True Tilda Part 9

But here a voice from within the caravan interrupted him.

"Stanislas!"

"My love?"

"I can't find the saucepan."

A lady appeared at the hatch of the doorway above. Her hair hung in disarray over her well-developed shoulders, and recent tears had left their furrows on a painted but not uncomely face.

"I--I--well, to confess the truth, I p.a.w.ned it, my bud. Dear, every cloud has its silver lining, and meanwhile what shall we say to a simple fry? You have an incomparable knack of frying."

"But where's the dripping?"

Her husband groaned.

"The dripping! The continual dripping! Am I--forgive the bitterness of the question--but am I a stone, love?"

He asked it with a hollow laugh, and at the same time with a glance challenged Sam's approval for his desperate pleasantry.

Sam jerked his thumb to indicate a wooden out-house on the far side of the yard.

"I got a shanty of my own across there, _and_ a few fixin's. If the van's anch.o.r.ed here, an' I can set you up with odds-an'-ends such as a saucepan, you're welcome."

"A friend in need, sir, is a friend indeed," said the stranger impressively; and Sam's face brightened, for he had heard the proverb before, and it promised to bring the conversation, which he had found some difficulty in following, down to safe, familiar ground. "Allow me to introduce you--but excuse me, I have not the pleasure of knowing your name--"

"Sam Bossom."

"Delighted! 'Bossom' did you say? B--O--double S--it should have been 'Blossom,' sir, with a slight addition; or, with an equally slight omission--er--'Bosom,' if my Arabella will excuse me. On two hands, Mr.

Bossom, you narrowly escape poetry." (Sam looked about him uneasily.) "But, as Browning says, 'The little more and how much it is, the little less and what miles away.' Mine is Mortimer, sir--Stanislas Horatio Mortimer. You have doubtless heard of it?"

"Can't say as I 'ave," Sam confessed.

"Is it possible?" Mr. Mortimer was plainly surprised, not to say hurt.

He knit his brows, and for a moment seemed to be pondering darkly.

"You hear it, Arabella? But no matter. As I was saying, sir, I desire the pleasure of introducing you to my wife, Mrs. Mortimer, better known to fame, perhaps, as Miss Arabella St. Maur. You see her, Mr. Bossom, as my helpmeet under circ.u.mstances which (though temporarily unfavourable) call forth the true woman--naked, in a figurative sense, and unadorned. But her Ophelia, sir, has been favourably, nay enthusiastically, approved by some of the best critics of our day."

This again left Sam gravelled. He had a vague notion that the lady's Ophelia must be some admired part of her anatomy, but contented himself with touching his brow politely and muttering that he was Mrs.

Mortimer's to command. The lady, who appeared to be what Sam called to himself a good sort, smiled down on him graciously, and hoped that she and her husband might be favoured with his company at supper.

"It's very kind of _you_, ma'am," responded Sam; "but 'fact is I han't knocked off work yet. 'Must go now and fetch out th' old hoss for a trifle of haulage; an' when I get back I must clean meself an' shift for night-school--me bein' due early there to fetch up leeway. You see," he explained, "bein' on the move wi' the boats most o' my time, I don't get the same chances as the other fellows. So when I hauls ash.o.r.e, as we call it, I 'ave to make up lost time."

"A student, I declare!" Mr. Mortimer saluted him. Rising from the steps of the caravan, he rubbed a hand down his trouser-leg and extended it.

"Permit me to grasp, sir, the h.o.r.n.y palm of self-improvement. A scholar in humble life! and--as your delicacy in this small matter of the saucepan sufficiently attests--one of Nature's gentlemen to boot!

I prophesy that you will go far, Mr. Bossom. May I inquire what books you thumb?"

"Thumb?" Sam, his hard hand released, stared at it a moment perplexed.

"That ain't the _method_, sir; not at our school. But I'm gettin'

along, and the book is called Lord Macaulay."

"What? Macaulay's _Essays?_"

"It's called _Lays_, sir--Lord Macaulay's _Lays_. The rest of the cla.s.s chose it, an' I didn' like to cry off, though I 'd not a-flown so high as a lord myself--not to start with."

"The _Lays of Ancient Rome?_ My dear Bossom--my dear Smiles--you'll allow me to dub you Smiles? _On Self Help_, you know. I like to call my friends by these playful sobriquets, and friends we are going to be, you and I. My dear fellow, I used to know 'em by heart--"

'Lars Porsena of Clusium By the nine G.o.ds he swore--'

"--Is that the ticket, hey?"

Mr. Mortimer clapped him on the shoulder. "Dang it!" breathed Sam, "how small the world is!"

"Smiles, we must be friends. Even if, for a paltry trifle of seven pounds fifteen and six, I am condemned by your master (whom you will excuse my terming a miscreant) to eke out the dregs of my worthless existence in this infernal yard--no, my loved Arabella, you will pardon me, but as a practical man I insist on facing the worst--even so I have found a congenial spirit, a co-mate and brother in exile, a Friend in my retreat Whom I can whisper: 'Solitude is sweet.' Pursue, my dear Smiles! You are young: hope sits on your helm and irradiates it.

For me, my bark is stranded, my fortunes shipwrecked, my career trickles out in the sands. Nevertheless, take the advice of an Elder Brother, and pursue. By the way"--Mr. Mortimer drew from his breast-pocket the stump of a half-consumed cigar--"I regret that I have not its fellow to offer you; but could you oblige me with a match?"

Sam produced a couple of sulphur matches.

"I thank you." Mr. Mortimer lit and inhaled. "A--ah!" he sighed between two luxurious puffs. "Connoisseurs--epicures--tell me a cigar should never be lit twice. But with tobacco of this quality--the last of the box, alas! All its blooming companions--and, between you and me, smuggled." He winked knowingly.

Just then a hooter from the Great Brewery announced five o'clock.

Sam groaned. He had engaged himself to the schoolmaster for an hour's private tuition before the Evening Cla.s.s opened, and Mr. Mortimer's fascinating talk had destroyed his last chance of keeping that engagement. Even if he dropped work straight away, it would take him a good three-quarters of an hour to clean himself and don his best suit.

He was explaining this to Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer when, his eyes resting on the empty shafts of the wagon, a happy thought occurred to him.

"O' course," he began, "--but there, I don't like to suggest it, sir."

"Say on, my friend."

"Well--I was thinkin' that you, may be, bein' accustomed to hosses--"

"My father," put in Mr. Mortimer, "rode to hounds habitually. A _beau ideal_, if I may say so, of the Old English squire. It is in the blood."

"I _know_ it's a come-down," Sam owned. "And a shilling at most for overtime--meanin' no offence--"

Mr. Mortimer waved a hand.

"If," said he, "it be a question of my rendering you any small service, I beg, my friend--I command--that all question of pecuniary recompense be left out of the discussion."

Sam, feeling that he had to deal with a n.o.ble character, explained that the job was an easy one; merely to lead or ride one of the horses down the hauling-path to where the boat lay, to hitch on the tackle, cast off straps, pull up and ship the two crowbars to which they were made fast, and so take the tiller and steer home. The horse knew his business, and would do the rest.

"And you can't mistake the boat. _d.u.c.h.ess of Teck_ is her name, an' she lies about three ropes' lengths this side of the iron bridge, just as you come abreast o' the brick wall that belongs to the Orph'nage."

"Bring forth the steed," commanded Mr. Mortimer. "Nay, I will accompany you to the stables and fetch him."

"_And_ the saucepan! Don't forget the saucepan!" Mrs. Mortimer called after them in a sprightly voice as they crossed the yard together.

"Ha, the saucepan!" Within the stable doorway Mr. Mortimer stood still and pressed a hand to his brow. "You cannot think, my dear Smiles, how that obligation weighs on me. The expense of a saucepan--what is it?

And yet--" He seemed to ponder. Of a sudden his brow cleared.

"--Unless, to be sure--that is to say, if you should happen to have a shilling about you?"