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

The two days which followed the despatch of the letter to “Omega” were long and anxious ones for Reginald Cruden. It would have been a great relief to him had he felt free to talk the matter over with Horace; but somehow that word “confidential” in the advertisement deterred him. For all that, he made a point of leaving the paper containing it in his brother’s way, if by any chance the invitation to an additional £50 a year might meet his eye. Had it done so, it is doubtful whether Reginald would have been pleased, for he knew that if it came to selecting one of the two, Horace would probably pass for quite as respectable and considerably more intelligent a young man than himself. Still, he had no right to stand in his brother’s way if fate ordained that he too should be attracted by the advertisement. He therefore left the paper lying conspicuously about with the advertisement sheet turned toward the beholder.

Horace, however, had too much of the Rocket in his business hours to crave for a further perusal of it during his leisure. He kicked it unceremoniously out of his way the first time he encountered it; and when Reginald saw it next it was in a mangled condition under the stairs in the suspicious company of the servant-girl’s cinder-shovel.

On the second morning, when he arrived at his work, a letter lay on his case with the Liverpool postmark, addressed R. Cruden, Esquire, Rocket Office, London. In his excitement and haste to learn its contents it never occurred to him to notice the unexpected compliment conveyed in the word “Esquire”; and he might have remained for ever in blissful ignorance of the fact, had not his left-hand neighbour, the satirical Mr Barber, considered the occasion a good one for a few flashes of wit.

“’Ullo, Esquire, ’ow are you, Esquire? There is somebody knows you, then. Liverpool, too! That’s where all the chaps who rob the till go to. R. Cruden, Esquire—my eye! What’s the use of putting any more than ‘London’ on the envelope—such a well-known character as you? Stuck-up idiot!”

To this address Reginald attended sufficiently to discover that it was not worth listening to; after which he did not even hear the concluding passages of his neighbour’s declamation, being absorbed in far more interesting inquiries. He tore the envelope open and hurriedly read—

“Sir,—Your favour is to hand, and in reply we beg to say we shall be glad to arrange an interview. One of our directors will be in town on Monday next, and can see you between one and two o’clock at Weaver’s Hotel. Be good enough to treat this and all further communications as strictly confidential.—We are, Sir, yours faithfully,—

“The Select Agency Corporation.

“P.S.—Ask at Weaver’s Hotel for Mr Medlock.

“Liverpool.”

The welcome contents of this short note fairly staggered him. If the tone of the advertisement had been encouraging, that of this letter was positively convincing. It was concise, business-like, grammatical and courteous. Since his trouble Reginald had never been addressed by any one in the terms of respect conveyed in this communication. Furthermore, the appointment being between one and two—the dinner-hour—he would be able to keep it without difficulty or observation, particularly as Weaver’s Hotel was not a stone’s throw from the Rocket office. Then again, the fact of his letter being from a “corporation” gratified and encouraged him. A Select Agency Corporation was not the sort of company to do things meanly or inconsiderately. They were doubtless a select body of men themselves, and they required the services of select servants; and it was perfectly reasonable that in an affair like this, which might lead to nothing, strict mutual confidence should be observed. Supposing in the end he should see reason to decline to connect himself with the Corporation (Reginald liked to think this possible, though he felt sure it was not probable), why, if he had said much about it previously, it might be to the prejudice of the Corporation! Finally, he thought the name “Medlock” agreeable, and was generally highly gratified with the letter, and wished devoutly Monday would come round quickly.

The one drawback to his satisfaction was that he was still as far as ever from knowing in what direction his respectable and intelligent services were likely to be required. Monday came at last. When he went up on the Saturday to receive his wages he had fully expected to learn Mr Durfy’s intentions with regard to him, and was duly surprised when that gentleman actually handed him his money without a word, and with the faintest suspicion of a smile.

“He’s got a nailer on you, old man, and no mistake,” said Gedge, dolefully. “I’d advise you to keep your eye open for a new berth, if you get the chance; and, I say, if you can only hear of one for two!”

This last appeal went to Reginald’s heart, and he inwardly resolved, if Mr Medlock turned out to be as amiable a man as he took him for, to put in a word on Gedge’s behalf as well as his own at the coming interview.

The dinner-bell that Monday tolled solemnly in Reginald’s ears as he put on a clean collar and brushed his hair previously to embarking on his journey to Weaver’s Hotel. What change might not have taken place in his lot before that same bell summoned him once more to work? He left the Rocket a needy youth of £47 10 shillings a year. Was he to return to it passing rich of £97 10 shillings?

Weaver’s Hotel was a respectable quiet resort for country visitors in London, and Reginald, as he stood in its homely entrance hall, felt secretly glad that the Corporation selected a place like this for its London headquarters rather than one of the more showy but less respectable hotels or restaurants with which the neighbourhood abounded.

Mr Medlock was in his room, the waiter said, and Mr Cruden was to step up. He did step up, and was ushered into a little sitting-room, where a middle-aged gentleman stood before the fire-place reading the paper and softly humming to himself as he did so.

“Mr Cruden, sir,” said the waiter.

“Ah! Mr Cruden, good morning. Take a seat. John, I shall be ready for lunch in about ten-minutes.”

Reginald, with the agitating conviction that his fate would be sealed one way or another in ten-minutes, obeyed, and darted a nervous glance at his new acquaintance.

He rather liked the looks of him. He looked a comfortable, well-to-do gentleman, with rather a handsome face, and a manner by no means disheartening. Mr Medlock in turn indulged in a careful survey of the boy as he sat shyly before him trying to look self-possessed, but not man of the world enough to conceal his anxiety or excitement.

“Let me see,” said Mr Medlock, putting his hands in his pocket and leaning against the mantel-piece, “you replied to the advertisement, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” said Reginald.

“And what made you think you would suit us?”

“Well, sir,” stammered Reginald, “you wanted respectable intelligent young men—and—and I thought I—that is, I hoped I might answer that description.”

Mr Medlock took one hand out of his pocket and stroked his chin.

“Have you been in the printing trade long?”

“Only a few weeks, sir.”

“What were you doing before that?”

Reginald flushed.

“I was at school, sir—at Wilderham.”

“Wilderham? Why, that’s a school for gentlemen’s sons.”

“My father was a gentleman, sir,” said the boy, proudly.

“He’s dead then?” said Mr Medlock. “That is sad. But did he leave nothing behind him?”

“He died suddenly, sir,” said Reginald, speaking with an effort, “and left scarcely anything.”

“Did he die in debt? You must excuse these questions, Mr Cruden,” added the gentleman, with an amiable smile; “it is necessary to ask them or I would spare you the trouble.”

“He did die in debt,” said Reginald, “but we were able to pay off every penny he owed.”

“And left nothing for yourself when it was done? Very honourable, my lad; it will always be a satisfaction to you.”

“It is, sir,” said Reginald, cheering up.

“You naturally would be glad to improve your income. How much do you get where you are?”

“Eighteen shillings a week.”

Mr Medlock whistled softly.

“Eighteen shillings; that’s very little, very poor pay,” said he. “I should have thought, with your education, you could have got more than that.”

It pleased Reginald to have his education recognised in this delicate way.

“We had to be thankful for what we could get,” said he; “there are so many fellows out of work.”

“Very true, very true,” said Mr Medlock, shaking his head impressively, “we had no less than 450 replies to our advertisement.”

Reginald gave a gasp. What chance had he among 450 competitors?

Mr Medlock took a turn or two up and down the room, meditating with himself and keeping his eye all the time on the boy.

“Yes,” said he, “450—a lot, isn’t it? Very sad to think of it.”

“Very sad,” said Reginald, feeling called upon to say something.

“Now,” said Mr Medlock, coming to a halt in his walk in front of the boy, “I suppose you guess I wouldn’t have asked you to call here if I and my fellow-directors hadn’t been pleased with your letter.”

Reginald looked pleased and said nothing.

“And now I’ve seen you and heard what you’ve got to say, I think you’re not a bad young fellow; but—”

Mr Medlock paused, and Reginald’s face changed to one of keen anxiety.

“I’m afraid, Mr Cruden, you’re not altogether the sort we want.”

The boy’s face fell sadly.

“I would do my best,” he said, as bravely as he could, “if you’d try me. I don’t know what the work is yet, but I’m ready to do anything I can.”

“Humph!” said Mr Medlock. “What we advertise for is sharp agents, to sell goods on commission among their friends. Now, do you think you could sell £500 worth of wine and cigars and that sort of thing every year among your friends? You’d need to do that to make £50 a year, you know. You understand? Could you go round to your old neighbours and crack up our goods, and book their orders and that sort of thing? I don’t think you could, myself. It strikes me you are too much of a gentleman.”

Reginald sat silent for a moment, with the colour coming and going in his cheeks; then he looked up and said, slowly—

“I’m afraid I could not do that, sir—I didn’t know you wanted that.”

So saying he took up his hat and rose to go.

Mr Medlock watched him with a smile, if not of sympathy, at any rate of approval, and when he rose motioned him back to his seat.

“Not so fast, my man; I like your spirit, and we may hit it yet.”

Reginald resumed his seat with a new interest in his anxious face.

“You wouldn’t suit us as a drummer—that is,” said Mr Medlock, hastily correcting himself, “as a tout—an agent; but you might suit us in another way. We’re looking out for a gentlemanly young fellow