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

end of a fortnight the first rush of work was over, and Reginald and his henchman had time to draw breath. Mr Medlock had gone to London, presumably to superintend the dispatch of the various articles ordered.

It was about this time that Reginald had written home to Horace complaining of the dulness of his life, and begging him to repay Blandford the 6 shillings 6 pence, which had been weighing like lead on his mind ever since he left town, and which he now despaired of ever being able to spare out of the slender pittance on which he was doomed to subsist till Christmas. Happily that festive season was only a few weeks away now, and then how delighted he should be to send home a round half of his income, and convince himself he was after all a main prop to that dear distant little household.

Had he been gifted with ears sharp enough to catch a conversation that took place at the Bodega in London one evening about the same time, the Christmas spirit within him might have experienced a considerable chill.

The company consisted of Mr Medlock, Mr Shanklin, and Mr Durfy. The latter was present by sufferance, not because he was wanted or invited, but because he felt inclined for a good supper, and was sharp enough to know that neither of his employers could afford to fall out with him just then.

“Well, how goes it?” said Mr Shanklin. “You’ve had a run lately, and no mistake.”

“Yes, I flatter myself we’ve done pretty well. One hundred pounds a day for ten days makes how much, Durfy?”

“A thousand,” said Durfy.

“Humph!” said Mr Shanklin. “Time to think of our Christmas holidays.”

“Wait a bit. We’ve not done yet. You say your two young mashers are still in tow, Alf?”

“Yes; green as duckweed. But they’re nearly played out, I guess. One of them has a little bill for fifty pounds coming due in a fortnight, and t’other—well, he wagered me a hundred pounds on a horse that never ran for the Leger, and he’s got one or two trifles besides down in my books.”

“Yes, I got you that tip about the Leger,” said Durfy, beginning to think himself neglected in this dialogue of self-congratulation.

“Yes; you managed to do it this time without botching it, for a wonder!” said Mr Shanklin.

“Yes; and I hope you’ll manage to give me the ten-pound note you promised me for it, Mr S.,” replied Durfy, with a snarl. “You seem to have forgotten that, and my commission too for finding you your new secretary.”

“Yes. By the way,” said Mr Medlock, “he deserves something for that; it’s the best stroke of business we’ve done for a long time. It’s worth three weeks to us to have him there to answer questions and choke off the inquisitive. He’s got his busy time coming on, I fancy. Bless you, Durfy, the fellow was born for us! He swallows anything. I’ve allowed him thirteen shillings a week till Christmas, and he says, ‘Thank you.’ He’s had his name turned inside out, and I do believe he thinks it an improvement! He sticks in the place all day with that young cockney gaol-bird you picked us up too, Durfy, and never growls.”

“Does he help himself to any of the money?”

“Not a brass farthing! I do believe he buys his own postage-stamps when he writes home to his mamma!”

This last announcement was too comical to be received gravely.

“Ha, ha! he ought to be exhibited!” said Shanklin.

“He ought to be starved!” said Durfy viciously. “He knocked me down once, and I wouldn’t have told you of him if I didn’t owe him a grudge—the puppy!”

“Oh, well, I daresay you’ll be gratified some day or other,” said Medlock.

“I tell you one thing,” said Durfy; “you’d better put a stopper on his writing home too often; I believe he’s put his precious brother up to watch me. Why, the other night, when I was waiting for the postman to get hold of that letter you wanted, I’m blessed if he didn’t turn up and rout me out—he and a young chum of his brother’s that used to be in the swim with me. I don’t think they saw me, luckily; but it was a shave, and of course I missed the letter.”

“Yes, you did; there was no mistake about that!” said Mr Shanklin viciously. “When did you ever not miss it?”

“How can I help it, when it’s your own secretary is dogging me?”

“Bless you! think of him dogging any one, the innocent! Anyhow, we can cut off his letters home for a bit, so as to give you no excuse next time.”

“And what’s the next job to be, then?” asked Durfy.

“The most particular of all,” replied the sporting man. “I want a letter with the Boldham postmark, or perhaps a telegram, that will be delivered to-morrow night by the last post. There’s a fifty pounds turns on it, and I must have it before the morning papers are out. Never mind what it is; you must get it somehow, and you’ll get a fiver for it. As soon as that’s done, Medlock, and the young dandies’ bills have come due, we can order a cab. Your secretary at Liverpool will hold out long enough for us to get to the moon before we’re wanted.”

“You’re right there!” said Mr Medlock, laughing. “I’ll go down and look him up to-morrow, and clear up, and then I fancy he’ll manage the rest himself; and we can clear out. Ha, ha! capital sherry, this brand. Have some more, Durfy.”

Mr Medlock kept his promise and cheered Reginald in his loneliness by a friendly visit.

“I’ve been away longer than I expected, and I must say the way you have managed matters in my absence does you the greatest credit, Reginald. I shall feel perfectly comfortable in future when I am absent.”

A flush of pleasure rose to Reginald’s cheeks, such as would have moved to pity any heart less cold-blooded than Mr Medlock’s.

“No one has called, I suppose?”

“No, sir. There’s been a letter, though, from the Rev. T. Mulberry, of Woolford-in-the-Meadow, to ask why the suit he ordered has not yet been delivered.”

Mr Medlock smiled.

“These good men are so impatient,” said he; “they imagine their order is the only one we have to think of. What would they think of the four hundred and odd suits we have on order, eh, Mr Reginald?”

“I suppose I had better write and say the orders will be taken in rotation, and that his will be forwarded in a few days.”

“Better say a few weeks. You’ve no notion of the difficulty we have in trying to meet every one’s wishes. Say before Christmas—and the same with the globes and other things. The time and trouble taken in packing the things really cuts into the profits terribly.”

“Could we do any of it down here?” said Reginald. “Love and I have often nothing to do.”

It was well the speaker did not notice the fiendish grimace with which the young gentleman referred to accepted the statement.

“You’re very good,” said Mr Medlock; “but I shouldn’t think of it. We want you for head work. There are plenty to be hired in London to do the hand work. By the way, I will take up the register of orders and cash you have been keeping, to check with the letters in town. You won’t want it for a few days.”

Reginald felt sorry to part with a work in which he felt such pride as this beautifully kept register. However, he had made it for the use of the Corporation, and it was not his to withhold.

After clearing up cautiously all round, with the result that Reginald had very little besides pen, ink, and paper left him, Mr Medlock said good morning.

“I may have to run up to town for a few days,” he said, “but I shall see you again very soon, I hope. Meanwhile, make yourself comfortable. The directors are very favourably impressed with you already, and I hope at Christmas they may meet and tell you so in person. Boy, make a parcel of these books and papers and bring them for me to my hotel.”

Love obeyed surlily. He was only waiting for Mr Medlock’s departure to dive into the mystery of Trumpery Toadstool, or Murdered for a Lark, in which he had that morning invested. He made a clumsy parcel of the books, and then shambled forth in a somewhat homicidal spirit in Mr Medlock’s wake down the street.

At the corner that gentleman halted till he came up.

“Well, young fellow, picked any pockets lately?”

The boy scowled at him inquisitively.

“All right,” said Mr Medlock. “I never said you had. I’m not going to take you to the police-station, I’m going to give you half a crown.”

This put a new aspect on the situation. Love brightened up as he watched Mr Medlock’s hand dive into his pocket.

“What should you do with a half-crown if you had it?”

“Do? I know, and no error. I’d get the Noogate Calendar, that’s what I’d do.”

“You can read, then?”

“Ray-ther; oh no, not me.”

“Can you read writing?”

“In corse.”

“Do you always go to the post with the letters?”

“In corse.”

“Do you ever see any addressed to Mrs Cruden or Mr Cruden in London?”

“’Bout once a week. That there sekketery always gives ’em to me separate, and says I’m to be sure and post ’em.”

“Well, I say they’re not to be posted,” said Mr Medlock. “Here’s half a crown; and listen: next time you get any to post put them on one side; and every one you can show me you shall have sixpence for. Mind what you’re at, or he’ll flay you alive if he catches you. Off you go, there’s a good boy.”

And Love pocketed his half-crown greedily, and with a knowing wink at his employer sped back to the office.

That afternoon Reginald wrote a short polite note to the Rev. T. Mulberry, explaining to him the reason for any apparent delay in the execution of his order, and promising that he should duly receive it before Christmas. This was the only letter for the post that day, and Love had no opportunity of earning a further sixpence.

He had an opportunity of spending his half-crown, however, and when he returned from the post he was radiant in face and stouter under the waistcoat by the thickness of the coveted volume of the Newgate Calendar series.

With the impetuosity characteristic of his age, he plunged into its contents the moment he found himself free of work, and by the time Reginald returned from his short evening stroll he was master of several of its stories. Tim Tigerskin and The Pirate’s Bride were nothing to it. They all performed their incredible exploits on the other side of the world, but these heroes were beings of flesh and blood like himself, and, for all he knew, he might have seen them and talked to them, and have known some of the very spots in London which they frequented. He felt a personal interest in their achievements.

“Say, governor,” said he as soon as Reginald entered, “do you know Southwark Road?”

“In London? Yes,” said Reginald.

“This ’ere chap, Bright, was a light porter to a cove as kep’ a grocer’s shop there, and one night when he was asleep in the arm-cheer he puts a sack on ’is ’ead and chokes ’im. The old cove he struggles a bit, but—”

“Shut up!” said Reginald angrily. “I’ve told you quite often enough. Give me that book.”

At the words and the tones in which they were uttered Love suddenly turned into a small fiend. He struggled, he kicked, he cursed, he howled to keep his treasure. Reginald was inexorable, and of course it was only a matter of time until the book was in his hands. A glance at its contents satisfied him.

“Look here,” said he, holding the book behind his back and parrying all the boy’s frantic efforts to recover it, “don’t make a fool of