Читать книгу Martin of Old London - George Herbert Ely - Страница 6
ОглавлениеMARTIN LOSES HIS JOB
The moment Martin entered the shop next day Mr. Slocum pounced on him.
“Here, you Leake, come here,” he cried. “What do you mean by it? What have you got to say for yourself, eh? A pretty messenger you are! Look at this goblet; scratched, dented, absolutely ruined! Who’s to pay for the damage? Tell me that.”
“Truly I am sorry, sir,” said Martin; “but it was not my fault. I was set upon and knocked down by two ruffians. But for some watermen who came up I should have lost the goblet altogether.”
“Watermen, you say. Did they chase the footpads?”
“No, sir; the men ran away at once.”
“You’d know them again, I suppose?”
“I’m afraid not. It was nearly dark, and they attacked me so suddenly that I hadn’t time to get much of a look at them. But I did see that one of them had a big scar across his forehead, just above the eye.”
“And where did this happen?”
“A little way beyond Mr. Mumford’s, sir, just after I had given him your letter.”
“And you mean to tell me you were stupid enough to carry a costly goblet into that nest of rogues?”
“You told me to, sir.”
“I did not.”
“Indeed, sir, you said I was to take Mr. Mumford’s letter on my way, and that meant——”
“Don’t contradict me! You were a careless young dog; went meandering along, I dare say, with your nose in the air and your eyes on the stars. You are not to be trusted. If anything of the sort happens again, you and I will say good-bye, Master Leake. Get your broom and sweep the floor.”
Mr. Slocum went to his little room at the back, and Martin set about his work, smarting under a sense of injustice. He had simply done as he was told, and it was unfair to be blamed for what could not have been foreseen. Who would have guessed that anyone would attack a boy carrying a small parcel?
To add to his annoyance, the ’prentices began to bait him.
“A likely story,” said one. “You made it all up.”
“Of course he did,” said another. “Butter-fingers! Dropped the parcel; a horse gave it a kick, and he tells this cock-and-bull story to explain the damage.”
Martin went on sweeping, saying nothing, though his ears began to burn.
“Look at him blushing,” jeered the first. “His name ought to be Molly.”
Martin threw down his broom and sprang at his tormentor, a big, hulking fellow half a head taller. They grappled; Martin wrenched himself out of the other’s grip and rushed at him with clenched fists.
They fought almost without sound, fearing to draw Mr. Slocum from his den. The ’prentice was content at first to ward off the blows that Martin rained on him, and the scornful smile on his face only fed the smaller boy’s rage.
So intent were they upon the fight that neither noticed the entry of a well-dressed elderly gentleman. He stood looking on with a smile until, scuffling and swaying, the boys lurched against him, the ’prentice treading on his toes.
At this moment Mr. Slocum came out of his room and, rushing down the shop, gave Martin a smart clout on the side of his head.
“I beg a thousand pardons, sir,” he said to the customer. “This is a troublesome young rascal; I have already had to admonish him this morning, and——”
“Oh, it’s nothing, Mr. Slocum!” said the gentleman, smiling. “Boys will be boys. I admire the youngster’s pluck, and as for your admonishments, I fancy they are due rather to the other for fighting one so much smaller than himself. Besides, the lout trod on my toes, confound him!”
“I am shocked, sir, deeply pained,” said Mr. Slocum, glaring at the two boys. “Get away to your work; I will deal with you presently.”
Martin could not help watching the pleasant red-faced gentleman who had taken his part. He noticed how humble Mr. Slocum’s attitude was to the customer, and how respectfully he spoke.
“I wonder who he is?” Martin thought, and the gentleman’s features remained fixed in his memory.
When the customer had finished his business and departed, Mr. Slocum turned to Martin and, speaking in his usual harsh, overbearing way, said:
“You disgrace this establishment! Mind you this: if I catch you fighting here again I shall dismiss you on the spot!”
Martin made no protest, but he felt the injustice of his employer’s treatment, and wished more than ever that he was free to find a place as ship’s boy.
The very next day matters came to a head.
Early in the afternoon Martin was surprised to see enter the shop the old Frenchman who lived above the Gollops. At the moment he was polishing some silver plate in the back premises, along with two of the ’prentices. The third was behind the counter, and the Frenchman asked him, in his queer broken English, if he might see Mr. Slocum.
The ’prentice went into Mr. Slocum’s office, and, returning in a few moments, bade the visitor, not too politely, to follow him. The door of the office was closed behind him.
“What’s old Froggy want now?” said one of the ’prentices.
Martin looked at the speaker in surprise. He had not himself seen Mounseer in the shop before, but evidently this was not his first visit.
“I’d like to know,” replied his opponent of the previous day. “I wonder he dares to show himself in a respectable shop. His clothes aren’t fit for a scarecrow.”
Martin flushed. The Frenchman was his friend, a kindly, courteous, dignified gentleman, and he disliked to hear him criticised. It was true, Martin had to admit, now that his attention had been called to him, that his clothes were shabby; but they were well made, and of good quality. For the first time Martin asked himself whether the old man was very poor.
“I wonder where he lives,” the first ’prentice went on. “He’s never had anything sent home, has he?”
“Not that I know of,” was the answer. “I dare say he lives in some filthy cellar and feeds on rats and mice. He’s come a-begging, I should think; but he won’t get much out of old Slocum.”
Martin had been growing more and more indignant, and could remain silent no longer.
“Let me tell you the French gentleman is a friend of mine, and lives in my house,” he blurted out.
“Oh, indeed! A friend of yours, is he? And you and he live in the same cellar, I suppose, and share the vermin? I’m not surprised.”
“He doesn’t live in a cellar. You’d better say no more about him; I won’t stand it.”
“I’ll say what I like without asking you. He’s a miserable old scarecrow of a foreigner, and we don’t want people like him in London. He would make a good guy for the Fifth of November. I’d like to light some crackers under him and see him jump.”
This was more than Martin could stand. Dropping the salver he was polishing, he rushed at the ’prentice with such impetuosity that the boy lost his balance and fell. Up again in an instant, he closed with Martin, and, forgetting everything else, the two began to fight in the narrow space behind the counter.
“Look out!” warned the ’prentice looking on.
But the warning came too late. They lurched against one of the glass-cases containing jewellery. There was a crash. Splinters of glass fell all about the floor, the door of Mr. Slocum’s den flew open, and Mr. Slocum himself, pale with anger, dashed out, followed by the old Frenchman.
“You again, you young villain!” roared the goldsmith.
He caught Martin by the ear, lugged him to the door, and shot him into the street with a parting kick.
“Don’t you dare to show your face here again,” he cried, “or I’ll thrash you black and blue.”
