Post Haste by R. M. Ballantyne (mystery books to read .txt) 📕
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- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
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“Yes, uncommon select,” echoed Pax.
“It would never do, you know,” continued the other, “to let in every shallow young snipe that wanted to have a lark, and make game of the affair. We will make our rules very stringent.”
“Of course,” murmured Pax, with a solemn look, “tremendously stringent. For first offences of any kind—a sousin’ with dirty water. For second offences—a woppin’ and a fine. For third—dismissal, with ears and noses chopped off, or such other mutilation as a committee of the house may invent. But, Phil, who d’yee think would be suitable men to make members of?”
“Well, let me see,” said Phil, again laying down his tools, and looking at the floor with a thoughtful air, “there’s Long Poker, he’s a long-legged, good-hearted fellow—fond o’ the newspapers.”
“Yes,” put in Pax, “Poker’ll do for one. He’d be a capital member. Long and thin as a literary c’racter ought to be, and pliable too. We could make a’most anything of him, except a fire-screen or a tablecloth. Then there’s Big Jack—he’s got strong sedate habits.”
“Too fond of punning,” objected Phil.
“A little punishment in the mutilation way would stop that,” said Pax.
“And there’s Jim Brown,” rejoined Phil. “He’s a steady, enthusiastic fellow; and little Grigs, he’s about as impudent as yourself, Pax. Strange, isn’t it, that it’s chiefly little fellows who are impudent?”
“Wouldn’t it be strange if it were otherwise?” retorted Pax, with an injured look. “As we can’t knock people down with our fists, aren’t we justified in knockin’ ’em down with our tongues?”
“Then,” continued Phil, “there’s George Granger and Macnab—”
“Ah! ain’t he the boy for argufyin’ too?” interrupted Pax, “and he’ll meet his match in Sandy Tod. And there’s Tom Blunter—”
“And Jim Scroggins—”
“An’ Limp Letherby—”
“An’ Fat Collins—”
“An’ Bobby Sprat. Oh!” exclaimed Pax, with a glowing countenance, “we’ve got lots o’ first-rate men among the message-boys, though there are some uncommon bad ’uns. But we’ll have none except true-blues in our literary association.”
The society thus planned was soon called into being, for Philip Maylands was one of those determined characters who carry their plans into execution with vigour and despatch. His first move was to seek counsel of Mr Sterling, a city missionary—the same who had directed George Aspel to the abode of Abel Bones on the night of that youth’s visit to Archangel Court,—with whom he had become acquainted on one of his visits to Miss Lillycrop. That good lady was a staunch ally and able assistant of many city missionaries, and did much service in the way of bringing them into acquaintance with people who she thought might be helpful to them, or get help from them. A mutual liking had sprung up between Mr Antony Sterling and Phil on that occasion, which had ripened into friendship.
“You’ll help us at our first meeting, won’t you?” asked Phil, after they had talked the matter over.
“Yes, if you wish it,” replied Mr Sterling. “But I won’t come at the beginning. I’ll drop in towards the close, and won’t say much. You’d best begin the work by yourselves. I’ll come to your aid whenever you seem to require it. But have a care how you start, Phil. Whatever the other members may do, remember that you, as the originator of the association, are bound to lay the foundations with the blessing of God.”
Phil did not neglect this all-important point, and, having obtained permission from Solomon Flint to use the shed, the society was soon auspiciously commenced with a lively debate, in Pegaway Hall, as to the best method of conducting its own affairs. On this occasion Philip Maylands proved himself to be an able organiser. Long Poker showed that he had not dabbled in newspapers without fishing up and retaining a vast amount of miscellaneous knowledge. Jim Brown roused the meeting to a pitch of enthusiasm almost equal to his own. Little Grigs made stinging remarks all round, and chaffed little Pax with evident delight. Macnab disputed with everybody. Sandy Tod argued and objected more or less to everything, while Tom Blunter, Jim Scroggins, Limp Letherby, Fat Collins, and Bobby Sprat, lent more or less effectual fire to the debate. Big Jack did not speak much. He preferred, as he said, to form a large audience, but, if he might be permitted to offer an opinion, would suggest that less talk and more action might facilitate the despatch of business, and that they ought to try to emulate the House of Commons by allowing a little common sense to mingle with their discussions.
As for Peter Pax, he assumed the rôle of peacemaker-general. When the debaters seemed to be getting too warm, he rose to order; and, in a calm dignified manner, commented on the conduct of the disputants with such ineffable insolence as to draw down their wrath on his devoted head—to the great delight of the other members. Thus he threw oil on the troubled waters, and, generally, kept the meeting lively.
Finally, the laws of the Pegaway Literary Association were fixed, the plan of meetings was arranged, and the whole thing fairly started.
The society worked well for a time, but after the various members had done their best, as Pax said, to keep the pot boiling, it was felt and suggested that they should seek a little aid from without. A reading or a lecture was proposed, seconded, and carried. Then came the question who should be asked to read or lecture. Macnab proposed that their chairman should endeavour to procure a lecturer, and report to next meeting. Sandy Tod objected, and proposed a committee to consider the subject. Phil Maylands said he had anticipated the demand, and had already secured the promise of a lecturer—if the members chose to accept him.
“Name! name!” cried several voices.
“Our excellent landlord, Solomon Flint,” said Phil. “You all know his admirable powers of memory, and his profound knowledge of men and things (‘At least if you don’t, you ought to,’ from Pax), and you may be sure he’ll give us something good.”
“And proverbial,” added little Grigs.
“Ay, Flint will certainly strike fire out of whatever he tackles,” said Big Jack.
(“Order!” from Pax.)
“When is he to give it?” asked one.
“Won’t fix the time just yet,” said Phil.
“What’s his subject?” asked another.
“Can’t say; not yet decided.”
With this uncertainty as to time and subject the association was obliged to rest content, and thereafter the meeting was dissolved.
We are grieved to be obliged to state that the society thus hopefully commenced came to a premature close at an early period of its career, owing to circumstances over which its members had no control.
Some time before that sad event occurred, however, Solomon Flint delivered his discourse, and as some of the events of that memorable evening had special bearing on the issues of our tale, we shall recur to it in a succeeding chapter.
As long as a man retains a scrap of self-respect, and struggles, from any motive whatever, against his evil tendencies, his journey to destruction is comparatively slow; but when once he gives way to despair, assumes that he has tried his best in vain, and throws the reins on the neck of his passions, his descent into the dark abyss is terribly rapid.
For a time George Aspel was buoyed up by hope. He hoped that May Maylands might yet come to regard him with favour, though she studiously avoided giving him ground for such hope. He also continued, though faintly, to hope that Sir James Clubley might still think of fulfilling his promises, and, in pursuance of that hope, frequently inquired whether any letters had been left for him at the hotel where he first put up on arriving in London. But, when both of these hopes forsook him, and he found himself in what he deemed the ridiculous position of shopman to a bird-stuffer, without an influential friend in the great city, or the slightest prospect of improving his condition, he gave way to despair.
Before quite giving way, however, he made several attempts to obtain work more suited to his tastes and acquirements, in which efforts he was heartily seconded by Mr Enoch Blurt; but Enoch was about as unknown in London as himself, so that their united efforts failed.
In these circumstances the ambitious youth began to regard himself as a martyr to misfortune, and resolved to enjoy himself as he best might. With a view to this he spent his evenings in places of amusement, with companions whose example and influence helped to drag him down and increase his tendency to drink.
This tendency was in part hereditary. His father had been a confirmed drinker. Although well aware of this, he did not believe in his own fallibility. Few young men of his stamp do. Other men might give way to it, but there was no fear of him. He admitted that he could, and sometimes did, take a stiff glass of grog—but what then? It did him no harm. He was not a slave to it. He could give it up and do without it if he chose—although, it is to be remarked, he had never made the trial, and only assumed this power. To be rather “screwed” now and then was, he admitted, somewhat discreditable; but he wasn’t worse than many others, and it didn’t occur often. Thus he reasoned, half-justifying himself in a thoroughly selfish, sinful course; growling at his “bad luck,” and charging the guilt of his sin, which he said he couldn’t help, on Fate—in other words, on God.
It never occurred to George Aspel that the true way to get out of his troubles was to commit his way to his Maker; to accept the position assigned him; to do the work of a faithful servant therein; to get connected with good society through the medium of churches and young men’s Christian associations, and to spend a few years in establishing a character for trustworthiness, capacity, vigour, and intelligence, which would secure his advancement in life. At least, if such thoughts did occur to him, he refused to entertain them, and resolved to fling care to the dogs and defy fortune.
Of course, it soon became apparent to his employer that there was a great change for the worse in the youth, whom he not only admired for his frank bearing and strapping appearance, but loved as his deliverer from death. Delicacy of feeling, however, prevented Mr Blurt from alluding to dissipations at which he could only guess.
Poverty and distress bring about strange companionships. When Aspel first arrived in London he would have scouted the idea of his having anything whatever to do with such a man as Abel Bones, but he had not proceeded far in his downward course when that disreputable character became, if not a companion, at least an acquaintance.
This state of things was brought about primarily by the patronage which Aspel had extended to the “poor worthless fellow” whom he had so unceremoniously knocked down. But the poor worthless fellow, although born in a lower rank of life, was quite equal to him in natural mental power, and much superior in cunning and villainy. Mr Bones had also a bold, reckless air and nature, which were attractive to this descendant of the sea-kings. Moreover, he possessed a power of mingling flattery with humbug in a way that made his victim fall rather easily into his toils.
Revenge, as we have said, lay at the bottom of Abel Bones’ desire to become better acquainted with Aspel, but profit soon took the place of revenge. Mr Bones earned his livelihood chiefly by appropriating what belonged to other people. He was not particular as to what he took, or how he took it, but on the whole preferred easy work (like most people) and large profit. Being a man of bold, ambitious views, he had often thought of forgery, but a neglected education stood in the way of that. Being also a man of resource, he
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