Reginald Cruden, Talbot Baines Reed [best black authors txt] 📗
- Author: Talbot Baines Reed
- Performer: -
Book online «Reginald Cruden, Talbot Baines Reed [best black authors txt] 📗». Author Talbot Baines Reed
“Give it to me! Give me my book, you—”
And the boy broke into a volley of oaths and flung himself once more tooth-and-nail on Reginald. Already Reginald saw he had made a mistake. He had done about the most unwise thing he possibly could have done. But it was too late to undo it. The only thing, apparently, was to go through with it now. So he flung the book into the fire, and, catching the boy by the arm, told him if he did not stop swearing and struggling at once he would make him.
The boy did not stop, and Reginald did make him.
It was a poor sort of victory, and no one knew it better than Reginald. If the boy was awed into silence, he was no nearer listening to reason—nay, further than ever. He slunk sulkily into a corner, glowering at his oppressor and deaf to every word he uttered. In vain Reginald expostulated, coaxed, reasoned, even apologised. The boy met it all with a sullen scowl. Reginald offered to pay him for the book, to buy him another, to read aloud to him, to give him an extra hour a day—it was all no use; the injury was too deep to wash out so easily; and finally he had to give it up and trust that time might do what arguments and threats had failed to effect.
But in this he was disappointed; for next morning when nine o’clock arrived, no Love was there, nor as the day wore on did he put in an appearance. When at last evening came, and still no signs of him, Reginald began to discover that the sole result of his well-meant interference had been to drive his only companion from him, and doom himself henceforth to the miseries of solitary confinement.
For days he scarcely spoke a word. The silence of that office was unearthly. He opened the window, winter as it was, to let in the sound of cabs and footsteps for company. He missed even the familiar rustle of the “penny dreadfuls” as the boy turned their pages. He wished anybody, even his direst foe, might turn up to save him from dying of loneliness.
“Dear Reg,” (so ran a letter from Horace which Reginald received a day or two after Master Love’s desertion), “I’m afraid you are having rather a slow time up there, which is more than can be said for us here. There’s been no end of a row at the Rocket, which you may like to hear about, especially as two of the chief persons concerned were your friend Durfy and your affectionate brother.
“Granville, the sub-editor, came into the office where Booms and Waterford and I were working on Friday morning, and said, in his usual mild way,—
“‘I should like to know who generally clears the post-box in the morning?’
“‘I do,’ said Booms. You know the way he groans when he speaks.
“‘The reason I want to know is, because I have an idea one or two letters lately have either been looked at or tampered with before the editor or I see them.’
“‘I suppose I’m to be given in charge?’ said Booms. ‘I didn’t do it; but when once a man’s suspected, what’s the use of saying anything?’
“Even Granville couldn’t help grinning at this.
“‘Nonsense, Booms. I’m glad to say I know you three fellows well enough by this time to feel sure it wasn’t one of you. I shouldn’t have spoken to you about it if I had.’
“Booms seemed quite disappointed he wasn’t to be made a martyr of after all.
“‘You think I know all about it?’ he said.
“‘No, I don’t; and if you’ll just listen without running away with ridiculous notions, Booms,’ said Granville, warming up a bit, ‘I’ll explain myself. Two letters during the last fortnight have been undoubtedly opened before I saw them. They both arrived between eight o’clock in the evening and nine next morning, and they both came from sporting correspondents of ours in the country, and contained information of a private nature intended for our paper the next day. In one case it was about a horse race, and in the other about an important football match. The letters were not tampered with for the purpose of giving information to any other papers, because we were still the only paper who gave the news, so the probability is some one who wanted to bet on the event has tried to get hold of the news beforehand.’
“‘I never made a bet in my life,’ said Booms.
“We couldn’t help laughing at this, for the stories he tells us of his terrific sporting exploits when he goes out of an evening in his high collar would make you think he was the loudest betting man in London.
“Granville laughed too.
“‘Better not begin,’ he said, and then blushed very red, as it occurred to him he had made an unintentional pun. But we looked quite grave, and did not give any sign of having seen it, and that put him on his feet again.
“‘It’s not a comfortable thing to happen,’ said he, ‘and what I want to propose is that one or two of you should stay late for a night or two and see if you can find out how it occurs. There are one or two events coming off during the next few days about which we expect special communications, so that very likely whoever it is may try again. You must be very careful, and I shall have to leave you to use your discretion, for I’m so busy with the new Literary Supplement that I cannot stay myself.’
“Well, when he’d gone we had a consultation, and of course it ended in Waterford and me determining to sit up. Poor Booms’s heart would break if he couldn’t go ‘on the mash’ as usual; and though he tried to seem very much hurt that he was not to stay, we could see he was greatly relieved. Waterford and I were rather glad, as it happened, for we’d some work on hand it just suited us to get a quiet evening for.
“So I wrote a note to Miss Crisp. Don’t get excited, old man; she’s a very nice girl, but she’s another’s. (By the way, Jemima asks after you every time I meet her, which is once a week now; she’s invited herself into our shorthand class.) And after helping to rig old Booms up to the ninety-nines, which wasn’t easy work, for his ‘dicky’ kept twisting round to the side of his neck, and we had to pin it in three places before it would keep steady, I gave him the note and asked him would he ever be so kind as to take it round for me, as it was to ask Miss Crisp if she would go and keep my mother company during my absence.
“After that I thought we should never get rid of him. He insisted on overhauling every article of his toilet. At least four more pins were added to fix the restless dicky in its place on his manly breast. We polished up his eye-glasses with wash-leather till the pewter nearly all rubbed off; we helped him roll his flannel shirt-sleeves up to the elbows for fear—horrible idea!—they should chance to peep out from below his cuffs; we devoted an anxious two minutes to the poising of his hat at the right angle, and then passed him affectionately from one to the other to see he was all right. After which he went off, holding my letter carefully in his scented handkerchief and saying—dear gay deceiver!—that he envied us spending a cosy evening in that snug office by the fire!
“The work Waterford and I have on hand is—tell it not in Gath, old man, and don’t scorn a fellow off the face of the earth—to try to write something that will get into the Literary Supplement. This supplement is a new idea of the editor’s, and makes a sort of weekly magazine. He writes a lot of it himself, and we chip a lot of stuff for him out of other papers. The idea of having a shot at it occurred to us both independently, in a funny and rather humiliating way. It seems Waterford, without saying a word to me or anybody, had sat down and composed some lines on the ‘Swallow’—appropriate topic for this season of the year. I at the same time, without saying a word to Waterford or anybody except mother, had sat down and, with awful groanings and wrestlings of mind, evolved a lucubration in prose on ‘Ancient and Modern Athletic Sports.’ Of course I crammed a lot of it up out of encyclopaedias and that sort of thing. It was the driest rot you ever read, and I knew it was doomed before I sent it in. But as it was written I thought I might try. So, as of course I couldn’t send it in under my own name, I asked Miss Crisp if I might send it under hers. The obliging little lady laughed and said, ‘Yes,’ but she didn’t tell me at the same time that Waterford had come to her with his ‘Swallow’ and asked the very same thing. A rare laugh she must have had at our expense! Well, I sent mine in and Waterford sent in his.
“We were both very abstracted for the next few days, but little guessed our perturbation arose from the same cause. Then came the fatal Wednesday—the ‘d.w.t.’ day as we call it—for Granville always saves up his rejected addresses for us to ‘decline with thanks’ for Wednesdays. There was a good batch of them this day, so Waterford and I took half each. I took a hurried skim through mine, but no ‘Ancient and Modern Athletic Sports’ were there. I concluded therefore Waterford had it. Granville writes in the corner of each ‘d.w.t.,’ or ‘d.w.t. note,’ which means ‘declined with thanks’ pure and simple, or ‘declined with thanks’ and a short polite note to be written at the same time stating that the sub-editor, while recognising some merit in the contribution, regretted it was not suitable for the Supplement. I polished off my pure and simple first, and then began to tackle the notes. About the fourth I came to considerably astonished me. It was a couple of mild sonnets on the ‘Swallow,’ with the name M.E. Crisp attached!
“‘Hullo,’ I said to Waterford, tossing the paper over to him, ‘here’s Miss Crisp writing some verses. I should have thought she could write better stuff than that, shouldn’t you?’
“Waterford, very red in the face, snatched up the paper and glanced at it.
“‘Do you think they’re so bad?’ said he.
“‘Frightful twaddle,’ said I; ‘fancy any one saying—’”
“The drowsy year from winter’s sleep ye wake,
Yet two of ye do not a summer make.”
“‘Well,’ said he, grinning, ‘you’d better tell her straight off it’s bosh, and then she’s not likely to make a fool of herself again. Hullo, though, I say,’ he exclaimed, picking up a paper in front of him, every smudge and blot of which I knew only too well, ‘why, she’s at it again. What’s this?
“‘“Ancient and Mod—” Why, it’s in your writing; did you copy it out for her?’
“‘I wrote that out, yes,’ said I, feeling it my turn to colour up and look sheepish.
“Waterford glanced rapidly through the first few lines, and then said,—
“‘Well, all I can say is, it’s a pity she didn’t stick to poetry. I’m sure the line about waking the drowsy year is a jolly sight better than this awful rot.’
“‘Though we are not told so in so many words, we may reasonably conclude that athletic sports were not unpractised by Cain and Abel prior to the death of the latter!
“‘As if they could have done it after!’
“‘I never said they could,’ I said, feeling very much taken down.
“‘Oh—it was you composed it as well as wrote
Comments (0)