It was a dismal prospect. With a sinking heart I watched the preparations for the departure and counted the days as they slid past, all too quickly; and when the last of the sands had run out and I stood on the platform with my eyes fixed on the receding train, from a window of which Aunt Judy’s arm protruded, waving her damp handkerchief, I felt as might have felt some marooned mariner following with despairing gaze the hull of his ship sinking below the horizon. As the train disappeared round a curve, I turned away and could have blubbered aloud; but I was now a young man of sixteen, and a railway station is not a suitable place for the display of the emotions.
But in the days that followed, my condition was very desolate and lonely; and yet, as I can now see, viewing events with a retrospective eye, this shattering misfortune was for my ultimate good. Indeed, it yielded certain immediate benefits. For, casting about for some way of disposing of the solitary evenings, I discovered an institution known as the Working Men’s College, then occupying a noble old house in Great Ormond Street; whereby it came about that the homely kitchen was replaced by austere but pleasant class rooms, and the voice of old Mr. Gollidge recounting the mutiny on the Mar’ Jane by those of friendly young graduates explaining the principles of algebra and geometry, of applied mechanics and machine-drawing.
The next incident, trivial as it will appear in the telling, had an even more profound effect in the shaping of my destiny; indeed, but for that trifling occurrence, this history could never have been written. So I proceed without further apologies.
On a certain morning at the beginning of the fourth year of my apprenticeship, my master and I were in the shop together reviewing the stock when a rather irate-looking elderly gentleman entered, and, fixing a truculent eye on Mr. Abraham, demanded:
“Do you know anything about equatorial clocks?” Now, I suspect that Mr. Abraham had never heard of an equatorial clock, all his experience having been in the ordinary trade. But it would never do to say so. Accordingly he temporized.
“Well, sir, they don’t, naturally, come my way very often. Were you wanting to purchase one?”
“No, I wasn’t, but I’ve got one that needs some slight repair or adjustment. I am a maker of philosophical instruments and I have had an equatorial sent to me for overhaul. But the clock won’t budge; won’t start at all. Now, clocks are not philosophical instruments and I don’t pretend to know anything about ’em. Can you come round and see what’s the matter with the thing?”
This was, for me, a rather disturbing question. For our visitor was none other than the gentleman who had accused me of having stolen his pocket-book. I had recognized him at the first glance as he entered, and had retired discreetly into the background lest he should recognize me. But now I foresaw that I should be dragged forth into the light of day. And so it befell.
“I am afraid,” Mr. Abraham said, apologetically, “that I can’t leave my business just at the moment. But my assistant can come round with you and see what is wrong with your equa—with your clock.”
Our customer looked at me, disparagingly, and my heart sank. But either I had changed more than I had supposed in the five years that had elapsed, or the gentleman’s eyesight was not very acute (it turned out that he was distinctly near-sighted). At any rate, he showed no sign of recognition, but merely replied gruffly: “I don’t want any boys monkeying about with that clock. Can’t you come yourself?”
“I am afraid I really can’t. But my assistant is a perfectly competent workman, and I take full responsibility for what he does.”
The customer grunted and scowled at me.
“Very well,” he said, with a very bad grace. “I hope he’s better than he looks. Can you come with me now?”
I replied that I could; and, having collected from the workshop the few tools that I was likely to want, I went forth with him, keeping slightly in the rear and as far as possible out of his field of view. But, to my relief, he took no notice of me, trudging on doggedly and looking straight before him.
We had not far to go, for, when we had passed half way down a quiet street in the neighbourhood of Oxford Market, he halted at a door distinguished by a brass plate bearing the inscription, “W. Parrish, Philosophical Instrument Maker,” and, inserting a latch-key, admitted himself and me. Still ignoring my existence, he walked down a long passage ending in what looked like a garden door but which, when he opened it, proved to be the entrance to a large workshop in which were a lathe and several fitted benches, but, at the moment, no human occupants other than ourselves.
“There,” said he, addressing me for the first time, but still not looking at me, “that’s the clock. Just have a look at it, and mind you don’t do any damage. I’ve got a letter to write, but I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
With this he took himself off, much to my satisfaction, and I proceeded forthwith to make a preliminary inspection. The “patient” was a rather large telescope mounted on a cast-iron equatorial stand. I had never seen an equatorial before except in the form of a book-illustration, but from this I was able easily to recognize the parts and also the clock, which was perched on the iron base with its winding-handle within reach of the observer. This handle I tried, but found it fully wound (it was a spring-driven clock, fitted with governor balls and a fly, or fan), and I then proceeded to take off the loose wooden case so as to expose the movement. A leisurely inspection of this disclosed nothing structurally amiss, but it had an appearance suggesting long disuse and was desperately in need of cleaning.
Suspecting that the trouble was simply dirt and dry pivots, I produced from my bag a little bottle of clock-oil and an oiler and delicately applied a small drop of the lubricant to the empty and dry oil-sinks and to every point that was exposed to friction. Then I gave the ball-governor a cautious turn or two, whereupon my diagnosis was immediately confirmed; for the governor, after a few sluggish revolutions as the oil worked into the bearings, started off in earnest, spinning cheerfully and in an obviously normal fashion.
This was highly satisfactory. But now my curiosity was aroused as to the exact effect of the clock on the telescope. The former was geared by means of a long spindle to the right ascension circle, and on this was a little microscope mounted opposite the index. To the eyepiece of this microscope I applied my eye, and was thrilled to observe the scale of the circle creeping almost imperceptibly past the vernier. It was a great experience. I had read of these things in the optical text books, but here was this delightful mechanism made real and active before my very eyes. I was positively en tranced as I watched that slow, majestic motion; in fact I was so preoccupied that I was unaware of Mr. Parrish’s re-entry until I heard his voice; when I sprang up with a guilty start.
“Well,” he demanded, gruffly, “have you found out—Oh, but I see you have.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, eagerly, “it’s running quite well now, and the right ascension circle is turning freely, though, of course, I haven’t timed it.”
“Ho, you haven’t, hey?” said he. “Hm. Seem to know all about it, young fellow. What was the matter with the clock?”
“It only wanted a little adjustment,” I replied, evasively, for I didn’t like to tell him that it was only a matter of oil. “But,” I added, “it really ought to be taken to pieces and thoroughly cleaned.”
“Ha!” said he, “I’ll let the owner do that. If it goes, that is all that matters to me. You can tell your master to send me the bill.”
He still spoke gruffly, but there was a subtle change in his manner. Evidently, my rapid performance had impressed him, and I thought it best to take the undeserved credit though I was secretly astonished that he, a practical craftsman, had not been able to do the job himself.
But I had impressed him more than I realized at the time. In fact, he had formed a ridiculously excessive estimate of my abilities, as I discovered some weeks later when he brought a watch to our shop to be cleaned and regulated, and stipulated that I should do the work myself “and not let the old fellow
meddle with it.” I assured him that Mr. Abraham (who was fortunately absent) was a really skilful watchmaker, but he only grunted incredulously.
“I want the job done properly,” he insisted, “and I want you to do it yourself.”
Evidently Mr. Abraham’s evasions in the matter of equatorial clocks had been noted and had made an unfavourable impression. It was unreasonable—but Mr. Parrish was an unreasonable man—and, like most unreasonable beliefs, it was unshakable. Nor did he make any secret of his opinion when, on subsequent occasions during the next few months, he brought in various little repairs and renovations and sometimes interviewed my principal. For Mr. Parrish had no false delicacy—nor very much of any other kind. But Mr. Abraham took no offence. He knew (as Aunt Judy had observed) which side his bread was buttered; and as he was coming more and more to rely on me, he was willing enough that my merits should be recognized.
So, through those months, my relations with Mr. Parrish continued to grow closer and my future to shape itself invisibly. Little did I guess at the kind of grist that the Mills of God were grinding.
CHAPTER VI
Fickle Fortune
“The best-laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley.” The oft-quoted words were only too apposite in their application to the plans laid by poor Mr. Abraham for the future conduct of his own affairs and mine. Gradually, as the years had passed, it had become understood between us that, when the period of my apprenticeship should come to an end, I should become his partner and he should subside into the partial retirement suitable to his increasing age.
It was an excellent plan, advantageous to us both. To him it promised a secure and restful old age, to me an assured livelihood, and we both looked forward hope fully to the time, ever growing nearer, when it should come into effect.
But, alas! it was never to be. Towards the end of my fourth year, his old enemy, bronchitis, laid its hand on him and sent him, once more, to his bedroom. But this was not the customary sub-acute attack. From the first it was evident that it was something much more formidable. I could see that for myself; and the doctor’s grave looks and evasive answers to my questions confirmed my fears. Nor was evasion possible for long. On the fifth day of the illness, the ominous word “pneumonia” was spoken, and Miriam Goldstein, Mr. Abraham’s housekeeper, was directed to summon the patient’s relatives.
But, promptly as they responded to the call, they were too late for anything more than whispered and tearful farewells. When they arrived, with Mr. Cohen the solicitor, and I conducted them up to the sick room, my poor master was already blue-faced and comatose; and it was but a few hours later, when they passed out through the shop with their handkerchiefs to their eyes, that Mr. Cohen halted to say to me in a husky under tone, “You can put up the shutters, Polton,” and then hurried away with the others.
I shall not dwell on the miserable days that followed, when I sat alone in the darkened shop, vaguely meditating on this calamity, or creeping silently up the stairs to steal a glance at the shrouded figure on the bed. Of all the mourners, none was more sincere than I. Quiet and undemonstrative as our friendship had been, a genuine affection had grown up between my master and me. And not without reason. For Mr. Abraham was not only a kindly man; he was a good man, just and fair in all his dealings, scrupulously honest, truthful and punctual, and strict in the discharge of his religious duties. I respected him deeply and he knew it; and he knew that in me he had a faithful friend and a dependable comrade. Our association had been of the happiest and we had looked forward to many years of pleasant and friendly collaboration. And now he was gone, and our plans had come to nought.
In those first days I gave little thought to my own concerns. It was my first experience of death, and my mind was principally occupied by the catastrophe itself, and by sorrow for the friend whom I had lost. But on the day after the funeral I was suddenly made aware of the full extent of the disaster as it affected me. The bearer—sympathetic enough—of the ill tidings was Mr. Cohen, who had called to give me my instructions.
“This is a bad lookout for you, Polton,” said he. “Mr. Abraham ought to have made some provision on your behalf, and I think he meant to. But it was all so sudden. It doesn’t do to put off making your will or drafting a new one.”
“Then, how do I stand, sir?” I asked.
“The position is that your apprenticeship is dissolved by your master’s death, and I, as the executor, have to sell the business as a going concern, according to the provisions of the will, which was made before you were apprenticed. Of course, I shall keep you on, if you are willing, to run the business until it is sold; perhaps the purchaser may agree to take over your indentures or employ you as assistant. Meanwhile, I will pay you a pound a week. Will that suit you?”
I agreed, gladly enough, and only hoped that the purchaser might not make too prompt an appearance. But in this I was disappointed, for, at the end of the third week, Mr. Cohen notified me that the business was sold, and on the following day brought the new tenant to the premises; a rather raffish middle-aged man who smelt strongly of beer and bore the name of Stokes.
“I have explained matters to Mr. Stokes,” said Mr. Cohen, “and have asked him if he would care to take over your indentures; but I am sorry to say that he is not prepared to. However, I leave you to talk the matter over with him. Perhaps you can persuade him to change his mind. Meanwhile, here are your wages up to the end of the week, and I wish you good luck.”
With this he departed, and I proceeded, forthwith, to try my powers of persuasion on Mr. Stokes. “It would pay you to take me on, sir,” I urged. “You’d get a very cheap assistant. For, though I am only an apprentice, I have a good knowledge of the trade. I could do all the repairs quite competently. I can take a watch down and clean it; in fact, Mr. Abraham used to give me all the watches to clean.”
I thought that would impress him, but it didn’t. It merely amused him.
“My good lad,” he chuckled, “you are all behind the times. We don’t take watches down, nowadays, to clean ’em. We just take off the dial, wind ’em up, wrap ’em in a rag soaked in benzine, and put ’em in a tin box and let ’em clean, themselves.”
I gazed at him in horror. “That doesn’t seem a very good way, sir,” I protested. “Mr. Abraham always took a watch down to clean it.”
“Ha!” Mr. Stokes replied with a broad grin, “of course he would. That’s how they used to do ’em at Ur of the Chaldees when he was serving his time. Hey? Haw haw! No, my lad. My wife and I can run this business. You’ll have to look elsewhere for a billet.”
“And about my bedroom, sir. Could you arrange to let me keep it for the present? I don’t mean for nothing, of course.”
“You can have it for half-a-crown a week until you have found another place. Will that do?”
I thanked him and accepted his offer; and that concluded our business, except that I spent an hour or two showing him where the various things were kept, and in stowing my tools and other possessions in my bedroom. Then I addressed myself to the problem of finding a new employer; and that very afternoon I betook myself to Clerkenwell and began a round of all the dealers and clock-makers to whom I was known.
It was the first of many a weary pilgrimage, and its experiences were to be repeated in them all. No one wanted a half-finished apprentice. My Clerkenwell friends were all master craftsmen and they employed only experienced journeymen, and the smaller tradesmen to whom the dealers referred me were mostly able to conduct their modest establishments without assistance. It was a miserable experience which, even now, I look back on with discomfort. Every morning I set out, with dwindling hope, to search unfamiliar streets for clockmakers’ shops or to answer obviously inapplicable advertisements in the trade journals; and every evening I wended—not homewards, for I had no home—but to the hospitable common room of the Working Men’s College, where, for a few pence, I could get a large cup of tea and a slab of buttered toast to supplement the scanty scraps of food that I had allowed
myself during the day’s wanderings. But presently even this was beyond my means, and I must needs, for economy, buy myself a half-quartern” household” loaf to devour in my cheerless bedroom to the accompaniment of a draught from the water-jug.
In truth, my condition was becoming desperate. My tiny savings—little more than a matter of shillings—were fast running out in spite of an economy in food which kept me barely above the starvation level. For I had to reserve the rent for my bedroom, that I might not be shelterless as well as famished, so long as any fraction of my little hoard remained. But as I counted the pitiful collection of shillings and sixpences at the bottom of my money-box—soon they needed no counting—I saw that even this was coming to an end and that I was faced by sheer destitution. Now and again the idea of applying for help to Aunt Judy or to Mr. Beeby drifted through my mind; but either from pride or obstinacy or some more respectable motive, I always put it away from me. I suppose that, in the end, I should have had to pocket my pride, or whatever it was, and make the appeal; but it was ordained otherwise.
My capital had come down to four shillings and sixpence, which included the rent for my bedroom due in five days’ time, when I took a last survey of my position. The end seemed to be fairly in sight. In five days I should be penniless and starving, without even a night’s shelter. I had sought work in every likely and unlikely place and failed ever to come within sight of it. Was there anything more to be done? Any possibility of employment that I had overlooked? As I posed the question again and again, I could find no answer but a hopeless negative. And then, suddenly, I thought of Mr. Parrish. He at least knew that I was a workman. Was it possible that he might find me something to do?
It was but a forlorn hope; for he was not a clock-maker, and of his trade I knew nothing. Nevertheless, no sooner had the idea occurred to me than I proceeded to give effect to it. Having smartened myself up as well as I could, I set forth for Oxford Market as briskly as if I had a regular appointment; and having the good luck to find him at home, put my case to him as persuasively as I was able in a few words.
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 247
