"Here you are, Constable," he exclaimed, "here is the stolen property and here is the thief, taken red-handed."
"Red-handed be blowed," said the constable. "You said just now that you saw the man run away, and you've led me a dance a-chasing him. You had better see if there is anything missing."
But the wrathful gentleman had already seen that there was.
"Yes!" he roared, "there were three five-pound notes, and they're gone! Stolen! Fifteen pounds! But I'll have satisfaction. I give this young villain in charge. Perhaps he has the notes on him still. We'll have him searched at the station."
"Now, now," said the constable, soothingly, "don't get excited, sir. Softly, softly, you catch the monkey. You said that you saw the man run off."
"So I did; but, of course, this young rascal is a confederate, and I give him in charge."
"Wait a minute, sir. Let's hear what he's got to say. Now, young shaver, tell us how you came by that pocket-book."
I described the circumstances, including my absence in the shop, and the constable, having listened patiently, went in and verified my statement by questioning the bookseller.
"There, sir, you see," said he when he came out, "it's quite simple. The pickpocket fished the notes out of your wallet and then, as he was making off, he looked for some place where he could drop the empty case out of sight, and there was this boy's basket with no one looking after it, just the very place he wanted. So he dropped it in as he passed. Wouldn't have done to drop it in the street where some one might have seen it and run after him to give it back."
The angry gentleman shook his head. "I can't accept that," said he. "It's only a guess, and an unlikely one at that."
"But," the constable protested, "it's what they always do: drop the empty purses or pocket-books in a doorway or a dark corner or post them in pillar-boxes—anywhere to get the incriminating stuff out of sight. It's common sense."
But the gentleman was obdurate. "No, no," he persisted, "that won't do. The common sense of it is that I found this boy with the stolen property in his possession, and I insist on giving him in charge."
The constable was in a dilemma, but he was a sensible man and he made the best of it. "Well, sir," he said, "if you insist, I suppose we must walk round to the station and report the affair. But I can tell you that the inspector won't take the charge."
"He'll have to," retorted the other, "when I have made my statement."
The constable looked at him sourly and then turned to me almost apologetically.
"Well, sonny," said he, "you'll have to come along to the station and see what the inspector has to say."
"Can't I deliver my medicines first?" I pleaded. "The people may be wanting them, and there are only three bottles."
The policeman grinned but evidently appreciated my point of view, for he replied, still half-apologetically: "You're quite right, my lad, but I don't suppose they'll be any the worse for a few minutes more without their physic, and the station is quite handy. Come, now; step out."
But even now the irate gentleman was not satisfied.
"Aren't you going to hold him so that he doesn't escape?" he demanded.
Then, for the first time, the patient constable showed signs of temper. "No, sir," he replied, brusquely, "I am not going to drag a respectable lad through the streets as if he had committed a crime when I know he hasn't."
That settled the matter, and we walked on with the manner of a family party. But it was an uncomfortable experience To a boy of my age, a police station is a rather alarming sort of place; and the fact that I was going to be charged with a robbery was a little disturbing. However, the constable's attitude was reassuring, and, as we traversed Great Marlborough Street and at last entered the grim doorway, I was only moderately nervous.
The proceedings were, as my constabulary friend had foreseen, quite brief. The policeman made his concise report to the inspector, I answered the few questions that the officer asked, and the gentleman made his statement, incriminating me.
"Where did the robbery take place?" the inspector asked.
"In Berwick Street," was the reply. "I was leaning over a stall when I felt myself touched, and then a man moved away quickly through the crowd; and then I missed my wallet and gave chase."
"You were leaning over a stall," the inspector repeated. "Now, how on earth did he get at your wallet?"
"It was in my coat-tail pocket," the gentleman explained.
"In your coat-tail pocket!" the inspector repeated, incredulously; "with fifteen pounds in it, and you leaning over a stall in a crowded street! Why, sir, it was a free gift to a pickpocket."
"I suppose I can carry my wallet where I please," the other snapped.
"Certainly you can—at your own risk. Well, I can't accept the charge against this boy. There is no evidence; in fact, there isn't even any suspicion. It would be only wasting the magistrate's time. But I will take the boy's name and address and make a few inquiries. And I will take yours too and let you know if anything transpires."
He took my name and address (and my accuser made a note of them), and that, so far as I was concerned, finished the business. I took up my basket and went forth a free boy in company with my friend the policeman. In Great Marlborough Street we parted, he to return to his beat, and I to the remainder of my round of deliveries.
So ended an incident that had, at one time, looked quite threatening. And yet it had not really ended. Perhaps no incident ever does truly end. For every antecedent begets consequences. Coming events cast their shadows before them; but those shadows usually remain invisible until the events which have cast them have, themselves, come into view. Indeed, it befalls thus almost from necessity; for how can a shadow be identified otherwise than by comparison with the substance?
But I shall not here anticipate the later passages of my story. The consequences will emerge in their proper place. I may, however, refer briefly to the more immediate reactions, though these also had their importance later. The little book which I had purchased (and paid for the same evening) was a treatise on clocks and locks by that incomparable master of horology and mechanism, Edmund Beckett Denison (later to be known as Lord Grimthorpe). It was an invaluable book, and it became my chiefest treasure. Carefully wrapped in a protective cover of brown paper, the precious volume was henceforth my constant companion. The abstruse mathematical sections I had regretfully to pass over, but the descriptive parts were read and re-read until I could have recited them from memory. Even the drawings of the Great Westminster Clock, which had at first appeared so bewildering, became intelligible by repeated study, and the intricacies of gravity escapements and maintaining powers grew simple by familiarity.
Thus did the revered E. B. Denison add a new delight to my life. Not only was every clock-maker's window a thing of beauty and a provider of quiet pleasure, but an object so lowly as the lock of the scullery door—detached by Uncle Sam and by me carefully dismembered—was made to furnish an entertainment compared with which even the Punch and Judy show paled into insignificance.
III. OUT OF THE NEST
A certain philosopher, whose name I cannot recall, has, I understand, discovered that there are several different kinds of time. He is not referring to those which are known to astronomers, such as sidereal mean or apparent time, which differ only in terms of measurement, but to time as it affects the young, the middle-aged and the old.
The discovery is not a new one. Shakespeare has told us that "Time travels in divers paces with divers persons", and, for me, the poet's statement is more to the point (and perhaps more true) than the philosopher's. For I am thinking of one "who Time ambles withal", or even "who he stands still withal"; to wit, myself in the capacity of Dr. Pope's bottle-boy. That stage of my existence seemed, and still seems, looking back on it, to have lasted for half a life-time; whereas it occupied, in actual fact, but a matter of months.
It came to an end when I was about thirteen, principally by my own act. I had begun to feel that
I was making unfair inroads on the family resources, for, though the school that I attended was an inexpensive one, it was not one of the cheapest. Aunt Judy had insisted that I should have a decent education and not mix with boys below our own class, and accordingly she had sent me to the school conducted by the clergyman of our parish, the Reverend Stephen Page, which was attended by the sons of the local shop-keepers and better-class working men. But modest as the school fees were, their payment entailed some sacrifice; for, though we were not poor, still Uncle Sam's earnings as a journeyman cabinet-maker were only thirty shillings a week. Old Mr. Gollidge, who did light jobs in a carpenter's shop, made a small contribution, and there was half-a-crown a week from my wages; but, when all was said, it was a tight fit and must have taxed Aunt Judy's powers of management severely to maintain the standard of comfort in which we lived.
Moved by these considerations (and perhaps influenced by the monotonous alternation of school and bottle-basket), I ventured to put the case to Aunt Judy and was relieved to find that she took my suggestions seriously and was obviously pleased with me for making them.
"There is something in what you say, Nat," she admitted. "But remember that your schooling has got to last you for life. It's the foundation that you've got to build on, and it would be bad economy to skimp that."
"Quite right," Uncle Sam chimed in. "You can't make a mahogany table out of deal. Save on the material at the start and you spoil the job."
"Still," I urged, "a penny saved is a penny earned," at which Aunt Judy laughed and gave me a playful pat on the head.
"You are a queer, old-fashioned boy, Nat," said she, "but perhaps you are none the worse for that. Well, I'll see Mr. Page and ask him what he thinks about it, and I shall do exactly what he advises. Will that satisfy you?"
I agreed readily enough, having the profoundest respect and admiration for my schoolmaster. For the Reverend Stephen Page, though he disdained not to teach the sons of working men, was a distinguished man in his way. He was a Master of Arts—though of what arts I never discovered—and a Senior Wrangler. That is what was stated on the School prospectus, so it must have been true; but I could never understand it, for a less quarrelsome or contentious man you could not imagine. At any rate, he was a most unmistakable gentleman, and, if he had taught us nothing else, his example of good manners, courtesy and kindliness would have been a liberal education in itself.
I was present at the interview, and very satisfactory I found it. Aunt Judy stated the problem and Mr. Page listened sympathetically. Then he pronounced judgement in terms that rather surprised me as coming from a schoolmaster.
"Education and schooling, Mrs. Gollidge, are not quite the same thing. When a boy leaves school to learn a trade, he is not ending his education. Some might say that he is only beginning it. At any rate, the knowledge and skill by which he will earn his living and maintain his family when he has one, and be a useful member of society, is the really indispensable knowledge. Our young friend has a good groundwork of what simple folk call book-learning, and, if he wants to increase it, there are books from which he can learn. Meanwhile, I don't think that he is too young to begin the serious business of life."
That question, then, was settled, and the next one was how the beginning was to be made. As a temporary measure, "while we were looking about", Uncle Sam managed to plant me on his employer, Mr. Beeby, as workshop boy at a salary of five shillings a week. So it came about that I made my final round with the bottles, handed in the basket for the last time, drew my wages and, on the following morning, set forth in company with Uncle Sam en route for Mr. Beeby's workshop in Broad Street. There was only one occupant when we arrived: a round-shouldered, beetle browed, elderly man with rolled-up shirt-sleeves, a linen apron and a square brown-paper cap such as workmen commonly wore in those days, who was operating with a very small saw on a piece of wood that was clamped in the bench-vice. He looked up as we entered and remarked:
"So this is the young shaver, is it? There ain't much of him. He'll have to stand on six pennorth of coppers if he is going to work at a bench. Never mind, youngster. You'll be a man before your mother," and with this he returned to his work with intense concentration (I discovered, presently, that he was cutting the pins of a set of dovetails), and Uncle Sam, having provided me with a broom, set me to work at sweeping up the shavings, picking up the little pieces of waste wood and putting them into the large open box in which they were thriftily stored for use in odd jobs. Then he took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves and put on his apron and paper cap; in which costume he seemed to me to be invested with a new dignity; and when he fell to work with a queer-looking, lean-bodied plane on the edge of a slab of mahogany, miraculously producing on it an elegant moulding, I felt that I had never properly appreciated him. Presently the third member of the staff arrived, a young journeyman named Will Foster. He had evidently heard of me, for he saluted me with a friendly grin and a few words of welcome while he was unrobing and getting into working trim. Then he, too, set to work with an air of business on his particular job, the carcase of a small chest of drawers; and I noticed that each of the three men was engaged on his own piece of work, independently of the others. And this I learned later was Mr. Beeby's rule, so far as it was practicable. "If a man carries his own job right through," he once explained to me, "and does it well, he gets all the credit; and if he does it badly, he takes all the blame." It seemed a sensible rule. But that was an age of individualism.
I shall not follow in detail my experiences during the few months that I spent in Mr. Beeby's workshop. My service there was but an interlude between school and my real start in life. But it was a useful interlude, and I have never regretted it. As I was not an apprentice, I received no formal instruction. But little was needed when I had the opportunity of watching three highly expert craftsmen and following their methods from the preliminary sketch to the finished work; and I did, in fact, get a good many useful tips besides the necessary instruction in my actual duties.
As to these, they gradually extended as time went on from mere sweeping, cleaning and tidying to more technical activities, but, from the first, the glue-pots were definitely assigned to me. Once for all, the whole art and mystery of the preparation and care of glue was imparted to me. Every night I emptied and cleaned the glue-pots and put the fresh glue in to soak, for Mr. Beeby would have nothing to do with stale glue; and every morning, as soon as I arrived, I set the pots of fresh glue on the workshop stove. Then, by degrees, I began to learn the use of tools; to saw along a pencil line, to handle a chisel and a jack-plane (with the aid of an improvised platform to bring my elbows to the bench level) and to use the marking gauge and the try-square, so that, presently, I became proficient enough to be given small, rough jobs of sawing and planing to save the time of the skilled workmen.
It was all very interesting (what creative work is not?), and I was happy enough in the workshop with its pleasant atmosphere of quiet, unhurried industry. I liked to watch these three skilful craftsmen doing difficult things with unconscious ease and a misleading appearance of leisureliness, and I learned that this apparently effortless precision was really the result of habitual concentration. The fact was expounded to me by Mr. Beeby on an appropriate occasion.
"You've given yourself the trouble, my lad, of doing that twice over. Now the way to work quickly is to work carefully. Attend to what you are doing and see that you make no mistakes." It was a valuable precept, which I have never forgotten and have always tried to put into practice; indeed, I find myself, to this day, profiting from Mr. Beeby's practical wisdom.
But though I was interested and happy in my work, my heart was not in cabinet-making. Clocks and watches still held my affections, and, on most evenings, the short interval between supper and bedtime was occupied in reading and re-reading the books on horology that I possessed. I now had a quite respectable little library; for my good friend, Mr. Strutt, the Wardour Street bookseller, was wont to put aside for me any works on the
subject that came into his hands, and I suspect that, in the matter of price, he frequently tempered the wind to the shorn lamb.
Thus, though I went about my work contentedly, there lurked always at the back of my mind the hope that some day a chance might present itself for me to get a start on the career of a clock-maker. Apprenticeship was not to be thought of, for the family resources were not equal to a premium. But there might be other ways. Meanwhile, I tended the glue-pots and cherished my dream in secret; and in due course, by very indirect means, the dream became a reality.
The chance came, all unperceived at first, on a certain morning in the sixth month of my servitude, when a burly, elderly man came into the workshop carrying a brown-paper parcel. I recognized him instantly as Mr. Abraham, the clock-maker, whose shop in Foubert's Place had been familiar to me since my earliest childhood, and I cast an inquisitive eye on the parcel as he unfastened it on the bench, watched impassively by Mr. Beeby. To my disappointment, the unwrapping disclosed only an empty clock-case, and a mighty shabby one at that. Still, even an empty case had a faint horological flavour.
"Well," said Mr. Beeby, turning it over disparagingly, "it's a bit of a wreck. Shockingly knocked about, and some fool has varnished it with a brush. But it has been a fine case in its time, and it can be again. What do you want us to do with it? Make it as good as new, I suppose."
"Better," replied Mr. Abraham with a persuasive smile.
"Now, you mustn't be unreasonable," said Beeby. "That case was made by a first-class tradesman and no one could make it any better. No hurry for it, I suppose? May as well let us take our time over it."
To this Mr. Abraham agreed, being a workman himself; and, after some brief negotiations as to the cost of the repairs, he took his departure. When he had gone, Mr. Beeby picked up the "wreck", and, exhibiting it to Uncle Sam, remarked:
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