A BROTHER SCOUT TO THE RESCUE
Nearly a fortnight passed, and one dull afternoon a very discouraged
Raven was perched on a capstan at the edge of Quay Flat. Chippy had
tramped the town end to end and street by street in search of those
cards marked 'Boy Wanted,' and had found none, or had failed to get the
place. There was so small a number of them, too. He was reflecting
that when he had been in a job he had seen two or three in a day as he
traversed the town; he was quite sure of it. Now they seemed to have
vanished, or, when he lighted on one, it meant nothing. The people had
just got a boy, and had forgotten to take the card down.
Suddenly he was hailed from behind. He glanced round, leapt down, and
came promptly to the full salute, which was promptly met by his brother
patrol-leader.
'Hallo, Chippy!' said Dick. 'Got a holiday?'
'Got nuthin' else,' said Chippy.
'How's that?' asked Dick. 'I thought you went to work.'
'So I did--once,' murmured Chippy; it seemed a hundred years since he
was pleasantly engaged in the task of earning the substantial sum of
four-and-sixpence a week.
Dick looked at his comrade, whom he had not seen since that eventful
afternoon on the heath. Chippy was thinner and whiter: Dick saw it,
and asked him if he had been ill. They got into talk, and before long
Dick learned about Mr. Blades, and the manner in which the Raven leader
lost his job.
'What a jolly shame, Chippy!' burst out Dick. 'That's altogether too
bad. Sacked you because you wouldn't be a sneak and break your scout's
oath! And you haven't found anything else?'
'Nuthin' straight,' replied Chippy. 'I could soon get a job on the
crook.'
'On the crook?' repeated Dick; 'that means dishonest, doesn't it,
Chippy?'
Chippy nodded, and went on: 'There's a chap as lives in Peel's Yard
down in Skinner's 'Ole, he's been arter me two or three times. He's a
bad un, I can tell yer. He wants me to goo wi' him a-nickin'.'
'What's that, Chippy?' asked Dick.
'Stealin' money out o' shop-tills,' replied Chippy. 'He keeps on
a-tellin' me as we could make pounds a day at it, if I'd on'y let him
train me a bit.'
'Oh, but you'd never, never do that!' cried Dick.
'No fear,' returned the Raven. 'I told 'im straight he was on the
wrong lay. "Yer wastin' yer breath," I told 'im. "A boy scout don't
goo a-nickin'."'
'Not likely,' said Dick. 'Oh, you'll soon find a job, Chippy, I'm
sure.'
'It 'ud suit me uncommon to come acrost one,' murmured Chippy.
'Four-an'-six a wick wor' very useful, I can tell yer, at our 'ouse.
Theer's some kids, an' they eat such a lot, kids do.'
Chippy fell silent, and Dick kicked thoughtfully at the capstan for a
few seconds. Then he whirled round on his heel, saluted, and said,
'Well, I'm off.'
'Why, you're goin' straight back!' cried Chippy, returning the salute.
'Yes, Chippy, old boy,' said Dick. 'I'm going straight back.'
He had been coming from the town, and he now returned to it at a swift
step. On he went, head back, shoulders square, walking as a scout
should walk, until he reached Broad Row, the street where the great
shipping firms had their offices, and here he paused before a fine
building, whose huge polished brass plate bore the inscription of
Elliott Brothers and Co. The Elliott Brothers were Dick's father and
his Uncle Jim, and before going in Dick paused for a moment and bit his
lip.
'It's a business job I'm after,' said Dick to himself, 'and I'll carry
it out in a business style. I don't want father to make a joke of it;
it's no joke to poor old Chippy--anybody can see that with half an eye.'
So Dick dived into his pocket and fetched out a dozen things before he
lighted on what he wanted--a small leathern case with a dozen cards in
it. In the centre of the card appeared 'Dick Elliott,' neatly printed;
while in the corner, in quaint Old English lettering, was his address,
'The Croft, Birchfields,' being the names of the house and suburb in
which he lived. The card was his own achievement, produced on his own
model printing-press, and he was rather proud of it.
He entered the inquiry office on the ground-floor, and the clerk in
charge came forward with a smile.
'I say, Bailey,' said Dick, 'you might take this up to my father, will
you?'
The clerk took the card, looked at it, and then at Dick, and went
without a word; but his smile was now a grin. In a short time he came
back, and murmured, 'This way, please,' and Dick followed, very serious
and thoughtful, and in no wise responding to Bailey's unending grin.
Dick was shown into the room of the senior partner, who was looking at
his visitor's card, and now glanced up with a humorous twirl of his eye.
'Ah, Mr. Elliott,' he said--'Mr. Dick Elliott, I think'--glancing at
the card again. 'Pleased to meet you, Mr. Elliott. Won't you sit
down? And now what can I do for you?'
'I have called upon you, sir,' said Dick, 'in the hopes of enlisting
your sympathy on behalf of a worthy object and a noble cause.'
Dick had collared this opening from the heading of a subscription-list,
and he thought it sounded stunning. He felt sure it would impress the
senior partner. It did: that gentleman's emotion was deep; he only
kept it within bounds by biting his lips hard.
'Ah, Mr. Elliott,' he said, 'you are, I suppose, in quest of a
donation?'
'Well, not exactly,' replied Mr. Elliott; 'I should like to tell you a
little story.'
'Charmed,' murmured the senior partner; 'but I hope it will be a little
story, Mr. Elliott, as I and my partner are due very shortly at an
important meeting of dock directors.'
Dick plunged at once into his narration, and the senior partner
listened attentively, without putting in a single word.
'I see, Mr. Elliott--I see,' he remarked, when Dick had made an end of
the story of Chippy's troubles; 'you are in search of a post for your
friend?'
'I should be uncommonly glad to find him something,' murmured Dick.
'I'm afraid you've come to the wrong person, Mr. Elliott,' said the
shipowner. 'I believe there are some small fry of that kind about the
place who fetch parcels from the docks, and that kind of thing, but I
really don't concern myself with their appointment--if I may use so
important a word--or their dismissals. All those minutiae are in the
care of Mr. Malins, the manager.'
'Oh, father, don't put me off with Mr. Malins!' burst out Dick,
forgetting his character for a moment in his anxiety. 'I want you to
lend me a hand, so as to make it dead sure.'
'Well, Mr. Elliott, you're very pressing,' remarked the senior partner.
'I'll make a note of it, and see what can be done.'
'I'm very much obliged indeed,' murmured Mr. Elliott.
'May I ask your friend's name?'
'Slynn,' replied Dick.
'Christian name?'
'I never heard it,' said Dick, rubbing his forehead. 'They call him
Chippy.'
'Thank you,' said the senior partner, pencilling a note on his
engagement-pad; 'then I am to use my best efforts to find a post for
Mr. Chippy Slynn, errand-boy. Well, it's the first time I've made such
a venture; it will have, at any rate, the agreeable element of novelty.
And now I must beg you to excuse me: I fear my junior partner is
waiting for me.'
'That's all right, sir,' said Dick cheerfully. 'Uncle Jim won't mind.
He knows Chippy.' And forthwith Dick departed, quite content with the
interview.