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Title: A dangerous friend;
or, Tom's three months in London.
Author: Emma Leslie
Release date: November 5, 2024 [eBook #74683]
Language: English
Original publication: London: The Sunday School Union
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A DANGEROUS FRIEND; ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: MRS. RONAN'S GRIEF AT HER SON'S LOSS. _Frontispiece._]
A DANGEROUS FRIEND;
OR,
Tom's Three Months in London.
BY
EMMA LESLIE
Author of "The Magic Runes," "The Making of a Hero,"
"The Pride of Greenwich," etc., etc.
LONDON:
THE SUNDAY SCHOOL UNION
57 AND 59, LUDGATE HILL, E.C.
BUTLER & TANNER
THE SELWOOD PRINTING WORKS
FROME, AND LONDON.
CONTENTS.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER
I. TOM'S HOME
II. BEGUILED
III. WAS HE A THIEF?
IV. AN ESCAPE FOR BOB
V. APPLES OF SODOM
VI. A FRIGHT FOR TOM
VII. THE WAY OF TRANSGRESSORS IS HARD
VIII. CONCLUSION.
[Illustration]
A DANGEROUS FRIEND
CHAPTER I.
TOM'S HOME.
"A LETTER from Uncle George," and the speaker, a boy about fourteen,
ran up the garden path, shouting the news as he came.
A brother and sister met him at the door of the cottage, each eager to
see the letter, but he held it high above their heads, and as he was
taller than either of them, it was quite out of their reach.
"How do you know it is from Uncle George?" asked his sister.
"How do I know, Polly? Why I've been down to the forge, and the postman
gave this to father as he went back to work this afternoon."
Tom's father was the village blacksmith, a steady, hard-working man,
who always had as much business as he could get through for the
neighbouring farmers, but was ambitious for his eldest son Tom to be
something better than a blacksmith.
So he had written to his brother in London, telling him what a fine
scholar Tom was, and how they had sent him to the grammar school in
the neighbouring town, in the hope that he might be able to get some
employment in London, as he was altogether too clever for a mere
village blacksmith.
His brother's first reply to this had not been encouraging, but a
second letter had been sent at his wife's earnest request, and this was
the reply to it.
Tom knew all about what it contained, but he would not tell the news
until his mother had seen the letter, and he ran with it to find her.
She was busy washing, but she took her hands out of the soapsuds and
wiped them carefully when she heard about the letter, for she was most
anxious for Tom to go to London and get a place in an office, where he
might by-and-by rise to be a clerk, as his uncle had done.
Tom stood and rubbed his hands as his mother read the letter, for he
knew she would feel pleased at the news it contained.
"What do you think of it, mother?" he asked at last, for he could not
wait until she had finished reading it.
"Why you ought to be very much obliged to Uncle George for the trouble
he has taken for you. Dick there, will never get such a chance, I am
afraid."
Dick had followed Tom to the wash-house, and now looked eagerly from
his brother to the letter in his mother's hand; but he did not ask the
question that was on his lips.
Polly, however, was always quicker than Dick, and she said, "Is Tom
really going to London, mother?"
"Of course I am; didn't I tell you so last week?"
"But you didn't know it last week," retorted his sister; "the letter
has only just come, so how could you know it last week?"
"Hold your tongue, and let me think for a minute how I am going to
manage," said her mother. "Uncle George says he wants you to go next
week, but I am not sure that I can get your things ready, Tom," she
said, in a tone of perplexity.
"Oh, mother, you must," replied the boy. "I don't want much; boys don't
want a lot of new frocks, like girls."
"But they wear out their shirts too fast," put in Polly.
"Yes, you must sit down to your sewing at once, Polly, and finish that
shirt you are making for Tom. And I shall have to clear up my washing
as quick as I can and come and see after his other things, for there is
no time to spare if he is to go away next week; and I suppose he must
if this place Uncle George has got for him is vacant."
"Oh, yes, mother, I must go, of course," said Tom imperatively.
"I shall be obliged to have a lot of new things, I expect," he said
confidentially to his sister, as he went back to the comfortable
kitchen, where she had begun to set the tea things in readiness for her
father's return.
"Yes, I suppose you will have heaps of new things; but father don't
seem to think Dick ever wants anything," said Polly in a resentful tone.
Dick was her favourite brother, and she was always ready to take up the
cudgels in his defence, for he was a quiet, silent boy, and people were
apt to think he was stupid, as he was so much slower in his methods
than his brother. But Polly knew Dick better than anybody else, and she
would sometimes say when she was angry at her favourite being passed
over for his more brilliant brother, "Dick is worth a dozen of Tom, and
you'll all find it out some day."
Now she felt annoyed about this project of sending Tom to London; she
knew exactly how it would be. The money that had been put aside to buy
a new great-coat for Dick this winter would all be spent on Tom, and
poor Dick would have to go without or have Tom's mended up to serve him
for best, though it was so torn and shabby that its owner had cast it
aside as beneath his notice now; for since he had been to the grammar
school in the town, he had taken up notions about his dress that had
not been thought of before.
When the blacksmith came home from work his wife met him with a
pleasant smile, but her first words convinced Polly that Dick would not
get his new coat, for her mother said, "It is lucky we put something
away for the children's new clothes."
"It was to buy Dick a new great-coat," said Polly; "you said he should
have it when Tom had his new suit a little while ago."
"Let Dick speak for himself, Polly," said her father, smiling at her
evident indignation.
"But you know he never does speak up for himself, father," said the
girl; "and I think it's too bad to take all his money to spend on Tom,
just because he is going to London. Why should he have the best of
everything and Dick go without?"
"Be quiet, Polly, and let Dick speak for himself," said her mother.
But she would have been very much surprised if the boy did speak up for
himself, for this was not at all in his way, and it would have vexed
her, too, just now, for she had made up her mind that all the money
laid aside would have to be spent upon Tom before he went to London.
She had already turned over in her mind what things he must have, and
she said to her husband, "We must go and get him some new trousers and
boots to-morrow, and I should like him to have a new coat, too, if you
can spare the money."
"He can do without the coat for the present," replied Flowers, as he
sat down to the table and helped himself to bread and butter.
Tom frowned and looked at his mother, and then down at the jacket he
was wearing. "This will do for Dick when I have done with it," he said,
"I shan't want to take this with me."
"Why not?" asked his father. "That will do for you to wear at first,
till we see how you are likely to get on, and then—"
"Perhaps you won't like it, and will want to come home again," put in
Polly mischievously.
"That's a girl's notion," said Tom scornfully. "Of course you would cry
for your mother before a week was over, but boys are different."
"What do you know about it? You have never been away from home in your
life, so how can you tell?" retorted his sister.
"Now, don't begin quarrelling, Polly," said her father. "Tom won't be
at home much longer, so try and be civil to each other while you are
together. I think you had better go with me to the tailor's in the
morning, my boy, for I daresay your mother has enough to do to get your
shirts and such things ready, and I shall be able to spare an hour or
two to-morrow. When the tea things are cleared away, you had better sit
down and write a letter to your uncle, and I will put a note in for
myself; but you must thank him for taking all this trouble for you, and
tell him you will be at Paddington Station next Wednesday evening as he
wishes."
So when Polly had put the tea things away, Tom brought out pen and ink
to write to his uncle, while his mother sat down to finish the shirt
she had been making for him.
It was quite an event, not only to the family, but to the whole
village, for Tom and all the family were born in the place, and his
father and mother only came from the next village when they were
married. And so to hear that Tom was going to London to live with his
Uncle George, and settle down there, caused quite a stir among the
neighbours, and every boy in the place envied him his good luck, and
wished they had his chances of getting on in the world.
On all sides the blacksmith and his wife were congratulated on Tom's
prospects, for he was going to live with his uncle who had no children
of his own, and therefore could well afford to look after his nephew.
The rest of the week was busy enough, not only for Polly and her
mother, but Dick was pressed into the service too, for none could do
enough for the boy who was so soon going away to the world of London.
Dick did not mind having to wear Tom's old coat, instead of having a
new one, as by this means his brother could have an entire new suit for
best, and only Polly grudged everything of the best being given up to
Tom, but she did not say much about it after the first evening was over.
So Tom went to London provided with everything that loving hands could
think of for his comfort, and the village was proud of the tall,
handsome boy who went away in the carrier's cart early in the morning,
that he might be in good time for the train that left the town about
ten o'clock.
The situation which had been secured for Tom was in a City warehouse,
where there was a number of lads about his own age, or a year or two
older. Here he had to write invoices, direct envelopes, run errands
occasionally, and make himself generally useful, both in the warehouse
and office.
He was to live at his uncle's house, but he felt a little disappointed
in his aunt, for she was not a bit like his mother, and seemed to think
it was a great bother to have a boy about the place.
His uncle took him to the warehouse the morning after his arrival, and
Tom found he would have to take his dinner, for it was quite two miles
from where his uncle lived to the City. The noise and confusion of so
many people passing and re-passing almost bewildered him at first,
and then the wagons and omnibuses seemed as though they would never
give him a chance to cross the road. But he was not a boy to be easily
conquered, and his uncle assured him he would soon get used to it all,
and think nothing of it.
He explained which way he was to take when he came home in the
afternoon, as they went along, for he would not be going back at the
same time, and having made this clear, he took him in to the gentleman
at the warehouse, and there left him.
Tom found that there were several other lads about his own age employed
about the place, and at dinner time he went out with the rest to eat
the meal he had brought with him. They had an hour to do as they
pleased, and he was not sorry when one of his companions proposed that
they should go for a walk. Tom knew nothing of the neighbourhood, and
was glad enough to have someone of his own age who was willing to show
him some of the wonders of London. And he at once began to ask the boy
about the Tower, and the Bank, and Westminster Abbey, and other places
he had read about at home.
"We can see the Bank as we go home," replied his new friend;
"but you'll have to wait to see the other places. Do you go to
Sunday-school?" he asked.
Tom shrugged his shoulders. "I had enough of Sunday-school at home," he
said; "I shan't go if I can help it now I've come to London. I want to
see all I can, not to be moped up in a Sunday-school all the time."
"But you ain't moped up all the time," returned the other. "I was going
to ask you to come to my Bible-class on Sunday afternoon, and then you
could join our social club for the other evenings in the week."
"What? Sunday-school all the week! No, thank you—I've had enough of
school, and I shouldn't have thought you London chaps would have
thought so much of it as to go week-day and Sunday too. I want to see
what London's like when my work is done, not pen myself up—"
"Oh, but we don't pen ourselves up," interrupted his new friend. "We
meet at the schoolroom twice a week and play at draughts or chess, and
then the other evenings there are classes for writing, and reading, and
arithmetic, and—"
"Oh, I've had enough of that too," said Tom, in a rather contemptuous
tone. "I want to go about and see things. I could play draughts in the
country."
"To be sure you could," chimed in another lad at this point. He had
been walking with them, but had not spoken before. "Bob is so gone on
Sunday-schools, that he is afraid to have a game for fear his teacher
should hear of it; ain't you, now?" he said, appealing to his companion
for confirmation of this.
"I don't care about pitch-and-toss, that you and Simmons think so much
of," admitted Bob.
"There! I told you so. He won't play at pitch-and-toss because it's a
bit lively."
"No, it ain't that. I like lively games as much as you do, but that is
too much like betting, and I promised I wouldn't bet or—"
"What is betting, then?" asked Tom.
"Don't you know? Just come up Fleet Street, and you shall see."
"We haven't got time," put in Bob. "We shall catch it if we're late,
you know."
"Oh, all right; I know what I'm about, and so does this chap, though he
has just come up from the country. You come with me, and if Bob likes
to go back, why I can show you the way just as well as he can—you come
to Fleet Street with me."
So Tom left his first companion.
And as soon as they were left to themselves, he confided to Tom that he
was very anxious to go and find out what horse had won in a race that
was to take place that day at Newmarket.
"Don't let it out to Bob, for he is such a muff about his
Sunday-school, but I hope to win six shillings over this race," said
the other as they hurried up Fleet Street.
They had not gone very far when they were stopped by a crowd that was
gathered round a shop window. And as they reached it, his companion
said, "Here we are. The news will be out in a minute, I expect," and
then he tried to elbow his way to the front, closely followed by Tom,
who was afraid of missing his new friend in the midst of this crowded
street here in London.
Still he could not understand, if the race was to be run at Newmarket,
why they should all stand staring up at this shop as though their lives
depended upon what was to be seen.
At last with a muttered grumble, his companion said, "We must go now,
and look sharp about it too, or Phillips will be in a wax and fine us
for being late. Come on," he added, pushing his way through the crowd
which now nearly blocked the footpath.
As soon as he was clear of it, the boy took to his heels and ran and
dodged between the people in such a fashion that Tom could scarcely
keep him in sight, and nearly got run over trying to dash across the
road after him.
As it was they were both beyond the time when they ought to have got
back to their work, and were spoken to very sharply for it.
"This is a bad beginning, my man," said one of the older clerks as Tom
went panting to his desk. "I thought you told me you had brought your
dinner with you."
"Yes, sir, I did, but I went out for a walk afterwards, and, and—"
somehow he did not like to say anything about Newmarket Races for fear
his new friend should not like it, so he added, "we looked in a shop
window too long."
"So I should think," said the man with a smile. "You must be careful
not to be late when you go out for a walk at dinner time or you will
get into trouble over it."
No more was said and Tom went on with his work, but he made up his mind
when he went to Fleet Street again, not to stay so long.
At the close of the day when he was leaving the warehouse, his new
friend met him on the steps.
"Have you heard the news?" he said, in an excited tone, but speaking
very cautiously.
"What news?" asked Tom, thinking he ought to be as eager as his friend.
"Why Drizzle's won, and I had a lot of money on him."
Tom stared. He had not heard enough of horse-racing to understand
all at once what his friend meant, but he did not leave him long in
ignorance as to his meaning.
"Jenkins went out in the afternoon, and he told me if he got a chance,
he should run and find out who was the winner, for he had put every
penny he could scrape up on Featherhead. I told him it was a roarer,
for I got my tip from a man I heard talking in the train. He was one
of the knowing ones he was, bound to know the correct card, don't you
see, so when I heard him say he should back Drizzle for all he could
put on her, I made up my mind to do the same. Jenkins says she came in
first, so I stand to win six shillings, I reckon—and that only cost me
sixpence, my boy."
Tom opened his eyes, and looked at his companion. "Six shillings! What,
a whole week's wages to do as you like with?" uttered Tom.
"That's just it, my boy. I put my sixpence pocket-money on Drizzle, and
I've got six shillings for it. Isn't that a lot of money for you?" he
demanded, rubbing his hands with glee. "Jenkins ain't up in the clouds
though over it, I can tell you; he made so sure Featherhead was coming
in first, that he borrowed Harry Bowers' allowance, and stood to win
more than me. But no, bless you, Featherhead was nowhere, and so his
money's gone, and he looks awfully down about it."
"Where are you going? I thought you said you lived my way?" said
Tom, suddenly stopping, for he could tell they were not going in the
direction his uncle had told him to take when he left him in the
morning.
"Why, I'm going to make sure about Drizzle, first thing. Come on,
we shan't be long, and then we can walk home together," and the boy
slipped his arm in Tom's and drew him in the direction of Fleet Street,
which they very soon reached, and then elbowed their way to the spot
where they had stood at dinner time, for there was still a crowd round
the window, many like Tom's friend, wishing to make sure before they
went home whether they had lost or won their money.
"Yes, it's all right," he said at length; "I shall get this money sure
enough. I say, you've brought me luck, old fellow, and if you like,
I'll lend you sixpence to put on the next race."
"But I don't know anything about horses, except their shoes," said Tom
laughing.
"Oh, that don't matter, we'll go partners, if you like. I'll tell you
what horse to put your money on," said his companion.
"Thank you, I'm much obliged, but I don't think I'll begin just yet; I
haven't got used to London ways, and—"
"Oh, you'll soon know your way about, I know. I can tell. You were not
born on a Thursday, I can see."
Tom knew this was intended as a compliment, and laughed. "If I do come
from the country, I know what I'm about, I hope. I tell you, country
lads are not such fools as people take them to be," added Tom, nodding
his head sagaciously.
"Well, you ain't, that's a sure fact. I could see we should be chums as
soon as you came in this morning."
He felt on good terms with all the world, since Drizzle had won the
race and changed his sixpence into six shillings, but how it would have
been if he had lost, he did not say or think. He was too much elated
over his luck to think of that just now.
The boys walked the first mile of their journey homeward together,
and then their roads separated, but they agreed to meet again in the
morning and walk to their work.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
BEGUILED.
TOM met his new friend the next morning, who was still in very high
spirits over his good fortune, and offered to show Tom where to go
to spend an evening merrily. But this offer Tom declined, for he had
promised his mother before leaving home that he would take care to go
back to his aunt as soon as his work was over, and he meant to keep his
word—at least, until he knew more about London than he did at present.
He took care not to go to Fleet Street again at dinner time for fear he
should be late, for his uncle had warned him about this when he heard
where he had been. But Randall did not press him to go again, they had
their dinner and strolled out for a little while, Randall showing him
St. Paul's Cathedral, and pointing out the General Post Office, and
several other large buildings.
In this way the lads grew more intimate, and when they went home
together in the evening, Randall showed him the six shillings he had
won on Drizzle. Of course, Tom wished he could win some money as
easily, and Randall promised to tell him when he heard of a good thing.
"Mind you, I don't do as some fellows do," went on the boy, "put money
on every race they hear of, I just wait till I can find out about a
horse, and then I plank my money down upon it."
But Tom began to get tired of the horsey talk and Randall's wisdom
before they parted, for he would have liked to talk about Dick and his
home, if he could only have found some one to listen to his story.
His aunt's house seemed very lonely to him; not at all like the
pleasant home he had been used to all his life. His uncle did not get
home until late in the evening, and his aunt, who was not used to
boys, sat and watched him for fear he should scrape his feet on the
chair-rails, or push it when he moved instead of lifting it, and so
wear out the carpet, for they had tea in the little back parlour, and
she was very careful of the furniture, lest it should be spoiled.
"Hadn't you better go to bed now?" she would say to Tom about eight
o'clock.
And Tom went; but he did not like it much, though it was dull to sit
and watch his aunt at her sewing, or tease the cat, which seemed all
the amusement he could find. He was not very fond of reading, and if he
had been, there were no books about here for him to read, so he went to
bed at eight o'clock the first week of his stay.
But when he had been there a fortnight, and had learned his way about
the neighbouring streets and roads, he thought he might as well go out
for a walk after tea, as sit and look at his aunt, and his proposal to
do this seemed rather to please her.
"Yes, you can go out for an hour, if you like, only don't lose
yourself, and mind you get home before your uncle comes in."
"All right," said Tom, smiling at the idea of losing himself now, for
he had taken careful note of the different turnings, and as his uncle
rarely got home before ten o'clock, there would be plenty of time for
him to go for a long walk.
The street where his aunt lived opened into a broad, busy road with
large, well-lighted shops, and of course Tom made his way there at
once, sticking his hands in his pockets, for the evenings were chilly.
When he got there he was at a loss which way to turn, for although he
knew the road leading to the City, he did not want to go that way now,
but to vary his walk if he could. So he stood at the corner looking up
and down the street, undecided which way to take, when a lad about his
own age came sauntering towards him.
"Fine night," he remarked, as he halted beside Tom. "Are you out for a
stroll?"
"Yes, I came out for a walk, but I hardly know which way to go,"
replied Tom, looking at the stranger to see if he had ever spoken to
him before.
He did not recognise him, but he looked a respectable lad, and so, when
he proposed they should go along the road together, Tom cheerfully
assented, for any company was better than none, he thought.
"Beastly place London is," said his new friend when they had exchanged
a few words, in which he detected that Tom had recently come from the
country.
"Don't you like it?" asked Tom, in some surprise, for this long row of
lighted shops, and the pleasant bustle of the street was almost like
fairyland to him.
His new friend made a wry face, but did not reply immediately to his
question.
"Things are pretty dull here sometimes, and there is no friendliness
among people like there is in the country. You look at your neighbour
as though he was a wild beast bent upon eating you up, and so you are
afraid to speak to him."
Tom laughed. "I don't think I am much afraid of strangers," he said,
"or I should not be walking with you."
"Ah! That just shows you have not been here long enough to get spoiled.
I knew at once by the friendly look in your face that you had not been
here long. Come up to get a place in some office, I suppose?" said his
new friend, looking at him curiously.
"I have got a place," replied Tom. "My uncle has lived in London for
years and years, and he got me a place, and I live with him."
His companion gave a prolonged whistle. "I wonder he hadn't told you
never to talk to strangers when you came out for a walk," he said.
"He doesn't know I am out," replied Tom. "I'm not a baby, either, that
is likely to lose its way, so aunt said I might come out for an hour if
I liked."
"Sensible old lady, I am much obliged to her, for I wanted a companion
for a walk, and so I am glad to meet you. Two country chaps like us
ought to be friends, you know."
"Yes, of course," said Tom, glad to meet with a friend from the
country. "What part of the country do you come from?" he asked the next
minute.
"Well, I was at Newmarket last," said his new friend.
"Newmarket," repeated Tom; "why, that is where they have horse-racing,
isn't it?"
"What do you know about horse-racing?" said the other quickly. "I
thought you said you had only been in London a fortnight."
"Isn't that long enough to learn about it?" said Tom, who was
determined not to let this lad think he was altogether ignorant of
London life and ways. "Perhaps you think I don't know that Drizzle won
the race there about a fortnight ago," he added with a knowing nod, and
thrusting his hands deeper into his pockets.
His companion was certainly surprised, and looked it as he said, "Well,
you haven't been long learning the ropes, certainly. What did you put
on Drizzle?" he asked.
"Nothing; but a friend of mine turned in a nice little bit." He would
not mention the amount, for he had an idea that this new friend would
not regard six shillings as an overwhelming fortune.
"Well, look here, don't you venture to put money on a horse like
Drizzle," said his companion oracularly. "If some of the others had not
been pulled, she would have come in last instead of first, and then
where would your money have been?" he asked in a tone of triumph, which
seemed to imply that he knew more about such matters than Tom could
tell him.
Tom looked puzzled, but at last he said, "Of course, if you have lived
at Newmarket, you know all about it."
"I hope I know better than to put money on a horse like Drizzle," said
the other in a tone of contempt.
"Where do you work?" asked Tom, thinking he ought to take Randall to
see this friend who knew so much about horses.
"Well, I'm not doing any regular work just now. Can't get anything to
suit me exactly. But then I need not be in a hurry for a time, you see."
"Then you don't go to the City every day?" said Tom.
"No, not every day. I go sometimes, of course, and I could meet you
there now and then, if you liked."
Tom supposed his new friend was staying with relatives, and rather
envied him. They walked about together for an hour or two, and then Tom
said he must go home. His companion pressed him to stay longer, but
Tom said he must go, although he was rather loth to part with such an
entertaining companion.
The talk about horses had branched off into talk about cards, and Tom's
amazement was great when he found that his new friend could tell him
all about the games that were generally played, and when he assured
him that money was often made on cards, especially if anybody knew the
games well.
He went home at last thoroughly impressed with his new friend's wisdom,
and thinking how lucky he was to have met him. He had promised to meet
him again the following evening, and he went home in high spirits,
thinking what he should have to tell Randall and Bob when he met them
in the morning. It was nearly nine o'clock when he got home, but his
aunt did not say anything about the time, only told him to get a piece
of bread out of the cupboard, and eat it in the kitchen, if he wanted
any supper.
Tom took the bread, for he was hungry, but he did not care much about
it, for there was always plenty of home-made jam or honey from their
own hives at home, and to eat dry bread for any meal had been looked
upon as a punishment, and, besides, he thought his aunt might have
given a bit of cheese with the bread.
But he did not say anything about it, he ate it and went to bed to
dream of horses and his new friend.
He told Randall about Drizzle being a roarer, and how nearly he had
lost his money; but he did not seem as much impressed as Tom expected
to see him.
"You always have to take risks, of course," he said loftily; "and I
should mind what I was about with a fellow you know nothing of."
Tom laughed, for Randall's words and manner so exactly bore out what
his new friend said about London boys, that he felt rather glad he
was above such narrow prejudices and suspicions. "I wasn't born on a
Thursday," he said, quoting his own proverb.
"Thursday or Friday, you'd better look out," said Randall.
"You don't like your favourite horse being called a roarer."
"Oh, bother the horse; Drizzle can take care of himself, if you can,"
said the other. He felt rather nettled that Tom should presume to give
him advice upon this matter, and for the next day or two they were
rather cool to each other.
But Tom continued to meet his new friend after tea, and they generally
went for a long walk together. The time of Tom's return home getting a
few minutes later each night, until at last his uncle got home first,
and the clock had struck ten before he knocked at the door.
Of course his uncle wanted to know where he had been, and who he had
spent the evening with, but to his own surprise, Tom could tell very
little concerning his companion. He had been told to call him Jack, but
he did not know where he lived; and so far as he knew he did not do any
work, so that his uncle's questions revealed to him the fact that while
he had given his new friend every scrap of information about himself
and his home, and his employers, he really knew nothing of him beyond
the fact that his name was Jack, that he was a pleasant spoken lad, and
seemed to have plenty of money to spend, for he generally bought cakes
for Tom and himself during the evening.
All this was told to Mr. Flowers when he pressed Tom with questions,
but as there seemed to be no occasion for forbidding the acquaintance,
his uncle only warned him to be careful and not to stay out after nine
o'clock at night.
Perhaps if he had enquired a little further, and asked what they found
to talk about, he might not have been so easy about the matter. For
this new friend of Tom's had succeeded in making him believe that there
was more than one short but to making money, if he could only discover
it; as though to make money and not to give honest work and service was
the whole end for which a man or boy had to work.
Tom had often heard his father speak of putting good work into whatever
job he did, but he did not see that there was any connection between
putting a horse-shoe on safely and securely, and doing such work as he
had to do at the warehouse. And the talk with his friend Jack had given
him the impression that in London to be sharp and look out for "Number
One" was a good deal better than plodding work.
With this had come a desire for more spending money. His wages were but
six shillings a week, which he took home to his aunt every Friday, and
from which she gave him threepence for himself, but out of this he had
to buy his own boot and shoelaces.
Threepence a week had seemed a large sum to him at first, but since
he had become acquainted with Jack, who spent more than that every
evening, it had seemed very small, especially as he sometimes had to
spend half of it in replacing broken boot-laces.
As it was, he could very seldom produce a penny for the nightly
consumption of cakes, and as Jack was too good-natured to eat and see
him go without, he found money for both, remarking, when Tom protested
against this arrangement, that he should stand treat by-and-by when he
was in luck, as he would certainly be before long.
In Tom's first letters home, when he knew that he was to have
threepence a week, he had written to tell Dick that he meant to send
him something from London at Christmas. But now he had been here three
months and Christmas was drawing near, Tom wanted money for himself,
and there seemed little chance of Dick getting his promised present.
The luck promised by Jack had not come to him, although he heard
every now and then of one and another among his companions at the
office doubling or trebling their week's pocket-money in a few
minutes. Sometimes it was at card-playing, sometimes on a game of
pitch-and-toss, for it seemed that when they could not gamble on
horse-racing, the lads found out another way of betting.
But Tom never seemed to have money enough to risk in this way, and
he was complaining of this to his bosom friend Jack one day, when he
offered to lend him five shillings for a month, if he liked to accept
it.
"You have brought me luck, if you haven't had it yourself," he said
laughing, "so it's only fair you should share in it."
But Tom would not borrow if he could help it, he shook his head rather
sadly, though, as he thought of a letter that had just come from his
sister Polly, suggesting that he should send Dick a pair of warm
gloves, as he had very bad chilblains on his hands this winter.
"Bother his chilblains," said Tom, half aloud, as he read the letter
one morning at breakfast time.
"What is that, Tom?" asked his uncle looking across the table.
"Dick has got bad chilblains this winter, and Polly wants me to send
him a pair of warm gloves."
"Aye, to be sure, for the Christmas present you were talking about a
little while ago, when you first came up; couldn't be anything better,
they won't cost much; can easily be sent by parcels post, and will be
very useful, too. I tell you what, my boy, I will get them for you. I
have got a friend in the trade who can get me a pair at first hand, so
that they will not cost you so much, for I know you have not much money
to spare for them."
"No, uncle," said Tom, looking down at his bread and butter, and not
caring to say more, for, in truth, he did not know where the money was
to come from to buy these gloves, although he had talked a good deal
about the Christmas presents he was going to send home when he first
came to London.
Now, as he thought over the matter walking to the City, he wondered
how he was to get the money to pay for these gloves, and while he was
thinking of it, his uncle said:
"I think I can get you a first-rate pair of lined leather gloves for
Dick for about eighteenpence something that will make them open their
eyes at home when they see them, and give Master Dick something to
remember as his first pair of gloves. Of course you would like him to
have something good coming from London?"
"Yes, uncle," answered Tom, not knowing what else to say, but wondering
silently where he was to get eighteenpence.
His uncle, however, did not seem to notice his silence. He took all
the talking upon himself that morning, for he was in good spirits, and
glad to have a listener. It was not often that they went to the City
together now, for Tom generally met Randall and Bob, and walked with
them, but his uncle had to go earlier that day, and that was how it was
they came to be walking together.
They separated, however, before the warehouse was reached, and Randall
overtook him before he got in.
"I say, what made you come on without me?" he asked. "I wanted to see
you this morning. Don't you know I said I should want that twopence I
lent you last week?"
"All right, you shall have it," said Tom, in an irritable tone, for he
felt as anxious and worried over his small debts and liabilities as a
millionaire would over the threatened loss of all he possessed.
He reckoned up what he owed to one and the other now, for Randall was
not his only creditor, though his debts were mainly debts of honour,
and represented the wild efforts he had made to realise something of
the dazzling prospect held before him by his new friend, of how money
could be made by a sharp lad when he once knew the ropes.
"The ropes" he had been trying, by which he hoped to make a little
money to spend when he went out in the evening, was the game of
pitch-and-toss. It was usually played at dinner time among a number of
the lads employed at the different warehouses round.
They managed to meet in a quiet corner out of sight of the police or
the older men, and there one would throw up a halfpenny or penny, and
the rest bet eagerly on which side came uppermost.
Tom had seen Bob and another lad win sixpence or eightpence in the
course of a dinner hour, and at last he thought he would try his
luck. But in spite of all Jack professed to know about a lucky hand,
he invariably lost all he risked, and then he had ventured upon the
desperate plan of borrowing a penny or two from whoever would lend, for
once the gambling spirit had seized hold of him he could not shake it
off.
He had threepence in his pocket to-day, and he was so impatient for the
dinner hour to come round, that he could not give the proper attention
to the work in hand, and made several mistakes, which brought down upon
him the anger of the foreman, who even threatened to have him dismissed
if he was not more careful.
When at last the dinner hour arrived and the lads were free to meet in
their favourite haunt, Tom pressed forward to join in the game—not for
the sake of the fun and excitement, that period was over for him just
now, and the deadly thirst for gain had taken its place.
He staked only a penny first and won twopence. This elated him, and he
staked the twopence and won fourpence, and by the time the bell rang
for them to go back to work he had tenpence in his pocket, besides
having paid Randall the twopence he owed him.
It was with supreme satisfaction that he went back to his work rattling
the halfpence he had won. He could afford to think of Dick's gloves now
with something like pleasure, for it must be that his luck had turned
at last, as Jack had always said it would. And a day or two of winning
steadily would not only give him all he wanted for the gloves, but
quite set him up in pocket-money for the Christmas holiday.
So when he met his uncle at breakfast the next morning he asked if he
had enquired about Dick's gloves, and asked him how much they would be.
"Just about what I thought, my boy. Brown tells me he can get me a tidy
pair for eighteenpence."
"But Tom won't have saved eighteenpence by Christmas," said his aunt,
who happened to be present, and who had no notion of her husband buying
these out of his own pocket. "Tom can't save a penny," she added, in a
reproachful tone.
For answer Tom took the halfpence out of his pocket that he had won the
day before, and laid them down upon the table before his aunt, to the
great amusement of his uncle.
"Well done, my lad," he said, with a mischievous glance at his wife.
"Where did you get all that?" she said, rather tartly. "You told me the
other day it cost you such a lot for boot-laces, you never saved more
than a penny a week."
Tom coloured furiously, and wished he had not grumbled over the bad
laces; but he knew his aunt's eyes were upon him, and that he was
expected to give some reason for the possession of all this money, and
he was not long finding one. He had once been sent to fetch a dinner
from the eating-house close by for one of the clerks who did not wish
to go out, and for this service he had been paid twopence, and this was
brought forward now as though it was a matter of frequent occurrence,
and that twopences were often earned in this way.
"Then you ought to have said so before," retorted his aunt, in a
reproachful tone, "for if you can get halfpence so easily, I don't see
why I should give you threepence a week for nothing."
"Oh, nonsense, Maria," said her husband, "it isn't often the boy can
earn so much extra. Mind you take care of it," he added, as he rose
from the breakfast table, and there the matter ended for the present.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
WAS HE A THIEF?
DURING this time Bob Ronan, the lad with whom he had first made
acquaintance, had been gradually drawn into engaging in the very games
he had at first denounced. He, like Tom, had not long left school, but
he had no intention of leaving Sunday-school when he went to work in
the City, and endeavoured to persuade Randall first, and afterwards
Tom, to join him at the Sunday-school, as they did not live so very far
apart but that they could have done this if they had felt so disposed.
But the laugh that was raised against him whenever he ventured to
mention the Sunday-school was at last too much for him.
Boys can endure anything better than ridicule, and Tom and Randall had
both taken to ridicule his love for his Sunday-school.
If he had only "dared to be a Daniel," and borne this without
flinching, and still held firmly on in his own way, he might have
helped to keep his companions from doing wrong, but instead of this,
like a foolish lad, he gave up going to Sunday-school himself, telling
his mother that he was getting too old to go now.
When this was done, it was easy for Randall to persuade him to join in
the game of pitch-and-toss, which he had formerly denounced, and so he,
as well as Tom, had become involved in the meshes of this pernicious
game, and were always eager to win that they might have more money at
command.
Just now Bob was anxiously saving every farthing towards buying a warm
winter shawl for his mother.
They were poorer than Tom's friends, for Bob had no father, and had
been wholly dependent upon his mother's earnings as long as he could
remember; so that it had been necessary for him to leave school as soon
as he could, to help to maintain himself. But his mother had been very
anxious that he should continue at the Sunday-school and week-night
classes, and when Bob declared he could not go any longer, it had been
a great grief to her.
But she was afraid to say too much about it, for fear of driving
her boy further away from her, but she prayed and waited, hoping
that something would happen to send her boy back to this shelter and
safeguard, for she felt that as he had no father to guide and direct
him, he had all the more need of such counsel as his Sunday-school
teacher was ready to give.
But while his mother was thinking thus, Bob was wondering how he could
make more money, and Tom's thoughts were occupied over the same problem
when he met his friend Jack one evening as usual.
Jack was greatly excited over some news, or at least he appeared to
be, and Tom had the most profound faith in his friend, and believed
everything he said.
"I've learned a thing or two about a horse lately that will help us to
make some money, if we can only get a few shillings together to lay on
it," he said as they walked together down the road.
Tom looked at his friend. "You can easily do that, I suppose," he said,
for Jack always seemed to have plenty of money to spend.
But he shook his head slowly now. "That's just where it is," he said
with a sigh, "now I see a sure chance of making a little money, I
haven't got a shilling left to do it with."
They walked on in silence for a minute or two, and then Jack said, "How
much money could you put your hands on, do you think?"
"I might manage a shilling," said Tom, thinking of the money he had got
for Dick's gloves, and that he might surely count on winning another
twopence at pitch-and-toss the next day.
"A shilling," repeated Jack in a somewhat contemptuous tone; "that
isn't much good. We must have more than that."
"I hope Warrior will win, because my friend Ronan has put all his money
on it," said Tom, ignoring this remark.
"Well, I can tell you Warrior won't win; but mind, you mustn't say
anything about it, or else I shall get into trouble. And now, what
about our chances? A shilling ain't much good, but ten more would do
for both of us, and I want you to lend me something to put on this
race. Couldn't you borrow ten shillings for a day or two?" said Jack,
and as he spoke he cast a meaning look at Tom.
But the lad did not see this in the dusk. "Who do you think I could
borrow ten shillings of?" he asked, in a tone of surprise.
Jack shook his head. "I'm stumped," he said, "but I thought you might
manage to get something for yourself and me too; we both want money
badly enough, and it would be even, for as I can tell you how to
make every shilling into ten, why I thought you could surely borrow
half-a-sovereign or a sovereign for a day or two, that we might go
shares with. Why it 'ud set us up for a week or two, if we could clear
a few shillings on the horse that is going to win. It isn't as though
there was any chance about this, it's just a dead certainty and no
mistake, and, I tell you, twenty to one is her price now, and she's
bound to win."
"What is the horse's name that is sure to win?" asked Tom, in a
meditative tone.
"Ah, that's more than I dare tell, for fear it should leak out. It
ain't Warrior though, I can say that much; but mind, you must keep
that dark, for everybody has gone on Warrior, and so those of us that
can get a peep behind the scenes stand to make a lot of money out of
it. Another thing, if I tell you the name of the horse that is bound
to bring your money in safe, I shall expect a little commission on the
job."
Tom looked as though he did not quite understand his friend. "I thought
you were doing this for me, because—"
He was interrupted by a roar of laughter from his companion. "Do you
think the railway people let me go down to the country by train because
they like me?" he asked.
"Well, no, of course not," answered Tom, who greatly disliked being
laughed at. "I didn't suppose the railway people came out here to walk
with you every evening, but I do, and so I thought that counted for
something."
"It counts for a good deal, my boy, for if we wasn't friends and all
that, I shouldn't tell you what I have, for if my governor knew I said
a word to you, he would break every bone in my skin."
"Then you will be my friend still?" said Tom.
"Why, of course, and I hope you'll do the friendly by me too, and let
me have ten shillings at least by Wednesday night, and a shilling
commission for placing your money will make it eleven."
"But where am I to get eleven shillings?" said Tom wistfully.
"We shall stand to win a sovereign a piece if you can only manage it.
And there 'll be no waiting for money either, for I shall be able to
bring it to you the day after the race," said Jack, quite ignoring what
Tom had said.
"If you could only tell me how I am to borrow the money, I would get it
fast enough," replied Tom.
"Well, I know how such things often are managed by young fellows who
are in offices like you are," and as he spoke Jack looked keenly at his
companion to see how he took the suggestion he was about to make. "It
isn't as though there was any risk about the matter," he went on. "This
tip I have got is a dead certainty, and every two shillings put on the
horse will bring in a pound. I said we should stand to win a sovereign
a piece—what could I have been thinking about? Why, we shall have five
pounds between us! If that ain't a lot of money, tell me what is, and
all for eleven shillings down. Why, I know this, if I was to come up to
your place and tell some of your fellows what I have told you, why I
could have twice eleven shillings, and nothing said about it. Don't you
know how the thing is done?"
"No, I don't know where to borrow eleven shillings, or I would do it
fast enough," said Tom, ruefully.
"Don't you ever forget to enter money when it comes in?" said Jack,
speaking in a lower tone. "You have some money to take, I know."
"How do you know?" said Tom quickly.
"Oh, never mind what a little bird whispered to me about it; but I do
know that you take money sometimes, and hand it over before you come
away at night. Now it would be easy enough," and then he went on to
explain how he could take ten shillings of his master's money and bring
it to him for a day or two. "Nobody would ever find it out," said the
tempter.
Tom made no reply to this proposal, it was evident he was thinking
it over, and the more he thought of it, seeing the proposal had not
actually shocked and offended him, the more likely he was to see the
reasonableness of it, and so Jack said no more about how the money
should be got, but how they should spend what they won.
"We'll go to the theatre and see the pantomime," exclaimed Jack; "if
you haven't seen a pantomime you've got a treat in store, I can tell
you. Oh! The fairies and the transformation scene, it just beats
everything you ever saw in your life; and you'll have enough to tell
the country folks about then."
"How much will it cost?" asked Tom, for he had made up his mind to be
careful with this money when he got it, so that he was not worried
again as he had been lately.
"Oh, not more than we can afford, if we get this money. It all depends
upon you, whether we do get it," he added.
"Well, I'll see," said Tom, who could not quite make up his mind to
embezzle this money, tempting as the prospect was.
Prudence would whisper, "Suppose the horse should not win," and the
thought of the predicament he would then be in, filled him with horror
as he thought of it, and he almost made up his mind to have no more
to do with Jack or his proposal. For he did feel disappointed when he
heard that it was not for pure and simple love of him that his friend
had told him what he had, but as a matter of business and by way of
repaying himself for the trouble of collecting the information.
If Bob Ronan had only held firm to his principles, instead of giving up
the Sunday-school, for fear of being laughed at, he might have been of
service to Tom now; might even have persuaded him to join the Sunday
and evening classes, for Tom would have been ready to go anywhere away
from Jack just now. But the habit of going out in the evening had been
formed, and he had nowhere else to go, as it seemed to him.
He wished some of the other lads he knew would propose something that
would prevent him from seeing Jack again. He even went so far as to say
to Bob, "Do you go to those classes now you were talking about when I
first came up?"
"No, I don't," answered Bob a little shortly, for the subject of the
Sunday-school was a very sore one to him then.
He was vexed with himself for giving it up, so to be asked about it was
not at all pleasant.
"You didn't think much of it, then, after all," said Tom with something
of a sneer.
"What do you mean by that?" demanded Bob angrily.
"Why, if you'd thought much of your school, you wouldn't have given it
up just because some of us laughed at you. I didn't think you would
either," he added wistfully.
If only Bob had known that Tom was ready to catch at this, as a
drowning man catches at a straw, to save himself from the temptation
that was pressing upon him, he would not have turned away as he did,
but would have confessed what was the truth, that he was very sorry he
had been so foolish, and together the two boys might have gone that
evening to the teacher, and told him that they wanted to join both the
Sunday and week-night classes.
Tom would have gone readily enough now if he had only been invited,
and the teacher, who was always at the school three evenings a week,
would have been glad enough to welcome back the truant Bob, and his new
friend as well.
Ah! If they had only gone. If Bob had only had the courage to speak out
his thoughts just now, for as he stood talking to Tom, he was wishing
he had never left the school, nothing had seemed to go right with him
since, and he had such a load of care on his mind that he dare not tell
anyone of.
And Tom would have given anything that would have afforded him a
chance of not meeting Jack that night. A little friendly talk with one
who understood a boy and his difficulties would have saved Tom from
committing a crime that he would have to regret as long as he lived.
But the opportunity that might have been seized at dinner time vanished
without being improved, and Tom yielded to the temptation.
The next minute he would have been glad to put the money back, for his
conscience whispered, "You are a thief." But there was no chance to
replace it, for the books were fetched just afterwards, to be looked
over by Mr. Phillips, who came to see that he had made no mistakes, and
the books and money balanced correctly.
"Very good, Flowers," he said, when he had gone through the day's
accounts and found they were quite right. Little did he think that the
boy's heightened colour, as he heard this, arose from a feeling of
bitter shame and self-reproach. He thought the lad was pleased to be
commended and he added, "If there should be a vacancy here at the desk,
I will speak for you, my lad, and then I would advise you to go to
school in the evening, and learn book-keeping thoroughly."
"Yes, sir," said Tom, in an absent manner.
"You are fond of accounts, I suppose?" said Mr. Phillips, as he
finished his scrutiny of the books.
"Yes, sir; it was because I was so fond of doing sums that father sent
me to the grammar school in the town for a year, after I left the
village school."
"Ah! And he will be pleased to hear you are getting on in London?"
"Yes, sir, he will," replied Tom, feeling quite elated and forgetting
the money he had in his pocket.
"Well, now you may tell him we are very satisfied with the way you have
done your work, and when there is a chance of a rise you shall have it.
But mind, my lad, you must be steady and careful, and not get yourself
mixed up with bad company."
"Thank you, sir, I will be careful," replied Tom, thinking he would sit
down and write to his father after he got home and tell him all about
it.
He knew it would please father and mother too, better than any
Christmas present he could send to them, and he had made up his mind to
do as Mr. Phillips advised, and be more careful of the company he kept,
when once he was out of his present difficulties.
By the time he had put his great-coat on, he had forgotten the money
he had in his pocket, and went out with as light a heart as though he
were still an honest lad. He had forgotten Jack and the races, and
everything else but his father's delight when he got his letter. He
knew exactly what would happen, his mother would go the day after it
arrived to show it to his aunt and then to the rectory. His aunt was
sewing-mistress at the village school, and she would be as proud as his
mother when she heard how he was getting on in this great, splendid
London.
[Illustration: THE STOLEN HALF-SOVEREIGN CHANGES HANDS.]
The City was a very beautiful place to Tom just then, and he forgot
that there was such a person as Jack, until he came suddenly upon him
waiting at the corner of Moorgate Street.
He started and stepped back as he recognized him, and then came the
recollection of the money he had in his pocket. "I didn't expect to see
you, Jack," he faltered.
"And you don't seem killingly glad now you do see me," replied Jack
in something of a huff at his cool reception. "I suppose you have
forgotten all about that money again?" he added reproachfully.
"No, I haven't," replied Tom.
He could have bitten his tongue out the next minute, for Jack said
eagerly, "Then you've got it?"
"Yes, I have," said Tom slowly; "but look here, Jack, I don't like
using it, I feel like a thief, and wish I hadn't touched it."
"Don't be a stupid!" retorted Jack in a tone of contempt. "I was half
afraid you'd funk over the job, but as you've done it, why I think all
the better of you for it."
"I wish I hadn't touched it," exclaimed Tom, with a sigh.
"Oh, that be bothered for a tale—do you think you're the only sharp
chap in London that'll make money out of Tittlebrat with borrowed
money? I tell you what, it is done every day by them as know how to
manage, and nobody none the wiser, and they all the richer."
"I don't care so much about being rich just now, I only wish I was
honest," said Tom with a sigh, fingering the money that still lay
safely at the bottom of his pocket.
Jack was afraid that if this mood continued, he would not get the
money after all, and so he said, "Look here, I can't stop talking
goody-goody Sunday-school sermons now, I must get back or I shall catch
it. Give us the money, for bets at the price I told you must be handed
over to-night, and so if we are to clear our little commission out of
Tittlebrat, I must be going and sharp too."
Most reluctantly did Tom hand over the ten shillings he had taken and
his own shilling, by way of commission.
And having secured this, Jack did not fancy walking further just now
with Tom, for he was not a very lively companion this evening. So he
turned off down one of the streets in City Road, and Tom went on his
solitary walk to Islington.
He blamed himself bitterly now for giving up the money, for the thought
that he was a thief would not be put aside, and he wondered what would
become of him if he did not get this money back to put in his master's
desk, for detection would be certain sooner or later if he failed to
restore it.
He reached home silent and moody, and to his aunt's question whether
he was going out, he replied, he did not care about it, he felt
tired—which was true in a certain sense, for he felt utterly wretched,
and wanted to go to bed and to sleep, that he might forget what had
happened for a little while at least.
So he went to bed early, but he lay tossing about quite unable to go
to sleep, or to think of anything but the events of the afternoon, the
taking the money, the commendation of Mr. Phillips, and the meeting
Jack and giving him the ten shillings.
He called himself all the fools he could lay his tongue to now for
parting with this, for if he had not given it up to Jack, he could have
taken it back the next day and replaced it in the desk, and if it was
found out that the entry in the book and the date when the bill was
receipted did not quite agree, he could tell Mr. Phillips how he had
been tempted and had repented, but now there would be no such way of
escape for him.
After a miserable, restless night he got up, still feeling unhappy and
half afraid to go to the office, for fear something had occurred to
bring his guilt to light.
But Mr. Phillips met him with a cheerful nod, and he went to the desk
again, but he had no disposition to touch the money which passed
through his hands to-day.
At dinner time Bob was full of the coming races, for he and one or two
other lads had made up their minds to win some money out of it. Warrior
was the favourite with Bob it seemed, and in listening to their talk
about this horse and its different points, Tom forgot his misery for a
little while. He did not say that he had staked anything on this race,
and was sorry to hear that Bob felt so sure Warrior was going to win,
that he had parted with all the money he had saved to buy his mother a
warm shawl for the winter.
His mother was a widow, he knew, and had to work very hard, Bob had
told him. The boy was very fond of his mother, and it would grieve him
to have to tell her that he could not buy the shawl, and Tom wished he
could give him a hint of how things really were, and that all his money
would be lost.
Nothing could be thought of or talked of by the boys out of office
hours but the coming race. All that they could possibly scrape together
had been staked on the issue, and when at last the day came, they all
trooped down to Fleet Street, without regard to their dinner, eating a
bit of bread and cheese as they ran, all eager to know the result of
the day's race.
Tom felt almost sick with anxiety, he had not been able to eat any
breakfast, and now it seemed that the bread and cheese would choke him.
But he managed to keep up with the rest, however, and got to the shop
window where there was already a crowd waiting. But the result had not
been telegraphed from Leicester, where this race was to be run, and
so the crowd edged themselves as close together as they could, and
prepared to wait until the news came, or they were compelled to leave
by the lapse of time.
But the race in which the lads had interested themselves was to be one
of the first run, and so they did not have to wait long before the
news was flashed from the northern town to this Fleet Street newspaper
office, and almost as soon as it was known inside, it was made known to
the waiting crowd in the street.
With straining eyes and senses almost reeling from the intensity of his
anxiety, Tom heard the name of the winner proclaimed. "Tittlebrat is
first! Tittlebrat is first!" came the cry in all the varied intonations
of rage, despair, triumph, and relief.
To many a foolish young fellow gathered round that window, it meant
misery and ruin, for what did they know about horses or the ways of
managing them? They had learned which was the favourite each in his own
way, and now that an outsider had won, they felt they had been cheated,
duped; but what could they do? They might feel morally certain there
had been unfair play somewhere, but they could not prove it, dared not
say they had suffered by it, but in grim silence must bear their wrongs
and disappointment, though it should mean starvation and perhaps a
felon's lot in prison for the next few years.
To Tom the relief was so great that he reeled, and would have fallen,
if the good-natured Bob had not caught him as he was slipping to the
ground.
"Hullo, old fellow, are you hit as hard as that?" he said in a tone of
compassion. For all his little store of hardly gathered shillings had
been swept away, and he made sure Tom had also betted on the favourite,
although he had been so quiet about it.
"All right," gasped Tom, after he had rested on the pavement a minute.
"I'll get up now," he said, "or the police will be asking what is the
matter."
"Oh, the police are used to a crowd here on a race day, and won't
notice it. Are you hit over Warrior like the rest of us?" he asked.
But Tom shook his head. "I went on Tittlebrat," he said, and try as he
would, he could not help the tone being a triumphant one.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV.
AN ESCAPE FOR BOB.
"SO you went on Tittlebrat," repeated Bob, as he walked down Fleet
Street with Tom after he had recovered from the fainting fit into which
he had been thrown by the news.
Bob was wishing more than ever that he had not been laughed out of
his principles, for if he had only been firm in holding fast to his
Sunday-school, this certainly would not have happened to him, for
betting had no temptation for him, until he had given this up and tried
to do as the rest did.
"Where did you get the news about Tittlebrat?" he asked, rather
ruefully, as they walked along.
"Oh! A friend of mine told me about it," answered Tom.
"Well, you knew I was going to put all my money on the other, you might
have given me a hint about this," said Bob in a reproachful tone. "I
wouldn't care so much if it wasn't for mother's shawl, but I've been
saving my overtime money for that all the summer, and she will be vexed
when she knows I've just been and thrown it all away; and the way I've
lost it will be worse than all to her."
Tom felt sorry, but he was not in the mood to take the blame of Bob's
disaster. "Wasn't you all dead-set on Warrior?" he said.
"Well, that may be, but still, if I'd got to know that another horse
was sure to win, I would have given you and the other chaps a hint
about how the land lay," answered Bob in the same reproachful tone.
"Well, I had to pay for my tip. Business is business, you know."
But Bob could not help feeling hurt at what he regarded a gross breach
of friendship on the part of Tom, for he knew well enough that if the
case had been reversed, he would have given his own particular friends
no peace until they had put their money on the horse he considered was
sure to win.
It was a revelation to the lad when Tom went on to speak of it as
business, where everyone was bound to consider themselves first.
"Well, if friends ain't to be friends in this, I'd like to know what
the good of it is, and if that's the way racing is to be looked at,
I'll take good care I never have any more to do with it."
Poor Bob went home almost heart-broken over the loss of his mother's
shawl, for so sure had he felt that he should win what he had risked,
and a considerable sum besides, that he had arranged with her to go
with him to buy it early the following week; and it would be hard to
tell which had looked forward to it with the greatest pleasure, Bob or
his mother.
Now for him to go home and have to tell her that the thin old shawl
would have to be worn through another winter was bitter indeed to the
lad, for he had begun to think he might be able to add a bonnet to the
shawl, and then they might both go to church on Sunday. If anyone had
told them that this bitter disappointment was the greatest blessing
that could be bestowed upon Bob just now, they would scarcely have
believed it, for the widow had already told some of her neighbours what
her son Bob was going to buy for her Christmas present, and now to hear
that he had no money left was a sad blow to her.
His mother was ironing when Bob went home, for she was a widow and
maintained herself by laundry-work. She turned to him with a smile of
greeting as he came in, but the boy's white face made her put down her
iron and she asked him, in some consternation, what had happened.
"Have you lost your place?" she asked, for nothing short of this she
thought could account for Bob's downcast looks.
"Worse than that, mother," said Bob, with a half suppressed sob; "I've
lost your shawl."
"Lost my shawl! Bless the boy, it ain't bought yet," replied Mrs.
Ronan, with a puzzled look on her face.
"No, mother, I've lost the money, though, that was to buy it."
"But I thought you told me last week that it was your overtime money,
and that you'd put it in the Post Office to take care of. Surely that
ain't gone and bust up like the banks do sometimes?"
Bob wished it had just then. Anything would be easier than to tell his
mother he had taken it out to bet on horse-racing, for she had warned
him against this only a few weeks before.
She had heard nothing of the matter since, and so she supposed that he
had kept his promise, and had given up all games of chance as she had
begged he would.
To hear therefore that he had drawn out all this little store of money
to bet on the races was a cruel blow to her, and she dropped in her
chair as though she had been shot when she heard it.
"Oh, mother, don't cry," said Bob, bursting into tears himself, and
trying to draw her apron down from her eyes. "Don't, mother, don't," he
pleaded.
But the poor woman felt too heart-broken to dry her tears at once, and
for a few minutes the two cried together.
"Oh, Bob, I have been so proud of you," she managed to say at last; "I
have told everybody what a good, steady lad you were, never giving me
any trouble, but always ready to give me a helping hand with a basket
of clothes when you came home, and never spending any of your money
on yourself, but just saving up your overtime money to buy me a warm
shawl for the winter. And then for you to tell me you've just been and
done the very thing I asked you not to do. Oh dear, oh dear! What will
happen next?"
And the poor woman burst into a fresh flood of tears over the downfall
of her hopes in her only son.
"Mother, you'll just break my heart if you go on like that," sobbed
Bob; "say you'll forgive me, and I'll never bet on horses again, and
I'll never play pitch-and-toss any more, and I'll go to evening-school
and see if I can't learn to write better, and do sums quicker."
Bob knew how anxious his mother was for him to go to Sunday-school
again, but hitherto, he had resisted all her persuasions for fear his
companions at the warehouse should find out that he had gone back,
after telling them he had left.
To hear, therefore, that Bob would conquer his pride and the fear of
his companions' ridicule made the poor woman more hopeful for her boy's
future. "Not that I'm the only one you've grieved, Bob," said Mrs.
Ronan, wiping her eyes and looking straight at her son. "I hope you
don't forget that you've grieved God a good deal more than you have me,
badly as I feel about it."
Bob hung his head and did not reply. He had not thought of his fault
in this light at all, but as his mother spoke, he recalled what he had
often heard at school—about the unfairness, and the selfishness that
all games of chance lead people to commit, and he remembered how he had
complained of Tom Flowers not telling him how he might have avoided
losing his money.
"I see, mother," he said slowly, "people who gamble and bet can't do
to others as they would have others do to them. That's what Tom said
to-day, when I grumbled because he didn't tell me all he knew about
these races. He said everyone must be for himself in this, and look
after the main chance."
"Yes, I suppose so, and the Lord Jesus Christ says, If anyone will be
My disciple let him deny himself, which is just the opposite of what
these racing people say."
"But I wouldn't have served Tom Flowers as he served me," protested
Bob, in some indignation.
"Perhaps not just at first, but I daresay you would have come to it
by-and-by; for what the Lord Jesus taught us as the golden rule of
conduct between us and our neighbours—to do unto others as we would
wish them to do to us if we were in their place, is quite impossible
in all gambling and betting. You can see this for yourself. You say
this Tom is a nice friendly lad, and yet he never told you what he had
heard to save you from losing your money. Don't you see, that those who
win must do so at the expense of those who lose; all cannot win, and,
therefore, your gain must mean loss to somebody else, and so you profit
by robbing another of his money—it is little better than robbery,"
concluded Mrs. Ronan.
"I see, mother," said Bob, humbly, "and if it wasn't for your shawl, I
should feel rather glad that I hadn't won, for I should wonder now who
had lost the money I had got."
"Thank God you didn't win, for if you had, you would never have thought
about it perhaps, but only got into the habit of wanting and spending
money, until this betting became a habit too, and then whatever money
you might win, would cause you to be a ruined lad—ruined in body and
soul, so I can thank God for the loss of my shawl, since it may be the
means of saving my boy," said the widow.
"And you think the game of pitch-and-toss is as bad as betting?" said
Bob, but it was more in the way of confession than asking a question.
What his mother said had so touched him, that he thought he had better
make a clean breast of it, and let his mother know the worst at once,
though it would grieve her, he knew, to hear how every consideration of
right and wrong had been given up since he left the Sunday-school.
"Oh, Bob, you know as well as I do, that pitch-and-toss is only
gambling. Didn't you see some boys taken up by the police for playing
at this game only last week. Oh, my boy, my boy, I little dreamed—"
And here the widow's tears choked her voice, and she put her arms about
her boy's neck, and they cried together for a few minutes again.
But at last Bob said, "Mother, I'll never do it again, I promise you.
Ask God to forgive me, and—and—"
"Let us kneel down together and ask Him to forgive you for the past,
and to help you keep the promise you have just made to me. Without
His help you will fall again, even though you do go to Sunday-school.
Don't forget that, Bob, it must be in God that you trust, not your
school or your teacher. Now let us ask God for this," and together they
kneeled down, and the widow poured out her trouble before God, but did
not forget to thank Him that her boy had been stopped in his downward
course.
And then she prayed that if there were any among his companions who had
been led away by his bad example, they, too, might be brought back to
the path of right, even though the way back should be painful to tread.
The widow did not know why she was led to pray thus, and certainly
did not know how greatly poor, foolish Tom Flowers needed her prayers
just then. But she did know how one boy's example influences another,
and she thought it might be possible that Bob had thus helped to lead
another boy astray, by his bad example at least.
When they rose from their knees, Bob said, "I think I should like you
to tell teacher all about it, mother. He ought to know before I go back
to school, but I shouldn't like to tell him."
"Very well, you go round to the school presently, he will be there
to-night, and ask him to come in and see me."
Bob hardly liked to go upon this errand, but his mother said he must,
and so after tea he went, looking very sheepish as he went into the
school, where so many of his old companions were gathered now.
"Well, Bob, have you come back to us again?" said his teacher, when he
saw him.
"I'm coming, sir, but I'd like you to see mother first, if you wouldn't
mind coming in to speak to her as you go home."
"You haven't lost your place, I hope, Bob," said the gentleman,
noticing the boy's serious looks.
"No, sir, it's nothing about my place," said Bob; "but mother wants to
see you before I come back to Sunday-school."
"Well, I'm glad you're coming back," said the gentleman. "I'll come in
as I go home."
Bob contrived to be out of the way when his teacher came in, that his
mother might have her talk with him alone. But he kept his promise and
went to school on Sunday, and also joined several of the classes held
on week evenings for the improvement of those who desired to continue
their education.
Bob determined to apply himself to arithmetic and writing, for he
had seen by the way in which Tom Flowers had been chosen for office
work, that if he was to rise and be a help and comfort to his mother
by-and-by, he must strive to improve himself in this, and in reading
and spelling too.
Mrs. Ronan was well pleased to see that Bob was determined to turn over
a new leaf entirely as to his conduct. But as he sat at tea a few days
later, she thought she would give him a word of caution to be careful,
and not to forget to ask God's help for the future.
"I'm not likely to forget what a fool I have been while that shabby old
shawl hangs there," said Bob. "I'd a good mind to sell my great-coat
yesterday, for I hate to see you go out in that old shawl this bitter
cold weather." And he looked at his mother to see how she took this
proposal about the coat.
"I should have been very cross if you had sold the coat. You will have
to bear the sight of the old shawl as a lesson, though I don't mind it
a bit now," she added.
"That don't make up to me for the shawl, though," said Bob, with a sigh.
"Perhaps not to you, but if I see you working steadily at these school
lessons, I shall feel proud of you yet, Bob, though you did take me
down a peg or two over that shawl I'll not deny. For I had counted on
it, and told Mrs. Hooper about it, and we had discussed what the shawl
should be, until I felt almost as though I had been robbed when you
came and told me I could not have it."
Bob sighed. "Poor mother, I was sorry to have to come home and tell you
about it. I had some thought of running away instead of coming home
that night, for I didn't know how I was to tell you what a fool I had
been."
"That would have been mending matters with a vengeance," said Mrs.
Ronan, with a scared look in her face that such a thought could enter
her boy's head. "Why, what do you think I should have done then if you
had gone?"
"I suppose I was thinking more about having to tell you and how I could
get out of it," admitted Bob frankly.
"Yes, how you could shirk being made uncomfortable by what you had
done. That is the reason most people run away from their duty, and,
like the cowards they are, care nothing for the trouble and grief they
cause their friends. I am glad you were brave enough to come and tell
me all about it. We have both had to suffer some pain, but it may be a
useful lesson to us both, and I feel sure now I shall be as proud as
ever of my boy, in spite of what has happened."
"So you shall, mother," said Bob heartily, "I mean to stick to
Sunday-school now I have begun again, and I mean to try my hardest at
the writing and arithmetic, so that I may get a rise some day, and save
you from working so hard at the washtub."
"Well, of course, I shall be glad for you to get on, my boy, but I
want to see if you can't do something to induce your friends at the
warehouse to give up all gambling games."
"Ah! That's easier said than done," said Bob, with something of a sigh
as he rose from the tea table. "You see, if you ain't in the swim with
the rest you're just nowhere, and that's where I am now. They've found
out that I have gone back to school, and as I don't join in any of the
games, they take care not to let me know what is going on among them.
That was just how it was I had to join in with them before. A chap has
to do like the rest for peace sake."
This was all Bob said, but his mother knew that her boy was having a
hard fight, and she took care that his struggle was not made harder
when he came home. The old shawl was put out of sight for a time, for
the boy had no need of this to remind him of what had taken place, and
since it had become a reproach to him, she resolved that he should not
see it more than she could help.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER V.
APPLES OF SODOM.
TOM went home the evening of the race, feeling wonderfully elated,
hugging to himself the knowledge of his good fortune, but not daring
to let his aunt know anything of it. He had to sit and eat his bread
and butter at tea time as though nothing had happened, which in itself
was almost a pain just now. For he was bursting to tell the news to
somebody.
If he could only have done this, he might have been able to eat as
usual, but, as it was, every mouthful seemed as though it would choke
him. And at last his aunt noticed the pile of bread and butter still
on the plate, and said, "What is the matter with you this evening? You
don't get on with your tea."
"I am not very hungry," said Tom in a tone of indifference, but with a
smile playing about his lips that did not escape his aunt's notice.
"What's taken your appetite away?" she asked rather sharply.
"I don't know," said Tom, rising from the table now, for he did not
like his aunt's scrutiny.
He had not learned to tell a lie unblushingly yet; and Mrs. Flowers, as
she watched him go out of the room, nodded her head sagaciously:
"There is something a-foot I know," she said half aloud, as Tom closed
the door, and she resolved to watch him more closely for the next few
days.
Of course, Tom was all impatience to go and meet his friend Jack, and
he made sure he should find him waiting at the corner of the street for
him, for surely Jack would be as eager to talk the good news over as he
was.
But to his disappointment there was no one to be seen at the street
corner, and he walked along in the direction of Jack's home in the hope
of meeting him. The evening was raw, and little scudding showers of
sleet fell every now and then, making most people hurry home as fast as
they could, but Tom did not notice this small discomfort in the growing
anxiety he felt at Jack's continued absence. He suddenly remembered
that although Jack had told him his home lay in this direction, he did
not know his address, or where he could find him if he failed to make
his appearance.
He walked on for nearly a mile, and then turned and walked back at a
quicker pace, fearing that he might have come from another direction,
and was now waiting at the corner where they usually met. But when he
got back, there was no Jack to be seen, and then an awful fear began to
creep over his mind. Suppose he should never come to meet him again. He
had got the money that was to be risked on the race! Suppose he went
off with the winnings!
In spite of the cold wind and sleet that came beating in his face as
he gazed round, Tom went hot all over at the thought. And yet it did
not shock him that such an idea as this had entered his head concerning
this bosom companion of his. In fact, the notion that this might happen
grew stronger, as the minutes went on, and Jack did not make his
appearance.
"I might have expected it," muttered Tom under his breath; "I have been
a fool to think he would come when he had all that money safe in his
hands."
But although he said this, he still paced up and down the road,
watching eagerly each figure in the distance that at all resembled
Jack's.
In spite of the cold he stayed out later than usual, for he dreaded to
go home, and wondered what would become of him if he could not replace
the ten shillings he had "borrowed" from his master's money.
But at last the clock of a neighbouring church struck ten, and Tom, as
he counted the strokes, felt the tears slowly well into his eyes, for
he knew it was useless to wait longer now—Jack would not come.
The utter misery of the lad as he slowly walked down the street
homewards can better be imagined than described. And this was the night
of his triumph too. Tittlebrat had won the money for them that they had
talked of so much, and this was the way he had to celebrate the victory.
He felt too miserable to eat his usual slice of bread by way of supper,
and went up to bed as quickly as he could, that he might escape his
aunt's watchful eyes, for he felt that she was suspicious of him,
careful as he had been to keep his secret to himself.
He lay shivering with cold and misery long after his uncle and aunt
came upstairs, and when at last he did fall off into an uneasy sleep,
his dreams were of policemen coming to arrest him for the robbery
or murder he had committed—sometimes it was one and sometimes the
other—but Jack was always the person he had murdered; and truly the
feeling he felt towards him now was fitly pictured in these hideous
dreams, for nothing short of hatred towards the false friend who had
led him astray could find a place in his heart now.
It was a relief to him when morning dawned and it was time to get up,
though he then became aware of a dull aching in all his limbs that
betokened a bad cold. But the misery of his mind made him almost forget
the uncomfortable feeling of stiffness and soreness in his bones, and
when his uncle remarked at the breakfast table that he did not look
well, he passed it off without making any complaint.
The truth was it had flashed upon him as he came downstairs that if
he admitted having taken cold the previous evening, he would not be
allowed to go out again after he returned from work that day.
So in spite of his throat being sore, and his limbs so stiff he could
not move without pain, he bore all the discomfort without a word, and
swallowed as much as he could of his breakfast, for fear of his liberty
being curtailed in the evening.
How he got through that miserable day he did not know, for his head
ached, and he felt dull, yet was kept perpetually on the alert lest the
customer who had paid the money he had taken should come in and speak
about it, or bring the receipt back through some informality in it, for
he felt sure now that he had not made the bill out quite right, and
that it would be sure to come in again, and then the whole tale of his
theft would have to be told.
But at last the misery of sitting and glancing every now and then
towards the door, in the expectation of seeing his accuser walk in,
came to an end, and he breathed more freely when the place was closed,
and he could put on his coat to go home.
But just as he was leaving, he was thrown into another fright, for Mr.
Phillips said in a kindly tone, "You had better not come to-morrow if
your cold is no better, I expect the other lad back, and so we shall
not be so driven but what you can take a day off to get well."
Tom had to take hold of a post supporting the ceiling to keep himself
from falling as he heard these words. "The other lad come back
to-morrow," he repeated inwardly, and the horror that filled his soul
at this news made itself seen in his face, only Mr. Phillips had turned
away and there was no one else to see the look of agony that all in a
moment swept over the boy's countenance.
But he had to conquer this and say "Good-night" in a tone calm and
unconcerned, though how he managed to hide his misery he never knew.
When he got outside, and away from all watchful eyes, he leaned up
against the wall, seriously to consider whether he should not put an
end to this awful suspense by delivering himself up to the police at
once, and confessing what he had done. Nothing could be worse than the
torture he now endured, but when he lifted his eyes suddenly and saw a
policeman looking at him, all his courage went, and he pulled himself
together with an effort, and turned to walk away.
"What is it, my lad?" asked the man, placing himself in front of Tom so
as to bar his further progress.
"I felt giddy—I've got a bad cold," said Tom rather incoherently.
"Where do you work?" asked the policeman, laying his hand on his
shoulder, and turning him round to the light of the neighbouring
gas lamp, but whatever the suspicion was in the man's mind, Tom's
appearance convinced him that his statement was correct, for he was
shivering as if struck with ague now, and he said in a more kindly
tone, "You ought to be in bed, not out of doors such a cold night as
this."
"I'm going home now," replied Tom very meekly, for he felt he dare not
give a policeman a saucy answer just now.
"Yes, you get home as fast as you can, or you'll be worse," said the
policeman in a tone of compassion, for it was easy to see that the boy
was not fit to be out in the chill evening air.
How Tom staggered home and kept up an appearance of being pretty well
during tea time he alone knew, but he did manage it, and went out
afterwards to see if he could find Jack.
To-night he was not disappointed, though he rather disgusted his friend
by the way he ran to him exclaiming, "Oh, Jack, Jack, why didn't you
come last night?"
"Come last night," repeated Jack coolly, "what would have been the good
of that?"
"The money, Jack, the money!" said Tom, in an imploring tone.
"Well, the money's all right. I suppose you found out that Tittlebrat
was first, as I said he would be. I suppose you will believe another
time that my tips are worth more than I charge for them," he said, in a
sneering tone.
"Oh, never mind the tips now, it's the ten shillings I stole."
"Stole," interrupted Jack, in an impressive whisper. "That's an ugly
word to use, I wouldn't talk like that if I were you."
"I daresay not; you haven't got to face the master if it should be
found out as I have," replied Tom, in a tone of passive misery.
"Oh, come now, don't be in a funk about that, the money is all right,
and if you borrowed that ten shillings of your master—"
"If I borrowed it," interrupted Tom, "didn't you tell me to borrow it?"
he demanded fiercely.
"Well, suppose I did. How was I to know where you were going to get it
from? That wasn't my business, was it? I tell you of a good thing, the
way a lot of money can be made without any trouble, only it wants money
to breed money always, and if I say to you get ten shillings for a few
days, and I can put you in the way of making it half as many pounds
before you can say Jack Robinson, how am I to know where you get the
money from?"
"But you did know well enough," replied Tom, rather indignantly. "You
told me that lots of other chaps did that sort of thing, and I might as
well do the same, but I'll take good care I don't any more," he added,
emphatically.
"Oh, come now, you're cross about something, I can see. What's amiss
with you this evening?" said Jack, in a different tone.
"Why didn't you come last night as you promised?"
For answer Jack burst into a loud fit of laughter. "You're enough to
make a cat grin, Tom," he said, by way of excuse. "Anyone could tell
you've never had a taste of London life before. Come last night," he
repeated, "why, how could I? I was miles away from London. Perhaps
you'd have liked me to write about our business that your dragon of an
aunt might have opened the letter."
Tom turned hot and cold at the thought of this happening, but still,
he repeated, "You ought to have let me know if you couldn't keep your
promise."
"I never made the promise," retorted Jack, growing angry as Tom cooled.
"I said I would come if I could; but what would have been the use
of coming last night, you knew that Tittlebrat went straight to the
winning-post, wasn't that good enough?"
"No, not for me," replied Tom. "I wanted the ten shillings I stole to
put back in the desk, and return it to my master."
"Oh, of course, it was the money, I knew all about that," said the
other; "it's always the same, you're always in a great hurry to return
what you've borrowed, I daresay."
"Yes, I am," replied Tom, "and especially now, when nobody knew I had
borrowed it."
"And so you thought you would get the money last night. What an idea
you must have of business, and how things are managed among gentlemen!"
Jack spoke in a tone of supreme contempt.
"Well, you said we should get the money as soon as ever the race was
run," replied Tom.
"And when was it run, pray?" demanded the other, in a tone of indignant
expostulation.
"Why, yesterday, and, of course, I expected it last night."
"More fool you then!" retorted Jack, losing his patience again.
"Well, I don't see that I was such a fool," said Tom. "You said as soon
as the race is run you will have your money down on the nail, and, of
course, I thought I could take that ten shillings back this morning."
"Oh, hang the ten shillings!" interrupted Jack. "I tell you I haven't
got all our stakes paid over to me yet, and so I can't pay you, and
that's flat."
"Then I may as well go and give myself up to the police at once,"
groaned Tom, stopping short in his walk, as though he contemplated
throwing himself into the arms of the next policeman who came along.
The look of despair in his face alarmed Jack, and thrusting one
hand into his pocket he drew Tom along with the other, for fear of
attracting attention.
"Look here," he said, "you shall have the ten shillings. I have got
that much for you, only I was going to ask you to lend it to me for a
day or two, just to give me a chance to turn a penny or two more before
Christmas. But, of course, if you must have it, you must," and as he
spoke, he reluctantly drew from his pocket a half-sovereign, and gave
it to Tom.
But he looked surprised when Tom's hand closed upon the coin.
"I thought you would be sure to let me have it for a day or two," he
said in a tone of reproach.
"So I would," replied Tom, "if it was my own. But, look here, it may
be too late now to put that back without being found out. Just as I
was coming away to-night, I heard that the desk boy was coming back
to-morrow, and if he comes, how am I to get that back and entered in
the book. And if it isn't entered, the bill will be sent in again soon,
and then there is my name on the receipt and I shall be clean bowled
out over it."
"I suppose you must have it then," said Jack rather ruefully, but still
looking as though he thought Tom ought not to take it.
But Tom took care to put it safe into an inside pocket, and when he had
buttoned up his coat again he said, "When can I have the rest, Jack?"
"The rest?" repeated the friend who had been so profuse in his
assurances that all racing money was paid the moment the race was
settled. "What do you mean by the rest?"
"Why, this is just the money you had to place on Tittlebrat, there is
two pounds five more coming to me."
"Is there, and what about my commission—you don't suppose I can go
about and do this sort of business for nothing, do you?"
"You never said anything about commission before. I gave you the
shilling for that, I thought," added Tom.
"I tell you what it is," said the other, after a pause, "you ain't fit
to be about London at all, you're only just fit to run errands about a
country village. Carry mangling clothes home, and wait for the money
before you hand over the basket, that's what you're fit for, Tom; and
you ought to go home to your mother to-morrow."
This was said in such a tone of withering contempt, that poor Tom felt
half inclined to hand back the half-sovereign merely to get back Jack's
good opinion again, but fear, lest if he did this he should never get
the chance of restoring it, prevailed, and he went home with it secure
in his pocket, though he and Jack parted very coolly through it.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VI.
A FRIGHT FOR TOM.
TOM'S cold was not much better the next morning, but he went to work
as usual, for it might be the last chance he would have of putting
back the ten shillings that had caused him far more anxiety than any
pleasure he might get out of his winnings would ever compensate for.
And if he had found that the lad who usually took the desk had returned
to his employment, then he would have been in worse trouble than ever.
But fortunately for Tom, a message was brought from the boy's father
saying he was still too unwell to come back, and so Tom went to the
desk again, and in the course of the day entered the bill he had
received a day or two before and put the money back.
It was so great a relief to his mind when this was done, that his
companions noticed the difference in him, and one or two asked if he
had been paid what he had won on Tittlebrat, and suggested that he
ought to stand hot drinks all round when they went out at dinner time,
for as he was the only one among them who had made anything out of that
race it was only fair that he should do this.
But poor Tom had not a penny he could call his own, although he found
it hard to make the others understand this. They badgered him so about
his winnings, that in a moment of inadvertence, he let out the fact
that he had received ten shillings the previous evening.
"Ten shillings!" shouted one. "Why, that's more than ever I had in my
life. What a swell you must be, Flowers! I say, we shall want cake all
round, as well as hot drinks out of that. What do you say?" he added,
addressing himself to Bob.
If it had been his own case, Bob would have responded heartily enough
to the proposal, not only for hot drinks and cake, but some other
delicacy into the bargain, and that Tom should not do the same was
something beyond comprehension to all of them.
But however willing Tom might have been to stand treat, if he had got
the money, he was obliged to shake his head now. "I really can't," he
said in a serious tone, trying to push his way through the ring they
had formed round him.
"Can't stand us a drink round, and—"
"I'll have clove," shouted one, interrupting the speaker.
"I'll have raspberry," said another.
"Oh, bother raspberry, I'm going to have pineapple," put in another.
"Suppose we walk him off to the shop and order what we like and then he
can pay for it," suggested one of the party.
"I won't, though, I can tell you," said Tom, getting angry at being
thus baited.
"Look here, you fellows, it ain't fair," put in Bob, when he saw they
were going to walk Tom off by main force to the shop. "You leave it to
me, and I'll talk it over with Flowers." And he linked his arm in Tom's
to walk with him, and this would probably have pacified the rest, but
Tom would have nothing to do with any of them now. He regarded Bob as
being one of his tormentors, and pushed him aside when he came near him.
But in spite of this rough treatment, he contrived to say, "Look here,
Tom, it's the usual thing to stand treat round when one of us gets a
slice of luck, like you've got over Tittlebrat. Not that I want it for
myself, for I shan't have a chance of returning it, so I won't take it,
because I've promised that I'll never have any more to do with betting
or gambling of any sort, I got bit so hard over this."
"So have I," interrupted Tom, in a tone of bitterness.
Bob opened his eyes to hear this. "I thought you stood to win a lot of
money on Tittlebrat?" he gasped.
"So I did, but I ain't got it yet," replied Tom.
"But—but—I thought you told the fellows just now that you had ten
shillings last night?"
"So I did; but I had to pay it away directly, for I had borrowed it."
Bob uttered a low whistle. "Borrowed it," he repeated. "My, suppose you
had lost?" And he fixed his eyes on Tom as he spoke.
"Oh, but I knew I shouldn't lose; I had a sure tip about that, or I
wouldn't have done it."
"Who lent you the money—your aunt?"
"My aunt? Catch her at it. No, no, they know nothing about it at home.
My friend Jack managed it all for me."
"And gave you the tip, too?" asked Bob. At that moment he felt sorely
tempted again, but he bravely told of the promise he had given his
mother. "It was the shawl that did it," he explained, and then he told
Tom how he had risked every penny he could scrape together on the
favourite horse and lost it all.
"It was a pity," said Tom, thinking of Dick's gloves when Bob spoke of
his mother's shawl.
"Yes, and I was in a fright when I had to tell mother where the money
had gone. But still, it might have been worse, for if I had borrowed
money as you did, and lost that, I should have been in a worse fix, and
you might be in that hole now, you know, Tom."
Tom turned deadly pale at the suggestion. "Yes, I might," he said. But
it was not a pleasant subject to think of, and so he contrived to turn
the conversation, and when he had an opportunity turned back to the
warehouse for the rest of the dinner hour, instead of going on with the
rest of his companions.
He took care to avoid Bob when they went home, for fear he should say
any more about the borrowed money. The very mention of it put him into
a fright, especially since he had told him that he had not got it from
his aunt or uncle.
As soon as he got indoors, his aunt told him that his uncle had left
word that he was going to bring the gloves home with him, and he was to
write the letter to send with them before he went to bed.
"Very well, aunt," said Tom, trying to speak indifferently, but really
wishing he had never heard of the gloves, for he had no money to pay
for them, and unless he met Jack that night and got some from him, he
would have to tell his uncle that the shilling he had the week before
had gone now; and what his aunt would say he hardly cared to think.
So as soon as he had finished his tea, he slipped out without saying a
word to his aunt, and she did not know he had gone, until she called
him down to begin his letter, when finding he did not answer, she went
to see if he had gone to bed, and then found out, that he must have
gone out, as the room was empty.
Meanwhile Tom had gone to look for his friend Jack, in the hope of
obtaining at least a part of the money he had won on the race.
But although he met his friend a few minutes after he reached the
corner of the street, Jack appeared to be greatly surprised that he
should want more money from him so soon. "What can you be in such a
hurry about? Are you afraid I shall run away?" he said petulantly. "I
told you last night it was impossible to get it all in a minute. I gave
you ten shillings; how much more do you want?"
"Why, I want my share, of course," replied Tom, whose temper had not
been improved by what he had put up with from his companions at the
warehouse. "You talk about giving me ten shillings, you only gave me
five."
"You're a liar, I gave you ten," said Jack.
"Yes, but you owed me five of it, so that I have only had five of my
share," retorted Tom, in the same angry tone.
"And what about my commission? You always seem to forget that."
"You don't, though. What do you mean about commission? Didn't I give
you a shilling for telling me about Tittlebrat? How much more do you
want?" asked Tom.
"Why, my commission, to be sure. Do you think bookmakers can live on
air, or that they have good berths among City swells?"
"Well, then, we will cry quits about the five shillings I lent you,
although you never said anything about it when you had it, and I
thought you meant to pay me back."
"What do you mean by that?" demanded Jack, in a more angry tone.
"Didn't I tell you yesterday that I wanted my commission?"
"And I say you can have it out of the ten shillings. I say we cry
quits, and when you've paid me up the rest of the money you owe me,
I'll never have any more to do with racing and betting as long as I
live."
"Don't be a fool, Tom," said the other, in a changed tone. "You shall
have your money right enough, and I'll make you a present of what I
usually charge for commission. Suppose we go into the music-hall just
below here, and there we can settle up?"
"Can't we do it here?" said Tom sulkily. "I want to get back and write
a letter before I go to bed."
"Oh, blow the letter, that can wait. We've never been to a music-hall,
and it would be a shame not to go to-night."
"Oh, very well, then, we'll go," said Tom, who would have been ready to
go anywhere for the chance of getting some money just then.
So they went to the brilliantly-lighted hall, and it was not wonderful
that the country lad should be so dazzled with the music and singing,
and all that went on, as to well-nigh forget the special object for
which they had come. His companion hoped he would altogether forget
it, and when an hour had passed and Tom was still listening in rapt
admiration to the music, his companion thought he might safely slip out
and leave Tom to go home by himself.
But Tom was on the alert as soon as Jack rose from his seat, and rose
too. "Are you going now?" he asked. "Let's have our settlement first,"
he added, "or there will be no end of a row over those gloves I told
you about."
"Oh, bother the gloves," muttered Jack as he sat down again. "You're
a sharper, Tom," he added, by way of flattering Tom, for he had no
intention of letting him slip through his fingers without making a
little more profit out of him, and to do this in the future it would
be better to let him have some of the money that had been won by means
of the ten shillings. So as they sat down again, he pulled a handful
of silver out of his pocket. "Will a pound do for to-night?" he asked,
in a tone of grand indifference, as though pounds were as plentiful as
blackberries in autumn.
Tom's eyes sparkled at the sight of so much money. "Yes, that will do,"
he said in a tone of eagerness, thankful for the chance of getting it.
But he soon found it was not all to be his.
"You'll stand treat for to-night's expenses, of course," said Jack,
counting fifteen shillings into his hand.
Tom counted, too, and looked a little surprised when his friend put the
rest of the money back into his pocket. "I thought you said I was to
have a pound off my account?" he ventured to say.
"And haven't you got it?" demanded Jack, with a frown.
"No, there's only fifteen shillings here," replied Tom.
"And didn't you agree to stand treat for to-night?" demanded the other.
"I've done it a good many times for you," he added.
"But—but—you only paid two shillings to come in," said Tom.
"And what about the drinks we have had?" asked Jack, who had been
drinking gin-and-water pretty freely all the evening.
"I only had a bottle of ginger-beer," replied Tom.
"Well? And I told you I didn't like ginger-beer, and didn't you say I
was to have what I liked? I tell you, Tom, you don't know how to behave
like a gentleman," concluded Jack in a tone of contempt.
"Oh, well, if it's all right I don't mind," said Tom, thinking he had
better make the best of it.
"Are you coming now?" he added, as he put the money into his pocket.
Jack shook his head. "Sit down again, Tom," he said. "What's your
hurry, it ain't ten o'clock yet."
"But I must go or I shall get into no end of a row at home, for aunt
told me not to go out till I had written that letter."
"Ah! Petticoat government, I understand," said Jack, in a tone meant to
be facetious.
"When will you have the rest ready for me?" asked Tom, lingering a
minute to lean over Jack's seat.
"Oh, very soon, my boy, very soon; we are good friends, you and I, Tom.
I won't hurt you, never fear," he added in a maudlin tone.
"All right," answered Tom. "Good-night." And then he made his way out
of the hall and ran home as fast as he could.
With all that money in his pocket he was not afraid to face his aunt
and uncle, even though he had not written the letter. But it would not
do, he thought, to let them see he had so much money, for they would be
sure to ask inconvenient questions.
So before he went indoors, he tied up most of the money in the corner
of his pocket-handkerchief, and only put the eighteenpence he wanted
for his uncle into his purse.
As he expected, he was met with a storm of reproaches from his aunt,
because he had not done as he had been told, but his uncle came in
while his aunt was scolding and he soon put an end to it.
"There will be time enough to-morrow," he said, "only it must not be
left later, if Dick is to have the gloves for Christmas. What money
have you got towards them now, my lad?" he asked, as he pulled a small
parcel out of his pocket.
"All of it, uncle," said Tom in a tone of triumph, producing his purse
and laying the money down upon the table.
"Halloo! This ain't the shilling I gave you for the halfpence the other
day," said his uncle, picking up the one he had laid down, and looking
at it curiously.
"What is it?" asked Mrs. Flowers, putting down her work and leaning
over the table.
"Why, look at this queer mark in it; I am sure if the one Tom had from
me the other day had been marked like this, I must have noticed it."
And his uncle turned the shilling about under the lamplight as though
he would look through it as well as outside it.
His aunt turned her eyes from the shilling to glance at Tom, and he
coloured up under her gaze. "I—I lent that shilling to a boy, uncle,"
he stammered, "and he paid me to-night. That was why I had to go out."
"What boy did you lend it to?" asked his uncle, still turning the
shilling about in his fingers.
"The boy I told you about a little time ago—Jack."
"Jack what?" asked his aunt.
"Hasn't he got another name?" put in his uncle, finding Tom did not
answer this question.
"Yes, he has, I expect, but I don't know it," answered Tom, in a sullen
tone, and darting an angry glance at his aunt.
"You mean to tell me you lent a boy a shilling and don't even know what
his name is?" said his uncle severely, putting the money down on the
table to turn and look at Tom.
Tom could answer this question truthfully enough, and he said without a
quiver in his voice, "Yes, uncle, he told me his name was Jack, and I
told him my name was Tom Flowers, but I don't think he ever said what
his other name was."
"And you never asked him?" said his aunt, in an incredulous tone.
"I think I asked him once, but he didn't hear what I said, I suppose,
for he said something else, and I never asked him again."
"Well, it's a very strange story," said his aunt, suspiciously. She had
never had children of her own, and knew nothing of the ways of boys, or
she might not have been so surprised at this.
Her husband was not. But the mark on that shilling troubled him, and
instead of putting it loose in his pocket, he put it into his purse to
take care of it, in case any more should be heard of it.
Tom went to bed uncomfortable enough, for he had no such confidence in
Jack as to feel reassured about the matter, and so there was another
night of hideous dreams for him.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VII.
THE WAY OF TRANSGRESSORS IS HARD.
AT breakfast time the next morning Tom's uncle took the shilling again
from his purse, and turned it about in his hand. "I hope you haven't
got yourself mixed up with any young thief, Master Tom?" he said. "I
saw one of your people yesterday, and he told me you were getting on
very well, and if this lad who has been away on account of his health
is not able to come back, you would stand a very good chance of getting
into the office altogether, and that would be a good lift for you."
"Yes, uncle," said Tom, in rather an absent tone, for he was wishing he
had never seen Jack, or had kept clear of having anything to do with
him.
He went to work feeling desperately miserable again, and wishing he had
never come to London, but had been content to be a blacksmith like his
father. But this last wish did not last long. Oh, he could not live in
the country all his life, he was quite sure, he said to himself.
The fuss his uncle had been making over the shilling being marked need
not frighten him. He had not stolen it. And even if anyone found out
that he had got it, they were not to know how it was Jack had to pay
him this money, unless he told, and he made up his mind he would not do
that.
He also decided that he would not go to meet Jack that evening, but
stay at home and write a letter to his mother and Dick to send with the
gloves.
On his way back he stopped to look into a shop window at the Christmas
cards displayed in tempting profusion, for he thought he might buy
one for his mother, without telling his uncle anything about it; for
if he knew he had more money than the eighteenpence he had paid for
the gloves, he might ask a good many inconvenient questions about the
matter.
It was some time, however, before he could make up his mind which one
to select, and at last when the choice was made, and he went into the
shop to buy it, he found to his dismay that he had got no money to pay
for it.
While the man was wrapping up the card, Tom was turning out his
pockets. There was a ball of string, sundry ends of blacklead-pencil,
his empty purse, but the pocket-handkerchief in which the whole of his
wealth was tied up in one corner was not to be found.
"What is it?" asked the man, after waiting for a minute or two, while
Tom searched through another pocket.
"I have lost my money," gasped Tom.
The man came round the counter to look on the floor, thinking he had
just dropped it. And Tom himself gazed round the shop in the hope of
seeing the familiar red handkerchief, for it seemed impossible that it
could have vanished since dinner time.
He tried to recollect whether he had taken it out since he had counted
over his treasure during the dinner hour, but he could not remember
doing so. He did not go out for a walk to-day, for fear Randall and
the rest of them should set upon him again to treat them to hot drinks
and cakes, for Tom had no notion of spending this money on anyone but
himself. He had enjoyed his visit to the music-hall, and meant to go
again with Jack, when this fuss about the marked shilling had blown
over a little.
He had thought of all this as he counted the money over at dinner time,
and to think that the whole of it had vanished, and with it all chance
of going to see the splendours of the place again was very hard.
"Was it sixpence or a shilling that you dropped?" asked the man, as
he searched among the toys and walking-sticks that stood about on the
floor.
"I had it all tied up in my handkerchief," replied Tom.
"Tied in a handkerchief," repeated the man; "then you can't have lost
it here, you must have dropped it before you came into the shop, or
else somebody took it out of your pocket for you."
But Tom shook his head to this suggestion. If he had walked home with
Bob Ronan, he would have thought this had been done, for Bob might do
it for a joke just to frighten him, but Bob had left him while he was
putting on his overcoat, and he had not seen him since.
But it was clear the pocket-handkerchief and all it contained was
beyond his reach now, and it was of no use waiting to look for it here.
"You can take the card and pay me for it when you go past in the
morning," said the shopkeeper as Tom was leaving.
Tom hesitated, but at last, thinking that he should have his week's
threepence the next day, and that his mother would expect him to send
her some remembrance of Christmas, he decided to take the card, saying
as he did so, "I may not be able to pay you until to-morrow evening,
but I suppose that will do?"
"Oh yes, that will do, you're riot a stranger about here, I know, for I
often see you pass in the morning. I hope you will find your money at
home," he added, as Tom took up the little paper parcel and went out of
the shop.
"I hope I shall," said Tom from the doorway, and just then a policeman
came from the window, where he had evidently been looking in, and
turned his attention to Tom as he sauntered past.
"I hope he'll know me next time," muttered Tom, with an uncomfortable
feeling, as he thought of the shilling his uncle had got secure in his
purse.
He wondered as he went along how much more annoyance he was to have
through this money. Certainly, he had got nothing but misery out of it
at present, it was time his "luck" changed in this respect, he thought.
As soon as he got home, he went to his own room, and looked round,
as we are all apt to do when we have missed anything that yet seems
impossible we can have lost entirely. Tom knew he had taken his money
out at dinner time, and counted it, and yet he searched round the room
at home, as though he expected to find it there.
This rushing off upstairs before he had thoroughly cleaned his boots
on the doormat vexed his aunt, who prided herself on the spotless
condition of her stair covers, which had just been laid down for
Christmas.
"Tom, Tom," she called, "what business have you to go upstairs until
after tea? I have just put down clean drugget, and it will not be fit
to be seen in a week, if you run up and down stairs as you like."
[Illustration: AN UNWELCOME VISITOR.]
Tom came slowly down, and went into the back parlour to his tea, but he
had only just seated himself when there came a knock at the door. Tom
did not as a rule trouble himself about who came to the street door,
and why this particular knock should make him start and tremble he
could not tell, but his hand shook so, as he lifted his teacup, that he
was obliged to put it down again, and listen to what was going on at
the end of the passage.
"Your name is Flowers, I believe?" he heard a gruff voice say.
And his aunt replied in her stiffest tones, "Yes, it is, what do you
want?"
"Well, it's a little business I have to see your husband about—has he
come in yet? The lad who lives here has, I know, for I saw him as I
came along."
"Yes, and you can see him again. Tom!" she called, coming down the
passage as she spoke.
Tom could have wished he was deaf just then, but it was of no use to
pretend that he did not hear, though he was only just dragging himself
out of the chair when his aunt appeared at the door.
"Did you hear me call you, Tom?" she said, looking at him very
suspiciously.
"Yes, I'm coming. Who wants me?" he said, trying to speak indifferently.
He knew before he rose from the tea table who he was likely to see
standing there on the doormat, and yet when his eyes fell on the
uniform of the policeman who stood just under the gaslight, his knees
threatened to give way under him.
"Yes, that's the lad; I thought I wasn't mistaken," said the man.
And Tom expected to be seized and carried off, but the man turned away
again as soon as he had identified him.
This gave Tom a little more courage. "What do you want me for?" he
ventured to ask.
"Oh, you'll know all in good time, my man," said the policeman, turning
to his aunt and whispering something to her.
"You can go back, Tom," she said, turning and speaking over her
shoulder.
Tom went back, but he had no more appetite for his tea. He listened
intently to what was being said at the street door.
But beyond hearing his aunt say, "Yes, he is sure to be in about ten,"
which Tom guessed referred to his uncle's return, he could hear nothing.
But he noticed that his aunt locked the street door before she came in,
and when he went out to wash himself, he looked and saw that the key
was not in the lock as usual, so he concluded that the door had been
fastened to keep him in.
He wondered whether they thought he would run away if he had the
chance, but turning things over in his mind, Tom decided that if he
only stuck to his tale that he had merely lent Jack a shilling, which
he repaid with a marked one, nothing else need be known, and surely he
could not be blamed for that.
So while he washed himself, he made up his mind what he would do and
say when the policeman came again, as he had no doubt he would as soon
as his uncle came home.
He wrote his letters during the evening, one to his mother into which
he put the Christmas card, and in which he told her how well he was
getting on, and how he expected to be permanently put into the office
soon. Then there was one to his aunt at the village school, and this
had to be carefully written, for he knew this would go to the rectory,
and so the same story was told to her, but in more carefully chosen
words.
Dick's letter to be sent with the gloves was written next, and in this
Tom gave a glowing account of his life in London and the splendid
streets, where people could walk at night as well as in the daytime.
The two last were left open for his uncle to see, but Tom fastened
up his mother's, for he did not want him to know he had bought the
Christmas card, for fear he should ask inconvenient questions, and he
had made up his mind to stick to the story that he had only lent Jack a
shilling.
He felt sleepy, but his aunt said he must stay until his uncle came
home, and so he had to sit yawning and gaping for nearly an hour.
But at last his uncle's key was heard turning in the lock. And then his
aunt ran along the passage, calling, "Wait a minute," while she found
the key of the larger lock and unfastened the door.
"What does this mean, Maria?" asked his uncle.
But instead of replying, uncle and aunt both went into the front
parlour, and a few minutes later there came the loud knock at the door
such as they had heard at tea time.
The policeman was asked into the front room, and then the door closed
and Tom could only hear the indistinct murmur of voices.
He wished he could know what was being said, but he firmly made up his
mind to say nothing about the betting, but stick to his tale about
lending Jack a shilling only.
Presently the door of the front room opened and his uncle came in,
followed by the policeman and his aunt.
"It's warmer here," remarked his uncle, taking no notice of Tom, but
motioning the policeman to a seat near the fire.
"No, thank you," said the man, seating himself so that he could have
the light of the lamp on Tom's face.
"Now, Tom," began his uncle, "we want you to tell us all about the
shilling you brought home last night."
"I told you, uncle, Jack gave it to me."
"Ah, but how was it this Jack came to be giving you shillings, that's
what I want to get at?" And if Tom had not been so pre-occupied in
resolving not to say a word that should reveal what really had taken
place, he must have noticed that there was an almost imploring ring in
his uncle's voice as he added, "Now, Tom, tell the truth, the whole
truth, and nothing but the truth."
"I have, uncle," said Tom, assuming an air of indignant protest.
"Do you mean to say you only lent this boy a shilling. When did you
lend it?" asked his uncle more severely.
"Oh, the other day," replied Tom indifferently.
"Yes, but what day?" persisted his uncle.
"Last week, I think, the day after I told you I'd got a shilling
towards Dick's gloves," answered Tom.
"Did this Jack ever say anything to you about betting or card-playing?"
asked the policeman, with a look that made Tom drop his eyes.
"No," he answered in a sullen tone.
"Now, Tom, if you know anything, tell us about it at once," implored
his uncle.
But Tom shook his head. "I've told you all about it," he said.
"And you've nothing more to say?" enquired the policeman.
"What more did you want me to say?" asked Tom, in a tone of insolence.
"Where did you get the money to buy the Christmas cards with?" The
policeman asked the question in a matter-of-course tone.
And Tom started, but recollecting that his mother's letter was fastened
up, he thought he might brave it out.
"I didn't buy any Christmas cards," he said; "you must be mistaken."
But the policeman shook his head. "I know my business too well for
that," he said. "Didn't you tell the man you had lost some money that
was tied up in a pocket-handkerchief?"
Tom hesitated, and turned rosy red, but thinking as the handkerchief
and money was gone, he might as well deny ever having it, he answered,
"No, I haven't lost any money."
Then the policeman turned to his uncle. "It's a bad business
altogether, I am afraid," he said. "I thought this lad might have been
led away by that artful young bookmaker, as several others have, but
it seems to me he can hold his own for artfulness and lying with Jack
himself. Just let him put on his coat and come with us, and I'll take
you to the shop where he bought this card, and you will hear that he
could not find his money, and the shopkeeper let him have the card, and
he promised to take the money to-morrow evening."
The policeman rose as he spoke, and at the same moment his eye fell on
the corner of a letter that had been pushed under a book, as they came
into the room. "What is this?" he said, pouncing upon it instantly.
"That's my mother's letter," said Tom, trying to snatch it from the
policeman's hand.
"Let me see it," interposed his uncle, and the next minute he had torn
open the letter, and drew out the Christmas card.
"Now, what do you say to him being a truthful boy?" exclaimed the
policeman as Mr. Flowers laid the Christmas card down on the table.
"Tom! Tom! What can have possessed you to tell such a lie?" he said.
Tom hung his head, but did not reply. Even now the foolish boy was
considering how much he might safely hide, and how much he had better
tell. At last he had made up his story.
"I had lent Jack more than one shilling," he said, "and he paid me
altogether, and gave me sixpence for interest."
"How much did you have altogether?" asked his uncle.
"Two shillings and sixpence," answered Tom.
"I don't believe it," said his aunt, now speaking for the first time.
The policeman made no comment, but he felt sure they had by no means
got to the bottom of the mystery yet, and after a few more questions,
the policeman and Mr. Flowers went into the next room to talk the
matter over.
What conclusion they arrived at Tom did not know, but when his uncle
came back he told him he might go to bed, and that he should go with
him to the warehouse in the morning, and see what he could find out
there that would throw light upon his doings.
Tom heard now that some lad had been robbing his master to pay his
betting debts to this Jack, and at last some marked money was paid to
him, and the very shilling Tom had given to his uncle for the gloves
was part of this marked money.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VIII.
CONCLUSION.
TOM kept up an appearance of not caring for anything the policeman had
said, so long as he was in the presence of his uncle and aunt, but as
soon as he got up to his own room all his courage forsook him, and he
burst into tears, and cried softly to himself for nearly an hour after
he got into bed.
He was beginning to dread these restless nights with their hideous
dreams, and he knew this would be, as others had been, a terror and
a torment until morning came, and what awaited him in the morning he
dreaded to think.
In the morning he found his uncle was fully determined to carry out his
intention of going with him to the City, and speaking to Mr. Phillips
of what had happened, and the two started out together.
Very little had been said at breakfast time, and the two walked
silently along the road, for Mr. Flowers had made up his mind not to
appeal to Tom's better feelings any more. In point of fact, since he
had talked the matter over with his wife, and heard all she had to say,
he had come to the conclusion that his nephew was very little better
than this Jack himself, and that he had been altogether deceived in him.
They had walked some distance towards the City, when all at once Tom
heard his name called, and looking round he saw Bob Ronan running
towards him, and flourishing a red handkerchief, the one he had lost
the previous day.
"I didn't know it had got money in it," roared Bob, as he came panting
along, quite oblivious of the presence of Tom's uncle until he came up
to them, and then he started with open mouth, as Mr. Flowers turned
round, and holding out his hand said, in a severe tone, "You give me
that handkerchief, my man."
Bob looked from one to the other and saw that things had gone wrong
with his friend somehow, and thought his own love of fun might have
caused the trouble.
"I hope you ain't angry with Tom because he lost this money, sir," he
said, looking hard at Tom as he spoke.
"Never mind that now, you just give me the handkerchief, and tell me
where you got it?"
"Why, out of Tom's pocket, to be sure," said Bob. "I only did it for a
lark, just as we were going home last night, and if I'd knowed there
was money tied in it, I wouldn't have touched it."
"What do you know about this money?" asked Mr. Flowers, rather
severely, eyeing him as though he was as much to blame as Tom for what
had happened.
"Why, I know it's his own," answered Bob, resenting the tone in which
he had been addressed, and determined to defend Tom, as he supposed. "I
suppose he told you it was his own—what he won on Tittlebrat the other
day, I expect."
"You expect," repeated Mr. Flowers. "What do you know about it?"
"Why, I know he won a lot of money on Tittlebrat," avowed Bob. "Didn't
he tell you so himself?"
"Never mind what he told me. What did you win on this race?"
Bob shook his head, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. "No
more racing for me," he said. "I've given my mother my word, and I
don't mean to break it for nobody. For I just chucked away her new
shawl over this, and if that ain't enough to choke a fellow off, I
don't know what is."
Mr. Flowers could not help smiling at the boy's rueful face as he said
this. He admired him, too, for the determination with which he spoke,
and he said, "Did you tell your mother what had happened, my boy?"
"Ah, that I did. I just had it all out, though I thought it would break
her heart to hear that all the money I had saved to buy her winter
shawl had been thrown away on these races."
"Then it was your own money you risked?" said Tom's uncle.
Bob stared at the question. "To be sure it was. Did you think I stole
it?" he said rather resentfully.
"No, I don't think you would, my boy, but some other lad has been doing
this, and I must find out how far Tom has mixed himself up with him in
the matter."
As he spoke, he untied the corner of the handkerchief, and took out the
money, looking at it carefully as he did so. "Have you touched this at
all, my lad," he said, turning to Bob. He would not say a word to Tom
again after the denials he had given last night about this money.
Bob shook his head. "When I found there was money in it—and I didn't
find it out till I got home—I just stuffed the handkerchief into my
coat pocket ready for the morning, and didn't take it out till I saw
Tom coming along here."
"Very well; now, you see, I have tied it up again as you gave it to me.
I may want you to remember this by-and-by, my lad."
Bob wished he could have a word with Tom about the matter, but he
walked on as though the affair did not concern him at all, and yet his
companion felt sure that something very serious must have happened by
what his uncle said.
In his pity for Tom, and wishing to help him, he said at last, "You
don't think Tom stole this money, do you, sir? Because I know he
didn't. He told me all about winning on Tittlebrat when we went down
Fleet Street."
"I wanted Tom to tell me all about the affair, but he said he had got
no more money then."
"Well, hadn't Bob got it?" put in Tom.
"You know what I meant well enough. The policeman had seen you with
this Jack very often lately, and wanted to find out whether he had
given you any marked money. If you had told the whole truth about the
matter, there would have been an end of it, but now I must go to Mr.
Phillips and ask him to look into his accounts and make sure that he
has not been robbed as well as this other gentleman."
Tom turned pale as his uncle said this, but Mr. Flowers did not notice
it as he went on talking to Bob. Perhaps, if he had any suspicion of
the real facts of the case, he might have acted differently, but he
supposed Tom was afraid to tell all the truth for fear of getting his
friend Jack into more trouble, and he thought the threat of going to
Mr. Phillips would be sufficient to induce him to tell out all he knew
about Jack, whom he felt sure had duped Tom as he had other lads.
But although Tom had turned a shade paler when his uncle said what he
intended to do, he thought his theft would never be discovered now the
ten shillings had been replaced, and so he walked on silently by his
uncle's side until the warehouse was reached, and then, to his great
relief, he heard that Mr. Phillips was not expected to arrive until
late this morning, and so his uncle could not see him.
Tom walked to the desk feeling as though a load had been lifted from
him, and thinking the matter would probably blow over now, for his
uncle could not wait to see Mr. Phillips, and he would have left the
City again long before his uncle could get away.
It was nearly twelve o'clock before that gentleman came, but just
behind him walked the customer who had paid Tom the ten shillings a few
days before.
"Thompson, why has Mr. Longton's order not been executed?" called Mr.
Phillips, as he came in.
"Mr. Longton's order? I have none, sir," replied the foreman.
Mr. Phillips turned to the customer. "I told you I had heard nothing of
it," he said; "your messenger must have forgotten it."
"But I gave the order myself more than a week ago. Let me see, why I
paid the last bill to the lad at the desk at the same time, it was
only a small item, but I wanted to clear that account off to which it
belonged, and I dropped in one evening just as you were closing."
"More than a week ago," repeated Mr. Phillips; "then the lad who took
the order is not here to-day, for he has been laid up with a bad cold."
"No, he's at the desk now," said Mr. Longton, looking round and seeing
Tom as he lifted his head from his writing; "that's the lad I gave the
order to when I paid him the ten shillings. Don't you remember it, my
lad?" he said, walking up to the desk and confronting Tom.
But instead of owning that he had forgotten the order, as he clearly
had, he stuck to it that he had never received it.
"Do you remember me paying you the ten shillings just as you were
leaving the desk?" asked the gentleman.
No, Tom did not remember anything about it, he said; and Mr. Phillips
felt sure the order must have been given to the absent desk boy, when
the customer suggested that they should refer back to the book and they
would see by that when the bill was paid, and whether this lad or the
other was to blame for the neglect.
So the book was produced and the pages turned back to the day when Mr.
Longton declared he had paid the bill and given the order. But the name
of Longton or anything referring to a payment of ten shillings was not
to be found.
"It would be the last thing entered for that day, I should think," said
the customer, with a keen look at Tom.
Mr. Phillips ran his finger all down the page, but of course it was not
there. "How is this, Flowers?" asked the gentleman, sternly.
"Perhaps—perhaps I forgot it then, and put it in afterwards," stammered
Tom, feeling he must say something with those piercing eyes of Mr.
Longton's fixed upon him.
"I'll run over and fetch the receipt," said that gentleman. "I should
like to have this cleared up now," he added. "That young rascal has
been tampering with the money, I know," he muttered to himself as he
went out; "I wonder whether he has been dabbling in betting like that
young fool of mine," for strange to say it was one of Mr. Longton's
clerks who had paid the marked money to Jack.
He soon returned with the receipt and laid it before Mr. Phillips.
There was Tom's name written on it, as having received ten shillings
on behalf of Morton & Co., but all the searching through the books for
that day, and the one following, had not shown that it had been entered
to the firm's account, and consequently it could not have been paid
over.
Tom declared he had entered it and paid the money, but he would not say
a word beyond in explanation of the fact, and so having looked through
the whole of the accounts for the next day, and finding it was not
there, Mr. Phillips decided in his own mind that the money had been
appropriated by Tom for his own use.
Then Mr. Longton told him of how he had been served by a young clerk
whom he trusted implicitly, until he had marked some money, and got a
friend to pay it in to this young man, and only a small portion of it
found its way back into his drawer.
Under these circumstances, Mr. Phillips decided to send for Tom's
uncle, and he was locked up in the manager's room until his uncle came.
Mr. Phillips explained something of the matter to him before he took
him to his room, but when he brought him in he said, "Now, Mr. Flowers,
unless he tells the whole truth about the matter, I shall feel bound to
send for the police at once, and have him locked up."
"It is what I have tried to make him do," said Mr. Flowers.
It was plain that, bad as he might have thought Tom before, he had
never dreamed it would come to this, and even Tom himself was touched
by the despairing look in his uncle's face as he dropped into a chair
opposite to Mr. Phillips.
"Now, Mr. Flowers, I have no wish to be hard on the boy, if he will
only tell the truth about the matter; but, of course, with the number
of lads we have here, I cannot pass it over. I have heard from one or
two that your nephew has been betting on horses lately, and now I shall
expect him to tell me the whole truth about it, or else the police must
take it up. And when he leaves this room, it will be in the custody of
a policeman."
"I will tell you," said Tom, with a gasping sob, "I used the ten
shillings Mr. Longton paid, but I never meant to steal it, and I put it
back as soon as ever I could get it from Jack. It wasn't the day after
I borrowed it, but the day after that. I can show you where it is put
down," added the wretched boy, for his cup of misery seemed full, now
that the theft had been discovered that he had striven so long to hide.
So the books were brought and there he pointed out the entry placed in
the midst of the day's transactions, that it might escape Mr. Phillips'
notice when he looked over the books at the end of the day.
Tom was thankful indeed that he had been able to replace the money, but
oh, what would he not have given to have the last three months of his
life over again, or even the last month? But now he felt his chance
of making his way in London was at an end for ever. He told his uncle
and Mr. Phillips now all about his friendship with Jack, and how he
had been persuaded to "borrow" the money to bet on Tittlebrat, and how
difficult he had found it to get any of it back.
Then Mr. Flowers told what he had learned from the police that a good
deal of marked money had been traced to this Jack, and it was probable
that he himself saw the marks after he had taken it, and, so to get
rid of it and screen himself from suspicion, he had paid Tom half his
winnings with this marked money.
Then the gentlemen conferred together as to what would be best for
Tom's future under these changed circumstances; for, of course, Mr.
Phillips could not keep him, nor could he give him a character that
would get him another place, so that his prospects in London were
ruined.
"It is a mercy for him he was found out before things went any
further," remarked Mr. Phillips, as he wished Mr. Flowers good-day.
His uncle had not made up his mind what to do with Tom, but as they
walked through the warehouse, and he saw how his former companions now
looked at him, he felt sure that Mr. Phillips was right, and that it
would be impossible for him to stay any longer in London.
In spite of it being so early, his uncle took him home, and when he got
there he said to him, "Now go and put your things together, my boy, we
shall have to start early in the morning; it is Christmas day. A sorry
Christmas you have made it for all of us."
"Where, where are we going?" asked Tom, with a half-scared look in his
face.
"Home to Heatherdene, of course; there is no other place for you."
"Oh, uncle, pray forgive me, and give me another chance, and I will
never do such a thing again," pleaded Tom.
"I hope not indeed, my lad. I trust that this will be a lesson you will
never forget; but you must learn as others have had to do, that though
some things may be repented of, no amount of repentance will ever do
away with the evil they bring with them, and leave behind them. You
must go to Heatherdene and see if you can live down this wrong-doing by
learning to be as good a blacksmith as your father, for London and its
temptations is no place for you."
In vain Tom wept and pleaded and promised. The time for promises had
gone by, and though his uncle really felt sorry for the lad, and still
more for his parents, yet he felt that it would never do for him to
stay longer, and in this view of the matter his wife fully concurred.
So on Christmas afternoon Tom and his uncle arrived at the little
village, to the surprise and consternation of everybody who saw them,
for one look at Tom's miserable face was enough to convince them that
something had gone wrong.
But who can describe the bitter grief of his mother when she heard the
miserable tale! Her Tom, her darling, the one she had been so proud of,
and who she felt sure would do such great things if he only had the
chance—for him to be little better than a thief! Oh, it was terrible.
Tom never knew before how much his mother loved him, or how she
had built her hopes on his future, until he saw her grief over his
disgraceful return after three months' stay in London; and this grief
he is never likely to forget.
The widow's prayers for the lad, whom her Bob had failed to help when
help was possible, were heard and answered, though it was a long and
bitter trial to Tom, the living down the miserable mistake he had made.
The story of his grievous fall had to be told to one and another, and
friends looked at him askance, even when he was striving by honest toil
at his father's forge to atone for the past so far as he could.
But even this was made to work for good to the lad at last, for he
himself learned to turn to God for comfort and help in his trouble, and
He who was ready to forgive, was also ready to help him.
So far from sneering at the Sunday-school now, as he had done when
he was in London, Tom was thankful to be admitted to the Bible-class
again, and under the instruction of his teacher, he learned to conquer
the pride and arrogance that had really led to his grievous fall.
But in spite of all this, it was uphill work for Tom to have to live
among his old neighbours. They looked upon all he did with suspicion,
for to them, the dangerous friend who had led him astray was a mere
shadow, but it was a grim and awful fact that Tom only just escaped
from being sent to the assizes for stealing his master's money, and
this they were not likely to forget.
That Tom's repentance was deep and true and sincere was, however, soon
tested by his treatment of his brother Dick, whom he had always looked
down upon as being rather "soft," because he did not bluster and stand
up for his "rights," as Tom had always done.
In point of fact, no one had appreciated quiet Dick except his sister
Polly, until Tom came back from London, and then, after a time, the
quiet, unobtrusive attentions of Dick, when everybody else had turned
away from him, brought the first ray of comfort and hope to Tom's mind.
When he went out for a lonely walk to escape the cruel looks of the
neighbours, Dick would steal after him, though Tom knew he would far
rather have been at his books by the fireside, than wander up and down
the wintry lanes.
At first Tom had felt too sick and sore to take any notice of this
silent ministry of sympathy, and beyond clasping the hand that was
slipped into his, he took no notice of his brother.
But by degrees, he began to talk to Dick of the books he liked to
read, and so the boy's confidence was won, and then he began to think
that Dick should have been sent to the grammar school rather than
himself, until at last he decided to speak to his father about this,
for it was plain Dick would never be strong enough for a blacksmith,
and he had such a love of books, and especially those on chemistry and
electricity, that Tom felt sure if these tastes of Dick's could only be
cultivated, he would become a clever and a useful man.
But it was not easy to convince his father that it would be good for
Dick to go to the grammar school. He had had too much of that already,
he declared; Dick should not have the chance of ruining his life as Tom
had done.
It was hard for Tom to go over the old, painful story, but he did it to
convince his father that his education was not to be blamed for the bad
use he had made of it. He even promised to apply himself more closely
to the forge, in order to earn the money that was necessary to pay for
Dick's schooling, if his father would only consent to let him go.
This promise of Tom's had the greatest influence with the blacksmith,
for hitherto Tom had shown no liking for his father's trade, and had
only done what he was obliged in a perfunctory sort of fashion, and
unless he could be induced to take it up more heartily, and give more
attention to it, he would be a very poor sort of blacksmith at the best.
So for Tom's own sake, his suggestion was at last taken up, and Flowers
consented that Dick should go to the grammar school, if Tom would
undertake to earn the money to pay for it. There was always plenty of
work to be had if Tom would only stick to it, so there was not likely
to be any difficulty on this score.
To see Dick's delight when he heard that he was to go to the school,
where they taught the subjects that had been as a fairy tale to him,
repaid Tom for the pain he had endured in talking to his father about
it, and to think his younger brother was to have this chance of a good
education, nerved him to overcome his dislike to being at the forge all
day, as he must be now.
It was hard for him to overcome this distaste and pin himself down to
work steadily under his father's direction, but by degrees the conquest
was made, and he had his reward when Dick came home of an evening and
told them of the wonderful things he had learned, and the experiments
he had seen made in the course of the lesson.
By degrees the lad lost his shyness from his habit of now talking to
Tom, while as for Tom himself, he actually began to take a pride and
pleasure in his work, so that his father was able to trust him to do a
job throughout without fear of the customer complaining that the work
had been scamped.
It was by this means that Tom at last won back the character he had
lost in London, though people were slow enough to trust him at first.
"Tell your father he must be sure and do this job himself," was a
message Tom often had to deliver when he was left in charge of the
forge for a little while.
Grim enough would Flowers look when he received such, for he knew all
too well what it meant. "They don't believe you will give honest work,
my lad," he would say with a bitter look at Tom.
But after some months, things began to change in this respect. To work
for Dick's schooling had been a great sweetener of toil to Tom, but at
last he began to take the same honest pride in his work that his father
did, and people finding that his work was not scamped, soon ceased to
give the offensive message, and at last one and another began to pass
the time of day with him again, and some of the farmers as they stood
waiting and watching him would remark, "Your son will make a good
blacksmith after all."
To hear this was very sweet for Flowers, for he had always wanted Tom
to learn his trade, and help him in it. And so when Tom began to give
proof that he was likely to be a good blacksmith, he felt consoled for
the failure of the London plan.
It was in Dick, however, that Tom felt the greatest reward for his toil
and painstaking efforts to get on. The little, shy, delicate lad, who
would never have been strong enough to wield his father's hammer, was
making such good progress at school, that masters as well as friends
began to feel quite proud of him, and in this Tom could feel he had a
right to share, for had he not conquered himself in order that Dick
might have this chance?
Slowly but surely public opinion began to turn towards Tom again, and
people as they talked over the old story, as they would sometimes
remember to have heard, said that Tom had been rather foolish than
wicked over what had happened in London. But they all agreed that,
for Tom at least, it had been a good job that he had had the bitter
lesson, for he was less proud, less arrogant and exacting as to his own
"rights" and far more considerate of the rights of others.
So God brought good out of the evil at last, although for this Tom had
to wait and suffer many an unmerited sneer, and endure many a cold
look. For the world is slow to forget such a slip as Tom had made at
the outset of his life—a slip that is the ruin of many a promising
lad, and might have been for Tom, if he had not bravely set himself to
work to overcome all difficulties and all dislikes for the sake of his
brother Dick—and by this means made his three months in London, and
the acquaintance of his dangerous friend, a means of ultimate good by
seeking the help and blessing of God in conquering himself for the sake
of another.
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