TOMMY BOGEY FORMS A MIGHTY RESOLVE, AND MR. DENHAM, BEING PERPLEXED,
BECOMES LIBERAL.
When Tommy Bogey discovered the terrible fact that his friend Bax had
really gone from him, perhaps for ever, he went straight up to the
cottage, sat down on the kitchen floor at the feet of Mrs Laker, laid
his head on her lap, and wept as if his heart would break.
"My poor boy!" said the sympathising Laker, stroking his head, and
endeavouring to comfort him more by tone and manner than by words.
But Tommy refused to be comforted. The strongest affection he had ever
known was rudely and suddenly crushed. It was hard in Bax to have done
it; so Tommy felt, though he would not admit it in so many words. So
Bax himself felt when the first wild rush of sorrow was past, and he had
leisure to consider the hasty step he had taken, while sailing away over
the distant sea towards the antipodes. Bitterly did he blame himself
and repent when repentance was of no avail.
Tommy's grief was deep, but not loud. He did not express it with a
howling accompaniment. It burst from him in gasping sobs for a time,
then it subsided into the recesses of his young heart and gnawed there.
It did not again break bounds, but it somewhat changed the boy's
character. It made him almost a man in thought and action. He
experienced that strong emotion which is known to most young hearts at
certain periods of early life, and which shows itself in the formation
of a fixed resolve to take some prompt and mighty step! What that step
should be he did not know at first, and did not care to know.
Sufficient for him, that coming to an unalterable determination of some
indefinite sort afforded him great relief.
After the first paroxysm was over, Tommy rose up, kissed Mrs Laker on
the cheek, bade her goodnight with unwonted decision of manner, and went
straight to the amphibious hut of his friend Bluenose, whom he found
taking a one-eyed survey of the Downs through a telescope, from mere
force of habit.
The Captain's name was more appropriate that day than it had been for
many years. He was looking uncommonly "blue" indeed. He had just heard
of the disappearance of Bax, for the news soon spread among the men on
Deal beach. Being ignorant of the cause of his friend's sudden
departure, and knowing his deliberate, sensible nature, the whole
subject was involved in a degree of mystery which his philosophy utterly
failed to clear up. Being a bachelor, and never having been in love, or
met with any striking incidents of a tender nature in his career, it did
not occur to him that woman could be at the bottom of it!
"Uncle," said Tommy, "Bax is gone!"
"Tommy, I knows it," was the brief reply, and the telescope was shut up
with a bang, as the seaman sat down on a little chest, and stared
vacantly in the boy's face.
"Why did he do it?" asked Tommy.
"Dun' know. Who knows? S'pose he must ha' gone mad, though it don't
seem likely. If it wasn't Guy as told me I'd not believe it."
"Does Guy not know why he's gone?"
"Apperiently he does, but he says he's bound not to tell. Hope Bax
han't bin and done somethin' not 'xactly right--"
"_Bax_ do anything not exactly right!" cried Tommy, with a look and tone
of amazed indignation.
"Right, lad, you're right," said Bluenose apologetically. "I've no
doubt myself he could explain it all quite clear if he wos here for to
do so. That's my opinion; and I've no doubt either that the first
letter he sends home will make all straight an' snug, depend on it."
"Uncle," said Tommy, "_I_ am going to Australia."
Bluenose, who had just lighted his pipe, looked at the boy through the
smoke, smiled, and said, "No, Tommy, you ain't."
"Uncle," repeated Tommy, "I am. I once heard Bax say he'd rather go
there than anywhere else, if he was to go abroad; so I'm certain he has
gone there, and I'm going to seek for him."
"Wery good, my lad," said the Captain coolly; "d'ye go by steamer
to-night, or by rail to-morrow mornin'? P'raps you'd better go by
telegraph; it's quicker, I'm told."
"You think I'm jokin', Uncle, but I'm not, as you'll very soon find
out."
So saying, Tommy rose and left the hut. This was all he said on the
subject. He was a strong-minded little fellow. He at once assumed the
position of an independent man, and merely stated his intentions to one
or two intimate friends, such as Bluenose, Laker, and old Jeph. As
these regarded his statement as the wild fancy of an enthusiastic boy in
the first gush of disappointment, they treated it with good-natured
raillery. So Tommy resolved, as he would have himself have expressed
it, "to shut up, and keep his own counsel."
When Guy told Lucy Burton that the man who had saved her life had gone
off thus suddenly, she burst into tears; but her tears had not flowed
long before she asked Guy the reason of his strange and abrupt
departure.
Of course Guy could not tell. He had been pledged to secrecy as to the
cause.
When Lucy Burton went to tell Amy Russell, she did so with a trembling
heart. For some time past she had suspected that Amy loved Bax and not
Guy, as she had at first mistakenly supposed. Knowing that if her
suspicions were true, the news would be terrible indeed to her friend,
she considerately went to her room and told her privately.
Amy turned deadly pale, stood speechless for a few seconds, and then
fainted in her friend's arms.
On recovering she confessed her love, but made Lucy solemnly pledge
herself to secrecy.
"No one shall ever know of this but yourself, dear Lucy," said Amy,
laying her head on her friend's bosom, and finding relief in tears.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Time passed away, as time is wont to do, and it seemed as if Tommy Bogey
had forgotten to carry out his determination. From that day forward he
never referred to it, and the few friends to whom he had mentioned it
supposed that he had given up the idea altogether as impracticable.
They did not know the mettle that Tommy was made of. After maturely
considering the matter, he had made up his mind to delay carrying out
his plan until Bax should have time to write home and acquaint him with
his whereabouts. Meanwhile, he would set himself to make and save up
money by every means in his power, for he had sense enough to know that
a moneyless traveller must be a helpless creature.
Peekins was permanently received into Sandhill Cottage as
page-in-buttons, in which capacity he presented a miserably attenuated
figure, but gave great satisfaction. Tommy and he continued good
friends; the former devoting as much of his leisure time to the latter
as he could spare. He had not much to spare, however, for he had, among
other things, set himself energetically to the study of arithmetic and
navigation under the united guidance of old Jeph and Bluenose.
Lucy Burton paid a long visit to Mrs Foster, and roamed over the
Sandhills day after day with her friend Amy, until her father, the
missionary, came and claimed her and carried her back to Ramsgate.
During Lucy's stay, Guy Foster remained at the cottage, busily engaged
in various ways, but especially in making himself agreeable to Lucy, in
which effort he seemed to be very successful.
When the latter left, he suddenly discovered that he was wasting his
time sadly, and told his mother that he meant to look out for something
to do. With this end in view he set out for London, that mighty hive of
industry and idleness into which there is a ceaseless flow of men who
"want something to do," and of men who "don't know what to do."
And what of Denham, Crumps, and Company during this period?
The rats in and around Red Wharf Lane could have told you, had they been
able to speak, that things prospered with that firm. These jovial
creatures, that revelled so luxuriously in the slime and mud and
miscellaneous abominations of that locality, could have told you that,
every morning regularly, they were caught rioting in the lane and sent
squealing out of it, by a boy in blue (the successor of poor Peekins)
who opened the office and prepared it for the business of the day; that
about half an hour later they, the rats, were again disturbed by the
arrival of the head-clerk, closely followed by the juniors, who were
almost as closely followed by Crumps--he being a timid old man who stood
in awe of his senior partner; that, after this, they had a good long
period of comparative quiet, during which they held a riotous game of
hide-and-seek across the lane and down among sewers and dust holes, and
delightfully noisome and fetid places of a similar character;
interrupted at irregular intervals by a vagrant street boy, or a daring
cat, or an inquisitive cur; that this game was stopped at about ten
o'clock by the advent of Mr Denham, who generally gave them, the rats,
a smile of recognition as he passed to his office, concluding, no doubt,
by a natural process of ratiocination, that they were kindred spirits,
because they delighted in bad smells and filthy garbage, just as he
(Denham) rejoiced in Thames air and filthy lucre.
One fine morning, speaking from a rat's point of view, when the air was
so thick and heavy and moist that it was difficult to see more than a
few yards in any direction, Denham came down the lane about half-an-hour
later than usual, with a brisk step and an unusually smiling
countenance.
Peekins' successor relieved him of his hat, topcoat, and umbrella, and
one of the clerks brought him the letters. Before opening these he
shouted--
"Mr Crumps!"
Crumps came meekly out of his cell, as if he had been a bad dog who knew
he deserved, and expected, a whipping.
"Nothing wrong, I trust," he said anxiously.
"No; on the contrary, everything right," (Crumps' old face brightened),
"I've succeeded in getting that ship at what I call a real bargain--500
less than I had anticipated and was prepared to give." (Crumps rubbed
his hands.) "Now, I mean to send this ship out to Australia, with a
miscellaneous cargo, as soon as she can be got ready for sea. The gold
fever is at its height just now, and it strikes me that, with a little
judgment and prudence, a good thing may be made out there. At any rate,
I mean to venture; for our speculations last year have, as you know,
turned out well, with the exception of that unfortunate `Trident,' and
we are sufficiently in funds just at this time to afford to run
considerable risk."
Crumps expressed great satisfaction, and agreed with all that Denham
said. He also asked what the name of the new ship was to be.
"The `Trident,'" said Mr Denham.
"What! the name of the ship we lost in Saint Margaret's Bay?" exclaimed
Crumps, in surprise.
"I thought you knew the name of the ship we lost in Saint Margaret's
Bay," said Denham sarcastically.
"Of course, of course," replied Crumps, in some confusion, "but I mean--
that is, don't you think it looks like flying in the face of Providence
to give it the same name?"
"Mr Crumps," said Denham, with an air of dignified reproof, "it is most
unnatural, most uncalled for, to talk of Providence in connexion with
business. It is a word, sir, that may be appropriately used on Sundays
and in churches, but not in offices, and I beg that you will not again
allude to it. There is no such thing, sir, as Providence in business
matters--at least such is my opinion; and I say this in order that you
may understand that any remarks of that kind are quite thrown away on
me. I am a plain practical man of business, Mr Crumps; once for all,
allow me to say that, I object to the very unbusinesslike remarks of a
theological nature which you are sometimes pleased to introduce into our
conversations. I again repeat that there is no such thing as Providence
in business,--at all events, not in _my_ business."
"I will not again offend you," said poor Crumps, who stood looking
confused and moving his legs uneasily during the delivery of this
oration, "but as you have condescended to argue the matter slightly, may
I venture to hint that our ships are propelled chiefly by means of
sails, and that the winds are in the hands of Providence."
"There, sir, I utterly disagree with you," retorted Denham, "the winds
are guided in their courses by the fixed laws of Nature, and cannot be
altered or modified by the wishes or powers of man; therefore, it is
quite unnecessary, because useless, to regard them in matters of
business. I am utterly devoid, sir, of superstition; and it is partly
in order to make this clear to all with whom I have to do, that I intend
to name our new ship the `Trident,' and to order her to sail on a
Friday."
As Mr Denham accompanied his last word with an inclination of the head
which was equivalent to a dismissal, Mr Crumps sighed and retired to
his den. His practical and unsuperstitious partner opened and read the
letters.
While Denham was thus engaged a tap came to the door, and old Mr
Summers entered the room.
"Ah! Summers, glad to see you, how are you?" said Denham, somewhat
heartily--_for him_.
"Thank you, Denham, I'm well," replied the benign old gentleman with a
smile, as he fixed a pair of gold spectacles on his nose, and sat down
in a most businesslike way to examine a bundle of papers which he pulled
out of his coat-pocket.
Mr Summers was a very old friend of Denham, and had been the friend of
his father before him; but _that_ was not the reason of Denham's regard
for him. The old gentleman happened to be a merchant in the city, with
whom Denham, Crumps, and Company did extensive and advantageous
business. This was the cause of Denham's unwonted urbanity. He cared
little for the old man's friendship. In fact, he would have dispensed
with it without much regret, for he was sometimes pressed to contribute
to charities by his philanthropic friend.
"See, I have settled that matter for you satisfactorily," said Mr
Summers; "there are the papers, which you can look over at your
leisure."
"Thank you, Mr Summers," said Denham impressively, "this is _indeed_
very kind of you. But for your interference in this affair I am
convinced that I should have lost a thousand pounds, if not more."
"Indeed!" exclaimed the old gentleman with a bright smile, "come, I'm
glad to hear you say so, and it makes my second errand all the more
easy."
"And what may your second errand be?" said Denham, with a sudden gravity
of countenance, which showed that he more than suspected it.
"Well, the fact is," began Summers, "it's a little matter of begging
that I have undertaken for the purpose of raising funds to establish one
or two lifeboats on parts of our coast where they are very much needed.
(Denham fidgeted in his chair.) You know I have a villa near Deal, and
frequently witness the terrible scenes of shipwreck that are so common
and so fatal on that coast. I am sorry to say that my begging
expedition has not been attended with so much success as I had
anticipated. It is not such agreeable work as one might suppose, I
assure you, one gets so many unexpected rebuffs. Did you ever try
begging, Denham?"
Denham said he never had, and, unless reduced to it by circumstances,
did not mean to do so!
"Ah," continued Mr Summers, "if you ever do try you'll be surprised to
find how difficult it is to screw money out of some people." (Mr
Denham thought that that difficulty would not surprise him at all.) "But
you'll be delighted to find, on the other hand, what a number of truly
liberal souls there are. It's quite a treat, for instance, to meet with
a man,--as I did the other day,--who gives his charity in the light of
such principles as these:--`The Lord loveth a cheerful giver;' `It is
more blessed to give than to receive;' `He that giveth to the poor
lendeth to the Lord,'--one who lays aside a certain proportion of his
income for charitable purposes, and who, therefore, knowing exactly how
much he has to give at any moment, gives or refuses, as the case may be,
promptly and with a good grace."
"Ha!" exclaimed Denham, whose soul abhorred this sort of talk, but whose
self-interest compelled him to listen to it.
"Really," pursued Mr Summers, "it is quite interesting to study the
outs and ins of Christian philanthropy. Have you ever given much
attention to the subject, Mr Denham? Of course, I mean in a
philosophical way."
"Ha a-hem! well, I cannot say that I have, except perhaps in my capacity
of a poor-law guardian in this district of the city."
"Indeed, I would recommend it to you. It is quite a relief to men of
business like you and me, who are necessarily swallowed up all day in
the matter of making money, to have the mind occasionally directed to
the consideration of the best methods of getting rid of a little of
their superabundance. It would do them a world of good--I can safely
say so from experience--to consider such matters. I daresay that you
also know something of this from experience."
"Ha!" ejaculated Mr Denham, who felt himself getting internally warm,
but was constrained (of course from disinterested motives) to keep cool
and appear amiable.
"But forgive my taking up so much of your time, my dear sir," said Mr
Summers, rising; "what shall I put you down for?"
Denham groaned inaudibly and said, "Well, I've no objection to give
twenty pounds."
"How much?" said the old gentleman, as though he had heard imperfectly,
at the same time pulling out a notebook.
There was a slight peculiarity in the tone of the question that induced
Denham to say he would give fifty pounds.
"Ah! fifty," said Summers, preparing to write, "thank you, Mr Denham
(here he looked up gravely and added), the subject, however, is one
which deserves liberal consideration at the hands of society in general;
_especially of ship owners_. Shall we say a hundred, my dear sir?"
Denham was about to plead poverty, but recollecting that he had just
admitted that his friend had been the means of saving a thousand pounds
to the business, he said, "Well, let it be a hundred," with the best
grace he could.
"Thank you, Mr Denham, a thousand thanks," said the old gentleman,
shaking his friend's hand, and quitting the room with the active step of
a man who had much more business to do that day before dinner.
Mr Denham returned to the perusal of his letters with the feelings of a
man who has come by a heavy loss. Yet, strange to say, he comforted
himself on his way home that evening with the thought that, after all,
he had done a liberal thing! that he had "given away a hundred pounds
sterling in charity."
_Given_ it! Poor Denham! he did not know that, up to that period, he
had never _given_ away a single farthing of his wealth in the true
spirit of liberality--although he had given much in the name of charity.