"Hadn't you better go somewhere else?" I said. "Your mother will be back after you."

"Well," said Billy, in his usual touchy way, "she ain't no concern of yourn."

"Aren't you afraid of her hurting you?"

"'Urting me!" cried the boy, in tones of the utmost contempt, as if he had not been half-murdered once a week for the last eight years. "No fear! Ain't you funny? But she ain't a-going to collar this 'ere choker; not if I knows it!" said he, taking off his new article of decoration with a flourish and holding it up.

The well-worn and used-up necktie did not certainly look worth the battle that had been waged over it.

"Why are you so particular about this?" I asked, half guessing beforehand what the reply would be.

"Pertikler!" he cried, "why, that there bloke give me this 'ere!"

Nothing evidently could have been more conclusive to Billy's mind. I felt almost jealous to find how much truer Jack's new friend was than his old one.

"Was he here long this evening?" I asked, presently.

"Yaas; he was jawing nigh on half a' hour, he was, while I gi'en him a shine. But, bless you, them boots of his is pretty nigh 'andy wore out, and I tell him so. 'Never mind, Billy,' says he; 'I'll be getting a new pair soon when I've got the money saved,' says he. 'I mean to get a good strong pair,' says he, 'double-soled and plates on the 'eels, my boy,' he says, 'and you shall polish them up every night for me.' 'That I will,' says I. Bless you, governor, that there bloke'll 'ave the shiniest pair of boots in town."

It was a sight to see the little grimy face glow as he expatiated on the grateful theme.

"I suppose he didn't—did he say anything about me?" I asked, hesitatingly.

"Yaas," said Billy. "Says I to him, 'So t'other bloke,' (meaning you), 'has lagged off,' I says. 'Yes,' says he, 'we don't live together no more?' says he. 'I know all about it,' says I; 'I seen the animal,' (meaning you), says I, 'o' Toosday.' 'Did you?' says he. 'Yaas,' I says, 'and nice and boozy he was,' I says, 'at eleving o'clock o' night,' I says. 'Did he say anything about me?' he says; and I told him, and he says he must go off, he says, 'cos he didn't want to be 'ere, he says, when you come. He do talk beautiful, he does."

I went on my lonely way more humbled than ever, but more determined, if possible, to recover my lost friend; yet thinking little or nothing of the greater and ever-present Friend against whom I had sinned so grievously.

But it was not to be for many days yet.

Smith always avoided me at the office in the same marked way, so that it was utterly impossible to make any advances to a reconciliation. The idea of writing to him occurred to me more than once, but the thought that he might throw my letter into the fire unread deterred me. No, the only thing was to bear my humiliation and wait for a chance.

Doubleday's lecture had wrought a considerable change in my habits. Although I found it impossible all at once to give up consorting with "the usual lot," especially those of them (now not a few), to whom I owed money, I was yet a good deal more chary of my complaisance, and less influenced by their example in ordinary matters. I succeeded, greatly to my own satisfaction and much to every one else's surprise, in making myself distinctly disagreeable on more than one occasion, which Doubleday looked upon as a very healthy sign, and which, though it involved me in a good deal of persecution at the time, did not seriously affect my position as a member of their honourable society.

How I wished I might once more call Jack Smith my friend, and cast off once for all these other shallow acquaintances!

During these wretched weeks Billy became my chief comforter, for he of all people was the only one I could talk to about Jack.

I always arranged my walks by Style Street so as to pass his "place of business" after the time when I knew Jack would have left, and then eagerly drank in all the news I could hear of my lost friend.

One evening, a week after the adventure with Billy and his mother just recorded, the boy greeted me with most extraordinary and mysterious demonstrations of importance and glee. He walked at least half a dozen times round his box on his hands before he would say a word, and then indulged in such a series of winks and grimaces as almost drove me into impatience.

"Whatever's the matter with you?" I asked, when this performance had been going on for some time "Oh my!—ain't it a game?" he chuckled.

"What's a game?" I demanded.

"Why—oh, ain't you a flat, though?—why, them there boots!"

"What boots? Why can't you talk sense?"

"Why, that there bloke's boots. When I was a-shinin' of 'em, if the sole of one on 'em don't come clean off!" he cried, with a grin.

"I don't see anything so very amusing in that," I replied.

"He's gone off to get 'em sewed on," continued the boy, beaming all over; "and he's a-coming back this way to show me. Bless you, they'll never sew that there sole on. The upper wouldn't hold it—you see if it does."

"He will have to get a new pair," I said.

"Why, he ain't got the browns. He's a-saving up, but it'll be a month afore he's got the brass."

Here Billy positively laughed, so that I felt strongly inclined to give him a box on the ear for his levity.

"And it's been a-rainin' all day," continued he, jocularly "and the streets is all one marsh of muck."

"Poor fellow!" said I. "I wish I could lend him a pair of mine."

"Ga on!" cried Billy, scornfully, dropping on his knees before his box.

"I say, guv'nor," said he, in a sudden mysterious tone, "can you keep it mum?"

"Yes—what?" I asked.

He looked carefully up the street and then down, and then all round. No one was near. He moved so as to let the light of a neighbouring lamp- post shine full on the pavement, as with jubilant face he lifted up his box and disclosed—a pair of new double-soled lace boots!

"Them's for him," he said, in an excited whisper.

"For him? Why, Billy, wherever did they come from?"

His grimy face turned up to mine all aglow with pride and triumph as he answered, "Stole 'em!"



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

HOW I FOUND THAT HOPE DEFERRED MAKES THE HEART SICK.

The reader may picture my horror and astonishment on discovering Billy's secret. And the strangest part of it was that the graceless youth appeared to be utterly unconscious that he had done anything wrong. On the contrary, his jubilant face and triumphant voice showed plainly that he considered he had done a fine—a splendid thing.

I endeavoured to reason with him; he flared up as if I were trying to defraud Jack Smith of his new boots. I warned him of the punishment that would follow if he were caught. He gloried in the risk he ran. I told him it was wicked to steal—even for other persons. He retorted, "It wasn't no concern of mine."

Altogether it seemed hopeless to disenchant him with his exploit, and I therefore left him, wholly at a loss to make out this strange puzzle of a boy.

I was still more perplexed when, next morning, Jack Smith appeared at the office wearing the identical new pair of boots which had been the cause of all my horror!

I waited impatiently for the hours to pass, when I should be at liberty to pay my usual visit to Billy.

He was sitting there grimly, unlike his usual manner, evidently expecting me.

"Well," said I, "what have you done with those boots?"

"'Tain't no concern of yourn!"

"But he was wearing them to-day."

"In course he was!" said Billy, brightening a little.

"Did you tell him you had—had stolen them?"

"Yaas," replied the boy, gruffly.

"And he took them?" said I, in astonishment.

"Ain't you saw them on 'im?" demanded he, evidently disliking this catechism.

"Billy," said I, "I can't understand it."

"You ain't no call to!" was the polite reply; "'tain't no concern or yourn."

"It is my concern if other people are robbed," I said. "Don't you know, if I chose, I could fetch a policeman and get you locked up?"

"In course you could! Why don't yer?"

Was there ever such a hopeless young scamp?

"Whose shop did you take them from?" I asked.

"Trotter's, aside of our court. Go and tell him!" replied he, scornfully.

"How would you like any one to steal away one of your brushes?"

"I'd give 'em a topper!"

"But that's just what you've done to Trotter," I argued.

"Well, why don't you fetch him to give me a topper?" he replied.

I gave it up. There was no arguing with a boy like this. If there had been, there would have been no further opportunity that night, for as I stood by, puzzling in my mind what to say to bring home to the graceless youth a sense of his iniquity, he began picking up his brushes and shouldering his box.

"Where are you going so early?" I asked.

"Don't you like to know?" retorted he.

"Yes, I would."

"Well, if you must know, I'm a-going to the racket school!"

"The what?" I exclaimed.

"Racket school."

"Oh! ragged school, you mean. Where is it? I didn't know you went. They ought to teach you better there than to steal, Billy," I said.

"Oh!" replied the boy, with a touch of scorn in his voice, "that there bloke's a-going to learn me, not you!"

"What! does Smith teach at the ragged school, then?"

"In course he do! Do you suppose I'd go else?"

And off he trotted, leaving me utterly bewildered.

Jack Smith teaching in a ragged school! Jack Smith wearing a pair of boots that he knew were stolen! What could I think?

At any rate, I was resolved to be no party to Billy's dishonesty. At any cost, since I had not the heart to deliver up the culprit to justice, I must see that the victim was repaid. He might never have noticed the theft; but whether or no, I should have no rest till his loss had been made good.

It was no time to mince matters. My own funds, as the reader knows, were in a bad state. I owed far more than I could save in half a year. But I had still my uncle's half-sovereign in my pocket, which I had hitherto, despite all my difficulties, kept untouched. An emergency had now arisen, thought I, when surely I should be justified in using it. As long as I remained a party to Billy's dishonesty I was, I felt, little better than a thief myself, and that I could not endure, however bad in other respects I might have been.

I went straight to Trotter's shop. A jovial, red-faced woman stood at the door, just about to shut up for the night.

"I want to see Mr Trotter," said I.

"Mrs Trotter, you mean, I suppose?" said the woman. "I'm the lady."

"Can I speak to you for a minute?" I said.

"Yes—half an hour if you like. What is it?"

"It's something private."

"Bless us, are you going to offer to marry me, or what?" exclaimed she; "come, what is it?"

"Have you—that is, did you—the fact is, I don't know whether you happen to have missed a pair of boots," I said, falteringly.

She made a grab at my arm.

"So you're the thief, are you? A nice trade you've started at, young master, so I can tell you!"

"Oh," I cried, in the utmost alarm and terror, "you're quite wrong, you are indeed. I never touched them—I only—I—I know who did, that's all."

Mrs Trotter still held me fast.

"Oh, you know who did, do you?"

"Yes—he's a—" I was going to say "shoeblack," but I stopped myself in time, and said, "a little boy."

She released her grasp, greatly to my relief, and waited for me to go on.

"And I really don't think he knows any better," said I, recovering my confidence.

"Well," she said, eyeing me sharply.

"Well," I said, "I know the proper thing would be to give him up to the police."

"That's what I'd do to you in a minute, if you'd stolen them," she said.

"I've rather an interest in the little boy," I said nervously, "and I thought if you wouldn't mind telling me what the boots came to, I'd ask you to let me pay for them. I don't think he'll do it again."

"Well, it's a very queer thing," said the woman; "what a popular young thief your friend must be! Why, I had a young gentleman here yesterday evening asking the very same thing of me!"

"What!" I exclaimed, "was it Jack Smith?"

"I don't know his name, but he'd a pair of black eyes that would astonish you."

"That's him, that's him!" I cried. "And he wanted to pay for the boots?"

"He did pay for them. I shall make my fortune out of that pair of boots," added she, laughing.

This, then, explained his wearing the boots that morning. How quick I had been to suspect him of far different conduct!

"You'd better keep your money for the next time he steals something," observed Mrs Trotter, rather enjoying my astonishment; "he's likely to be a costly young treat to you at this rate. I hope the next party he robs will be as lazy about her rights as me."

I dropped my uncle's half-sovereign back into my purse, with the rather sad conviction that after all I was not the only honest and righteous person in the world.

The next morning, on my arrival at Hawk Street rather before the time (I had taken to being early at the office, partly to avoid arriving there at the same time as Smith, and partly to have the company of young Larkins, of postage-stamp celebrity, in my walk from Beadle Square), I found Doubleday already there in a state of great perturbation.

"What do you think," he cried, almost before I entered the office—"what do you think they've done? I knew that young puppy's coming was no good to us! Here have I been here twelve years next Michaelmas, and he not a year, and blest if I haven't got to hand over the petty cash to my lord, because old Merrett wants the dear child to get used to a sense of responsibility in the business! Sense of rot, I call it!"

It certainly did seem hard lines. Doubleday, as long as I had been at Hawk Street, had always been the custodian of all loose cash paid into the office, which he carefully guarded and accounted for, handing it over regularly week by week to be paid into the bank.

It is never pleasant when a fellow has held an office of trust to have it coolly taken from him and handed to another. In this case no one would suspect it meant any lack of confidence; for Doubleday, even his enemies admitted, was as honest as the Bank of England; but it meant elevating another at his expense, which did not seem exactly fair.

"If the darling's such a big pot in the office," growled Doubleday, "they'd better make him head clerk at once, and let me run his errands for him."

"Never mind," said I, "it'll be so much less work for you."

"Yes, and a pretty mess the accounts will get into, to make up for it."

Hawkesbury entered at this moment, smiling most beautifully.

"How punctual you two are!" said he.

"Need to be punctual," growled Doubleday, "when I've got to hand you over the petty cash."

"Oh!" said Hawkesbury; "the petty cash? My uncle was saying something about my keeping it. I think it's a pity he couldn't let it stay where it was; you're so much more used to it than I am. Besides, I've plenty of work to do without it."

"I suppose I shall get some of your work to do for you," said Doubleday—"that is, if I'm competent!"

Hawkesbury laughed softly, as if it were a joke, and Doubleday relapsed into surly silence.

It was still some minutes before the other clerks were due. Hawkesbury used the interval in conversing amiably with me in a whisper.

"I'm afraid Doubleday's put out," said he. "You know, he's a very good sort of fellow; but, between you and me, don't you think he's a trifle too unsteady?"

What could I say? I certainly could not call Doubleday steady, as a rule, and yet I disliked to have to assent to Hawkesbury's question. "He's very steady in business," I said.

"Yes; but at other times I'm afraid he's not," said Hawkesbury. "Not that I'm blaming him. But of course, when a fellow's extravagant, and all that, it is a temptation, isn't it?"

"Do you mean a temptation to be dishonest?"

"Well, it's rather a strong way of putting it. I don't suppose for a moment Doubleday is not perfectly trustworthy; no more does my uncle."

"I should think not," said I, rather warmly.

"Of course not," said he, sweetly; "but you know, Batchelor, prevention is better than cure, and it seems the kindest thing, doesn't it, to put temptation quite out of a fellow's reach when one can?"

"But," observed I, "it seems to me you are taking it out of Doubleday's reach and putting it into your own."

For an instant a shade of vexation crossed his face, but directly afterwards he laughed again in his usual amused manner.

"You forget," said he, "I live at home, and haven't the chance of following Doubleday's example, even if I wished to. In fact, I'm a domestic character."

He seemed to forget that he had frequently accepted Doubleday's hospitality and joined in the festivities of the "usual lot."

"I thought you lived at your uncle's?" said I.

"Oh, no! My father's rectory is in Lambeth. But we're just going to move into the City. I don't enjoy the prospect, I can assure you! But I say, how are you and your friend Smith getting on now?"

He was always asking me about my friend Smith.

"The same as usual," said I.

"That's a pity! He really seems very unreasonable, considering he has so little to be proud of."

"It's I that have got little to be proud of," replied I.

"Really, Batchelor, you are quite wrong there. I think it's very generous the way you have always stuck to him—with certainly not much encouragement."

"Well," said I, "I shall have another attempt to make it up with him."

Hawkesbury mused a bit, and then said, smilingly, "Of course, it's a very fine thing of you; but do you know, Batchelor, I'm not sure that you are wise in appearing to be in such a hurry?"

"What do you mean?" I said.

"I mean, I shall be as glad as any one to see you two friends again: but if you seem too eager about it, I fancy you would only be demeaning yourself, and giving him a fresh chance of repulsing you. My advice as a friend is, wait a bit. As long as he sees you unhappy about it he will have a crow over you. Let him see you aren't so greatly afflicted, and then, take my word for it, he'll come a good deal more than half way to meet you."

There seemed to be something in this specious advice. I might, after all, be defeating my own ends by seeming too anxious to make it up with Jack Smith, and so making a reconciliation more difficult in the end. I felt inclined, at any rate, to give it a trial.

But the weeks that followed were wretched weeks. I heard daily and regularly from Billy all the news I could gather of my friend, but before Smith himself I endeavoured to appear cheerful and easy in mind. It was a poor show. How could I seem cheerful when every day I was feeling my loss more and more?

My only friends at this time were Hawkesbury and Billy and young Larkins. The former continued to encourage me to persevere in my behaviour before Smith, predicting that it would be sure, sooner or later, to make our reconciliation certain. But at present it did not look much like it. If I appeared cheerful and easy-minded, so did Smith. The signs of relenting which I looked for were certainly not to be discovered, and, so far from meeting me half way, the more unconcerned about him I seemed, the more unconcerned he seemed about me.

"Of course he'll be like that at first," said Hawkesbury, when I confided my disappointment one day to him, "but it won't last long. He's not so many friends in the world that he can afford to throw you over."

And so I waited week after week. I saw him daily, but our eyes scarcely ever met. Only when I glanced at him furtively I thought him looking paler and thinner even than usual, and longed still more intensely to call him my friend and know why it was.

"Most likely he's fretting," said Hawkesbury, "and will soon give in. It's a wonder to me how he's held out so long."

"Unless he speaks to me soon, I'll risk everything and speak to him."

"I can quite understand your anxiety," said my counsellor, "but I really wouldn't be too impatient."

I tried to find out from Billy the reason of Jack's altered looks.

"Yaas," said he, in response to my inquiry whether he had heard if my friend was ill—"yaas, he do look dicky. 'Governor,' says I, 'what's up?' I says. 'Up,' says he, 'what do you mean by it?' says he. 'Go on,' says I, 'as if you didn't know you was queer!' 'I ain't queer,' says he. 'Oh, no, ain't you,' says I; 'what do you want to look so green about the mazard for, then?' says I. 'Oh, that's nothing,' says he; 'reading late at night, that's what that is,' says he. 'Turn it up,' says I. 'So I will,' says he, 'when my Sam's over,' says he. Bless you, governor, I'd like to give that there Sam a topper, so I would."

So, then, he was reading for an examination! This paleness, after all, did not come from fretting on my account, but because he had found an occupation which drove me from his thoughts evening after evening!

I felt more hopeless of recovering my friend than ever.

"Do you go to the ragged school still?" I asked.

"Yaas, a Fridays. I say, governor, look here."

He dipped his finger into his blacking-pot, and, after cleaning the flagstone on which he knelt with his old hat, proceeded laboriously and slowly to trace an S upon it.

"There," he cried, when the feat was accomplished, "what do you think of that? That's a ess for Mr Smith, and a proper bloke he is. He do teach you to-rights, so I let you know, he do."

"What else does he teach you besides your letters?"

"Oh, about a bloke called Cain as give 'is pal a topper, and—"

He stopped abruptly, as he noticed the smile I could not restrain, and then added, in his offended tone, "I ain't a-goin' to tell you. 'Tain't no concern of yourn."

I knew Billy well enough by this time to be sure it was no use, after once offending him, trying to cajole him back into a good-humour, so I left him.

So the wretched weeks passed on, and I almost wished myself back at Stonebridge House. There at least I had some society and some friends. Now, during those lonely evenings at Mrs Nash's I had positively no one—except young Larkins.

That cheery youth was a standing rebuke to me. He had come up to town a year ago, a fresh, innocent boy; and a fresh, innocent boy he remained still. He kept his diary regularly, and wrote home like clock-work, and chirruped over his postage-stamp album, and laughed over his storybooks in a way which it did one's heart good to see. And yet it made my heart sore. Why should he be so happy and I not? He wasn't, so I believe, a cleverer boy than I was. Certainly he wasn't getting on better than I was, for I had now had my third rise in salary, and he still only got what he started with. And he possessed no more friends at Beadle Square than I did. Why ever should he always be so jolly?

I knew, though I was loth to admit it. His conscience was as easy as his spirits. There was no one he had ever wronged, and a great many to whom he had done kind actions. When any one suggested to him to do what he considered wrong, it was the easiest thing in the world for him to refuse flatly, and say boldly why. If everybody else went one way, and he thought it not the right way, it cost him not an effort to turn and go his own way, even if he went it alone. Fellows didn't like him. They called him a prig—a sanctimonious young puppy. What cared he? If to do what was right manfully in the face of wrong, to persevere in the right in the face of drawbacks, constituted a prig, then Larkins was a prig of the first water, and he didn't care what fellows thought of him, but chirruped away over his postage-stamp album as before, and read his books, as happy as a king.

It was in this boy's society that during those wretched weeks I found a painful consolation. He was constantly reminding me of what I was not; but for all that I felt he was a better companion than the heroes with whom I used to associate, and with whom I still occasionally consorted. He knew nothing of my trouble, and thought I was the crossest-grained, slowest growler in existence. But since I chose his company, and seemed glad to have him beside me, he was delighted.

"I say," said he suddenly one evening, as we were engaged in experimenting with a small steam-engine he had lately become the proud possessor of, "I saw your old friend Smith to-day!"

"Where?" I asked.

"Why, down Drury Lane. I heard of a new Russian stamp that was to be had cheap in a shop there, and while I was in buying it he came in."

"Was he buying stamps too?"

"No; he lives in a room over the shop. Not a nice hole, I should fancy. Didn't you know he was there?"

"No," I said.

"Oh, you should go and see the place. He'd much better come back here, tell him. But I thought you saw one another every day?" he added, in his simple way.

"Did he say anything to you?" I asked, avoiding the question.

"Yes. I asked him how he was getting on, and he said very well; and I asked him what he thought of the Russian stamp; and he said if I liked he could get me a better specimen at his office. Isn't he a brick? and he's promised me a jolly Turkish one, too, that I haven't got."

"Was that all?" I asked. "I mean all he said?"

"Yes—oh, and I asked if he'd got any message for you, and he said no. Look, there—it's going! I say, isn't it a stunning little engine? I mean to make it work a little pump I've got in the greenhouse at home. It's just big enough."

Any message for me? No! Was it worth trying for any longer? I thought, as once more I crept solitary and disappointed to bed.

But the answer was nearer than I thought for.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

HOW I TOOK PART IN A NOT VERY SUCCESSFUL HOLIDAY PARTY.

Several weeks elapsed, and I was beginning to doubt whether Hawkesbury's advice, after all, was good, when a general holiday occurred to break the monotony of my life both at Hawk Street and Beadle Square.

I had for some time meditated, if I had the funds, taking advantage of my next holiday to run down to my uncle's. Not that I expected any particular welcome from him, but I longed to see the old familiar haunts of my childhood after my long imprisonment in London; and, even if there were no more congenial friend than Cad Prog to hail me, it would at least be a change from this dreary city, with its noise and bustle, and disappointed hopes and lost friendships.

But my intention in this direction was upset by a double reason. One was that I had no money. Indeed, my debts had got so far ahead of my means that it was clear a crisis in my financial affairs must soon come. The other reason was an invitation to join in a grand day's excursion by road to Windsor.

It came from Hawkesbury.

"Are you doing anything particular on Monday?" he asked me, a day or two before the holiday.

"No; I half thought of going home, but I can't afford that, so I may go to the British Museum."

"Not a very cheerful place to spend a holiday," laughed Hawkesbury. "What do you say to coming a quiet drive with me?"

Had the invitation come from Crow or Daly, or even Doubleday, I should have regarded it shyly. But Hawkesbury was a steady fellow, I thought, and not likely to lead one into mischief.

"I should like it awfully!" I said, "only—that is—I don't think I can afford it."

"Oh!" said he, smiling affably, "you shan't be at any expense at all. It's my affair, and I should like to take you with me."

Of course my gratitude was as profuse as it was sincere.

"My idea was," continued Hawkesbury, "to get a dogcart for the day and go somewhere in the direction of Windsor, taking our own provender with us, and having a jolly healthy day in the open air."

Nothing could be more delightful or more in accordance with my own wishes.

"Will it be just you and I?" I asked.

"Well, these traps generally hold four. I thought perhaps Whipcord would come for one; he's a good driver, you know, and a steady enough fellow when he's by himself. And there's a friend of mine called Masham I mean to ask as well."

I would have preferred it if the expedition had been confined to Hawkesbury and myself, but I had no right to be discontented with the arrangements which had been made, and spent the next few days in eager anticipation.

I wondered what Jack Smith meant to do on his holiday; most likely he would be reading hard for his "Sam," as Billy called it. It seemed shabby of me to go off on a spree and leave him to drudge; but, as Hawkesbury said when I referred to the matter, it would just show him what he missed by holding aloof, and make him all the more ready to try to get back my friendship.

Doubleday, when I told him of my plan for the day, snuffed up at it in no very pleasant way. But then he had always been jealous of Hawkesbury since giving up the petty-cash to his charge.

"All I can say is," said he, "I'd think twice about going with that party, and I'm not so very particular. I suppose you never met Mr Masham, did you?"

"No," said I.

"Ah!" he replied, laughing, "you'll find him a very nice boy; just a little too strait-laced for me, but he'll suit you."

I could not make out whether this was in jest or earnest; in any case, I put it down to the petty-cash, and thought it a pity Doubleday should be so put out by a trifle.

"What are you going to do?" I asked him.

"Oh! I'm going to do my best to be cheerful in a mild way," said he, "down the river. It's a good job Hawkesbury's booked you, my boy, for I meant to ask you to join us, and that would have done you out of your quiet day with Petty-Cash and his friends, which would be a pity."

The Monday came at last, and opened perfectly. My spirits rose as I looked out and saw the blue cloudless sky overhead, and thought of the trees, and birds, and flowers, and country air I was so soon to be among.

I was to meet my party at the Horseshoe stables in the City, and thither I repaired in good time, in my smartest get-up, and with a shilling plum-cake under my arm, which I had made up my mind to take as my contribution to the commissariat of the expedition. I passed Style Street on my way, and came in for hilarious greeting from Billy.

"Hi! shine 'e boots, governor? My eye, there's a nob! Shine 'e all over, governor. Ain't you got 'em on, though? What's up, mister?"

"See you again soon, Billy," said I, bustling on. I was angry with him for the way he laughed, and for the description of me I knew quite well he would presently give to Jack Smith.

Early as I was at the rendezvous, Hawkesbury was before me, and with him his friend Masham. The latter was a queer-looking fellow of about thirty. He was pale and dark round the eyes, like a person who hadn't slept for a week. His lips were large and red, and the lower part of his face a good deal too big for the upper. Altogether Mr Masham was neither a very healthy nor a very prepossessing-looking specimen; but Hawkesbury had told me he was clever and very amusing, so I supposed I oughtn't to judge by appearances.

"Punctual as usual," said Hawkesbury, as I approached. "Phil, this is my friend Batchelor I was telling you of."

I wished secretly I knew exactly what he had been telling him of me.

"Oh," said Masham, eyeing me all over, as he lit a cigar, and then held out his cigar-case to me. "What do you smoke, Batchelor?"

"I don't smoke, thank you," said I.

"Have you given it up, then?" said Hawkesbury. "You used to smoke at Doubleday's parties."

"Ah! I thought he looked like a chap that smoked," said Masham, holding out his case again. "Don't be modest, Batchelor. We're all friends here."

I didn't like the style of this Masham. Indeed, I was a trifle afraid of him already, and half repented coming.

"I gave up smoking some weeks ago," said I, determined not to give in if I could help. "I found I couldn't afford it."

"The very reason you should take a cigar now when you've a chance of getting one for nothing," replied Masham, digging me pleasantly in the ribs.

"Thanks, I'd rather not, if you'll excuse me," I replied again.

"Can't excuse you, my dear fellow. We're all bound to be sociable to- day. At least, so I fancy."

"Come, Batchelor," said Hawkesbury. "We may as well humour him. I'd advise you to take a cigar. I'll take one, too, to keep you company, though I hate them. They always make me feel sick."

So saying, he took a cigar and lit it. I felt bound to do the same, not only to relieve myself of Masham's importunity, but to avoid disturbing the harmony of our party at the very beginning of the day.

At this moment Whipcord arrived on the scene, as stylish as ever, with his hat all on one side of his head and his straw all on one side of his mouth.

"What cheer, my venerable chums?" he cried, as he approached. "Ah! Masham. You turned up again! I thought we'd lost—"

"That'll do," said Masham, with a significant jerk of his head towards me. "Have a weed?"

"Thanks, we'll see about that later on. I'm off my smoke just now. Ah! young Batchelor, you there? Brought your boxing-gloves with you, I hope? Hot fellow with the gloves is Batchelor, Phil. Well, where's your trap, Hawkesbury?"

"There it is coming out."

Whipcord eyed it professionally and critically. He liked the dogcart, but didn't think much of the horse.

"Do all right for a water-cart, I dare say," observed he, "or cat's meat. But I don't see how we're to get to Windsor and back with such a rheumatic old screw."

"You're out there, mister," said the ostler, who was harnessing the animal. "You'll find he ain't such a screw as you think. You'll need to keep a steady hand on him all the way, pertikler on the road home, or he'll screw you a way you don't fancy."

Whipcord laughed.

"I'll do my best," he said. "He does look a sort of beast to be nervous of, certainly."

The ostler grinned cynically, and we meanwhile mounted to our seats, Hawkesbury and Whipcord being in front, and I, much to my disgust, being placed beside Masham on the back seat.

Despite Whipcord's desponding prophecies, our charger stepped out at a pretty fair pace, and in due time we began to shake off the dust of London from our wheels and meet the first traces of country.

For a considerable time my companion absorbed himself in his cigar—much to my satisfaction—and I, for fear of appearing anxious for conversation, betook myself to mine.

At length, however, after about half an hour thus occupied, Masham broke the silence.

"Know Hawkesbury well?" he asked.

"Pretty well," I answered; "we were at school together first, and now we're in the same office."

"Nice boy at school?"

"Yes; I think so."

"Not quite sure, eh?"

"I always got on well with him."

"Yes, you would. Sort of a nest for bad eggs, that school, wasn't it?"

"Yes—that is, a good many of the boys were a bad sort," said I, not very comfortable to be undergoing this cross-examination.

"I understand. You weren't, of course, eh?" said he, digging me in the ribs with his knuckles.

His manner was most offensive. I felt strongly inclined to resent it, and yet somehow I felt that to be civil to him would be the less of two evils.

"Hawkesbury doing well at the office, eh?"

"Certainly!" said I. "Why not?"

"See no reason at all. Worthy chap, Hawkesbury. Nice boy at home; great comfort to the old people."

"Really," said I, "you know him much better than I do."

"Ah! should get to know Hawkesbury all you can. Moral chap—like you and me, eh?" and here followed another dig in the ribs.

This was getting intolerable. However, at this point Whipcord pulled up at a wayside inn, much to my relief. Anything was better than Masham's conversation.

We halted a quarter of an hour, to give our horse time to get breath, as Whipcord explained, but, as it really seemed, to allow that gentleman and Masham to refresh themselves also.

When we started again my companion began almost immediately to resume the conversation, but this time it was of a less personal nature, though disagreeable enough.

For he made no secret at all that he was a youth of depraved tastes and habits, and insisted on addressing me as though I resembled him in these respects. He gave me what he doubtless intended to be a highly entertaining and spicy account of many of his escapades and exploits in town and country, appealing to me every few sentences as to what I should have said or done or thought in similar circumstances.

And when he had exhausted his stories of himself he told me stories of his friends, some of which were disgusting, some horrifying, and some stupid. But with it all he had an air as if he believed everybody at heart was bad, and as if morality and sobriety and unselfishness were mere affectation and cant.

Has any of my readers ever met such a one as Masham? I hope not. If he should, let him beware of him as the worst enemy a boy could encounter. For no poison is more deadly than that which strives to make one man lose all faith in his fellow-man.

I was so far infected by his manner that, though I felt ashamed to be sitting and listening to his bad talk, I dared not protest, for fear of appearing (what he would be sure to consider me), a hypocrite.

And so, unprofitably, the journey was beguiled, not without frequent stoppings and refreshings, each of which had the effect of exhilarating Whipcord's spirits and making Masham's tongue looser and looser.

At length Windsor was reached, and I looked forward to exchanging my undesirable companion for more interesting occupation in seeing over the town with its grand old castle.

But in this I was woefully disappointed. Whipcord drove straight up to an inn in the town, where he ordered the horse and trap to be put up, while we all entered the smoky coffee-room and discussed the desirability of having dinner.

"I thought we were going to picnic out of doors?" I said, mildly, in answer to Masham's appeal whether we should not order dinner where we were.

"All very well if you could get your liquor laid on," said Whipcord. "I fancy we'd better stay where we are. What do you say, Hawkesbury?"

"I'm sorry to disappoint Batchelor," said Hawkesbury, smiling, "but I really think we shall get dinner more comfortably here. We've no plates or knives; and, as Whipcord says, there would be a difficulty about the beer."

I was outvoted, and had to give up my idea of a rustic meal in the open air.

It was not a very pleasant dinner. Masham, despite Hawkesbury's protests, persisted in interlarding it with his offensive stories, and Whipcord, who was taking very decided measures to excite his spirits, chimed in with his horsey slang, not unmixed with profanity.

"How are you getting on, Batchelor?" said the former presently to me. "Don't be afraid of that bottle, man, it's only whisky!"

"Don't you believe him; it's gin," laughed Whipcord.

"I thought you said it was brandy," said Hawkesbury.

"There you are!" said Masham. "One says one thing, one another, and one another. Now I tell you what, Batchelor shall be umpire, and we'll each put five shillings on it, eh? What do you say to that?"

"I'd rather not bet," replied Hawkesbury, "but I'd like to know what Batchelor says it is."

"I'll go half-sovs. with you on it," said Whipcord.

"Done with you!" said Masham; "but Hawkesbury must go too, for if it's brandy we both lose."

"I'd rather not bet," said Hawkesbury, "but if it will spoil your fun if I don't I'll join."

"Thanks. Now, Batchelor, fill up, old toper, and give us your verdict."

"I really am no judge of spirits," said I. "Innocent babe," said Masham, "how well he does it! But he doesn't seem to know the rule in these cases," added he, winking at the other two. "What rule?" I asked.

"Why, about hanging back. Half a tumbler for every twenty seconds, isn't that it, Whipcord?"

"I thought it was a whole tumbler!"

"Ah, wouldn't you take your time to decide, eh? Come now," said Masham, taking out his watch, "we'll start now."

"Hold hard," said Whipcord. "Surely we are to have glasses too, to see if he guesses right."

"Very well, fill all round. Now, Batchelor."

"I really can't do it," I said, faintly. "Five seconds gone!" bawled Masham, laughing. "Please, don't be so foolish," I cried, getting alarmed. "Hawkesbury, please stop them!"

"Ten seconds gone, eleven, twelve!"

"I tell you, I—"

"Seventeen, eighteen," said Masham, rising and reaching out his arm for the bottle.

There was no help for it. I seized my glass and gulped down its contents. It made me cough and sputter, and my eyes watered, greatly to the amusement of my persecutors.

"What is it?" they all cried.

I could scarcely speak for anger and the burning in my throat.

"It's a shame!" I began.

"That's not what it is," cried Whipcord. "Come, give it a name, or you'll have to drink another!"

"Oh, brandy," I almost shrieked, willing to do anything rather than that. "I say, Hawkesbury," I said, reproachfully, "I didn't expect you were bringing me to this sort of thing."

"It is a shame," he said to me aside. "I would have stopped it if I could; but don't you see they were eager about their bet, and it was the only way of quieting them. Never mind."

The rest of the afternoon passed away much as it had begun. After dinner we went down to the river and took a boat, in which Masham and Whipcord lay and slept all the time, while Hawkesbury and I rowed them about. It was with difficulty, about five o'clock, that we got them ashore again, and half led, half dragged them back to the inn.

"Come," said Hawkesbury to Whipcord, "it's time to be getting the trap ready for the start back, isn't it?"

"Is it? Go and tell the fellow, some of you," replied our driver. "I'll be ready pretty soon," said he, moving once more towards the bar.

"You surely aren't going to drink any more," cried I, taking his arm and trying gently to stop him.

He wrenched his arm loose and gave me a push back, saying, "Young prig! what's it to do with you?"

"I think he wants to come too," said Masham. "Come along, Batchelor."

I had positively to run away to elude them, and made the pretext of going to the stable to see after the harnessing of the horse.

When this was done I sought for Hawkesbury.

"Do you think it's safe for Whipcord to drive in the state he's in?"

"Oh, yes. With a horse like that too. He's pretending to be a great deal worse than he is, just to horrify you."

It seemed ages before we actually started. Whipcord, in a most quarrelsome humour, had to be dragged almost by force from the bar. Hawkesbury, at the last moment, discovered that he was going without paying the bill; while Masham, having once made himself comfortable in the bar parlour, flatly refused to be moved, and had finally to be left behind.

The only consolation in this was that I had the tail of the dogcart to myself, which was infinitely preferable to the odious society of Masham.

It was nearly six when we finally started from Windsor and turned our horse's head homeward. And this had been my day's enjoyment!



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

HOW I FELL BADLY, AND WAS PICKED UP IN A WAY I LITTLE EXPECTED.

The delightful picnic to which I had looked forward with such satisfaction had certainly not come off as I expected. And it was not yet over, for the drive home under the conduct of Mr Whipcord promised to be the most exciting portion of the whole day.

As long as we were in the country roads the unsteadiness of our Jehu did not so much matter, for he was sober enough to keep the horse upon the road, though hardly fit to steer him past other vehicles. However, it was marvellous how we did get on. What hairbreadth escapes we had! It was useless attempting to remonstrate with the fellow. He was in that quarrelsome and mischievous humour which would brook no protest. Once, very soon after starting, in passing a country cart we as nearly as possible upset against it, a misadventure which Whipcord immediately set down as a deliberate insult intended for himself, and which nothing would satisfy him but to avenge then and there.

He leaped down off the dogcart, heedless of what became of the horse, and, throwing off his coat, shouted to the countryman to "Come on!" an invitation which the countryman answered with a crack of his whip which made the doughty hero leap as high into the air as he had ever done in his life.

As might be expected, this incident did not tend to pacify the outraged feelings of the tipsy Whipcord, who, disappointed of his vengeance on the countryman, was most pressing in his invitations to Hawkesbury or me or both of us to dismount and "have it out." Indeed, he was so eager for satisfaction that he all but pulled me off my seat on to the road, and would have done so quite had not the horse given a start at the moment, which put me out of his reach, and nearly upset him in the dust.

Things certainly did not look promising for a nice quiet drive home. With difficulty we coaxed him back into the trap, where he at once began to vent his spleen on the horse in a manner which put that animal's temper to a grand test.

He further insisted on pulling up at every wayside inn for refreshment, until it became quite evident, if we ever reached London at all, we should certainly not do so till nearly midnight.

I held a hurried consultation with Hawkesbury as to what ought to be done.

"Don't you think," suggested I, "we had almost better go on by ourselves and leave him behind?"

"Oh no," said Hawkesbury; "that would never do. It wouldn't be honourable."

It occurred to me it would not be much less honourable than inviting a fellow to a quiet picnic and letting him in for an expedition like this.

"Well," said I, "suppose we let him drive home, and you and I go back some other way?"

"You forget I'm responsible for the trap. No, we'd better go on as we are. We've not come to grief so far. Perhaps, though," said he, "you'd sooner drive?"

"What's that about sooner drive?" shouted Whipcord, coming up at this moment. "Who'd sooner drive? You, young Batchelor? All right; off with your coat!" And he threw himself on me in a pugilistic attitude.

After a long delay we got once more under way, the vehicle travelling more unsteadily than ever, and my misgivings as to ever reaching London becoming momentarily more numerous.

How we ever got back I can't imagine, unless it was that after a time Whipcord finally dropped the reins and allowed the horse to find its own way home. He certainly thought he was driving, but I fancy the truth was that one of the ostlers on the road, seeing his condition, had cunningly looped the reins round the front rail of the trap, so that, drive all he would, he could not do much more harm than if he was sitting idle.

At length the lateness of the hour and the frequent lights announced that London must be near. It was fortunate it was so late, or we should certainly have come to grief in the first crowded street. As it was, Whipcord had already got command of the reins again, as the sudden jerks and shies of the horse testified.

My impulse was to avoid the danger by quietly jumping down from my seat and leaving the other two to proceed alone. But somehow it seemed a shabby proceeding to leave Hawkesbury in the lurch, besides which, even if I had overcome that scruple, the seat was so high that at the unsteady rate we were going I would run considerable risk by jumping. So I determined to hold on and hope for the best.

We got safely down Oxford Street, thanks to its emptiness, and were just proceeding towards Holborn, when Whipcord gave his horse a sudden turn down a side street to the right.

"Where are you going?" I cried; "it's straight on."

He pulled up immediately, and bidding Hawkesbury hold the reins, pulled off his coat for the twentieth time, and invited me to come and have it out on the pavement.

"Don't be a fool," said Hawkesbury; "drive on now, there's a good fellow."

"What does he want to tell me which way to drive for?" demanded the outraged charioteer.

"He didn't mean to offend you—did you, Batchelor? Drive on now, Whipcord, and get out of this narrow street."

With much persuasion Whipcord resumed his coat and seized the reins.

"Thinks I don't know the way to drive," he growled. "I'll teach him!"

I had been standing up, adding my endeavours to Hawkesbury's to pacify our companion, when he suddenly lashed furiously at the horse. The wretched animal, already irritated beyond endurance, gave a wild bound forward, which threw me off my feet, and before I could put out a hand to save myself pitched me backwards into the road.

I was conscious of falling with a heavy crash against the kerb with my arm under me, and of seeing the dogcart tearing down the street. Then everything seemed dark, and I remember nothing more.

When I did recover consciousness I was lying in a strange room on a strange bed. It took an effort to remember what had occurred. But a dull pain all over reminded me, and gradually a more acute and intense pain on my left side. I tried to move my arm, but it was powerless, and the exertion almost drove back my half-returning senses.

"Lie quiet," said a voice at my side, "the doctor will be here directly."

The voice was somehow familiar; but in my weak state I could not remember where I had heard it. And the exertion of turning my head to look was more than I could manage.

I lay there, I don't know how long, with half-closed eyes, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, and feeling only the pain and an occasional grateful passing of a wet sponge across my forehead.

Then I became aware of more people in the room and a man's voice saying—

"How was it?"

"I found him lying on the pavement. I think he must have been thrown out of a vehicle."

That voice I had certainly heard, but where?

"It's the arm—broken!" said the voice.

"Ah," said the doctor, leaning over me and touching me lightly near the elbow.

I groaned with agony as he did so.

"Go round to the other side," said he, hurriedly. "I must examine where the fracture is. I'm afraid, from what you say, it must be rather a bad one."

I just remembered catching sight of a well-known face bending over me, and a familiar voice whispering—

"Steady, old man, try to bear it."

The next moment I had fainted.

It may have been minutes or it may have been hours before I next came to myself, and then my arm lay bandaged by my side, and the sharpness of the pain had gone.

"Fred, old man," was the first thing I heard as I opened my eyes. I knew the voice now, and the face with its two great eyes which bent over me.

I had found my friend at last!

"Hush, don't talk now," he said, as I tried to speak; "lie quiet now, there's a dear fellow."

"Jack!" I said. I could not resist uttering his name, his old familiar long-lost name.

"Yes, it's Jack," he whispered, "but don't talk now."

"You forgive me, Jack?" I murmured, heedless of his injunction.

"Yes, a hundred times!" he said, brushing back the hair from my forehead, and putting his finger to my lips.

Then I obeyed him, and lay silent and happy all day. Happier with all my pain than I had been for months.

The doctor came later on and looked at my arm.

"He'll do now, I think," said he, "but he will very likely be feverish after it. You should have him taken to the hospital."

"Oh no," cried Jack. "He must stay here, please. I can look after him quite well."

"If it was only the arm," said the doctor. "But he's had a bad fall and is a good deal bruised and shaken besides. He would get better attention, I think, at the hospital."

"I would so much sooner he stayed here," said Jack; "but if he'd really be better at the hospital, I suppose I ought to let him go."

"I won't go to the hospital!" exclaimed I, making the longest speech I had yet made since my accident, with a vehemence that positively startled the two speakers.

This protest settled the question. If only a sick person threatens to get excited about anything, he is pretty sure to have his own way. And so it proved in my case.

"But will you be able to stay at home all day from business to look after him?" asked the doctor.

"No, I'm afraid not," said Jack, "but I think I know some one who will. He sha'n't be left alone, and I can always just run home in the dinner- hour to see how he's getting on."

The doctor left, only half satisfied with this arrangement, and repeating that it would have been far better to move me to the hospital.

When he was gone Jack came and smoothed my pillow. "I am glad you're to stay," he said. "Now, for fear you should begin to talk, I'm going out to Billy to get my boots blacked. So good-bye for a bit, old boy."

"But, Jack—" I began, trying to keep him.

"Not a word now," said he, going to the door. "Presently."

I was too contented and comfortable to fret myself about anything, still more to puzzle my brains about what I couldn't understand. So I lay still thinking of nothing, and knowing nothing except that I had found my friend once more, and that he was more to me than ever.

Nothing makes one so sleepy as thinking of nothing at all; and long before Jack returned from his visit to Billy I was asleep, and slept soundly all through the night.

Next morning I woke invigorated in body and mind. Jack was up and about before I opened my eyes. He was at my side in a moment as I moved.

"Well, you have had a sleep," he said, cheerily. "I have," replied I. "But, Jack, where am I?"

"Oh, this is my lodgings," said he. "I'm pretty comfortable here."

I looked round the room. It was a poor, bare apartment, with only two beds, a chair, a small table, and a washstand to furnish it. The table was covered with papers and books.

"You've got a sitting-room too, I suppose?" I said, after taking the room in.

He laughed.

"I find this quite as good a room to sit in as to lie in," said he, "for the matter of that. But I have got the use of another room belonging to a fellow-lodger. He's a literary man, and writes for the papers; but in his spare moments he coaches me in Latin and Greek, in consideration of which I give him half my room to sleep in."

"Whatever's he to do now when I'm here?" I asked.

"Oh, he's going to have a shake-down in his own room. You'll like him, Fred; he's a very good-natured, clever man."

"How old?" I asked.

"About fifty, I should think. And I fancy he's seen a good deal of trouble in his time, though I don't like to ask him."

"I say, Jack," I began in an embarrassed manner, "ever since that time—"

"Shut up, now," said Jack, briskly. "The doctor says unless you obey me in everything you're to go straight to the hospital. And one of my rules is, you're to talk about nothing I don't approve of."

"I was only going to say—"

"There you go. I don't approve of what you were going to say. I suppose you'll be interested to hear I reported your case to the firm yesterday, and they were very sorry to hear of it, and told me there were other fellows in the office they could have spared better. There's a compliment!"

"Was Hawkesbury at the office?" I asked.

Jack's face clouded for a moment.

"Yes, Hawkesbury was there."

"You know he was with me when the accident happened?" I said, by way of explanation.

"Oh," said Jack. "Hullo! here comes Billy. I hope, you won't be horrified to have him to look after you while I'm at the office. He's the only person I could think of."

"Billy and I are very good friends," I said, somewhat taken aback, however, by the prospect of being consigned to that young gentleman's charge for several hours every day.

"Here you are, Billy," said Jack, as the boy entered. "You needn't have brought your blacking-box with you, though."

"What, ain't none of the blokes here got no boots, then?" remarked the youth, depositing his burden.

"The bloke, as you call him, who lies there," said Jack, pointing to me, "won't be putting on his boots for a good many days yet."

Billy approached my bed with his most profuse grin.

"I say, ain't you been and done it? Do you hear? you've broke your arm!"

This piece of news being so remarkably unexpected visibly affected me.

"Yes," said Jack, "and I want you to sit here while I'm away, and see nobody breaks it again."

"I'll give the fust bloke that tries it on a topper, so I will," said Billy, fiercely, sitting down on his box and preparing to mount guard.

"I quite believe you," said Jack, laughing. "But mind, Billy, you mustn't make a noise or disturb him when he's resting. And if anything special happens and I'm badly wanted, you must run to my office and fetch me. You know where it is?"

"Yaas, I know," said Billy.

"If Mr Smith comes up, you may let him in and make yourself scarce till he goes away again."

"What Mr Smith?" I asked.

"Oh, my fellow-lodger. Isn't it funny his name's Smith? At least, wouldn't it be funny if every other person weren't called Smith?"

"It is rather a large family," said I, laughing.

Billy having received his full instructions, including the serving of certain provisions out of a cupboard in a corner of the room, made himself comfortable on his perch, and sat eyeing me, after Jack had gone, as if I were a criminal of some sort whom it was his duty to prevent from escaping.

It was a queer situation to be in, certainly. Left alone in a friend's lodging with a broken arm and other contusions, and a small shoeblack to look after me, who had once robbed me of my penknife and a sixpence!

I was rather doubtful whether his new employment was quite as congenial to him as his old. Indeed, I rather pitied him as he sat there silent and motionless like a watch-dog on guard.

"You may stand on your hands if you like, Billy," I said, presently.

He eyed me sharply and doubtfully.

"You're 'avin' a lark with me," he said.

"No, I'm not. You really may do it."

"Ain't a-goin' to do it," replied he, decisively.

"Why not?" I asked.

"T'other bloke ain't said I'm to do it," replied he.

"Well," said I, "if you don't think he'd like it, don't do it. For I'm sure he's very good to you, Billy, isn't he?"

"'Tain't no concern of yourn," responded my genial guardian.

After this there was a long silence, and I was getting drowsy, when Billy said, "That there 'orse was a-goin' it."

"What horse?"

"Why, as if you didn't know! That there 'orse as was drivin' you blokes a' Monday night."

"What, did you see us, then?" I asked.

"In corse I did. I seen you as I was a-comin' back from the racket school. My eye, wasn't you tidy and screwed though! You don't ought to be trusted with 'orses, you don't."

"I wasn't screwed, Billy," said I, "and I wasn't driving."

"No, that you wasn't driving. But I knows the bloke as was."

"Do you know Mr Whipcord?"

"Yaas, I knows the animal," he replied, with a grin. "He gave me a doin' with his stick once, he did."

"But did you see me pitched out?" I asked, not feeling particularly interested in the last reminiscence.

"In corse I did. I seen you. Thought you was dead, and I fetches the bloke to yer, and the bloke sends me for the doctor, and the doctor—"

At this moment the door opened and a stranger entered.



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

HOW I SUFFERED A RELAPSE, WHICH DID ME GOOD.

The gentleman who entered the room was a middle-aged man, of striking appearance. In face and person he seemed worn and feeble. He walked with a slight stoop; his cheeks were hollow and slightly flushed, and his brow was furrowed by lines which would have appeared deep even in a much older man. But as soon as he began to talk his face lit up, his eyes sparkled, and there was a ring in his voice which was more like Jack Smith himself than his older and more sedate namesake.

For this stranger, I guessed at once, must be the other Mr Smith with whom Jack lodged.

At sight of him Billy stopped abruptly in the middle of his sentence, and, putting his hand up to his forelock, saluted him with his usual familiar grin.

"Ah, William, my worthy friend, you here?" the gentleman said, almost gaily, as he entered. "I heard I should find you on duty. You must introduce me to this sick gentleman, and ask him if I shall disturb him."

Billy grinned in a confused sort of way, not knowing exactly how to do the honours. Then, looking at me and jerking his thumb in the direction of the stranger, he said, "This here's the cove from downstairs!"

The gentleman approached my bedside and said, gently, "Am I disturbing you? I found a note from my fellow-lodger when I got in just now, asking me to call up and see how you were getting on."

"It's very kind of you," said I. "I hope you can stay a bit."

"Certainly; I've nothing to do."

Billy, however, did not apparently favour this suggestion.

"This 'ere cove," said he, pointing to me, "ain't to jaw, mister!"

"Quite right, William," said the gentleman; "I'll see he doesn't. I'll do all the talking and he shall do the listening. You can go down to my room and make my bed ready for me and tidy up."

The boy looked dubiously first at the speaker, then at me, as if he was not quite sure about the propriety of allowing me out of his sight, but finally obeyed.

"There's a trusty youngster for you!" said the gentleman, laughing, as he disappeared. "Young Smith couldn't have found a safer nurse for you anywhere."

"I believe you are right," said I.

"And how are you feeling? You're looking better than when I saw you last, anyhow."

"I never saw you before, did I?" I asked.

"No, you didn't; but I saw you when you were brought in here the other evening. However, as Billy says, you mustn't talk now. I suppose you heard me order him to make my bed. I always go to bed every morning at eleven. Young Smith and I are like Box and Cox, you know; he's away all day, I'm away all night. Just when he's finishing up work I'm beginning."

"I wonder you can keep awake all the night," I said.

"Not more wonderful than you keeping awake all day, my boy. In fact, there's not much chance of a poor literary hack sleeping over his work. Now I wonder, when you read your newspaper in the morning, if you ever think of what has to be done to produce it. If you only did, I dare say you would find it more interesting than it often seems."

And then my companion launched out into a lively description of the work of a newspaper office, and of the various stages in the production of a paper, from the pen and ink in the sub-editor's room to the printed, folded, and delivered newspaper which lies on one's breakfast-table every morning. I wish I could repeat it all for the benefit of the reader, for few subjects are more interesting; but it would take more time than we have to spare to do so.

Of course Mr Smith the elder—for so I had to call him to distinguish him from my friend his namesake—rattled on in this strain, more for the sake of keeping me interested and amused than any other reason. Still, his talk was something better than idle chatter, and I began to feel that here at last, among all my miscellaneous acquaintance, was a man worth knowing.

He gave me no chance of talking myself, but rattled on from one topic to another in a way which left me quite free to listen or not as I liked, and finally rose, much to my regret, to go.

"Now I must be off, or I shall have Billy up to hunt me off. Good-bye, my boy; glad to see you doing so well. You've a lot to be thankful for, and of course you are."

"Will you come again?" I asked.

"Gladly; that is, if Billy allows me," said he, laughing, and nodding kindly as he left the room.

"No wonder," thought I, as I listened to his footsteps going down stairs—"no wonder Jack Smith found these lodgings pleasanter than Beadle Square."

I saw Mr Smith frequently during the next few days. He usually came up to sit with me for half an hour or so in the morning, and was always the same cheery and interesting companion.

And yet I could not quite make him out. For when not talking or smiling his face used to wear a look of habitual trouble and restlessness, which made me suspect he was either making an effort to be cheery before me, or else that he was the victim of a constant battle between good spirits and bad.

However, just as I was getting to feel intimate with him, and looking forward to hear more about him than I had yet learned, my recovery came to a sudden and rather serious halt.

I was lying one evening propped up in my bed, with my damaged arm feeling comparatively comfortable, and myself in a particularly jovial frame of mind as I listened to Jack Smith attempting to instil into the mind of the volatile Billy the art of spelling d-o-g—dog.

"Now, Billy," said the instructor, "you'll never get on at this rate. That letter you're pointing at is a B for Billy, and not a D."

"That there B's a caution," growled the boy; "he's always a-turnin' up."

"Time you knew him, then," said Smith. "Now show us the D."

Billy cocked his head a little to one side and took a critical survey of the alphabet before him. His eye passed once down and once up the procession, then looking up at Jack with a grin, he said, "He's 'iding, I reckon, governor. That there dorg'll have to start with a B after all."

Our laughter at this philosophic observation was interrupted by an unwonted footstep on the stairs outside. It certainly was not Mr Smith, for he was out at his work; nor was it the doctor, our only other visitor, for he always came up two steps at a time, and his boots always squeaked. Who could our visitor be?

"Come in," called Smith, as a knock sounded on the door.

To my utter astonishment and concern, Hawkesbury, with his sweetest smile, entered the room.

How had he found out my retreat? What did he want here? What would Jack Smith say? These were the questions which rushed through my mind as he closed the door behind him and walked into the room.

I glanced round at Jack. There was written anything but peace in his countenance, while Billy glared like a young bulldog ready to spring on the intruder.

"Well, Batchelor," said Hawkesbury, in his blandest voice, addressing me and ignoring everybody else; "you'll be surprised to see me here. The fact is, I couldn't feel happy till I came to see you and tell you how sorry I was for your accident."

My few days' confinement and the opportunity for meditation they had afforded had served to give me an insight into Hawkesbury's character which made me treat this speech suspiciously. I replied nothing, and felt very uncomfortable.

"It was most unfortunate," proceeded Hawkesbury, helping himself to the chair. "You know—"

"Excuse me," interrupted Smith at this point, in a tone which made me start; "this is my room, Hawkesbury, and I must ask you to go."

The visitor's face clouded with a quick shade of vexation, but immediately regained its chronic smile, as he said, "Ah, Smith! I should have said it was my friend Batchelor I came to see, not you."

"You're no friend of his," retorted Smith, with rising wrath.

"Do you hear, nob," broke in Billy, unable to restrain himself any longer; "you ain't a-wanted here."

Hawkesbury looked round with an amused smile.

"Really," said he, "a most gratifying reception, and from a most unexpected quarter. Er—excuse me, Smith, I'm afraid it's rather a strange request—would you mind allowing me to have a little private conversation with my friend?"

"No," replied Smith, firmly.

"Really," said Hawkesbury. "I must appeal to Batchelor himself."

"I shall answer for Batchelor," said Smith, not giving me time to reply. "Leave my room, please."

"Do you hear? You leave the bloke's room," cried Billy. "Ef you don't you'll get a topper."

Hawkesbury, whose colour had been rising during the last few moments, and whose assurance had gradually been deserting him, now turned round with a ceremonious smile to the last speaker as he rose to his feet and said, "If you desire it, I'll go. I can submit to be ordered off by a shoeblack, but the son of a convict is—"

With clenched fist and crimson face Jack gave a sudden bound towards the speaker. But as suddenly he checked himself and walked gently to my bed, where I had started up ready to spring to my feet and back up my friend in what seemed a certain quarrel.

"What a cad I am!" he murmured, as he bent over me, and motioned me gently back to my pillow, "but the fellow nearly drives me mad."

I was too exhausted by my effort to say anything.

Jack remained by my side while the unwelcome visitor slowly walked to the door. But if one of Hawkesbury's enemies was disposed of, another remained. Billy, who had been a fuming and speechless witness of this last scene, now boiled over completely, and was to be kept in check no longer.

Wasting no words, he made a wild dash at the retreating intruder and closed with him. He would have closed with a lion, I firmly believe, if a lion had made himself obnoxious to Jack Smith.

Hawkesbury turned suddenly to receive the assault; an angry flush overspread his face, his hands clenched, and next moment Billy reeled back bleeding and almost senseless into the middle of the room, and the visitor had gone.

This was the event which put a check on my recovery.

To lie helpless and see Jack Smith insulted before my face would have been bad enough, but to hear him taunted with the very secret I had so miserably and treacherously let out was more than I could endure.

I don't know what I did that evening, I was so weak and so excited. I have vague recollections of breaking out into passionate self-reproaches and wild entreaties for forgiveness; and of Jack Smith with pale and troubled face bending over me trying to soothe me, imploring me to be still, telling me twenty times there was nothing left to forgive. And then in the middle of the scene the doctor arrived, with serious face and hushed voice. He felt my pulse more carefully than ever, and took my temperature not once only, but several times. There was a hurried consultation in the corner of the room, of which all I heard were the words "most unfortunate" and "fever." My usual supper of bread-and- butter and an egg gave place to a cup of beef-tea, which I could scarcely taste, and after that some medicine. Jack, with a face more solemn than ever, made his bed at the foot of mine, and smoothed my pillow for me and whispered—

"Be sure and call if you want anything."

Then everything was silent and dark, and I began to realise that I was ill. I shall never forget that night. I tossed restlessly and ceaselessly all through it. In whatever position I lay I found no relief. My arm seemed to pain me more than ever before, my head ached, I was nearly suffocated with heat. And my mind was as restless as my body. One after another the follies and meannesses, the failures and sins of my life in London, rose up before me and stared me in the face. Try all I would, I could not get rid of them. I tried to think of other things—of books I had read, of stories I had heard, of places I had seen, of Stonebridge House, of Brownstroke—but no, the thought of my pitiful career in London, my debts, my evil acquaintances, my treachery to my friend, would come and come and come, and drive out all else. And all the while I seemed to see Jack's solemn face looking reproachfully at me from the bottom of the bed, just as it had looked at me that morning weeks ago at Hawk Street. Once, instead of being at the bottom of the bed, I found it close beside me, saying—

"What is it, old boy?"

"Eh? nothing. I didn't call."

"Yes you did. Do try and lie still and get some rest."

Lie still! As soon tell the waves to lie still in the storm as expect me, with my fever-tossed body and mind, to rest!

So the night wore on, and when the morning light struggled through the window it found me in a raging fever and delirious.

————————————————————————————————————

I must pass over the weeks that followed. I was very ill—as ill, so they told me afterwards, as I well could be, and live.

Jack watched me incessantly. I don't know what arrangement he came to at Hawk Street, but while I was at my worst he never left my bedside day or night.

No one else was allowed up, except occasionally Billy, to relieve guard. With these two nurses to tend me—and never a patient had two such guardian angels!—I battled with my fever, and came through it.

I came through it an altered being.

Surely—this was the thought with which I returned to health—we boys, sent up to rough it in London, are not, after all, mere slung stones. There is One who cares for us, some One who comes after us when we go astray, some One who saves us when we are at the point of falling, if we will but cry, in true penitence, to Him!

I had had many and grievous lessons before I had found it out; but now I had, life seemed a new thing to me!

As my convalescence advanced and my bodily strength returned, my spirits rose within me, and I felt eager to be back at my post at Hawk Street. However, I had to exercise some patience yet. Meanwhile, with Billy (and occasionally Mr Smith), as my companion by day, and Jack by night, the time could hardly hang heavily.

"Well, Billy," I said one morning when the doctor had been and told me that next week I might be allowed to sit up for an hour or so a day, "I shall soon be rid of this bed. I don't know what would have become of me if it hadn't been for you and Jack Smith."

"Ga on," said Billy, who, with his tongue in one cheek and his face twisting into all sorts of contortions, was sitting writing an exercise in a copy-book, "you don't know what you're torkin' about."

"Oh yes, I do, though," I replied, understanding that this was Billy's modest way of disclaiming any merit.

"More'n you didn't when you was 'avin' the fever!" observed the boy.

"What?" I inquired. "Was I talking much when I was ill?"

"You was so," said Billy, "a-joring and a-joring and a-joring same as you never heard a bloke."

"What was I saying?" I asked, feeling a little uneasy as to what I might have said in my delirium.

"You was a swearin' tremenjus," said the boy.

"Was I?" Alas! Jack would have heard it all.

"Yes, and you was a-torkin' about your Crowses, and Wollopses, and Doubledaisies, and sich like. And you was a-tellin' that there 'Orksbury (which I'd like to do for, the animal, so I would), as you was a convex son, and he wasn't to tell no one for fear Mashing should 'ear of it. And you was a-crying out for your friend Smith to shine your boots, and tellin' him you wouldn't do it never no more. And you was a- singin' out that there was a little gal a-bein' run away with on a pony, and you must go and stop 'im. You was a-jawin', rather."

I could hardly help laughing at his description, though its details reminded me sadly of my old follies and their consequences.

The most extraordinary raving of all, however, was that which referred to my stopping the little girl's runaway pony at Packworth years ago—an incident I don't believe I had ever once thought of since.

It was curious, too, that, now it was called to memory, I thought of the adventure a good deal, and wished I knew what had become of the owner of that restive little pony. I determined to tell Jack about it when he came home.

"What do you think, Jack?" I said, as he was tucking me up for the night. "Billy has been telling me what I was talking about in my fever, and says one thing I discoursed about was a little girl who was being run away with by a pony."

"Yes," said Jack, laughing; "I heard that. It was quite a new light for you, old man, to be dreaming of that sort of romantic thing."

"But it really happened once," I said.

"No! where? I thought the Henniker and Mrs Nash were the only lady friends you ever had? Where was it?"

"At Packworth, of all places," I said. "It was that day I went over to try and find you out—just before we came up to London, you know. I was walking back to Brownstroke, and met the pony bolting down the road."

Jack seemed suddenly very much interested. "What sort of little girl was it?" he asked.

"I can't exactly tell you. She was so frightened I had hardly time to look at her. But—"

"What sort of pony?" asked Jack.

"A grey one—and a jolly little animal, too!" I said. "But why do you ask?"

"Only," said Jack, with a peculiar smile, "because it strikes me very forcibly the young person in question was my sister, that's all!"

"What!" I exclaimed, in amazement, "your sister!—the little girl of the photograph! Oh, Jack, how extraordinary!"

"It is queer," said Jack; "but it's a fact all the same. I heard about it when I was last home. The pony took fright, so they told me, and— wasn't there a nurse with her?"

"Yes, there was."

"Yes; that was Mrs Shield. The pony took fright as she was walking beside it, and Mary would have come to grief to a dead certainty, so they both say, if a young gentleman hadn't rushed up and stopped it. Why, Fred, old man," said he, taking my hand, "I little thought I owed you all that!"

I took his hand warmly, but humbly.

"Jack," I said, "I think it's almost time you and I gave up talking about what we owe to one another. But," I added, after a moment, "if you do want to do me a favour, just let us have a look at that photograph again, will you, old man?"



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

HOW I FOUND MYSELF ONCE MORE AT HAWK STREET.

In due time the doctor paid his final visit and gave me leave to return to Hawk Street.

I can't describe how strange it seemed to be walking out once more in the open air, leaning on Jack's arm, and feeling myself an active member of society.

The part of the town where Jack's lodgings were situated was new to me. It could not have been worse than Beadle Square, but it wasn't much better. This street was narrow and squalid and crowded, and presented no attractions either in the way of fresh air or convenience. Still, to me, any place that harboured Jack Smith would have been more homelike than the stateliest mansion.

"By the way," said Jack, as we walked down to the office the first morning, "I suppose you don't want to go back to Beadle Square."

"Not if I can help it," I said; "the only thing is, I suppose, I ought to tell my uncle. You know he paid my lodging there."

"Oh, that's all right," said Jack. "I went down one day and saw Mrs Nash and told her what had become of you, and said she might let your bed to any one else. And I wrote to your uncle (I thought it best not to bother you by telling you at the time), and told him where you were and how you were getting on. He wrote back a civil note to say he was glad to hear you were getting better; and with regard to the lodgings, he had been just about to write and say that as you had now a respectable income at the office he would not be continuing to pay for your lodging; so that when you got well you might consider yourself free to do as you liked in that respect."

"Awfully obliging of him," said I.

"Well, it struck me as rather a cordial way of putting it," remarked Jack, laughing.

"I had better look for quarters at once," said I.

"Do nothing of the kind. Stay where you are!"

"What?" I exclaimed, in pleased astonishment. The idea had never occurred to me before. "How ever could I? As it is I've been turning Mr Smith out long enough."

"He was talking to me about it the other day," said Jack. "He finds that all his time is now required at the office of the newspaper he writes for, and therefore he has really no use for his room except as a bedroom. So that our room up stairs is at our complete disposal."

"How jolly!" I exclaimed. "Nothing could have happened more delightfully."

"Nothing," said Jack, as pleased as I was; "and he says any time of an evening when he's away we can use the lower room as if it was our own. Isn't it brickish of him?"

I agreed heartily in the sentiment, and proceeded to Hawk Street with less weight on my mind than ever.

There, as was natural, I found myself an object of a good deal of interest and remark. Doubleday, who once during my illness had sent me a short note of sympathy by Smith, was the first to welcome me back to my old quarters.

"Here we are again, young 'un, alive and kicking," cried he, clapping me on the back as I entered. "How his whiskers have grown, haven't they, Wallop? Well, how's your game leg?"

"It was my arm, not my leg," I said.

"No! was it? I heard it was your off-leg and your spine and your skull that were smashed. That's what made me so surprised to see you. Never mind, I'm glad to see you, young 'un, for there's a ticklish bit of figure work to do. None of the others would look at it, so I've saved it up for you, my boy."

"And I'm ready for it," said I.

Crow and Wallop greeted me rather more shyly. I fancy they had had rather a fright when they heard how very ill I had been.

They shook hands rather sheepishly, and Wallop said something about the weather which had no actual bearing, on my recovery. I had come to the conclusion during my illness that Crow and Wallop had not been altogether profitable companions, and I was therefore glad they were not more demonstrative now.

But I had yet to meet Hawkesbury, and wished the operation well over; for however much I may once have believed in him, I now disliked him, and determined to have as little to do with him as possible.

"Ah, Batchelor," cried he, coming up with outstretched hand, and beaming as if the incident in my sick-room weeks ago had never happened. "So glad to see you back. We have missed you greatly. How do you feel? You're looking better than when I saw you last."

I just took his hand and said, "Thank you," as shortly as I could.

He appeared neither to notice my manner nor my tone.

"You've had a long spell of it," said he. "I'd no idea a broken arm was such a serious thing. But I dare say you'll be all the better for your long rest."

I set to work to open my desk and get together my papers and pens, ready for work.

"It was a bad fall you had," continued he, standing beside me as I was thus employed. "You have no idea how distressed I was when it happened. But Whipcord was really in such a shocking state that night that—"

"Can you give me a piece of blotting-paper?" I said to Doubleday across the desk.

He waited till I had got what I wanted, and proceeded, smiling as ever, "It really wasn't safe for any of us. Masham, by the way, was very sorry to hear of your accident, and asked me to tell you so. I meant to do so the evening I called, but your friend was really so polite that I forgot all about it."

I had stood it thus far, and kept to my resolve of saying as little as I could. But when he brought in Jack's name it was all I could do to hold my peace.

I made an excuse to leave my place and consult a Directory, in the hopes of shaking him off, but there he was when I returned, ready to go on as benignly as ever.

"I'm sure, Batchelor," said he, "it must have been greatly against you to be cooped up in that miserable lodging all the time, and in—what I should call—such uncongenial society. But when one is ill, of course one has just to put up with what one can get."

My patience had reached its limit at last.

"My friend's society is more congenial to me than yours is at present!" I said, colouring up and bending over my writing.

"I see," said he, "he has got you under this thumb again, and means to keep you there."

"Will you let me get on with my work?" I said.

"Oh, certainly!" said he, smiling blandly. "I merely wished to tell you how glad I was to see you back at last; but I dare say that doesn't interest you."

I made no answer, and, seeing that I was determined to hold no more conversation, he gently withdrew.

I felt quite relieved when he had done so, and still more to find that, for the first time in my life, I had been proof against his blandishments.

"What have you been doing to Petty-Cash?" whispered Doubleday to me, presently; "he looks so smiling and benevolent that I'm certain you must have given him mortal offence about something or other."

"I don't care if I have," I said.

Doubleday whistled softly. "I say, young 'un," said he, "your illness has smartened you up a bit, I reckon, eh?"

This, coming from the source it did, I felt to be a compliment. However, I had more calls upon my new resolutions before the day was over.

The partners arrived and received me—each in his own peculiar way—very kindly. Mr Merrett was good enough to say the work of the office had suffered a good deal in my absence, and Mr Barnacle said he hoped I had come back prepared to make up for lost time. To both which observations I listened respectfully, and returned once more to my desk.

The morning passed quickly and busily. I had made a plunge into the difficult task so considerately saved up for me by Doubleday, and felt quite refreshed by the array of figures to be dealt with. In fact, I was so engrossed with it that when Jack came and asked me if I was going out to lunch I said I really could not leave it now, but would take my lunch later on.

So he went, and several of the others, leaving me with Crow, Wallop, and Hawkesbury, in possession of the office.

The two former heroes had by this time somewhat recovered from their surprise at seeing me once more in the land of the living, and seemed disposed to wax facetious in proportion at my expense.

I dug my thumbs into my ears, in the hopes of getting on with my work, but it was not easy, and I had at last to give up the attempt.

"Jolly glad he's not kicked the bucket, for one thing," said Wallop.

"Why?" asked Crow, apparently surprised that there should be any reason for thankfulness in such an event.

"He owes me thirty bob, that's all," said Wallop.

It was true! It was one of the oldest of my debts, and one which had been greatly on my mind for many a day.

"Ah!" said I, feeling constrained to take some notice of the remark. "I'm afraid I've kept you out of that money a long time, Wallop."

"Don't mention it," said Wallop. "When I want it I'll drop on you for it, my boy."

"I'll try to pay it off as soon as ever I can," I said.

I disliked Wallop, as I have said, and the thought that I owed him money was not at all pleasant to me.

My creditor laughed.

"There's plenty more will be glad to hear you're better," said he. "There's Shoddy I met the other week in a regular blue funk because he thought you'd bolted. He wanted to come down and see the governors here about his little bill, but I managed to pacify him. But he says if you don't give him a call soon he'll wake you up."

"I'll go and see him at once," I said, feeling very uncomfortable.

"Then there's the Twins. It seems you're on their books for a matter of a sov. or so advanced you at odd times. They've been most affectionate in their inquiries about you."

It wasn't pleasant to be reminded thus on my first morning back at work of the burden of debt which still pressed on me from the old, and I humbly hoped bygone, days of my extravagance. Not even a broken arm or a dangerous fever will wipe off old scores.

Wallop rather enjoyed going through the catalogue of my debts.

"Then there's Tucker, the pastrycook, wants half-a-sov. at the very least, and Weeden, the tobacconist, a florin for mild cigarettes, and—"

"Yes, yes," I said; "I know all about it, and I'm going to pay them all."

"That's a good job," remarked Wallop, "and the sooner you tell them all so the better. They'd all like to have your present address."

"I'm not sure that that would console them much," said Crow. "It's rather a shadier place than the old one."

"Yes, when you come to think of it, a fellow would get a bit shy when he read the address, 'care of Tom Jailbird, Esquire, Up a Slum, Drury Lane.'"

"Look here!" cried I, suddenly starting up; "don't you call my friend names, please."

Nothing could have delighted the genial pair more than my excitement. They greeted my protest with laughter, and winking at one another, continued to talk among themselves.

"Good practice, I should think. Crow, living with a chap like that—get used to prison fare. Come all the easier later on."

"Wonder if they practise picking one another's pockets to keep their hands in, of an evening."

"I'm told that jailbird has got an album full of tickets-of-leave."

"Ah! His father must have travelled a good bit in his time."

It was pitiful, paltry jesting, but it was more than I could stand.

"Will you stop?" I shouted.

"Nobody was speaking to you," said Wallop.

"You were speaking of my friend!" I exclaimed.

"More shame to you for chumming up with such disreputable lot," said Crow.

"Do you hear? stop it!" I shouted.

"We'll stop it," said Wallop, "when—"

I did not wait to hear more, but rushed upon the speaker.

The upshot might have been serious for me in my present weak condition, and being one against two. But before my blow could be returned Hawkesbury, who had so far been a silent witness to the scene, sprang from his place and pulled me away. I struggled to get free, but he held me firm, as he said, "Batchelor, don't be foolish. You two, be quiet, will you, or I must report you to my uncle. Fighting is not allowed in here."

"I didn't want to fight," said Wallop, putting up his hand to his smarting cheek, "but I'll have it out with him."

"Young prig!" growled Crow, savagely.

"You hear what I say," said Hawkesbury. "I won't allow it to go any further. Here, Batchelor, go to your seat, and don't be absurd."

This tone of authority and his unasked-for interference irritated me as much as ever the language of my two adversaries had done. Hawkesbury was always getting the pull of me in ways like this.

I retired sulkily to my seat, saying I would thrash any one who insulted Smith in my presence, at which the others sneered.

"All I can say is," said Wallop, with his hand still up to his face, "if I don't get that thirty shillings he owes me to-morrow, I'll show him up in a way that will astonish him—that's all."

With which threat he took up his hat and went out, leaving me in a very agitated and uncomfortable frame of mind, as the reader may guess.

I would far sooner have been thrashed out and out by Wallop than be left thus under what Hawkesbury would certainly consider an obligation to him.

"I thought it best," said he, in his insinuating way, "to interfere. You are really not well enough for that sort of thing, Batchelor."

During the rest of the day my mind was too uneasy to permit me to make much progress with my work, and I was glad when evening came and I could escape with my friend.

"You look fagged," said he, as I took his arm.

"I am rather," said I, "and worried too, Jack."

"What about?" he asked.

Then I told him all about my debts; and we spent the rest of the evening in a sort of committee of ways and means.

Taken separately my debts were none of them very large, but added all together their total was something appalling. Ten pounds would scarcely cover them, and that did not include what I owed the doctor.

It was a serious business, without doubt.

Wallop's threat to insist on immediate payment, or else "show me up" before the partners and my other creditors, may have been mere bounce; but it may equally well have been in earnest, in which case I was ruined.

Jack's one solicitude that evening was to keep me from fretting too much. But it is all very well to say, "Don't fret," and another thing to remove the cause of fretting. And that we could neither of us do.

Jack had no money. What little he had saved he had spent on books or sent home to Mrs Shield. As for Mr Smith, senior, even if I had cared to ask him to help me, I knew he had barely enough to keep body and soul together. The idea of borrowing from Doubleday occurred to me, but Smith promptly discouraged it. Besides, I had once asked him for a loan, and he had refused it, on the ground he never lent money to anybody.

"The only thing," said Jack, "is to write home to your uncle."

I could scarcely help smiling at the idea. I knew my uncle better than Jack Smith did, and I might as well hope to get blood out of a stone as expect him to pay for my extravagances in London.

However, Jack was so sure it was the right and only thing to do that I finally consented to sit down and make a clean breast of it, which I did in the following note:—

"Dear Uncle,—I am better now, and back at work. I am sorry to say, however, I am in a good deal of difficulty about money. Before my illness I had got into extravagant ways and run into debt. I enclose a list of what I believe I owe at the present moment. You will see—not including the doctor's bill—it comes to L10 2 shillings 4 pence. The names marked with a star are clerks at the office who have lent me money, I am sorry to say, for gambling and other purposes. I don't know what to do about paying them back. I thought if you wouldn't mind advancing the amount I could pay you back so much a week out of my salary. I hope and trust you will help me in my difficulty. I need hardly say I have seen the folly of my old ways, and am determined to live carefully and economically in future. Do please write by return and help me.

"Your affect. nephew,—

"Fred. Batchelor."

Jack approved of this effusion as businesslike and to the point.

"You haven't gone out of the way to excuse yourself," said he, "and I dare say it will go down all the better for that. If he doesn't write and send up the money I shall be surprised."

Poor Jack! A lot he knew about uncles of my sort!

However, I felt more comfortable to have written the letter, and if I could only have been sure Wallop's threat was mere idle bluster I should have slept easily.

As it was, I had had rather a stirring day for my first one out, and at the end of it felt a good deal less game for work than at the beginning. Nothing could exceed Jack's tenderness and anxiety to relieve me of as much worry as possible. When I was in bed he came and read aloud to me. It was Virgil he read—which he was working at for his examination. And I remember that evening lying half awake, half asleep, listening now to him, thinking now of my debts, mixing up Aeneas with Wallop, and Mr Shoddy with Laocoon, and poor old Priam with my uncle.

The following morning I rose only half refreshed, and made my way anxiously to the office. One of the first fellows I met was Wallop, who greeted my approach with a surly grin.

I felt sure at that moment he had meant what he threatened yesterday, and my heart quailed within me at the prospect.

"Well, young prig," said he, "I suppose you've brought my money?"

"No," said I; "I'm afraid I must ask you to wait a little longer. I hope you won't do anything for a day or two, at any rate. I will do my best to get it by then."

He laughed in my face, and evidently enjoyed my distress.

"You sung a different tune yesterday, my boy, when you hit me. Do you remember? That wasn't the payment I wanted!"

"I'm sorry I lost my temper," said I.

"Well, I mean to show you I pay my debts more punctually than you do," said he; and with that he gave me a cuff on my head which sent me reeling half across the office.

I could not—I dare not—return it, and he knew it.

"There," said he, laughing brutally; "now we're quits! As to that thirty shillings, I'll let you off, as it has been paid me."

"Paid you!" I exclaimed, in utter bewilderment. "Who by?"

"Hawkesbury!"



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

HOW I BEGAN TO SEE DAYLIGHT THROUGH MY TROUBLES.

Those of my readers who have read their Virgil will most likely remember an observation made by one of the gentlemen who figure conspicuously in the story of the Aeneid. He dreaded his hereditary enemies, the Greeks, under any circumstances; but he never dreaded them so much as when they came and offered him presents!

This was pretty much my feeling when I was told that my debt to Wallop had been paid for me by Hawkesbury.

There had been a time in my life when I almost liked Hawkesbury. More recently I had suspected him of being not quite the angel I once believed him. Later still I had felt my suspicion grow to very decided dislike. And now, at the moment when he made me his debtor for thirty shillings, I positively loathed him.

I could not guess his motive. I was certain it was not out of pure love for me or pity for Wallop. Indeed, I was pretty certain there was far more mischief than good in the action. I would sooner have owed Wallop thirty pounds than Hawkesbury thirty shillings. He knew it, too, and for that very reason paid my debt to Wallop.

"Whatever business of Hawkesbury's is it?" I demanded of Wallop, as soon as I could find words to express myself.

"Goodness knows," replied Wallop, with a laugh.

"But I won't let him do it. I don't want him to pay my debts. You must give him the money back, Wallop." Wallop grinned delightedly.

"Oh, quite so. It's rather likely, when I've been waiting for my money the best part of a year, I should decline to receive it when I've got the chance! No, my boy, you can settle with Hawkesbury now. You owe him the thirty bob, not me!"

What was I to do? I demanded an explanation of Hawkesbury as soon as he appeared.

"Wallop tells me you've paid him the thirty shillings I owed him," said I.

"Oh, he shouldn't have told you," said Hawkesbury, with the meek air of a benevolent man who doesn't like to hear his own good deeds talked about.

"I wish you hadn't done it," said I.

"Oh, you mustn't think of it," said he, blandly. "It was only because I heard him threaten to get you into trouble if you didn't pay him, and I should have been so sorry if that had happened."

"Thank you, but really I prefer to pay my own debts!"

He laughed as if it was a joke.

"I'm sure you do; but as I knew you couldn't do it, I thought it would be a relief to you if I did it for you."

Could he be in earnest? He talked as if I ought to be grateful to him instead of in a rage, as I was. Certainly it was a queer position to be in—storming at a fellow who has just saved you from debt, perhaps disgrace, possibly ruin, I couldn't make out what to think of it.

"I daresay you thought you were doing me a good turn," I said as civilly as I could, "but as it happens I wish you had let the thing alone."