I knew Billy well enough by this time to be sure it was no use, after once offending him, trying to cajole him back into a good-humour, so I left him.

So the wretched weeks pa.s.sed on, and I almost wished myself back at Stonebridge House. There at least I had some society and some friends.

Now, during those lonely evenings at Mrs Nash's I had positively no one--except young Larkins.

That cheery youth was a standing rebuke to me. He had come up to town a year ago, a fresh, innocent boy; and a fresh, innocent boy he remained still. He kept his diary regularly, and wrote home like clock-work, and chirruped over his postage-stamp alb.u.m, and laughed over his storybooks in a way which it did one's heart good to see. And yet it made my heart sore. Why should he be so happy and I not? He wasn't, so I believe, a cleverer boy than I was. Certainly he wasn't getting on better than I was, for I had now had my third rise in salary, and he still only got what he started with. And he possessed no more friends at Beadle Square than I did. Why ever should he always be so jolly?

I knew, though I was loth to admit it. His conscience was as easy as his spirits. There was no one he had ever wronged, and a great many to whom he had done kind actions. When any one suggested to him to do what he considered wrong, it was the easiest thing in the world for him to refuse flatly, and say boldly why. If everybody else went one way, and he thought it not the right way, it cost him not an effort to turn and go his own way, even if he went it alone. Fellows didn't like him.

They called him a prig--a sanctimonious young puppy. What cared he? If to do what was right manfully in the face of wrong, to persevere in the right in the face of drawbacks, const.i.tuted a prig, then Larkins was a prig of the first water, and he didn't care what fellows thought of him, but chirruped away over his postage-stamp alb.u.m as before, and read his books, as happy as a king.

It was in this boy's society that during those wretched weeks I found a painful consolation. He was constantly reminding me of what I was not; but for all that I felt he was a better companion than the heroes with whom I used to a.s.sociate, and with whom I still occasionally consorted.

He knew nothing of my trouble, and thought I was the crossest-grained, slowest growler in existence. But since I chose his company, and seemed glad to have him beside me, he was delighted.

"I say," said he suddenly one evening, as we were engaged in experimenting with a small steam-engine he had lately become the proud possessor of, "I saw your old friend Smith to-day!"

"Where?" I asked.

"Why, down Drury Lane. I heard of a new Russian stamp that was to be had cheap in a shop there, and while I was in buying it he came in."

"Was he buying stamps too?"

"No; he lives in a room over the shop. Not a nice hole, I should fancy.

Didn't you know he was there?"

"No," I said.

"Oh, you should go and see the place. He'd much better come back here, tell him. But I thought you saw one another every day?" he added, in his simple way.

"Did he say anything to you?" I asked, avoiding the question.

"Yes. I asked him how he was getting on, and he said very well; and I asked him what he thought of the Russian stamp; and he said if I liked he could get me a better specimen at his office. Isn't he a brick? and he's promised me a jolly Turkish one, too, that I haven't got."

"Was that all?" I asked. "I mean all he said?"

"Yes--oh, and I asked if he'd got any message for you, and he said no.

Look, there--it's going! I say, isn't it a stunning little engine? I mean to make it work a little pump I've got in the greenhouse at home.

It's just big enough."

Any message for me? No! Was it worth trying for any longer? I thought, as once more I crept solitary and disappointed to bed.

But the answer was nearer than I thought for.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

HOW I TOOK PART IN A NOT VERY SUCCESSFUL HOLIDAY PARTY.

Several weeks elapsed, and I was beginning to doubt whether Hawkesbury's advice, after all, was good, when a general holiday occurred to break the monotony of my life both at Hawk Street and Beadle Square.

I had for some time meditated, if I had the funds, taking advantage of my next holiday to run down to my uncle's. Not that I expected any particular welcome from him, but I longed to see the old familiar haunts of my childhood after my long imprisonment in London; and, even if there were no more congenial friend than Cad Prog to hail me, it would at least be a change from this dreary city, with its noise and bustle, and disappointed hopes and lost friendships.

But my intention in this direction was upset by a double reason. One was that I had no money. Indeed, my debts had got so far ahead of my means that it was clear a crisis in my financial affairs must soon come.

The other reason was an invitation to join in a grand day's excursion by road to Windsor.

It came from Hawkesbury.

"Are you doing anything particular on Monday?" he asked me, a day or two before the holiday.

"No; I half thought of going home, but I can't afford that, so I may go to the British Museum."

"Not a very cheerful place to spend a holiday," laughed Hawkesbury.

"What do you say to coming a quiet drive with me?"

Had the invitation come from Crow or Daly, or even Doubleday, I should have regarded it shyly. But Hawkesbury was a steady fellow, I thought, and not likely to lead one into mischief.

"I should like it awfully!" I said, "only--that is--I don't think I can afford it."

"Oh!" said he, smiling affably, "you shan't be at any expense at all.

It's my affair, and I should like to take you with me."

Of course my grat.i.tude was as profuse as it was sincere.

"My idea was," continued Hawkesbury, "to get a dogcart for the day and go somewhere in the direction of Windsor, taking our own provender with us, and having a jolly healthy day in the open air."

Nothing could be more delightful or more in accordance with my own wishes.

"Will it be just you and I?" I asked.

"Well, these traps generally hold four. I thought perhaps Whipcord would come for one; he's a good driver, you know, and a steady enough fellow when he's by himself. And there's a friend of mine called Masham I mean to ask as well."

I would have preferred it if the expedition had been confined to Hawkesbury and myself, but I had no right to be discontented with the arrangements which had been made, and spent the next few days in eager antic.i.p.ation.

I wondered what Jack Smith meant to do on his holiday; most likely he would be reading hard for his "Sam," as Billy called it. It seemed shabby of me to go off on a spree and leave him to drudge; but, as Hawkesbury said when I referred to the matter, it would just show him what he missed by holding aloof, and make him all the more ready to try to get back my friendship.

Doubleday, when I told him of my plan for the day, snuffed up at it in no very pleasant way. But then he had always been jealous of Hawkesbury since giving up the petty-cash to his charge.

"All I can say is," said he, "_I'd_ think twice about going with that party, and I'm not so very particular. I suppose you never met Mr Masham, did you?"

"No," said I.

"Ah!" he replied, laughing, "you'll find him a very nice boy; just a little too strait-laced for me, but he'll suit you."

I could not make out whether this was in jest or earnest; in any case, I put it down to the petty-cash, and thought it a pity Doubleday should be so put out by a trifle.

"What are you going to do?" I asked him.

"Oh! I'm going to do my best to be cheerful in a mild way," said he, "down the river. It's a good job Hawkesbury's booked you, my boy, for I meant to ask you to join us, and that would have done you out of your quiet day with Petty-Cash and his friends, which would be a pity."

The Monday came at last, and opened perfectly. My spirits rose as I looked out and saw the blue cloudless sky overhead, and thought of the trees, and birds, and flowers, and country air I was so soon to be among.