Mr Medlock duly appeared next morning. He greeted the new secretary
with much friendliness, hoped he had a good journey and left them all
well at home, and so on. He further hoped Reginald would find his new
quarters comfortable. Most unfortunately they had missed securing the
lease of a very fine suite of offices in Lord Street, and had to put up
with these for the present. Reginald must see everything was
comfortable; and as of course he would be pretty closely tied to the
place (for the directors would not like the offices left in charge of a
mere office-boy), he must make it as much of a home as possible.
As to money, salaries were always paid quarterly, and on Christmas Day
Reginald would receive his first instalment. Meanwhile, as there were
sure to be a few expenses, Reginald would receive five pounds on account
(a princely allowance, equal to about thirteen shillings a week for the
eight weeks between now and Christmas!)
The directors, Mr Medlock said, placed implicit confidence in the new
secretary. He was authorised to open all letters that came. Any money
they might contain he was strictly to account for and pay into the bank
daily to Mr Medlock's account. He needn't send receipts, Mr Medlock
would see to that. Any orders that came he was to take copies of, and
then forward them to Mr John Smith, Weaver's Hotel, London, "to be
called for," for execution. He would have to answer the questions of
any who called to make inquiries, without of course disclosing any
business secrets. In fact, as the aim of the Corporation was to supply
their supporters with goods at the lowest possible price, they naturally
met with a good deal of jealousy from tradesmen and persons of that
sort, so that Reginald must be most guarded in all he said. If it
became known how their business was carried on, others would be sure to
attempt an imitation; and the whole scheme would fail.
"You know, Mr Reginald," said he--
"Excuse me," interrupted Reginald, "I'm afraid you're mistaken about my
name. You've printed it Cruden Reginald, it should be Reginald Cruden."
"Dear me, how extraordinarily unfortunate!" said Mr Medlock; "I quite
understood that was your name. And the unlucky part of it is, we have
got all the circulars printed, and many of them circulated. I have also
given your name as Mr Reginald to the directors, and advertised it, so
that I don't see what can be done, except to keep it as it is. After
all, it is a common thing, and it would put us to the greatest
inconvenience to alter it now. Dear me, when I saw you in London I
called you Mr Reginald, didn't I?"
"No, sir; you called me Mr Cruden."
"I must have supposed it was your Christian name, then."
"Perhaps it doesn't matter much," said Reginald; "and I don't wish to
put the directors to any trouble."
"To be sure I knew you would not. Well, I was saying, Reginald (that's
right, whatever way you take it!) the directors look upon you as a
gentleman of character and education, and are satisfied to allow you to
use your discretion and good sense in conducting their business. You
have their names, which you can show to any one. They are greatly
scattered, so that our Board meetings will be rare. Meanwhile they will
be glad to hear how you are getting on, and will, I know, appreciate and
recognise your services. By the way, I believe I mentioned (but really
my memory is so bad) that we should ask you to qualify to the extent of
£50 in the shares of the company?"
"Oh yes, I have the cheque here," said Reginald, taking it out of his
pocket.
"That's right. And of course you will give yourself a receipt for it in
the company's name. Curious, isn't it?"
With which pleasantry Mr Medlock departed, promising to look in
frequently, and meanwhile to send in a fresh directory marked, and some
new circulars for him to get on with.
Reginald, not quite sure whether it was all as good as he expected, set
to work without delay to put into practice the various instructions he
had received.
Mr Medlock's invitation to him to see everything was comfortable could
hardly be fully realised on 13 shillings a week. That must wait for
Christmas, and meanwhile he must make the best of what he had.
He set Love to work folding and enclosing the new circulars (this time
calling attention to some extremely cheap globes and blackboards for
ladies' and infants' schools), while he drew himself up a programme of
his daily duties, in accordance with his impression of the directors'
wishes. The result of this was that he came to the conclusion he should
have his hands very full indeed--a possibility he by no means objected
to.
But it was not clear to him how he was to get much outdoor exercise or
recreation, or how he was to go to church on Sundays, or even to the
bank on weekdays, if the office was never to be left. On this point he
consulted Mr Medlock when he called in later in the day, and arranged
that for two hours on Sunday, and an hour every evening, besides the
necessary walk to the bank, he might lock up the office and take his
walks abroad. Whereat he felt grateful and a little relieved.
It was not till about four days after his arrival that the first crop of
circulars sown among the clergy yielded their firstfruits. On that day
it was a harvest with a vengeance. At least 150 letters arrived. Most
of them contained the two pounds and an order for the suit. In some
cases most elaborate measurements accompanied the order. Some asked for
High Church waistcoats, others for Low; some wished for wideawake hats,
others for broad-brimmed clericals. Some sent extra money for a school-
boy's suit as well, and some contained instructions for a complete
family outfit. All were very eager about the matter, and one or two
begged that the parcel might be sent marked "private."
Reginald had a busy day from morning till nearly midnight, entering and
paying in the cash and forwarding the orders to Mr John Smith. He
organised a beautiful tabular account, in which were entered the name
and address of each correspondent, the date of their letters, the goods
they ordered, and the amount they enclosed, and before the day was over
the list had grown to a startling extent.
The next day brought a similar number of applications and remittances as
to the globes and blackboards, and of course some more also about the
clerical suits. And so, from day to day, the post showered letters in
at the door, and the secretary of the Select Agency Corporation was one
of the hardest worked men in Liverpool.
Master Love meanwhile had very little time for his "penny dreadfuls,"
and complained bitterly of his hardships. And indeed he looked so pale
and unhealthy that Reginald began to fear the constant "licking" was
undermining his constitution, and ordered him to use a sponge instead of
his tongue. But on this point Love's loyalty made a stand. Nothing
would induce him to use the artificial expedient. He deliberately made
away with the sponge, and after a battle royal was allowed his own way,
and continued to lick till his tongue literally clave to the roof of his
mouth.
By the end of a fortnight the first rush of work was over, and Reginald
and his henchman had time to draw breath. Mr Medlock had gone to
London, presumably to superintend the dispatch of the various articles
ordered.
It was about this time that Reginald had written home to Horace
complaining of the dulness of his life, and begging him to repay
Blandford the 6 shillings 6 pence, which had been weighing like lead on
his mind ever since he left town, and which he now despaired of ever
being able to spare out of the slender pittance on which he was doomed
to subsist till Christmas. Happily that festive season was only a few
weeks away now, and then how delighted he should be to send home a round
half of his income, and convince himself he was after all a main prop to
that dear distant little household.
Had he been gifted with ears sharp enough to catch a conversation that
took place at the Bodega in London one evening about the same time, the
Christmas spirit within him might have experienced a considerable chill.
The company consisted of Mr Medlock, Mr Shanklin, and Mr Durfy. The
latter was present by sufferance, not because he was wanted or invited,
but because he felt inclined for a good supper, and was sharp enough to
know that neither of his employers could afford to fall out with him
just then.
"Well, how goes it?" said Mr Shanklin. "You've had a run lately, and
no mistake."
"Yes, I flatter myself we've done pretty well. One hundred pounds a day
for ten days makes how much, Durfy?"
"A thousand," said Durfy.
"Humph!" said Mr Shanklin. "Time to think of our Christmas holidays."
"Wait a bit. We've not done yet. You say your two young mashers are
still in tow, Alf?"
"Yes; green as duckweed. But they're nearly played out, I guess. One
of them has a little bill for fifty pounds coming due in a fortnight,
and t'other--well, he wagered me a hundred pounds on a horse that never
ran for the Leger, and he's got one or two trifles besides down in my
books."
"Yes, I got you that tip about the Leger," said Durfy, beginning to
think himself neglected in this dialogue of self-congratulation.
"Yes; you managed to do it this time without botching it, for a wonder!"
said Mr Shanklin.
"Yes; and I hope you'll manage to give me the ten-pound note you
promised me for it, Mr S.," replied Durfy, with a snarl. "You seem to
have forgotten that, and my commission too for finding you your new
secretary."
"Yes. By the way," said Mr Medlock, "he deserves something for that;
it's the best stroke of business we've done for a long time. It's worth
three weeks to us to have him there to answer questions and choke off
the inquisitive. He's got his busy time coming on, I fancy. Bless you,
Durfy, the fellow was born for us! He swallows anything. I've allowed
him thirteen shillings a week till Christmas, and he says, `Thank you.'
He's had his name turned inside out, and I do believe he thinks it an
improvement! He sticks in the place all day with that young cockney
gaol-bird you picked us up too, Durfy, and never growls."
"Does he help himself to any of the money?"
"Not a brass farthing! I do believe he buys his own postage-stamps when
he writes home to his mamma!"
This last announcement was too comical to be received gravely.
"Ha, ha! he ought to be exhibited!" said Shanklin.
"He ought to be starved!" said Durfy viciously. "He knocked me down
once, and I wouldn't have told you of him if I didn't owe him a grudge--
the puppy!"
"Oh, well, I daresay you'll be gratified some day or other," said
Medlock.
"I tell you one thing," said Durfy; "you'd better put a stopper on his
writing home too often; I believe he's put his precious brother up to
watch me. Why, the other night, when I was waiting for the postman to
get hold of that letter you wanted, I'm blessed if he didn't turn up and
rout me out--he and a young chum of his brother's that used to be in the
swim with me. I don't think they saw me, luckily; but it was a shave,
and of course I missed the letter."
"Yes, you did; there was no mistake about that!" said Mr Shanklin
viciously. "When did you ever not miss it?"
"How can I help it, when it's your own secretary is dogging me?"
"Bless you! think of him dogging any one, the innocent! Anyhow, we can
cut off his letters home for a bit, so as to give you no excuse next
time."
"And what's the next job to be, then?" asked Durfy.
"The most particular of all," replied the sporting man. "I want a
letter with the Boldham postmark, or perhaps a telegram, that will be
delivered to-morrow night by the last post. There's a fifty pounds
turns on it, and I must have it before the morning papers are out.
Never mind what it is; you must get it somehow, and you'll get a fiver
for it. As soon as that's done, Medlock, and the young dandies' bills
have come due, we can order a cab. Your secretary at Liverpool will
hold out long enough for us to get to the moon before we're wanted."
"You're right there!" said Mr Medlock, laughing. "I'll go down and
look him up to-morrow, and clear up, and then I fancy he'll manage the
rest himself; and we can clear out. Ha, ha! capital sherry, this brand.
Have some more, Durfy."
Mr Medlock kept his promise and cheered Reginald in his loneliness by a
friendly visit.
"I've been away longer than I expected, and I must say the way you have
managed matters in my absence does you the greatest credit, Reginald. I
shall feel perfectly comfortable in future when I am absent."
A flush of pleasure rose to Reginald's cheeks, such as would have moved
to pity any heart less cold-blooded than Mr Medlock's.
"No one has called, I suppose?"
"No, sir. There's been a letter, though, from the Rev. T. Mulberry,
of Woolford-in-the-Meadow, to ask why the suit he ordered has not yet
been delivered."
Mr Medlock smiled.
"These good men are so impatient," said he; "they imagine their order is
the only one we have to think of. What would they think of the four
hundred and odd suits we have on order, eh, Mr Reginald?"
"I suppose I had better write and say the orders will be taken in
rotation, and that his will be forwarded in a few days."
"Better say a few weeks. You've no notion of the difficulty we have in
trying to meet every one's wishes. Say before Christmas--and the same
with the globes and other things. The time and trouble taken in packing
the things really cuts into the profits terribly."
"Could we do any of it down here?" said Reginald. "Love and I have
often nothing to do."
It was well the speaker did not notice the fiendish grimace with which
the young gentleman referred to accepted the statement.
"You're very good," said Mr Medlock; "but I shouldn't think of it. We
want you for head work. There are plenty to be hired in London to do
the hand work. By the way, I will take up the register of orders and
cash you have been keeping, to check with the letters in town. You
won't want it for a few days."
Reginald felt sorry to part with a work in which he felt such pride as
this beautifully kept register. However, he had made it for the use of
the Corporation, and it was not his to withhold.
After clearing up cautiously all round, with the result that Reginald
had very little besides pen, ink, and paper left him, Mr Medlock said
good morning.
"I may have to run up to town for a few days," he said, "but I shall see
you again very soon, I hope. Meanwhile, make yourself comfortable. The
directors are very favourably impressed with you already, and I hope at
Christmas they may meet and tell you so in person. Boy, make a parcel
of these books and papers and bring them for me to my hotel."
Love obeyed surlily. He was only waiting for Mr Medlock's departure to
dive into the mystery of _Trumpery Toadstool, or Murdered for a Lark_,
in which he had that morning invested. He made a clumsy parcel of the
books, and then shambled forth in a somewhat homicidal spirit in Mr
Medlock's wake down the street.
At the corner that gentleman halted till he came up.
"Well, young fellow, picked any pockets lately?"
The boy scowled at him inquisitively.
"All right," said Mr Medlock. "I never said you had. I'm not going to
take you to the police-station, I'm going to give you half a crown."
This put a new aspect on the situation. Love brightened up as he
watched Mr Medlock's hand dive into his pocket.
"What should you do with a half-crown if you had it?"
"Do? I know, and no error. I'd get the _Noogate Calendar_, that's what
I'd do."
"You can read, then?"
"Ray-ther; oh no, not me."
"Can you read writing?"
"In corse."
"Do you always go to the post with the letters?"
"In corse."
"Do you ever see any addressed to Mrs Cruden or Mr Cruden in London?"
"'Bout once a week. That there sekketery always gives 'em to me
separate, and says I'm to be sure and post 'em."
"Well, I say they're not to be posted," said Mr Medlock. "Here's half
a crown; and listen: next time you get any to post put them on one side;
and every one you can show me you shall have sixpence for. Mind what
you're at, or he'll flay you alive if he catches you. Off you go,
there's a good boy."
And Love pocketed his half-crown greedily, and with a knowing wink at
his employer sped back to the office.
That afternoon Reginald wrote a short polite note to the Rev. T.
Mulberry, explaining to him the reason for any apparent delay in the
execution of his order, and promising that he should duly receive it
before Christmas. This was the only letter for the post that day, and
Love had no opportunity of earning a further sixpence.
He had an opportunity of spending his half-crown, however, and when he
returned from the post he was radiant in face and stouter under the
waistcoat by the thickness of the coveted volume of the _Newgate
Calendar_ series.
With the impetuosity characteristic of his age, he plunged into its
contents the moment he found himself free of work, and by the time
Reginald returned from his short evening stroll he was master of several
of its stories. _Tim Tigerskin_ and _The Pirate's Bride_ were nothing
to it. They all performed their incredible exploits on the other side
of the world, but these heroes were beings of flesh and blood like
himself, and, for all he knew, he might have seen them and talked to
them, and have known some of the very spots in London which they
frequented. He felt a personal interest in their achievements.
"Say, governor," said he as soon as Reginald entered, "do you know
Southwark Road?"
"In London? Yes," said Reginald.
"This 'ere chap, Bright, was a light porter to a cove as kep' a grocer's
shop there, and one night when he was asleep in the arm-cheer he puts a
sack on 'is 'ead and chokes 'im. The old cove he struggles a bit,
but--"
"Shut up!" said Reginald angrily. "I've told you quite often enough.
Give me that book."
At the words and the tones in which they were uttered Love suddenly
turned into a small fiend. He struggled, he kicked, he cursed, he
howled to keep his treasure. Reginald was inexorable, and of course it
was only a matter of time until the book was in his hands. A glance at
its contents satisfied him.
"Look here," said he, holding the book behind his back and parrying all
the boy's frantic efforts to recover it, "don't make a fool of yourself,
youngster."
"Give it to me! Give me my book, you--"
And the boy broke into a volley of oaths and flung himself once more
tooth-and-nail on Reginald. Already Reginald saw he had made a mistake.
He had done about the most unwise thing he possibly could have done.
But it was too late to undo it. The only thing, apparently, was to go
through with it now. So he flung the book into the fire, and, catching
the boy by the arm, told him if he did not stop swearing and struggling
at once he would make him.
The boy did not stop, and Reginald did make him.
It was a poor sort of victory, and no one knew it better than Reginald.
If the boy was awed into silence, he was no nearer listening to reason--
nay, further than ever. He slunk sulkily into a corner, glowering at
his oppressor and deaf to every word he uttered. In vain Reginald
expostulated, coaxed, reasoned, even apologised. The boy met it all
with a sullen scowl. Reginald offered to pay him for the book, to buy
him another, to read aloud to him, to give him an extra hour a day--it
was all no use; the injury was too deep to wash out so easily; and
finally he had to give it up and trust that time might do what arguments
and threats had failed to effect.
But in this he was disappointed; for next morning when nine o'clock
arrived, no Love was there, nor as the day wore on did he put in an
appearance. When at last evening came, and still no signs of him,
Reginald began to discover that the sole result of his well-meant
interference had been to drive his only companion from him, and doom
himself henceforth to the miseries of solitary confinement.
For days he scarcely spoke a word. The silence of that office was
unearthly. He opened the window, winter as it was, to let in the sound
of cabs and footsteps for company. He missed even the familiar rustle
of the "penny dreadfuls" as the boy turned their pages. He wished
anybody, even his direst foe, might turn up to save him from dying of
loneliness.