Reginald Cruden by Talbot Baines Reed (free e novels .txt) 📕

old Booms can tell you more about her than I can,” said Waterford. “All I know is she’s a very nice girl indeed.”

“I agree with you,” said Horace; “I’m sure she is. You think so too, don’t you, Booms?”

“You don’t know what I think,” said Booms; which was very true.

One difficulty still remained, and this appeared to trouble Horace considerably.

He did not like to refer to it as long as the melancholy masher was present, but as soon as he had gone in to fetch the papers, Horace inquired of his friend,—

“I say, Waterford, do you mean to say he chooses the very night he hasn’t got a high collar to—”

“Hush!” cried Waterford, mysteriously, “it’s a sore question with him; but he couldn’t write if he had one. We never mention it, though.”

It is needless to say Mrs Cruden fell in most cordially with the new proposal. She needed little persuasion to induce her to agree to a plan which meant the bright presence of her son and his friends in her house, and it gave her special satisfaction to find her services on such occasions not only invited, but indispensable; and it is doubtful whether any of the party looked forward more eagerly to the cheery Wednesday evenings than she did.

It was up-hill work, of course, for Horace, at first; in fact, during the first evening he could do nothing but sit and admire the pace at which Miss Crisp, followed more haltingly by Booms and Waterford, took down the words of Ivanhoe as fast as Mrs Cruden read them. But, by dint of hard, unsparing practice, he was able, a week later, to make some sort of a show, and as the lessons went on he even had the delight of finding himself, as Waterford said, ‘in the running’ with his fellow-scholars. This success was not achieved without considerable determination on the boy’s part; but Horace, when he did take a thing up, went through with it. He gave himself no relaxation for the first week or two. Every evening after supper he produced his pencil and paper, and his mother produced her book, and for two steady hours the work went on. Even at the office, in the intervals of work, he reported everything his ears could catch, not excepting the melancholy utterances of Booms and the vulgar conversation of the errand-boy.

One day the sub-editor summoned him to the inner room to give him some instructions as to a letter to be written, when the boy much astonished his chief by taking a note of every word, and producing the letter in a few moments in the identical language in which it had been dictated.

“You know shorthand, then?” inquired the mild sub-editor.

“Yes, sir, a little.”

“I did not know of this before.”

“No, sir; I only began lately. Booms and Waterford and I are all working it up.”

The sub-editor said nothing just then, but in future availed himself freely of the new talent of his juniors. And what was still more satisfactory, it was intimated not many days later to Horace from headquarters, that as he appeared to be making himself generally useful, the nominal wages at which he had been admitted would be increased henceforth to twenty-four shillings a week.

This piece of good fortune was most opportune; for now that Reginald’s weekly contribution was withdrawn, and pending the payment of his first quarter’s salary at Christmas, the family means had been sorely reduced, and Horace and his mother had been hard put to it to make both ends meet. Even with this augmented pay it might still have been beyond accomplishment had not their income been still further improved in a manner which Horace little suspected, and which, had he known, would have sorely distressed him.

Mrs Cruden, between whom and the bright Miss Crisp a pleasant friendship had sprung up, had, almost the first time the two ladies found themselves together, inquired of her new acquaintance as to the possibility of finding any light employment for herself during the hours when she was alone. Miss Crisp, as it happened, did know of some work, though hardly to be called light work, which she herself, having just at present other duties on hand, had been obliged to decline. This was the transcribing of the manuscript of a novel, written by a lady, in a handwriting so enigmatical that the publishers would not look at it unless presented in a legible form. The lady was, therefore, anxious to get it copied out, and had offered Miss Crisp a small sum for the service. Mrs Cruden clutched eagerly at the opportunity thus presented. The work was laborious and dreary in the extreme, for the story was long and insipid, and the wretched handwriting danced under her eyes till they ached and grew weak. But she persevered boldly, and for three hours a day pored over her self-imposed task. When Horace returned at evening no trace of it was to be seen, only the pale face and weary eyes of his mother, who yet was ready with a smile to read aloud as long as the boy wished, and pretend that she only enjoyed a labour which was really taxing her both in health and eyesight.

Reginald had written home once or twice since his departure, but none of his letters had contained much news. He said very little either about his work or his employers, but from the dismal tone in which he drew comparisons between London and Liverpool, and between his present loneliness and days before their separation, it was evident enough he was homesick. In a letter to Horace he said,—

“I get precious little time just now for anything but work, and what I do get I don’t know a soul here to spend it with. There’s a football club here, but of course I can’t join it. I go walks occasionally, though I can’t get far, as I cannot be away from here for long at a time, and never of an evening. You might send me a Rocket now and then, or something to read. What about young Gedge? See Durfy doesn’t get hold of him. Could you ever scrape up six-and-six, and pay it for me to Blandford, whose address I give below? It’s something he lent me for a particular purpose when I last saw him. Do try. I would enclose it, but till Christmas I have scarcely enough to keep myself. I wish they would pay weekly instead of quarterly. I would be awfully obliged if you would manage to pay the six-and-six somehow or other. If you do, see he gets it, and knows it comes from me, and send me a line to say he has got it. Don’t forget, there’s a brick. Love to mother and young Gedge. I wish I could see you all this minute.”

Horace felt decidedly blue after receiving this letter, and purposely withheld it from his mother. Had he been sure Reginald was prosperous and happy in his new work, this separation would not have mattered so much, but all along he had had his doubts on both these points, and the letter only confirmed them.

At any rate he determined to lose no time in easing his brother’s mind of the two chief causes of his anxiety. The very next Saturday he appropriated six-and-six of his slender wages, and devoted the evening to finding out Blandford’s rooms, and paying him the money.

Fortunately his man was at home, an unusual circumstance at that hour of the night, and due solely to the fact that he and Pillans, his fellow-lodger, were expecting company; indeed, the page-boy (for our two gay sparks maintained a “tiger” between them) showed Horace up the moment he arrived, under the delusion that he was one of the guests. Blandford and his friend, sitting in state to receive their distinguished visitors, among whom were to be the real owner of a racehorse, a real jockey, a real actor, and a real wine-merchant, these open-hearted and knowing young men were considerably taken aback to find a boy of Horace’s age and toilet ushered into their august presence. Blandford would have preferred to appear ignorant of the identity of the intruder, but Horace left him no room for that amiable fraud.

“Hullo, Bland!” said he, just as if he had seen him only yesterday at Wilderham, “what a jolly lot of stairs you keep in this place. I thought I should never smoke you out. How are you, old man?”

And before the horrified dandy could recover from his surprise, he found his hand being warmly shaken by his old schoolfellow.

Horace, sublimely unconscious of the impression he was creating, indulged in a critical survey of the apartment, and said,—

“Snug little crib you’ve got—not quite so jolly, though, as the old study you and Reg had at Wilderham. How’s Harker, by the way?”

And he proceeded to stroll across the room to look at a picture.

Blandford and Pillans exchanged glances. Wrath was in the face of the one, bewilderment in the face of the other.

“Who’s your friend?” whispered the latter.

“An old schoolfellow who—”

“Nice lot of fellows you seem to have been brought up with, upon my word,” said Mr Pillans.

“I suppose he’ll be up for Christmas,” pursued Horace. “Jolly glad I shall be to see him, too. I say, why don’t you come and look us up? The mater would be awfully glad, though we’ve not very showy quarters to ask you to. Ah! that’s one of the prints you had in the study at school. Do you remember Reg chipping that corner of the frame with a singlestick?”

“Excuse me, Cruden,” began Blandford, in a severe tone; “my friend and I are just expecting company.”

“Are you? Well, I couldn’t have stayed if you’d asked me. Are any of the old school lot coming?”

“The fact is, we can do without you, young fellow,” said Mr Pillans.

Horace stared. It had not occurred to him till that moment that his old schoolfellow could be anything but glad to see him, and he didn’t believe it now.

“Will Harker be coming?” he inquired, ignoring Mr Pillans’ presence.

“No, no one you know is coming,” said Blandford, half angrily, half nervously.

“That’s a pity. I’d have liked to see some of the old lot. Ever since we came to grief none of them has been near us except Harker. He called one day, like a brick, but he won’t be up again till Christmas.”

“Good-night,” said Blandford.

His tone was quite lost on Horace.

“Good-night, old man. By the way, Reg—you know he’s up in the North now—asked me to pay you six-and-six he owed you. He said you’d know about it. Is it all right?”

Blandford coloured up violently.

“I’m not going to take it. I told him so,” said he. “Oh yes, you are, you old humbug,” said Horace, “so catch hold. A debt’s a debt, you know.”

“It’s not a debt,” said Blandford. “I gave it to him, so good-night.”

“No, that won’t do,” said Horace. “He doesn’t think so—”

“The fact is, the beggar couldn’t pay for his own dinner, and Blandford had to pay it for him. He managed it very neatly,” said Mr Pillans.

Horace fired up fiercely.

“What do you mean? Who’s this cad you keep about the place, Blandford?”

“If you don’t go I’ll kick you down the stairs!” cried Mr Pillans, by this time in a rage.

Horace laughed. Mr Pillans was his senior in years and his superior in inches, but there was nothing in his unhealthy face to dismay the sturdy school-boy.

“Do you want me to try?” shouted Mr Pillans.

“Not unless you like,” replied Horace, putting the money down on the table and holding out his hand to Blandford.

The latter took it mechanically, too glad to see his visitor departing to offer any obstacle.

“I’ll look you up again some day,” said Horace, “when your bulldog here is chained up. When Reg and Harker are up this Christmas, we must all get a day together. Good-night.”

And he made for the door, brushing