As the weeks passed it was as if by a miracle that the young William
Jordan found himself still deriving pieces of silver from his
mysterious association with the counting-house of Messrs. Crumpett and
Hawker. Yet for some occult reason the impending sword never fell.
Perhaps it was that after a while he learned to assimilate his painful
and slow-wrung experience; at least in the process of time his growth
of knowledge in the practical sciences intervened to save him from some
of the dire pitfalls to which he was exposed.
Twelve months went by, twelve months fraught for the boy with infinite
vicissitude, but he still retained the occupation of the stool at No.
24 Trafalgar Square. There could be no doubt that he owed much to the
early supervision and the sagacious counsel, diversified on occasion
by the eminent practice, of Mr. James Dodson. Even after the elevation
of that accomplished worldling and philosopher to a higher sphere of
influence, he retained an almost paternal interest in his humble pupil.
It is true that the association of William Jordan, Junior, with one
of Mr. Dodson’s calibre was apt on occasion to diminish the number of
pieces of silver which he was able to dedicate to the cause that was
never out of his thoughts. But on the other hand, there can be no doubt
that William Jordan, Junior, gained a first-hand acquaintance with the
practical sciences that he could never have hoped otherwise to obtain.
At the end of his first year of servitude his pieces of silver were
augmented to the number of fifteen shillings per week. When he first
carried home this increase to his father in the little room, he was no
longer delirious with joy as was the case a year ago.
He spread them out on the table after supper with a curious melancholy.
During the few months previous to this event, his chief characteristic,
his eager, almost infantile, simplicity, had become tinged with a
quietude which seemed to be a foreshadowing of a sombre ripening to
maturity. He had been strangely silent and thoughtful of late. He had
given up in a great measure, even on Sundays, those thrice-blessed
days, his habit of reading constantly in the ancient authors.
“My father,” he said, as he arranged the pieces of silver upon the
table, “it is hard to believe that the same heart propels these fingers
that first laid these pieces of silver upon this table before you,
a long, long year ago. I think that year must have been an age, an
epoch. Or is it that during that time, my father, I have been reading
over-much in the Book of the Ages?”
“Ah, my beloved Achilles,” said his father, “may it not be that your
existence is entering upon a new phase? You know that the mortal life
of heroes has three phases. May not this be the second phase upon which
you are now entering?”
“Yes, my father,” said the young man thoughtfully, “I believe that to
be true. Things are not so mysterious to me as they once were. During
the past year I seem to have won knowledge that is great and strange
and rare.”