Christopher Hibbault, Roadmaker Part 25

Sam rowed on stolidly. "Dunno that it's much use bothering," he said indifferently. "I'm doing all right, though it's not what I'd choose."

It had seemed an easy, insignificant task to break the news five minutes ago, but either Christopher had taken the wrong approach or it was a stiffer job than he had fancied. He became uneasily conscious his own part in it could not be overlooked, that he was doing something that evilly-disposed persons might even call magnanimous or philanthropic. His face grew red at the thought.

"Sam," he said as naturally as he could, "it happens you can choose, you see. Choose anything you like. Caesar's given me a free hand. We are both to start life just as we like. What shall it be? I've told you my choice."

The narrow form in front never slackened its stroke, but pulled on mechanically, and at last spoke a little gruffly.

"Say. You're kidding me, you know."

"I'm not. Dead earnest."

Again the boat shot on, but Christopher stopped rowing. Sam looked back over his shoulder.

"You're lazy. Why don't you pull?"

Christopher obeyed mechanically. He knew he could afford to be patient now.

"Easy," said the stroke at last.

There was a smooth reach of water before them. Low meadows with reddish muddy banks lay on either side, no house or any living soul was in sight. Sam rubbed his hands on his trousers, looked back at his friend and away again.

"You mean you'll start me in any trade I like? 'Prentice me?"

"Any trade or profession."

"What do you do it for, anyhow?"

"Caesar suggested it. He said I might if I liked."

"Well, why do you do it?"

"Does it matter?"

"I want to know certain."

Christopher looked embarra.s.sed. "Weren't we kids together? Besides, it seems to me every chap ought to have a chance of working on the job he likes best. It's only fair. It's jolly rough on a fellow to have to do just what comes along whether he's fit for it or not."

"Seems to me," said Sam meditatively, "a good many jobs would want doing if everyone did what they liked."

"Oh, science would step in and equalise that," returned Christopher, hastily quoting from some handbook and went on to further expound his creed.

Sam concluded he had been listening to spouters in the Park, but he was sharp enough to recognise beneath the crude boyish creed the kindly generous nature that prompted it.

"So Caesar says you've just to choose. We'll see you through."

"He must be jolly rich."

"Well, that's why he's rich, isn't it, to be able to do things."

"I don't see what he gets out of it anyhow."

"He doesn't want anything, you silly."

"I want to think this out," said Sam, "there is something I've always wanted since I was a kiddy, but I want to think. Row on."

This was intelligible and encouraging. Christopher's sense of flatness gave way a little. He pulled steadily, trying to make out what had so dashed him in Sam's reception of the great news. He had not yet learnt how exceptional is the mind that can accept a favour graciously.

After nearly ten minutes' silence Sam spoke again. "Well, then, I'd like to be a grocer," and straightway pulled furiously.

"What?" gasped Christopher, feeling the bottom story of his card house tottering to a fall.

"It's like this. I don't mind telling you--much--though I've never told n.o.body before. When I was a bit of a chap, mother, she used to take me out shopping in the evenings. We went to pokey little shops, but we used to pa.s.s a fine, big shop--four gla.s.s windows--it has six now--and great lights and mahogany counters and little rails, and b.a.l.l.s for change, tiled floor, no sawdust. Every time I saw it I says to myself, 'When I'm a man I'll have a place like that.' I tried to get a job there, but I couldn't--they made too many family inquiries, you see," he added bitterly; "well, if I could get 'prenticed to a place like that ... might be head man some day...." He began whistling with forced indifference, queerly conscious that the whole of his life seemed packed in that little boat--waiting. The boat had drifted into a side eddy. Christopher sat with his head on his hands, wondering with his surface consciousness if the planks at his feet were three or four inches wide, but at last he brushed aside the last card of his demolished palace and recalled his promise to Caesar to leave Sam as free and unbiased in choice as he had been himself.

"That would be quite easy to manage," he said with a.s.sumed heartiness, "it's--only too easy. Only you must be a partner or something. Oh, oh.

A white ap.r.o.n. I'll buy my tea and bacon of you when I've a house of my own!"

"All right," grinned Sam. "I'll have great rows of red and gold canisters and--and bra.s.s fittings everywhere--not your plated stuff for me--solid bra.s.s and marble-topped counters. But it won't come off," he added dejectedly, "things like that never do."

"But it will," persisted Christopher impatiently, "just as my going to Dusseldorf is coming off."

"You don't get 'prenticed for nothing," was the faithless rejoinder.

Christopher joggled the boat and shouted: "You sinner, if you won't take my word for it I'll smash you."

"All right--keep cool, I'm only having you on, Chris. Oughtn't we to turn now?"

They expended their excitement and emotion in rowing furiously, and landed again at Maidenhead in time for tea. Then Christopher broke the further news to Sam that he was to return with him to Aston House and see Caesar. He overcame with difficulty Sam's reiterated objections, and they walked from Paddington, Christopher keeping a strict guard over Sam lest he should escape.

But Sam's objections were more "code" than genuine. He was really anxious to hear the wonderful news confirmed by more responsible lips than Christopher's--not that he disbelieved his intentions, but he still doubted his powers. He grew very silent, however, as they turned in at the beautiful iron gates of Aston House. He had never managed to really connect his old friend with this wonderful dignified residence that he knew vaguely by sight. He had had dim visions of Christopher slipping in by a side entrance avoiding the eyes of plush-breeched lords-in-waiting. But here was that young gentleman marching calmly in at the big front doors nodding cheerfully to the sober-clad man waiting in the hall who called Christopher "Sir."

Sam successfully concealed under an expression of solid matter-of-factness the interest and curiosity that consumed him. He looked straight before him and yet saw all round. He accepted the whole calmly, but he wanted to sit down and stare.

Christopher explained that they were to have dinner together in his own sitting-room as soon as they had seen Aymer.

They went through the swing doors down the long corridor leading to Aymer's room, and Christopher stopped for a moment near a window.

"I never come down here in this sort of light," he said with a little catch in his voice, "without thinking of the first evening I came. How big it all seemed and how quiet."

"It is quiet," said Sam in a subdued whisper.

In another moment they were in Aymer's room.

"Hullo, Caesar. Here we are, turned up like bad pennies."

Christopher pulled Sam across the room to the sofa. Sam would have been not a little surprised had he known that it cost Aymer Aston a great deal more effort to see a new face than it cost him to look at this Caesar of whom he had heard so much.

The "code" slipped from his mental horizon and left him red and embarra.s.sed, watching Christopher furtively to see what he would do.

"Here's Sam, Caesar. I've told you all about him and he may just have heard your name mentioned--possibly--" laughed Christopher seating himself on the sofa and indicating a chair to his friend.