At eight o’clock, after having made a delicate meal, the boy set out on
his pilgrimage into the streets of the great city. It was a delicious
morning of early spring. The sun stole through its white curtains,
playing elvishly on the traffic. The sounds and cries which ascended
from the purlieus of this vast open theatre seemed to be mellowed,
and to merge themselves in the primal harmony of the unplumbed spaces
overhead. Never before had the boy felt such an exhilaration as on this
glorious day. He crossed from one pavement to another with wonderful
valiancy, sometimes evading the heads of the horses with a feeling that
was almost akin to unconcern. He took his way from street to street
with the conviction ever re-affirming itself within him that he would
find his way to No. 12, Webster’s Buildings in the City.
In the height of this new power, which for the first time in his life
had rendered him fit to move in the great world out of doors, he gave
expression to his sense of joy by breaking out suddenly into the
reverberating, wavelike music of the Iliads. His lips moved to the
measure of those mighty cadences; they rolled out of his mouth, and
their song was louder than the thunder of the traffic. As he pressed
ever onwards through the endless, elbowing throng, he knew himself as
one with the son of Peleus.
Without once faltering, or one mistake in his course he found himself
before the façade of Webster’s Buildings in the City as the clocks were
striking nine. A moment’s reflection showed him which was No. 12. It
comprised a suite of offices on the ground floor.
Quite a number of boys of various ages and sizes were waiting on the
pavement outside the door. They had formed themselves into a queue.
First the boy stood looking at the mystic No. 12 which was painted
on the fanlight over the door, and then at the row of youthful
faces, which was already regarding him critically. After a moment of
hesitation he walked past them and plunged into the interior of the
building. As he did so, loud and angry protests arose of, “’Ere, you
come back, Barnum and Bailey!” “Take yer turn, yer young swine!” “Give
’im one for himself!”
The boy not understanding to whom this enigmatic truculence was
addressed, walked through the dark passage into the first room that he
saw, the door of which was partly open. A morose-looking man who was
biting a pen was standing just inside it.
The boy took off his hat and bowed low.
“M-may it p-please you, sir,” he said, repeating slowly but in
strangely timid accents, a speech which he had already carefully
rehearsed a thousand times, “I d-desire to offer m-myself in the
capacity of a bright boy.”
The morose-looking man took the pen out of his mouth with great
deliberation, and also with an astonishment which he did not seek to
dissemble.
“Do you, indeed?” he said. “We do want a bright boy, but we don’t want
’em too bright. You go back and wait your turn, you cheeky young imp.”
The boy stood a moment in perplexity, unable to grasp what was implied
by this answer, and what, in the circumstances, was the fitting course
to pursue. In the next, however, he had received enlightenment. The
problem was solved for him by the man with the pen. “D---- your young
impudence!” he said, taking him by the shoulders. In the next instant
the boy had been run through the passage and flung out on to the
pavement with the aid of a heavy kick.
His re-appearance and mode of egress were not lost on the select
company of bright boys who formed the queue. They seemed to accord them
a very decided approval. As the boy stood in bewilderment, with his
former morbid dread of physical violence returning upon him, loud howls
of derision arose from the queue.
At first it did not occur to the boy that they were directed at
himself. But, as he continued to stand before the door in irresolution
and surprise, the displeasure with which he was viewed personally was
brought somewhat forcibly to his notice. A boy sauntered out from the
middle of the queue and collected a handful of mud from the gutter. He
then crept up stealthily behind him, and flung it down the back of his
neck.
In spite of this not particularly delicate hint, however, and in spite
of the cries of derision all about him which seemed every moment
to increase, the boy continued to stand before the door. At last a
powerful boy, who was the first in the queue, turned to a companion and
said: “Keep my place, Nosey.” He then stepped out, and seizing the boy
ferociously by the ear, half led and half dragged him to the tail of
the queue. After having cuffed him severely, he said, “You get out of
your place again, and I’ll break your neck.”
Humiliation, terror and bodily pain were now added to the boy’s
bewilderment, but even these potent forces, mighty in combination as
they were, could not overcome the new-born strength of purpose that had
so recently sprung up in his heart. Doggedly, yet sickly enough, he
continued to stand behind the other boys, striving by every means in
his power to divine precisely what was taking place around him; and to
learn what line of conduct would consort with an immunity from personal
violence, and yet further the end to which he had pledged himself.
He stood on the pavement nearly an hour while other boys formed up
behind him. Happily none considered it to be worthy of their dignity to
visit him with further notice now that his place had been unmistakably
indicated to him and his presumption had been fittingly rebuked.
Nevertheless he hardly dared to breathe or to look to the right or to
the left lest he should again incur their notice. At last, however, an
incident happened which afforded him intense relief.
In the process of time boy after boy in front of him had passed through
the sacred door, and then after a brief interval within had returned
and had gone away disconsolate, incurring as he did so, from those
who still waited, sundry observations whose import the boy found it
impossible to fathom. But at last one of these came out wearing an air
of somewhat emphatic disgust, and said in a derisive tone to those who
yet remained in the queue: “You can all go ’ome. Cocoa’s got it. Five
bob a week, and a two bob rise every year.”
Upon this announcement, the boy was privileged to observe a strange
thing. All the other boys, not only those in front of him, but those
behind him also, melted away in silence as if by the agency of magic.
At first, so great was his relief at finding himself delivered in this
miraculous fashion of their presence that he could hardly realize his
good fortune.
For the next half-hour he stood where he was, meditating on what course
he must pursue. As he did so, there mounted still higher in his mind
the paramount necessity of speaking his carefully-rehearsed words to
those who were in need of a bright boy. For in the magic dispersal
of those ruthless and terrible youthful street-persons he recognized
clearly the hand of Providence. Whatever befell he must force himself
to obey the high resolve he had formed the previous night which had now
gained the sanction of heaven. If it cost him his life he must present
himself again before the man in the office who had already used him so
dreadfully.
With a compressed mouth and a stern face, from which he hoped all
traces of the mud had been removed by the assiduous use of his
handkerchief, although he could still feel it trickling down his back
in a most disconcerting manner, he ventured forth again into the dark
entrance of No. 12, Webster’s Buildings. The door at the end of the
passage was now closed. He tapped timidly upon the glass. There came no
answer. After waiting a full minute, in which he listened with nervous
intensity for permission to enter, he tapped again a little louder.
There was still no answer. Mustering up all his courage he tapped a
third time as loudly as he dared. Even if he broke the glass he must
obtain an answer!
“Come in,” said a voice from behind the door.
The boy opened the door and entered hat in hand. In the crowded room
was a number of men and boys seated on tall stools. The boy clenched
his hands and closed his eyes.
“M-may it p-please you, gentlemen,” he said shrilly at the top of his
voice, “I desire to offer m-myself in the c-capacity of a bright boy.”
In profound astonishment all the men and boys ceased their labours for
a moment. One of them, the morose-looking man, with whom previously he
had had dealings, gave a short laugh.
“Oh, it’s _you_ again, is it?” he said. “Kindly wait a moment until I
get to you.”
As he spoke, he picked up a heavy and long ruler and descended from his
stool. The boy waited in obedience to his request. The man took him by
the ear and led him out into the passage, and proceeded to beat him
with the ruler brutally about the head and shoulders.
“Do you think we will be plagued out of our lives by the likes of you?”
he said, as he flung the limp and breathless form into the street for
the second time. “You come here again, and I’ll have you locked up.”
Bruised, breathless and bleeding, the boy dragged himself away from
the vicinity of No. 12, Webster’s Buildings in the City. Yet it was
only in the flesh he was conquered; his spirit was still fortified
with resolve. What were his haps in comparison with those of Hector
at the Defence of Troy? Therefore after leaning against the wall of
an insurance office for a little time in order to recover some of
the physical power which had been so rudely knocked out of him, he
determined to renew his attempts to gain pieces of silver. It might be
that others besides the occupants of No. 12, Webster’s Buildings in the
City were in need of a bright boy. Indeed, it was most likely; at least
there appeared to be a large number of bright boys who were desirous of
gaining pieces of silver.
Accordingly he resolved to use his powers of observation, and to
select for himself a shop or an office which he deemed likely to stand
in need of the services of a bright boy. Yet his first choice was
not fortunate. After mustering every consideration in its favour, he
entered a small and unassuming shop in Gracechurch Street.
As he entered with a curious sensation in his heart, he was met by a
young woman with a supercilious lift to her chin and an abundance of
dark hair, who looked him up and down as though he had no right to be
there.
“What do _you_ want?” she said in a sharp tone, and hurting him with
her suspicious eyes.
“M-may it p-please you, m-madam,” he stammered, “I d-desire to offer
myself in the capacity of a bright boy.”
“Oh, d-do y-you?” said the young woman. “Go home and wash your neck and
then go and drown yourself.”
The boy slunk out into the street as though she had hit him a blow in
the face.
All through the afternoon he wandered up and down the crowded pavements
of the great city. In the course of his weary pilgrimage he entered
many shops and offices sickly yet doggedly; sickly yet doggedly he
made the offer of his services. Some of the answers he met with were
not intelligible; some of them were. Yet in spite of every rebuff,
of every conspiracy on the part of fortune, of the increasing sense
of bodily suffering, of the aches that stole over his limbs, of the
faintness that crept over him owing to these long hours of unaccustomed
physical and mental exertion and absence of food, he forced himself to
go on. What were such sufferings, such journeyings, such adventures,
such vicissitude in comparison with the ten long years in which his
beloved Odysseus was banished from the shores of Ithaca! What clay was
this that already it should begin to quail? How those great ones of
old would have mocked him had he dared to confess to them that he felt
distressed!
Yet he did feel distressed. It was almost useless to deny it. As for
the tenth time that afternoon, he was told “To take himself off, and
to look lively about it,” a formula which repetition had enabled him
to recognize, and experience had indicated the only course to pursue,
despair and humiliation, accompanied by terror, that most active of
all his enemies, crept upon him, and as the clocks of the great city
were striking five, tears sprang to his eyes. Almost in the same moment
he had dashed them away, had proudly overcome them. What if the great
Agamemnon could have seen him! How would he be able to meet those
mighty ones, how would he be able to grasp their hands, to look into
their faces, if this was the measure of his courage?
By this time he had come into Cannon Street, hard by to Saint Paul’s.
On the left side of the street, along which he passed, were great
blocks of gloomy warehouses. Flights of stone steps ran up to their
entrances; and as he limped by one of these, involuntarily he sank down
in sheer weariness upon a bottom step. He felt bitterly hungry, yet he
had no means of satisfying his pangs, for there was not a penny in his
pocket; and the only food he had had that day had been a little milk
and bread at eight o’clock that morning. Yet he still fought with all
the resolution of which he was capable against the physical weakness
which now held him so inexorably in its clutch. Again he began to
recite the Iliads under his breath, not now because the joy of battle
was in his veins, but because he sought to derive sustenance from those
high-hearted ones who looked on valour as their right.
As he sat on the bottom step of the warehouse, with his throbbing head
pressed against the cold stone, he beheld a heavy railway car drawn
by a mighty horse come up with a shattering rattle to the door of
the great building. The man who was driving it cast the reins on the
horse’s neck, and standing upon the dray shouted up into the second
storey. Thereupon a door was opened in the wall of the warehouse, and
a large box attached to the hook of a crane was swung outwards and
downwards towards the dray. As the drayman proceeded to assist it on
to the dray and to disengage it from the hook, the mighty horse grew
impatient and began to prance.
“Whoa there, you ----!” called out the drayman to the horse.
Standing on the kerb at the opposite side of the street watching these
proceedings was a small and pale urchin, whose clothes were in rags
and whose toes were bursting through his shoes. Suddenly with amazing
daring and rapidity he darted between a hansom, two omnibuses and a
covered van, and peremptorily seized the head of the great horse.
“Nah then,” he said to the horse sharply, “worrer yer at? Kim up.”
He gave the great horse a blow on the neck and backed it a yard or two.
“Good kid,” said the drayman, unhooking another box from the crane,
“hold him there a bit.”
The boy seated on the bottom step of the warehouse assimilated every
detail of these proceedings. He pondered them deeply. And as he did so,
quite suddenly a flash of meaning made his pulses quiver. Instantly
he withdrew his throbbing head from the cold stone, and rose heavily.
He approached the ragged urchin who was still holding the head of the
great horse.
“I--I b-beg y-your p-pardon,” he said, addressing the urchin with
immense politeness, “but I--I a-assume you will r-receive a p-piece of
silver for this brave action?”
“Come again,” said the urchin, who was not accustomed to this mode of
address.
The boy contrived to grasp that his meaning was not understood.
“The s-street-p-per--t-the m-man on the--on the c-car will give you a
p-piece of s-silver because you make the great horse stand still,” he
stammered, in order to make it clearer.
“Piece o’ silver!” said the urchin derisively. “More likely to gimme a
thick ear. Lucky if I git the price of a fag.”
The boy retired to the bottom step of the warehouse with this
mysterious piece of information. With infinite pains he had mastered,
as far as he was aware, all the coins in the currency; he had come to
believe that he knew the appearance and purchasing power of them all,
from the farthing to the sovereign, from the halfpenny stamp to the
five-pound note. But he had never encountered “a thick ear,” or “the
price of a fag,” in all his researches.
Timidly, reluctantly he went back to the urchin.
“I--I beg y-your p-pardon,” he said as courteously as before, “but
w-would you m-mind informing me what is the monetary value of the price
of a fag?”
“A nickel, o’ course,” said the urchin in a tone that seemed to
indicate that further intercourse was not desired. He was disposed
to resent the intrusion of a busybody into his personal and private
affairs.
“A n-nickel,” said the boy blankly. “W-would you mind in-informing me
wh-what is a nickel?”
“A brown, o’ course,” said the urchin, eyeing him sternly.
“Oh yes,” said the boy, “one of those brown coins which are called
p-pennies. I am much in-indebted to you for this in-information.”
With a grave smile of thanks the boy lifted his cap and returned again
to the steps of the warehouse. After a moment, however, in which he
stood in irresolution he limped away along the street. His progress was
carefully noted by the urchin, who watched the frail figure solemnly as
it proceeded along the crowded pavements of Cannon Street.
“Gawdstrewth!” he exclaimed, spitting with vehemence, and dealing the
great horse a further admonitory blow on the neck.
The boy, however, as he limped with his hunger and weariness through
the crowd of street-persons who were about him everywhere and who dealt
him continual buffets, was under the dominion of an idea. He had gained
yet another fragment of practical knowledge by the medium of first-hand
experience. He must turn it to account at the first opportunity. He
was hungry. That inexorable power in whose hands he was had inflicted
that salutary condition upon him in order to make trial of his quality.
And what an incomparable sense of power it would confer upon him to
feed that hunger for the first time in his life by his own personal
skill in the practical sciences!
A hundred yards along the street was another huge block of gloomy
warehouses almost identical with the others. It also was furnished with
a flight of stone steps and a crane dangling above a door in the second
storey. Their similarity, even to the smallest details, enabled the boy
to see in the appearance of this second warehouse this same indubitable
hand. He sat down as before on the bottom step, and in simple faith
proceeded to await the arrival of a second dray drawn by a great horse.
As thus he sat with an exalted patience for that which he knew must
come to pass, yet with his limbs trembling so that he could not hold
his knees from knocking together, the clock of the cathedral across
the street boomed the hour of six. Its august echoes reverberated
in his spirit; they filled it with awe; the sense of a remote yet
noble kinship overwhelmed him as he sat. He looked across the street
with dim eyes; the colossal spire was uplifted sheer, it was lost
in the lowering darkness of the sky. The sombre and vast walls of
the church seemed to proclaim themselves to his imagination like the
voices of heroes upon which it fed. Their ghostliness, for already
they were enveloped in the shadows of evening, set his lips again in
motion. Involuntarily they began to move to the familiar lines of the
Purgatorio:
Era gia l’ ora che volge il disio
ai naviganti, e intenerisce il cuore
lo di ch’ han detto ai dolci amici addio;
e che lo nuovo peregrin d’amore
punge, se ode squilla di lontano,
che paia il giorno pianger che si more;
quand’ io incominciai a render vano
l’ udire ed a mirare una dell’ alme
surta, che l’ ascoltar chiedea con mano.
The huge clock of the cathedral boomed again and yet again. His lips
still moved softly to the music they emitted. No dray and no great
horse had arrived. But his resolve was undaunted; his faith remained
inviolate. His frame was growing numb and chill. The stone had grown
very cold. The stealthy hues of the night were wrapping themselves
about everything. The lamps were now lit in Saint Paul’s Churchyard.
A serried bank of dark clouds was looming up out of the west. At his
heart was a curious sinking; he seemed to feel a little faint.
It still wanted a few minutes to seven by the stolid face that peered
at him from across the street, when his devout patience and his simple
faith met with their reward. Just as he had foreseen, a heavy dray
drawn by a great horse came rattling round the corner of the cathedral.
As it neared the warehouse on the steps of which he sat, it began to
slow up. Yes, never a doubt about it, it was coming to stand under the
creaking piece of iron above his head, the crane dangling from the
second storey.
This dray stopped precisely as the other one had done at the other
warehouse. In a precisely similar fashion the drayman cast the reins
loose on the great horse’s neck. Again the drayman stood up and called
unintelligible words into the second storey. The door opened as before;
the crane began to squeak and grunt; the box hung suspended in mid-air.
Swinging and rotating it descended to the drayman’s arms. And then just
as before the mighty animal began to prance.
With his heart beating as though it would break him in pieces the boy
rose from the bottom step of the warehouse. He pressed his hands to his
sides. “Courage, Achilles!” he muttered under his breath, “Courage,
Achilles!”
The great horse still pranced. The man on the dray shouted a horrible
oath. With flaming eyes and cheeks of death the boy dragged his faint
limbs to the kerb. As he came near the great animal, and he beheld its
scarlet nostrils and huge and wicked eyes, he knew it for a monster
of fable that could turn him to stone with its glance. A chill stole
through his veins. He extended his hands towards the great horse. His
eyes were filled with a dreadful rushing darkness. He felt himself
swaying with a kind of sick impotence; it was as though the hand of
fate had maimed him.
“Lay ’old of his head, can’t yer?” the brutal voice of the man on the
dray percolated to his ears. “What are yer lookin’ at ’im for?”
The great horse lifted its hoofs; the boy reeled back with the face of
a corpse.
“Mind he don’t eat yer,” said a quiet voice at his side.
A second small and ragged urchin, far less in stature than himself and
half his years, calmly took hold of the great horse by the near rein,
shook it, struck the animal on the neck very boldly, and proceeded to
back it just as the other urchin had done.
“Nah then, worrer yer mean by it?” he said, scolding it in a shrill
voice like a woman would an infant.
The impassive face upon the cathedral boomed the hour.
In a strange anguish of the spirit, which he had never felt before, the
boy staggered away from the warehouse into the ever-gathering shadows
of the great city. He did not know where he was. He did not know what
he did. He was in the enfolding grasp of an unknown power; he was in
the bosom of the gods.
Without apprehension, and without reason, he was borne through the
maze of cabs, vans and omnibuses to the other side of the street. He
clutched feebly at the chill iron railings that formed a girdle round
the cathedral. A bell seemed to be tolling. It filled his heart with
voices. An occult force, which had never grasped him till this hour,
began to draw this broken wayfarer seeking for sanctuary towards the
unknown.
He issued back to a frail sense of entity to find himself on the steps
of the cathedral. He saw lights; he smelt warmth; he heard remote and
strange music; he heard the hushed clamour of many voices. He was in
a vast place echoing yet domeless. He was on his knees pressing his
temples against the cold marble flags.
The deep voice of the organ filled the warmed air with a thousand
vibrations. Afar off were bright-burning candles and solemn songs. He
pressed his temples closer to the chill flags. He panted like a hunted
deer.
Hours later, when he staggered out of the enervating warmth of the
cathedral, the night was pitch dark. The chill airs of the evening
made his jaws clap together. He did not know where he was. Moving
with little tottering steps, his flesh as water, his eyes blind with
night, he followed the line of railings that engirdled the cathedral.
He clutched at them; he hugged them blindly to his bosom; he was like
a mariner in uncharted seas who has lost his compass. He followed the
course of the railings, dragging one foot after another almost as one
who is bereft of the power of volition. It took him nearly an hour to
complete the circuit of the railings, and then he found himself back
again at the point whence he had started, the steps of the cathedral.
Still clinging to the railings he started to go round them again.
Within him the instinct was paramount that if he did not keep his faint
limbs in motion he was lost. He would perish in the streets of the
great city. Passing each iron rail in its turn through his numb hands
he went on and on, and in the process of time returned again whence he
started to the steps of the cathedral.
For the third time he set out to traverse the line of the railings. He
was very cold. Yet the flesh must continue to obey, or that nameless
destination which he had ceased to remember would never be won. As
before, railing by railing, he made the circuit, and for the third
time returned whence he started. Without an instant’s tarrying he set
out again. The impassive face upon the cathedral boomed the hour of
midnight. The dark heavens looked like Erebus. A sharp cold spray of
rain was dashed suddenly upon his cheeks.
This blessed succour seemed to give him a flicker of power. “Courage,
Achilles!” he muttered faintly. He could not feel his feet as they
crept over the wet pavements; they seemed to be poised in the jaws of
an abyss. His form seemed to be disembodied in the air of the night.
But the flesh was still making its answer; the unending procession
of the railings still continued to slide through his hands. Yet his
fingers could feel nothing. How soft and vague everything was growing!
A delicious softness had begun to creep out of the sharp airs of the
night.
As his eyes were closing he grew conscious that a pair of arms were
enfolding him.
“My father,” he muttered, “my father.”
He pressed his closed eyes against a garment which was wet yet
protective. He was lying against his father’s bosom. His father had
followed in his steps as he set out in the morning, and had never been
more than fifty yards from him during the whole of the day.