Reginald Cruden by Talbot Baines Reed (free e novels .txt) 📕

up against the outraged Mr Pillans on his way.

“Take that for an impudent young beggar!” said the latter as he passed, suiting the action to the word with a smart cuff directed at the visitor’s head.

Horace, however, was quick enough to ward it off.

“I thought you’d try that on,” he said, with a laugh; “you’re—”

But Mr Pillans, who had by this time worked himself into a fury by a method known only to himself, cut short further parley by making a desperate rush at him just as he reached the door.

The wary Horace had not played football for three seasons for nothing. He quietly ducked, allowing his unscientific assailant to overbalance himself, and topple head first on the lobby outside, at the particular moment when the real owner of the racehorse and the real wine-merchant, who had just arrived, reached the top of the stairs.

“Hullo, young fellow!” said the sporting gentleman; “practising croppers, are you? or getting up an appetite? or what? High old times you’re having up here among you! Who’s the kid?”

“Stop him!” gasped Pillans, picking himself up; “don’t let him go! hold him fast!”

The wine-merchant obligingly took possession of Horace by the collar, and the company returned in solemn procession to the room.

“Now, then,” said Horace’s captor, “what’s the row? Let’s hear all about it. Has he been collaring any of your spoons? or setting the house on fire? or what? Who is he?”

“He’s cheeked me!” said Pillans, brushing the dust off his coat. “Hold him fast, will you? till I take it out of him.”

But the horse-racer was far too much of a sportsman for that.

“No, no,” said he, laughing; “make a mill of it and I’m your man. I’ll bet two to one on the young ’un to start with.”

The wine-merchant said he would go double that on Pillans, whereupon the sporting man offered a five-pound note against a half-sovereign on his man, and called out to have the room cleared and a sponge brought in.

How far his scientific enthusiasm would have been rewarded it is hard to say, for Blandford at this juncture most inconsiderately interposed.

“No, no,” said he, “I’m not going to have the place made a cock-pit. Shut up, Pillans, and don’t make an ass of yourself; and you, Cruden, cut off. What did you ever come here for? See what a row you’ve made.”

“It wasn’t I made the row,” said Horace. “I’m awfully sorry, Bland. I’d advise you to cut that friend of yours, I say. He’s an idiot. Good-bye.”

And while the horse-racer and the wine-merchant were still discussing preliminaries, and Mr Pillans was privately ascertaining whether his nose was bleeding, Horace departed in peace, partly amused, partly vexed, and decidedly of opinion that Blandford had taken to keeping very queer company since he last saw him.

The great thing was that Horace could now write and report to Reg that the debt had been paid.

His way home led him past the Rocket office. It was half-past ten, and the place looked dark and deserted. Even the lights in the editor’s windows were out, and the late hands had gone home. Just at the corner Horace encountered Gedge, one of the late hands in question.

“Hullo, young ’un!” he said. “Going home?”

“Yes, I’m going home,” said young Gedge.

“I heard from my brother yesterday. He was asking after you.”

“Was he?” said the boy half-sarcastically. “He does remember my name, then?”

“Whatever do you mean? Of course he does,” said Horace. “You know that well enough.”

“I shouldn’t have known it unless you’d told me,” said Gedge, with a cloud on his face; “he’s never sent me a word since he left.”

“He’s been awfully busy—he’s scarcely had time to write home. I say, young ’un, what’s the row with you? What makes you so queer?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said the boy wearily; “I used to fancy somebody cared for me, but I was mistaken. I was going to the dogs fast enough when Cruden came here; I pulled up then, because I thought he’d stand by me; but now he’s gone and forgotten all about me. I’ll—well, there’s nothing to prevent me going to the bad; and I may as well make up my mind to it.”

“No, no,” said Horace, taking his arm kindly; “you mustn’t say that, young ’un. The last words Reg said to me when he went off were, ‘Keep your eye on young Gedge, don’t forget’; the very last words, and he’s reminded me of my promise in every letter since. I’ve been a cad, I know, not to see more of you; but you mustn’t go thinking that you’ve no friends. If it were only for Reg’s sake I’d stick to you. Don’t blame him, though, for I know he thinks a lot about you, and it would break his heart if you went to the bad. Of course you can help going to the bad, old man; we can all help it.”

The boy looked up with the clouds half brushed away from his face.

“I don’t want to go to the bad,” said he; “but I sort of feel I’m bound to go, unless some one sticks up for me. I’m so awfully weak-minded, I’m not fit to be trusted alone.”

“Hullo, I say,” whispered Horace, suddenly stopping short in his walk, “who’s that fellow sneaking about there by the editor’s door?”

“He looks precious like Durfy,” said Gedge; “I believe it is he.”

“What does he want there, I wonder—he wasn’t on the late shift to-night, was he?”

“No; he went at seven.”

“I don’t see what he wants hanging about when everybody’s gone,” said Horace.

“Unless he’s screwed and can’t get home—I’ve known him like that. That fellow’s not screwed, though,” he added; “see, he’s heard some one coming, and he’s off steady enough on his legs.”

“Rum,” said Horace. “It looked like Durfy, too. Never mind, whoever it is, we’ve routed him out this time. Good-night, old man; don’t go down on your luck, mind, and don’t go abusing Reg behind his back, and don’t forget you’re booked to come home to supper with me on Monday, and see my mother. Ta-ta.”