Part 7

He lay in his pillows that night with almost the sensations of a conqueror. Who among all the cruel and remorseless throng in the streets of the great city, who were yet so strong and capable and so wonderfully certain of themselves, could have done more? A year ago such an achievement as this would have been beyond his wildest ambitions. A month ago he could not have done it. A week ago it would have been barely possible. As he lay in this flush of valour it occurred to him suddenly that the light was burning at its fullest. There and then he determined, for the first time in his life, to get out of bed and turn it out.

He jumped from the sheets with a bound, fearing to delay. With a touch of the finger the room was plunged in complete darkness. Like one possessed he darted back across the floor and found his way back into his bed. He buried his head deep down under the clothes. He lay there shuddering among nameless horrors, and shuddering fell asleep.

That night his father never sought his couch at all. He sat below in the little room until the daylight came, pondering the contents of the ancient tome. In the morning at seven o’clock when the boy came down-stairs again he found his father still in meditation.

“I have had such dreams, my father,” said the boy, and his face was still flushed with the excitement of the previous night. “Some of them were so hideous that they made me cry out, yet all the time I knew myself to be one of the great ones of the earth.”

XI

At eight o’clock, after having made a delicate meal, the boy set out on his pilgrimage into the streets of the great city. It was a delicious morning of early spring. The sun stole through its white curtains, playing elvishly on the traffic. The sounds and cries which ascended from the purlieus of this vast open theatre seemed to be mellowed, and to merge themselves in the primal harmony of the unplumbed spaces overhead. Never before had the boy felt such an exhilaration as on this glorious day. He crossed from one pavement to another with wonderful valiancy, sometimes evading the heads of the horses with a feeling that was almost akin to unconcern. He took his way from street to street with the conviction ever re-affirming itself within him that he would find his way to No. 12, Webster’s Buildings in the City.

In the height of this new power, which for the first time in his life had rendered him fit to move in the great world out of doors, he gave expression to his sense of joy by breaking out suddenly into the reverberating, wavelike music of the Iliads. His lips moved to the measure of those mighty cadences; they rolled out of his mouth, and their song was louder than the thunder of the traffic. As he pressed ever onwards through the endless, elbowing throng, he knew himself as one with the son of Peleus.

Without once faltering, or one mistake in his course he found himself before the façade of Webster’s Buildings in the City as the clocks were striking nine. A moment’s reflection showed him which was No. 12. It comprised a suite of offices on the ground floor.

Quite a number of boys of various ages and sizes were waiting on the pavement outside the door. They had formed themselves into a queue. First the boy stood looking at the mystic No. 12 which was painted on the fanlight over the door, and then at the row of youthful faces, which was already regarding him critically. After a moment of hesitation he walked past them and plunged into the interior of the building. As he did so, loud and angry protests arose of, “’Ere, you come back, Barnum and Bailey!” “Take yer turn, yer young swine!” “Give ’im one for himself!”

The boy not understanding to whom this enigmatic truculence was addressed, walked through the dark passage into the first room that he saw, the door of which was partly open. A morose-looking man who was biting a pen was standing just inside it.

The boy took off his hat and bowed low.

“M-may it p-please you, sir,” he said, repeating slowly but in strangely timid accents, a speech which he had already carefully rehearsed a thousand times, “I d-desire to offer m-myself in the capacity of a bright boy.”

The morose-looking man took the pen out of his mouth with great deliberation, and also with an astonishment which he did not seek to dissemble.

“Do you, indeed?” he said. “We do want a bright boy, but we don’t want ’em too bright. You go back and wait your turn, you cheeky young imp.”

The boy stood a moment in perplexity, unable to grasp what was implied by this answer, and what, in the circumstances, was the fitting course to pursue. In the next, however, he had received enlightenment. The problem was solved for him by the man with the pen. “D---- your young impudence!” he said, taking him by the shoulders. In the next instant the boy had been run through the passage and flung out on to the pavement with the aid of a heavy kick.

His re-appearance and mode of egress were not lost on the select company of bright boys who formed the queue. They seemed to accord them a very decided approval. As the boy stood in bewilderment, with his former morbid dread of physical violence returning upon him, loud howls of derision arose from the queue.

At first it did not occur to the boy that they were directed at himself. But, as he continued to stand before the door in irresolution and surprise, the displeasure with which he was viewed personally was brought somewhat forcibly to his notice. A boy sauntered out from the middle of the queue and collected a handful of mud from the gutter. He then crept up stealthily behind him, and flung it down the back of his neck.

In spite of this not particularly delicate hint, however, and in spite of the cries of derision all about him which seemed every moment to increase, the boy continued to stand before the door. At last a powerful boy, who was the first in the queue, turned to a companion and said: “Keep my place, Nosey.” He then stepped out, and seizing the boy ferociously by the ear, half led and half dragged him to the tail of the queue. After having cuffed him severely, he said, “You get out of your place again, and I’ll break your neck.”

Humiliation, terror and bodily pain were now added to the boy’s bewilderment, but even these potent forces, mighty in combination as they were, could not overcome the new-born strength of purpose that had so recently sprung up in his heart. Doggedly, yet sickly enough, he continued to stand behind the other boys, striving by every means in his power to divine precisely what was taking place around him; and to learn what line of conduct would consort with an immunity from personal violence, and yet further the end to which he had pledged himself.

He stood on the pavement nearly an hour while other boys formed up behind him. Happily none considered it to be worthy of their dignity to visit him with further notice now that his place had been unmistakably indicated to him and his presumption had been fittingly rebuked. Nevertheless he hardly dared to breathe or to look to the right or to the left lest he should again incur their notice. At last, however, an incident happened which afforded him intense relief.

In the process of time boy after boy in front of him had passed through the sacred door, and then after a brief interval within had returned and had gone away disconsolate, incurring as he did so, from those who still waited, sundry observations whose import the boy found it impossible to fathom. But at last one of these came out wearing an air of somewhat emphatic disgust, and said in a derisive tone to those who yet remained in the queue: “You can all go ’ome. Cocoa’s got it. Five bob a week, and a two bob rise every year.”

Upon this announcement, the boy was privileged to observe a strange thing. All the other boys, not only those in front of him, but those behind him also, melted away in silence as if by the agency of magic. At first, so great was his relief at finding himself delivered in this miraculous fashion of their presence that he could hardly realize his good fortune.

For the next half-hour he stood where he was, meditating on what course he must pursue. As he did so, there mounted still higher in his mind the paramount necessity of speaking his carefully-rehearsed words to those who were in need of a bright boy. For in the magic dispersal of those ruthless and terrible youthful street-persons he recognized clearly the hand of Providence. Whatever befell he must force himself to obey the high resolve he had formed the previous night which had now gained the sanction of heaven. If it cost him his life he must present himself again before the man in the office who had already used him so dreadfully.

With a compressed mouth and a stern face, from which he hoped all traces of the mud had been removed by the assiduous use of his handkerchief, although he could still feel it trickling down his back in a most disconcerting manner, he ventured forth again into the dark entrance of No. 12, Webster’s Buildings. The door at the end of the passage was now closed. He tapped timidly upon the glass. There came no answer. After waiting a full minute, in which he listened with nervous intensity for permission to enter, he tapped again a little louder. There was still no answer. Mustering up all his courage he tapped a third time as loudly as he dared. Even if he broke the glass he must obtain an answer!

“Come in,” said a voice from behind the door.

The boy opened the door and entered hat in hand. In the crowded room was a number of men and boys seated on tall stools. The boy clenched his hands and closed his eyes.

“M-may it p-please you, gentlemen,” he said shrilly at the top of his voice, “I desire to offer m-myself in the c-capacity of a bright boy.”

In profound astonishment all the men and boys ceased their labours for a moment. One of them, the morose-looking man, with whom previously he had had dealings, gave a short laugh.

“Oh, it’s _you_ again, is it?” he said. “Kindly wait a moment until I get to you.”

As he spoke, he picked up a heavy and long ruler and descended from his stool. The boy waited in obedience to his request. The man took him by the ear and led him out into the passage, and proceeded to beat him with the ruler brutally about the head and shoulders.

“Do you think we will be plagued out of our lives by the likes of you?” he said, as he flung the limp and breathless form into the street for the second time. “You come here again, and I’ll have you locked up.”

Bruised, breathless and bleeding, the boy dragged himself away from the vicinity of No. 12, Webster’s Buildings in the City. Yet it was only in the flesh he was conquered; his spirit was still fortified with resolve. What were his haps in comparison with those of Hector at the Defence of Troy? Therefore after leaning against the wall of an insurance office for a little time in order to recover some of the physical power which had been so rudely knocked out of him, he determined to renew his attempts to gain pieces of silver. It might be that others besides the occupants of No. 12, Webster’s Buildings in the City were in need of a bright boy. Indeed, it was most likely; at least there appeared to be a large number of bright boys who were desirous of gaining pieces of silver.

Accordingly he resolved to use his powers of observation, and to select for himself a shop or an office which he deemed likely to stand in need of the services of a bright boy. Yet his first choice was not fortunate. After mustering every consideration in its favour, he entered a small and unassuming shop in Gracechurch Street.

As he entered with a curious sensation in his heart, he was met by a young woman with a supercilious lift to her chin and an abundance of dark hair, who looked him up and down as though he had no right to be there.

“What do _you_ want?” she said in a sharp tone, and hurting him with her suspicious eyes.

“M-may it p-please you, m-madam,” he stammered, “I d-desire to offer myself in the capacity of a bright boy.”

“Oh, d-do y-you?” said the young woman. “Go home and wash your neck and then go and drown yourself.”

The boy slunk out into the street as though she had hit him a blow in the face.

All through the afternoon he wandered up and down the crowded pavements of the great city. In the course of his weary pilgrimage he entered many shops and offices sickly yet doggedly; sickly yet doggedly he made the offer of his services. Some of the answers he met with were not intelligible; some of them were. Yet in spite of every rebuff, of every conspiracy on the part of fortune, of the increasing sense of bodily suffering, of the aches that stole over his limbs, of the faintness that crept over him owing to these long hours of unaccustomed physical and mental exertion and absence of food, he forced himself to go on. What were such sufferings, such journeyings, such adventures, such vicissitude in comparison with the ten long years in which his beloved Odysseus was banished from the shores of Ithaca! What clay was this that already it should begin to quail? How those great ones of old would have mocked him had he dared to confess to them that he felt distressed!

Yet he did feel distressed. It was almost useless to deny it. As for the tenth time that afternoon, he was told “To take himself off, and to look lively about it,” a formula which repetition had enabled him to recognize, and experience had indicated the only course to pursue, despair and humiliation, accompanied by terror, that most active of all his enemies, crept upon him, and as the clocks of the great city were striking five, tears sprang to his eyes. Almost in the same moment he had dashed them away, had proudly overcome them. What if the great Agamemnon could have seen him! How would he be able to meet those mighty ones, how would he be able to grasp their hands, to look into their faces, if this was the measure of his courage?

By this time he had come into Cannon Street, hard by to Saint Paul’s. On the left side of the street, along which he passed, were great blocks of gloomy warehouses. Flights of stone steps ran up to their entrances; and as he limped by one of these, involuntarily he sank down in sheer weariness upon a bottom step. He felt bitterly hungry, yet he had no means of satisfying his pangs, for there was not a penny in his pocket; and the only food he had had that day had been a little milk and bread at eight o’clock that morning. Yet he still fought with all the resolution of which he was capable against the physical weakness which now held him so inexorably in its clutch. Again he began to recite the Iliads under his breath, not now because the joy of battle was in his veins, but because he sought to derive sustenance from those high-hearted ones who looked on valour as their right.

As he sat on the bottom step of the warehouse, with his throbbing head pressed against the cold stone, he beheld a heavy railway car drawn by a mighty horse come up with a shattering rattle to the door of the great building. The man who was driving it cast the reins on the horse’s neck, and standing upon the dray shouted up into the second storey. Thereupon a door was opened in the wall of the warehouse, and a large box attached to the hook of a crane was swung outwards and downwards towards the dray. As the drayman proceeded to assist it on to the dray and to disengage it from the hook, the mighty horse grew impatient and began to prance.

“Whoa there, you ----!” called out the drayman to the horse.

Standing on the kerb at the opposite side of the street watching these proceedings was a small and pale urchin, whose clothes were in rags and whose toes were bursting through his shoes. Suddenly with amazing daring and rapidity he darted between a hansom, two omnibuses and a covered van, and peremptorily seized the head of the great horse.

“Nah then,” he said to the horse sharply, “worrer yer at? Kim up.”

He gave the great horse a blow on the neck and backed it a yard or two.

“Good kid,” said the drayman, unhooking another box from the crane, “hold him there a bit.”

The boy seated on the bottom step of the warehouse assimilated every detail of these proceedings. He pondered them deeply. And as he did so, quite suddenly a flash of meaning made his pulses quiver. Instantly he withdrew his throbbing head from the cold stone, and rose heavily. He approached the ragged urchin who was still holding the head of the great horse.

“I--I b-beg y-your p-pardon,” he said, addressing the urchin with immense politeness, “but I--I a-assume you will r-receive a p-piece of silver for this brave action?”

“Come again,” said the urchin, who was not accustomed to this mode of address.

The boy contrived to grasp that his meaning was not understood.

“The s-street-p-per--t-the m-man on the--on the c-car will give you a p-piece of s-silver because you make the great horse stand still,” he stammered, in order to make it clearer.

“Piece o’ silver!” said the urchin derisively. “More likely to gimme a thick ear. Lucky if I git the price of a fag.”

The boy retired to the bottom step of the warehouse with this mysterious piece of information. With infinite pains he had mastered, as far as he was aware, all the coins in the currency; he had come to believe that he knew the appearance and purchasing power of them all, from the farthing to the sovereign, from the halfpenny stamp to the five-pound note. But he had never encountered “a thick ear,” or “the price of a fag,” in all his researches.

Timidly, reluctantly he went back to the urchin.

“I--I beg y-your p-pardon,” he said as courteously as before, “but w-would you m-mind informing me what is the monetary value of the price of a fag?”

“A nickel, o’ course,” said the urchin in a tone that seemed to indicate that further intercourse was not desired. He was disposed to resent the intrusion of a busybody into his personal and private affairs.

“A n-nickel,” said the boy blankly. “W-would you mind in-informing me wh-what is a nickel?”

“A brown, o’ course,” said the urchin, eyeing him sternly.

“Oh yes,” said the boy, “one of those brown coins which are called p-pennies. I am much in-indebted to you for this in-information.”

With a grave smile of thanks the boy lifted his cap and returned again to the steps of the warehouse. After a moment, however, in which he stood in irresolution he limped away along the street. His progress was carefully noted by the urchin, who watched the frail figure solemnly as it proceeded along the crowded pavements of Cannon Street.

“Gawdstrewth!” he exclaimed, spitting with vehemence, and dealing the great horse a further admonitory blow on the neck.

The boy, however, as he limped with his hunger and weariness through the crowd of street-persons who were about him everywhere and who dealt him continual buffets, was under the dominion of an idea. He had gained yet another fragment of practical knowledge by the medium of first-hand experience. He must turn it to account at the first opportunity. He was hungry. That inexorable power in whose hands he was had inflicted that salutary condition upon him in order to make trial of his quality. And what an incomparable sense of power it would confer upon him to feed that hunger for the first time in his life by his own personal skill in the practical sciences!

A hundred yards along the street was another huge block of gloomy warehouses almost identical with the others. It also was furnished with a flight of stone steps and a crane dangling above a door in the second storey. Their similarity, even to the smallest details, enabled the boy to see in the appearance of this second warehouse this same indubitable hand. He sat down as before on the bottom step, and in simple faith proceeded to await the arrival of a second dray drawn by a great horse.

As thus he sat with an exalted patience for that which he knew must come to pass, yet with his limbs trembling so that he could not hold his knees from knocking together, the clock of the cathedral across the street boomed the hour of six. Its august echoes reverberated in his spirit; they filled it with awe; the sense of a remote yet noble kinship overwhelmed him as he sat. He looked across the street with dim eyes; the colossal spire was uplifted sheer, it was lost in the lowering darkness of the sky. The sombre and vast walls of the church seemed to proclaim themselves to his imagination like the voices of heroes upon which it fed. Their ghostliness, for already they were enveloped in the shadows of evening, set his lips again in motion. Involuntarily they began to move to the familiar lines of the Purgatorio:

Era gia l’ ora che volge il disio ai naviganti, e intenerisce il cuore lo di ch’ han detto ai dolci amici addio;

e che lo nuovo peregrin d’amore punge, se ode squilla di lontano, che paia il giorno pianger che si more;

quand’ io incominciai a render vano l’ udire ed a mirare una dell’ alme surta, che l’ ascoltar chiedea con mano.

The huge clock of the cathedral boomed again and yet again. His lips still moved softly to the music they emitted. No dray and no great horse had arrived. But his resolve was undaunted; his faith remained inviolate. His frame was growing numb and chill. The stone had grown very cold. The stealthy hues of the night were wrapping themselves about everything. The lamps were now lit in Saint Paul’s Churchyard. A serried bank of dark clouds was looming up out of the west. At his heart was a curious sinking; he seemed to feel a little faint.