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ARCHIE'S MISTAKE
BY
G. E. WYATT
Author of "Follow the Right," "Archie Digby,"
"Johnnie Venture,"
&c. &c.
THOMAS NELSON AND SONS
London, Edinburgh, Dublin, and New York
1912
"Simon Bond's strong hands grasped Stephen's
ear and collar."
ARCHIE'S MISTAKE.
"Father, why do you have such a
beggarly-looking hand at the mill
as that young Bennett?" asked Archie
Fairfax of the great mill-owner of Longcross.
"Why shouldn't I?" he replied. "He
comes with an excellent character from
the foreman he has been under at Morfield.
He does his work very well, Munster
says, and that's all I care for. I
don't pay for his clothes."
Archie said no more, but he still felt
aggrieved. As a rule, his father's work-people
were a superior, tidy-looking set,
but this new lad was literally in rags, and
his worn, haggard face and great, hungry-looking
eyes seemed, in Archie's mind, to
bring discredit on the cotton-mill.
"He's no business here," he said to
himself.—"I wish you'd send him away."
Archie had only lately had anything to
do with the mill, as he had been at a
large public school. But now he was
eighteen, and had left school. He had
come into his father's office as secretary,
that he might learn a little about the
business which was to be his some day.
Mr. Fairfax had some excuse for the
pride he took in his manufactory, for a
better looked after, better managed, or
more prosperous one it would have been
difficult to find, though of course there
were some rough people among the
workers. Long experience had taught
his work-people to respect and trust an
employer who acted justly and honourably
in every transaction; and it was
Mr. Fairfax's boast that there had never
yet been a "strike" among his men, nor
any difficulty about work or wages which
had not been settled at last in a friendly
spirit.
But this very "superiority" was a snare
to the mill-hands. For if they once took
a dislike to any one who had been "taken
on," they left him no peace until they got
rid of him. It was looked on as a sort of
privilege in Longcross to belong to the
Fairfax mills, and the men chose to be
very particular as to whom they would
admit among themselves.
They all disapproved of poor Stephen
Bennett from the first day of his coming.
As they walked away that evening
they discussed his appearance with eager
disapprobation.
"Who is he?" "Where does he come
from?" "Where's he living?" "What's
made the master take such a ragamuffin
on?"
These were some of the questions
asked, but no one was able to answer
them.
"I'll get it all out of him to-morrow,"
said Simon Bond, a big savage-looking
lad, with his hat on one side, and his pipe
in his mouth.
"P'raps he won't be quite so ready to
tell as you are to ask," said some one
else.
"He'd better be, then, if he's got any
care for his skin," answered the boy, and
the others laughed.
So the next day Simon followed the
stranger out of the mill, and began his
questions in a rude, hectoring voice.
To his utter astonishment, Stephen
refused to answer them. He made no
reply while Simon poured out his questions,
until the latter said,—
"Well, dunderhead, d'ye hear me
speaking?"
"Yes, I hear you," responded Stephen,
looking at him with a half-frightened,
half-defiant expression.
"Then why don't you answer?" he
inquired with an oath. He was getting
angry. "If you cheek me, 'twill be the
worse for you, I can tell you."
"I don't want to cheek you," said
Stephen; "but I don't see as my affairs
is your business, any more than your
affairs is my business."
Simon could hardly believe his ears as
he listened to this answer. This little
shrimp to defy him like that!
But his anger soon outweighed his
amazement.
He seized Stephen by the collar, saying,
as he gave him a shake,—
"Answer my questions this instant,
or—"
His gestures completed the sentence.
Stephen turned very white, but he
replied firmly,—
"I've told you I ain't going to, and
I sticks to my words. If you threaten
me like that, I'll go to the foreman and
complain. There he comes."
Simon looked down the street, and
saw Mr. Munster advancing just behind
two other mill-hands. He was obliged
to let Stephen go, but rage filled his
heart.
"I'll pay you out," he muttered, "one
of these days." Then he turned round a
side street and disappeared.
And what did Stephen do?
He walked on till he came to a baker's
shop, where he bought some bread; then
to a grocer's, where he got sugar, tea, and
a candle; and so on, till his arms and
pockets were full of parcels. But the
odd thing was that he bought so much.
That was what struck a man—one of the
mill-hands—who was in the shop.
Most of the work-people lived in one
particular quarter of the big city—Fairfax
Town it was called in consequence.
But Stephen threaded his way to quite
a different part—a much poorer one—and
turned into an old tumble-down house,
with all its windows broken and patched,
which had stood empty and deserted
until he came to it.
Weeks passed on, and still, in spite of
constant persecution, Stephen remained
at the mill. Scarcely any one spoke a
kind word to him except Mr. Fairfax,
but he very seldom saw him. Even old
Mr. Munster, the head foreman, addressed
him sharply and contemptuously, which
was not his usual custom. The lad did
his work well enough, but he was such a
miserable-looking fellow, and so untidy
and shabby.
Mr. Munster said something of the
sort to Archie one day, when he met him
outside the office, just as Stephen was
going away after receiving his week's
wages.
"Yes," replied Archie eagerly; "did
you ever see such a scarecrow? But he
has good pay, hasn't he?"
"Yes, Mr. Archie; very good for such
a young hand. He has fifteen shillings
a week."
"He drinks—depend upon it he drinks
spirits, and that's what gives him that
hang-dog look," said Archie.
"You've never seen him the worse for
drink, have you?" asked Mr. Munster,
not unwilling to have an excuse for getting
rid of the ragged stranger.
"Well, I don't know," he answered.
"He was leaning up against a wall the
other day when I passed, and when he
saw me coming he tried to stand upright,
and he regularly staggered. I could see
it was as much as ever he could do."
"H'm!" said Mr. Munster thoughtfully;
"I shall watch him, then. If I
catch him like that at his work, I shall
soon send him packing."
"And there's another thing," Archie
went on. "What does he do with the
things he buys? What do you think I
saw him getting last week?"
"Couldn't say, sir, I'm sure."
"Why, three boys' fur caps, and a
lot of serge, and a girl's cloak, and four
pairs of cheap stockings, and other things
besides. I was in Dutton's shop when
he came in. He didn't see me because
of a pile of blankets, and I heard him
buy all those things, and carry them
off. He paid for half, and the rest he
said he'd pay for this week. He must
have bought things there before, or they
wouldn't have trusted him. But, you
know, they'd come to very nearly as much
as his wages."
"Yes; I don't understand it," said Mr.
Munster. "But, after all, it isn't our
business if he does his duty at the mill."
"No, I know," said Archie; "but I
believe there's something wrong about
him, and I should like to know what
it is."
"Well, 'give him enough rope and he'll
hang himself,' as they say," rejoined Mr.
Munster—"that is, if your ideas about
him are true."
Archie said no more on the subject
then, but he made up his mind to keep
a sharp look-out upon Stephen's conduct.
Whenever he met him, therefore, he
looked keenly at him; and he would
sometimes come through the great room
where Stephen worked, with a number of
other men and lads, and stand close to
him, silently scrutinizing him. If he
spoke to him, it was always to ask a
question which obliged young Bennett
to say a good deal in reply; and Archie
was forced to own that he displayed a
considerable knowledge of the branch of
business in which he was occupied.
But Stephen soon discovered that he
was regarded with suspicion, and he came
to dread his young master's approach, and
the cold, searching glance of his blue
eyes.
Stephen had looked haggard and careworn
from the first, but as weeks passed
on he seemed to get worse. He still did
his duty as well, or almost as well, as
ever, but he grew perceptibly weaker
every day, and at last he could hardly
drag himself along.
"I doubt if I'll last much longer," he
said to himself, as he reached the mill one
morning about three months after his first
arrival at Longcross, "but father's time
will be out next week. I must write to
him to-day or to-morrow and warn him
what may be coming."
There was only one man at the mill
who had ever been the least civil to
Stephen. This was a gay, thoughtless
young fellow named Timothy Lingard.
He always rather prided himself on
taking a different side from the other
men, and in his light, careless way he had
rather patronized Stephen when he saw
him.
Not that they met very often, for
Timothy's work was to stay in the mill
all night, and go round the premises at
intervals in order to see that there was
no danger of fire.
Sometimes he was not gone when
Stephen came in the morning; and then,
as the latter waited outside for the doors
to be opened, Timothy would enter into
a conversation with him, just to show the
other men that he took a different line
from theirs.
One evening—it was about a week after
the discussion about Stephen between
Archie and Mr. Munster—Timothy met
the pale, careworn lad dragging himself
wearily home from the mill. He looked
more ragged than ever—his clothes
seemed almost ready to drop off.
"Hullo!" said Timothy; "you look as
if you hadn't too many pennies to ***
against each other. What d'ye do with
your wages? They don't go in clothes—that's
clear enough."
Stephen flushed deeply, in the sudden
way that people do who are in a very
weak state, but he made no answer.
"I can put you in the way of earning
an extra pound, if you like," said Timothy
carelessly.
"Oh, how—how?" cried Stephen with
sudden animation, clutching at Timothy
in his eagerness, and then holding on to
him to keep himself from falling.
"There—don't go and faint over it,"
said Timothy, pushing him off; "and
don't throttle a man either for doing you
a good turn. That ain't no encouragement.
What I mean is, that I've a rather
partic'lar engagement to-morrow night,
and for several nights to come—in fact,
till next Friday—and I want to get
some one to take my place at the mill."
"But will Mr. Munster let any one
else come?"
"I ain't a-going to ask him. It don't
matter to him who's there, so long as there
is some one to look after the premises.
I'm going to put in my own man; and
you can have the job if you like, and take
two-thirds o' my pay—that's twenty
shillings. I shall be back by three or
four o'clock in the morning, so as to give
you time for a nap before your own work
begins. But if you ain't feeling up to
the double work, just say so. Now I look
at you, I have my doubts, and it won't
do for you to go falling off asleep, or
fainting, mind. What d'you say to it?"
"I could do it—I'm sure I could. I
wouldn't go to sleep—I promise you I
wouldn't. The only thing is, I should
like—I think—if you say it won't matter—yes,
I really should like—"
"Have it out, and have done with it,
and don't stand spluttering there like a
water-pipe gone wrong. Will you do it,
or not?"
"Yes," said Stephen, in a low voice.
"Then mind, you ain't to say a word
about it to any one—not as there's any
harm in it, but I don't want the foreman
to hear of it sideways. I shall come here
as usual at six o'clock, and if you'll come
up about seven—it's pretty near dark by
then—I'll let you in, and be off myself."
"All right. But—but, Tim, I—I was
going to ask—"
"Well? Do get on—what an *** you
are! What do you want?" interrupted
the other impatiently.
"'Twas about the money. Could you—I
mean, would you mind paying me
first? I'll do the work—I will, indeed."
"It'll be the worse for you if you
don't," said Timothy. "But as for paying
first, I don't know as I've got the money.
What d'you want it for?"
"I can't tell you—at least, I mean,
for food and clothes," answered Stephen,
looking extremely distressed and embarrassed.
"But never mind, Tim; if you
can't do it, I'll wait."
"No; you can have it. I daresay I'll
be making more to-night," said the reckless
Timothy, and he got out two half-sovereigns
and gave them to Stephen.
"Now, remember," he said, "if you say
I ain't paid you, or if you don't do the work
properly, and anything happens while I'm
away, I'll break every bone in your body."
No one could look at the two and
doubt Timothy's power to wreak his
anger on the slim, weakly-looking youth,
some ten years younger than himself.
"All right; I'll take care," answered
Stephen, who never wasted words; and
they separated.
The following evening Stephen arrived,
as arranged, in the twilight, at the big
mill, and was admitted by Timothy at a
little side-door.
"Mind," said the latter, "you ain't
supposed to go to sleep. You goes your
rounds four times. There's the rules."
He pointed to a card on the wall, and
added—"I take forty winks myself every
now and then, but I can wake up if a fly
jumps on the table. Now, I'm off. I'll
be back in lots o' time."
He departed, whistling as he went,
and not feeling the least ashamed of
betraying the trust reposed in him, by
thus entrusting the safety of the whole
mill to a comparative stranger. Timothy
was not in the habit of asking whether
things were right before he did them, but
only whether they were pleasant or convenient.
He did not notice Archie Fairfax, who
was standing at the office-door as he
walked quickly by, just under a newly-lighted
lamp.
There was some one else watching too,
from under the shadow of a projecting
buttress, whom neither Archie nor Timothy
perceived. It was Simon Bond—Stephen's
bitterest enemy.
Ever since the day when the lad had
refused to answer his rude questions,
Simon had been on the look-out for his
revenge. Twice he had waylaid Stephen,
and tried to give him the thrashing he
had promised him.
But once Stephen had eluded him by
going through a big shop which had an
opening on the other side; once some one
had come up just as Simon had got his
foe into a quiet corner.
It was of no use for him to track
Stephen to his home, for he knew how
crowded it was in those narrow streets;
and though a "row" would probably be
a matter of daily occurrence, there was
every likelihood that the men who looked
on might take the side of their own
neighbour against a stranger like Simon.
"But my time'll come yet," he said to
himself, "if I wait long enough."
He contented himself, while waiting
for the longed-for day of vengeance, with
adding what he could to Stephen's load
of trouble.
His work was in the same big room,
and he took care that Stephen should
have the draughtiest corner of it, and be
the last to get into the office on pay-day.
And he managed that if anything did go
wrong, suspicion should fall on Stephen—in
which Archie was his unconscious
helper. Then, if Stephen ventured to
speak while waiting outside for admittance
in the morning—which he did very seldom—Simon
would repeat his words in a
loud, mocking voice, and comment upon
them, and turn them into ridicule, till
poor Stephen dreaded the sight of him
more than of all the other men put
together.
"What's up now, I wonder," thought
Simon, as he watched Timothy come out
and Stephen go in at the little door of
the manufactory. "Why, there's Tim
Lingard going off right away. Is he
gone for the night? I should like to
know. If he is, now's my time. I don't
suppose the little chap will lock the door,
so I'll just slip in while he's going his
rounds, and be ready for him when he
comes back—that'll all be as easy as
sneezing. I'll make it pretty hot, though,
for Master Stephen when I've got him."
He went home to his tea; and Stephen,
all unconscious of the plots being laid
against him, entered the little room where
the night-watch sat, and got out his
meagre supper, which he had had no
time yet to swallow. The room had two
doors; one led to the courtyard through
which Stephen had entered, and the
other, the upper half of which was glass,
took into Mr. Fairfax's private office and
the larger counting-house beyond, out of
which the passages leading to the general
workrooms opened.
"I hope the little 'uns 'ull get on all
safe for a few nights without me," he said
to himself, as he ate his slice of bread.
"Polly's so sensible, she'll do all right,
if those rackety boys 'ull do as she tells
'em. They promised me they would, but
there's no tellin'."
He sat thinking for some time, and
then started off on his first round of
inspection.
Meanwhile Archie Fairfax had gone
home to dinner, his mind full of the
proofs he thought he had acquired of
Stephen Bennett's untrustworthiness. He
said nothing about it, however, until he
and his father were left alone after
dinner.
"Who's the caretaker at night now,
father?" he asked, as he peeled an
apple.
"Timothy Lingard," was the answer.
"Why do you want to know?"
"Oh, only because he isn't there to-night;
so I thought he might have been
dismissed."
"Not there to-night! What do you
mean, Archie?"
"Why, I saw him come away this
evening, just before I came back here,
and Stephen Bennett went in instead.
I can't say he looks quite the sort of
fellow to be in charge of a big place
like that all night—a fellow of his habits,
too."
"What do you know about his habits?"
"Oh, nothing particular. But, of course,
one can't help suspecting there's something
wrong about a chap who draws the
pay he does, and goes staggering about
the streets with his arms full of children's
clothes, and his own things looking like
a beggar's."
"Do you mean you think the lad
drinks, or is dishonest? Speak out,
Archie, like a man, and don't throw
stones in the dark."
"I don't want to do the fellow any
harm," responded Archie, who felt that,
in spite of his watching, he knew far too
little to speak definitely; "but what I
have seen of him I don't like, and that's
a fact. I can't help thinking there's
something behind. What business has
he to be at the mill to-night, when the
regular man's away?"
"None at all, of course. Most likely
Lingard has gone off on some errand of
his own, and paid Bennett to take his
place. But it is not regular or right, by
any means; I don't like the idea of it
at all.... I think I shall go round myself
presently, and find out all about it."
By the time Stephen got back from
his round it was nearly nine o'clock. He
sank into a chair, and leaning his elbows
on the table, rested his head in his
hands.
"I'm a deal weaker than I was last
week," he murmured; "but I must try
and last out till father's back. I'll write
to him now, and tell him how fast I'm
going. If there was any one a bit friendly,
I'd tell 'em about it all, and ask 'em to
look after the little 'uns if I go quicker;
but there isn't. They all seem against
me and my rags. I thought Mr. Archie
looked so kind at first, but I can see now
he thinks worse of me than any."
He got out some sheets of paper he
had in his pocket, and pulled the pens
and ink on the table towards him.
He did not write very fast, and as he
had a good deal to say, he was some time
over his letter. About twenty minutes
had passed, when the room seemed to get
very misty. The pen dropped out of
Stephen's hand, and he fell back, with
his eyes shut, and his head against the
rail of the chair.
He had remained thus, asleep from
very weakness, for about an hour, when
he was suddenly aroused by a rough voice
in his ear.
"Wake up, skulker! your time's come
at last."
He opened his eyes, his heart throbbing
violently, and there stood the burly form
of Simon Bond. He looked bigger than
ever in the dimly-lighted room; and as
his great grimy face came nearer, and his
strong hands grasped Stephen's ear and
collar, he felt that his last moment had
come, and even sooner than he had expected.
"Get up!" said his enemy, giving him
a kick, and dragging him roughly from
the chair. "Now," he went on, "I think
you refused to answer my questions last
time I asked 'em. You'll please to alter
your ways from to-night, or you'll get
more o' these than you'll quite like."
As he spoke he let go of the lad's
collar with his right hand, and brought
it swinging down with all his force on
the side of Stephen's head.
Instantly the boy dropped like one
dead at his feet.
At the same moment the office-door
opened, and the appalling sight appeared
of Mr. Fairfax's tall form, followed closely
by his son Archie.
Not a second did Simon lose. He
turned to the door, and was off like a
flash of lightning.
Archie made a rush, as though to
follow him.
"Cowardly lout!" he cried.
"No; stop, Archie," said his father.
"You couldn't catch him; and if you
did, you couldn't keep him. We'll examine
him to-morrow—we both saw who
it was. Now let us look after this poor
lad."
"See, father, he was writing a letter,"
said Archie.
Mr. Fairfax took up the paper. This
is what it said:—
"Dear Father,—The little 'uns is all
well, and I've got money now to last 'em
till you are out, if I'm took before, which
I'm that bad and low I can't hardly creep
along. I've give Polly the money to use
when wanted. She's been a good girl
all along. Come to the above address
as soon as you are out. I done my best,
father, as you told me. And now good-bye,
if I'm gone.—Your loving son,
"Stephen Bennett.
"P.S.—I never believed as you did it,
father, and I don't now. God will make
it right, so don't fret."
The envelope lay by the letter. It
was directed to—
Ambrose Bennett, No. 357,
Eastwood Jail.
Mr. Fairfax gave them both to his son.
"There, Archie," he said; "read these,
and see if you still think you were right."
Then he went to Stephen, and did
what he could to restore him to consciousness.
But he was in such a weak
state that nothing seemed of any use.
"Father, I've been a suspicious brute,"
cried Archie, flinging down the letter.
"But for my cold looks and constant
spying, which I daresay he's noticed, he
might have told me all this, and I might
have helped him. Now he's starving and
friendless. But I'll try to make up now,
if it isn't too late. Do let me carry him
home, father—may I?"
"No," said Mr. Fairfax; "I'll go back
and order some brandy, and send for the
doctor. You stay here and take care of
him and the mill."
He went away, and very long did the
time seem to Archie before the doctor
arrived. Now he had time to think over
his own unkind—nay, cruel—suspicions,
founded on nothing but Stephen's shabby
appearance.
"It's my way, I know, to make up my
mind too quickly, and by a fellow's outside,"
he thought. Then, somehow, the
words of the last Sunday's epistle came
into his mind—"Charity thinketh no
evil." He knew that charity means love.
"No," he said to himself, "I shouldn't
have thought evil of him, and I certainly
had no right to say what I did to father and
Mr. Munster. Poor fellow! how lonely
and miserable he must have been; and I
might have stood his friend, if I'd only
given him the chance of speaking about
his troubles, instead of glaring at him as
I did. Is it too late now to make up?"
Just then the doctor came in; but for
a long, long time he could not restore
Stephen to consciousness.
He was trying still when three o'clock
struck.
"Now he is really coming to—look, Dr.
Grey," cried Archie, who had watched all
the doctor's efforts with breathless anxiety.
Just then Stephen gave a great sigh,
and opened his eyes.
"Where am I?" he asked feebly.
"All among friends," said Archie, "and
going to have a jolly time, and be nursed
up, and made as strong as a horse.—Now,
Dr. Grey, let's get a cab. I'll go and call
one," and he bustled off.
Outside he met a disgusting sight. It
was Timothy Lingard, staggering towards
the mill, very much the worse for what
he had been drinking.
"You can't go there; go home at
once," said Archie.
"Night-watch—caretaker—said I'd be
here," mumbled Timothy, trying to brush
past him; and then finding Archie still
stood as a hindrance in front of him, he
tried to strike him—of course not knowing
who it was—only he missed his aim,
and fell down into the gutter.
There Archie left him, to seek a cab,
which is not an easy thing to find at three
o'clock in the morning. However, before
long he did succeed in procuring one, and
in it Stephen was conveyed to the nearest
hospital.
Mr. Fairfax was just starting for his
office the next morning when he was
accosted by a respectable-looking working-man.
"Do I speak to Mr. Fairfax, sir?" he
asked, touching his hat.
"Yes, that is my name. Can I do
anything for you?"
"Would you be good enough, sir, to
tell me where my son, Stephen Bennett,
is? I hear he was taken ill last night."
"He's in the hospital. I'll take you—I
was just going there myself," said
Archie, who was with his father.
"Your son has had a hard life, I fear,
in your absence," said Mr. Fairfax, glancing
curiously at the stranger, who did not
look at all like a man capable of crime.
"Yes, sir," he answered somewhat
bitterly; "it has pleased the Almighty
to send me a heavy trial. First, I lost
my wife; then I was accused, along with
my fellow-workers in a brick-yard, of
stealing ***. I was sentenced to
three months' imprisonment, and my time
would have been out next week. My
boy, which he's one in a thousand—though
he was that weakly he was hardly
fit for work—he brought the little 'uns,
five of 'em, all under fourteen, to this
place. 'We shan't be known at Longcross,
father,' he says, 'and I'll work for
'em all till you're out.' So he come here.
And yesterday they come to me in the
jail, and they says, 'Bennett, we find
you're innocent. The man what took the
***, he's up and confessed, and he
says as you've had nothing to do with it.'
So they wrote me this paper to say I'm
pardoned, as they call it, and I come
away; but they couldn't give me back
the three months of my life."
"No," said Mr. Fairfax; "you have
suffered indeed. But I trust that even
yet you may find good come out of evil,
as it so often does. We have come to
know and respect Stephen, and as soon as
he is well he shall be moved into a comfortable
house, which I have now to let,
and which is at your disposal, if you like
to take it. Other help, too, I hope to be
able to render you."
Thus talking, they arrived at the
hospital. Stephen had not made much
progress, and was still alarmingly weak.
Scanty food and constant anxiety had told
terribly on his delicate constitution. But
when he saw his father, and heard that
he had been set free, and declared innocent,
a new life seemed to come into him.
"I shall get well now, father," he said;
"I feel I shall—only my head's so bad
where the blow came that I can't think
much. But that doesn't matter now;
you'll look after the little 'uns. 'Twas
the having all them on me, and thinking
about you, that seemed to crush me down;
though I knew you was innocent, father—I
knew it all along. Thank God for
making it clear, though. I asked Him
to do it, night and day, and He's
done it."
"Now, Archie, my boy," said Mr.
Fairfax, as he and his son walked back
together, "you see how entirely wrong
you were in your hasty judgment."
"Yes, father, I do see;" and the lad's
voice was full of feeling. "Stephen may
never lose the effects of this time of cruel
hardship. I might have been his friend,
and I was his enemy instead."
"If I had listened, or allowed the foreman
to listen, to your guesses, he might
have been turned off altogether. It
should be a lesson to you, Archie, never
to injure another person's character again
without absolute certainty, and even then
only if it is necessary for the general
good. Once gone, it is sometimes impossible
to win back."
"I know—I know, father. I will try
to be careful, and not so hasty."
"Don't judge merely by appearances,
Archie. Above all, remember those
words of the Great Teacher, 'Judge not,
that ye be not judged.'"
"I KNOW BEST."
"So the choir treat is fixed for Thursday,
and we're all going to the
Crystal Palace! What jolly fun we shall
have!"
The speaker was Walter Franklin, a
village lad of eighteen. But Christopher
Swallow, the friend to whom he addressed
himself, a youth who looked rather older,
did not receive the news with the pleasure
Walter expected.
"The old Crystal Palace again!" he
grumbled. "Bother! What's the good
of going to the same place twice over?
I call it foolery and rubbish."
"Oh, but the rector said that no one
but you and three of the older men had
been before; and when he asked them
whether they would like anything else
better, they said no. Benjamin Sorrell
said that once for seeing all over such a
big place was nothing, and he'd like to
spend a week there."
"Let him, then; one day's enough for
me. Of course, we must go as it's settled;
but you won't catch me staying dawdling
about, looking at the same old things
over and over again as I see two years
ago. I shall be off and enjoy myself
somewhere else."
"But, Christopher, Mr. Richardson said
most partic'lar we must all keep together
or we should get lost; and we're all to
wear red rosettes on our left shoulders,
that we may know each other at a distance,
if we should get separated by any
accident."
"Oh, did he indeed?" replied Christopher
scornfully. "P'raps some'll do
it. I think I know one as won't."
Walter said no more. Chris was well
known to be what the others called
"cranky" in his temper; and when he
considered, as he generally did, that he
was right, and every one else wrong,
there was nothing for it but to leave
him alone.
When Thursday came, it was a most
lovely September day. There was hardly
any one among the thirty members of the
Hartfield Parish Choir, who drove in two
big wagonettes to the station, that did
not look prepared to enjoy the day's outing
to the utmost.
"Christopher don't look best pleased,
though," thought Walter, as they drove
along, glancing at his friend's gloomy
face. "And there's Miss Richardson
getting out the rosettes. I hope he
won't go and make a row; but there's
no telling."
The Hartfield Choir consisted of men,
lads, and boys, with about half a dozen
little girls. The boys and girls, of course,
sang alto and treble; the lads alto, if they
could manage nothing better; and the
men bass and tenor. There were eight
men between thirty and fifty years of
age, six lads like Walter, and sixteen
children.
Half were in one long brake with the
rector, and half in another with the schoolmaster
and Miss Richardson. About half-way
between Hartfield and the station,
Miss Richardson produced a white cardboard
box, which she opened.
"Here," she said, taking out a very
bright rosette made of red ribbon, and a
packet of pins, "I want each of you to
put one of these on your left shoulder,
and then we shall know one another when
we are too far off to see each other's faces.
There, I've put mine on."
As she spoke she fastened one on to
her jacket. Every one else did the same,
amidst a good deal of laughing and joking—every
one, that is, except one.
"Christopher, where's your badge?"
asked Mr. White, the schoolmaster.
"In my pocket, sir," was the answer.
"We can't see through that, man; it
isn't transparent, like a glass window.
Get out the rosette and put it on."
Christopher plunged his hands into his
two jacket-pockets and fumbled. Mr.
White thought he was going to do as he
was told, and took no further notice.
"Chris, you haven't put it on, now,"
whispered Walter, as the horses drew up
at the station. "Ain't you going to?"
"Be quiet, will you? You ain't
master," said Christopher roughly; and
Walter was silent.
He noticed, though, that his friend kept
well out of sight behind the others, and
also that in the train he took a seat on
the same side as Mr. White, and as far off
as possible. Miss Richardson was with
the little girls in another carriage.
When the party reached the Crystal
Palace station, they proceeded up the
steps to the gardens.
"Now," said Mr. Richardson, when
they got to the final flight leading into
the great glass building—"now, I think
we may as well separate for a bit. I will
stay inside and take any who wish to see
the poultry and rabbit show. The girls
will like, I daresay, to go with Miss
Richardson, and those who don't care for
the animals can follow Mr. White to the
garden; only be sure you all come to the
terrace by one o'clock for dinner."
So saying, he turned towards the
corridor where an immense cackling and
cooing announced the presence of the
poultry and pigeons, followed by four of
the lads and some of the men and boys.
"What shall you do, Chris?" whispered
Walter.
"I shall see what schoolmaster's up to;
and if I don't like what he does, I shall
make off and get some jolly good fun by
myself," was the answer. "You stick to
me, Walter. I s'pose you don't want
to be the only big chap among all them
little 'uns?"
"No; I'll stick to you, Chris," he replied,
but he did not feel very comfortable.
Walter was a well-meaning lad, but he
was very weak, and easily led by the
stronger-willed Christopher.
Mr. White knew the Crystal Palace
well, and all its many attractions. He
took his party to see a show where cardboard
figures were made to walk and
jump and open their eyes, just like real
people.
Then he proposed that they should try
throwing sticks, provided for the purpose,
at a row of penknives, and if any one
knocked a knife over it would be his.
This was amusing for a little while; but
when no one could get anywhere near a
knife, the boys grew tired of trying,
especially as they each had to pay a
penny for three tries.
At last they arrived at the place where
a man has tricycles to let out. Every
boy pulled out the rest of his money and
begged for a ride. In a few minutes half
a dozen little green tricycles where whirling
round the curve.
Walter and Christopher despised the
idea at first of doing what the little boys
did; but when they saw some other
youths like themselves get on, they put
their pride in their pockets, and each
mounted a tricycle. How they did
waggle from side to side; and how impossible
it was not to laugh and shout at
the absurd feeling of the thing!
"This is rare good sport," said Chris
at last.
He had but just spoken when he met
Mr. White.
"It's ten minutes to one," said the
latter. "We must go, or we shan't be
on the terrace as soon as the rector.
Come along, boys; it's dinner-time."
There was a general turning round of
tricycles, and in a few minutes the little
party were making their way towards the
palace.
"What's the matter, Chris?" asked
Walter. "I thought you liked that."
"So I did; 'twas the only bit of fun
I've had. It's a regular nuisance to be
at some one else's beck and call like this,
just when one is getting a little pleasure.
Why should we come before we want
to?"
"Why? Because it's dinner-time.
Aren't you hungry? I am, I know."
Christopher grunted sulkily, but in
spite of his ill-humour he managed to
get through the meat-patties and plum-pudding
with a most excellent appetite.
Dinner over, the rector proposed that
every one should come with him to see
a panorama of the siege of Paris, which
was to begin at three o'clock.
"I should like it awfully. Wouldn't
you, Chris?" said Walter.
"I don't know. No—it sounds dull
and schoolish," replied Chris, who was no
scholar. "I won't be led about like a
monkey on a chain, either. I know best
how to amuse myself, and I tell you
what—I'm going back for another ride
on that tricycle. You'd better come too,
Wat. The panorama doesn't really begin
till half-past three. I saw it up on the
board outside."
"But I've only got three half-pence left,"
said Walter, "so I can't ride any more."
"Oh, I'll lend you the money. I've got
heaps."
"But could you find your way back,
Chris? This is such a thundering big
place," urged Walter doubtfully.
"Yes, you idiot, of course I can. But
don't come if you're afraid."
Chris knew very well that such a suggestion
would break down Walter's hesitation
at once; and so it did. He followed
his friend, and soon forgot all about the
panorama in his delight at having improved
so much since the morning in the
management of his tricycle.
Suddenly a clock struck. One, two,
three, FOUR.
"Chris, Chris, did you hear? It's
four o'clock!" he cried.
"Well, what of that?" was the cool
rejoinder.
"Get off at once, Chris. The panorama
must be half over. Bother it all! and I
did so want to see it."
Chris proceeded slowly and leisurely
back to the starting-point, and got off his
tricycle.
"How much?" he asked the man in
charge.
"One and sixpence each, please."
"What a plague you are, Wat, to have
come without any money," said Chris, as
he paid the three shillings. "I didn't
come to spend all my cash on you."
"How do you come to have so much?"
inquired Walter.
"Why, my jolly old brick of an uncle
gave me five shillings when he heard I
was coming here."
"I wish he was my uncle," sighed
Walter, whose parents were very poor.
"But I say, Chris, is this the way to the
panorama?"
"No, but I'm thirsty. I'm going into
the palace to get a glass of beer. You
can go on to the panorama if you're so
anxious about it."
But Walter was far too much afraid of
getting lost among the crowds of people
in the "thundering big garden" to part
from his companion. He had never been
more than ten miles from his native
village until to-day, and he felt quite
bewildered at all the strange sights and
sounds.
He followed Chris, who proceeded to a
refreshment counter, and asked for beer.
"We don't sell wine or beer, or anything
of the sort, sir," was the answer.
"It's against the rules of the palace, and
we've no licence."
Nothing made Chris so savage as to be
thwarted in anything he wanted to do.
"Then it's a stupid place, and it ought to
be ashamed of itself," he said angrily; "but
if I can't get it here, I'll go where I can."
He turned on his heel and walked
quickly away, followed by the much-vexed
Walter.
In vain did he ask Chris where he was
going, and what he meant to do—not a
word could he extract. The other lad
stalked on, looking every now and then
at the printed directions on the walls,
telling whither each turning led.
He reached a sort of entrance-place at
last, where there were the same kind of
turnstiles as those through which Mr.
Richardson had brought his party in the
morning.
"Way out" was written above one.
Without a word to his companion, Chris
went through it.
"But, Chris, that takes us outside.
What are you doing?" cried Walter.
"I know what I'm about," answered
the other. "Are you coming or not I? I
can't wait all day. You'll never find
your way back to the others alone.
You'd a deal better stick to me that
knows the way."
Walter looked round despairingly.
"What shall I do?" he said to himself.
"I wish I hadn't come with Chris. He's
so cross and disagreeable, it's no fun to
be with him; but I could no more find
my way back through all those twists and
turns than fly. I suppose I must keep
with him now," and he went through the
turnstile and caught up his friend, who
had grown tired of waiting and had gone
on some way.
"Oh, you've come, have you?" said
he, as Walter came running up. "I
thought you liked best wandering about
all proper and lonely inside that fine place
you seem so fond of."
Walter made no reply, but walked by
the side of his companion, who marched
along as if he knew very well what he
wanted, and meant to have it.
At length they came to a street corner,
where they saw written up, "Crystal
Palace Arms."
"Now, here's just the place for me,"
cried Chris, pushing the door open and
going in.
Walter, though he felt more uncomfortable
than ever, saw no choice but to
follow.
"Me and my pal wants a glass of beer,"
said Chris loudly, throwing down a sixpence
with the air of one who had plenty
more.
"No, I don't want any, thanks, Chris,"
interrupted Walter hastily.
"Then you can go without," answered
Christopher, deeply offended. "I'm not
going to offer it to you again, nor
anything else either, you great hulking killjoy."
He drank off his own beer, and then
had some more, and some more again.
Walter began to feel really frightened
now, for Chris was one of those childish
people who, having once begun drinking,
cannot stop themselves from taking more
than is good for them.
But on this occasion, to his comrade's
surprise, he did stop before long.
"It's no good for me to try and persuade
him," thought Walter; "it 'ud only make
him go the other way. I wish I hadn't
gone with him; it's quite spoilt my day.
I didn't get a holiday and come all this
way from home just to spend the afternoon
in a stuffy public-house, nor on the
pavement outside, neither. It's six o'clock—there's
the clock striking.—Chris, we
shall only just get back to the palace in
time to meet Mr. Richardson," he said
aloud, beginning to walk very fast. "You
know he's got all the tickets—we can't
go without him."
"All right—plenty o' time," rejoined
Chris, speaking rather thickly, and lagging
behind in a most irritating way.
Walter thought he never should get
him to the gate, but they reached it
at last. He thought it was the same
man and the same entrance they had
come in by before, but really both were
quite different. The gatekeeper said at
once,—
"Where's your money? But you can
only stay five minutes."
"Oh, we paid this morning," replied
Chris. "Don't you remember a big party
with red rosettes on?"
"You can't come in again, anyhow,
without paying. And you haven't no
red rosettes."
"Yes, I have; it's in my pocket," said
Walter, beginning to feel for it. But,
alas! it was gone—drawn out, most likely,
with his handkerchief.
"Why did you make me take it off?"
he said crossly. "Get out yours, Chris,
and show it."
"Mine? Threw the old thing away
hours ago. Not such a fool as I look,"
answered Chris rudely.—"I'm going
through here, so you can just stop your
row," he continued insolently to the gatekeeper,
with a vague idea of obtaining
admiration from the crowds now coming
out through the turnstile.
The gatekeeper looked at him contemptuously
for a moment, and then gave
a little whistle. Instantly two very tall
policemen appeared.
"Just turn these two chaps out, will
you?" said he. "They're regular holiday-keepers,
they are. Been at the Palace
Arms, I should say, most of the day."
"Now then, you clear out," said the
policemen, with voice and manner that
even Chris dared not disregard.
"Please, we want to go to the station.
We're to meet the others to go by the
half-past six train," said Walter desperately.
"You must look sharp, then—it's just
off. There, be off down those steps as
hard as you can split."
Walter obeyed. In his anxiety he forgot
all about Chris; and not even when
he reached the bottom of the steps, and
caught sight of Mr. Richardson's troubled
countenance looking for the truants from
one of the carriage windows, did he recollect
his friend.
The platform was crowded with people,
and though Walter could see the rector,
the latter could not distinguish him. If
he had but worn the red badge upon his
shoulder, matters might even yet have
gone well; but, as it was, all Walter's
efforts to shoulder his way through the
masses of people only brought him to the
front of the platform as the train steamed
off!
At the last moment of all, Mr. Richardson's
eye fell upon him, and he called out
something, but Walter could not hear
what it was.
A feeling of despair came over him as
he turned back towards the steps. He
had just remembered Chris.
"What shall we do?" he thought. "I
haven't a penny, and Chris can't have
much left either. Oh, there he is!" as
he caught sight of the other lad's ill-tempered,
flushed face at the foot of the
steps.
"You sneak!" cried Chris angrily;
"what d'ye mean by leaving me in the
lurch like this?"
"But you wouldn't hurry, Chris; and
as it is, we've lost the train—that was
ours that's just gone. What are we to
do now? Have you got any money?"
"No; you know I ain't, else I
shouldn't ha' left the 'public' so quick.
It's all your fault," answered Chris
savagely, the beer mounting to his head
more and more every minute, and he as
usual growing more unpleasant and ill-tempered
as his power of self-restraint
grew weaker.
Walter was wise enough not to try
arguing with or blaming him. He knew
it would be worse than useless.
It was now getting dark, and the station
was being lighted up. By some happy
chance, Walter found his way out of it,
and into the town, still holding on to
Chris.
"Leave go," said the latter roughly.
"I ain't a baby, nor a perambulator
neither, to be pushed about by you."
He walked, or rather stumbled, along
some way without help, Walter feeling
utterly disgusted both with himself and
his friend.
"But he shan't be my friend no more
after to-day—I've made up my mind as
to that," he said to himself. "Father's
often told me he wasn't a good companion,
and I know I didn't believe him.
I thought Chris was a fine fellow, as
really knew more than other folks—he
always talked as if he did—but I see now
'twas all talk, and he ain't near so sensible
nor so pleasant as some of the other
chaps. I ain't going to tell tales, but if
Mr. Richardson could see him now, I
don't think Chris 'ud stay much longer in
the choir."
By this time they had reached the
Palace Arms again, and Christopher once
more turned in at the door.
"What's he doing that for?" thought
Walter, "when he said he hadn't a
farthing left. I shan't go in—I've had
enough of it."
So he stayed in the street. He could
hear voices—and very angry ones—within.
They rose louder and louder, and
then there seemed a sort of struggle.
Walter's anxiety to know what was
going on had just conquered his reluctance
to be mixed up in anything like a drunken
row, when the door was hastily opened,
and several men, among them the landlord
of the tavern, appeared, all pushing and
shoving at Chris in order to turn him out.
They succeeded at last, and a very disgusting
spectacle he presented as he half
stood, half lounged against a lamp-post.
His hat was gone—some one threw it
out to him a minute later—his coat was
torn, his collar and tie were all crooked,
his eyes were bloodshot, and his expression
was a mixture of fury and helplessness.
More than ever did Walter wish he was
not obliged to claim companionship with
this degraded, low-looking man.
As he stood watching the impotent
rage with which Chris kicked the lamp-post,
as though he thought it was one of
the enemies he wished to punish, a policeman
came suddenly round the corner.
Chris made a sort of rush at him with an
angry yell.
"Hullo! Drunk and disorderly, are
you? Come along o' me," said the
constable coolly, quietly slipping a pair
of handcuffs over Chris's wrists. The
latter, with renewed passion, struggled
vehemently, but the policeman took no
notice; he merely led Chris along,
without uttering a word. It was not
far to the police-station. When they
had got there, Chris's captor suddenly
observed Walter, who had followed at
a little distance.
"What do you want?" he asked. "A
night in the lock-up?"
He spoke in jest, and was very much
astonished when Walter answered,—
"Yes, please."
"What? In here?" said the policeman
in amazement, looking at the respectable,
quiet lad. "Why, man, it's a sort of a
jail."
"I don't want to go there, of course,"
replied Walter; "but me and him"—pointing
to Chris—"has got lost, and if
he's going there, why, I s'pose I must
too."
"Is this your pal, then? You don't
know how to choose your mates, I should
say," observed the policeman. "'Tis too
late for you to see a magistrate, or you
could speak to Colonel Law. Where d'ye
come from?"
Walter related his story, Chris meanwhile
sitting on the steps almost asleep.
"It seems to me it's all your fault for
not doing as the gentleman told you, but
going by such as he," said the constable,
looking disdainfully at Chris. "Now,
look here," he added; "if you'll wait at
the door while I take in this chap and
speak to the superintendent, when I've
done I'll take you to the colonel, and
p'raps he'll see you."
Walter thanked him, and waited patiently
till he reappeared.
They soon reached the colonel's house,
and were admitted to see him, when the
policeman recounted Walter's adventures.
The magistrate was a tall, thin old man,
with a bristling white moustache, and a
very sharp, quick manner.
"Well," he said to Walter, "if your
story is true, you've been a very foolish
fellow, and quite spoilt what might have
been a very pleasant day. You can go
and sit in the kitchen and have some
supper, while I telegraph to your rector.
If he says it is all as you say, I will lend
you the money to go back by the 9.30
train."
"Oh, thank you, sir, thank you," cried
Walter, feeling as if his troubles were
coming to an end at last. "But what
about Chris?"
"Your friend in the lock-up? He
must stay there till he is let out. When
he is set free, I suppose his relations will
send the money for his journey—you can
see about that when you get home—and
he will probably have to pay a fine also,
before he can go."
Never had Walter enjoyed a supper
more. An hour passed quickly away, and
he was quite surprised at being summoned
again so soon to the colonel's library. He
looked less fierce this time.
"It's all right, Franklin," he said.
"Mr. Richardson has requested me to
help you, so here is the money. I hope
you will get home safely, and learn from
the events of to-day to choose your
friends from among the steady lads of
the village, and not to listen to the big
talkers, who want you to despise your
elders, and judge for yourself."
"No, sir; I don't mean to be friends
with Chris again," said Walter. "Thank
you for helping me, sir. Good-night."
He shut the door, and as he walked
away he said to himself,—
"I see now what it is that makes Chris
so often go wrong. It's just that whatever
any one tells him to do, he always
says, 'I know best.'"
THE END.
Transcriber's Note:
The frontispiece illustration has been shifted to follow the title page.