Читать книгу The Seed of Empire - Fred M. White - Страница 4

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Harold turned a surprised glance on the speaker. He saw a little man, short and squarely built; a man with fiery red hair, and whose impudent face was deeply marked with orange freckles. His clothes were dingy and dilapidated, his toes were working through his broken boots, and to all appearance fortune had not smiled his way of late. But the impudent blue of his eyes and the audacious swaggering smile on his lips seemed to have been born there and ready to defy every misfortune that came his way. He might have been any age between 19 and 25, but in the case of the typical pariah of the London streets it is always difficult to tell. This was not the question that Harold was asking himself—he was wondering how this ragged and tough specimen of humanity knew him so well by name.

"I think I can manage all right, thank you," he said coldly.

"Don't you be put down, Mr. Bentley. Don't yer let 'im 'ave all 'is own way, I'll back yer up. There's a bloke astandin' be'ind the Socialist, that cove with the long nose. An' I don't mind tellin' yer as I'm a-dyin' ter punch 'im."

Harold edged the speaker on one side. By this time some of the crowd, bent on mischief, were egging him on. The orator had ceased speaking, conscious, perhaps, that he was getting the better of the argument, for he turned sneeringly to Bentley, and demanded to know if he had any more to say.

"Only this," Harold cried hotly, "that you are no working man. Work is a thing that loafers of your class don't believe in. In any other country but this you would be pulled off that pedestal and drowned in the nearest fountain. Yes, I've a great mind to save the police the trouble of hanging you."

The crowd tittered and then broke into a hoarse laugh. The Socialist's face turned a deeper red.

"And what about yourself?" he asked. "You're one of the nobs, you are, you of the nuts. Pap-fed at a public school, and then swaggering at Oxford College. Oh, I know your sort. Catch you doing anything for your country! You've enlisted, of course? Did it this morning, may be."

Bentley said nothing for a moment. For it was a question he had not anticipated. He wanted to explain; he had an insane desire to tell the now interested spectators the reason why he had passed one recruiting office after another without a glance to the right or left. But the thing was impossible. He could not stand up there before that little knot of fellow-creatures and explain to them that, though the speaker's guess as to the public school was correct, he was merely a city clerk more or less fortunate in the possession of 30s a week, and with a mother and sister entirely dependent upon him. No doubt, later on, a grateful country would do something for those who had given up everything to follow the flag, but meanwhile the call of those nearest and dearest to him drowned the trumpet call of patriotism and country. And it would have been so easy to lie to the red-faced spouter, and thus escape the jeers and sneers of those around him.

"No," he said, "I have not enlisted. It is no business of yours, but I merely tell you the truth. My father died for his country, and if circumstances—"

He broke off abruptly and bit his lip. What a fool he was to lose his temper like this, how childish to betray these sacred confidences to callous strangers who were merely seeking a few minutes cheap recreation! He would have turned away and edged through the crowd had not the next words of the speaker arrested him. He pulled up quivering in every nerve.

"There what did I tell you? He ain't going to fight, not he. Ain't got pluck enough. Hiding himself behind a woman's petticoats. Now, look here, young fellow, I've had enough of you; you just hop off, else I'll come down and make you."

The little man with the red hair by Harold's side chuckled joyfully. The light of battle gleamed in his eyes.

"E's fairly arskin' for it, Mr. Bently," he whispered, "Now, don't yer go an' fly in the fice o' Providence. Don't yer lose a charnce as is fairly stickin' aht at yer. You tike 'im on, and I'll go for the melancholy bloke with the long nose. Lor' bless yer, sir, many the time as I've stood a-watchin' yer in the gymnasium of the old school when you've 'ed the gloves on with some o' the other gents. Why, that left punch o' yourn't ud 'ave made a champion of yer if you 'adn't been one of the toffs with pots o' money. I don't suppose you remember me, sir, but at one time I was boot-boy in Mr. Seymour's 'ouse when you was at Rugby. Nime of Ginger Smiff."

In a hazy way Bentley was beginning to remember. But there was little time for questions now, for the red-faced bully, feeling more sure of his ground, was advancing threateningly to the attack. Already Harold could feel the man's hot breath on his face; he was conscious of the thrust-out jaw and the cruel anger in the blurred grey eyes of his opponent. No doubt the assailant had calculated upon the moral support at least of the crowd, for he lunged out viciously, his one desire to hurt and maim his opponent before the arrival of the police.

Harold was cool enough now. The joy of the fight was on him. Here was the chance to let himself go, to relieve his pent-up feelings, and strike a blow for his country, even if only an oblique one. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the little man with ginger hair wriggling his way through the crowd until he was face to face with the long-nosed Socialist, who promptly made a dash for him with a stick. Bentley was conscious of the fact that Ginger Smith's opponent was suddenly brought up all standing with a vicious body blow, and then he went down, to rise no more, before a vigorous left on the point of the jaw. And then Harold saw his chance, too.

It was a cruelly uneven contest from the very first, for the fat and flabby Socialist was no kind of a match for two-and-twenty years of perfect condition and muscular manhood trained fine as a star and rendered hard as nails by outdoor exercise. In the language of the ring, Harold was all over his opponent; it was mere child's play to him, and his one regret lay in the fact that it was over all too soon. The man collapsed, a blubbering heap at his feet, yelling and cursing and calling for the police. From somewhere in the distance a whistle blew, and it was borne in upon Harold that this generous impulse of his was likely to get him into trouble. He snatched the money-box and crushed it in fragments under his feet. Then he scooped up the contents and scattered them amongst the crowd. By this time Ginger Smith had completed his work and was back by Harold's side.

"Come on, sir," he panted. "Let's get out of this. It's been a bit of a beano so far, but yer don't want ter be run in and fined five pahnds fer spilin' a swine like 'im. Come on, sir, 'ere's the bloomin' coppers a-comin'."

Ginger burst his way through the crowd and darted across the square in the direction of Whitehall. Harold was alive to the peril now, and followed rapidly. It would never do for him to find himself figuring before magistrates over this wretched business. His employer was a cold, austere man, a money-grubber, and selfish bachelor, and an worshipper of the conventions, who would have discharged him without compunction had anything of this come to his ears. And Harold knew only too well how hard it was to earn the bread of life in a city office.

He saw Ginger dart and twist under a policeman's arm and vanish down an entry. Then he was conscious of a motor car pulling up by him alongside the pavement.

"Well, this is a nice game, Harold," a cheery voice said. "I was just in time to see the end of it. Jump in, old chap—I suppose you don't want to find yourself in Bow-street. And now, where have you been hiding all this long time?"