"Want any errands fetched, gov'nor?"
"No, not now. I've got all I want in for the present."
"Like yer winders cleaned?"
"Not much use with this frost on them," said Reginald.
Thwarted thus on every hand, the boy asked no more questions, but took
upon himself to go round the office and dust it as well as he could with
the ragged tail of his coat. It was evidently his way of saying, "Thank
you," and he seemed more easy in his mind when it was done.
He stopped once in the middle of his task as he caught Reginald's eyes
fixed half curiously, half pityingly upon him.
"Say--gov'nor, I ain't going to read no more books; do ye hear?"
There was something quite pathetic in the tones in which this
declaration of renunciation was made. It was evidently a supreme effort
of repentance, and Reginald felt almost uncomfortable as he heard it.
"That there _Noogate Calendar_ made a rare flare-up, didn't it,
gov'nor?" continued Love, looking wistfully towards the grate, if
perchance any stray leaves should have escaped the conflagration.
"Not such a flare-up as you did," said Reginald, laughing. "Never mind,
we'll try and get something nicer to read."
"No fear! Never no more. I ain't a-goin' to read nothink again, I tell
yer," said the boy, quite warmly.
And for fear of wavering in his resolution he went round the room once
more, rubbing up the cheap furniture till it shone, and ending with
polishing up the very hearth that had served as the sacrificial altar to
his beloved _Newgate Calendar_ only a few days before. There was little
or no more work to be done during the day. A few letters had come by
the morning's post, angrily complaining of the delay in delivering the
promised goods. To these Reginald had replied in the usual form,
leaving to Love the privilege of "licking them up." He also wrote to
Mr Medlock, enclosing the two pounds the pleasant clergyman had left
the day before, and once more urging that gentleman to come down to
Liverpool.
He went out, happily unconscious of the fact that a detective dogged
every step he took, to post these letters himself, and at the same time
to lay in a day's provisions for two. It was with something like a
qualm that he saw his last half-sovereign broken over this purchase.
With nine shillings left in his pocket, and twelve days yet to
Christmas, it was as clear as daylight that things were rapidly
approaching a crisis. It was almost a relief to feel it.
On his way back to the office he passed a secondhand book-stall. He had
lingered in front of it many times before now, turning over the leaves
of this and that odd volume, and picking up the scraps of amusement and
information which are always to be found in such an occupation. To-day,
however, he overhauled the contents of the trays with rather more
curiosity than usual; not because he expected to find a pearl of great
price among the dust and dog's ears of the "threepenny" tray. Reginald
was the last person in the world to consider himself a child of fortune
in that respect.
No! he had Master Love on his mind, and the memory of that blazing
_Newgate Calendar_ on his conscience, and, even at the cost of a further
reduction of his vanishing income, he determined not to return provided
with food for Love's body only, but also for Love's mind.
Accordingly he selected two very shabby and tattered volumes from the
"threepenny" tray--one a fragment of _Robinson Crusoe_, the other Part
One of the _Pilgrim's Progress_, and with these in his pocket and the
eatables in his hands, he returned to his charge as proud as a general
who has just relieved a starving garrison.
After the frugal supper the books were triumphantly produced, but Master
Love, still mindful of his recent tribulations, regarded them shyly at
first, as another possible bait to his own undoing; but presently
curiosity, and the sight of a wonderful picture of Giant Despair,
overcame his scruples, and he held out his hand eagerly.
It was amusing to watch the critical look on his face as he took a
preliminary glance through the pages of the two books. Reginald was
half sorry he had not produced them one at a time; but it being too late
now to recall either, he awaited with no little excitement the decision
of the young connoisseur upon them. Apparently Love found considerable
traces of what he would call "jam" in both. The picture of Crusoe
coming upon the footprint in the sand, and that of the great battle
between Christian and Apollyon, seemed to gather into themselves the
final claims of the two rivals, and for a few moments victory trembled
in the balance. At last he shut up _Robinson Crusoe_ and stuffed it in
his pocket.
"Say, what's yer name," said he, looking up and laying his finger on the
battle scene; "which of them two does for t'other?"
"The one in the armour," said Reginald.
"Thought so--t'other one's a flat to fight with that there long
flagpole. Soon as 'e's chucked it away 'e's a dead 'un. Say, what did
they do with 'is dead body? No use a 'idin' of it. If I was 'im I'd a
cut 'is throat, and left the razor in 'is 'and, and they'd a brought it
in soosanside. Bless you, coroners' juries is reg'lar flats at findin'
out them sort of things."
"Suppose you read what it says," said Reginald, hardly able to restrain
a laugh; "if you like you can read it aloud; I'd like to hear it again
myself."
The boy agreed, and that evening the two queerly assorted friends sat
side by side in the dim candle-light, going over the wonderful story of
the Pilgrim. Reginald judiciously steered the course through the most
thrilling parts of the narrative, carefully avoiding whatever might have
seemed to the boy dull or digressive.
Love stopped in his reading frequently to discuss the merits of the
story and deliver himself of his opinion as to what he would have done
under similar circumstances. He would have made short work with the
lions chained by the roadside; he would have taken a bull's-eye lantern
through the dark valley; and as for the river at the end, he couldn't
understand anybody coming to grief there. Why, at Victoria Park last
Whit Monday he had swum three-quarters of a mile himself!
In vain Reginald pointed out that Christian had his armour on. The
young critic would not allow this as an excuse, and brought up cases of
gentlemen of his acquaintance who had swum incredible distances in their
clothes and boots.
But the story that delighted him most was that of the man who hacked his
way into the palace. This was an adventure after his own heart. He
read it over and over again, and was unsparing in his admiration of the
hero, whom he compared for prowess with "Will Warspite the Pirate," and
"Dick Turpin," and even his late favourite "Tim Tigerskin." His
interest in him was indeed so great that he allowed Reginald in a few
simple words to say what it meant, and to explain how we could all, if
we went the right way about it, do as great things as he did.
"Why you, youngster, when you made up your mind you wouldn't read any
more of those bad books, you knocked over one of your enemies."
"Did I, though? how far in did I get?"
"You got over the doorstep, anyhow; but you've got plenty more to knock
over before you get right into the place. So have I."
"My eye, gov'nor," cried the boy, his grimy face lighting up with an
excited flush, "we'll let 'em 'ave it!"
They read and discussed and argued far into the night; and when at last
Reginald gave the order to go to bed there were no two friends more
devoted than the Secretary of the Select Agency Corporation and his
office-boy.
Love's sleep that night was like the sleep of a pugilistic terrier, who
in his dreams encounters and overcomes even deep-mouthed mastiffs and
colossal Saint Bernards. He sniffed and snorted defiance as he lay, and
his brow was damp with the sweat of battle, and his lips curled with the
smile of victory. As soon as he awoke his hand sought the pocket where
the wonderful book lay; and even as he tidied up the office and prepared
the gov'nor's breakfast, he was engaged in mortal inward combats.
"Say, gov'nor," cried he, with jubilant face, as Reginald entered, "I've
done for another of 'em. Topped him clean over."
"Another of whom?" said Reginald.
"Them pals a-waitin' in the 'all," said he; "you know, in that there
pallis."
"Oh! in the Beautiful Palace we were reading about," said Reginald.
"Who have you done for this time?"
"That there Medlock," said the boy.
"Medlock! What _are_ you talking about?" said Reginald, in blank
amazement.
"Oh, I've give him a wonner," said the boy, beaming. "He says to me,
`Collar all the letters your gov'nor writes 'ome,' he says, `and I'll
give you a tanner for every one you shows me.'"
"Love, you're talking rubbish!" said Reginald indignantly.
"Are I? don't you make no mistake," said the boy confidently; "I knows
what he says; and that there letter you wrote home last night and leaves
on the table, `That's a tanner to me,' says I to myself when I sees it
this morning. `A lie,' says I, recollecting of that chap in the story-
book. So I lets it be; and my eye, ain't that a topper for somebody--oh
no!"
Reginald stared at the boy, half stupefied. The room whirled round him;
and with a sudden rush the hopes of his life seemed to go from under
him. It was not for some time that he could find words to say,
hoarsely,--
"Love, is this the truth, or a lie you are telling me?"
"Lie--don't you make no error, gov'nor--I ain't on that lay, I can tell
you. I'm goin' right into that there pallis, and there's two on 'em
topped a'ready."
"You mean to say Mr Medlock told you to steal my letters and give them
to him?"
"Yes, and a tanner apiece on 'em, too. But don't you be afraid, he
don't get none out of me, not if I swings for it."
"You can go out for a run, Love," said Reginald. "Come back in an hour.
I want to be alone."
"You aren't a-giving me the sack?" asked the boy with falling
countenance.
"No, no."
"And you ain't a-goin' to commit soosanside while I'm gone, are yer?" he
inquired, with a suspicious glance at Reginald's blanched face.
"No. Be quick and go."
"'Cos if you do, they do say as a charcoal fire--"
"Will you go?" said Reginald, almost angrily, and the boy vanished.
I need not describe to the reader all that passed through the poor
fellow's mind as he paced up and down the bare office that morning. The
floodgates had suddenly been opened upon him, and he felt himself
overwhelmed in a deluge of doubt and shame and horror.
It was long before he could collect his thoughts sufficiently to see
anything clearly. Why Mr Medlock should take the trouble to prevent
his home letters reaching their destination was incomprehensible, and
indeed it weighed little with him beside the fact that the man who had
given him his situation, and on whom he was actually depending for his
living, was the same who could bribe his office-boy to steal his
letters. If he were capable of such a meanness, was he to be trusted in
anything else? How was Reginald to know whether the money he had
regularly remitted to him was properly accounted for, or whether the
orders were being conscientiously executed?
Then it occurred to him the whole business of the Corporation had been
done in his--Reginald's--name, that all the circulars had been signed by
him, and that all the money had come addressed to him. Then there was
that awkward mistake about his name, which, accidental or intentional,
was Mr Medlock's doing. And beyond all that was the fact that Mr
Medlock had taken away the only record Reginald possessed of the names
of those who had replied to the circulars and sent money.
He found himself confronted with a mountain of responsibility, of which
he had never before dreamed, and for the clearing of which he was
entirely dependent on the good faith of a man who had, not a week ago,
played him one of the meanest tricks imaginable.
What was he to make of it--what else could he make of it except that he
was a miserable dupe, with ruin staring him in the face?
His one grain of comfort was in the names of some of the directors.
Unless that list were fictitious, they would not be likely to allow a
concern with which they were identified to collapse in discredit. Was
it genuine or not?
His doubts on this question were very speedily resolved by a letter
which arrived that very afternoon.