We referred to a change which had come into Anstey's manner as regarded
his intercourse with our young friend. More than once he had returned
to the charge and sounded the latter again as to the probability of his
relatives being willing to invest some funds for him in what he was
pleased to call their joint concern. But Gerard's reply had been
positive and unvarying. So persuaded was he of their inability to do so
that he would not even apply to them. Then it was that Anstey's manner
began to change.
He dropped the intimate, elder-brother kind of tone which had heretofore
characterised their intercourse, and which poor Gerard in his youth and
inexperience had taken for genuine, and for it substituted a
master-and-servant sort of demeanour. He would order Gerard about, here
and there, or send him off on an errand, with a short peremptoriness of
tone as though he were addressing some particularly lazy and useless
native. Or he would always be finding fault--more than hinting that the
other was not worth his salt. Now, all this, to a lad of Gerard's
temperament, was pretty galling. The relations between the pair became
strained to a dangerous tension.
It happened one morning that Gerard was in the tumble-down old stable,
saddling up a horse to start upon some errand for his employer. It was
a clear, still day, and through the open door came the sound of voices,
which he recognised as belonging to two or three transport-riders, whose
waggons were outspanned on the flat outside, and who had been lounging
in the store making purchases and chatting just before.
"So I hear they've got two more writs out against Anstey," one voice was
saying.
"So? Who's doing it this time?"
"Oh, Butler and Creighton. They ain't going to allow him any more
tick--not even to the tune of a string of beads. Why, he's dipped three
or four times over. His bills ain't worth the paper they're written
on."
"Going to sell him up, are they?"
"_Ja_. They just are. They've got out two more writs, I tell you.
Shouldn't wonder if they put in an execution to-day."
Gerard, to whom every word was as plainly audible as it was to the
speakers themselves, felt as though petrified. This relative of his,
with his plausible and grandiloquent schemes, stood revealed a bankrupt
swindler of the worst type. All the glowing pictures of wealth and
success which he had drawn now seemed mere pitiful traps to catch him,
Gerard, in his youth and inexperience. Now the motive of Anstey's
change of manner was as clear as daylight. There was nothing further to
be got out of him. And with a dire sinking of the heart Gerard thought
of how he had been induced to invest his little all in this utterly
rotten concern. But no--it could not be. Anstey was his relation. He
could not be such a mean, pitiful rascal as that. But the next words
were not such as to reassure him.
"How they've given him so much law as they have bangs me, I admit," went
on the first speaker. "Why, for the last year past he's never had a
cent he could call his own. This show, and every mortal thing in it,
has been dipped up to the hilt."
"Maybe this young Britisher he's got hold of has helped bolster him up.
Eh!"
"Maybe. So much the worse for the Britisher, for he'll never see a
brass farthing of his money again. But how the mischief even a raw
Britisher could be soft-sawdered by Anstey is a stumper. He's out and
away the most infernal scoundrel in this colony."
All the blood rushed to Gerard's head. He had been duped, swindled. He
had given several months of hard and honest work without receiving any
pay, for his employer had always put him off on some pretext or other--
that it was more convenient, or usual, to settle up half-yearly, or what
not. He had been swindled out of even the few pounds which were all he
had in the world; for, as the man had just said, he would never be able
to get a farthing out of Anstey. Unfortunately there could be no reason
to doubt the truth of what he had just heard, for other signs, now made
clear, seemed to point to it. These men, moreover, were talking at ease
among themselves, and freely. They evidently knew what and who they
were talking about. His first impulse was to walk straight up to them
and ask for a further explanation. Instead, however, he went back to
the store.
Anstey was there, drinking grog with a transport-rider who had just come
in. At sight of Gerard he started up angrily.
"Why, what the deuce is the meaning of this?" he said, in his most
offensive and hectoring tone. "Not gone yet, and I sent you to saddle
up half an hour ago."
Gerard made no reply; but there was a look in his face which mightily
disquieted his employer. But the latter, who was fuddled to a
quarrelsome stage by the grog he had been drinking, roared out, with a
volley of curses--
"You disobedient, skulking beggar! What do you suppose I keep you here
for at all? Get out of this at once, and do as I tell you. Do you
hear, sir?"
Gerard's face turned livid. The abominable insult of the tone and words
was too much. He made a quick move forward, and things would have gone
badly for Anstey. But the grip of muscular hands on his shoulders
restrained him.
"Hallo, young fellow! What's all the row about? Keep cool, now, I say.
Keep cool!"
The advice was sorely needed, and the restraining touch had a salutary
effect. Gerard was not going to throw himself into any vulgar
promiscuous struggle, and collected himself with an effort. In the
voices of the two men who had just entered, he recognised the two whose
conversation he had overheard.
"I'll keep cool, right enough," he said. Then, addressing Anstey, "As
for you, the sooner we part the better. I have stood your abominably
offensive behaviour long enough, and I won't stand it a day longer. As
long as you behaved decently to me--which you did at first, no doubt for
reasons of your own--I would have done anything for you. Now you have
got upon the other tack I've had about enough of it. So we may as well
part at once. Please hand me over what you owe me, and I'll be off."
"What I owe you--eh?" said Anstey, with an evil sneer. "But supposing I
don't owe you anything, my fine fellow? If you slink off without giving
me proper notice, you forfeit every penny. How does that pan out--eh?"
Gerard's countenance fell. There was truth in this, he feared.
"Well, never mind about that," he said. "I'll waive my claim. I'll
make you a present of these months of hard work. Just return me my
twenty-five pounds, and we'll cry quits."
Anstey's face was a study in well-simulated amazement--blank, bewildered
amazement.
"Is the fellow drunk," he said, "or only mad? Your what? I'm not sure
if I quite heard. Your twenty-five thousand pounds, did you say?"
"I said my twenty-five pounds, that you induced me to hand over to you
to be invested in this business, which I believe to be an utterly rotten
concern, and has been for some time past," replied Gerard, stung out of
all prudence or reserve.
The two transport-riders looked at each other with dismayed meaning.
Their conversation must have been overheard. Anstey's face turned livid
at this hit.
"You're slandering me--slandering me before witnesses, by God--and
that's actionable. I'll have it out of you, you beggarly young sweep!"
he yelled, shaking his fist furiously, safe in the conviction that the
other men would not suffer Gerard to assault him.
"Well, you can please yourself about that. What I want now is the
return of my money?"
"Oh, indeed!" sneered Anstey, affecting a cool sarcasm. "And will you
kindly state _what_ money it is you desire returned?"
"Certainly," answered Gerard, "though I have already done so. I want
the twenty-five pounds--all I had in the world--which you induced me to
entrust to you to be invested in this rotten business. And I am going
to have it!"
"Oh, you are? So you shall, and welcome, when you can produce one scrap
of evidence, either in writing or by word of mouth, that I have ever had
twenty-five pounds, or shillings, or pence from you. Eh, sonny? What
do you say, now?"
Gerard started; stared blankly as he grasped the full extent of the
other's rascality. For, in his rawness and inexperience, he had not
required any sort of receipt or acknowledgment from Anstey, and he had
handed over the money at a time when there was no witness within sight
or earshot.
"And I tell you what it is," pursued Anstey, marking his undisguised
discomfiture, "I'll be hanged if I don't have the law of you for trying
to extort money out of me by threats and violence. I will, too, if you
don't clear out of this mighty sharp, and give me no more bother! It's
a criminal offence, I tell you; and these gentlemen are witnesses that
you tried it on. I'll have you put in the _tronk_. I'll--"
"Stow all that, Anstey," said one of the men, sternly and decisively.
"D'you mean to deny that this youngster ever handed you twenty-five
pounds? Come, now. Speak up, man!"
"Why of course I do," unhesitatingly replied Anstey, though not without
quailing before the indignation and contempt depicted on all three
faces.
"Well, then, I for one believe you are telling the most infernal lie
ever laid tongue to," said the transport-rider. "As for you,
youngster," turning to Gerard, "I can only say I'm sorry for you, for
you have fallen into the hands of the biggest blackguard in the whole of
this Colony. Why on earth didn't you make him give you a receipt or
something?"
"The fact is, he is related to me. I thought I could trust him. How
should I know he was no better than a common thief?"
"You're a mighty virtuous lot, eh, Sam Carruthers?" sneered Anstey.
"I've heard of a few tricks being played with waybills before to-day,
while the load's on the road."
"You just shut up, or I'll about knock your head off, Anstey, and be
glad of an opportunity to do it, too!" said another of the
transport-riders.
"Will you?" yelled Anstey, moving towards the inner door to ensure a
retreat in the event of any of them making an attempt at climbing over
the counter which now separated them from him. "I tell you what it is.
You're all in league with this swindling young thief, who is trying to
bluff me out of money. But it won't do--it won't do. He can take his
things and go to the devil. He came to me a beggar, and he can go out a
beggar--the ungrateful dog. And, if any one likes to try the smashing
trick, I've got a barker here that knows how to bite."
And, making a rapid skip inside, he reappeared in a moment with a
long-barrelled revolver.
All the anger, the indignation, almost the grief at being robbed, left
penniless, had momentarily faded from Gerard's mind before the
overwhelming disgust which he felt for the other's villainy. It was too
painful, too nauseating. That a man of Anstey's birth and antecedents,
a relative, though a distant one, of his own, could stoop to such a
black, pitiful, crawling theft, was revolting beyond words. He now
looked upon him with a kind of horror, as upon some loathly and hardly
human monster.
"It is just as he says," he said at last. "I have no receipt, and no
witnesses. I suppose I can do nothing."
"Just try, my hearty--just try; that's all!" jeered Anstey.
"Maritzburg's busting with law and lawyers. See what you can do.
You're quite welcome."
"Better shut up, Anstey," said the man who had evinced a head-punching
disposition. "We ain't afraid of you and your pistol, and you may get
more than you like, yet. And you, friend. What do you propose to do?"
"Get out of this as soon as possible," answered Gerard, in weary
disgust. "Get back to Maritzburg, I suppose. But I've got some luggage
here--not much, but a good deal more than I can carry; and you can
imagine I don't want to leave it behind."
"Rather. Well, look here now," said the man who had been addressed as
Sam Carruthers; "I'm bound for the town, and if you don't mind jogging
along with a waggon, I'll be glad to take in your luggage and yourself
too. I won't charge you anything for it either. And, remember this.
You don't seem to have been long in the country, and have fallen into
the hands of a mortal sweep. Well, remember the swindle that has been
planted on you was done by one of your own countrymen, not by one of as
Anstey hasn't been out here so very many years himself."
This was only too true. From the colonial people he had had to do with
Gerard had met with many little acts of kindness. It had been reserved,
as the other had said, for one of his own countrymen to rob him of his
little all--to leave him penniless, a stranger in a strange land.
He gladly accepted the transport-rider's friendly offer, and, having
hastily packed his outfit--Anstey the while keeping well out of his
way--he bade adieu for ever to the scene of his first colonial
experience.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Poor Gerard, alone in Maritzburg, without a friend in the Colony, and
with about fifty shillings to his name, besides his moderate outfit,
might indeed have reckoned himself in evil case; and, after a few days,
in spite of his pluck and determination, he did so reckon himself. He
had taken up his quarters at a cheap boarding-house which the friendly
transport-rider had told him about--a place in comparison with which the
mosquito-haunted Wayne's was almost a palace--and had set about trying
to find work. But what chance had he? The fact of his being a lad of
education and refinement told against him with those among whom he
applied. "A fine gentleman and a raw Britisher," as they put it--to do
them justice in their own minds only--was only a synonym for
uselessness. Every billet wherein education was required was either
filled, or hungrily competed for by a hundred applicants; applicants,
too, with recommendations in their favour, and where were his? He tried
to turn to account such experience as he had gained with Anstey, but
with no better success. The country stores required a much more
experienced hand, and one who could speak the native language fluently;
the town ones wouldn't look at him. Apart from the question of
recommendations, here the very fact of his having been with Anstey was
against him, was enough to shut him out even from the list of that most
hopeless form of hope deferred--the cases "under consideration." That
precious rascal, he found, was far better known than trusted, and more
than one instance of sharp practice and roguery on the part of Anstey
now came to his knowledge. But meanwhile time was flying, and with it,
of course, money. And he was no nearer attaining any way of
replenishing his well-nigh vanished stock of the latter.
Gerard Ridgeley's education had been of the usual happy-go-lucky,
slipshod sort which is hammered into the average English boy who is
destined for no profession in particular, and which for purposes of
after life is practically useless. The regulation amount of Latin and
Greek, and Euclid and arithmetic, got through by rote, often with the
help of a crib, with perhaps a smattering of British and home-made
French, had fallen to his lot, as well as the regulation share of
cricket and football. But these attainments, good in themselves, seemed
not to help him one whit in gaining the means of subsistence in his
present predicament. He had never even taken to carpentering as an
amusement, as some boys do, and of course of any other handicraft was as
ignorant as a babe unborn.
Probably no one in these days really imagines that living is cheap in
the Colonies, save perhaps to the dwellers in the _veldt_ or bush, who
grow their own necessaries of life. In the towns it is considerably
dearer than in England, and a sovereign is apt to represent nearer ten
shillings than twenty. So Gerard speedily learnt, as time flew and so
did his funds, and prospects of employment remained as remote as ever.
"There ain't room for chaps as wants a job in this here blessed colony,"
bitterly remarked one of his fellow-boarders one day. "It's a small
country when all's said and done, and there's too many of us already,
besides all these Hindian coolie-niggers they're a importin' of by
shiploads."
In the extremity of his strait, Gerard bethought himself of Mr
Kingsland. Should he write and endeavour to bespeak the latter's aid,
telling all the circumstances of his evil fortune and the cruel swindle
which had left him penniless? He remembered the hearty kindness of the
old settler's tone, and assurances of friendship. Surely he was
justified in asking for a helping hand towards some means of gaining his
own livelihood! But no sooner had he taken pen in hand to do so than he
flung that redoubtable implement to the other end of the room. He could
not do it. It was too much like writing a begging letter. Besides,
what claim had he upon anybody? So, instead of writing the letter, he
took a hurried survey of his possessions, and then strolled round to an
auctioneer's sale-rooms, to see whether the chances were good in favour
of obtaining a reasonable price for his new saddle at the next morning's
sale.
Turning the street corner he ran right against Harry Maitland, or rather
against the latter's horse, for Harry himself was in the act of
dismounting.
"Hallo, Ridgeley! Where've you dropped from?" said Harry. "Still
counter-jumping with that distinguished-looking relation of yours?"
"No such luck," replied Gerard, with a rueful laugh. And he told him
what had happened. "And here I am nearly stumped, and see no way of
getting up again," he concluded.
"Stumped, eh? That's devilish awkward," quoth Harry. "You would go
counter-jumping, you see, instead of going to work in the right way.
Look at me now. I know shoals of people already, and am having a right
good time. There's nothing like looking about one first for a bit,
depend upon it. Well, ta-ta. See you again. Here--hallo, Warner!" he
sang out to a man who had just passed them. "Hold on, can't you!"
And, leaving Gerard standing there, he went after the new-comer.
"Who's that fellow you were yarning to?" said the latter. "A devilish
decent-looking chap, whoever he is."
"That! Oh, he's a poor devil I used sometimes to talk to on board ship.
And, I say, Warner, you turned up in the very nick of time. He was
just going to try and borrow a five-pound note from me. I'll swear he
was. I could see it in his eye. Let's go and liquor."
It was lucky for the utterer of this remark that it remained unheard by
the object thereof, otherwise we fear that, even in the middle of that
bustling pavement, a vigorous application of shoe-leather might have
awakened Master Harry most painfully to the fact that it had been
overheard. Gerard, however, had resumed his way, sad and bitter of
heart; for he was young yet, and had not even begun to learn to take the
insincerity and ingratitude of so-called friends as a matter of course.
He only remembered how glad the other had been to get under his wing, so
to say, when they had first landed. Thrown upon their own resources,
strangers in a strange land, he it was who had taken the initiative;
upon him had all the managing and thinking devolved. Harry Maitland had
been glad of his company then, so glad of it indeed that he had even
made some sacrifice of his own comfort rather than cut himself adrift
from it. Now he hardly condescended to know him. Well, it was only one
more lesson out of the volume of the world's hard and flinty teaching;
but, as we said, Gerard was still very young, and the lesson was bitter.
He gained the auction-room. A sale of miscellaneous articles was in
full swing, and bidding was brisk. While waiting till it should be over
and he could speak to the auctioneer, he amused himself watching the
competing groups as well as those--far the greater number--who were only
there to look on; for in a colonial town a public sale of whatever kind
draws a crowd of loungers of every description as surely as a
store-cupboard draws flies in hot weather. Bronzed and bearded
stock-farmers and transport-riders, alert-looking townsmen, a sprinkling
of Indian coolies, turbaned and deferential, but none the less intent,
in their own quiet, half-shy manner, upon getting their money's worth
for their money, all clustered and crowded around the tables, more or
less eagerly bidding, or keeping up a running fire of chaff with the
auctioneer. Watching this mass of diversified humanity, Gerald was
conscious of the descent of a friendly hand upon his shoulder, and a
friendly voice at his ear.
"Ridgeley--isn't it?"
With a start of surprise, he turned, to find himself face to face with
the sun-tanned lineaments and corduroy-clad form of John Dawes.
"Thought we'd meet again some day," said the latter, grasping the hand
which Gerard delightedly put forth. "Small world after all. How has it
been using you?"
Had Gerard been worldly wise, taught by his last experience, he would
have answered with equal indifference, "Oh, so-so." Being, however,
only genuine, he replied--
"Badly, I fear."
"So?" said the transport-rider, upon whom the unconscious despondency of
the tone was not lost. "Sorry to hear that. I've often wondered how
you got on, especially with Anstey. Found him, I suppose?"
"I did. And I found him out too."
"So?" said Dawes again. "But look here, if you're not doing anything
just now, come round, and we'll have a bit of dinner together. I'd like
to hear how you've been getting on."
As Gerard's business with the auctioneer would very well keep until the
afternoon, he accompanied his newly found friend to a luncheon bar in
the neighbourhood, and there, over a dish of sizzling beefsteak and a
bottle or two of English beer, gave a full account of his experiences
and misadventures since they had parted.
"When you first told me you were going to find out Anstey, I'd have
liked to have warned you," said Dawes, who had listened attentively to
every word of his narrative. "But, then, I thought it was none of my
business, and you said he was a relation of yours, too, which of course
made it all the worse. I know him well; and, what's more, he knows me."
"He seemed to," said Gerard, remembering the disquieted look which had
come into Anstey's face when he had mentioned the transport-rider.
"Rather. I gave him a licking once--well, it's an old story and don't
matter now. But, excuse the question, I suppose you find yourself at
pretty low ebb just now, eh?"
"Low ebb isn't the word for it," was the weary reply. "I've been moving
heaven and earth to try and raise some sort of a billet, but it's no go.
There seems to be no room for me here. I wish I had never come out."
Dawes had been filling his pipe, and passed his pouch on to his young
companion. As he lighted it, and the glow of the match fell upon his
impassive and weather-beaten features, it brought out therein no trace
of feeling, no sign that the other's narrative interested him one whit.
But in reality he was revolving a plan. He had from the very first
taken a great liking to this bright, frank, warm-hearted English lad,
the extent of whose difficulties now he was thoroughly capable of
appreciating.
"You wouldn't be over particular as to the sort of billet you might get,
eh?" he said, puffing out a great cloud of smoke in a vacant and
abstracted manner.
"Not I, indeed, if only I might get it," answered Gerard, wearily.
"Why, I was going to see about putting my new saddle on the sale, when
we met each other. I've had to part with things already to raise the
wind."
"That hard up, are you? Well, if you ain't particular to a hair, I've
been turning over a scheme. What would you say to going an up-country
trip with me?"
"What?" almost shouted Gerard, half starting from his seat. "An
up-country trip with you? You can't mean it!"
"Keep your hair on, Ridgeley," rejoined Dawes, with a half-indulged
smile, for although the best-hearted and the most equably dispositioned
fellow in the world, he was of the "dry" order of being, and seldom
laughed outright. "Don't get excited; that's never sound policy. But
just turn the idea over in your mind a bit, and then you can let me
know. I'm loading up two waggons now for a trading trip away beyond the
Zulu country. Well, it occurs to me that you took so kindly to driving
a waggon, and all to do with it on our way up here, that you might be
useful to me. You'd pick up all there is to be learnt in that line the
first day. What do you say to the idea?"
But just then Gerard was nearly incapable of reply. A lump seemed to
rise in his throat. All the futile efforts of the past few weeks rose
before his mind; his loneliness, the certainty of approaching
destitution. And now this man with his offhand friendliness, who was
thus holding him out a helping hand, seemed as an angel sent from
heaven. He managed to stutter out at last that it seemed almost too
good to be true.
"All right," said the other, kindly; "then that's settled. I can't give
you any pay, but I'll give you the run of your teeth, and a small
commission on the takings of the trip after the trip's over. The said
trip, by the way, may last a year, or maybe more."
"I don't care if it lasts ten," said Gerard, eagerly.
"It isn't any good for you to hang on here with the notion of getting
anything out of Anstey," pursued Dawes, with rare tact affecting to
believe that that was Gerard's object in remaining there, and so to
lessen the latter's sense of obligation to himself. "He's the most
slippery fish that ever kept out of gaol. I'm afraid you'd never see a
farthing of your coin back again, even if you were armed with as many
papers to prove the transaction as a Supreme Court lawyer. He'll have
been sold up by now, lock, stock, and barrel. Well, now we'll go round
and attend to biz, and see to our loads, for we'll have to start
to-morrow night. I'd have trekked to-night, but that two of my oxen are
not quite the thing, and I had to send out to one of the locations for
two more."
And having paid the score, Dawes led the way out, nodding here and there
to an acquaintance at the crowded tables as he went, while Gerard,
walking on air, could hardly believe in his good luck. He had entered
that room despondent and almost a beggar; he left it with a friend, and
in possession of the most congenial and delightful form of occupation he
could have desired in his wildest dreams.