the rails into Petersham Park. The park was
full of children. There was some huge school treat, and in hundreds
they were passing here and there. Up the hill, and along the valley,
among the trees, and in the nooks and dells, as far as the eye could
penetrate, there were children moving. He entered, and advancing some
distance from the outer wall, he lay down upon the grass.
When he had lain there some time there were races started. Little boys
and big raced for prizes. Those in charge of the multitude of children
arranged the sports.
"Here's a race for a shilling!" shouted one such person in authority.
He held a leather bag above his head. There was a shout from the boys
who crowded round him. The prize was of unusual magnitude. All the
prizes seemed to be in money,--twopence, threepence, fourpence had
been their value until now--and no sooner were they won than the
winners rushed to spend their prizes at the stalls of fruit and
sweets, the proprietors of which plied a roaring trade. When the race
for a shilling was announced there was a shout from a multitude of
throats.
"Now then, why don't you have a try to win? you're big enough. Lying
there as if you're half asleep; jump up, and show them how fast your
feet can travel!"
A young man was standing by Bertie, looking down at him, evidently
unaware that he was not an original member of the noisy crowd.
"Jump up! Why don't you go in for the race? Are you ill?"
"I'm not ill."
Without another word Bertie got up and joined the host of boys who
were preparing to run. There were probably a hundred, and the
directors of the sports had considerable difficulty in arranging a
fair start. The race was confined to the bigger ones; there were no
starts allowed, and they were all supposed to start from the same
line. But the competitors had not the nicest sense of honour, and each
endeavoured to steal a yard from his friend. Finally they were got
into something like a proper line.
The distance to be run was about two hundred yards. The course was not
a very regular one, as some were up the hill, and some were down; the
breadth of the level ground was not sufficient to contain them all.
Two persons stood in a line to mark the winning-post, and between them
they stretched a cord. The one on the right held the shilling in a
bag.
Several false starts were made. In their anxiety to be first the
competitors could not manage to stand still. Half a dozen times they
broke away, and had to be called back again. At last they were off.
The course was from the park and towards the road, the winning-post
being about a dozen yards from the school house at the gate.
The race was short, and, so far as the majority of the competitors
were concerned, by no means sharp. Quite a third were out of it in the
first six yards; half the remainder were beaten in a dozen, and before
half the distance was covered there were only four or five who had a
chance of winning. Among these was Bailey. He was not over fast on his
feet as a rule, but never had the inducement to make the best possible
speed been so strong before. He was running for his dinner, and, for
all he knew, his tea and supper too.
In the last fifty yards the race resolved itself into a struggle of
three. In front was a tall, lanky boy, who, so far as length of limb
was concerned, ought to have left the others at the post. But his
condition was not equal to his build; he went puffing and panting
along. Obviously it would take him all he knew to last it out. About a
couple of yards behind him, and almost side by side with Bertie, was a
slightly-built lad, who was straining every nerve to keep his place.
The freshest of the three was Bailey.
Yet the lanky youth looked like winning. He lumbered and blundered
along, but his long legs enabled him to cover at a single stride the
ground which they had to take two steps to cover. The boy by Bertie's
side had just given up the struggle with a gasp, when the lanky lad
caught his foot in a hole and went headlong to the ground. Like a
flash Bertie put on a spurt and dashed victorious in. The prize-holder
held out the leather bag, and Bertie caught it as he passed.
But the lanky youth, disappointed in his expectations, having puffed
himself for nothing, beheld the reward of his endeavours snatched from
his grasp with a burning sense of injury. Struggling to his feet he
gave his emotions words.
"It ain't fair! Who's he? He ain't one of us! He's a stranger!"
Instantly the words were caught up by a host of disappointed
competitors.
"He's a stranger! What's he want running races along with us? and
winning of the prizes?"
The individual who had so hastily yielded up the reward of victory,
turned to Bertie.
"Aren't you one of our boys?"
But Bertie did not wait to give an answer. The shilling of which he
had gained possession meant so much to him, that he instinctively felt
that to wait to explain exactly who he was would be a waste of time.
He had been told to run, he had run, he had fairly won, he had been
handed the shilling as his by right; it meant dinner, supper,
everything to him; he was not going to stop to argue the point as to
who he was. So when the over hasty-individual put the question to him,
his only answer was to take to his heels and run.
Instantly a crowd was after him.
"Stop him! stop him! He's a stranger! He's not one of us!"
But if he had run fast before, he ran faster now. He was through the
gate before any one was near him, dashing across the road, and under
the shadow of the "Star and Garter."
But the chase was relinquished almost as soon as it was begun. The
person who had held the shilling stopped it.
"Never mind, boys; he won the race, so let him take the prize. Perhaps
he wants it more than we do. I daresay we can find another shilling,
and next time we'll be a little more particular."
The crowd returned into the park again.
Bertie pursued his way. When he saw that the chase had stopped he
slowed a little, soon contenting himself with rapid walking. He was
very hot; the perspiration stood in great beads upon his face; his
clothing had an inclination to stick to his limbs. And he was very
thirsty; his throat was parched and dry. He was hungry too; his long
abstinence began to tell; he felt he could not go much farther without
something to eat and drink.
Along the Lower Road, past Petersham fields, past Buccleuch House,
into Richmond town. The town was crowded. The afternoon was well
advanced. The fine weather had brought people out into the streets.
Hill Street and George Street were crowded with both pedestrians and
carriages. Richmond can be both gay and lovely on a sunny afternoon.
It was then. The untidy, dusty, perspiring boy looked out of place
in that big bright crowd, made up as it was for the most part of
well-dressed people.
Once or twice he stopped and looked into the confectioners' shops, but
from their appearance they were evidently beyond his means. If he had
only been still the possessor of five pounds he might have ruffled
it with the best of them, but a shilling would not go far in those
well-filled emporiums of confectionery and nice-looking but
unsubstantial odds and ends, and he so hungry too. He was beginning to
fear that Richmond was not the place for him, and that he would have
to go hungry and thirsty, when he reached the coffee palace in the Kew
Road.
Here he thought he might venture in; and he did. He had a bloater and
some bread-and-butter, and a cup of coffee, and there was not much
change left in his pocket after that. But it was a sufficiently hearty
meal, and the choice of materials did credit to his judgment. He left
the shop with his hunger satisfied, feeling brighter and fresher
altogether, and with fivepence in his pocket clutched tightly with his
right hand. Those coppers were exceeding precious in his eyes.
He set out to walk to London. He knew that Richmond was not very far
from London, and had a general idea that he had to keep straight on.
He had lingered over his meal, taking his time and resting, and
watching the other customers enjoying theirs, so that it was about six
o'clock when he rose and went. A curious spirit of adventure possessed
him still. The bull-dog nature of the boy was roused, and it was with
an implicit faith in the future that he went straight on.
Until he reached Kew Bridge all was easy sailing; there was a straight
road, and he went straight on. But at Kew Bridge he pulled up,
puzzled. He had crossed the river at Hampton Court, and again at
Kingston, and apparently here was another bridge to cross. It seemed
to him that things were getting mixed. Ignorant of the convolutions of
the Thames, of its manifold twists and turns, he began to wonder
whether he had not after all gone wrong, when he found the river in
front of him again.
By the bridge lingered two or three of the flower-sellers who haunt
the neighbourhood of Kew Gardens. He addressed himself to one of them.
"Am I right for London?"
"Of course you is, over the bridge, turn to the right, and go straight
on. Won't you buy a bookay? Only this one left; ain't sold none all
day,--flowers only just fresh,--only sixpence, sir."
The man kept up by Bertie's side, supported by one or two of his
colleagues, proffering their wares.
"I haven't any money."
"Don't say that, sir,--I'm a poor chap, sir,--I am indeed, sir,--very
'ard to stand all day and not sell nothing--just this one, sir--you
shall have it for fivepence."
"I tell you I haven't any money."
"Leave the gentleman alone, Bill. Don't you see he's a-going home to
his ma?"
His colleagues dropped off, firing a parting shot; but the man whom
Bertie had originally addressed kept steadily on, sticking close to
his side. They crossed the bridge together. The sun was beginning to
go home in the west, majestically enthroned in a bank of crimson
clouds. The waters were tinted by his departing rays.
"Just this one, sir--take pity on a poor chap, now do, sir--you've got
a nice home to go to, and a ma and all, and here's me, what hasn't
earned a copper all the day, with nothing to eat and drink, and not a
bed to lay me 'ead upon--buy this one, sir--you shall have it for
fourpence."
"I haven't any money."
They went down the bridge together, the man still sticking to Bertie's
side.
"If I was a gentleman, and a poor chap came to me, and asked me to buy
a bookay, I wouldn't tell him I'd got no money, and me a hard-working
chap what hasn't tasted food for a couple of days, and hasn't seen a
bed for a week--just this one, sir--you shall have it for threepence,
and that's less than it cost me, it is indeed, sir--won't you have it
for threepence?"
"I tell you I haven't any money."
The man stopped, allowing Bertie to wend his way alone, but his voice
still followed after.
"Oh, you haven't any money, haven't you? would you like me to lend you
half-a-crown or a suvering? I'm sure I'm game. 'Ow much does your ma
allow you a week? a hapenny and a smack on the 'ead? If I was you I'd
ask your nurse to take you out in the pram, and buy you lollipops,--go
on, you mealy-faced young 'umbug!"
Bertie almost wished he had not asked the way, but had been content to
blunder on unaided. The flower-seller's voice was peculiarly audible;
the passers by were more amused than Bertie was. It was his first
experience of the characteristic eloquence of a certain class of
Londoner; he would have been content if it had been his last. He went
on, feeling somewhat smaller in his own esteem.
Past the "Star and Garter," along the Kew road, never a very cheerful
thoroughfare. Bertie thought it particularly cheerless then. Through
Gunnersbury, and Chiswick, and Turnham Green, past the green itself,
past Duke's Avenue, which is already a caricature of its former self,
and threatens to be an avenue no more. Past where, not so very long
ago, the toll bar used to stand, though there is no memorial of its
presence now. Past the carriage manufactory; past the terminus of that
singular railway which boasts of a single carriage and a single
engine,--said railway being two if not three miles long. Into King
Street, Hammersmith, and when he had got so far upon his journey the
lad began to tire.
The evening was closing in. The lamps were lighted; the shops were
ablaze with gas; the streets were crowded. But Bertie did not know
where he was; he was standing on strange ground. He wondered, rather
wearily, if this were London; but after his recent experience with the
vendor of bouquets he was afraid to ask. He was hungry again, and
began to look into the shop windows with anxious eyes. Fivepence would
not go far.
He tramped wearily on, right through King Street. At a costermonger's
stall he bought a pennyworth of apples, and munched them as he went.
His capital was now reduced to fourpence, and night was come, and he
was on the threshold of the great city--that Land of Golden Dreams.