Reginald Cruden by Talbot Baines Reed (free e novels .txt) 📕
Nevertheless, no one ever questioned the wealth of the Crudens, least of all did the Crudens themselves, who took it as much for granted as the atmosphere they breathed in.
On the day on which our story opens Mr Cruden had driven down into the City on business. No one knew exactly what the business was, for he kept such matters to himself. It was an ordinary expedition, which consisted usually of half a dozen calls on half a dozen stockbrokers or secretaries of companies, with perhaps an occasional visit to the family lawyer or the family bank.
To-day, however, it had consisted of but one visit, and that was to the bank. And it was whilst returning thence that Mr Cruden was suddenly seized with the stroke which ended in his death. Had immediate assistance been at hand the calamity might have been averted, but neither the coachman nor footman was aware of what had happened till the carriage was some distance on its homeward journey, and a passer-by caught sight of the senseless figure wi
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“What do you think of that?”
“Why, I think it’s very ridiculous not to put the ‘capital J’ next to the ‘capital I,’” said Reginald.
Gedge laughed.
“Go and tell Durfy that; he’d like to hear it.”
Reginald, however, denied himself the pleasure of entertaining Mr Durfy on this occasion, and occupied himself with picking up the types and inspecting them, and trying to learn the geography of his cases.
“Now,” said “Magog,” mounting his box, and taking his composing-stick in his hand, “keep your eye on me, young fellow, and you’ll know all about it.”
And he proceeded to “set-up” a paragraph for the newspaper from a manuscript in front of him at a speed which bewildered Reginald and baffled any attempt on his part to follow the movements of the operator’s hand among the boxes. He watched for several minutes in silence until Gedge, considering he had exhibited his agility sufficiently, halted in his work, and with a passing shade across his face turned to his companion and said,—
“I say, isn’t this a beastly place?”
There was something in his voice and manner which struck Reginald. It was unlike a common workman, and still more unlike a boy of Gedge’s size and age.
“It is beastly,” he said.
“I’m awfully sorry for you, you know,” continued Gedge, in a half-whisper, and going on with his work at the same time, “because I guess it’s not what you’re used to.”
“I’m not used to it,” said Reginald.
“Nor was I when I came. My old screw of an uncle took it into his head to apprentice me here because he’d been an apprentice once, and didn’t see why I should start higher up the ladder than he did. Are you an apprentice?”
“No, not that I know of,” said Reginald, not knowing exactly what he was.
“Lucky beggar! I’m booked here for nobody knows how much longer. I’d have cut it long ago if I could. I say, what’s your name?”
“Cruden.”
“Well, Cruden, I’m precious glad you’ve turned up. It’ll make all the difference to me. I was getting as big a cad as any of those fellows there, for you’re bound to be sociable. But you’re a nicer sort, and it’s a good job for me, I can tell you.”
Apart from the flattery of these words, there was a touch of earnestness in the boy’s voice which struck a sympathetic chord in Reginald’s nature, and drew him mysteriously to this new hour-old acquaintance. He told him of his own hard fortunes, and by what means he had come down to his present position. Gedge listened to it all eagerly.
“Were you really captain of the fifth at your school?” said he, almost reverentially. “I say! what an awful drop this must be! You must feel as if you’d sooner be dead.”
“I do sometimes,” said Reginald.
“I know I would,” replied Gedge, solemnly, “if I was you. Was that other fellow your brother, then?”
“Yes.”
Gedge mused a bit, and then laughed quietly.
“How beautifully you two shut up Barber between you just now,” he said; “it’s the first snub he’s had since I’ve been here, and all the fellows swear by him. I say, Cruden, it’s a merciful thing for me you’ve come. I was bound to go to the dogs if I’d gone on as I was much longer.”
Reginald brightened. It pleased him just now to think any one was glad to see him, and the spontaneous way in which this boy had come under his wing won him over completely.
“We must manage to stick together,” he said. “Horace, you know, is working in another part of the office. It’s awfully hard lines, for we set our minds on being together. But it can’t be helped; and I’m glad, any way, you’re here, young ’un.”
The young ’un beamed gratefully by way of response.
The paragraph by this time was nearly set-up, and the conversation was interrupted by the critical operation of lifting the “matter” from the stick and transferring it to a “galley,” a feat which the experienced “Magog” accomplished very deftly, and greatly to the amazement of his companion. Just as it was over, and Reginald was laughingly hoping he would not soon be expected to arrive at such a pitch of dexterity, Mr Durfy walked up.
“So that’s what you call doing your work, is it? playing the fool, and getting in another man’s way. Is that all you’ve done?”
Reginald glared at him, and answered,—
“I’m not playing the fool.”
“Hold your tongue and don’t answer me, you miserable puppy! Let me see what you have done.”
“I’ve been learning the boxes in the case,” said Reginald.
Mr Durfy sneered.
“You have, have you? That’s what you’ve been doing the last hour, I suppose. Since you’ve been so industrious, pick me out a lower-case ‘x,’ do you hear?”
Reginald made a vague dive at one of the boxes, but not the right one, for he produced a ‘z.’
“Ah, I thought so,” said Mr Durfy, with a sneer that made Reginald long to cram the type into his mouth. “Now let’s try a capital ‘J.’”
As it happened, Reginald knew where the capital “J” was, but he made no attempt to reach it, and answered,—
“If you want a capital ‘J,’ Mr Durfy, you can help yourself.”
“Magog” nearly jumped out of his skin as he heard this audacious reply, and scarcely ventured to look round to notice the effect of it on Mr Durfy. The effect was on the whole not bad. For a moment the overseer was dumbfounded and could not speak. But a glance at the resolute pale boy in front of him checked him in his impulse to use some other retort but the tongue. As soon as words came he snarled,—
“Ho! is it that you mean, my beauty? All right, we’ll see who’s master here; and if I am, I’m sorry for you.”
And he turned on his heel and went.
“You’ve done it now,” said “Magog,” in an agitated whisper—“done it clean.”
“Done what?” asked Reginald.
“Done it with Durfy. He will make it hot for you, and no mistake. Never mind, if the worst comes to the worst you can cut. But hold on as long as you can. He’ll make you go some time or another.”
“He won’t make me go till I choose,” replied Reginald. “I’ll stick here to disappoint him, if I do nothing else.”
The reader may have made up his mind already that Reginald was a fool. I’m afraid he was. But do not judge him harshly yet, for his troubles are only beginning.
Horace meanwhile had wended his way with some trepidation and curiosity to the manager’s sanctum. He felt uncomfortable in being separated from Reginald at all, especially when the latter was left single-handed in such an uncongenial atmosphere as that breathed by Mr Durfy and Barber. He could only hope for the best, and, meanwhile, what fate was in store for himself?
He knocked at the manager’s door doubtfully and obeyed the summons to enter.
Brusque man as the manager was, there was nothing disagreeable about his face as he looked up and said, “Oh—you’re the youngster Mr Richmond put in here?”
“Yes, sir, my brother and I are.”
“Yes, and I hear you’re both fools. Is that the case?”
“Reginald isn’t, whatever I am,” said Horace, boldly.
“Isn’t he? I’m told he’s the bigger fool of the two. Never mind that, though—”
“I assure you,” began Horace, but the manager stopped him.
“Yes, yes. I know all about that. Now, listen to me. I dare say you’re both well-meaning boys, and Mr Richmond is interested in you. So I’ve promised to make room for you here, though it’s not convenient, and the wages you are to get are out of all proportion to your value—so far.”
Horace was glad at least that the manager dropped in those last two words.
“If your brother is clever and picks up his work soon and doesn’t give himself airs he’ll get on faster than you. I can’t put you at case, but they want a lad in the sub-editor’s room. Do you know where that is?”
“Yes, sir,” said Horace, “I took some proofs there yesterday. But, sir—”
“Well, what?” said the manager, sharply.
“Is there no possibility of Reginald and me being together?” faltered the boy.
“Yes—outside if you’re discontented,” said the manager.
It was evidently no use, and Horace walked dismally to the door.
The manager looked after him.
“Take my advice,” said he, rather more kindly than he had hitherto spoken; “make the best of what you’ve got, young fellow, and it’ll be better still in time. Shut the door after you.”
The sub-editor’s room—or rooms, for there was an inner and an outer sanctum—was in a remote dark corner of the building, so dark that gas was generally burning in it all day long, giving its occupants generally the washed-out pallid appearance of men who do not know when day ends or night begins. The chief sub-editor was a young, bald-headed, spectacled man of meek appearance, who received Horace in a resigned way, and referred him to the clerks in the outer room, who would show him how he could make himself useful.
Feeling that, so far as he was concerned, he had fallen on his feet, and secretly wishing poor Reginald was in his shoes, Horace obeyed and retired to the outer room.
The occupants of that apartment were two young gentlemen of from eighteen to twenty years of age, who, it was evident at a glance, were not brothers. One was short and fair and chubby, the other was lank and lean and cadaverous; one was sorrowful and lugubrious in countenance; the other seemed to be spending his time in trying hard not to smile, and not succeeding. The only thing they did appear to share in common was hard work, and in this they were so fully engrossed that Horace had to stand a full minute at the table before they had leisure to look up and notice him.
“The gentleman in there,” said Horace, addressing the lugubrious youth as being the more imposing of the two, “said if I came to you you could set me to work.”
The sad one gave a sort of groan and said,—
“Ah, he was right there. It is work.”
“I say,” said the other youth, looking up, “don’t frighten the kid, Booms; you’ll make him run away.”
“I wish I could run away,” said Booms, in an audible soliloquy.
“So you can if you like, you old crocodile. I say, young ’un, have you got a chair?”
Horace had to confess he had not a chair about him.
“That’s a go; we’ve only two here. We shall have to take turns on them. Booms will stand first, won’t you, Booms?”
“Oh, of course,” said Booms, rising and pushing his chair towards Horace.
“Thanks,” said Horace, “but I’d sooner stand, really.”
“No, no,” said Booms, resignedly; “I’m to stand, Waterford says so.”
“Sit down, young ’un,” said Waterford, “and don’t mind him. He won’t say so, but he’s awfully glad to stand up for a bit and stretch his legs. Now, do you see this lot of morning papers—you’ll see a lot of paragraphs marked at the side with a blue pencil. You’ve got to cut them out. Mind you don’t miss any. Sure you understand?”
Horace expressed himself equal to this enormous task, and set to work busily with his scissors.
If he had had no one but himself to consider he would have felt comparatively happy. He found himself in a department of work which he liked, and which, though at first not very exciting, promised some day to become interesting. His chief was a
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