CHAPTER IX
Poor and ragged as he was, the lad's bearing was distinguished by a bright manliness-even thus early shown-which could scarcely fail to win favor. The circumstances of his young life were singular, and deserve, and need, brief mention.
Somewhat less than twelve years before this day on which, in obedience to Mr. Loveday's summons, he entered the bookseller's shop, Mr. Loveday turned into Church Alley, after a walk he was in the habit of taking through the markets of the East where the humble folk make their purchases for the day of rest. It was therefore Saturday night, and the hour was a little past midnight. In front of the pawnbroker's shop, at the corner of Church Alley, stood the pawnbroker himself in a state of perturbation, taking a few steps this way and a few that in an uncertain, undecided fashion. His shutters were up, and the day's business was at an end. He pounced upon Mr. Loveday, whose position then, as at present, was one of authority among his neighbors, who tacitly and willingly acknowledged him to be a man of superior stamp.
"Ah, Mr. Loveday," said the pawnbroker, laying his hand on the bookseller's arm, "did you see a woman running away as you came along?"
"Not that I noticed," replied Mr. Loveday, observing that something unusual was agitating the pawnbroker.
"Or a man?" asked the pawnbroker.
"No."
"It is altogether the most extraordinary thing," said the pawnbroker, scratching his head, "the most ex-tra-or-di-na-ry. I never heard of anything like it."
"Like what?"
"Would you mind," said the pawnbroker, "stepping inside, and giving me your advice?"
"Certainly," said Mr. Loveday.
He followed the pawnbroker into the shop, and there upon the counter, in one of the divisions used by persons who came to pledge their goods or redeem them, lay an old shawl containing, as was evidenced by a gentle and regular upheaving, an animate object.
"What do you think of this?" exclaimed the pawnbroker, unfolding the shawl.
"A very fine baby," said Mr. Loveday, "though I don't pretend to be a judge-and fast asleep."
"Proving," added the pawnbroker, "that it's been well stuffed."
"Stuffed!"
"Had plenty to drink-got its belly full. That's the artfulness of it."
"The baby's artfulness?" inquired Mr. Loveday, much mystified.
"No-of the trick that's been played upon me. Put comfortably to sleep, satisfied, so that it shouldn't excite suspicion by as much as a whimper."
"But explain," said Mr. Loveday, as much in the dark as ever. "Is it your baby?"
"No, sir," replied the pawnbroker, energetically, "it is not."
"Then how comes it here?"
"That's what I'd like to know. If you'll believe me, Mr. Loveday, I'll tell you all about it-no, not all, as much I as know myself."
"Of course I'll believe you," said Mr. Loveday, his interest growing fast.
"Here am I," commenced the pawnbroker, excitedly, "all alone by myself in the shop-well, not exactly here where we stand, but in my room at the back there. Business over an hour ago-close at eleven, you know. Shutters put up, and my assistant gone home. Front door left ajar, because it's a hot night, and the gas has been flaring away. My wife and the children all asleep up-stairs; no one to disturb me. There's a bit of supper on the table. Mr. Loveday," he said, breaking off abruptly, "my wife is a most peculiar woman-a most pe-cu-li-ar woman."
"Go on with your story," said Mr. Loveday, calmly.
"Usually she stops up with me, and we have a bit of supper together, especially on Saturday nights, the busiest time of the week for me. But, as luck will have it, she doesn't feel quite the thing to-night, and she goes to bed early. There I am, then, eating my supper and making up my accounts. Everything very quiet, nothing wrong, as far as I can see. I'll take my oath, Mr. Loveday, that when my assistant wishes me good-night all the parcels are cleared away, and there's nothing left on the counters, not as much as a pin. Well, sir, I come to the end of my supper and my accounts, and feel easy in my mind. Three ha'pence wrong in the reckoning up, but it's on the right side. I put my money and books in the safe, lock it, pocket the key, fill my pipe, and get up to come to the door to have a whiff of tobacco and fresh air. I've got to pass through the shop to get to the street door, and as I come up to this counter here, this bundle stares me in the face. 'Hallo?' says I-to myself, you know-'Hallo! here's something been overlooked;' and I takes hold of the bundle, and starts back as if I was shot. I feel something moving inside. I come up to it again, and open it, and there's this baby staring me in the face-no, not staring me in the face, because it's fast asleep; but there's this baby. How would you have felt?"
"Very much astonished."
"I was flabbergasted. How did it come here? Who brought it? What's the meaning of it? While I was sitting in the back room I didn't hear a sound, but it must have been then that the street door was pushed softly open, and this-this thing put on my counter. If I caught the woman who did it I'd make it warm for her."
"Perhaps," suggested Mr. Loveday, "it is done for a joke."
"A joke!" cried the pawnbroker. "A nice joke to play a married man-and at this time of the night!"
"At all events you have lent nothing on it."
"Find me the pawnbroker," retorted the distressed man, "who would lend money on a baby!"
"Truly," observed Mr. Loveday, with grim suggestiveness, "flesh and blood is not at a premium in this neighborhood."
"But, Mr. Loveday," implored the pawnbroker, "what am I to do with it?"
"I can hardly advise you. You can't very well put it among your other pledges, and you can't very well throw it into the streets."
In his heart of hearts the pawnbroker, although not in the main an ill-natured man, was for the moment mad with himself for having taken Mr. Loveday into his confidence. If he had kept the matter to himself, he might, failing all other ways of getting rid of the encumbrance, have deposited it on a doorstep in such a manner and at such a time that it could not fail to come under the notice of a policeman, who, in the exercise of his duty, could not have allowed it to remain there. It was a warm night, the child was strong and healthy, and was sleeping comfortably; it could scarcely have taken cold. But this proceeding was not open to him now that Mr. Loveday was in possession of the particulars.
"They wouldn't take it in at the workhouse," said Mr. Loveday.
"Why not? They've a better right to it than I have."
"It would have to be proved that it belonged to the parish. It is such a queer story, you see."
"Do you mean to say it wouldn't be believed?"
"I can't hazard an opinion. Suppose you call your wife down, and ask her to take care of it till you find out something about it."
"What!" cried the unhappy pawnbroker, "I should have the house pulled over my ears."
Mr. Loveday shrugged his shoulders. Not that he was indifferent; the adventure was so novel that it interested him; but he could not exactly tell what could be done.
"After all," he said, "it may be as I suggested, a joke. The person who left it here will probably call for it presently. Wait awhile."
"I must, I suppose, but I shall go crazy if I'm left alone with it. Do a charity, and smoke a pipe with me."
"I don't smoke, but I'll keep you company for half an hour. Before that time the mystery may be solved."
But though they waited up till two o'clock there were no further developments. There they sat, for the most part in silence, and there lay the baby in his shawl, sleeping soundly and placidly.
At length Mr. Loveday rose and said he must go. The pawnbroker began to implore again.
"You're a single man; you've got no one to take care of but yourself; I've got six children of my own to look after. Take it home with you and give it a bed."
"No, no," said Mr. Loveday, laughing, "I couldn't think of such a thing. If I were a woman-perhaps; or if I had a female housekeeper in my house. The child needs a woman's care, and your wife is at hand."
The pawnbroker groaned. He heard a policeman's footsteps outside, and in his despair he called him in and repeated his story.
The policeman listened gravely, threw the light of his dark lantern on the sleeping child.
"I don't see what I can do," he said.
"I give it into custody," cried the pawnbroker.
"What's the charge?" asked the policeman.
The pawnbroker wrung his hands. Finally the policeman departed, recommending the pawnbroker, before he left, to follow Mr. Loveday's advice and call down his wife. Mr. Loveday also went home, and the pawnbroker was left alone with his new and startling responsibility.
"I'll call in the morning," said Mr. Loveday, "to see how you've got along with it."
When he called he learned that nothing further had been discovered. The pawnbroker had passed a disturbed and sleepless night; the pawnbroker's wife was in the worst of tempers, and declared that either she or the baby would have to leave the house. Mr. Loveday calmed her down, and then entered into a sensible consideration of the case.
"So many hours have passed," he said, "since the child was left here, that it seems more than likely that the person who placed it on your counter has no intention of redeeming the pledge. In a few days, or weeks, the matter may be traced; in the meantime something must be done. I suggest that a woman be sought who, for three or four shillings a week, will undertake the care of the child. I don't mind bearing half the expense if you will bear the other half."
The benevolent offer was eagerly accepted by the pawnbroker, whose only anxiety now was to get the baby out of his house. Before the evening a poor woman was found who consented to take charge of the helpless bundle of humanity. Having come into the neighborhood by a mysterious chance, the child was called Chance, to which, when or how could not afterwards be recalled, the Christian name of Timothy was prefixed. Endeavors were made to solve the mystery of his birth, but, in the absence of the slightest clew, nothing was discovered. For four years Mr. Loveday and the pawnbroker paid the expenses of the child's bringing up between them; then, somehow or other, Timothy Chance began to take care of himself, nursing babies bigger than himself for mothers whose quivers were too full, and getting a bit of straw to sleep on and a crust of bread to keep life in him. He was full of health and strength, and willingness, and even in those early days he developed a surprising independence which served him in good stead. As he grew in years the task of looking after himself and obtaining shelter and food became less difficult; he throve where others would have starved; if he could not get crumb he put up with crust; if he could not get straw to lie upon he put up with boards, if not boards the earth, if not a roof the sky. From time to time he disappeared from the neighborhood, went hopping in the season, attaching himself to some family bent on the same errand, took service with a tinker and went about the country, and did anything and everything to keep body and soul together. He succeeded in a good and worthy way, and the partnership of his boyish frame with a cheerful, willing spirit, was a passport wherever he went, and would have carried him all over the world. He did well for others, and better for himself, as will be seen, although he was penniless nine days out of ten. This did not trouble him; he was healthy, strong, and happy, and had ideas-in the germ at present, and not by himself understood; but there they were, working in his fertile, healthy brain, to ripen and bear fruit one day perhaps. Such, imperfectly limned, was Timothy Chance as he stood before Mr. Loveday the bookseller.
CHAPTER X
"Just come back, Timothy?"
"Yes, sir, just come back."
"You've been away a long time?"
"Seven months, sir."
"Done any good for yourself?"
"Yes, sir."
"Ah, you've got a pocketful of money, then?"
"Not a penny, sir."
"Yet you say you've done well?"
"Yes, sir. I've worked hard, and had plenty to eat, and I'm stronger than ever."
"Ah, that's what you mean by doing well?"
"Yes, sir, and I'm willinger-I mean, more willing than ever."
At this slip of language and its correction Mr. Loveday cocked up his ears, and took a longer look at the lad. Timothy met his gaze ingenuously.
"I think there's an improvement in you, Timothy."
"I hope so, sir."
"Where have you been?"
"In a lot of places, sir, but most of the time in a school."
"Oh, in a school. Doing what? Studying?"
"A little, sir," said Timothy, modestly; "but I wasn't engaged for that."
"For what, then?"
"Garden work, knife-cleaning, boot-cleaning, running of errands, making myself generally useful."
"And picking up scholarship."
"As much of it as ever I could, sir."
"There is certainly an improvement in you, Timothy. You speak more correctly than you did."
Timothy was silent, but his face flushed with pleasure.
"How did you get into the school?"
"By a bit of good-luck, sir-though it wasn't good-luck to another boy who had the place."
"What is one man's meat, Timothy, is another man's poison."
"Is it, sir?"
"So they say, and so it often happens. Go on."
"I was in Essex, sir, looking for a job. It was half-past ten in the morning."
"Carried a watch, eh?"
"No, sir, I was passing a church. But I didn't pass it. I stopped.
"What for?"
"There was a fight going on. Two boys, pegging away at each other like one o'clock. The road was muddy, and they rolled over and over in it, then got up and went at it again. When they'd had enough they ran off different ways, and I lost sight of 'em. I was walking off myself when I noticed something in the mud. It was a letter, and I picked it up and looked at it. I couldn't read the address, it had been dug into the mud so; but in a corner, in very plain writing, I saw the name of Dr. Porter. I went into a baker's shop, and asked if they knew Dr. Porter, and they said he kept a school a little way off. I asked them to show me where it was, as I thought it wouldn't be a bad thing to take the letter to him myself and ask him for a job. They showed me, and I saw Dr. Porter himself; he was in the grounds in front of the schoolhouse, and one of the boys who had been fighting was there too. I gave the doctor the letter, and asked him if it was his, and he said it was. I found out afterwards that it was a very particular letter, and had some money in it. The boy was sent out to post it, and he got fighting and dropped it in the mud. Then the doctor said he supposed I wanted a reward, and I said no, that I wanted a job. Not to make too long a story, sir, he put a lot of questions to me, and seemed pleased with me, and he sent the fighting boy away and took me on in his place to do the rough work."
"How much a week, Timothy?" inquired Mr. Loveday.
"Two shillings a week and my keep."
"You slept there?"
"Yes, sir."
"And out of the two shillings a week for some months you saved nothing? You come back here without a penny?"
"You shall hear, sir. My clothes were pretty bad, the same as I've got on now, and I thought I'd save as much as I could, and buy a new suit. I did buy a new suit the week before last, but I didn't wear 'em for garden work. Well, sir, while I was with the doctor I was very happy. Plenty of work, but plenty to eat. He hadn't many young gentlemen to teach, and I've found out that he wasn't well off. He had a daughter, a beautiful young lady, not as old as I am, and she had a bit of garden that I used to look after for her. I took a lot of pains with her flowers, and she was so pleased that she used to give me lessons. I can write pretty well, sir."
"You can, eh? I'll try you presently. Go on with your story."
"I learnt a bit of grammar, and a bit of history, and a bit of arithmetic. It was a great bit of luck for me, but it ended badly." Timothy paused and sighed, and his face became grave. "I used to stop up late at night to study, and I picked up a lot. Dr. Porter seemed always to have a peck of trouble on him, but he helped me, too, a bit, by lending me books, and Mrs. Porter helped me as well. I was never so happy before. I bought a new suit of clothes, as I've told you, sir. Everything was going on swimmingly till last week." Timothy paused again.
"What happened then, Timothy?"
"I went to bed very late; I'd had a good hard night of it, and I had to get up very early to do something I wanted to Miss Emily's bit of garden."
"Miss Emily is the doctor's daughter?"
"Yes, sir. I don't know how long I'd been asleep, but it was dark when I woke up all of a sudden with a singing in my ears, and a lot of other sounds that I can't describe. Then I heard some one sing out 'Fire!' I'm pretty quick, sir, as a rule, and I got into my old clothes in less than no time, and ran out of the room. Sure enough, the house was on fire. Miss Emily was crying for her mother, and Dr. Porter was running about like a madman. I raced to Mrs. Porter's room, and helped to get her out, and then we stood and watched the fire burning up the house. There wasn't a drop of water except what we could get from the pump, and that came out with a dribble. A fire-engine came up when it was too late. By that time the house was a mass of flames. There wasn't one bit of furniture saved, nor a book. All their clothes were burnt, and everything they had, except what they stood upright in. My new suit of clothes went too, but I didn't think of that; I was too sorry for Miss Emily and her mother and father. We had a dreadful time, and when daylight came the whole house and everything in it was a heap of ashes. Some friends took Dr. Porter and his wife and Miss Emily away, and I hung about, almost dazed out of my senses. I saved one thing, though-this fowl here, and the basket. The next day I saw Dr. Porter. 'My lad,' he said, 'I owe you a week's wages; here's your florin; I'm a ruined man, and you must look out for another situation.' He spoke nothing but the truth, sir; he was ruined; he wasn't insured for a penny. I wouldn't take the florin; I told him about this fowl that I'd saved, and I asked him to let me have that instead. 'Take it and welcome,' he said, 'and your florin too.' But I wouldn't. I wanted badly to see Miss Emily to tell her how sorry I was, and to wish her good-bye, but Dr. Porter had sent her off I don't know where, so I had to come away without seeing her. That's the whole story, sir."
"A sad story, Timothy."
"Yes, sir, you may well say that."
"What are you going to do now?"
"That's what's puzzling me, sir." And Timothy cast a wistful look at the bookseller.
"Take this book in your hand. Open it anywhere. Now read."
Timothy opened the book, and with great fluency read from the top of the page.
"That will do," said Mr. Loveday. "You can write, you say. Sit down there; here's paper, here's a pen. Now write what I say. 'The world is filled with fools and bunglers, and a few clever men. A small proportion of these clever men grow rich, because they are that way inclined; the majority die poor, because they are not entirely sordid-minded. The fools and bunglers grow so in a small measure from inheritance, in a large measure from indolence and a lack of judicious training.' Give it to me."
He examined the paper carefully.
"Ah! Writing tolerably good. Not a bad style; improvement will come by industry. I think you have that, Timothy Chance."
"I think I have, sir."
"Three mistakes in spelling. Bunglers is not spelled b u n g e l. Inheritance is not spelled without an h and with two e's in the last syllable. Judicious is not spelled j e w. For the rest, all right. A bit of arithmetic, eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"Be ready with your pen and paper. I buy a parcel of twenty-eight books at auction for three and sixpence; three I sell for waste-paper, sixteen at twopence each, five at threepence each, two at fourpence, and one for a shilling. What's the result?"
"You lay out three and sixpence, sir," said Timothy, almost instantaneously; he was sharp at most things, but especially sharp at figures; "and you get back five and sevenpence. Two and a penny profit."
"Quite right. Anything else?"
"The three books you sell for waste-paper will bring in something; perhaps they're big ones."
"Perhaps they're little ones. We won't reckon them. Anything else?"
"You bought twenty-eight books, sir; you only gave me twenty-seven to figure out. One short, sir."
"That was stolen, Timothy."
"Where from, sir?"
"From the stall outside."
"It couldn't have been, sir, if you had a sharp boy to attend to it for you."
"Ah! The question is, where to find that particularly sharp boy?"
"He's handy, sir, almost at your elbow." Now, although these words betokened a certain confidence and were spoken with a certain boldness, it is a fact that there was a tremor in Timothy's voice as he uttered them. The conversation between him and Mr. Loveday had been strangely in accordance with his earnest desire to be taken into Mr. Loveday's service. He had been upheld by this hope as he tramped from Essex after the schoolhouse had been burned down, and he had hurried back to London more swiftly than he would have done without it.
Mr. Loveday ruminated; Timothy Chance waited anxiously.
"I'm rather a peculiar fellow, Timothy," said Mr. Loveday, presently; "not at all unpleasant out of business, unless you quarrel with my social crotchets, and you're not old enough to do that yet, Timothy, but very strict in business matters, however trifling. That fowl of yours is beginning to crow, Timothy."
"It's all right, sir," said Timothy, in a tone of wistful expectation, "please finish."
"This strictness of mine in business matters may make me a hard master; I haven't tried my hand in that line much, as I've always attended to my shop myself, but I will not deny that I'm half inclined to engage a lad."
"Make it a whole mind, sir, and engage me."
Timothy's occasionally apt replies tickled and pleased Mr. Loveday; they betokened a kind of cleverness which he appreciated.
"As we stand now," continued Mr. Loveday, "man and boy, not master and servant, we have a mutual respect for each other."
"Thank you, sir."
"It would be a pity to weaken this feeling."
"It might be made stronger, sir."
"There are numberless things to consider. If I say, 'Up at six every morning,' up at six it would have to be."
"And should be, sir."
"If I say, 'Every day's work completely done, every day's accounts satisfactorily made up, before the next day commences,' it would have to be. That fowl of yours is crowing louder, Timothy. No shirking of work by the excuse that it doesn't belong to the duties I engage a lad for. You understand all this?"
"I understand it, sir."
"On the other hand, satisfaction given, the cart would run along smoothly. There might be a little time in the evening for study and reading; there might be sundry pleasant interludes which one can't think of right off. Eh, Timothy?"
"Yes, sir."
"You had it in your mind?"
"I did, sir."
"But," said Mr. Loveday, glancing at the lad, "there is one most important question-the question of respectability."
"There's nothing against me, sir. You may inquire of everybody I've worked for."
"I mean the question of a respectable appearance. Now, Timothy, you will not have the assurance to assert that you present a respectable appearance?"
"Cluck! cluck! cluck?" went the fowl in the basket.
Timothy's eyes wandered dolefully over his ragged garments.
"If my new suit of clothes hadn't been burnt," he murmured-
"But they are burnt. Spilled milk, you know. The long and the short of it is, if you can obtain a decent suit of clothes, I'll give you a trial, Timothy."
"Cluck! cluck! cluck! Cluck! cluck! cluck!" from the basket. A jubilant, noisy, triumphant flourish of trumpets, to force upon the world the knowledge of a great event. Timothy knelt down, put his hand in the basket, and drew forth a new-laid egg.
"The world's mine oyster, which I with knife will ope." But surely that knife never presented itself, as it did at the present moment, in the form of a new laid-egg.