My Friend Smith

"How punctual you two are!" said he.

"Need to be punctual," growled Doubleday, "when I've got to hand you over the petty cash."

"Oh!" said Hawkesbury; "the petty cash? My uncle was saying something about my keeping it. I think it's a pity he couldn't let it stay where it was; you're so much more used to it than I am. Besides, I've plenty of work to do without it."

"I suppose I shall get some of your work to do for you," said Doubleday--"that is, if I'm competent!"

Hawkesbury laughed softly, as if it were a joke, and Doubleday relapsed into surly silence.

It was still some minutes before the other clerks were due. Hawkesbury used the interval in conversing amiably with me in a whisper.

"I'm afraid Doubleday's put out," said he. "You know, he's a very good sort of fellow; but, between you and me, don't you think he's a trifle too unsteady?"

What could I say? I certainly could not call Doubleday steady, as a rule, and yet I disliked to have to a.s.sent to Hawkesbury's question.

"He's very steady in business," I said.

"Yes; but at other times I'm afraid he's not," said Hawkesbury. "Not that I'm blaming him. But of course, when a fellow's extravagant, and all that, it _is_ a temptation, isn't it?"

"Do you mean a temptation to be dishonest?"

"Well, it's rather a strong way of putting it. I don't suppose for a moment Doubleday is not perfectly trustworthy; no more does my uncle."

"I should think not," said I, rather warmly.

"Of course not," said he, sweetly; "but you know, Batchelor, prevention is better than cure, and it seems the kindest thing, doesn't it, to put temptation quite out of a fellow's reach when one can?"

"But," observed I, "it seems to me you are taking it out of Doubleday's reach and putting it into your own."

For an instant a shade of vexation crossed his face, but directly afterwards he laughed again in his usual amused manner.

"You forget," said he, "I live at home, and haven't the chance of following Doubleday's example, even if I wished to. In fact, I'm a domestic character."

He seemed to forget that he had frequently accepted Doubleday's hospitality and joined in the festivities of the "usual lot."

"I thought you lived at your uncle's?" said I.

"Oh, no! My father's rectory is in Lambeth. But we're just going to move into the City. I don't enjoy the prospect, I can a.s.sure you! But I say, how are you and your friend Smith getting on now?"

He was always asking me about my friend Smith.

"The same as usual," said I.

"That's a pity! He really seems very unreasonable, considering he has so little to be proud of."

"It's I that have got little to be proud of," replied I.

"Really, Batchelor, you are quite wrong there. I think it's very generous the way you have always stuck to him--with certainly not much encouragement."

"Well," said I, "I shall

Hawkesbury mused a bit, and then said, smilingly, "Of course, it's a very fine thing of you; but do you know, Batchelor, I'm not sure that you are wise in appearing to be in such a hurry?"

"What do you mean?" I said.

"I mean, I shall be as glad as any one to see you two friends again: but if you seem too eager about it, I fancy you would only be demeaning yourself, and giving him a fresh chance of repulsing you. My advice as a friend is, wait a bit. As long as he sees you unhappy about it he will have a crow over you. Let him see you aren't so greatly afflicted, and then, take my word for it, he'll come a good deal more than half way to meet you."

There seemed to be something in this specious advice. I might, after all, be defeating my own ends by seeming too anxious to make it up with Jack Smith, and so making a reconciliation more difficult in the end. I felt inclined, at any rate, to give it a trial.

But the weeks that followed were wretched weeks. I heard daily and regularly from Billy all the news I could gather of my friend, but before Smith himself I endeavoured to appear cheerful and easy in mind.

It was a poor show. How could I seem cheerful when every day I was feeling my loss more and more?

My only friends at this time were Hawkesbury and Billy and young Larkins. The former continued to encourage me to persevere in my behaviour before Smith, predicting that it would be sure, sooner or later, to make our reconciliation certain. But at present it did not look much like it. If I appeared cheerful and easy-minded, so did Smith. The signs of relenting which I looked for were certainly not to be discovered, and, so far from meeting me half way, the more unconcerned about him I seemed, the more unconcerned he seemed about me.

"Of course he'll be like that at first," said Hawkesbury, when I confided my disappointment one day to him, "but it won't last long.

He's not so many friends in the world that he can afford to throw you over."

And so I waited week after week. I saw him daily, but our eyes scarcely ever met. Only when I glanced at him furtively I thought him looking paler and thinner even than usual, and longed still more intensely to call him my friend and know why it was.

"Most likely he's fretting," said Hawkesbury, "and will soon give in.

It's a wonder to me how he's held out so long."

"Unless he speaks to me soon, I'll risk everything and speak to him."

"I can quite understand your anxiety," said my counsellor, "but I really wouldn't be too impatient."

I tried to find out from Billy the reason of Jack's altered looks.

"Yaas," said he, in response to my inquiry whether he had heard if my friend was ill--"yaas, he do look d.i.c.ky. `Governor,' says I, `what's up?' I says. `Up,' says he, `what do you mean by it?' says he. `Go on,' says I, `as if you didn't know you was queer!' `I ain't queer,'

says he. `Oh, no, ain't you,' says I; `what do you want to look so green about the mazard for, then?' says I. `Oh, that's nothing,' says he; `reading late at night, that's what that is,' says he. `Turn it up,' says I. `So I will,' says he, `when my Sam's over,' says he.

Bless you, governor, I'd like to give that there Sam a topper, so I would."

So, then, he was reading for an examination! This paleness, after all, did not come from fretting on my account, but because he had found an occupation which drove me from his thoughts evening after evening!

I felt more hopeless of recovering my friend than ever.

"Do you go to the ragged school still?" I asked.

"Yaas, a Fridays. I say, governor, look here."

He dipped his finger into his blacking-pot, and, after cleaning the flagstone on which he knelt with his old hat, proceeded laboriously and slowly to trace an S upon it.

"There," he cried, when the feat was accomplished, "what do you think of that? That's a ess for Mr Smith, and a proper bloke he is. He do teach you to-rights, so I let you know, he do."

"What else does he teach you besides your letters?"

"Oh, about a bloke called Cain as give 'is pal a topper, and--"

He stopped abruptly, as he noticed the smile I could not restrain, and then added, in his offended tone, "I ain't a-goin' to tell you. 'Tain't no concern of yourn."