The Luck of Gerard Ridgeley Part 10

"D'you mean to deny that this youngster ever handed you twenty-five pounds? Come, now. Speak up, man!"

"Why of course I do," unhesitatingly replied Anstey, though not without quailing before the indignation and contempt depicted on all three faces.

"Well, then, I for one believe you are telling the most infernal lie ever laid tongue to," said the transport-rider. "As for you, youngster," turning to Gerard, "I can only say I'm sorry for you, for you have fallen into the hands of the biggest blackguard in the whole of this Colony. Why on earth didn't you make him give you a receipt or something?"

"The fact is, he is related to me. I thought I could trust him. How should I know he was no better than a common thief?"

"You're a mighty virtuous lot, eh, Sam Carruthers?" sneered Anstey.

"I've heard of a few tricks being played with waybills before to-day, while the load's on the road."

"You just shut up, or I'll about knock your head off, Anstey, and be glad of an opportunity to do it, too!" said another of the transport-riders.

"Will you?" yelled Anstey, moving towards the inner door to ensure a retreat in the event of any of them making an attempt at climbing over the counter which now separated them from him. "I tell you what it is.

You're all in league with this swindling young thief, who is trying to bluff me out of money. But it won't do--it won't do. He can take his things and go to the devil. He came to me a beggar, and he can go out a beggar--the ungrateful dog. And, if any one likes to try the smashing trick, I've got a barker here that knows how to bite."

And, making a rapid skip inside, he reappeared in a moment with a long-barrelled revolver.

All the anger, the indignation, almost the grief at being robbed, left penniless, had momentarily faded from Gerard's mind before the overwhelming disgust which he felt for the other's villainy. It was too painful, too nauseating. That a man of Anstey's birth and antecedents, a relative, though a distant one, of his own, could stoop to such a black, pitiful, crawling theft, was revolting beyond words. He now looked upon him with a kind of horror, as upon some loathly and hardly human monster.

"It is just as he says," he said at last. "I have no receipt, and no witnesses. I suppose I can do nothing."

"Just try, my hearty--just try; that's all!" jeered Anstey.

"Maritzburg's busting with law and lawyers. See what you can do.

You're quite welcome."

"Better shut up, Anstey," said the man who had evinced a head-punching disposition. "We ain't afraid of you and your pistol, and you may get more than you like, yet. And you, friend. What do you propose to do?"

"Get out of this as soon as possible," answered Gerard, in weary disgust. "Get back to Maritzburg, I suppose. But I've got some luggage here--not much, but a good deal more than I can carry; and you can imagine I don't want to leave it behind."

"Rather. Well, look here now," said the man who had been addressed as Sam Carruthers; "I'm bound for the town, and if you don't mind jogging along with a waggon, I'll be glad to take in your luggage and yourself too. I won't charge you anything for it either. And, remember this.

You don't seem to have been long in the country, and have fallen into the hands of a mortal sweep. Well, remember the swindle that has been planted on you was done by one of your own countrymen, not by one of as Anstey hasn't been out here so very many years himself."

This was only too true. From the colonial people he had had to do with Gerard had met with many little acts of kindness. It had been reserved, as the other had said, for one of his own countrymen to rob him of his little all--to leave him penniless, a stranger in a strange land.

He gladly accepted the transport-rider's friendly offer, and, having hastily packed his outfit--Anstey the while keeping well out of his way--he bade adieu for ever to the scene of his first colonial experience.

Poor Gerard, alone in Maritzburg, without a friend in the Colony, and with about fifty shillings to his name, besides his moderate outfit, might indeed have reckoned himself in evil case; and, after a few days, in spite of his pluck and determination, he did so reckon himself. He had taken up his quarters at a cheap boarding-house which the friendly transport-rider had told him about--a place in comparison with which the mosquito-haunted Wayne's was almost a palace--and had set about trying to find work. But what chance had he? The fact of his being a lad of education and refinement told against him with those among whom he applied. "A fine gentleman and a raw Britisher," as they put it--to do them justice in their own minds only--was only a synonym for uselessness. Every billet wherein education was required was either filled, or hungrily competed for by a hundred applicants; applicants, too, with recommendations in their favour, and where were his? He tried to turn to account such experience as he had gained with Anstey, but with no better success. The country stores required a much more experienced hand, and one who could speak the native language fluently; the town ones wouldn't look at him. Apart from the question of recommendations, here the very fact of his having been with Anstey was against him, was enough to shut him out even from the list of that most hopeless form of hope deferred--the cases "under consideration." That precious rascal, he found, was far better known than trusted, and more than one instance of sharp practice and roguery on the part of Anstey now came to his knowledge. But meanwhile time was flying, and with it, of course, money. And he was no nearer attaining any way of replenishing his well-nigh vanished stock of the latter.

Gerard Ridgeley's education had been of the usual happy-go-lucky, slipshod sort which is hammered into the average English boy who is destined for no profession in particular, and which for purposes of after life is practically useless. The regulation amount of Latin and Greek, and Euclid and arithmetic, got through by rote, often with the help of a crib, with perhaps a smattering of British and home-made French, had fallen to his lot, as well as the regulation share of cricket and football. But these attainments, good in themselves, seemed not to help him one whit in gaining the means of subsistence in his present predicament. He had never even taken to carpentering as an amus.e.m.e.nt, as some boys do, and of course of any other handicraft was as ignorant as a babe unborn.

Probably no one in these days really imagines that living is cheap in the Colonies, save perhaps to the dwellers in the _veldt_ or bush, who grow their own necessaries of life. In the towns it is considerably dearer than in England, and a sovereign is apt to represent nearer ten shillings than twenty. So Gerard speedily learnt, as time flew and so did his funds, and prospects of employment remained as remote as ever.

"There ain't room for chaps as wants a job in this here blessed colony,"

bitterly remarked one of his fellow-boarders one day. "It's a small country when all's said and done, and there's too many of us already, besides all these Hindian coolie-n.i.g.g.e.rs they're a importin' of by shiploads."

In the extremity of his strait, Gerard bethought himself of Mr Kingsland. Should he write and endeavour to bespeak the latter's aid, telling all the circ.u.mstances of his evil fortune and the cruel swindle which had left him penniless? He remembered the hearty kindness of the old settler's tone, and a.s.surances of friendship. Surely he was justified in asking for a helping hand towards some means of gaining his own livelihood! But no sooner had he taken pen in hand to do so than he flung that redoubtable implement to the other end of the room. He could not do it. It was too much like writing a begging letter. Besides, what claim had he upon anybody? So, instead of writing the letter, he took a hurried survey of his possessions, and then strolled round to an auctioneer's sale-rooms, to see whether the chances were good in favour of obtaining a reasonable price for his new saddle at the next morning's sale.

Turning the street corner he ran right against Harry Maitland, or rather against the latter's horse, for Harry himself was in the act of dismounting.

"Hallo, Ridgeley! Where've you dropped from?" said Harry. "Still counter-jumping with that distinguished-looking relation of yours?"

"No such luck," replied Gerard, with a rueful laugh. And he told him what had happened. "And here I am nearly stumped, and see no way of getting up again," he concluded.

"Stumped, eh? That's devilish awkward," quoth Harry. "You would go counter-jumping, you see, instead of going to work in the right way.

Look at me now. I know shoals of people already, and am having a right good time. There's nothing like looking about one first for a bit, depend upon it. Well, ta-ta. See you again. Here--hallo, Warner!" he sang out to a man who had just pa.s.sed them. "Hold on, can't you!"

And, leaving Gerard standing there, he went after the new-comer.

"Who's that fellow you were yarning to?" said the latter. "A devilish decent-looking chap, whoever he is."

"That! Oh, he's a poor devil I used sometimes to talk to on board ship.

And, I say, Warner, you turned up in the very nick of time. He was just going to try and borrow a five-pound note from me. I'll swear he was. I could see it in his eye. Let's go and liquor."

It was lucky for the utterer of this remark that it remained unheard by the object thereof, otherwise we fear that, even in the middle of that bustling pavement, a vigorous application of shoe-leather might have awakened Master Harry most painfully to the fact that it had been overheard. Gerard, however, had resumed his way, sad and bitter of heart; for he was young yet, and had not even begun to learn to take the insincerity and ingrat.i.tude of so-called friends as a matter of course.

He only remembered how glad the other had been to get under his wing, so to say, when they had first landed. Thrown upon their own resources, strangers in a strange land, he it was who had taken the initiative; upon him had all the managing and thinking devolved. Harry Maitland had been glad of his company then, so glad of it indeed that he had even made some sacrifice of his own comfort rather than cut himself adrift from it. Now he hardly condescended to know him. Well, it was only one more lesson out of the volume of the world's hard and flinty teaching; but, as we said, Gerard was still very young, and the lesson was bitter.

He gained the auction-room. A sale of miscellaneous articles was in full swing, and bidding was brisk. While waiting till it should be over and he could speak to the auctioneer, he amused himself watching the competing groups as well as those--far the greater number--who were only there to look on; for in a colonial town a public sale of whatever kind draws a crowd of loungers of every description as surely as a store-cupboard draws flies in hot weather. Bronzed and bearded stock-farmers and transport-riders, alert-looking townsmen, a sprinkling of Indian coolies, turbaned and deferential, but none the less intent, in their own quiet, half-shy manner, upon getting their money's worth for their money, all cl.u.s.tered and crowded around the tables, more or less eagerly bidding, or keeping up a running fire of chaff with the auctioneer. Watching this ma.s.s of diversified humanity, Gerald was conscious of the descent of a friendly hand upon his shoulder, and a friendly voice at his ear.

"Ridgeley--isn't it?"

With a start of surprise, he turned, to find himself face to face with the sun-tanned lineaments and corduroy-clad form of John Dawes.

"Thought we'd meet again some day," said the latter, grasping the hand which Gerard delightedly put forth. "Small world after all. How has it been using you?"

Had Gerard been worldly wise, taught by his last experience, he would have answered with equal indifference, "Oh, so-so." Being, however, only genuine, he replied--

"Badly, I fear."

"So?" said the transport-rider, upon whom the unconscious despondency of the tone was not lost. "Sorry to hear that. I've often wondered how you got on, especially with Anstey. Found him, I suppose?"

"I did. And I found him out too."

"So?" said Dawes again. "But look here, if you're not doing anything just now, come round, and we'll have a bit of dinner together. I'd like to hear how you've been getting on."

As Gerard's business with the auctioneer would very well keep until the afternoon, he accompanied his newly found friend to a luncheon bar in the neighbourhood, and there, over a dish of sizzling beefsteak and a bottle or two of English beer, gave a full account of his experiences and misadventures since they had parted.

"When you first told me you were going to find out Anstey, I'd have liked to have warned you," said Dawes, who had listened attentively to every word of his narrative. "But, then, I thought it was none of my business, and you said he was a relation of yours, too, which of course made it all the worse. I know him well; and, what's more, he knows me."

"He seemed to," said Gerard, remembering the disquieted look which had come into Anstey's face when he had mentioned the transport-rider.

"Rather. I gave him a licking once--well, it's an old story and don't matter now. But, excuse the question, I suppose you find yourself at pretty low ebb just now, eh?"

"Low ebb isn't the word for it," was the weary reply. "I've been moving heaven and earth to try and raise some sort of a billet, but it's no go.

There seems to be no room for me here. I wish I had never come out."

Dawes had been filling his pipe, and pa.s.sed his pouch on to his young companion. As he lighted it, and the glow of the match fell upon his impa.s.sive and weather-beaten features, it brought out therein no trace of feeling, no sign that the other's narrative interested him one whit.

But in reality he was revolving a plan. He had from the very first taken a great liking to this bright, frank, warm-hearted English lad, the extent of whose difficulties now he was thoroughly capable of appreciating.