Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
MRS. RONAN'S GRIEF AT HER SON'S LOSS.
Frontispiece.
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.
CHAPTER
VII. THE WAY OF TRANSGRESSORS IS HARD
A DANGEROUS FRIEND
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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."
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.
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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