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

shiver through them as they glanced at the bare walls, the dilapidated half-tester, the chipped and oddly assorted crockery.

The boys’ room was equally cheerless. One narrow bed, a chair, and a small washstand, was all the furniture it boasted of, and a few old cuttings of an antiquated illustrated paper pinned on to the wall afforded its sole decoration.

A low, dreary whistle escaped from Horace’s lips as he surveyed his new quarters, followed almost immediately by an equally dreary laugh.

“Why,” gasped he, “there’s no looking-glass! However is Reg to shave?”

It was an heroic effort, and it succeeded. Mrs Cruden’s face lit up at the sound of her son’s voice with its old sunshine, and even Reginald smiled grimly.

“I must let my beard grow,” said he. “But, mother, I say,” and his voice quavered as he spoke, “what a miserable room yours is! I can’t bear to think of your being cooped up there.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” said Mrs Cruden, cheerily. “The pink in the chintz doesn’t go well with the scarlet in the wall-paper, certainly, but I dare say I shall sleep soundly in the bed all the same.”

“But such a wretched look-out from the window, mother, and such a vile jug and basin!”

Mrs Cruden laughed.

“Never mind about the jug and basin,” said she, “as long as they hold water; and as for the look-out—well, as long as I can see my two boys’ faces happy, that’s the best view I covet.”

“You never think about yourself,” said Reginald, sadly.

“I say, mother,” said Horace, “suppose we call up the spirits from the vasty deep and ask them to get tea ready.”

This practical suggestion met with general approbation, and the little party returned more cheerily to the parlour, where Horace performed marvellous exploits with the bell-handle, and succeeded, in the incredible time of seven minutes, in bringing up a small slipshod girl, who, after a good deal of staring about her, and a critical survey of the pattern of Mrs Cruden’s dress, contrived to gather a general idea of what was required of her.

It was a queer meal, half ludicrous, half despairing, that first little tea-party in Dull Street. They tried to be gay. Reginald declared that the tea his mother poured out was far better than any the footman at Garden Vale used to dispense. Horace tried to make fun of the heterogeneous cups and saucers. Mrs Cruden tried hard to appear as though she was taking a hearty meal, while she tasted nothing. But it was a relief when the girl reappeared and cleared the table.

Then they unpacked their few belongings, and tried to enliven their dreary lodgings with a few precious mementoes of happier days. Finally, worn out in mind and body, they took shelter in bed, and for a blessed season forgot all their misery and forebodings in sleep.

There is no magic equal to that which a night’s sleep will sometimes work. The little party assembled cheerfully at the breakfast-table next morning, prepared to face the day bravely.

A large letter, in Mr Richmond’s handwriting, lay on Mrs Cruden’s plate. It contained three letters—one from the lawyer himself, and one for each of the boys from Wilderham. Mr Richmond’s letter was brief and business-like.

“Dear Madam,—Enclosed please find two letters, which I found lying at Garden Vale yesterday. With regard to balance of your late husband’s assets in your favour, I have an opportunity of investing same at an unusually good rate of interest in sound security. Shall be pleased to wait on you with particulars. Am also in a position to introduce the young gentlemen to a business opening, which, if not at first important, may seem to you a favourable opportunity. On these points I shall have the honour of waiting on you during to-morrow afternoon, and meanwhile beg to remain,—

“Your obedient servant,—

“R. Richmond.”

“We ought to make sure what the investment is,” said Reginald, after hearing the letter read, “before we hand over all our money to him.”

“To be sure, dear,” said Mrs Cruden, who hated the sound of the word investment.

“I wonder what he proposes for us?” said Horace. “Some clerkship, I suppose.”

“Perhaps in his own office,” said Reginald. “What an opening that would be!”

“Never you mind. The law’s very respectable; but I know I’d be no good for that. I might manage to serve tea and raisins behind a grocer’s counter, or run errands, or—”

“Or black boots,” suggested Reginald.

“Black boots! I bet you neither you nor I could black a pair of boots properly to save our lives.”

“It seems to me we shall have to try it this very morning,” said Reginald, “for no one has touched mine since last night.”

“But who are your letters from?” said Mrs Cruden. “Are they very private?”

“Not mine,” said Horace. “It’s from old Harker. You may read it if you like, mother.”

Mrs Cruden took the letter and read aloud,—

“Dear Horrors—”

(“That’s what he calls me, you know,” explained Horace, in a parenthesis.)

“I am so awfully sorry to hear of your new trouble about money matters, and that you will have to leave Garden Vale. I wish I could come over to see you and help you. All the fellows here are awfully cut up about it, and lots of them want me to send you messages. I don’t know what I shall do without you this term, old man, you were always a brick to me. Be sure and write to me and tell me everything. As soon as I can get away for a day I’ll come and see you, and I’ll write as often as I can.

“Your affectionate,—

“T. Harker.

“P.S.—Wilkins, I expect, will be the new monitor in our house. He is sure now to get the scholarship Reg was certain of. I wish to goodness you were both back here.”

“He might just as well have left out that about the scholarship,” said Reginald; “it’s not very cheering news to hear of another fellow stepping into your place like that.”

“I suppose he thought we’d be curious to know,” said Horace.

“Precious curious!” growled Reginald.

“But who’s your letter from, Reg?” asked Mrs Cruden.

“Oh, just a line from Bland,” replied he, hastily putting it into his pocket; “he gives no news.”

If truth must be told, Blandford’s letter was not a very nice one, and Reginald felt it. He did not care to hear it read aloud in contrast with Harker’s warm-hearted letter. Blandford had written,—

“Dear Cruden,—I hope it’s not true about your father’s money going all wrong. It is a great sell, and fellows here, I know, will be very sorry. Never mind, I suppose there’s enough left to make a decent show; and between you and me it would go down awfully well with the fellows here if you could send your usual subscription to the football club. Harker says you’ll have to leave Garden Vale. I’m awfully sorry, as I always enjoyed my visits there so much. What are you going to do? Why don’t you try for the army? The exams are not very hard, my brother told me, and of course it’s awfully respectable, if one must work for one’s living. I must stop now, or I shall miss tennis. Excuse more.

“Yours truly,—

“G. Blandford.”

Reginald knew the letter was a cold and selfish one, but it left two things sticking in his mind which rankled there for a long time. One was that, come what would, he would send a guinea to the school football club. The other was—was it quite out of the question that he should go into the army?

“Awfully rough on Reg,” said Horace, “being so near that scholarship. It’ll be no use to Wilkins, not a bit, and fifty pounds a year would be something to—”

Horace was going to say “us,” but he pulled up in time and said “Reg.”

“Well,” said Reg, “as things have turned out it might have come in useful. I wonder if it wouldn’t have been wiser, mother, for me to have stayed up this term and made sure of it?”

“I wish you could, Reg; but we have no right to think of it. Besides, you could only have held it if you had gone to college.”

“Oh, of course,” said Reg; “but then it would have paid a good bit of my expenses there; and I might have gone on from there to the army, you know, and got my commission.”

Mrs Cruden sighed. What an awakening the boy had still to pass through!

“We must think of something less grand than that, my poor Reg,” said she; “and something we can share all together. I hope Mr Richmond will be able to hear of some business opening for me, as well as you, for we shall need to put our resources together to get on.”

“Mother,” exclaimed Reginald, overwhelmed with sudden contrition, “what a selfish brute you must think me! You don’t think I’d let you work while I had a nerve left. I’ll do anything—so will Horace, but you shall not, mother, you shall not.”

Mrs Cruden did not argue the point just then, and in due time Mr Richmond arrived to give a new direction to their thoughts.

The investment he proposed seemed a good one. But, in fact, the little family knew so little about business generally, and money matters in particular, that had it been the worst security possible they would have hardly been the wiser.

This point settled, Mr Richmond turned to his proposals for the boys.

“As I said in my letter, Mrs Cruden,” said he, “the opening is only a modest one. A company has lately been formed to print and publish an evening paper in the city, and as solicitor to the company I had an opportunity of mentioning your sons to the manager. He is willing to take them, provided they are willing to work. The pay will begin at eighteen shillings a week, but I hope they will soon make their value felt, and command a better position. They are young yet.”

“What shall we have to do?” asked Horace.

“That I cannot exactly say,” said the lawyer; “but I believe the manager would expect you to learn the printer’s business from the beginning.”

“What would the hours be?” asked Mrs Cruden.

“Well, as it is an evening paper, there will fortunately be no late night work. I believe seven in the morning to eight at night were the hours the manager mentioned.”

“And—and,” faltered the poor mother, who was beginning to realise the boys’ lot better than they did themselves—“and what sort of companions are they likely to have, Mr Richmond?”

“I believe the manager is succeeding in getting respectable men as workmen. I hope so.”

“Workmen!” exclaimed Reginald, suddenly. “Do you mean we are to be workmen, Mr Richmond? Just like any fellows in the street. Couldn’t you find anything better than that for us?”

“My dear Master Cruden, I am very sorry for you, and would gladly see you in a better position. But it is not a case where we can choose. This opening has offered itself. Of course, you are not bound to accept it, but my advice is, take what you can get in these hard times.”

“Oh, of course, we’re paupers, I—forgot,” said Reg, bitterly, “and beggars mayn’t be choosers. Anything you like, mother,” added he, meeting Mrs Cruden’s sorrowful look with forced gaiety. “I’ll sweep a crossing if you like, Mr Richmond, or black your office-boy’s boots,—anything to get a living.”

Poor boy! He broke down before he could finish the sentence, and his flourish ended in something very like a sob.

Horace was hardly less miserable, but he said less. Evidently, as Reg himself had said, beggars could not be choosers, and when presently Mr Richmond left, and the little family talked the matter over late into the afternoon, it was finally decided that the offer of the manager of the Rocket Newspaper Company, Limited, should be accepted, and that the boys should make their new start in life on the Monday morning following.