The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists Part 36

Chapter 17

The Rev. John Starr

'What time is it now, Mum?' asked Frankie as soon as he had finished dinner on the following Sunday.

'Two o'clock.'

'Hooray! Only one more hour and Charley will be here! Oh, I wish it was three o'clock now, don't you, Mother?'

'No, dear, I don't. You're not dressed yet, you know.'

Frankie made a grimace.

'You're surely not going to make me wear my velvets, are you, Mum?

Can't I go just as I am, in my old clothes?'

The 'velvets' was a brown suit of that material that Nora had made out of the least worn parts of an old costume of her own.

'Of course not: if you went as you are now, you'd have everyone staring at you.'

'Well, I suppose I'll have to put up with it,' said Frankie, resignedly.

'And I think you'd better begin to dress me now, don't you?'

'Oh, there's plenty of time yet; you'd only make yourself untidy and then I should have the trouble all over again. Play with your toys a little while, and when I've done the washing up I'll get you ready.'

Frankie obeyed, and for about ten minutes his mother heard him in the next room rummaging in the box where he stored his collection of 'things'. At the end of that time, however, he returned to the kitchen. 'Is it time to dress me yet, Mum?'

'No, dear, not yet. You needn't be afraid; you'll be ready in plenty of time.'

'But I can't help being afraid; you might forget.'

'Oh, I shan't forget. There's lots of time.'

'Well, you know, I should be much easier in my mind if you would dress me now, because perhaps our clock's wrong, or p'r'aps when you begin dressing me you'll find some b.u.t.tons off or something, and then there'll be a lot of time wasted sewing them on; or p'r'aps you won't be able to find my clean stockings or something and then while you're looking for it Charley might come, and if he sees I'm not ready he mightn't wait for me.'

'Oh, dear!' said Nora, pretending to be alarmed at this appalling list of possibilities. 'I suppose it will be safer to dress you at once.

It's very evident you won't let me have much peace until it is done, but mind when you're dressed you'll have to sit down quietly and wait till he comes, because I don't want the trouble of dressing you twice.'

'Oh, I don't mind sitting still,' returned Frankie, loftily. 'That's very easy.

'I don't mind having to take care of my clothes,' said Frankie as his mother--having washed and dressed him, was putting the finishing touches to his hair, brushing and combing and curling the long yellow locks into ringlets round her fingers, 'the only thing I don't like is having my hair done. You know all these curls are quite unnecessary.

I'm sure it would save you a lot of trouble if you wouldn't mind cutting them off.'

Nora did not answer: somehow or other she was unwilling to comply with this often-repeated entreaty. It seemed to her that when this hair was cut off the child would have become a different individual--more separate and independent.

'If you don't want to cut it off for your own sake, you might do it for my sake, because I think it's the reason some of the big boys don't want to play with me, and some of them shout after me and say I'm a girl, and sometimes they sneak up behind me and pull it. Only yesterday I had to have a fight with a boy for doing it: and even Charley Linden laughs at me, and he's my best friend--except you and Dad of course.

'Why don't you cut it off, Mum?'

'I am going to cut it as I promised you, after your next birthday.'

'Then I shall be jolly glad when it comes. Won't you? Why, what's the matter, Mum? What are you crying for?' Frankie was so concerned that he began to cry also, wondering if he had done or said something wrong.

He kissed her repeatedly, stroking her face with his hand. What's the matter, Mother?'

'I was thinking that when you're over seven and you've had your hair cut short you won't be a baby any more.'

'Why, I'm not a baby now, am I? Here, look at this!'

He strode over to the wall and, dragging out two chairs, he placed them in the middle of the room, back to back, about fifteen inches apart, and before his mother realized what he was doing he had climbed up and stood with one leg on the back of each chair.

'I should like to see a baby who could do this,' he cried, with his face wet with tears. 'You needn't lift me down. I can get down by myself. Babies can't do tricks like these or even wipe up the spoons and forks or sweep the pa.s.sage. But you needn't cut it off if you don't want to. I'll bear it as long as you like. Only don't cry any more, because it makes me miserable. If I cry when I fall down or when you pull my hair when you're combing it you always tell me to bear it like a man and not be a baby, and now you're crying yourself just because I'm not a baby. You ought to be jolly glad that I'm nearly grown up into a man, because you know I've promised to build you a house with the money I earn, and then you needn't do no more work.

We'll have a servant the same as the people downstairs, and Dad can stop at home and sit by the fire and read the paper or play with me and Maud and have pillow fights and tell stories and--'

'It's all right, dearie,' said Nora, kissing him. 'I'm not crying now, and you mustn't either, or your eyes will be all red and you won't be able to go with Charley at all.'

When she had finished dressing him, Frankie sat for some time in silence, apparently lost in thought. At last he said:

'Why don't you get a baby, Mother? You could nurse it, and I could have it to play with instead of going out in the street.'

'We can't afford to keep a baby, dear. You know, even as it is, sometimes we have to go without things we want because we haven't the money to buy them. Babies need many things that cost lots of money.'

'When I build our house when I'm a man, I'll take jolly good care not to have a gas-stove in it. That's what runs away with all the money; we're always putting pennies in the slot. And that reminds me: Charley said I'll have to take a ha'penny to put in the mishnery box. Oh, dear, I'm tired of sitting still. I wish he'd come. What time is it now, Mother?'

Before she could answer both Frankie's anxiety and the painful ordeal of sitting still were terminated by the loud peal at the bell announcing Charley's arrival, and Frankie, without troubling to observe the usual formality of looking out of the window to see if it was a runaway ring, had clattered half-way downstairs before he heard his mother calling him to come back for the halfpenny; then he clattered up again and then down again at such a rate and with so much noise as to rouse the indignation of all the respectable people in the house.

When he arrived at the bottom of the stairs he remembered that he had omitted to say goodbye, and as it was too far to go up again he rang the bell and then went into the middle of the road and looked up at the window that Nora opened.

'Goodbye, Mother,' he shouted. 'Tell Dad I forgot to say it before I came down.'

The School was not conducted in the chapel itself, but in a large lecture hall under it. At one end was a small platform raised about six inches from the floor; on this was a chair and a small table. A number of groups of chairs and benches were arranged at intervals round the sides and in the centre of the room, each group of seats accommodating a separate cla.s.s. On the walls--which were painted a pale green--were a number of coloured pictures: Moses striking the Rock, the Israelites dancing round the Golden Calf, and so on. As the reader is aware, Frankie had never been to a Sunday School of any kind before, and he stood for a moment looking in at the door and half afraid to enter. The lessons had already commenced, but the scholars had not yet settled down to work.

The scene was one of some disorder: some of the children talking, laughing or playing, and the teachers alternately threatening and coaxing them. The girls' and the very young children's cla.s.ses were presided over by ladies: the boys' teachers were men.

The reader already has some slight knowledge of a few of these people.

There was Mr Didlum, Mr Sweater, Mr Rushton and Mr Hunter and Mrs Starvem (Ruth Easton's former mistress). On this occasion, in addition to the teachers and other officials of the Sunday School, there were also present a considerable number of prettily dressed ladies and a few gentlemen, who had come in the hope of meeting the Rev. John Starr, the young clergyman who was going to be their minister for the next few weeks during the absence of their regular shepherd, Mr Belcher, who was going away for a holiday for the benefit of his health. Mr Belcher was not suffering from any particular malady, but was merely 'run down', and rumour had it that this condition had been brought about by the rigorous asceticism of his life and his intense devotion to the arduous labours of his holy calling.

Mr Starr had conducted the service in the Shining Light Chapel that morning, and a great sensation had been produced by the young minister's earnest and eloquent address, which was of a very different style from that of their regular minister. Although perhaps they had not quite grasped the real significance of all that he had said, most of them had been favourably impressed by the young clergyman's appearance and manner in the morning: but that might have arisen from prepossession and force of habit, for they were accustomed, as a matter of course, to think well of any minister. There were, however, one or two members of the congregation who were not without some misgivings and doubts as to the soundness of his doctrines. Mr Starr had promised that he would look in some time during the afternoon to say a few words to the Sunday School children, and consequently on this particular afternoon all the grown-ups were looking forward so eagerly to hearing him again that not much was done in the way of lessons. Every time a late arrival entered all eyes were directed towards the door in the hope and expectation that it was he.

When Frankie, standing at the door, saw all the people looking at him he drew back timidly.

'Come on, man,' said Charley. 'You needn't be afraid; it's not like a weekday school; they can't do nothing to us, not even if we don't behave ourselves. There's our cla.s.s over in that corner and that's our teacher, Mr Hunter. You can sit next to me. Come on!'

Thus encouraged, Frankie followed Charley over to the cla.s.s, and both sat down. The teacher was so kind and spoke so gently to the children that in a few minutes Frankie felt quite at home.