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

newspaper-office. I shall be glad to increase my income. I am 18 years of age, and beg to enclose stamp for a reply to this address.

“Yours truly,—

“Reginald Cruden.”

He was not altogether pleased with this letter, but it would have to do. If he had had any idea what the advertiser wanted intelligent young men for, he might have been able to state his qualifications better. But what was the use of saying “I think I shall suit you,” when possibly he might not suit after all?

He addressed the letter carefully, and wrote “private and confidential” on the envelope; and then walked out to post it, just in time, after doing so, to meet his mother and Horace returning from their excursion.

“Well, Reg, have you written your letter?” said his mother, cheerily. “Was it to some old schoolfellow?”

“No, mother,” said Reginald, in a tone which meant, “I would rather you did not ask me.” And Mrs Cruden did not ask.

“I think,” said she, as they stopped at their door—“I almost think, boys, we ought to return the Shucklefords’ call. It’s only nine o’clock. We might go in for a few minutes. I know you don’t care about it; but we must not be rude, you know. What do you think, Reg?”

Reg sighed and groaned and said, “If we must we must”; and so, instead of going in at their own door, they knocked at the next.

The tinkle of a piano upstairs, and the sound of Sam’s voice, audible even in the street, announced only too unmistakably that the family was at home, and a collection of pot hats and shawls in the hall betrayed the appalling fact, when it was too late to retreat, that the Shucklefords had visitors! Mrs Shuckleford came out and received them with open arms.

“’Ow ’appy I am to see you and the boys,” said she. “I suppose you saw the extra lights and came in. Very neighbourly it was. We thought about sending you an invite, but didn’t like while you was in black for your ’usband. But it’s all the same now you’re here. Very ’appy to see you. Jemima, my dear, come and tell Mrs Cruden and the boys you’re ’appy to see them; Sam too—it’s Sam’s majority, Mrs Cruden; twenty-one he is to-day, and his pa all over—oh, ’ow ’appy I am you’ve come.”

“We had no idea you had friends,” said Mrs Cruden, nervously. “We’ll call again, please.”

“No you don’t, Mrs Cruden,” said the effusive Mrs Shuckleford; “’ere you are, and ’ere you stays—I am so ’appy to see you. You and I can ’ave a cosy chat in the corner while the young folk enjoy theirselves. Jemima, put a chair for Mrs C. alongside o’ mine; and, Sam, take the boys and see they have some one to talk to ’em.”

The dutiful Sam, who appeared entirely to share his mother’s jubilation at the arrival of these new visitors, obeyed the order with alacrity.

“Come on, young fellows,” said he; “just in time for shouting proverbs. You go and sit down by Miss Tomkins, Horace, her in the green frock; and you had better go next Jemima, Cruden. When I say ‘three and away’ you’ve got to shout. Anything’ll do, so long as you make a noise.”

“No, they must shout their right word,” said Miss Tomkins, a vivacious-looking young person of thirty.

“Come close,” said she to Horace, “and I’ll whisper what you’ve got to shout. Whisper, ‘Dog,’ that’s your word.”

Horace seated himself dreamily where he was told, and received the confidential communication of his partner with pathetic resignation. He only wished the signal to shout might soon arrive. As for Reginald, when he felt himself once more in the clutches of the captivating Jemima, and heard her whisper in his ear the mysterious monosyllable “love,” his heart became as ice within him, and he sat like a statue in his chair, looking straight before him. Oh, how he hoped “Omega” would give him some occupation for his evenings that would save him from this sort of thing!

“Now call them in,” said Sam.

A signal was accordingly given at the door, and in marched a young lady, really a pleasant, sensible-looking young person, accompanied by a magnificently-attired young gentleman, who, to Horace’s amazement, proved to be no other than the melancholy Booms.

There was, however, no time just now for an exchange of greetings.

Mr Booms and his partner were placed standing in the middle of the floor, and the rest of the company were seated in a crescent round them. There was a pause, and you might have heard a pin drop as Samuel slowly lifted his hand and said in a stage whisper,—

“Now then, mind what you’re at. When I say ‘away.’ One, two, three, and a—”

At the last syllable there arose a sudden and terrific shout which sent Mrs Cruden nearly into a fit, and made the loosely-hung windows rattle as if an infernal machine had just exploded on the premises.

The shout was immediately followed by a loud chorus of laughter, and cries of,—

“Well, have you guessed it?”

“Yes, I know what it is,” said the pleasant young lady. “Do you know, Mr Booms?”

“No,” he said, sadly; “how could I guess? What is it, Miss Crisp?”

“Why, ‘Love me, love my dog,’ isn’t it?”

“Right. Well guessed!” cried every one; and amid the general felicitation that ensued the successful proverb-guessers were made room for in the magic circle, and Horace had a chance of exchanging “How d’ye do?” with Mr Booms.

“Who’d have thought of meeting you here?” said he, in a whisper.

“I didn’t expect to meet you,” said the melancholy one. “I say, Cruden, please don’t mention—her.”

“Her? Whom?” said Horace, bewildered.

Booms’s reply was a mournful inclination of the head in the direction of Miss Crisp.

“Oh, I see. All right, old man. You’re a lucky fellow, I think. She looks a jolly sort of girl.”

“Lucky! Jolly! Oh, Cruden,” ejaculated his depressed friend.

“Why, what’s wrong?” said Horace. “Don’t you think she’s nice?”

“She is; but Shuckleford, Cruden, is not.”

“Hullo, you two,” said the voice of the gentleman in question at this moment; “you seem jolly thick. Oh, of course, shopmates; I forgot; both in the news line. Eh? Now, who’s for musical chairs? Don’t all speak at once.”

“I shall have to play the piano now, Mr Reginald,” said Miss Jemima, making a last effort to get a word out of her silent companion. “I’m afraid you’re not enjoying yourself a bit.”

Reginald rose instinctively as she did, and offered her his arm. He was half dreaming as he did so, and fancying himself back at Garden Vale. It was to his credit that when he discovered what he was doing he did not withdraw his arm, but conducted his partner gallantly to the piano, and said,—

“I’m afraid I’m a bad hand at games.”

“Musical chairs is great fun,” said Miss Jemima. “I wish I could play it and the piano both. You have to run round and round, and then, when the music stops, you flop down on the nearest chair, and there’s always one left out, and the last one wins the game. Do try it.”

Reginald gave a scared glance at the chairs being arranged back to back in a long line down the room, and said,—

“May I play the piano instead? and then you can join in the game.”

“What! do you play the piano?” exclaimed the young lady, forgetting her dignity and clapping her hands. “Oh, my eye, what a novelty! Ma, Mr Reginald’s going to play for musical chairs! Sam, do you hear? Mr Cruden plays the piano! Isn’t it fun?”

Reginald flung himself with a sigh down on the cracked music-stool. Music was his one passion, and the last few months had been bitter to him for want of it. He would go out of his way even to hear a street piano, and the brightest moments of his Sundays were often those spent within sound of the roll of the organ.

It was like a snatch of the old life to find his fingers once more laid caressingly on the notes of a piano; and as he touched them and began to play, the Shucklefords, the Rocket, “Omega,” all faded from his thoughts, and he was lost in his music.

What a piano it was! Tinny and cracked and out of tune. The music was in the boy’s soul, and it mattered comparatively little. He began with Weber’s “last waltz,” and dreamed off from it into a gavotte of Corelli’s, and from that into something else, calling up favourite after favourite to suit the passing moods of his spirit, and feeling happier than he had felt for months.

But Weber’s “last waltz” and Corelli’s gavottes are not the music one would naturally select for musical chairs; and when the strains continue uninterrupted for five or ten-minutes, during the whole of which time the company is perambulating round and round an array of empty chairs, the effect is somewhat monotonous. Mrs Shuckleford’s guests trotted round good-humouredly for some time, then they got a little tired, then a little impatient, and finally Samuel, as he passed close behind the music-stool, gave the performer a dig in the back, which had the desired effect of stopping the music suddenly. Whereupon everybody flopped down on the seat nearest within reach. Some found vacancies at once, others had to scamper frantically round in search of them, and finally, as the chairs were one fewer in number than the company, one luckless player was left out to enjoy the fun of those who remained in.

“All right,” said Samuel, when the first round was decided, and a chair withdrawn in anticipation of the next; “I only nudged you to stop a bit sooner, Cruden. The game will last till midnight if you give us such long doses.”

Doses! Reginald turned again to the piano and tried once more to lose himself in its comforting music. He played a short German air of only four lines, which ended in a plaintive, wailing cadence. Again the moment the music ceased he heard the scuffling and scampering and laughter behind him, and shouts of,—

“Polly’s out! Polly’s out!”

“I say,” said Shuckleford, as they stood ready for the next round, “give us a jingle, Cruden; ‘Pop goes the Weasel,’ or something of that sort. That last was like the tune the cow died of. And stop short in the middle of a line, anyhow.”

Reginald rose from the piano with flushed cheeks, and said,—“I’m afraid I’m not used to this sort of music. Perhaps Miss Shuckleford—”

“Yes, Jim, you play. You know the way. You change places with Jim, Cruden, and come and run round.”

But Reginald declined the invitation with thanks, and took up a comic paper, in which he attempted to bury himself, while Miss Shuckleford hammered out the latest polka on the piano, stopping abruptly and frequently enough to finish half a dozen rounds in the time it had taken him to dispose of two.

Fresh games followed, and to all except the Crudens the evening passed merrily and happily. Even Horace felt the infection of the prevalent good-humour, and threw off the reserve he had at first been tempted to wear in an effort to make himself generally agreeable. Mrs Cruden, cooped up in a corner with her loquacious hostess, did her best too not to be a damper on the general festivity. But Reginald made no effort to be other than he felt himself. He could not have done it if he had tried. But as scarcely any one seemed afflicted on his account, even his unsociability failed to make Samuel Shuckleford’s majority party anything but a brilliant success.

In due time supper appeared to crown the evening’s delights. And after supper a gentleman got up and proposed a toast, which of course was the health of the hero of the occasion.

Samuel replied in a facetious County Court address, in which he expressed himself “jolly pleased to see so many friends around him, and hoping they’d all enjoyed their evening, and that if there were