The Story of Antony Grace. Fenn George Manville

was silent.

      “He – he didn’t dare to do it, did he?”

      I was still silent.

      “Look here, youngster, tell me the truth and I’ll give you a shilling.”

      “I never told a lie yet, sir,” I said stoutly, “and I don’t want your shilling.”

      He looked at me intently for a few moments, and then held out his hand. “Shake hands,” he said.

      I placed mine in his, and he squeezed it so that he hurt me, but I did not flinch.

      “I believe you, my lad. You don’t look like a lying sort, and I wish you were out of this. Now, tell me, did he make that cut on your head?” I nodded. “What with?”

      “That ruler.”

      “Humph! And what for?”

      “Because I let you in on that day.”

      “Hang him!” he cried, striding up and down the office, for he had walked straight in, “he’s a bigger scoundrel than I thought him. Now, look here, my man, there’s going to be an action, or a trial, or something, against me, and you’ll be the principal witness. Now, what are you going to do?”

      “Going to do, sir?”

      “Yes,” he said impatiently; “you’ll have to appear before the magistrates, and you’ll be asked all about my thrashing your master. What are you going to say?”

      “I shall tell them the truth, sir.”

      “No, you won’t, my boy. You’ll say what Mr Blakeford tells you to say.”

      “I shall tell the truth, sir,” I said stoutly.

      “Look here, my lad, if you tell the truth, that’s all I want; if you don’t, you’ll ruin me.”

      “I’m sure I shall tell the truth, sir,” I said, colouring up and speaking earnestly.

      “You’ll tell the magistrates, then, that I snatched up the poker and beat Mr Blakeford with that, eh?”

      “No, sir, it was your walking-stick.”

      “Was it anything like that?” he said, holding out the one he carried.

      “Yes, sir, just like it. Here are the pieces, sir,” I said; and I took them out of my desk, where I had placed them.

      “You’re a brave boy,” he cried, rubbing his hands; “so they are. Now look here, my boy: Mr Blakeford says I assaulted him with the poker. Just you button those pieces of stick up in your socket – no, give them to me; I’ll take them. Now; when the day comes, and I ask you to tell the truth about it, you speak out honestly, or, better still, go and hide yourself and never come near the court at all. There’s half-a-crown for you. What, you won’t take it! Well, just as you like. Good-bye!”

      He shook hands with me again, and nodding in a friendly way, left the office.

      He had not been, gone more than an hour when there was another knock at the door, and on opening it, I admitted Mr Rowle, who smiled at me as he took off his hat and smoothed his thin streaky hair across his bald head.

      “Well, young un,” he said, “why, you’re growing quite a man. But what’s the matter with your forehead?”

      I told him, and he gave a low, long whistle.

      “I say, young un,” he said, “I dare say it ain’t no business of mine, but if I was you, I should look after another place. Perhaps, though, he wouldn’t let you go.”

      “Mr Blakeford often says, Mr Rowle, that he wishes I was out of his sight.”

      “Gammon!” said my visitor; “don’t you believe him. You do as you like; but if I was a boy like you, I wouldn’t stay here.”

      I looked up at him guiltily, and he stared hard at me, as if reading my thoughts.

      “Why, what’s wrong?” he said; “you look as red as a turkey cock!”

      “Please, Mr Rowle – but you won’t tell Mr Blakeford?”

      “Tell Mr Blakeford? Not I.”

      “I mean to go up to London, and try and find my uncle.”

      “Try and find him? What, don’t you know where he lives?”

      “No, sir.”

      “Humph! London’s a big place, you know.”

      “Yes, sir, but I dare say I could find him.”

      “What is he – a gentleman?”

      “Yes, sir, I think so.”

      “So don’t I, my boy, or he’d never have left you in charge of old Pouncewax. But lookye here now; out with it! What do you mean to do – give notice to leave, or are you going to cut?”

      “Cut what, sir?”

      “Cut what! Why, cut away – run up to London.”

      I hesitated for a few moments and hung my head; then, looking up in my old friend’s face, as he thrust his hand into his cuff – and I expected to see him draw his pipe – I felt that I had nothing to fear from him, and I spoke out.

      “Please, Mr Rowle, I’m so unhappy here, that I was going to run away.”

      He caught me by the collar so sharply that I thought he was going to punish me; but it was only touring down his other hand with a sharp clap upon my shoulder.

      “I’m glad of it, young un. Run away, then, before he crushes all the hope and spirit out of you.”

      “Then you don’t think it would be very wrong, sir?”

      “I think it would be very right, young un; and I hope if you find your uncle, he won’t send you back. If he wants to, don’t come: but run away again. Look here; you’ll want a friend in London. Go and see my brother.”

      “Your brother, sir?”

      “Yes, my brother Jabez. You’ll know him as soon as you see him; he’s just like me. How old do you think I am?”

      “I should think you’re fifty, sir.”

      “Fifty-eight, young un; and so’s Jabez. There, you go and put his name and address down. Fifty-eight he is, and I’m fifty-eight, so there’s a pair of us. Now, then, write away: Mr Jabez Rowle, Ruddle and Lister.”

      “Mr Jabez Rowle,” I said, writing it carefully down, “Good. Now Ruddle and Lister.”

      “Ruddle and Lister.”

      “Commercial printers.”

      “Com-mer-cial prin-ters.”

      “Short Street, Fetter Lane.”

      “Fetter Lane.”

      “And now let’s look.” I handed him the scrap of paper.

      “Why, it’s lovely. Copper-plate’s nothing to it, young un. There, you go up and see him, and tell him you’ve come up to London to make your fortune, and he’ll help you, I went up to London to make mine, young un.”

      “And did you make it, sir?” I said eagerly. He looked down at his shabby clothes, smoothed his hair, and then, with a curious smile upon his face —

      “No, young un, I didn’t make it. I made something else instead.”

      “Did you, sir?”

      “Yes, young un – a mess of it. Look here, I might have got on, but I learned to drink like a fish. Don’t you. Mind this: drink means going downwards into the mud; leaving it alone means climbing up to the top of the tree. Bless your young heart, whatever you do, don’t drink.”

      “No, sir,” I said, “I will not;” but I did not appreciate his advice.

      “There, you stick to that paper. And now, how much money have you got?”

      “Money,