Chapter I: A Scrimmage in the Office

‘You young brute, why don’t you mind what you’re doing, blundering about?’

‘I couldn’t help it, Jenkins; it was quite an accident. Your foot was stuck out, and I stumbled over it.’

‘It was nothing of the sort, you clumsy wretch; and take that to remind you that I’m _Mr_ Jenkins.’

As he spoke, the lanky, pale-faced youth rose from the table, where he had been sitting nibbling the end of a quill, and soundly boxed the ears of a small, delicate-looking boy who, while carrying an inkpot across the office, had stumbled and upset some of the black fluid upon the lavender-coloured continuations of Mr Silvester Jenkins.

Not content with boxing the boy’s ears, Mr Jenkins seized him by the arm, which he twisted savagely.

‘Oh, oh--Jenkins! don’t--please don’t! You do hurt!’

‘And I will too, you young pig!’

The scene was taking place in the close and dismal office of Messrs Phogg & Cheetham, Solicitors, House Agents, &c. The tiny windows, partly covered with a wire blind and partly with big bills, allowed but little daylight to penetrate into the office, Messrs Phogg & Cheetham seeming to prefer, in more senses than one, working in the dark.

While the boy’s cries still rang out, a third person, who had been seated in the darkest corner of the office, perched up on a high stool, making entries in a book of vast dimensions, quietly descended from his seat, and in two strides stood before Mr Jenkins.

This third person was a well-set-up, handsome young fellow of about sixteen, with a firm chin, clear-cut features, and honest hazel eyes.

‘Leave Mallinson alone,’ he said quietly to Mr Jenkins; ‘you’re hurting him.’

‘And a good job too. He’s spoilt my trousers!’

‘It was an accident, and he’s sorry. Now let him go.’

‘I sha’n’t, and you mind your own business, John Blair, or you’ll get kicked out into the gutter.’

A slight flush crept into Blair’s cheeks, and Jenkins gave Mallinson’s arm another twist that made the poor boy almost shriek with pain. This was more than the quick temper of Jack Blair could stand.

The pent-up animosity of months broke out; and, never pausing to consider the probable consequences of his act, or to remember that the dandified being before him was his master’s nephew, he caught Mr Jenkins by the collar, shook him as a terrier would a rat, then hurled him across the office, where he fell with a crash in the fireplace.

Picking himself up, with a snarl of rage Jenkins seized a heavy ebony ruler, which he aimed with all his might at Blair. It struck that youth a sharp blow on the head, making him see stars for a moment, then glanced off and smashed one of the small, dirty panes of glass in the window.

Mr Jenkins’ triumph was, however, but short-lived. Roused to fury by the sting of the blow, Blair stepped up to the angry bully, his right and left shot out with lightning-like rapidity; and, receiving one on his mouth and one on his ample nose, Mr Jenkins measured his length upon the floor again, where he lay like a whipped cur, shouting ‘Murder!’ and ‘Police!’

In the midst of the hubbub, a door which led to the private office of Mr Phogg opened, and a tall, thin, black-bearded man appeared in the doorway. He gave a rapid look round the office, readjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles, took another look, then asked in cutting tones, ‘What is the meaning of this low, disgraceful conduct?’

Mr Jenkins picked himself up from the floor, holding his coloured silk handkerchief to his nose; little Mallinson shrank back into a corner; while Blair put his hands in his trouser-pockets with a resigned air, knowing there was trouble ahead for him, but determined to meet it boldly.

‘Now then,’ rapped out Mr Phogg, ‘must I ask again what is the meaning of this outrage perpetrated upon the premises of one of the oldest and most respectable businesses in Wycombe?’

‘It’s that low fellow Blair,’ said Mr Jenkins; ‘he made a savage attack upon me. He’s a bully and a coward. He tried to murder me.’

‘Now, John Blair,’ said Mr Phogg coldly, ‘what explanation have you got? Be careful what you say, for you may yet find yourself in the police-court, and any admission now, although spoken in hot blood, may be used against you.’

Jack Blair looked the contempt he could not express, for he cordially detested Mr Phogg.

‘I have no explanation,’ he said shortly; ‘ask your nephew for his version. I dare say it will be more to your taste than mine would be.’

Mr Phogg gave a sort of gasp--that is, he opened his mouth like a fish suddenly taken from the water, but he made no sound. Astonishment kept him silent. Had he heard aright? Had John Blair, the junior clerk, the youth who was dependent on his bounty, the ungrateful being whom he fed and lodged _and_ paid--had he dared to be impudent to him, Anthony Phogg, senior partner of the firm of Phogg and Cheetham?

He paused for a moment; then a kind of painful smile crossed his features. ‘Very well, Silvester,’ he said, ‘_very_ well; proceed with your narrative. Relate the facts;’ and he sat on the edge of the high stool Blair had just vacated, folding his arms and stretching out his long legs before him.

‘That young brute of a Mallinson’---- began Jenkins.

‘Nothing libellous, please,’ said Mr Phogg, holding up one lean, yellow hand; ‘plain facts only. I will draw my own conclusions.’

‘Well, sir, Mallinson then, crossing the office just now, deliberately upset an inkpot on my trousers, completely spoiling them.’

‘We can recover the value if we find motive,’ said Mr Phogg, making a pencil note on a scrap of paper lying on Blair’s desk. ‘Proceed.’

‘I was just showing Mallinson what he had done, and was telling him to be more careful another time, when he began cheeking me’----

‘Being insolent, say,’ corrected Mr Phogg.

‘He has been most insolent ever since he got that new job and gave us notice. I was checking him for being chee--insolent, when that bully Blair seized his ruler, rushed at me, and attacked me like a mad-man. I struggled to get the ruler from him, when he threw it at me and smashed the window, afterwards punching me about the face like a prize-fighter. Just look at me.’ And indeed Mr Jenkins did look in a pretty plight, with one eye nearly closed, his nose swollen, his mouth cut, and his hands smeared with blacklead and soot off the grate.

‘Ha,’ said Mr Phogg, ‘just what I expected! You are a low, common bully, Blair; a worthless, lazy brat, whom I kept only out of charity,’ he continued, his thin lips curling back from his teeth as he spoke. ‘Now you shall go--do you hear?--you shall go, be bundled, without a reference, neck and crop out into the gutter, where you can starve, or sell matches, or thieve. I dare say you’re a thief as well as’----

‘Stop!’ cried Blair, his eyes flashing fire. ‘Discharge me you can; but insult me you shall not. I am ready to go, for I’m sick to death of this place and its shady business, of you and your ape of a nephew. Give me my money and I’ll go at once.’

‘Oh Mr Phogg, please, please!’ cried poor little Mallinson, coming forward and holding out his hands appealingly; ‘it wasn’t Blair’s fault, on my honour it wasn’t. Jenkins--Mr Jenkins, I mean--boxed my ears and pinched me, and twisted my arm till I had to scream, I couldn’t help it. And I didn’t upset the ink on him on purpose. Blair only interfered because Mr Jenkins was hurting me, and he’s always at it, and Blair told him last time he wouldn’t have any more of it. Oh, please, Mr Phogg, don’t sack Blair.’

‘Silence, you little sneak!’ roared Mr Phogg; ‘leave the house, and depend upon it I’ll mention this occurrence in the character I shall give you.--Silvester, come into my room.’

Mr Phogg and his worthy nephew disappeared into the inner sanctum together; then Blair and Mallinson looked at one another, the latter almost on the verge of tears.

‘Oh Blair, what shall I do? It’s all my fault, and now you’ll have to go. I shall never, never forgive myself. What shall I do?’

Jack Blair placed an arm caressingly round the neck of the delicate-looking boy.

‘Don’t you worry, Cecil,’ he said; ‘it isn’t your fault. Ever since you got that nomination for Lidsdale’s Bank and gave Phogg notice to leave they’ve been down on you and me. There was bound to be a row, and I’m glad it’s over. I could not have stopped here much longer. I feel as though the very air of this office, with its pettifogging business, and dark, underhand methods, would choke me. I’m glad the burst-up has come. Now, cut away home, and I’ll give you a look up in the morning on the way to church.’

‘But--but--aren’t you afraid to be left here with those?’ and he pointed to the door of the private room.

Blair laughed grimly just as the door was opened and Mr Phogg shot out.

‘What! not gone, Mallinson?’ he cried. ‘Put on your hat at once. Here’s your money. Now go, and never darken my doors again!’ and, giving the boy a small envelope, he bundled him out of the door, which he banged behind him.

‘You’d better tidy up the place,’ he said to Blair; then again retired to his own room.

Blair did as he was bidden; then climbed up on to his high stool, and sat looking at the brilliant sunlight outside. His mind wandered back twelve months--to his old school and the pleasant cricket-meadow where probably the fellows were then playing, or perhaps his own old particular chums were having a pull up the river. The recollection made him sigh, for the last twelve months had held nothing but trouble and hard work for him. He looked round the dismal office, seeming ten times more dismal, he thought, now young Mallinson had gone, and his head fell forward on his hands, for the future looked dark indeed before him.

Less than fifteen months ago he had lost his father. At the end of the summer term he had gone home to find his mother and sisters removed from the great, rambling old house in Hampshire, where he had been born, to a humble lodging in London. There nothing but bad news met him. Mr Bailey, the old lawyer who had managed his father’s business for years, had stated that Mr Blair’s affairs were in a far from flourishing state. Unfortunate speculations had dissipated his fortune; his property was mortgaged, and most of his securities had to be disposed of to meet his liabilities. The house and best part of the furniture were sold, and the proceeds, being invested, were just sufficient to bring in a bare pittance, enough to keep a roof over the widow’s head. Jack Blair had to turn out into the world to earn his own living.

His first place had been in a wholesale drapery establishment, where he worked twelve hours a day. The hard work and the confinement, together with the bad and insufficient food, had in a few months made him but a ghost of his former self, and his mother had insisted upon his leaving. His second situation had been with a firm of merchants who in less than two months went bankrupt, and Jack Blair was once more thrown on his mother’s hands. Then the family lawyer had procured him his present situation with Messrs Phogg & Cheetham, a place where he worked from eight in the morning till eight or often nine at night, Saturdays included. He lived on the premises, and, besides his board, received the magnificent sum of four shillings a week for his services.

The old lawyer had told him that at any cost he must keep that situation, as he must not be a burden to his mother, who had as much as she could do to keep herself.

Jack had determined to succeed, and in spite of drudgery and continual snubs and insults, had been there six months; and now--well, after that afternoon’s work--he knew that his days there were numbered, and, worst of all, Mr Phogg had said he would not give him a reference. Jack knew his employer’s vindictive nature too well to doubt that he would carry out his threat. He felt he could not write and tell his mother, and what to do he knew not.

At eight o’clock that night he was turned out into the street, all his worldly possessions packed in a small portmanteau, a week’s wages (less one shilling and fourpence stopped for the broken window) added to his small stock of money, seven shillings and eightpence in all, forming the whole of his wealth, for Jack had sent his mother half his slender earnings ever since he had been in his situation. He went straight to the Mallinsons’ and arranged for a night’s lodging with them, he having been on very friendly terms with the family since he had been in Wycombe.

Early on the Sunday morning, Jack, portmanteau in hand, started on his long tramp from Wycombe to London, for he decided he dared not spend the two and tenpence for the railway fare. Cecil accompanied Jack some distance on the way, and when they parted he said, as he wrung Jack’s hand, ‘I can’t help feeling it’s all my fault your going.’

‘Don’t say a word about it, Cecil. I should do the same again to-morrow.’

‘Jenkins did look a guy,’ said Cecil, his eyes kindling at the recollection of his tormentor’s humiliation.

‘He looked just what he is, a sneaking bully,’ said Jack as he shook Cecil’s hand; ‘and now, good-bye and prosperity to you in your new situation.’

‘Good-bye, Jack. May you have all the luck you deserve,’ said Cecil.

There were tears in the latter’s eyes when he turned away, for he felt he had lost a good friend.

At a steady four miles an hour Jack kept on, mile after mile, the exercise taking more effect on him than it otherwise would have done, as since he had been at Wycombe he had enjoyed few opportunities of taking long walks. A brief halt for some bread and cheese in the middle of the day, then on again, every mile seeming to get longer and longer while yet a good part of the journey was before him.

Jack took off his coat, which he carried over his shoulder, changing his portmanteau from hand to hand. The day was baking hot. The white road, an inch thick in dust, reflected back the glowing sun till it made his eyes ache.

Jack hobbled painfully, his heels being rubbed and blistered, while his portmanteau seemed to grow heavier with every yard he walked. He had arrived at a spot where the hedge turned off at right angles, leading up to a five-barred gate opening on to some pasture-land. One side of this opening was in the shade, and, after looking at it for a moment, Jack turned up with a half-sigh of contentment and seated himself on the sloping, shady bank. He guessed he was somewhere near Hounslow, and he began to despair of reaching London that night. ‘Perhaps I could get a train from Hounslow,’ he thought; ‘but can I afford it?’

He took from his pocket the little purse his eldest sister had given him, and counted all his store--a half-crown, a florin, two shillings, a sixpence, and fivepence halfpenny in coppers--seven shillings and fivepence halfpenny in all. Jack sighed as he looked at the money in his hand and thought how short a way it would go when he was out of a situation. He was replacing the coins in his purse when a rush of feet sounded near him. Three men burst through the hedge, and while one seized him by the collar, another ragged, unshaven rascal, holding a short, heavy bludgeon in his hand, cried with a grin, ‘Evenin’, young gen’l’man, you’re the wery covey we’ve been a-waitin’ for. I’ll trouble yer to ‘and over them dibs, or’--and he flourished his stick--‘circumstances _may_ be onpleasant.’