"WILL YOU WALK INTO MY PARLOUR?" SAID THE SPIDER TO THE FLY.
The two days which followed the despatch of the letter to "Omega" were
long and anxious ones for Reginald Cruden. It would have been a great
relief to him had he felt free to talk the matter over with Horace; but
somehow that word "confidential" in the advertisement deterred him. For
all that, he made a point of leaving the paper containing it in his
brother's way, if by any chance the invitation to an additional £50 a
year might meet his eye. Had it done so, it is doubtful whether
Reginald would have been pleased, for he knew that if it came to
selecting one of the two, Horace would probably pass for quite as
respectable and considerably more intelligent a young man than himself.
Still, he had no right to stand in his brother's way if fate ordained
that he too should be attracted by the advertisement. He therefore left
the paper lying conspicuously about with the advertisement sheet turned
toward the beholder.
Horace, however, had too much of the _Rocket_ in his business hours to
crave for a further perusal of it during his leisure. He kicked it
unceremoniously out of his way the first time he encountered it; and
when Reginald saw it next it was in a mangled condition under the stairs
in the suspicious company of the servant-girl's cinder-shovel.
On the second morning, when he arrived at his work, a letter lay on his
case with the Liverpool postmark, addressed R. Cruden, Esquire,
_Rocket_ Office, London. In his excitement and haste to learn its
contents it never occurred to him to notice the unexpected compliment
conveyed in the word "Esquire"; and he might have remained for ever in
blissful ignorance of the fact, had not his left-hand neighbour, the
satirical Mr Barber, considered the occasion a good one for a few
flashes of wit.
"'Ullo, Esquire, 'ow are you, Esquire? There is somebody knows you,
then. Liverpool, too! That's where all the chaps who rob the till go
to. R. Cruden, Esquire--my eye! What's the use of putting any more
than `London' on the envelope--such a well-known character as you?
Stuck-up idiot!"
To this address Reginald attended sufficiently to discover that it was
not worth listening to; after which he did not even hear the concluding
passages of his neighbour's declamation, being absorbed in far more
interesting inquiries. He tore the envelope open and hurriedly read--
"Sir,--Your favour is to hand, and in reply we beg to say we shall be
glad to arrange an interview. One of our directors will be in town on
Monday next, and can see you between one and two o'clock at Weaver's
Hotel. Be good enough to treat this and all further communications as
strictly confidential.--We are, Sir, yours faithfully,--
"The Select Agency Corporation.
"P.S.--Ask at Weaver's Hotel for Mr Medlock.
"Liverpool."
The welcome contents of this short note fairly staggered him. If the
tone of the advertisement had been encouraging, that of this letter was
positively convincing. It was concise, business-like, grammatical and
courteous. Since his trouble Reginald had never been addressed by any
one in the terms of respect conveyed in this communication.
Furthermore, the appointment being between one and two--the dinner-
hour--he would be able to keep it without difficulty or observation,
particularly as Weaver's Hotel was not a stone's throw from the _Rocket_
office. Then again, the fact of his letter being from a "corporation"
gratified and encouraged him. A Select Agency Corporation was not the
sort of company to do things meanly or inconsiderately. They were
doubtless a select body of men themselves, and they required the
services of select servants; and it was perfectly reasonable that in an
affair like this, which _might_ lead to nothing, strict mutual
confidence should be observed. Supposing in the end he should see
reason to decline to connect himself with the Corporation (Reginald
liked to think this possible, though he felt sure it was not probable),
why, if he had said much about it previously, it _might_ be to the
prejudice of the Corporation! Finally, he thought the name "Medlock"
agreeable, and was generally highly gratified with the letter, and
wished devoutly Monday would come round quickly.
The one drawback to his satisfaction was that he was still as far as
ever from knowing in what direction his respectable and intelligent
services were likely to be required. Monday came at last. When he went
up on the Saturday to receive his wages he had fully expected to learn
Mr Durfy's intentions with regard to him, and was duly surprised when
that gentleman actually handed him his money without a word, and with
the faintest suspicion of a smile.
"He's got a nailer on you, old man, and no mistake," said Gedge,
dolefully. "I'd advise you to keep your eye open for a new berth, if
you get the chance; and, I say, if you can only hear of one for two!"
This last appeal went to Reginald's heart, and he inwardly resolved, if
Mr Medlock turned out to be as amiable a man as he took him for, to put
in a word on Gedge's behalf as well as his own at the coming interview.
The dinner-bell that Monday tolled solemnly in Reginald's ears as he put
on a clean collar and brushed his hair previously to embarking on his
journey to Weaver's Hotel. What change might not have taken place in
his lot before that same bell summoned him once more to work? He left
the _Rocket_ a needy youth of £47 10 shillings a year. Was he to return
to it passing rich of £97 10 shillings?
Weaver's Hotel was a respectable quiet resort for country visitors in
London, and Reginald, as he stood in its homely entrance hall, felt
secretly glad that the Corporation selected a place like this for its
London headquarters rather than one of the more showy but less
respectable hotels or restaurants with which the neighbourhood abounded.
Mr Medlock was in his room, the waiter said, and Mr Cruden was to step
up. He did step up, and was ushered into a little sitting-room, where a
middle-aged gentleman stood before the fire-place reading the paper and
softly humming to himself as he did so.
"Mr Cruden, sir," said the waiter.
"Ah! Mr Cruden, good morning. Take a seat. John, I shall be ready
for lunch in about ten-minutes."
Reginald, with the agitating conviction that his fate would be sealed
one way or another in ten-minutes, obeyed, and darted a nervous glance
at his new acquaintance.
He rather liked the looks of him. He looked a comfortable, well-to-do
gentleman, with rather a handsome face, and a manner by no means
disheartening. Mr Medlock in turn indulged in a careful survey of the
boy as he sat shyly before him trying to look self-possessed, but not
man of the world enough to conceal his anxiety or excitement.
"Let me see," said Mr Medlock, putting his hands in his pocket and
leaning against the mantel-piece, "you replied to the advertisement,
didn't you?"
"Yes, sir," said Reginald.
"And what made you think you would suit us?"
"Well, sir," stammered Reginald, "you wanted respectable intelligent
young men--and--and I thought I--that is, I hoped I might answer that
description."
Mr Medlock took one hand out of his pocket and stroked his chin.
"Have you been in the printing trade long?"
"Only a few weeks, sir."
"What were you doing before that?"
Reginald flushed.
"I was at school, sir--at Wilderham."
"Wilderham? Why, that's a school for gentlemen's sons."
"My father was a gentleman, sir," said the boy, proudly.
"He's dead then?" said Mr Medlock. "That is sad. But did he leave
nothing behind him?"
"He died suddenly, sir," said Reginald, speaking with an effort, "and
left scarcely anything."
"Did he die in debt? You must excuse these questions, Mr Cruden,"
added the gentleman, with an amiable smile; "it is necessary to ask them
or I would spare you the trouble."
"He did die in debt," said Reginald, "but we were able to pay off every
penny he owed."
"And left nothing for yourself when it was done? Very honourable, my
lad; it will always be a satisfaction to you."
"It is, sir," said Reginald, cheering up.
"You naturally would be glad to improve your income. How much do you
get where you are?"
"Eighteen shillings a week."
Mr Medlock whistled softly.
"Eighteen shillings; that's very little, very poor pay," said he. "I
should have thought, with your education, you could have got more than
that."
It pleased Reginald to have his education recognised in this delicate
way.
"We had to be thankful for what we could get," said he; "there are so
many fellows out of work."
"Very true, very true," said Mr Medlock, shaking his head impressively,
"we had no less than 450 replies to our advertisement."
Reginald gave a gasp. What chance had he among 450 competitors?
Mr Medlock took a turn or two up and down the room, meditating with
himself and keeping his eye all the time on the boy.
"Yes," said he, "450--a lot, isn't it? Very sad to think of it."
"Very sad," said Reginald, feeling called upon to say something.
"Now," said Mr Medlock, coming to a halt in his walk in front of the
boy, "I suppose you guess I wouldn't have asked you to call here if I
and my fellow-directors hadn't been pleased with your letter."
Reginald looked pleased and said nothing.
"And now I've seen you and heard what you've got to say, I think you're
not a bad young fellow; but--"
Mr Medlock paused, and Reginald's face changed to one of keen anxiety.
"I'm afraid, Mr Cruden, you're not altogether the sort we want."
The boy's face fell sadly.
"I would do my best," he said, as bravely as he could, "if you'd try me.
I don't know what the work is yet, but I'm ready to do anything I can."
"Humph!" said Mr Medlock. "What we advertise for is sharp agents, to
sell goods on commission among their friends. Now, do you think you
could sell £500 worth of wine and cigars and that sort of thing every
year among your friends? You'd need to do that to make £50 a year, you
know. You understand? Could you go round to your old neighbours and
crack up our goods, and book their orders and that sort of thing? I
don't think you could, myself. It strikes me you are too much of a
gentleman."
Reginald sat silent for a moment, with the colour coming and going in
his cheeks; then he looked up and said, slowly--
"I'm afraid I could not do that, sir--I didn't know you wanted that."
So saying he took up his hat and rose to go.
Mr Medlock watched him with a smile, if not of sympathy, at any rate of
approval, and when he rose motioned him back to his seat.
"Not so fast, my man; I like your spirit, and we may hit it yet."
Reginald resumed his seat with a new interest in his anxious face.
"You wouldn't suit us as a drummer--that is," said Mr Medlock, hastily
correcting himself, "as a tout--an agent; but you might suit us in
another way. We're looking out for a gentlemanly young fellow for
secretary--to superintend the concern for the directors, and be the
medium of communication between them and the agents. We want an
educated young man, and one we can depend upon. As to the work, that's
picked up in a week easily. Now, suppose--suppose when I go back to
Liverpool I were to recommend you for a post like that, what would you
say?"