Reginald Cruden, Talbot Baines Reed [best black authors txt] 📗

was not quite such a prig as all that. As it was, when it was all over, it was with no self-satisfied smile or inward gratulation that he returned to his work, but rather with the nervous uncomfortable misgivings of one who says to himself,—

“After all I may have done more harm than good.”

By the end of a fortnight Reginald, greatly to Mr Durfy’s dissatisfaction, was an accomplished compositor. He could set-up almost as quickly as Gedge, and his “proofs” showed far fewer corrections. Moreover, as he was punctual in his hours, and diligent at his work, it was extremely difficult for the overseer or any one else to find any pretext for abusing him.

It is true, Mr Barber, who had not yet given up the idea of asserting his moral and intellectual superiority, continued by the ingenious device of “squabbling” his case, and tampering with the screw of his composing-stick, and other such pleasing jokes not unknown to printers, to disconcert the new beginner on one or two occasions. But ever since Reginald one morning, catching him in the act of mixing up his e’s with his a’s, had carried him by the collar of his coat and the belt of his breeches to the water tank and dipped his head therein three times with no interval for refreshment between, Mr Barber had moderated his attentions and become less exuberant in his humour.

With the exception of Gedge, now his fast ally, Reginald’s other fellow-workmen concerned themselves very little with his proceedings. One or two, indeed, noticing his proficiency, hinted to him that he was a fool to work for the wages he was getting, and some went so far as to say he had no right to do so, and had better join the “chapel” to save trouble.

What the “chapel” was Reginald did not trouble even to inquire, and replied curtly that it was no business of any one else what his wages were.

“Wasn’t it?” said the deputation. “What was to become of them if fellows did their work for half wages, they should like to know?”

“Are you going off, or must I make you?” demanded Reginald, feeling he had had enough of it.

And the deputation, remembering Barber’s head and the water tank, withdrew, very much perplexed what to do to uphold the dignity of the “chapel.”

They decided to keep their “eye” on him, and as they were able to do this at a distance, Reginald had no objection at all to their decision.

He meanwhile was keeping his eye on Gedge and Mr Durfy, and about a fortnight after his arrival at the Rocket, a passage of arms occurred which, slight as it was, had a serious influence on the future of all three parties concerned.

The seven o’clock bell had rung, and this being one of Horace’s late evenings, Reginald proposed to Gedge to stroll home with him and call and see Mrs Cruden.

The boy accepted readily, and the two were starting off arm in arm when Mr Durfy confronted them. Reginald, who had never met his adversary beyond the precincts of the Rocket before, did not for a moment recognise the vulgar, loudly dressed little man, sucking his big cigar and wearing his pot hat ostentatiously on one side; but when he did he turned contemptuously aside and said,—

“Come on, young ’un.”

“Come on, young ’un!” echoed Mr Durfy, taking his cigar from his mouth and flicking the ashes in Reginald’s direction, “that’s just what I was going to say. Young Gedge, you’re coming with me to-night. I’ve got orders for the Alhambra, my boy, and supper afterwards.”

“Thank you,” said Gedge, rather uncomfortably, “it’s very kind of you, Mr Durfy, but I’ve promised Cruden to go with him.”

“Promised Cruden! What do you mean? Cruden’ll keep till to-morrow; the orders won’t.”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” said Gedge.

“Afraid! I tell you I don’t mean to stand here all night begging you. Just come along and no more nonsense. We’ll have a night of it.”

“You must excuse me,” said the boy, torn between Reginald on the one hand and the fear of offending Durfy on the other.

The latter began to take in the position of affairs, and his temper evaporated accordingly.

“I won’t excuse you; that’s all about it,” he said; “let go that snivelling lout’s arm and do what you’re told. Let the boy alone, do you hear?” added he, addressing Reginald, “and take yourself off. Come along, Gedge.”

“Gedge is not going with you,” said Reginald, keeping the boy’s arm in his; “he’s coming with me, aren’t you, young ’un?”

The boy pressed his arm gratefully, but made no reply.

This was all Mr Durfy wanted to fill up the vials of his wrath.

“You miserable young hound you,” said he, with an oath; “let go the boy this moment, or I’ll turn you out of the place—and him too.”

Reginald made no reply. His face was pale, but he kept the boy’s arm still fast in his own.

“Going with you, indeed?” shouted Mr Durfy; “going with you, is he? to learn how to cant and sing psalms! Not if I know it—or if he does, you and he and your brother and your old fool of a mother—”

Mr Durfy never got to the end of that sentence. A blow straight from the shoulder of the Wilderham captain sent him sprawling on the pavement before the word was well out of his mouth.

It had come now. It had been bound to come sooner or later, and Reginald, as he drew the boy’s arm once more under his own, felt almost a sense of relief as he stood and watched Mr Durfy slowly pick himself up and collect his scattered wardrobe.

It was some time before the operation was complete, and even then Mr Durfy’s powers of speech had not returned. With a malignant scowl he stepped up to his enemy and hissed the one menace,—

“All right!” and then walked away.

Reginald waited till he had disappeared round the corner, and then, turning to his companion, took a long breath and said,—

“Come along, young ’un; it can’t be helped.”

The reader must forgive me if I ask him to leave the two lads to walk to Dull Street by themselves, while he accompanies me in the wake of the outraged and mud-stained Mr Durfy.

That gentleman was far more wounded in his mind than in his person. He may have been knocked down before in his life, but he had never, as far as he could recollect, been quite so summarily routed by a boy half his age earning only eighteen shillings a week! And the conviction that some people would think he had only got his deserts in what he had suffered, pained him very much indeed.

He did not go to the Alhambra. His clothes were too dirty, and his spirits were far too low. He did, in the thriftiness of his soul, attempt to sell his orders in the crowd at the theatre door. But no one rose to the bait, so he had to put them back in his pocket on the chance of being able to “doctor up” the date and crush in with them some other day. Then he mooned listlessly up and down the streets for an hour till his clothes were dry, and then turned into a public-house to get a brush down and while away another hour.

Still the vision of Reginald standing where he had last seen him with young Gedge at his side haunted him and spoiled his pleasure. He wandered forth again, feeling quite lonely, and wishing some one or something would turn up to comfort him. Nor was he disappointed.

“The very chap,” said a voice suddenly at his side when he was beginning to despair of any diversion.

“So it is. How are you, my man? We were talking of you not two minutes ago.”

Durfy pulled up and found himself confronted by two gentlemen, one about forty and the other a fashionable young man of twenty-five.

“How are you, Mr Medlock?” said he to the elder in as familiar a tone as he could assume; “glad to see you, sir. How are you, too, Mr Shanklin, pretty well?”

“Pretty fair,” said Mr Shanklin. “Come and have a drink, Durfy. You look all in the blues. Gone in love, I suppose, eh? or been speculating on the Stock Exchange? You shouldn’t, you know, a respectable man like you.”

“He looks as if he’d been speculating in mud,” said Mr Medlock, pointing to the unfortunate overseer’s collar and hat, which still bore traces of his recent calamity. “Never mind; we’ll wash it off in the Bodega. Come along.”

Durfy felt rather shy at first in his grand company, especially with the consciousness of his muddy collar. But after about half an hour in the Bodega he recovered his self-possession, and felt himself at home.

“By the way,” said Mr Medlock, filling up his visitor’s glass, “last time we saw you you did us nicely over that tip for the Park Races, my boy! If Alf and I hadn’t been hedged close up, we should have lost a pot of money.”

“I’m very sorry,” said Durfy. “You see, another telegram came after the one I showed you, that I never saw; that’s how it happened. I really did my best for you.”

“But it’s a bad job, if we pay you to get hold of the Rocket’s telegrams and then lose our money over it,” said Mr Medlock. “Never mind this time, but you’d better look a little sharper, my boy. There’s the Brummagem Cup next week, you know, and we shall want to know the latest scratches on the night before. It’ll be worth a fiver to you if you work it well, Durfy. Fill up your glass.”

Mr Durfy obeyed, glad enough to turn the conversation from the miscarriage of his last attempt to filch his employers’ telegrams for the benefit of his betting friends’ and his own pocket.

“By the way,” said Mr Shanklin, presently, “Moses and I have got a little Company on hand just now, Durfy. What do you think of that?”

“A company?” said Mr Durfy; “I’ll wager it’s not a limited one, if you’re at the bottom of it! What’s your little game now?”

“It’s a little idea of Alf’s,” said Mr Medlock, whose Christian name was Moses, “and it ought to come off too. This is something the way of it. Suppose you were a young greenhorn, Durfy—which I’m afraid you aren’t—and saw an advertisement in the Rocket saying you could make two hundred and fifty pounds a year easy without interfering with your business, eh? what would you do?”

“If I was a greenhorn,” said Durfy, “I’d answer the advertisement and enclose a stamped envelope for a reply.”

“To be sure you would! And the reply would be, we’d like to have a look at you, and if you looked as green as we took you for, we’d ask for a deposit, and then allow you to sell wines and cigars and that sort of fancy goods to your friends. You’d sell a dozen of port at sixty shillings, do you see? half the cash down and half on delivery. We’d send your friend a dozen at twelve and six, and if he didn’t shell out the other thirty bob on delivery, we’d still have the thirty bob he paid down to cover our loss. Do you twig?”

Durfy laughed. “Do you dream all these things,” he said, “or how do you ever think of them?”

“Genius, my boy; genius,” said Mr Medlock. “Of course,” he added, “it couldn’t run for long, but we might give it a turn for a month or two.”

“The worst of it is,” put in Mr Shanklin, “it’s a ticklish sort of business that some people are uncommon sharp at smelling out; one has to be very careful. There’s the advertisement, for instance. You’ll have to smuggle it into the Rocket, my boy. It wouldn’t do for the governors to see it; they’d be up to it. But they’d never see it after it was in,