CHAPTER IV.

ROGER READ, FISHMONGER.

"IF you please, Mr. Allen, can you tell me anything about the shop next door? It has been empty as long as I've been coming to Kingsmore, and yet it is in a good situation."

"It has been empty longer than that," said Mr. Allen, taking back the key. "Did you find the shilling?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then old Rider's ghost ain't quite as sharp as old Rider when alive," said the baker with a chuckle. "You want to know why that shop stands empty?"

He looked out and saw that no one was coming in just then, so he disposed himself for a chat. Busying himself in arranging the buns on his counter, their fair array having been much diminished since morning, he went on.

"It's a queer story, and many folk laugh at it; and for my part I've lived next door for years and never saw anything. I've heard noises, but laid them to the rats. Rats are restless beasts, and it stands to reason that they'll scamper about an empty house for diversion; when they mean business, they come to me, worse, luck."

However interesting the natural history of rats from Mr. Allen's point of view might be, Roger would much rather have heard the history of the house; but he knew that there was no use in trying to hurry Mr. Allen, who would stand half an hour in discussing the merits of the basket of fish, and end by buying a herring or a small whiting.

Still, the last train to Sandsea must not go without him, so he kept an eye on the baker's clock and waited as patiently as he could.

"They say that it's haunted, you know," resumed Mr. Allen.

"By what?" asked Roger.

"Naturally, by a ghost. Old Rider, the last owner, the last who lived there at least, was found dead in his bed one day. And the servant, a girl from the workhouse, had robbed the till, and off she went, and was never caught to this day. And she won't be now, for that happened fifteen or sixteen years ago. Then a tailor—stop though, I forgot. Old Rider left a heap of money, though I do believe that a shilling a day would have paid his expenses; and his heir was a young lawyer in London, and he didn't want the shop."

"So then a tailor took it?"

"A tailor, a mite of a man, with a face like a half-baked roll," said the baker professionally. "And having been there a month, he gave it up and moved at great expense—said he couldn't stand the behaviour of old Rider, creeping up and down the stairs counting his money all night. He said he heard the chink of the money. Mind you, I say, rats!"

He did say "rats," and that with such energy that his little terrier, peacefully dozing under the counter, sprang up barking like a dog possessed, and flew at Roger, under the impression that he was a rat in disguise. He was ashamed of himself at once, for he and Roger were friends, and retired, with a reproachful glance at his master.

The worst of this incident was, that Mr. Allen had to tell many anecdotes, all indicating Chip's superior pluck and wisdom, before he would return to the next door house. However, Roger at last discovered that a milliner and dressmaker had also given up the house because the old man would go up and down the stairs and count his money; also a fancy stationer. In fact, the shop, after changing hands many times and getting into very low hands, had been shut up, young Mr. Rider giving the key to Mr. Allen, and saying that he would let it no more until these absurd stories were forgotten.

"And I saw it advertised once or twice in the 'Kingsmore Herald,' but no one ever called to see it. It's a ruinous dirty hole, and no one would take it unless it was cleaned and painted; and Mr. Rider won't do that, for he thinks no one will stay in it."

"I wonder what he would ask for it?" said Roger eagerly.

"It was twenty-five in old times. I dare say he'd take fifteen now."

"Mr. Allen, don't tell any one, because may be some one would try to be beforehand with me. But I'd take it at fifteen pounds a year, and do what wants doing myself. I want to set up a fish shop, and am on the look-out for a good chance. Old Rider won't disturb me, for I must sleep at Sandsea!"

The baker was, as he often afterwards declared, knocked all of a heap by the audacity of this proposal. But after some discussion, he promised to write to young Mr. Rider, adding,—

"The father of that little lassie that lost her shilling, if he would write a line in your favour, could do the business. He and George Rider married sisters, and I believe they are good friends."

Roger was in such a state of excitement that he actually started off for the Post Office to speak to Mr. Wilson; but before he was at the end of Cecil Street, he stopped and turned back.

"It would be a bad beginning, to disappoint all my customers and lose my day. One thing at a time, that's a good rule, though my grandfather didn't say so. I'll have time enough to-morrow afternoon."

So he ran back to the station, and was just in time for the train.

Next day, he not only sold a fine haddock to Mrs. Wilson, but was promised the Wilsons' influence and best word with Mr. Rider. And the upshot of the search for Mary Wilson's shilling was, that Roger got the haunted house for fifteen pounds a year.

Now began a busy time indeed. The first thing Roger did, was to take a holiday, and a trip by rail to Colchester. He had seen fishmongers' shops in London, but he wanted to refresh his memory. The glories of the shops in Colchester almost disheartened him—the gold letters, the gilt rails, the marble tables with water always trickling gently down to keep the fish fresh.

"But I'll just do the best I can," he said aloud as he walked back to the station. "To be first in the field is half the battle. I can't afford one of those outside blinds; but then, luckily, I'm on the shady side of the street. I must make a sloping table, though it won't be of stone, and I can keep a watering-pot and trickle water over the fish every now and then. I must make some way for the water to run into a tub, though; I can't have it slopping about the floor. Fishmonger, M O N G E R, not U; now, I'd have spelt it with a U if I hadn't looked! What luck, to be sure."

He went back to Kingsmore and set to work. His savings amounted to twenty pounds and a few shillings; but he had to pay half a year's rent in advance for his shop, Mr. Rider saying that if he were fool enough to be frightened away by the ghosts, he should forfeit his rent. If he employed carpenters and painters, the rest of his money would speedily disappear; so he valiantly determined to clean, mend, and paint for himself.

Every day, as soon as his fish was sold, he shut himself up in the house in Cecil Street and set to work. He bought only what he found he could not do without; a little stock of coal, a big tub, a big iron pot, a water-can, and a scrubbing-brush. Thus provided, he scrubbed and dusted and scrubbed again, until the house was clean from top to bottom.

Then he went to a timber yard and bought wood. The men there were so much amused at the minute accuracy of his measurements and his determination to get exactly enough and no more, that they took pains to suit him; and one of them, who lived in Cecil Street, helped him to carry it home, Roger gratefully making him a present of a fine fish next day. Hammer and nails he purchased, and a ladder he borrowed from Mr. Allen, and, thus provided, he mended and altered the woodwork to suit his purposes, putting a broad sloping table in the window.

Now came the painting. Several pounds of yellow paint and some brushes had to be bought; but the time he had spent in watching the workmen at Sandsea terminus was now proved not to have been wasted, for he made a very good job of his painting. He painted his shutters black and varnished them until they shone again. He removed the glass from the lower part of the window. Finally, he remounted the ladder and painted the board over the window, on which he could discern dim traces of former tenants' names; but he blotted them all out with two or three coats of white paint.

By this time, curiosity was excited in the neighbourhood, and several passers-by asked him, "What sort of shop was this to be?"

"You'll see to-morrow or next day," was all the answer Roger would make.

And when he had devoted a third evening to the white board, he came down the ladder and retired to his shop to consider the state of affairs.

He intended to try to paint his own name and the important word "Fishmonger," for himself. If he failed, he could only put on another coat of white, covering his failure; if he succeeded, it would be a great saving. But if he could only do it unseen, he knew that he would be far more likely to succeed, and besides no one need know of his failure. At last he concluded that as soon as the white paint was perfectly dry, he would sleep in town one night and "have a try," the moment the light would suffice; and as it was still early in August, that would give him a good time.

When the time came for his attempt, he brought his blankets from Sandsea, and at night retired to the little room behind the shop, where he slept soundly and never once thought of the ghost! Perhaps the said ghost was huffed at this disrespectful conduct, perhaps the rats had forsaken the long empty house; at all events, neither then nor ever did Roger hear or see a ghost. I cannot say he never heard or saw a rat, for in the days to come, he was obliged to keep a dog to drive them away.

He was up and at work long before the sun appeared, and when he left off, the whole board bore the inscription—

"ROGER READ, FISHMONGER"

In big capitals. What if the letters were not all the same height? What if the ER at the end had to be compressed into a very narrow space? What if the three words were so close together as to look more like one gigantic word than three ordinary ones? Roger was aware of these faults, yet he thought on the whole it looked well, and would do for the present.

"What a pity I can't open to-day!" he said to himself.

And having further considered the matter, he took his big basket and ran off to the station, to meet the train by which he usually came to Kingsmore himself. His rivals in the trade were by this time reduced to two, a man and a very old woman, to whom Roger had often been very kind. Now the question was,—Would one or both of these persons consent to sell all their fish to him, if they knew why he wanted it? And it would not be fair dealing not to tell them. He accosted them as they got out of the railway carriage, telling them what he wanted, and offering what he knew was a good price for the fish. To his great joy they both consented, the old woman saying,—

"One good turn deserves another, and your shop won't injure my little trade!"

While the man bargained for an extra shilling; but, being a lazy fellow, he was glad to be spared his usual tramp. Roger hurried home, sorted out and examined his fish, arranged it temptingly on the yellow table, tried if his arrangement with watering-pot and tub would work, and at ten o'clock proudly took down his shutters, and began business in his own shop.

"If Jack could only see it!" he muttered.

His first customer was Mrs. Wilson, who was going out for a walk with her children, but stopped to admire the shop and congratulate the new tradesman; also to buy a fish, for which she said she would send in an hour or so.

"Write 'sold' in big letters on a bit of paper, Read, and lay it on the fish; that will look well," said she.

And Roger rather thought it did look well! Though, till his window was empty, he had not much time to think about it.

But after that first day Roger got a little frightened. His customers had no objection to coming to the shop, but they objected to carrying the fish home, and he had no one to send with it. He was obliged to engage a messenger, which did not suit him at all, as he liked to do all his work for himself, and was afraid of the expense. But there was no help for it, and it turned out a very good move—though he was constantly changing his boy, for he expected every one to work as hard as he was willing to do himself; and the boys, alas! had weak leanings towards marbles and tops, and were constantly in scrapes.

In a few months, his custom became so great, that his shop was often cleared before one o'clock, and many people had to go away disappointed.

Roger was now obliged to take another forward step, and again it was a step he did not half like. He was so fully impressed with the truth of the saying, "If you want your work well done, do it yourself," that he hated being dependent on any one for the success of any part of his undertaking. But he thought he would try it for a time, and if he found it did not answer, he could return to his old plan of sleeping at Sandsea and choosing his fish for himself. He made an agreement with the owner of one of the best boats to send him a supply every morning; and, on the whole, this was a good plan and worked well.

But it gave him several hours to himself in the evening, which he at first employed in making the room he inhabited and his kitchen more comfortable. The rooms upstairs he meant to put in good order as soon as he could afford it, and let them. As his notions of comfort were very simple, his work was soon done; and then, indeed, the idle evening hours began to seem long and tiresome.

One evening, strolling along the street in which the church stood, he met a good many boys coming along in haste, and saw that they all ran round the church, to where he knew the Kingsmore schools lay. They were big lads, ranging from fourteen to eighteen, and Roger felt curious to know "what they were up to," so he followed them round the church. They were going into the boys' school-room; and while Roger gazed and wondered, another boy came quickly round the corner and nearly knocked him down.

"Never mind," Roger said, laughing; "you didn't see me, I know. Tell me what is going on in there, if you don't mind?"

"It's the evening school. Mr. Aylmer, the young parson, has begun it, and he teaches us. It's for lads that have to work all day, and who wish to improve themselves."

Roger's eyes actually flashed, so delighted was he.

"Do you think I may go in?" said he. "I'm busy all day, and there are some things I do so want to learn."

"You're the man for Mr. Aylmer, then. Come along; I'm afraid I'm late."

Roger followed him into a long, whitewashed school-room, one end of which was well lighted, and a fire burned cheerily in the grate, for it was winter now, and the evenings were cold. Fifteen boys sat on the benches near the fire; and beside a desk stood a tall young clergyman, just preparing to offer an opening prayer.

The two late arrivals got seats as quickly as they could, and were hardly seated before the prayer began. Then Mr. Aylmer set them all to work, one at one study, another at something else; and when this was done, he came and sat down on the end of the bench on which Roger and his new acquaintance were sitting, to speak to the stranger.

All this time Roger has never been described, nor does the reader know his exact age. He was not very tall, but well-made and strong-looking. He had a sensible, freckled face, not handsome, but remarkably pleasant-looking; honest blue eyes; and brown hair, which he kept cropped very short. It was a bright, wide-awake face, but very pleasant and honest-looking; and Mr. Aylmer felt inclined to like the lad even before he spoke to him.

Mr. Aylmer was a tall, stalwart young man, a splendid cricketer, and a hard-working clergyman, whose evening school was his own idea and his pet undertaking.