CHAPTER VI.

GUS WINS A NAME.

AFTER that night, Gus could no longer call the back room home. Sally Dent performed the task she described as "turning it out" on the following day, and by night it was not only ready for another lodger, but another lodger had possession of it. In the "turning-out" process, Sally came upon the Bible, which she had already observed with much interest. She was struck anew with the beauty of the embossed cover and the watered silk lining.

"Here, Gus," she called to the boy, "you'd better let me keep this; it's too good for you to 'ave knocking about. It'll be some set off against all I've done and shall do for you. It isn't many folks would take a strange brat into their 'omes; but I've a feelin' 'eart."

"It was father's," said Gus, looking wistfully at the book. "Sometimes I used to read a bit of it to him."

"Well, maybe you shall read me a bit of it some day," said Sally; "it won't be the first time I've listened to it. I used to go to church and Sunday school reg'lar once; but I've no time to attend to religion now. You'd best let me 'ave it, anyhow."

Gus said no more, feeling that it was useless to oppose Sally's wish. She carried the Bible into her room, and there opened it once more, to admire the beautiful style of the binding. Then she noticed that the reading was not broken up into verses, as in the Bibles with which she had been familiar. Glancing over a page, as this fact struck her, the words met her eyes, "The wages of sin is death."

Sally closed the book, and put it from her hastily. The words had stung her. The wages of sin! Was she earning those wages? She knew she was a sinner, but the thought had never troubled her. She loved sin, but she hated to think of death. She could enjoy the excitement of a funeral, but it was awful to think of the time when she would lie cold, and stiff, and dumb, as she had seen her lodger lie.

"Well, well," she muttered to herself; "it is what we must all come to, good or bad."

Yet she knew there was a vast difference between the sinner's death and the death of the righteous. But she hastily wrapped the Bible in brown paper, and put it far from reach at the back of a high shelf; then feeling "all of a tremble," betook herself for comfort to a certain black bottle.

Sally found a corner for Gus in the cold, draughty attic in which her two little boys slept. The old black trunk, the few worthless possessions left in it, and his father's clothes, she sold, retaining the money, to which she considered she had the best right. So Gus was left with nothing to call his own save his very ragged clothes.

Sally had announced her intention of mending his rags, and, if possible, setting him up with a few fresh garments; but her indolence was such that her purposes were ever "halting" ones, and it was best not to count upon the fulfilment of her good intentions.

Though Gus had now been several weeks at Lavender Terrace, he knew little of the boys of Glensford. His father had discouraged his making acquaintance with them, and had kept him as much as possible within the house. But Sally had no notion of a boy's "hanging round" at all hours. Gus was thrust into the society of the boys who disported themselves in the lane.

On the day following his father's funeral, he was observed by them with some curiosity.

"What's your name?" asked one of the boys.

"Gus," he answered.

"It were your father, wer'n't it, as were buried yesterday?"

"Yes."

"I thought so. Is it true what the folks were a-sayin', that he were a broken-down gent, one of the swells?"

"He was a gentleman once," said Gus.

"A gentleman! My word! What do you call yoursel'? P'raps you're a gent too?"

"No, I'm not," said Gus; "but I mean to be a gentleman some day."

"Well, if that ain't good! Look here, all you fellers, this chap says he's goin' to be a gentleman. Don't he look it just? Look at his breeches, look at his shoes! Oh, what a fine gentleman! Do hold me, some one, I shall die of laughin'!"

The other boys roared with laughter as they gathered about Gus. He had a sorry time of it. In vain he tried to escape from his tormentors; they were all bigger and stronger than he, and when, hot with rage, he tried to strike out with his tiny fists, their mirth increased tenfold. They danced round him, they pelted him with mud, they plucked at his garments till the rents therein were double their former size, and all the while they shouted—"Gentleman, Gentleman Gus!"—till their voices were hoarse.

Gus had won for himself a name. The title thus dubbed clung to him. Henceforth he was known at Lavender Terrace as "Gentleman Gus."

Gus was at last delivered by the appearance of Sally Dent, who rushed into the group, and administering blows indiscriminately, soon scattered the boys. She was dismayed to see Gus' condition.

"Good gracious, boy!" she cried. "What did you want to go with those big fellows for? A nice state they've put you in, and goodness knows when I shall have time to set a stitch in your clothes. Indeed, it strikes me they're past mendin'. But never mind, just come 'ere, and look after the baby a bit."

Looking after the baby soon became the chief occupation of Gus' life. It was weary work. He wondered sometimes if such a big, lumping baby had ever been known before. Dragging it about in his arms, or sitting with it on a doorstep, he had much time for meditation, and his mind dwelt often upon his father.

Like many another child, he had hardly known that he loved his father till his father was taken from him. Now he missed him sorely, and longed to hear his voice again, telling him what he should do and what not do. He did not forget the promise he had given to his father; but it puzzled him greatly how he was to keep that promise. His father had once been a gentleman, and he, Gus, had said that he would try to be a gentleman. But what did it mean to be a gentleman? One day he ventured to put a question on the subject to Mrs. Minn's eldest son.

"Dick," he said, "do you know anything about gentlemen?"

"Gentlemen! What do yer mean? Swells?"

"Yes," said Gus; "what sort of people are they?"

Now Dick was employed as an errand boy in a grocer's shop, and he was besides a greedy devourer of cheap literature, so that he spoke as one who knew.

"Fellers as 'ave got lots of tin, and don't do no work. They eats and drinks the best of everythink, gets jolly drunk, and never pays their bills if they can 'elp it. Oh, it's fine to be a gentleman!"

"Is it?" said Gus doubtfully. "Would you like to be a gentleman, Dick?"

"Wouldn't I just!" returned Dick, with a knowing wink. "I'd have the times of it."

Dick's explanation only increased Gus' difficulties. Could that be what his father meant by being a gentleman? Certainly his father had been in the habit of getting drunk, but he had been most careful to pay every penny they owed. Besides, his father had made him promise never to touch strong drink; so, clearly, getting drunk did not belong to being a gentleman. No; his father had said that a gentleman must be brave, and honest, and truthful. Were there two kinds of gentlemen, Gus wondered, or were Dick's ideas on the subject utterly mistaken?