My Friend Smith Part 73

"But, really, Batchelor, I don't feel comfortable--"

"I do," I interrupted.

"I am sure you are not in a position to afford it," said he. "Excuse my asking, but--"

"I suppose you'd like to know where I got it from," said I, irritated at his persistency. "You may be surprised to hear I didn't steal it, and equally surprised to hear I have no notion of gratifying your curiosity."

I was perfectly amazed at my own hardihood in thus addressing him. But now I had paid him I was afraid of him no more. He was too much put out to keep up his chronic smile as he said. "I hardly expected to be spoken to in this way by you, Batchelor, after all that has happened.

If you had been left to yourself, I'm sure you would not have spoken so, but your friend Smith appears to have a special spite against me."

I was tempted to retort, but did not, and he went back pensively to his desk, taking the money with him.

The remainder of the five-pound note served to discharge my debts to the Twins, and to Tucker, the pastrycook, and Weeden, the tobacconist. The last two I paid myself; the first I sent by Doubleday, not wishing to encounter again the familiar heroes of the "usual lot."

It was with a light heart and a sense of burden removed from my life that I returned that evening to the lodgings, whither jack had preceded me.

On my arrival I found him in a state of uneasiness.

"Very queer," said he, "Billy's not turned up. He was to be here at seven, and it's now half-past; I never knew him late before."

"Very likely he's had some unexpected customers to detain him," I said.

"Not likely. Billy wouldn't be late for an appointment here if the Prince of Wales himself came to get his boots blacked."

"What can have become of him, then?" I said.

"I wish I knew. I am afraid he's got into trouble."

We waited another half-hour, and no Billy appeared. Smith looked more and more anxious.

"I think," said he, "we'd better go and look for him, Fred; what do you say?"

"I'll come, certainly," said I; "but where do you expect to find him?"

"If there is no sign of him in Style Street, I expect he'll be in the court where his mother lives."

I had a lively recollection of my last visit to that aristocratic thoroughfare. But I did not wish to seem unwilling to accompany Jack in his quest. Only I rather hoped we should find our man--or boy--in Style Street.

But that we did not do. The flagstone on which he was wont to establish his box was there, bare and unoccupied except for the scrawling letters and sums traced out with his finger-tip. High or low, he was not to be found in Style Street.

We went on in the growing dark towards the court.

"Do you know the house he lives at?"

"I'm not sure," said Jack.

"Do you know what name to inquire for?"

"No, only Billy," said Jack.

"Don't you think," said I, "it's rather unlikely we shall come across him in a crowded court like that, knowing neither the name nor the house where he lives?"

"Let us try, anyhow," said Jack.

We went on, and soon reached the well-known "slum." I must confess honestly I would rather not have entered. Last time we had been there one of us had been struck by smallpox, and both had had to run for our lives, and it seemed to me--perhaps my illness had made me a coward-- that we were running an unnecessary risk now by plunging into it just because Billy happened to be an hour late for an appointment.

However, Jack was determined, and I was determined to stick by Jack.

When we first entered, the court was as before, swarming with men and women and children, and in the crowd we pa.s.sed some way unnoticed.

Presently, however, Jack stopped and asked a woman--

"Do you know in what house a little boy called Billy who black boots lives?"

The woman who was engaged in sewing a black sleeve on to an old grey coat, looked up sharply, and demanded--

"What do you want to know for?"

"I want to see him," said Jack.

"What do you want to see him for?"

"He didn't come to the ragged school to-night."

The woman flared up.

"We don't want none of your ragged schools! You go and teach yourselves manners--that's what you'd better do, and don't come nosing about here-- as if we couldn't get on without a parcel of snuffing young prigs like you to tell us what to do. That's what I think of you."

And the honest British matron tossed her head in a huff, and went on with her patchwork.

"If everybody was as honest as you," said Jack--where the sly dog learned the art of flattery I can't imagine--"no one would interfere.

But we are afraid Billy's mother is not very good to him."

The woman looked up again, as if not quite sure what to make of this speech. But Jack looked so much in earnest that she said, shortly--

"You're about right there. I'm a poor woman, but I hope I know better than to make a beast of myself to my own childer."

Then she knew Billy, and could tell us where he lived after all.

Jack began, almost confidentially--

"Do you think--"

But he got no farther just then, for we had not noticed a group of idlers who, attracted by our presence in the court, and curious to know our business, had gathered round, and now began, half in jest, half in earnest, to hustle us, crying--

"Go on home. Go and teach yourselves. We don't want none of your ABC."

We thought it wise to walk slowly on, without appearing to be running away.