"Tom never turned up at all until the next morning; and he sat all that
day in his chair, and did nothing but look at the wall in front of him."
"Poor fellow!" I could not help saying.
"There you go!" said the pin; "be good enough to remember what I said,
and if you can't endure to hear of anybody sitting and looking at a
wail, it's no use my going on with my story."
"I only meant that I could imagine how miserable he was that day," said
I; "but go on, please."
"Two or three days after, Charlie Newcome called. Tom was alone, but he
refused to see him. He cursed to himself when he heard the name.
Charlie went back disappointed, but Tom made a great boast to his
`friends' that same night of his `cold shoulder to the prig,' as he
called it, and they highly applauded him for his sense.
"Again, a week later, Charlie called once more, but with the same
result. He wrote letters, but Tom put them in the fire unread; he sent
books, but they were all flung into a corner. In a thousand different
ways he contrived to show Tom that, though ill-used and in suited, he
was still his friend, and ready to serve him whenever opportunity should
offer.
"All this while Tom was sinking lower and lower in self-respect. He was
contracting a habit of drinking, and in a month or two after you had
left he rarely came home sober."
"And what about his bad friends?" asked I.
"There you are! why can't you let me tell my story in peace? His bad
friends visited him daily at first, made a lot of him, and praised him
loudly for his resolution in dismissing Charlie, and for his `growing a
man at last.' They lent him money, they lost to him at cards and
billiards, and they made his downward path as easy for him as possible.
"At last, about six months ago, Tom was found tipsy in the dissecting-
room at the hospital, and cautioned by the Board. A fortnight later he
was found in a similar state in one of the wards, and then he was
summarily expelled from the place, and his name was struck off the roll
of students."
"Has it come to that?" I groaned.
"Come to that? Of course it has; I shouldn't have said so if it
hadn't," replied the testy pin, who seemed unable to brook the slightest
interruption. "He took a fit of blues after that; he went to the Board,
and begged to be allowed to return to his studies, representing that all
his prospects in life depended on his finishing his course there. They
gave him one more chance. In his gratitude he resolved to discard his
companions, and actually sat down and wrote a letter to Charlie, begging
him to come and see him."
"Did he really?" I exclaimed, trembling with eagerness.
"All right, I shall not tell you of it again. Stop me once more, and
you'll have to find the rest of my story out for yourself."
"I'm very sorry," said I.
"So you ought to be. When it came to the time, however, Tom's
resolutions failed him. Gus and his friends called as usual that
evening and laughed him to scorn. He dare not quarrel with them, dare
not resist them. He crumpled up the letter in his pocket and never
posted it, and that night returned to his evil ways without a struggle.
"For a week or two, however, he kept up appearances at the hospital; but
it could not last. A misdemeanour more serious than the former one
caused his second expulsion, and this time with an intimation that under
no circumstances would he be readmitted. That was three months ago. He
became desperate, and at the same time the behaviour of Gus altered.
Instead of flattering and humouring him, he became imperious and
spiteful. And still further, he demanded to be repaid the money he had
advanced to Tom. Tom paid what little he could, and borrowed the rest
from Mortimer. He got behindhand with his rent, and his landlady has
given him notice. As usual, everybody to whom he owes money has found
out his altered circumstances, and is down on him. The keeper of the
music-hall, the tailor, the cigar merchant, are among the most urgent."
"And your being here is a result of all this, I see," said I, knowing
the story was at an end, and considering my tongue to be released.
"Find out!" angrily retorted the pin, relapsing into ill-tempered
silence.
I had little enough inclination to revert to the sad topic, and for the
rest of that day gave myself up to sorrow and pity for Tom Drift. One
thing I felt pretty sure of--it would not be long before he came again;
and I was right.
In two days he entered the office, wild and haggard as before, but with
less care to conceal his visit.
This time he laid on the counter the famous lance-wood fishing-rod which
Charlie had given him months ago, and which surely ought to have been a
reminder to him of better times.
He flung it down, and taking the few shillings the pawnbroker advanced
on it, hurried from the shop.
The next time he came some one else was in the shop. A passing flush
came over Tom's face on discovering a witness to his humiliation; but he
transacted his business with an assumed swagger which ill accorded with
his inward misery. For even yet Tom Drift had this much of hope left in
him--that he knew he was fallen, and was miserable at the thought. His
self-respect and sensitiveness had been growing less day by day, and he
himself growing proportionately hardened; but still he knew what remorse
was, and by the very agony of his shame was still held out of the lowest
of all depths--the depths of ruthless sin.
The stranger in the shop eyed him keenly, and when he had gone said to
the pawnbroker, "He's a nice article, he is!"
"Not much good, I'm thinking," observed the pawnbroker, dryly.
"So you may say; I know the beauty. He banged me on the 'ed with a
chair once, when he was screwed. Never mind, I know of two or three as
is after him."
And so saying, the disreputable man departed.
After that Tom came daily. Now it was an article of clothing, now some
books, now some furniture, that he brought. It was soon evident that
not only was he miserable and destitute, but ill too; and when presently
for a fortnight he never passed the now well-known door, I knew that the
fever had laid him low.
Poor Tom Drift! I wondered who was there now to nurse him in his
weakness and comfort him in his wretchedness. He must be untended and
unheeded. Well I knew his "friends" (oh, sad perversion of the sacred
title!) would keep their distance, or return only in time to quench the
first sparks of repentance. If only Charlie could have seen him at this
time, with his spirit cowed and his weary heart beating about in vain
for peace and hope, how would he not have flown to his bedside, and from
those ruins have striven to help him to rise again to purity and
honesty.
But no Charlie was there. Since the last appealing letter so scornfully
rejected, Tom had heard not a word of him or from him. What wonder
indeed if after so many disappointments and insults, the boy should at
length leave his old schoolfellow to his fate?
With returning health there came to Tom no returning resolutions or
efforts. The friends who had deserted his sick-bed were ready, as soon
as ever he rose from it, with their temptations and baneful influence.
One of his first visits after his recovery was to my master with a pair
of boots. He looked so pale and feeble that the pawnbroker inquired
after his health--a most unusual departure from business on the part of
that merchant.
"Hope you're feeling better," he said.
"Yes; so much the better for you," replied Tom with a ghastly smile.
"What can you give me for these, they are nearly new?"
"Five shillings?"
"Oh, anything you like; I've to pay two pounds to-morrow. What you give
me is all I shall have to do it with--I don't care!"
The pawnbroker counted out the five shillings, and handed them across
the counter.
"Good-bye!" said Tom, with another attempt at a smile; "I shall have to
change my address to-morrow."
And with that he turned on his heel. I watched him through the window
as he left the shop. He walked straight across the road and went in at
the public-house opposite.
And that glimpse was the last sight I had of Tom Drift for many, many
months.