CHAPTER V.

APPLES OF SODOM.

TOM went home the evening of the race, feeling wonderfully elated, hugging to himself the knowledge of his good fortune, but not daring to let his aunt know anything of it. He had to sit and eat his bread and butter at tea time as though nothing had happened, which in itself was almost a pain just now. For he was bursting to tell the news to somebody.

If he could only have done this, he might have been able to eat as usual, but, as it was, every mouthful seemed as though it would choke him. And at last his aunt noticed the pile of bread and butter still on the plate, and said, "What is the matter with you this evening? You don't get on with your tea."

"I am not very hungry," said Tom in a tone of indifference, but with a smile playing about his lips that did not escape his aunt's notice.

"What's taken your appetite away?" she asked rather sharply.

"I don't know," said Tom, rising from the table now, for he did not like his aunt's scrutiny.

He had not learned to tell a lie unblushingly yet; and Mrs. Flowers, as she watched him go out of the room, nodded her head sagaciously:

"There is something a-foot I know," she said half aloud, as Tom closed the door, and she resolved to watch him more closely for the next few days.

Of course, Tom was all impatience to go and meet his friend Jack, and he made sure he should find him waiting at the corner of the street for him, for surely Jack would be as eager to talk the good news over as he was.

But to his disappointment there was no one to be seen at the street corner, and he walked along in the direction of Jack's home in the hope of meeting him. The evening was raw, and little scudding showers of sleet fell every now and then, making most people hurry home as fast as they could, but Tom did not notice this small discomfort in the growing anxiety he felt at Jack's continued absence. He suddenly remembered that although Jack had told him his home lay in this direction, he did not know his address, or where he could find him if he failed to make his appearance.

He walked on for nearly a mile, and then turned and walked back at a quicker pace, fearing that he might have come from another direction, and was now waiting at the corner where they usually met. But when he got back, there was no Jack to be seen, and then an awful fear began to creep over his mind. Suppose he should never come to meet him again. He had got the money that was to be risked on the race! Suppose he went off with the winnings!

In spite of the cold wind and sleet that came beating in his face as he gazed round, Tom went hot all over at the thought. And yet it did not shock him that such an idea as this had entered his head concerning this bosom companion of his. In fact, the notion that this might happen grew stronger, as the minutes went on, and Jack did not make his appearance.

"I might have expected it," muttered Tom under his breath; "I have been a fool to think he would come when he had all that money safe in his hands."

But although he said this, he still paced up and down the road, watching eagerly each figure in the distance that at all resembled Jack's.

In spite of the cold he stayed out later than usual, for he dreaded to go home, and wondered what would become of him if he could not replace the ten shillings he had "borrowed" from his master's money.

But at last the clock of a neighbouring church struck ten, and Tom, as he counted the strokes, felt the tears slowly well into his eyes, for he knew it was useless to wait longer now—Jack would not come.

The utter misery of the lad as he slowly walked down the street homewards can better be imagined than described. And this was the night of his triumph too. Tittlebrat had won the money for them that they had talked of so much, and this was the way he had to celebrate the victory.

He felt too miserable to eat his usual slice of bread by way of supper, and went up to bed as quickly as he could, that he might escape his aunt's watchful eyes, for he felt that she was suspicious of him, careful as he had been to keep his secret to himself.

He lay shivering with cold and misery long after his uncle and aunt came upstairs, and when at last he did fall off into an uneasy sleep, his dreams were of policemen coming to arrest him for the robbery or murder he had committed—sometimes it was one and sometimes the other—but Jack was always the person he had murdered; and truly the feeling he felt towards him now was fitly pictured in these hideous dreams, for nothing short of hatred towards the false friend who had led him astray could find a place in his heart now.

It was a relief to him when morning dawned and it was time to get up, though he then became aware of a dull aching in all his limbs that betokened a bad cold. But the misery of his mind made him almost forget the uncomfortable feeling of stiffness and soreness in his bones, and when his uncle remarked at the breakfast table that he did not look well, he passed it off without making any complaint.

The truth was it had flashed upon him as he came downstairs that if he admitted having taken cold the previous evening, he would not be allowed to go out again after he returned from work that day.

So in spite of his throat being sore, and his limbs so stiff he could not move without pain, he bore all the discomfort without a word, and swallowed as much as he could of his breakfast, for fear of his liberty being curtailed in the evening.

How he got through that miserable day he did not know, for his head ached, and he felt dull, yet was kept perpetually on the alert lest the customer who had paid the money he had taken should come in and speak about it, or bring the receipt back through some informality in it, for he felt sure now that he had not made the bill out quite right, and that it would be sure to come in again, and then the whole tale of his theft would have to be told.

But at last the misery of sitting and glancing every now and then towards the door, in the expectation of seeing his accuser walk in, came to an end, and he breathed more freely when the place was closed, and he could put on his coat to go home.

But just as he was leaving, he was thrown into another fright, for Mr. Phillips said in a kindly tone, "You had better not come to-morrow if your cold is no better, I expect the other lad back, and so we shall not be so driven but what you can take a day off to get well."

Tom had to take hold of a post supporting the ceiling to keep himself from falling as he heard these words. "The other lad come back to-morrow," he repeated inwardly, and the horror that filled his soul at this news made itself seen in his face, only Mr. Phillips had turned away and there was no one else to see the look of agony that all in a moment swept over the boy's countenance.

But he had to conquer this and say "Good-night" in a tone calm and unconcerned, though how he managed to hide his misery he never knew.

When he got outside, and away from all watchful eyes, he leaned up against the wall, seriously to consider whether he should not put an end to this awful suspense by delivering himself up to the police at once, and confessing what he had done. Nothing could be worse than the torture he now endured, but when he lifted his eyes suddenly and saw a policeman looking at him, all his courage went, and he pulled himself together with an effort, and turned to walk away.

"What is it, my lad?" asked the man, placing himself in front of Tom so as to bar his further progress.

"I felt giddy—I've got a bad cold," said Tom rather incoherently.

"Where do you work?" asked the policeman, laying his hand on his shoulder, and turning him round to the light of the neighbouring gas lamp, but whatever the suspicion was in the man's mind, Tom's appearance convinced him that his statement was correct, for he was shivering as if struck with ague now, and he said in a more kindly tone, "You ought to be in bed, not out of doors such a cold night as this."

"I'm going home now," replied Tom very meekly, for he felt he dare not give a policeman a saucy answer just now.

"Yes, you get home as fast as you can, or you'll be worse," said the policeman in a tone of compassion, for it was easy to see that the boy was not fit to be out in the chill evening air.

How Tom staggered home and kept up an appearance of being pretty well during tea time he alone knew, but he did manage it, and went out afterwards to see if he could find Jack.

To-night he was not disappointed, though he rather disgusted his friend by the way he ran to him exclaiming, "Oh, Jack, Jack, why didn't you come last night?"

"Come last night," repeated Jack coolly, "what would have been the good of that?"

"The money, Jack, the money!" said Tom, in an imploring tone.

"Well, the money's all right. I suppose you found out that Tittlebrat was first, as I said he would be. I suppose you will believe another time that my tips are worth more than I charge for them," he said, in a sneering tone.

"Oh, never mind the tips now, it's the ten shillings I stole."

"Stole," interrupted Jack, in an impressive whisper. "That's an ugly word to use, I wouldn't talk like that if I were you."

"I daresay not; you haven't got to face the master if it should be found out as I have," replied Tom, in a tone of passive misery.

"Oh, come now, don't be in a funk about that, the money is all right, and if you borrowed that ten shillings of your master—"

"If I borrowed it," interrupted Tom, "didn't you tell me to borrow it?" he demanded fiercely.

"Well, suppose I did. How was I to know where you were going to get it from? That wasn't my business, was it? I tell you of a good thing, the way a lot of money can be made without any trouble, only it wants money to breed money always, and if I say to you get ten shillings for a few days, and I can put you in the way of making it half as many pounds before you can say Jack Robinson, how am I to know where you get the money from?"

"But you did know well enough," replied Tom, rather indignantly. "You told me that lots of other chaps did that sort of thing, and I might as well do the same, but I'll take good care I don't any more," he added, emphatically.

"Oh, come now, you're cross about something, I can see. What's amiss with you this evening?" said Jack, in a different tone.

"Why didn't you come last night as you promised?"

For answer Jack burst into a loud fit of laughter. "You're enough to make a cat grin, Tom," he said, by way of excuse. "Anyone could tell you've never had a taste of London life before. Come last night," he repeated, "why, how could I? I was miles away from London. Perhaps you'd have liked me to write about our business that your dragon of an aunt might have opened the letter."

Tom turned hot and cold at the thought of this happening, but still, he repeated, "You ought to have let me know if you couldn't keep your promise."

"I never made the promise," retorted Jack, growing angry as Tom cooled. "I said I would come if I could; but what would have been the use of coming last night, you knew that Tittlebrat went straight to the winning-post, wasn't that good enough?"

"No, not for me," replied Tom. "I wanted the ten shillings I stole to put back in the desk, and return it to my master."

"Oh, of course, it was the money, I knew all about that," said the other; "it's always the same, you're always in a great hurry to return what you've borrowed, I daresay."

"Yes, I am," replied Tom, "and especially now, when nobody knew I had borrowed it."

"And so you thought you would get the money last night. What an idea you must have of business, and how things are managed among gentlemen!" Jack spoke in a tone of supreme contempt.

"Well, you said we should get the money as soon as ever the race was run," replied Tom.

"And when was it run, pray?" demanded the other, in a tone of indignant expostulation.

"Why, yesterday, and, of course, I expected it last night."

"More fool you then!" retorted Jack, losing his patience again.

"Well, I don't see that I was such a fool," said Tom. "You said as soon as the race is run you will have your money down on the nail, and, of course, I thought I could take that ten shillings back this morning."

"Oh, hang the ten shillings!" interrupted Jack. "I tell you I haven't got all our stakes paid over to me yet, and so I can't pay you, and that's flat."

"Then I may as well go and give myself up to the police at once," groaned Tom, stopping short in his walk, as though he contemplated throwing himself into the arms of the next policeman who came along.

The look of despair in his face alarmed Jack, and thrusting one hand into his pocket he drew Tom along with the other, for fear of attracting attention.

"Look here," he said, "you shall have the ten shillings. I have got that much for you, only I was going to ask you to lend it to me for a day or two, just to give me a chance to turn a penny or two more before Christmas. But, of course, if you must have it, you must," and as he spoke, he reluctantly drew from his pocket a half-sovereign, and gave it to Tom.

But he looked surprised when Tom's hand closed upon the coin.

"I thought you would be sure to let me have it for a day or two," he said in a tone of reproach.

"So I would," replied Tom, "if it was my own. But, look here, it may be too late now to put that back without being found out. Just as I was coming away to-night, I heard that the desk boy was coming back to-morrow, and if he comes, how am I to get that back and entered in the book. And if it isn't entered, the bill will be sent in again soon, and then there is my name on the receipt and I shall be clean bowled out over it."

"I suppose you must have it then," said Jack rather ruefully, but still looking as though he thought Tom ought not to take it.

But Tom took care to put it safe into an inside pocket, and when he had buttoned up his coat again he said, "When can I have the rest, Jack?"

"The rest?" repeated the friend who had been so profuse in his assurances that all racing money was paid the moment the race was settled. "What do you mean by the rest?"

"Why, this is just the money you had to place on Tittlebrat, there is two pounds five more coming to me."

"Is there, and what about my commission—you don't suppose I can go about and do this sort of business for nothing, do you?"

"You never said anything about commission before. I gave you the shilling for that, I thought," added Tom.

"I tell you what it is," said the other, after a pause, "you ain't fit to be about London at all, you're only just fit to run errands about a country village. Carry mangling clothes home, and wait for the money before you hand over the basket, that's what you're fit for, Tom; and you ought to go home to your mother to-morrow."

This was said in such a tone of withering contempt, that poor Tom felt half inclined to hand back the half-sovereign merely to get back Jack's good opinion again, but fear, lest if he did this he should never get the chance of restoring it, prevailed, and he went home with it secure in his pocket, though he and Jack parted very coolly through it.

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