My Friend Smith Part 29

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

HOW MY FRIEND SMITH AND I CAUGHT A YOUNG TARTAR.

The novelty of our life in London soon began to wear off. For the first week or so I thought I never should grow weary of the wonderful streets and shops and crowds of people. And the work at the office, while it was fresh, appeared--especially when enlivened by the pranks of my fellow-clerks--more of a game than downright earnest. My eight s.h.i.+llings a week, too, seemed a princely allowance to begin with, and even the lodging-house in Beadle Square was tolerable.

But after a month or so a fellow gets wonderfully toned down in his notions. I soon began to pine inwardly for an occasional escape from the murky city to the fresh air of the country. The same routine of work hour after hour, day after day, week after week, grew tame and wearisome. And I began to find out that even the lordly income of eight s.h.i.+llings a week didn't make the happy possessor, who had to clothe and feed himself, actually a rich man; while as for Mrs Nash's, the place before long became detestable. The fact is, that I, with no cheerier home than Brownstroke to look back on, became desperately homesick before three months in London were over; and but for my friend Smith, I might have deserted entirely.

However, Smith, solemn as he was, wouldn't let me get quite desperate.

He was one of those even-tempered sort of fellows who never gush either with joy or sorrow, but take things as they come, and because they never let themselves get elated, rarely let themselves get down.

"Fred," he said to me one day, when I was in the dumps, "what's wrong?"

"Oh, I don't know," said I, "I'm getting rather sick of London, I think."

"Not much use getting sick of it yet," said he. "Time enough in fifty years."

"Jack," said I, "if I thought I had all my life to live here, I should run away."

"You're a duffer, old man. Aren't you getting on at Hawk Street, then?"

"Oh yes, well enough, but it's most fearfully slow. The same thing every day."

Jack smiled. "They can't alter the programme just to suit you."

"Of course not," I cried, feeling very miserable; "of course I'm an a.s.s, but I'd sooner be back at Stonebridge House than here."

"By the way," said Smith, suddenly, "talking of Stonebridge House, who did you think I ran against to-day at dinner-time?"

"Who, old Henniker?" I inquired.

"Rather not. If I had, I think I should have been game for running away along with you. No, it was Flanagan."

"Was it? I should like to have seen him. What's he doing?"

"Not much, I fancy. He says his brother's a solicitor, and he's come up to loaf about in his office and pick up a little law."

"Oh, I like that," I cried, laughing. "Think of old Flanagan a lawyer.

But didn't he say where he was living?"

"Yes, Cabbage Street, in Hackney. I forget the number. I say, Fred, suppose we take a stroll this evening and try to find him out. It'll do you good, a walk."

I gladly consented. We gave Mrs Nash due notice that we should not be home to supper, and might possibly be out after ten, and then sallied forth. Hackney was a good four miles from Beadle Square, and by the time we had discovered Cabbage Street it was almost time to be returning. But having come so far we were resolved we would at least make an effort to find out our old schoolfellow. But the fates were against us. Cabbage Street was a new street of small houses, about a third of a mile long. Even if we had known the number it would have taken some time to discover the house; but without that information it was simply impossible. We did try. Jack took the left of the street and began knocking at the odd numbers, starting from 229; while I attacked the even numbers on the right side. But as far as we went no one knew of a Flanagan, and we had to give it up.

It was half-past nine when we finally abandoned the search and turned our faces Citywards once more.

"Horrid sell," said Jack. "We shall have to find out where his brother's office is from the Directory, and get at him that way."

We walked back hard. Mrs Nash's temper was never to be relied on, and it was ten to one she might lock us out for the night.

Luckily Jack was up to all the short cuts, and he piloted me through more than one queer-looking slum on the way.

At last we were getting near our journey's end, and the prospect of a "lock-out" from our lodgings was looming unpleasantly near, when Jack took me by the arm and turned up a dark narrow pa.s.sage.

"I'm nearly certain it's got a way out at the other end," he said, "and if so it will take us right close to the square."

I followed him, trusting he was right, and inwardly marvelling at his knowledge of the ins and outs of the great city.

But what a fearful "skeery"-looking hole that pa.s.sage was!

There were wretched tumbledown houses on either side, so wretched and tumbledown that it seemed impossible any one could live in them. But the houses were nothing to the people. The court was simply swarming with people. Drunken and swearing men; drunken and swearing women; half-naked children who swore too. It was through such a company that we had to thread our way down my friend Smith's "short cut." As we went on it became worse, and what was most serious was that everybody seemed to come out to their doors to stare at us. Supposing there were no way through, and we had to turn back, it would be no joke, thought I, to face all these disreputable-looking loungers who already were making themselves offensive as we pa.s.sed, by words and gesture.

I could tell by the way Smith strode on that he felt no more comfortable than I did.

"You're sure there's a way through?" I said.

"Almost sure," he answered.

At the same moment a stone struck me on the cheek. It was not a hard blow, and the blood which mounted to my face was quite as much brought there by anger as by pain.

"Come on!" said Smith, who had seen what happened.

Coming on meant threading our way through a knot of young roughs, who evidently considered our appearance in the court an intrusion and were disposed to resent it. One of them put out his foot as Smith came up with a view to trip him, but Jack saw the manoeuvre in time and walked round. Another hustled me as I brushed past and sent me knocking up against Jack, who, if he hadn't stood steady, would have knocked up against some one else, and so pretty certainly have provoked an a.s.sault.

How we ever got past these fellows I can't imagine; but we did, and for a yard or two ahead the pa.s.sage was clear.

"Shall we make a rush for it?" I asked of Jack.

"Better not," said he. "If there is a way through, we must be nearly out now."

He spoke so doubtfully that my heart sunk quite as much as if he had said there was no way through and we must turn back.

However, what lay immediately before us was obscured by a suddenly collected crowd of inhabitants, shouting and yelling with more than ordinary clamour. This time the centre of attraction was not ourselves, but a drunken woman, who had got a little ragged boy by the collar, and was beating him savagely on the head with her by no means puny fist.

"There!--take that, you young--! I'll do for you this time!"

And without doubt it looked as if we were to witness the accomplishment of the threat. The little fellow, unable even to howl, reeled and staggered under her brutal blows. His pale, squalid face was covered with blood, and his little form crouching in her grip was convulsed with terror and exhaustion. It was a sickening spectacle.

The crowd pressed round, and yelled and laughed and hooted. The woman, savage enough as she was, seemed to derive fresh vehemence from the cries around her, and redoubled her cruel blows.

One half-smothered moan escaped the little boy's lips as she swung him off his feet, and flung him down on the pavement.

Then Jack and I could stand it no longer.

"Let the child alone!" cried Jack, at the top of his voice.

I shall never forget the sudden weird hush which followed that unexpected sound. The woman released her grasp of her victim as if she had been shot, and the crowd, with a shout on their lips, stopped short in amazement.

"Quick, Fred!" cried Jack, flying past me.