Reginald Cruden by Talbot Baines Reed (free e novels .txt) đź“•
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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“And what became of him?” asked Reginald.
“Oh, in corse he stows hisself away in the boat with a lifebelt, and gets washed ashore; and he kills a tiger for ’is breakfast, and—”
“It’s a pity you waste your time over bosh like that,” said Reginald, not interested to hear the conclusion of the heroic Tim’s adventures; “if you’re fond of reading, why don’t you get something better?”
“No fear—I like jam; don’t you make no error, governor.”
With which philosophical albeit enigmatical conclusion he buried his face once more in his hands, and immersed himself in the literary “jam” before him.
Reginald half envied him as he himself sat listless and unoccupied during that gloomy evening. He did his best to acquaint himself, by the aid of papers and circulars scattered about the room, with the work that lay before him. He made a careful tour of the premises, with a view to possible alterations and improvements. He settled in his own mind where the directors’ table should stand, and in which corner of the private room he should establish his own desk. He went to the length of designing a seal for the Corporation, and in scribbling, for his own amusement, the imaginary minutes of an imaginary meeting of the directors. How would this do?
“A meeting of directors of the Select Agency Corporation”—by the way, was it “Limited”? He didn’t very clearly understand what that meant. Still, most companies had the word after their name, and he made a note to inquire of Mr Medlock whether it applied to them—“was held on October 31st at the company’s offices. Present, the Bishop of S— in the chair, Messrs Medlock, Blank, M.P., So-and-so, etcetera. The secretary, Mr Cruden, having been introduced, took his seat and thanked the directors for their confidence. It was reported that the receipts for the last month had been (well, say) £1,000, including £50 deposited against shares by the new secretary, and the expenses £750. Mr Medlock reported the acquisition of a large bankrupt stock of clothing, which it was proposed to offer privately to a number of clergymen and others as per a list furnished by the right reverend the chairman. The following cheques were drawn:—Rent for offices for a month, £5; printing and postage, £25; secretary’s salary for one month, £12 10 shillings; ditto, interest on the £50 deposit, 4 shillings 2 pence; office-boy (one month), £2; Mr Medlock for bankrupt stock of clothing, £150; etcetera, etcetera. The secretary suggested various improvements in the offices and fittings, and was requested to take any necessary steps. After sundry other routine business the Board adjourned.”
This literary experiment concluded, Reginald, who after the fatigues and excitement of the day felt ready for sleep, decided to adjourn too.
“Do you stay here all night?” said he to Love.
“Me? You and me sleeps upstairs.”
“I’m afraid there’s no room up there for two persons,” said Reginald; “you had better go home to-night, Love, and be here at nine in the morning.”
“Go on—as if I ’ad lodgin’s in the town. If you don’t want me I know one as do. Me and the chemist’s boy ain’t too big for the attick.”
“Very well,” said Reginald, “you had better go up to bed now, it’s late.”
“Don’t you think you’re having a lark with me,” said the boy; “’tain’t eleven, and I ain’t done this here Tigerskin yet. There’s a lump of reading in it, I can tell you. When he’d killed them tigers he rigged hisself up in their skins, and—”
“Yes, yes,” said Reginald. “I’m not going to let you stay up all night reading that rot. Cut up to bed now, do you hear?”
Strange to say, the boy obeyed. There was something about Reginald which reduced him to obedience, though much against his will. So he shambled off with his book under his arm, secretly congratulating himself that the bed in the attic was close to the window, so that he would be able to get a jolly long read in the morning.
After he had gone, Reginald followed his example, and retired to his own very spare bed, where he forgot all his cares in a night of sound refreshing sleep.
Mr Medlock duly appeared next morning. He greeted the new secretary with much friendliness, hoped he had a good journey and left them all well at home, and so on. He further hoped Reginald would find his new quarters comfortable. Most unfortunately they had missed securing the lease of a very fine suite of offices in Lord Street, and had to put up with these for the present. Reginald must see everything was comfortable; and as of course he would be pretty closely tied to the place (for the directors would not like the offices left in charge of a mere office-boy), he must make it as much of a home as possible.
As to money, salaries were always paid quarterly, and on Christmas Day Reginald would receive his first instalment. Meanwhile, as there were sure to be a few expenses, Reginald would receive five pounds on account (a princely allowance, equal to about thirteen shillings a week for the eight weeks between now and Christmas!)
The directors, Mr Medlock said, placed implicit confidence in the new secretary. He was authorised to open all letters that came. Any money they might contain he was strictly to account for and pay into the bank daily to Mr Medlock’s account. He needn’t send receipts, Mr Medlock would see to that. Any orders that came he was to take copies of, and then forward them to Mr John Smith, Weaver’s Hotel, London, “to be called for,” for execution. He would have to answer the questions of any who called to make inquiries, without of course disclosing any business secrets. In fact, as the aim of the Corporation was to supply their supporters with goods at the lowest possible price, they naturally met with a good deal of jealousy from tradesmen and persons of that sort, so that Reginald must be most guarded in all he said. If it became known how their business was carried on, others would be sure to attempt an imitation; and the whole scheme would fail.
“You know, Mr Reginald,” said he—
“Excuse me,” interrupted Reginald, “I’m afraid you’re mistaken about my name. You’ve printed it Cruden Reginald, it should be Reginald Cruden.”
“Dear me, how extraordinarily unfortunate!” said Mr Medlock; “I quite understood that was your name. And the unlucky part of it is, we have got all the circulars printed, and many of them circulated. I have also given your name as Mr Reginald to the directors, and advertised it, so that I don’t see what can be done, except to keep it as it is. After all, it is a common thing, and it would put us to the greatest inconvenience to alter it now. Dear me, when I saw you in London I called you Mr Reginald, didn’t I?”
“No, sir; you called me Mr Cruden.”
“I must have supposed it was your Christian name, then.”
“Perhaps it doesn’t matter much,” said Reginald; “and I don’t wish to put the directors to any trouble.”
“To be sure I knew you would not. Well, I was saying, Reginald (that’s right, whatever way you take it!) the directors look upon you as a gentleman of character and education, and are satisfied to allow you to use your discretion and good sense in conducting their business. You have their names, which you can show to any one. They are greatly scattered, so that our Board meetings will be rare. Meanwhile they will be glad to hear how you are getting on, and will, I know, appreciate and recognise your services. By the way, I believe I mentioned (but really my memory is so bad) that we should ask you to qualify to the extent of £50 in the shares of the company?”
“Oh yes, I have the cheque here,” said Reginald, taking it out of his pocket.
“That’s right. And of course you will give yourself a receipt for it in the company’s name. Curious, isn’t it?”
With which pleasantry Mr Medlock departed, promising to look in frequently, and meanwhile to send in a fresh directory marked, and some new circulars for him to get on with.
Reginald, not quite sure whether it was all as good as he expected, set to work without delay to put into practice the various instructions he had received.
Mr Medlock’s invitation to him to see everything was comfortable could hardly be fully realised on 13 shillings a week. That must wait for Christmas, and meanwhile he must make the best of what he had.
He set Love to work folding and enclosing the new circulars (this time calling attention to some extremely cheap globes and blackboards for ladies’ and infants’ schools), while he drew himself up a programme of his daily duties, in accordance with his impression of the directors’ wishes. The result of this was that he came to the conclusion he should have his hands very full indeed—a possibility he by no means objected to.
But it was not clear to him how he was to get much outdoor exercise or recreation, or how he was to go to church on Sundays, or even to the bank on weekdays, if the office was never to be left. On this point he consulted Mr Medlock when he called in later in the day, and arranged that for two hours on Sunday, and an hour every evening, besides the necessary walk to the bank, he might lock up the office and take his walks abroad. Whereat he felt grateful and a little relieved.
It was not till about four days after his arrival that the first crop of circulars sown among the clergy yielded their firstfruits. On that day it was a harvest with a vengeance. At least 150 letters arrived. Most of them contained the two pounds and an order for the suit. In some cases most elaborate measurements accompanied the order. Some asked for High Church waistcoats, others for Low; some wished for wideawake hats, others for broad-brimmed clericals. Some sent extra money for a school-boy’s suit as well, and some contained instructions for a complete family outfit. All were very eager about the matter, and one or two begged that the parcel might be sent marked “private.”
Reginald had a busy day from morning till nearly midnight, entering and paying in the cash and forwarding the orders to Mr John Smith. He organised a beautiful tabular account, in which were entered the name and address of each correspondent, the date of their letters, the goods they ordered, and the amount they enclosed, and before the day was over the list had grown to a startling extent.
The next day brought a similar number of applications and remittances as to the globes and blackboards, and of course some more also about the clerical suits. And so, from day to day, the post showered letters in at the door, and the secretary of the Select Agency Corporation was one of the hardest worked men in Liverpool.
Master Love meanwhile had very little time for his “penny dreadfuls,” and complained bitterly of his hardships. And indeed he looked so pale and unhealthy that Reginald began to fear the constant “licking” was undermining his constitution, and ordered him to use a sponge instead of his tongue. But on this point Love’s loyalty made a stand. Nothing would induce him to use the artificial expedient. He deliberately made away with the sponge, and after a battle royal was allowed his own way, and continued to lick till his tongue literally clave to the roof of his mouth.
By the
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