"Ah, he was right there. It _is_ work."
"I say," said the other youth, looking up, "don't frighten the kid,
Booms; you'll make him run away."
"I wish _I_ could run away," said Booms, in an audible soliloquy.
"So you can if you like, you old crocodile. I say, young 'un, have you
got a chair?"
Horace had to confess he had not a chair about him.
"That's a go; we've only two here. We shall have to take turns on them.
Booms will stand first, won't you, Booms?"
"Oh, of course," said Booms, rising and pushing his chair towards
Horace.
"Thanks," said Horace, "but I'd sooner stand, really."
"No, no," said Booms, resignedly; "I'm to stand, Waterford says so."
"Sit down, young 'un," said Waterford, "and don't mind him. He won't
say so, but he's awfully glad to stand up for a bit and stretch his
legs. Now, do you see this lot of morning papers--you'll see a lot of
paragraphs marked at the side with a blue pencil. You've got to cut
them out. Mind you don't miss any. Sure you understand?"
Horace expressed himself equal to this enormous task, and set to work
busily with his scissors.
If he had had no one but himself to consider he would have felt
comparatively happy. He found himself in a department of work which he
liked, and which, though at first not very exciting, promised some day
to become interesting. His chief was a gentleman not likely to
interfere with him as long as he did his work steadily, and his
companions were not only friendly but entertaining. If only Reginald
could have a seat at this table too, Horace felt he could face the
future cheerily. How, he wondered, was the poor fellow getting on that
moment in his distant uncongenial work?
"You're not obliged to read all the paragraphs, you know," said
Waterford, as Horace's hand slackened amid these musings. "It's a close
shave to get done as it is, and he's marked a frightful lot this
morning."
He was right. All the cuttings had to be taken out and pasted on sheets
before twelve o'clock, and it took the three of them, hard at work with
scissors and paste, to get the task accomplished. They talked very
little, and joked still less; but when it was all done, like three
honest men, they felt pleased with themselves, and decidedly amiable
towards one another.
"Now Booms is going out for the grub, aren't you, Booms? He'll get some
for you too, young 'un, if you like."
"No, thanks; I'd be very glad, but I promised to have dinner with my
brother--he's a compositor here."
"Lucky man!" groaned Booms. "Think of having nothing to do but pick up
types instead of slaving like this every day!"
"See the sausages are hot this time, won't you, Booms? And look alive,
there's a dear fellow."
Booms retired sadly.
"Good-natured chap, Booms," said Waterford; "rather a risk of imposing
on him if one isn't careful. He's an awfully decent fellow, but it's a
sad pity he's such a masher."
"A what?" asked Horace.
"A masher. He mayn't look it, but he goes it rather strong in that line
after hours. He doesn't mean it, poor soul; but he's mixed up with some
of our reporters, and tries to go the pace with them. I don't care for
that sort of thing myself, but if you do, he's just your man. You
wouldn't think it to look at him, would you?"
"Certainly not," replied Horace, much impressed by this confidence and
the revelation it afforded.
As Booms re-entered shortly afterwards, looking very gloomy, burdened
with two plates, two mugs, and a sheaf of knives and forks under his
arm, he certainly did not give one the impression of a very rakish
character, and Horace could scarcely refrain from smiling as he tried to
picture him in his after-hours character.
He left the couple to their sausages, and went out, in the vain hope of
finding Reginald somewhere. But there was no sign of workmen anywhere,
and, to his disgust, he ascertained from a passing boy that the
compositors' dinner-hour did not begin till he was due back at his work.
Everything seemed to conspire to sever the two brothers, and Horace
dejectedly took a solitary and frugal repast. He determined, at all
hazards, to wait a minute after the bell summoning him back to work had
ceased pealing, and was rewarded by a hasty glimpse of his brother, and
the exchange of a few hurried sentences. It was better than nothing,
and he rushed back to his room just in time to save his reputation for
punctuality.
The afternoon passed scarcely less busily than the morning. They sat--
and Booms had contrived to raise a third chair somewhere--with a pile of
work in front of them which at first seemed hopeless to expect to
overtake.
There were effusions to "decline with thanks," and others to enter in a
book and send up to the composing-room; there were some letters to write
and others to answer; there were reporters' notes to string together and
telegrams to transcribe. And all the while a dropping fire of proofs
and revises and messages was kept up at them from without, which they
had to carry to their chief and deal with according to his orders.
Horace, being inexperienced, was only able to take up the simpler
portions of this miscellaneous work, but these kept him busy, "hammer
and tongs," with scarcely time to sneeze till well on in the afternoon.
The _Rocket_, unlike most evening papers, waited till the evening before
it appeared, and did not go to press till five o'clock. After that it
issued later editions once an hour till eight o'clock, and on special
occasions even as late as ten.
The great rush of the day, therefore, as Horace soon discovered, was
over at five o'clock, but between that hour and seven there was always
plenty to do in connection with the late editions and the following
day's work. At seven o'clock every one left except a sub-editor and one
of the clerks, and one or two compositors, to see after the eight
o'clock and any possible later edition.
"As soon as you get your hand in, young 'un, you'll have to take your
turn at late work. Booms and I take every other night now."
Horace could say nothing against this arrangement, though it meant more
separation from Reginald. At present, however, his hand not being in,
he had nothing to keep him after the seven o'clock bell, and he eagerly
escaped at its first sound to look for Reginald.
Not, however, till he had witnessed a strange sight.
About a quarter to seven Booms, whose early evening it was, showed signs
of uneasiness. He glanced sorrowfully once or twice at the clock, then
at Horace, then at Waterford. Then he got up and put his papers away.
Finally he mused on a washhand basin in a corner of the room, and said
dolefully,--
"I must dress, I think, Waterford."
"All serene," said Waterford, briskly, "the young 'un and I will finish
up here." Then nudging Horace, he added in a whisper, "He's going to
rig up now. Don't pretend to notice him, that's all."
Booms proceeded to divest himself of his office coat and waistcoat and
collar, and to roll up the sleeves of his flannel shirt, preparatory to
an energetic wash. He then opened a small box in a corner of the room,
from which he produced, first a clothes-brush, with which he carefully
removed all traces of dust from his nether garments; after that came a
pair of light-coloured "pats," which he fitted on to his boots; then
came a bottle of hair-oil, and afterwards a highly-starched "dicky," or
shirt-front, with a stud in it, which by a complicated series of strings
the owner contrived to fasten round his neck so as to conceal
effectually the flannel shirt-front underneath. Once more he dived, and
this time the magic box yielded up what seemed to Horace's uninitiated
eyes to be a broad strip of stiff cardboard, but which turned out to be
a collar of fearful and wonderful proportions, which, when once
adjusted, fully explained the wisdom displayed by the wearer in not
deferring the brushing of his trousers and the donning of his "pats" to
a later stage of the proceedings. For nothing, not even a pickpocket at
his gilt watch-chain with its pendant "charms," could lower his chin a
quarter of an inch till bed-time. But more was yet to come. There were
cuffs to put on, which left one to guess what had become of Mr Booms's
knuckles, and a light jaunty necktie to embellish the "dicky." Then,
with a plaintive sigh, he produced a blue figured waistcoat, and after
it a coat shaped like the coat of a robin to cover all. Finally there
appeared a hat, broad-brimmed, low-crowned, and dazzling in its
glossiness, a pair of gay dogskin gloves, a crutch walking-stick, a pink
silk handkerchief, and then this joint work of art and nature was
complete!
"All right?" said he, in melancholy tones, as he set his hat a little on
one side of his head, and, with his stick under his arm, began with his
gloves.
Waterford got up and walked slowly and critically round him, giving a
few touches here and there, and brushing a little stray dust from his
collar.
"All right, dear boy. Mind how you go, and--"
"Oh!" groaned Booms, in tones of dire distress, "I knew I should forget
something. Would you mind, Waterford?"
"What is it?"
"My glass--it's in the box, and--and I should have got it out before I
put the collar on. Thanks; I should have been lost without it. Oh! if
I _had_ forgotten it!"
With this awful reflection in his mind he bade a sorrowful good-night
and walked off, with his head very erect, his elbows high up, and one
hand fondling the nearly-neglected eyeglass.
"Pretty, isn't it?" said Waterford, as he disappeared.
"It is--rot," said Horace, emphatically. "Why ever don't you laugh him
out of it?"
"My dear boy, you might as well try to laugh the hair off his head.
I've tried it a dozen times. After all, the poor dear fellow means no
harm."
"But what does he do now?"
"Oh, don't ask me. According to his own account he's the fastest man
about town--goes to all the shows, hobnobs with all the swells, smokes
furious cigars, and generally `mashes.' But my private notion is he
moons about the streets with the handle of his stick in his mouth and
looks in a few shop windows, and gets half a dozen oysters for supper,
and then goes home to bed. You see he couldn't well get into much
mischief with that collar on. If he went in for turn-downs I'd be
afraid of him."
The bell cut further conversation short, and in another minute Horace
and Reginald were walking arm-in-arm in the street outside.
There was much to talk about, much to lament over, and a little to
rejoice over. Horace felt half guilty as he told his brother of his
good fortune, and the easy quarters into which he had fallen. But
Reginald was in too defiant a mood to share these regrets as much as he
would have done at any other time. As long as Durfy wanted to get rid
of him, so long was he determined to stay where he was, and meanwhile in
young Gedge he had some one to look after, which would make the drudgery
of his daily work tolerable.
Horace did not altogether like it, but he knew it was no use arguing
then on the subject. They mutually agreed to put the best face on
everything before their mother. She was there to meet them at the door,
and it rejoiced her heart to hear their brave talk and the cheery story
of their day's adventures. All day long her heart had gone out to them
in yearnings of prayer and hope and love, and it repaid her a hundred-
fold, this hour of happy meeting, with the sunlight of their faces and
the music of their voices filling her soul.
As soon as supper was over Reginald suggested a precipitate retreat into
the streets, for fear of another neighbourly incursion. Mrs Cruden
laughingly yielded, and the trio had a long walk, heedless where they
went, so long as they were together. They wandered as far as Oxford
Street, looking into what shops were open, and interested still more in
the ever-changing stream of people who even at ten o'clock at night
crowded the pavements. They met no one they knew, not even Booms. But
it mattered little to them that no one noticed them. They had one
another, and there was a sense of security and comfort in that which
before these last few weeks they had never dreamed of.
They were about to turn out of Oxford Street on their homeward journey
when a loud shout close by arrested their attention. Looking round,
they saw a boy with disordered dress and unsteady gait attempting to
cross the road just as a hansom cab was bearing down at full speed on
the place where he stood. They only saw his back, but it was evident he
was either ill or dazed, for he stood stupidly where he was, with the
peril in full-view, but somehow helpless to avoid it. The cabman
shouted and pulled at his horse's head. But to the horrified onlookers
it was only too clear that nothing could stop his career in time. He
was already within a yard or two of the luckless boy when Reginald made
a sudden dash into the road, charging at him with a violence that sent
him staggering forward two paces and then brought him to the earth.
Reginald fell too, on the top of him, and as the cab dashed past it just
grazed the sole of his boot where he lay.
It was all the work of a moment--the shout, the vision of the boy, and
the rescue--so sudden, indeed, that Mrs Cruden had barely time to
clutch Horace by the arm before Reginald lay prone in the middle of the
road. In another moment Horace was beside his brother, helping him up
out of the mud.
"Are you hurt, old man?"
"Not a bit," said Reginald, very pale and breathless, but rising to his
feet without help. "Look out--there's a crowd--take mother home, and
I'll come on as soon as I've seen this fellow safe. I'm not damaged a
bit."
With this assurance Horace darted back to his mother in time to
extricate her from the crowd which, whatever happens, is sure to collect
in the streets of London at a minute's warning.
"He's all right," said Horace--"not hurt a bit. Come on, mother, out of
this; he'll probably catch us up before we're home. I say," said he,
and his voice trembled with excitement and brotherly pride as he spoke,
"wasn't it splendid?"
Mrs Cruden would fain have stayed near, but the crowd made it
impossible to be of any use. So she let Horace lead her home,
trembling, but with a heart full of thankfulness and pride and love for
her young hero.
Reginald, meanwhile, with the coolness of an old football captain,
proceeded to pick up his man, and appealed to the crowd to stand back
and give the fellow room.
The boy lay half-stunned with his fall, his face covered with mud, but
to Reginald's delight he was able to move and with a little help stand
on his feet. As he did so the light from the lamp of the cab fell on
his face, and caused Reginald to utter an exclamation of surprise and
horror.
"Young Gedge!"
The boy looked at him for a moment in a stupid bewildered way, and then
gave a short startled cry.
"Are you hurt?" said Reginald, putting his arm round him.
"No--I--I don't think--let's get away."
Reginald called to the crowd to stand back and let them out, an order
which the crowd obeyed surlily and with a disappointed grunt. Not even
a broken leg! not even the cabman's number taken down! One or two who
had seen the accident patted Reginald on the back as he went by, but he
hurried past them as quickly as he could, and presently stood in the
seclusion of a by-street, still supporting his companion on his arm.
"Are you hurt?" he inquired again.
"No," said Gedge; "I can walk."
The two stood facing one another for a moment in silence, breathless
still, and trembling with the excitement of the last few minutes.
"Oh, Cruden!" cried the boy at last, seizing Reginald's arm, "what will
you think of me? I was--I--I'd been drinking--I'm sober now, but--"
Reginald cut him short gently but firmly.
"I know," said he. "You'd better go home now, young 'un."
Gedge made no answer, but walked on, with his arm still in that of his
protector.
Reginald saw him into an omnibus, and then returned sadly and
thoughtfully homeward.
"Humph!" said he to himself, as he reached Dull Street, "I suppose I
shall have to stick on at the _Rocket_ after all."