He sighed forgivingly and went to his desk.

The moment Jack and I got outside at dinner-time I unburdened my woes to him.

He was in as great if not a greater commotion than I was.

"What does he mean by it?" he exclaimed. "Fred, you must pay him back at once, whatever it costs you!"

"All very well," said I, "but you know I've nothing."

"Can't you pawn anything? can't you get a job of some sort to do? anything to pay him off. I shall be miserable as long as you owe him a farthing!"

He spoke with a vehemence that quite astonished me.—"You don't mean to say you're going to let yourself stop in his debt?" he exclaimed, when I did not answer.

"Not a second after I can get the money."

"When will you hear from your uncle?"

"To-morrow morning if he writes by return. But I've no hopes from him."

"I suppose it would not do to ask the partners," said Jack.

I was thunderstruck at the very idea. For Jack to entertain it for a moment only showed how desperately in earnest he was.

We could get no light on the subject, and I had the pleasure of being reminded by Hawkesbury's smile all day long that I was in his power, and saw no way out.

That whole evening Jack and I sat and discussed the situation. We even rose early, to consult Mr Smith the elder on his return to the lodgings. He soon appreciated our difficulty; but he could suggest no relief. For he was as poor as either of us, and had as few friends.

My uncle's letter did not come that day or the next.

Meanwhile I knew no peace. Hawkesbury's manner was more suave and condescending than ever.

To the rest of my fellow-clerks during those two days I was the most cross-grained and obnoxious comrade conceivable. My only relief seemed to be in quarrelling with somebody, and as they all laid themselves out to bait and tease me one way or another I had a pretty lively time of it.

My chief hope was (and Jack shared in it), that if my uncle had been determined not to help me at all he would probably have written by return. The delay might mean he was at least considering the matter.

At last, on the third day of my waiting, the postman knocked at our door. With beating heart I rushed to receive the letter which I knew must be for me.

It was, but it was not from my uncle, it was from Hawkesbury.

"My Dear Batchelor," he wrote, "I am very sorry to see that I have given you offence by settling your debt with Wallop. I really meant it for the best, because I knew you could not pay, and I was afraid if it came to my uncle's or Mr Barnacle's knowledge it might be awkward for you, for I happen to know my uncle feels very strongly about clerks getting into debt, especially through gambling. I'm afraid I can't undo what has been done, for Wallop will hardly give me back the money. So I write to tell you how sorry I am, and to say I hope you will forgive me. Please do not trouble about the repayment of the loan; you must take whatever time suits you. I trust this little matter will not make us worse friends than before.

"Yours sincerely,—

"E. Hawkesbury.

"P.S.—I write this as I shall be away from the office the next two days, while we are moving to our new house. When we are settled in I hope you will come and see us."

What was I to think of it? For the last three days I had been losing no opportunity of snubbing this fellow, and to demonstrate to him that, so far from feeling obliged to him, I disliked him all the more for what he had done. In return for which he now writes me this beautiful letter, breathing forgiveness and considerateness, and absolutely apologising for having paid thirty shillings to save me from ruin!

Either he must be a paragon of the first water, or else—

I gave it up, and handed the letter across to Jack Smith. He read it, with knit brows, from beginning to end, and then a second time; after which he tossed it back to me and said, "Well, what do you think of that?"

"What do you?"

"Rot, every bit of it!"

I expected he would say so. "But, Jack," I began.

"You don't mean to say," said Jack, "you're going to let yourself be taken in by that stuff?"

"But unless he means what he says, what possible motive can he have for writing a letter like that?"

Jack did not answer. We did not discuss the matter further, but I went down to the office that morning with the letter in my pocket, heartily wishing I could make up my mind what to think of it all as easily as Jack Smith.

One thing, at any rate, was a comfort—I should not see Hawkesbury for two days.

But if I was to be spared the sight of one unwelcome person, I had in store for me another which I little expected. I was coming with Jack out of the office on the second evening afterwards, after a hard day's work, wondering why my uncle did not write, and sighing inwardly at the prospect of seeing Hawkesbury back next day, when a stranger accosted me in the street.

At least, I thought him a stranger until, standing full in front of him, I saw his face and heard him speak.

"Oh, good evening, Mr Batchelor, sir! The governor's compliments, sir—Mr Shoddy's compliments—and he'll be particularly glad if you'll step round now, sir."

I owed Shoddy three pounds, and this summons fell on my ear like a knell.

"Better go," said Jack.

How sick Jack must be of me, thought I, by this time. Ever since I had been back with him he had been for ever worried either with my health or my debts or my office rows. I was half tempted to ask him not to come, but I could not bring myself to be sufficiently self-denying.

"What does Mr Shoddy want me for?" I asked of the assistant as we walked along.

"I believe, sir, between ourselves, it's about your little account, sir. How do the clothes wear, sir? Nice stuff that tweed we made them of. Could do you a very nice suit of the same now, sir, dirt cheap. Two fifteen to you, and measure the coat. We should charge three guineas to any one else."

It occurred to me to wonder why so great exception should be made in my favour, especially as I had owed my present bill so long. However, we let the fellow rattle on at his shoppy talk, and soon arrived at Mr Shoddy's ready-made clothes establishment.

I felt rather like a criminal being brought up before a judge than a customer before the tailor of his patronage.

"Good evening, Mr Batchelor," said the tailor. "Take a seat, sir."

I did so, and Jack took another.

A long pause ensued.

"You wished to see me," observed I.

"Well, yes, I do," said the tailor. "The fact is, Mr Batchelor, you aren't treating me well. Those clothes were sold you for cash, sir— cash down!"

"Yes, I'm afraid I have been rather slow in paying, Mr Shoddy," said I.

"Quite so, sir! The question is, have you the amount with you now— three pounds plus six shillings for interest to date?"

"I certainly have not the money with me," said I.

"Ah! Then you are prepared to give me security, of course? Now what do you say to my drawing on Messrs. Merrett, Barnacle, and Company, at one month, for the amount? I should be satisfied with their bill."

I nearly jumped off my seat with horror.

"Merrett, Barnacle, and Company pay my tailor's bill! Oh, no! quite out of the question!" I exclaimed.

"Ah, that's a pity! I should have liked their bill, and you could pay them by instalments."

"I wouldn't on any account have them spoken to on the subject," said I.

"Well, perhaps your friend here—"

"No," said Jack; "I've no money at all."

"Your uncle possibly—"

How had the man heard that I had an uncle? He seemed to know all about me, and I began to get uncomfortable.

"My uncle, I fear, would not advance the money. I have already asked him, and had no reply."

"This is rather awkward for you, sir," said Mr Shoddy, coolly. "I quite hoped you would have been prepared with a proposal."

"I might be able to pay you a shilling a week," I faltered.

Mr Shoddy shrugged his shoulders. "Three pounds six is sixty-six shillings, interest six and six; seventy-two shillings and sixpence— seventy-two and a half weeks—one year and four and a half months to pay off. Thank you, sir; can't do it."

"I don't know what to do if you won't accept that," I faltered.

"Three shillings a week, secured," said the tailor, "would meet the case, I think. What do you think?"

"I could never keep it up, I fear," said I; "but I'd try."

"Thank you, sir. You draw your salary weekly, I believe?"

"Yes," I said.

"Oh, then, if I just look in and see one of the principals and explain, he'll stop the three shillings a week for me, which will save all trouble. What time are they generally at home?"

The cool resolve of the man to make my employers a party to my debt positively terrified me. I begged him to give up the idea, promised wildly to do all sorts of things to pay him, and entreated him to give me more time.

He was politely inexorable. "Pleased to oblige you, but, after a year, we must look after our little accounts, mustn't we? Let's see, to- morrow I'm engaged. I'll look in on Friday and settle it."

No argument or entreaty of mine could make him understand such a step would be ruination to me. He was firmly convinced a guarantee from the firm would be the best security for his money, and so, simply disregarding all my protests and appeals, gaily promised to see me again on Friday.

What was I to do? My only hope was in my uncle's answer, and that, as the reader knows, was small enough.

The following morning it arrived. It was brief, and to the point:—

"Dear Nephew,—I hold that lads of your age cannot learn too soon that the people to pay debts are those who make them. I return your list, as it may be useful.

"Yours,—

"F. Jakeman."

It was what I had expected. My last hope of a respite now gone to the winds!

We walked down disconsolately to the office. Hawkesbury was back in his place, smiling as usual. But the dread of Shoddy's visit to-morrow drove away all thought for the present of resentment against Hawkesbury. I was even constrained to greet him civilly, and when he asked if I had received his letter, to say yes, I was much obliged.

On leaving the office that evening the tailor's assistant was hanging about outside as before. I imagined he had some fresh message, and went up to him eagerly. "Well," said I, "what is it?"

"Nothing that I know of," said he. "I was just passing this way, and thought I'd see how you were getting on. No orders, I suppose? None of your young gentlemen want a nice cheap suit? Pleased to make you a consideration for the introduction. If one or two of you joined together and took a piece, could do the lot very reasonably indeed."

So, not only was I to be exposed before my employers to-morrow, but meanwhile my movements were being watched, for fear I should run away, I suppose.

"Jack," said I, as we walked along, "I believe you are right after all."

"How?" said Jack.

"The only thing to do is to tell the partners all about it, before Shoddy comes to-morrow!"

"Well," said Jack, "I don't see it could be much worse than letting them hear all about it from him."

With which consoling but desperate resolution we proceeded.

To beguile the time, we went round by Style Street.

A youth was standing having his boots blacked as we came up. We thought we recognised the figure—though till he turned round we could not recall his name. Then to our surprise we saw it was Flanagan.

But such a swell as he was! He had alarmed me more than once by the grandeur of his attire when I had met him at the parties of the "usual lot." I had seen him rarely since. As for Jack, the two had scarcely met since they left Stonebridge House.

"Hullo, Batchelor," he cried, as we approached, "that you? I heard you'd been ill, and—why, Smith," he broke out, catching sight of my companion, "how are you? Haven't seen you for ages! And the rum thing is I was speaking about you this very moment—wasn't I, kid?"

"Yaas," said Billy, with a grin.

"You know, Batchelor, you once introduced me to this young gentleman when we were rolling home one night after a spree—fearfully slow parties some of those!—and I've given him a job pretty often since—and he was just telling me about you. Lodging Drury Lane way, I hear?"

"Yes," said I. There was something so genuine in the tone of my old schoolfellow that I could almost forgive him his grand clothes.

"I say, couldn't you come along to my rooms to-night? I'm all by myself. Jolly to talk over old days. Come on, Smith."

"Thanks," said Smith, who, I could see, felt half shy of this old comrade, "but I have to work for an exam., and it's coming off now in a week or two."

"Well, Batchelor, you come," said Flanagan.

I hesitated a moment, and then consented. The fact was, I suspected Flanagan might possibly get his clothes made at Shoddy's. In which case, as to all appearance he must be a good customer, he might, I thought, use his influence with the tailor to prevent the threatened visit to-morrow.

So I went with him, much to his satisfaction, and we had a pleasant evening together. He confided to me his troubles. How he was getting tired of the "usual lot," and of London altogether, and wanted his father to let him be a farmer. How he was always getting into trouble up here in town, living by himself, with far more money than he wanted, and no one "to pull him up," as he called it. How he often recalled Stonebridge House with all its hardships, and wished himself back there instead of in this unsatisfactory world of London.

"If I could only grind like Smith," said he, "it wouldn't be so bad; but what's the use of my grinding? In fact, what's the use of my being up here at all, when I only get into rows, and spend one half of my time going to the dogs and the other in pulling up?"

"Well," said I, "that's better than me, who spend all my time in going to the dogs."

"Oh, but you had Smith to keep you steady," said he. "You couldn't go far wrong with him. I've got no one of that sort. I really wish my father would put me to farming. A fellow couldn't go to the dogs, you know, all among the cows, and pigs, and horses—that is," added he, laughing, "not the sort of dogs I mean."

There was a great deal in Flanagan's troubles with which I could sympathise. He was a fellow with a kind nature at bottom, but too easy- going to withstand the temptations of London.

In return for his confidence I told him most of my troubles. He was greatly interested in the story, and especially reproached himself with his share in aiding and abetting my past extravagances.

When, however, I came to tell him of my financial troubles with Hawkesbury and Shoddy he brightened up suddenly.

"Why, why ever didn't you tell me of that before, Batchelor?" he exclaimed. "And this beggar Shoddy's going to show you up, is he? Ha, ha! we'll disappoint him for once in a way. I know him of old."

"I was wondering if you knew him," said I, suddenly feeling my spirits lightened, "and would mind asking him not to call up at the office."

"Of course I will," said Flanagan, jumping up and taking his hat. "Come along, old man, he won't be shut up yet, I expect. If he is we'll wake him up."

And off we went, my heart full of joy at this unexpected hope.

Shoddy's shop was still open, and its lord was at home. He greeted Flanagan obsequiously, as a good customer.

"Ah, Shoddy, how are you? Just make out my friend's bill here, will you—look sharp!"

Shoddy, in as much surprise as I was, promptly obeyed, adding the interest for the last year and the next.

"Knock off that last six-and-six," demanded my friend.

"But that's for—"

"Knock it off, do you hear?" shouted Flanagan, "and receipt it."

Fancy my astonishment! I had expected to see Shoddy persuaded to abandon his idea of calling at the office; but this was far more than I ever dreamt of.

"Oh, Flanagan," I began, "you really—"

"Shut up," said Flanagan. "May as well owe it to me as Shoddy. There," added he, putting down the money and giving me the receipt, "and look here, Mr Shoddy, the next time you try your sharp practice on us I change my tailor."

"And now," said he, putting a note into my hand, "this will help to square accounts with Hawkesbury and some of the others. Mind you pay it back, do you hear?"

Before I could even turn to speak to him he had bolted round the corner and vanished!



CHAPTER THIRTY.

HOW I PAID OFF A SCORE, AND MADE A RATHER AWKWARD DISCOVERY.

I stood staring at the five-pound note which Flanagan had left in my hand in a state of utter bewilderment.

My first impulse was to give chase to my benefactor and compel him to take back the money. My second was to do nothing of the sort, but rejoice with thankfulness over the help thus unexpectedly sent me.

It was little enough I had done to deserve any one's kindness, and it was only too reasonable to expect to have to get myself out of my own troubles. But here, like some good fairy, my old Irish schoolfellow had stepped on to the scene, and sent all those troubles to the right-about with a single turn of the hand.

What rejoicings Jack and I had that night over my good fortune! What careful plans we made for a systematic repayment of the loan! and how jubilantly I looked forward to handing Hawkesbury back his thirty shillings in the morning!

Since I had received that letter of his my wrath had somewhat abated towards him. Much as I disliked and suspected him, still I could not feel quite certain that he might not after all have meant well by what he did, however blundering and objectionable a way he had taken to show it. That, however, did not interfere with my satisfaction now at the prospect of being quits.

It was a positive luxury, as Jack and I entered the office next morning, to be able to meet his amiable, condescending smile in a straightforward way, and not by colouring up and looking confused and chafing inwardly.

I was anxious to get the ceremony over as soon as possible, and therefore walked straight up to his desk, and, placing the thirty shillings before him, said, in a voice which I did not trouble to conceal from the other clerks present.

"That's the thirty shillings you paid Wallop for me the other day, Hawkesbury. I'm much obliged for the loan of it."

If some one had informed him he was to start in five minutes for the North Pole, he could not have looked more amazed or taken aback. Nothing, evidently, had been farther from his thoughts than that I should be able to repay the loan, and to have it here returned into his hands before I had been his debtor a week fairly astonished him.

His face darkened suddenly into an expression very unusual with him, as he looked first at the money, then at me.

However, I gave him no time to say anything, but hurried off to my desk, feeling—for the first time since my return to Hawk Street—that there was not a man at the office I dared not look in the face.

As I expected, he sidled up to me at the first opportunity.

"Batchelor," said he, "you must really take the money back. I am sure you must want it. I should be quite uncomfortable to feel I was depriving you of it."

And so saying, he actually laid the two coins down on my desk.

"Thank you," I began; "but if—"

"Please don't talk so loud," said he; "I would rather everybody didn't hear."

"Then," said I, "kindly take the money off my desk. It's yours."

"But, really, Batchelor, I don't feel comfortable—"

"I do," I interrupted.

"I am sure you are not in a position to afford it," said he. "Excuse my asking, but—"

"I suppose you'd like to know where I got it from," said I, irritated at his persistency. "You may be surprised to hear I didn't steal it, and equally surprised to hear I have no notion of gratifying your curiosity."

I was perfectly amazed at my own hardihood in thus addressing him. But now I had paid him I was afraid of him no more. He was too much put out to keep up his chronic smile as he said. "I hardly expected to be spoken to in this way by you, Batchelor, after all that has happened. If you had been left to yourself, I'm sure you would not have spoken so, but your friend Smith appears to have a special spite against me."

I was tempted to retort, but did not, and he went back pensively to his desk, taking the money with him.

The remainder of the five-pound note served to discharge my debts to the Twins, and to Tucker, the pastrycook, and Weeden, the tobacconist. The last two I paid myself; the first I sent by Doubleday, not wishing to encounter again the familiar heroes of the "usual lot."

It was with a light heart and a sense of burden removed from my life that I returned that evening to the lodgings, whither jack had preceded me.

On my arrival I found him in a state of uneasiness.

"Very queer," said he, "Billy's not turned up. He was to be here at seven, and it's now half-past; I never knew him late before."

"Very likely he's had some unexpected customers to detain him," I said.

"Not likely. Billy wouldn't be late for an appointment here if the Prince of Wales himself came to get his boots blacked."

"What can have become of him, then?" I said.

"I wish I knew. I am afraid he's got into trouble."

We waited another half-hour, and no Billy appeared. Smith looked more and more anxious.

"I think," said he, "we'd better go and look for him, Fred; what do you say?"

"I'll come, certainly," said I; "but where do you expect to find him?"

"If there is no sign of him in Style Street, I expect he'll be in the court where his mother lives."

I had a lively recollection of my last visit to that aristocratic thoroughfare. But I did not wish to seem unwilling to accompany Jack in his quest. Only I rather hoped we should find our man—or boy—in Style Street.

But that we did not do. The flagstone on which he was wont to establish his box was there, bare and unoccupied except for the scrawling letters and sums traced out with his finger-tip. High or low, he was not to be found in Style Street.

We went on in the growing dark towards the court.

"Do you know the house he lives at?"

"I'm not sure," said Jack.

"Do you know what name to inquire for?"

"No, only Billy," said Jack.

"Don't you think," said I, "it's rather unlikely we shall come across him in a crowded court like that, knowing neither the name nor the house where he lives?"

"Let us try, anyhow," said Jack.

We went on, and soon reached the well-known "slum." I must confess honestly I would rather not have entered. Last time we had been there one of us had been struck by smallpox, and both had had to run for our lives, and it seemed to me—perhaps my illness had made me a coward— that we were running an unnecessary risk now by plunging into it just because Billy happened to be an hour late for an appointment.

However, Jack was determined, and I was determined to stick by Jack.

When we first entered, the court was as before, swarming with men and women and children, and in the crowd we passed some way unnoticed.

Presently, however, Jack stopped and asked a woman—

"Do you know in what house a little boy called Billy who black boots lives?"

The woman who was engaged in sewing a black sleeve on to an old grey coat, looked up sharply, and demanded—

"What do you want to know for?"

"I want to see him," said Jack.

"What do you want to see him for?"

"He didn't come to the ragged school to-night."

The woman flared up.

"We don't want none of your ragged schools! You go and teach yourselves manners—that's what you'd better do, and don't come nosing about here— as if we couldn't get on without a parcel of snuffing young prigs like you to tell us what to do. That's what I think of you."

And the honest British matron tossed her head in a huff, and went on with her patchwork.

"If everybody was as honest as you," said Jack—where the sly dog learned the art of flattery I can't imagine—"no one would interfere. But we are afraid Billy's mother is not very good to him."

The woman looked up again, as if not quite sure what to make of this speech. But Jack looked so much in earnest that she said, shortly—

"You're about right there. I'm a poor woman, but I hope I know better than to make a beast of myself to my own childer."

Then she knew Billy, and could tell us where he lived after all.

Jack began, almost confidentially—

"Do you think—"

But he got no farther just then, for we had not noticed a group of idlers who, attracted by our presence in the court, and curious to know our business, had gathered round, and now began, half in jest, half in earnest, to hustle us, crying—

"Go on home. Go and teach yourselves. We don't want none of your ABC."

We thought it wise to walk slowly on, without appearing to be running away.

About half way up the court, however, a further stoppage occurred.

This was occasioned by the appearance of another stranger in the court besides ourselves—a clergyman, who, with a small but offence-less crowd at his heels, was making a grand tour of the various houses and flats.

He was a tall, kindly-looking man, with hair just turning white, who looked like a man who did not spare himself or live for himself. He had a pleasant word for everybody, however unpleasant and unpromising they might seem, and bore all the remarks and jests of unfriendly loafers with great good-humour and composure.

The sight of him in the midst of our difficulties was most welcome. We quickened our steps to meet him. The knot of roughs who were following us looked on this as a rout, and set up a yell of defiance. Others, seeing us walking rapidly away, joined in the demonstration, and one or two, not content with following us with their voices, followed us with stones.

Just as we came up to the clergyman a stone intended for one of us whizzed past my ear, and struck him on the cheek. He never moved a muscle, or even looked to see where it came from, but walked on to meet us.

"Oh! sir," said Jack, stepping forward, "we're so glad to meet you. We're looking for a little boy called Billy, who lives in this court, who generally comes to our ragged school, but wasn't there this evening. He's a shoeblack. Do you know where he lives?"

"I wish I could tell you," said the clergyman, "but this is my first visit here. Where is your school?"

"Oh, it's not properly a school, but Billy and sometimes one or two others come to our lodgings, and learn to write and read. He has never missed before. That's what makes me fear something is wrong."

At that moment the object of our search stood before us, with his usual grin wider than ever.

"What cheer, blokes?" was his greeting. "Oh, 'ere, governor, I reckon you're a-goin' to turn me up 'cos I wasn't at the racket school. But my old gal, she's a-missin'. She's always a-skylarkin' somewheres, she is, and I was a-lookin' for her."

"Have you found her?" asked Jack, whose pleasure at finding his young protege was unconcealed.

"Found 'er! No; but I knows where she is."

"Where?"

"In the station, for smashin' winders. Ain't she a wonner?"

"My poor boy!" said the clergyman, sympathisingly.

"Ga on! I ain't your boy. Don't know yer; I'm this 'ere bloke's chap, and I ain't a-goin' to be larned by no one else."

It was impossible to avoid smiling at this frank declaration, seriously as it was uttered.

"When did your mother get into trouble?" asked Jack.

"This very afternoon, bless 'er old 'art. She was on the fly all yesterday, a-goin' on any'ow. So I comes round afore the racket school, to see if she was a-coolin' down, and, there! if she 'adn't hooked it! I 'as a good look up and down the court, but she'd walked. So I cuts to the nighest station, and sees a pal o' mine outside. 'It's all right,' says he; 'she's in there,' meaning the lock-up. 'Wot was she up to?' says I. 'Winders agin,' he says. So she's all safe, she is."

"I tell you what it is, Billy," said Smith. "I'm afraid you let her spend the money you get for blacking boots on drink. That's what gets her into trouble."

"That ain't no concern of yourn," said Billy. Then, suddenly correcting himself, he added, "Leastways it ain't no concern of these here two blokes. Mister, I say, governor, is it too late for to learn me to- night?"

"Yes, it's too late to-night; but we'll have the school to-morrow instead. Where will you live while your mother's away?"

"Oh, ain't you funny!" said the boy, with a grin. "As if a chap liked me lived anywheres!"

"Well," said Jack, taking my arm, and not desirous to prolong the discussion, "mind you turn up to-morrow, Billy."

"No fears," cried Billy, with a grin, accompanying us for a step or two, walking on his hands.

"That's a most extraordinary lad," said the clergyman.

"There's a lot of good in him," responded Smith.

"And you are doing your best to bring it out," said the clergyman.

"Which way are you going?" said he, when presently with no further adventure we had got through the court.

"To Drury Lane," said I.

"Ah, down this street. That's my way too. Will you just come into my house and have a bit of supper?"

Jack never liked accepting invitations, but there was something so friendly and simple-minded about this clergyman that it would almost have seemed rude to say no.

"This is quite a new part of the town to me," said he, as we walked along. "I suppose you know it well?"

"Yes," said I, "we lived close here for some months."

"I wished you lived here still," he said. "I want workers of your sort in my new parish."

He insisted on including me in his compliments, not knowing how little I deserved them.

"My walk this evening," said he, "is really the first serious voyage of discovery I have made in my parish, and the result is not very encouraging. It seems a very low neighbourhood, worse a good deal than I expected. However, there will be all the more to do."

There was something so modest and yet so resolute in the way he spoke that we both liked him.

His house, a dull-looking City rectory, was at the end of the street, and here we halted.

"We're rather in a state of confusion here," said he, as he rang the bell, "we only moved in this week. So you must take us as you find us."

We entered, and were ushered into a pleasant parlour, which appeared to be the only completely furnished room at present.

"Is Mr Edward at home?" asked our host of the servant.

"Yes, sir, he's upstairs."

"Ask him to come down," said he, "and bring in supper."

He explained to us that Edward was his son, whom he would like us to know.

"I'm often sorry for him," said the father; "he has no mother, and I am too much occupied to be much with him. I wish he had some good friends in London."

He emphasised the word "good," as much as to say that some of his son's friends were not very desirable.

The servant brought in supper, and said that Master Edward would be down presently.

Meanwhile our host chatted pleasantly, chiefly about his parish and his plans for improving it. I could not help admiring him more and more as he went on. He was not, to all appearance, a very clever man, but there was an honest ring about all he said which made me feel that, had I only known him in the months past I might have been spared many of my follies and troubles.

At last there was a step in the hall outside, and the door opened. What was our amazement and consternation when we beheld in Edward, the good clergyman's son—Hawkesbury!

Our consternation, however, hardly exceeded his, on seeing who his father's visitors were. And as for the clergyman himself, the sight of our mutual astonishment fairly took him aback.

It was half a minute at least before any one could sufficiently recover his surprise to speak. During the interval my great fear was how Smith would act. I knew he detested Hawkesbury, and believed him to be a hypocrite and a deceiver, and I knew too that he was rarely able to contain himself when face to face with the fellow. How he would behave now, a guest in the father's house, I could not imagine. Fool that I was! I was always doubting my friend!

"Why, how is this," said Mr Hawkesbury, "you seem to know one another?"

"Yes," said I, "Hawkesbury here is at Merrett, Barnacle, and Company's with Smith and me."

"How very curious!" said the clergyman; "and, to be sure, I neither knew your names, nor you mine. Well, as you all know one another, I needn't introduce you."

"Father," said Hawkesbury, standing still at the door, "I want to speak to you a moment, please."

"Yes, presently; but come in now, Edward, we are waiting to begin supper. Now, what an odd coincidence to come across you in this way!"

"I want to speak to you, father," again said Hawkesbury.

The father looked vexed as he turned towards his son.

Smith rose at the same moment and said, holding out his hand to Mr Hawkesbury, "I think, if you will excuse us, we had better go, sir."

"What, before supper! why, how is this?"

"I think your son would rather not have us here," said Jack, solemnly.

The father looked in amazement, first at us, then at his son, who once more asked to speak to his father.

The good man, in evident bewilderment, begged us to excuse him for a moment. But Jack, taking my arm once more, said, before our host could leave the room, "Good-night, sir. Thank you very much for your kindness."

And before I well knew where I was, we were standing out in the street.



CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

HOW I MADE A STILL MORE IMPORTANT DISCOVERY.

A few evenings after the awkward discovery recorded in the last chapter Mr Hawkesbury himself called at our lodgings. He looked troubled and constrained, but as kind as usual.

He came to tell us how sorry he was to have been deprived of our company that evening, and to offer a sort of apology for his son's conduct.

"I fear from what he tells me that you do not all get on very happily together at the office. I am so sorry, for I would have liked you all to be friends."

It was hardly possible to tell the father frankly what we thought of his son, so I replied, vaguely, "No, we don't get on very well, I'm sorry to say."

"The fact is," said Jack, "we never have been friends."

"He told me so, greatly to my sorrow."

"I suppose he also told you why?" asked Jack, glancing sharply at the clergyman.

The latter looked disturbed and a trifle confused as he replied, "Yes, he did tell me something which—"

"He told you I was a convict's son," said Jack, quietly.

"What!" exclaimed the clergyman, with an involuntary start—"what! No, he didn't tell me that, my poor boy: he never told me that!"

"I am," quietly said Jack.

I was amazed at the composure with which he said it, and looked the visitor in the face as he did so.

The face was full of pity and sympathy. Not a shade of horror crossed it, and for all he was Hawkesbury's father, I liked him more than ever.

"Do you mind telling me what he did say about me?" asked Jack, presently.

"We will not talk about that," said the clergyman.

Jack looked disposed for a moment to persevere in his demand, but the father's troubled face disarmed him.

"Poor Edward has had great disadvantages," he began, in a half- apologetic, half-melancholy way, "and I often fear I am to blame. I have thought too much of my work out of doors, and too little of my duty to him. I have not been to him all that a father should be."

He said this more in the way of talking to himself than of addressing us. But I saw Jack colour up at the last reference, and hastened to change the subject.

We felt quite sorry for him when he rose to go. He evidently knew his son's failings only too well, and with a father's love tried to cover them. And I could see how in all he said he was almost pleading with us to befriend his boy.

To me it was more than painful to hear him talk thus—to speak to me as if I was a paragon of virtue, and to apologise to me for the defects of his own son. It was more than I could endure; and when he started to go I asked if I might walk with him.

He gladly assented, and then I poured into his ears the whole story of my follies and struggles and troubles in London.

I shall never forget the kind way in which he listened and the still kinder way in which he talked when he had heard all.

I am not going to repeat that talk here; the reader may guess for himself what a simple Christian minister would have to say to one in my case, and how he would say it. He neither preached nor lectured, and he broke out into no exclamations. Had he done so, I should probably have been flurried and frightened away. But he talked to me as a father to his son—or rather as a big brother to a young one—entering into all my troubles and difficulties, and even claiming a share in them himself.

It was a long time since I had had such a talk with any one, and it did me good.

An uneventful week or two followed. We occasionally saw Mr Hawkesbury at our lodgings, for Smith could never bring himself to the point of again visiting the rectory. Indeed, he was now so busily engaged in the evenings preparing for his coming examination that he had time for nothing, and even the education of the lively Billy temporarily devolved on me.

It was not till after a regular battle royal that that young gentleman could be brought to submit to be "larned" by any one but his own special "bloke," and even when he did yield, under threats of actual expulsion from the school, he made such a point of comparing everything I did and said with the far superior manner in which Smith did and said it, that for a time it was rather uphill work. At length, however, he quieted down, and displayed no small aptitude for instruction, which was decidedly encouraging.

At the office Hawkesbury, ever since the uncomfortable meeting at his father's, had been very constrained in his manner to Jack and me, attempting no longer to force his society on us, and, indeed, relapsing into an almost mysterious reserve, which surprised more of those who knew him than our two selves.

As Doubleday said—who had never quite got over his sense of injury—"he had shut himself up with his petty-cash, and left us to get on the best we could without him."

Smith and I would both, for his father's sake, have liked if possible to befriend him or do him a good turn. But he seemed studiously to avoid giving us the opportunity, and was now as distant to us as we had once been to him.

However, in other respects our life at Hawk Street proceeded pleasantly enough, not the least pleasant thing being a further rise in both our salaries, an event which enabled me to set aside so much more every week to repay Flanagan his generous loan, as well as to clear myself finally of debt.

Things were going on thus smoothly, and it was beginning to seem as if the tide of life was set calm for both of us, when an event happened which once more suddenly stirred us to excitement and perturbation.

It was a Sunday evening, the evening preceding Jack's examination. He had been working hard, too hard, night after night for weeks past, and was now taking a literal day of rest before his ordeal. We were in our room with Mr Smith the elder, who was a regular Sunday visitor. He had devoted whatever spare time he could give of late to Jack's preparations, "coaching" him in Latin and Greek, and reading with him Ancient History. And now he was almost as excited and anxious about the result as either of us two.

Indeed, Jack himself took the whole matter so coolly that it seemed he must either have been perfectly confident of success, or perfectly indifferent to it, and this evening he was doing quite as much to keep up our spirits as we his.

The examination, which was to last two days, was to begin at nine next morning, and Jack had received a gratifying permission from the partners to absent himself for those two days accordingly.

"It will be a pretty hard grind while it lasts," Jack said, "for the examination goes on eight hours each day."

"When is the viva-voce portion?" asked Mr Smith.

"To-morrow. They begin with it, and I shall be glad when it is over. I don't mind the writing nearly so much."

"Hadn't you better go to bed now," suggested I, "and get a good-night?"

"So I will," said he, "presently. But I must first write to Mrs Shield."

I happened to be looking towards Mr Smith the elder as Jack said this. He gave a quick involuntary start, which, however, he instantly turned off into a fit of coughing as his eyes met mine.

Mr Smith had had a racking cough ever since I had known him, but I don't think I ever remembered his having a spasm of this kind before.

"The fact is," said Jack, whose back was turned, as he looked for some note-paper on the shelf, "I ought to have written last week, but I was so busy. And if I put it off any longer they will both think something is wrong."

I only heard what he said mechanically, for my eyes were fixed on Mr Smith.

His face had turned deadly white, and the old frightened look about his eyes came out now with startling intensity. He certainly must be ill or in pain.

"Are you—" I began.

But with a sudden effort he rose to his feet, and with a glance at Jack motioned to me to be silent, and leave the question unasked.

"What?" said Jack, turning round to me.

"Are you—going to write a long letter?" I asked.

"I can't say till I begin," said Jack, laughing, and sitting down to write.

"I'll say good-night," said Mr Smith, in a hoarse but otherwise composed voice.

"Good-night," said Jack. "I wish you'd get rid of your cold. All that night work must be bad for you."

Mr Smith shook hands with me in silence and quitted the room. I heard his footsteps go strangely down the stairs, and his door shut behind him in the room below.

I didn't feel comfortable. I was afraid he was ill—more ill than he wished either of us to suspect. It was the only way in which I could account for the spasm which preluded that last fit of coughing.

If it was so, he would be naturally anxious to conceal the fact from Jack on the eve of his examination, and that would account for his abrupt interruption of my question.

However, I had no examination to-morrow, and I was determined if possible to know the truth about our friend that very evening.

I sat by while Jack wrote his letter, thinking it interminable, and wondering what he could have to say to fill two sheets. When it was done I insisted on taking it to the post.

"It's after ten now," said I, "and you really ought to be in bed."

"You're precious careful of me, old boy," he said. "However, you shall have your own way for once."

I saw him safe in bed before I started, and then hastened out.

To post the letter was the work of a minute or two, for there was a pillar-box a little way down the road. This done, I returned eagerly and with some trepidation to the lodgings, and knocked at Mr Smith's door.

He made no answer, so I entered without leave.

He was sitting on a chair by the tireless hearth with his head on his hands, either asleep or buried in thought.

It was not till I touched him that he became aware of my presence, and then he did so with a start, as if I had been a ghost.

"Ah, Batchelor," said he, recovering himself and leaning back in his chair.

"Are you ill, Mr Smith?" I asked.

"No, my boy, no," said he; "not ill."

"I thought you were—upstairs just now."

"Did you? Ah! you saw me jump; I had a twinge. But don't let's talk of that. Sit down and let's talk of something else."

I sat down, very perplexed and uneasy, and more convinced than ever that Mr Smith was not himself.

"How do you think he'll get on in his examination?" asked he, after a pause.

"Jack? Oh, I have very little doubts about it," said I.

"No more have I; he's well and carefully prepared."

"Thanks a great deal to you," said I. "Well, I did get him on a little with the Greek, I believe," said Mr Smith.

Another pause ensued, during which Mr Smith sat looking hard into the empty grate. Then he asked, "You have known him a long time, Batchelor?"

"Yes; we were at school together."

"Do you know his parents at all?"

"No," I replied, feeling uncomfortable to be once more on this dangerous ground, although on my guard, and prepared to bite my tongue off rather than play my friend false again.

Mr Smith assumed as complete an air of unconcern as he could as he asked, "It's a strange question, but do you know anything about them?"

I would have given a good deal to be out of that room. There was something in Mr Smith's voice and manner and frightened eyes which made the question, coming from him, very different from the same inquiry flippantly thrown out by one of my old comrades. And yet I would not—I could not—answer it.

"I can't say," I replied, as shortly as possible, and rising at the same time to leave the room.

He prevented me by a quick gesture, which almost ordered me not to go, and I resumed my seat.

"You wonder why I ask the question?" said he, slowly.

"I think," said I, "it would be best to ask it of Jack himself."

Mr Smith said nothing, but sat brooding silently for a minute. Then he said, in a tone which sounded as if he was asking the question of himself rather than me, "Who is the Mrs Shield he writes to?"

He spoke so queerly and looked so strangely that I half wondered whether he was not wandering in his mind.

"Please," said I, "do not ask me these questions. What is the matter with you, Mr Smith?"

"Matter, my boy!" said he, with a bitter laugh; "it's a big question you ask. But I'll tell you if you'll listen."

I repented of having asked the question, he looked so haggard and excited. However, there was nothing for it but to sit still while he, pacing to and fro in the room, told me his story in his own way.

"This is not the first time you have been curious about me, Batchelor. You have suspected I was or had been something different from the poor literary hack you see me, and you have been right, my boy."

He stopped short in his walk as he said this, and his eyes flashed, just as I had sometimes seen Jack's eyes flash in the old days.

"Sixteen—no, seventeen—years ago I was the happiest man alive. I can see the little cottage where we lived, my wife and child and I, with its ivy-covered porch and tiny balcony, and the garden which she so prided in behind. It seemed as if nothing could come and disturb our little paradise. I was not rich, but I had all I wanted, and some to spare. I used to walk daily across the field to—where the bank of which I was manager was situated, and they—she and the boy—came to meet me every evening on my return. I felt as if my life was set fair. I could picture no happiness greater than our quiet evenings, and no hope brighter than a future like the present."

Here Mr Smith paused. This picture of a happy home he had drawn with a dreamy voice, as one would describe a fancy rather than a reality. After a pause he went on:

"The thing I thought impossible happened suddenly, fearfully, while I was even hugging myself in my prosperity and happiness. She died. A week before she had given me a sister for my boy. Our cup of joy seemed full to overflowing. The mother and child throve as well as any one could expect. She was to get up next day, and I was to carry her down stairs, and set her for a little amongst her flowers in the little drawing-room. I wished her good-bye gaily that morning as I went off to my work, and bade her be ready for me when I returned.

"Ah! what a return that was! At mid-day a messenger rushed into the bank and called to me to come at once to my wife. I flew to her on the wings of terror, and found her—dead!"

Here the speaker paused again. His voice had trembled at the last word, but his face was almost fierce as he turned his eyes to me.

I said nothing, but my heart bled for him. "The hope had gone from my life. I had no ballast, nothing to steady me in the tempest. My hope had been all in the present, and it perished with her. I cared for nothing, my little children were a misery to me, the old home was unendurable. I got leave of absence from my employers, and came up here—desperate. I dashed into every sort of dissipation and extravagance; I tried one excitement after another, if only I could drown every memory I had. I abandoned myself to so-called 'friends' of the worst sort, who degraded me to their own level, then forsook me. Still I plunged deeper—I was mad. My one dread was to have a moment to myself—a moment to think of my home, my children, my wife. How I lived through it all I cannot think—and I did not care.

"At last a letter reached me from my employers, requiring my presence at business. My money had long gone, my creditors pressed me on every hand, my friends one and all mocked at my destitution. I returned to —-, hiding before my employers the traces of my madness, and letting them wonder how grief had changed me. My home I could not go near—the sight of it and of the children would have driven me utterly mad. I lived in the town. For a week or so I tried hard to keep up appearances—but the evil spirit was on me, and I could not withstand him. I had not then learnt to look to a Greater for strength. I must fly once more from one misery to another tenfold worse.

"But I had no money. My savings were exhausted. My salary was not due. I dared not beg it in advance. I was manager of the bank, and had control over all that was in it. The devil within me tempted me, and I yielded. I falsified the accounts, and tampered with the books of the bank. My very desperation made me ingenious, and it was not till I had been away a month with my ill-gotten booty that the frauds were discovered."

Again he stopped, and I waited with strangely perturbed feelings till he resumed.

"At first I tried to hide myself, and spent some weeks abroad. But though I escaped justice, my misery followed me. During those weeks, I, who till then had been upright and honest, knew not a moment's peace. At night I never slept an hour together, by day I trembled at every face I met. The new torture was worse than the old, and at last in sheer despair I returned to London and courted detection. It seemed as if they would never find me. The less I hid myself, the more secure I seemed. At last, however, they found me—it was a relief when they did.

"I acknowledged all, and was sentenced to penal servitude for fourteen years."

"What!" I exclaimed, springing from my seat. "You are—"

"Hush!" said Mr Smith, pointing up to the ceiling, "you'll wake him. Yes, I am, or I was, a convict. Listen to the little more I have to say."

I restrained myself with a mighty effort and resumed my seat.

"I was transported, and for ten years lived the life of a convicted felon. It was a rough school, my boy, but in it I learned lessons an eternity of happiness might never have taught me. Christ is very pitiful. They brought me out of madness into sense, and out of storm into calm. As I sat at night in my cell I could bear once more to think of the little ivy-covered cottage, of the green grave in the churchyard, and of the two helpless children who might still live to call me father. What had become of them? They were perhaps growing up into boyhood and girlhood, beginning to discover for themselves the snares and sorrows of the world which had overcome me. Need I tell you I prayed for those two night and day? A convict's prayer it was—a forger's prayer, a thief's prayer; but a father's prayer to a pitiful Father for his children.

"After ten years I received a 'ticket-of-leave,' and was free to return home. But I could not do it yet. I preferred to remain where I was, in Australia, till the full term of my disgrace was ended, and I was at liberty as a free and unfettered man to show my face once more in England. It is not two years since I returned. No one knew me. Even in—my name had been forgotten. The ivy-covered cottage belonged to a stranger, and no one could tell me what had become of the forger's children who once lived there. It was part of my punishment, and it may be my long waiting is not yet over."

Here once more he paused, looking hard at me with his frightened eyes. I was going to speak, but he stopped me.

"No; let me finish. I came here, sought work, and found it; and found more than work—I found your friend. When I first met him he was unhappy and friendless. You know why better than I do. I watched him, and saw his gallant struggle against poverty and discouragement and perhaps unkindness. I found in him the first congenial companion I had met since she died. I shared his studies, and—and the rest you know. But now," said he, as once more I was about to speak, "you will wonder what all this has to do with the questions I asked you just now. You may guess or you may not; I don't know. This is why. When she died, and I madly deserted all the scenes of my old happiness, my two orphan children were left in the charge of a nurse, a young married woman then, whose name was Shield. Now do you wonder at my questions?"



CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

HOW I CAME TO HAVE SEVERAL IMPORTANT CARES UPON ME.

I scarcely knew whether I was awake or dreaming as Mr Smith closed his strange story with the inquiry—

"Now do you wonder at my questions?"

Little had I thought when that evening I knocked at his door and entered, that before I left the room I should have found Jack's father.

It was some time before I could talk coherently or rationally, I was so excited, so wild at the discovery. My impulse was to rush to Jack at once, and tell him what I had found, to run for Mr Hawkesbury, to telegraph to Mrs Shield—to do something.

"Don't be foolish," said he, who was now as composed as he had lately been wild and excited. "We may be wrong after all."

"But there can be no doubt," I said. "This Mrs Shield is his old nurse and his sister's—he has told me so himself—who took care of them when their father—went away."

Mr Smith sighed.

"Surely," I cried, "you will come and tell Jack all about it?"

"Not yet," said he, quietly. "I have waited all these years; I can wait two days more—till his examinations are over—and then you must do it for me, my boy."

It was late before I left him and went up to my bed in Jack's room.

There he lay sound asleep, with pale, untroubled face, dreaming perhaps of his examination to-morrow, but little dreaming of what was in store when that was over.

It was little enough I could sleep during the night. As I lay and tossed and thought over the events of the evening, I did not know whether to be happy or afraid. Supposing Jack should refuse to own his father! Suppose, when he heard that story of sin and shame, he should turn and repudiate the father who had so cruelly wronged him and his sister!

What a story it was! And yet, as I went over its details and pictured to myself the tragedy of that ruined life, I trembled to think how nearly a similar story might have been mine, had I not by God's grace been mercifully arrested in time.

Who was I, to think ill of him? He had been driven to his ruin by a shock which had nearly robbed him of reason. I had fallen through sheer vanity and folly, and who was to say I might not have fallen as low as he, had there been no hand to save me, no friend to recall me, by God's mercy, to myself?

I was thankful when I heard Jack stir, and had an excuse for getting up.

"Hullo!" said he, as I did so; "you were a jolly long time posting that letter last night, or else I must have gone to sleep pretty quickly."

"I just looked in to talk to Mr Smith," I said, "on my way back."

"Ah, do you know, I think he's working too hard. He didn't look well last night."

"He seemed a little out of sorts," I said, "but I'm afraid that's nothing very unusual. Well, old boy, how do you feel in prospect of your exam.?"

"Oh, all right," said Jack, complacently. "I suppose I ought to feel in mortal terror and nervousness and despondency. I believe that's what's expected of a fellow before an exam. If so, I'm unorthodox. Perhaps it's a sign I shall be plucked."

"I'm not afraid of that," said I.

"Well, I have a notion I may pull through."

"If you pass," said I, struck with a thought that had not before occurred to me, "shall you go to college, Jack?"

He laughed at the question.

"I should have to come out first of all," said he, "to get what would keep me at college. And even so, I'm not cut out for that sort of life."

"If you mean living by your brains, I say you are."

"Of course you say so. You're always stuffing me up. But, apart from that, you know there are other reasons why I should not be likely to get on well at a university."

I knew what his meaning was only too well.

"But what rubbish we are talking!" said he. "We've made up our minds I'm going to come out first, when it's more likely all I shall do will be to scrape through with a pass, and not take honours at all."

At this point Mr Smith looked in to wish Jack joy before he started, and greatly to my relief Billy entered at the same time.

The latter visitor was quite unexpected.

"Well, Billy, what's up?" I inquired.

"Ga on! As if you didn't know," replied the grinning youth.

"I don't know."

"What," said Billy, jerking his head towards Jack, "ain't he goin' to 'is 'sam, then?"

"Yes, he's going to his examination this morning."

"And I are a-goin' to give him a proper shine afore he goes," replied the boy, almost fiercely.

"Of course you are, Billy," said Jack. "I believe I should come to grief altogether if I went without having my boots polished."

"In corse you would," said the delighted Billy, commencing operations forthwith.

"I say, governor," said he, looking up, halfway through his task, "I give the animal a topper last night."

"What animal?" inquired Jack.

"That there 'Orksbury, so I did. Him and 'is pal comes along and twigs me a-sottin' on my box. 'That's the kid. Mashing,' says 'Orksbury. Mashing he up to me, and says he, 'Would you like a shillin', my boy?' says he. 'You're 'avin' a lark with me,' says I. 'No, I ain't,' says 'e, 'oldin' it out. 'What do yer want?' says I. 'You know Smith?' says 'Orksbury. 'That ain't no concarn of yourn,' says I. 'You ain't got no concarn with my governor,' says I. 'Oh, then you don't want the shillin'?' says he. 'No, I don't,' says I, seein' they was up to games. 'What do you mean by it?' says Mashing, a-pullin' my ear. (Bless you, 'e don't know the way to pull a cove's ear; my old gal can do it proper.) 'No one is going to do anything to Smith,' says 'e. 'We only want you to give him this,' says he, pullin' out a bit of paper. 'Don't give it 'im,' says 'Orksbury; 'he's a young thief,' says 'e, 'and 'e'll only spoil it all.' 'I will so,' says I, 'and I'll spoil you too,' says I, aimin' a brush at his 'ed. They gives me a wipin' for it, but there, they can't 'arf do it. And they says if I want my shillin' I can go and get it from that cantin' son of a thief—meanin' you, governor—what kep' me. Bless you, they did jaw, them two, but I give that 'Orksbury a topper, which I owed 'im one afore."

This spirited address on the part of our young friend I need hardly say interested us all deeply. We all resented the outrage which had been offered to him, and admired the spirit with which he had stood to his colours during the interview.

This little episode served to smooth the way for Mr Smith's interview with Jack. It gave him time to compose himself, and get over the emotion which the first sight of his lost son since last night's discovery naturally roused.

When he did speak it was steadily and cheerily as ever.

"Just popped up," he said, "to wish you success, my boy. Keep your head during the viva-voce, and remember that rule about the second aorist."

"All serene," said Jack, laughing. "I say, Mr Smith," added he, "if I don't pass I shall feel myself the most ungrateful brute out."

"So you will be," replied Mr Smith, nodding pleasantly as he left the room.

I wondered at his nerve, and admired the self-control which could thus enable him to talk and even jest at such a time.

I had time to walk round with Jack to the place of examination before business, and give him my final benediction at the door.

Then I hurried off to Hawk Street.

It was a long, dull day there without him. Hawk Street had long since ceased to be exciting. The fellows I liked—and they were very few—did not obtrude their affections on me during business hours, and the fellows I disliked had given up the pastime of baiting me as a bad job. I had my own department of work to attend to, and very little communication with any one else in the doing of it, except with Doubleday, who, as the reader knows, usually favoured me when anything specially uninviting wanted doing.

Of Hawkesbury I now saw and heard less than any one. He had been promoted to a little glazed-in box of his own, where in stately solitude he managed the petty-cash, kept the correspondence, and generally worked as hard as one who is a cut above a clerk and a cut below a partner is expected to do.

On the day in question I was strongly tempted to break in upon his solitude and demand an explanation of his conduct to Billy on the preceding evening. But a moment's reflection convinced me of the folly of such a course. It was not likely, if I got any answer at all, I should get a satisfactory one, while to reopen communications at all after what had occurred might be unwise and mischievous. For ever since Hawkesbury and I had ceased to be on talking terms at the office I had been more comfortable there, and involved in fewer troubles than ever before.

So I let well alone.

During the day an important telegram arrived at the office, which kept the partners closeted together in the inner-room for an hour, in earnest conference, at the end of which time Hawkesbury was sent for.

Doubleday, who had seen the telegram, told me it was to say that a vessel reported lost had turned up, with a cargo which was now double the value in the market it would have been had she arrived when expected. However, there were points connected with the insurance and other matters which would require the presence of one of the firm at Liverpool, and this was evidently the object of the present confabulation.

"A year ago," said Doubleday, "they would have sent me. But now the darling comes in for all the trips."

Which proved to be the case now. Hawkesbury emerged from the inner-room with an important face, and told the junior clerk (I no longer held that distinguished post), to fetch a hansom immediately. Doubleday nudged me.

"If it was you or me, I fancy we'd fetch our own hansoms, eh! Never mind, we've neither of us got uncles."

"Haven't we?" said I, laughing. "I have."

"Ah—so have I, for the matter of that. Three—all as poor as church mice too. I mean we've not got uncles in the firm. But what puzzles me is, what is to become of the petty-cash? I suppose I'm to be favoured with that job during his lordship's absence. I shall certainly cover the book with crape."

"Batchelor," called Hawkesbury at that moment, just putting his head out of the door of his box, "will you step here, please?"

Doubleday nudged me again, harder than ever.

"I say," said he, with glee, "you're to be sent too to carry his bag— see if you aren't."

However, Doubleday was wrong for once. The honour he prophesied was not reserved for me. But another was, almost as surprising.

"Batchelor," said Hawkesbury, almost in his old wheedling tone, "I shall be away for three or four days. I'll get you to keep the petty-cash accounts till I return. I won't leave the regular book out, as I have not time to balance it. You can enter anything on a separate paper, which I will copy in when I return. There is L3 in the cash-box now. You had better keep it locked up in your desk."

I could not help being surprised that he should fix on me of all persons to undertake this responsibility for him during his absence. It seemed so much more naturally to devolve on its former guardian that I could not help asking, "Don't you think Doubleday had better—"

"I prefer you should do it, please," said Hawkesbury, decisively, bustling off to another desk at the same moment, and so cutting short further parley.

So I had nothing for it but to take up the cash-box, and, after making sure it contained exactly the L3 he had mentioned, transfer it to my own desk.

When I told Doubleday that afternoon what had happened he waxed very facetious on the head of it. He was undoubtedly a little hurt that I should be selected for the charge instead of him. But we were too good friends to misunderstand one another in the matter.

"I expect he's left it with you because you're a young hand, and he thinks you're sure to make a mess of it. That would just suit him."

"I'll do my best to deprive him of the luxury of putting me right," said I.

"If you do get up a tree," said Doubleday, "I'm your man. But I hope you won't, for I don't want to have anything to do with it."

After all it was not such very alarming work. A few people dropped in during the day and paid small amounts in cash, which I received, and carefully entered on my sheet. And a few demands came from various quarters for small disbursements in the way of postage-stamps, telegrams, cab fares, and the like, all which I also carefully entered on the other side of my account.

Before I left in the evening I balanced the two sides, and found the cash in my box tallying exactly with the amount that appeared on my sheet. Whereat I rejoiced exceedingly, and, locking-up my desk, thought the keeping of the petty-cash was ridiculously simple work.

That evening when I reached the lodgings I found Jack had arrived before me. I was eager to hear of his success or otherwise at the examination, and he was prepared to gratify my curiosity.

He had got on well, he thought. The viva-voce portion, which he had dreaded most, had been easy, or, at any rate, the questions which fell- to him had been such as he could readily answer. As for the written part, all he could say was that he had replied to all the questions, and he believed correctly, although time prevented him from doing one or two as full justice as they deserved. In fact, after talking it over, we both came to the conclusion that the day's effort had been a success, and if to-morrow turned out as well, all doubt as to the result might be dispensed with.

Then I told him of my adventures, which did not seem altogether to overjoy him.

"I don't know why it is," said he, "but Hawkesbury is a fellow I cannot but mistrust."

"But," said I, "I don't see what there can possibly be to suspect in his handing over this simple account to me to keep."

"All I can say is," said he, "I wish he hadn't done it. Why didn't he hand it over to Doubleday?"

"I wondered at that," said I, "but there's no love lost between those two. Doubleday says he thinks he did it because I am a bit of a fool, and he wants the pleasure of seeing me in a mess over the account."

Jack laughed.

"Doubleday is always flattering somebody," said he. "Never mind; it may be only fancy on my part after all."

Jack wanted to get to his books that evening, but I dissuaded him.

"It can do no good," said I, "and it may just muddle you for to-morrow. Take an easy evening now, and go to bed early. You'll be all the fresher for it to-morrow."

So, instead of study, we fell-to talking, and somehow got on to the subject of the home at Packworth.

"By the way, Fred," said Jack, "I got a letter from you the other day."

"From me?" I cried; "I haven't written to you for months."

"It was from you, though, but it had been a good time on the road, for it was written from Stonebridge House just after I had left."

"What! the letter you never called for at the post-office?"

"The letter you addressed to 'J.' instead of 'T.' my boy; But I'm glad to have it now. It is most interesting."

"But however did you come by it?" I asked.

"If you will stop runaway horses when your hands are full you must expect to lose things. This letter was picked up by Mrs Shield after that little adventure, and only came to light out of the lining of her bag last week. She remembered seeing it lying on the road, she says, and picking it up, along with Mary's shawl and handkerchief, which had also fallen. But she was too flurried to think anything of it, and until it mysteriously turned up the other day she had forgotten its existence. So there's a romantic story belonging to your letter."

I could not be satisfied till the interesting document was produced and conned over. We laughed a good deal in the reading, over the reminiscences it brought up, and the change that had come over both our lives since then.

"Mrs Shield says Mary insisted it belonging to her, and that she had no right to send it to me," said Jack, laughing. "What do you think of that?"

"It's very kind of her," said I, "to think anything about it. I say, Jack," I added, blushing a little, "got that photo about you?"

Jack handed out his treasure, and we fell-to talking a good deal about the original of the picture, which interested me quite as much as it did Jack.

"Do you know, Fred," said he, presently, "she doesn't know anything about—about father? She believes she is an orphan, and that I am the only relation she has."

"I'm sure," said I, "it's far better so."

"Yes," said Jack, sadly. "At present it is. But some day she ought to know."

"Why?" said I.

"If he ever—but we're not going to talk of that. What do you say to turning in? That's half-past ten striking by the church."

So ended the first day of suspense.

I regret to say that my last act that day was one of petty larceny!

During our talk about Mary I had held the photograph in my hand, looking at it occasionally, and occasionally laying it down on my knee. When Jack rose and proposed turning in for the night he gathered together the other papers he had taken from his pocket and replaced them. But, strangely enough, he forgot to look for the photograph, or else supposed it was with the other papers.

It wasn't, for it lay under my hand all the while, and presently, when his back was turned, it lay in my pocket.

Later on, when the lights were out and all was quiet, it lay under my pillow for greater security!

No wonder the reader is shocked! If ever there was a clear case of purloining this was. I know it, dear reader. I knew it at the time, and yet I did it.

For I had a motive, which perhaps the reader can guess.

The picture which had lain first under my hand, then in my pocket, then under my pillow, experienced yet another change of situation that night.

Just as the first streak of dawn struggled through the window I heard a door close and a footstep in the room below. Mr Smith had come home.

Lightly and silently I crept from my bed, and with my treasure in my hand sped down the stairs and slipped into his room.

And for an hour after that the picture lay in a hand which had never touched it before, and the bright laughing eyes looked up and met the tearful eyes of a father!



CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

HOW SEVERAL VISITORS CALLED AT OUR LODGINGS.

Billy arrived punctually as we were dressing next morning in great good- humour.

"What cheer, covies?" cried he before he was well in the room. "She's come back!"

"Who—your mother?" said Jack.

"Yaas," said Billy; "worn't she jolly neither? She give me a wipin' last night same as I never got."

And when we came to look at our queer visitor he bore about his face and person undoubted marks of the truth of this story.

"What a shame it is!" I said to Jack. "Can't anything be done to stop it? He'll be murdered right out one day."

"'Taint no concern of yourn!" said Billy. "But I say, governor," added he, turning to Jack, "she are a rum 'un, she are! She was a-sayin' you was makin' a idle young dorg of me, she says, and she'll wait upon you, she says, and know the reason why, she says. And she says ef she ketches me messin' about any more with my ABC, she says she'll knock the 'ed off me. But don't you mind 'er, she's on'y a-jawing!"

Jack looked a good deal troubled. He had taken upon himself the welfare of this happy family in the court, and it seemed likely to cost him many an uneasy moment. Only a short time before, he had told me, he had called with Mr Hawkesbury and seen Billy's mother, just after her release from prison, and tried to plead with her on Billy's behalf, but, he said, you might as well talk to a griffin.

Billy appeared to be oppressed with no cares on the subject. "It's that there penny bang," said he, "as she's got her back up agin. I told her as I was a shovin' my coppers in there, and she says she'll shove you in, governor, she says. She did swear at you, governor! It's a game to hear her."

"When you learn better, Billy," said Jack, quite sternly, "you won't talk like that of your mother."

Billy's face overclouded suddenly. He looked first at me, then at Jack, and finally at the boot in his hand, which he fell-to polishing till it dazzled. But Jack's tone and look had effectually damped his spirits, and when he spoke again it was with a half whine.

"I are a larning better, governor, do you hear? I knows my letters. You ask this 'ere bloke," pointing to me with his brush. "And them Aggers, too. I writ 'em all up on my slate, didn't I? You tell the governor if I didn't!"

"Yes," I said; "you did."

"There you are! Do you hear, governor? I'm larnin' better. I writ all them there Aggers, I did; and I can say my d-o-g, dorg, proper, can't I, pal? And I've shove my coppers in the bang, and I am larnin'."

"I know you are," said Jack, kindly. "Come, it's time I got on my boots. Are they done?"

Billy in the delight of his heart took one more furious turn at the boots. He breathed hard upon them till he was nearly black in the face, and polished them till it was a wonder any leather at all was left. And, to complete all, he polished up the tags of the laces with the sleeve of his own coat, and then deposited the boots with an air of utmost pride and jubilation.

"I shall be done the examination to-day," said Jack, as the boy started to go; "I'll come down and see you in the evening."

Billy's face was nearly as bright as the boots he had polished as he grinned his acknowledgments and went on his way rejoicing.

Mr Smith did not put in an appearance before it was time for Jack to start. He had told me he would not. He was afraid of betraying his secret prematurely, and deemed it wisest to stay away. And I was just as glad he did so, for it was all I could do not to show by my manner that something of serious moment was in the wind.

However, by an effort, I tried to appear as if nothing unusual had occurred.

"By the way, Jack," said I, as we walked down to the examination hall, "you're a nice fellow to take care of a photograph! Do you know you left this at my mercy all night?"

"What!" he exclaimed, "I thought I put it back in my pocket with the other papers. What a go if I'd lost it!"

"What a go if I'd kept it!" said I. "The next time I will."

"To prevent which," said Jack, "take your last look, for you shall never see it again! Good-bye, old man. It will be all over when I see you next."

"All over!" mused I, as I walked back to the office. "It will be only beginning."

I never made a more rash promise in all my life than when I under took to Mr Smith to break the news of his discovery to Jack.

It had appeared so simple at the time, but when the moment came the task seemed to be one bristling with difficulties on every hand. All that day the sense of the coming ordeal haunted me, and even the custody of the petty-cash could not wholly divert my mind.

I was therefore quite relieved that evening, on returning to the lodgings, to hear as I ascended the stairs voices speaking in our room, and to find that Jack had a visitor. I should, at least, get some time to recover the wits which the near approach of my ordeal had scattered.

For a moment I wondered whether Jack's visitor could be Mr Smith himself. It was a man's voice, and unless it were Mr Smith or Mr Hawkesbury, I was at a loss to guess who it could be.

To my astonishment I found, on entering the room, that the visitor was no other than my uncle!

Whatever had brought him here?

Jack looked as if his tete-a-tete had not been a very cheerful one, for he jumped up at my arrival with evident joy, and cried, "Oh, here you are at last! Here's your uncle, Fred, come to see you. He was afraid he would have to go before you got back."

This, at least, was a comfort. My uncle was not going to stay all night.

I went up in a most dutiful manner to my relative, and hoped he was well.

"Yes," he replied, in his usual frigid way. "You seem surprised to see me. But as I had business in town I found out this place, and came to look you up."

"It was very kind of you," said I.

"You shouldn't say that when you don't mean it," said my uncle. "And as I am going in a few minutes you need not look so alarmed."

"I hope you will have a cup of tea before you go," said I, hoping to change the subject.

"No, thank you. Your friend here asked me that already. Now, what about your debts, Fred?"

"Oh," said I, "they are all paid by this time. An old schoolfellow advanced me the money, kindly, and I have all but repaid him out of my weekly allowance."

"Humph!" said my uncle. "That scrape will be a lesson to you, I hope. Boys who make fools of themselves like that must suffer the consequences."

"I had been very foolish I know," I replied, humbly.

"But Fred's as steady as a judge now," said Jack, interposing for my relief.

"It's nearly time he was," replied my uncle, "unless he has made up his mind to ruin himself. He's given up all his wild friends, I hope?"

"Oh yes, every one," said I; "haven't I, Jack?"

"Yes, he's nothing to do with them now," said Jack.

"And he spends his evenings in something better than drinking and gambling and that sort of thing?"

This was pleasant for me. As the question appeared to be addressed to Jack, I allowed him to answer it for me.

"Well," said my uncle, after a few more similar inquiries had been satisfactorily answered, "I hope what you tell me is true. It may seem as if I did not care much what became of you, Fred. And as long as you went on in the way you did, no more I did. You had chosen your friends, and you might get on the best you could with them. But now, if you have done what you say you have and given them up—"

At that moment there was a sudden tumult on the stairs outside, which made us all start. It was a sound of scuffling and laughter and shouting, in the midst of which my uncle's voice was drowned. Whoever the visitors were, they appeared not to be quite sure of their quarters, for they were trying every door they came to on their way up. At length they came nearer, and a voice, the tones of which were only too familiar, shouted, "Come on, you fellows. We'll smoke him out. Batchelor ahoy there! Wonder if he lives on the roof."

It was Whipcord's voice, whom I had not seen since my accident, and who now had fixed on this evening of all others to come with his friends and pay me a visit!

"It's Whipcord," I said to Jack; "he mustn't come in! Let's barricade the door, anything to keep them out."

Jack, who looked fully as alarmed as I did, was quite ready to agree, but my uncle, who had hitherto been an astounded witness of the interruption, interfered, and said, "No—they shall come in. These are some of your reformed friends, I suppose, Mr Fred. I'd like to see them. Let them come in."

"Oh no, uncle," I cried, in agitation, "they mustn't come in, indeed they mustn't, they are—"

As I spoke the shouting outside increased twofold, and at the same moment the door was flung open, and Whipcord, Crow, the Field-Marshal, the Twins, Daly, and Masham, burst into the room!

Is it any wonder if, as I looked first at them, then at my uncle, a feeling of utter despair took possession of me?

They were all, evidently, in a highly festive state of mind and ready for any diversion.

"Here he is," cried Whipcord, who appeared to be leader of the party. "Here you are, Batch, my boy—we got your address at the police-station and came to look you up, and oh, I say, what a glorious old codger!"

This last note of admiration was directed to my uncle, who sat sternly back in his chair, gazing at the intruders with mingled wrath and astonishment.

"I say, introduce us, Batch," said the Field-Marshal, "and to the other aristocrat, too, will you?"

"Why, that's Bull's-eye," cried Crow. "You know, Twins, the fellow I told you about who's—"

"Oh, that's the Botany Bay hero, is it?" cried Masham. "I must shake hands with him. One doesn't get the chance of saying how d'ye do to a real gaol-bird every day. How are you, Treadmill?"

Jack, whose face was very pale, and whose eyes flashed fiercely, remained motionless, and with an evident effort, as Masham held out his hand.

"What—thinks we aren't good enough for him, does he?" said Masham.

"So used to the handcuffs," said Abel, "doesn't know how to use his hands, that's it."

"But we don't know yet who this old weathercock is," cried Whipcord, turning again to my uncle. "What do they call you at home, old Stick- in-the-mud?" and he nudged him in the ribs by way of emphasis.

It was time I interposed. Hitherto, in sheer helplessness, I had stood by and watched the invasion with silent despair. Now, however, that my uncle seemed to be in danger of rough handling, something must be done.

"If you fellows have any pretence to be called gentlemen," I shouted, in tones choked with mingled shame and anger, "you will leave Jack's room and mine."

"Jack's! who's Jack? Is the old pawnbroker called Jack, then? Oh, I say, you fellows," cried Whipcord, dropping on a chair, and nearly choking himself with a fit of laughter. "Oh, you fellows, I've got it at last. I've got it. Jack! I know who it is."

"Who is it?" cried the others.

"Why, can't you guess?" yelled Whipcord.

"No! Who?"

"Jack Ketch!"

This new idea was taken up with the utmost rapture, and my uncle was forthwith dubbed with his fresh title.

"Three cheers for Uncle Ketch, you fellows!" shouted Whipcord.

The cheers were given with great hubbub. Then my uncle was called upon for a speech, and, as he declined, a proposal was made to compel him.

Up to this time, protest as well as resistance had seemed worse than useless. Jack and I were only two against seven, and our visitors were hardly in a condition to give us fair play, even if we did come to blows. But our wrath had been gradually approaching boiling-point, and now the time seemed to have come to brave all consequences and assert ourselves.

Whipcord and Masham had each seized one of my uncle's arms, with a view to carry out their threat, when by a mutual impulse Jack, and I assumed the defensive and rushed into the fray. Both our adversaries were, of course, utterly unprepared for such a demonstration, and in consequence, and before they could either of them take in the state of affairs, they were sprawling at full length on the floor. The whole action was so rapidly executed that it was not for a moment or two that the rest of the party took in the fact that the affair was something more than a joke. When, however, they did so, a general engagement ensued, in which Jack and I, even with the unlooked-for and gallant aid of my uncle, could do very little against superior numbers.

What the upshot might have been—whether we should have been eventually ejected from our own lodgings, or whether the invaders would presently have wearied of their sport and made off of their own accord—I cannot say, but just as things were looking at their worst for us an opportune diversion occurred which turned the tide of battle.

This was none other than the simultaneous arrival of Billy and Flanagan. The latter, I recollected, had promised to look in during the evening, to see how Jack had fared at the examination.

In the general confusion the new-comers entered the room almost unnoticed. The unexpected scene which met their eyes in our usually quiet quarters naturally alarmed them, and it was a second or more before, in the midst of all the riot, they could make out what was the matter.

Billy was the first to recover himself. The sight of Jack Smith being attacked by Masham was quite enough for him, and, with a cry of, "Do you hear, you let him be!" he sprang upon his patron's assailant like a young tiger.

Poor, gallant Billy! Masham, taken aback to find himself thus attacked by a small boy who seemed to come from nowhere, recoiled for an instant before his vigorous onslaught. But it was only for an instant. Stepping back, and leaving the others to engage Jack and me, he seized the boy by the arm, and, dealing him a blow on the side of the head, flung him savagely to the floor, adding a brutal kick as he lay there, stunned and senseless at his feet.

The sight of this outrage was all that was wanted to rouse us to one desperate effort to rid ourselves of our cowardly invaders. Jack closed in an instant with Masham, and by sheer force carried him to the door and literally flung him from the room. The others, one by one, followed. Some, half ashamed at the whole proceeding, slunk away of their own accord; the others, seeing themselves worsted, lost spirit, and made but a slight resistance to our united assault, now vigorously reinforced by Flanagan.

The last to leave was Whipcord, who endeavoured to carry the thing off with his usual swagger to the last. "Well, ta, ta, Batch," he said; "we just looked in to see how you were, that's all. Thanks for the jolly evening. By-bye, old Jack Ketch, and—"

And here, in consequence of a sudden forward movement from Flanagan, he hurriedly withdrew, and left us for the first time that evening with leisure to look about us.

It was no time, however, for asking questions or giving explanations. An exclamation from Jack turned all attention to Billy, who lay still unconscious and as white as a sheet where he had fallen. Jack gently raised him and laid him on the bed. "Open the window, somebody," said he.

The air seemed to revive the boy somewhat, for he opened his eyes and looked vacantly round. But a fit of sickness followed this partial recovery, and again he swooned.

Jack's face was nearly as pale as the boy's as he looked up and said, "Fetch the doctor! Quick!"

Flanagan darted off almost before the words were out of his lips.

There was nothing for us who were left behind to do but to watch with painful anxiety the poor little sufferer, who lay mostly unconscious, and still at intervals violently sick.

Masham's ruffianly blow and kick had evidently done far more damage than he or any one supposed. As we waited in silence for the doctor to come our alarm increased, and it even seemed doubtful whether, as we stood there, we were not destined to see a terrible end to that evening's proceedings.

"Has the boy a father or mother?" whispered my uncle to me.

Jack who sat with the sufferer's head on his arm, heard the question, and said hurriedly, "Yes. You must fetch his mother, Fred!"

There was such a tone of alarm in his voice that had Billy's mother been a wild beast I could hardly have disobeyed.

I darted off on my unenviable quest, meeting the doctor on the stairs. I knew the house in the court by this time, and was myself well-known to its inmates.

The woman was not at home; she had not been home since the morning, and no one knew where she was. I left a message apprising her of what had happened, and telling her to come at once to the lodgings. Then with much foreboding I hastened back to Drury Lane.

The evening had been a strangely different one from what I had expected. I was to have broken the news to Jack of his father's discovery, instead of which, here was I rushing frantically about trying to find an unhappy woman and summon her to what, for all I knew, might be the death-bed of her son!

I found when I returned that Billy had somewhat revived. He was lying back, very white still, and apparently unconscious, but they told me the doctor had given some hope of his recovery, and that the fits of sickness had stopped and left him stronger.

My uncle, whose concern for the poor boy was scarcely less than ours, had relieved Jack at the patient's bedside. Jack, who, now that the imminent anxiety was over, had given way to a natural reaction, was, I could see, in a terrible state of misery and rage.