My Friend Smith Part 65

"I believe you are right," said I.

"And how are you feeling? You're looking better than when I saw you last, anyhow."

"I never saw you before, did I?" I asked.

"No, you didn't; but I saw you when you were brought in here the other evening. However, as Billy says, you mustn't talk now. I suppose you heard me order him to make my bed. I always go to bed every morning at eleven. Young Smith and I are like Box and c.o.x, you know; he's away all day, I'm away all night. Just when he's finishing up work I'm beginning."

"I wonder you can keep awake all the night," I said.

"Not more wonderful than you keeping awake all day, my boy. In fact, there's not much chance of a poor literary hack sleeping over his work.

Now I wonder, when you read your newspaper in the morning, if you ever think of what has to be done to produce it. If you only did, I dare say you would find it more interesting than it often seems."

And then my companion launched out into a lively description of the work of a newspaper office, and of the various stages in the production of a paper, from the pen and ink in the sub-editor's room to the printed, folded, and delivered newspaper which lies on one's breakfast-table every morning. I wish I could repeat it all for the benefit of the reader, for few subjects are more interesting; but it would take more time than we have to spare to do so.

Of course Mr Smith the elder--for so I had to call him to distinguish him from my friend his namesake--rattled on in this strain, more for the sake of keeping me interested and amused than any other reason. Still, his talk was something better than idle chatter, and I began to feel that here at last, among all my miscellaneous acquaintance, was a man worth knowing.

He gave me no chance of talking myself, but rattled on from one topic to another in a way which left me quite free to listen or not as I liked, and finally rose, much to my regret, to go.

"Now I must be off, or I shall have Billy up to hunt me off. Good-bye, my boy; glad to see you doing so well. You've a lot to be thankful for, and of course you are."

"Will you come again?" I asked.

"Gladly; that is, if Billy allows me," said he, laughing, and nodding kindly as he left the room.

"No wonder," thought I, as I listened to his footsteps going down stairs--"no wonder Jack Smith found these lodgings pleasanter than Beadle Square."

I saw Mr Smith frequently during the next few days. He usually came up to sit with me for half an hour or so in the morning, and was always the same cheery and interesting companion.

And yet I could not quite make him out. For when not talking or smiling his face used to wear a look of habitual trouble and restlessness, which made me suspect he was either making an effort to be cheery before me, or else that he was the victim of a constant battle between good spirits and bad.

However, just as I was getting to feel intimate with him, and looking forward to hear more about him than I had yet learned, my recovery came to a sudden and rather serious halt.

I was lying one evening propped up in my bed, with my damaged arm feeling comparatively comfortable, and myself in a particularly jovial frame of mind as I listened to Jack Smith attempting to instil into the mind of the volatile Billy the art of spelling d-o-g--dog.

"Now, Billy," said the instructor, "you'll never get on at this rate.

That letter you're pointing at is a B for Billy, and not a D."

"That there B's a caution," growled the boy; "he's always a-turnin' up."

"Time you knew him, then," said Smith. "Now show us the D."

Billy c.o.c.ked his head a little to one side and took a critical survey of the alphabet before him. His eye pa.s.sed once down and once up the procession, then looking up at Jack with a grin, he said, "He's 'iding, I reckon, governor. That there dorg'll have to start with a B after all."

Our laughter at this philosophic observation was interrupted by an unwonted footstep on the stairs outside. It certainly was not Mr Smith, for he was out at his work; nor was it the doctor, our only other visitor, for he always came up two steps at a time, and his boots always squeaked. Who could our visitor be?

"Come in," called Smith, as a knock sounded on the door.

To my utter astonishment and concern, Hawkesbury, with his sweetest smile, entered the room.

How had he found out my retreat? What did he want here? What would Jack Smith say? These were the questions which rushed through my mind as he closed the door behind him and walked into the room.

I glanced round at Jack. There was written anything but peace in his countenance, while Billy glared like a young bulldog ready to spring on the intruder.

"Well, Batchelor," said Hawkesbury, in his blandest voice, addressing me and ignoring everybody else; "you'll be surprised to see me here. The fact is, I couldn't feel happy till I came to see you and tell you how sorry I was for your accident."

My few days' confinement and the opportunity for meditation they had afforded had served to give me an insight into Hawkesbury's character which made me treat this speech suspiciously. I replied nothing, and felt very uncomfortable.

"It was most unfortunate," proceeded Hawkesbury, helping himself to the chair. "You know--"

"Excuse me," interrupted Smith at this point, in a tone which made me start; "this is my room, Hawkesbury, and I must ask you to go."

The visitor's face clouded with a quick shade of vexation, but immediately regained its chronic smile, as he said, "Ah, Smith! I should have said it was my friend Batchelor I came to see, not you."

"You're no friend of his," retorted Smith, with rising wrath.

"Do you hear, n.o.b," broke in Billy, unable to restrain himself any longer; "you ain't a-wanted here."

Hawkesbury looked round with an amused smile.

"Really," said he, "a most gratifying reception, and from a most unexpected quarter. Er--excuse me, Smith, I'm afraid it's rather a strange request--would you mind allowing me to have a little private conversation with my friend?"

"No," replied Smith, firmly.

"Really," said Hawkesbury. "I must appeal to Batchelor himself."

"I shall answer for Batchelor," said Smith, not giving me time to reply.

"Leave my room, please."

"Do you hear? You leave the bloke's room," cried Billy. "Ef you don't you'll get a topper."

Hawkesbury, whose colour had been rising during the last few moments, and whose a.s.surance had gradually been deserting him, now turned round with a ceremonious smile to the last speaker as he rose to his feet and said, "If _you_ desire it, I'll go. I can submit to be ordered off by a s...o...b..ack, but the son of a convict is--"

With clenched fist and crimson face Jack gave a sudden bound towards the speaker. But as suddenly he checked himself and walked gently to my bed, where I had started up ready to spring to my feet and back up my friend in what seemed a certain quarrel.

"What a cad I am!" he murmured, as he bent over me, and motioned me gently back to my pillow, "but the fellow nearly drives me mad."

I was too exhausted by my effort to say anything.

Jack remained by my side while the unwelcome visitor slowly walked to the door. But if one of Hawkesbury's enemies was disposed of, another remained. Billy, who had been a fuming and speechless witness of this last scene, now boiled over completely, and was to be kept in check no longer.

Wasting no words, he made a wild dash at the retreating intruder and closed with him. He would have closed with a lion, I firmly believe, if a lion had made himself obnoxious to Jack Smith.

Hawkesbury turned suddenly to receive the a.s.sault; an angry flush overspread his face, his hands clenched, and next moment Billy reeled back bleeding and almost senseless into the middle of the room, and the visitor had gone.

This was the event which put a check on my recovery.

To lie helpless and see Jack Smith insulted before my face would have been bad enough, but to hear him taunted with the very secret I had so miserably and treacherously let out was more than I could endure.

I don't know what I did that evening, I was so weak and so excited. I have vague recollections of breaking out into pa.s.sionate self-reproaches and wild entreaties for forgiveness; and of Jack Smith with pale and troubled face bending over me trying to soothe me, imploring me to be still, telling me twenty times there was nothing left to forgive. And then in the middle of the scene the doctor arrived, with serious face and hushed voice. He felt my pulse more carefully than ever, and took my temperature not once only, but several times. There was a hurried consultation in the corner of the room, of which all I heard were the words "most unfortunate" and "fever." My usual supper of bread-and- b.u.t.ter and an _egg_ gave place to a cup of beef-tea, which I could scarcely taste, and after that some medicine. Jack, with a face more solemn than ever, made his bed at the foot of mine, and smoothed my pillow for me and whispered--