Friarswood Post Office

Instead of having the receipt brought back to him, there came a message that he was to go up to tell the master and the young gentlemen all about the robbery.

So the servant led the way, and Harold followed a little shy, but more curious.  The boys were in school, a great bare white-washed room, looking very cold, with a large arched window at one end, and forms ranged in squares round the hacked and hewed deal tables.  Harold thought he should tell Alfred that the young gentlemen had not much the advantage of themselves in their schoolroom.

The boys were mostly smaller than he was, only those of the uppermost form being of the same size.  There might be about forty of them, looking rather red and purple with the chilly morning, and all their eighty eyes, black or brown, blue or grey, fixed at once upon the young postman as he walked into the room, straight and upright, in his high stout gaiters over his cord trousers, his thick rough blue coat and red comforter, with his cap in his hand, his fair hair uncovered, and his blue eyes and rosy cheeks all the more bright for that strange morning’s work.  He was a well-mannered boy, and made his bow very properly to Mr. Carter, the master, who sat at his high desk.

‘So, my little man,’ said the master, ‘I hear you’ve had a fight for our property this morning.  You’ve saved this young gentleman’s birthday present of a watch, and he wants to thank you.’

‘Thank you, Sir,’ said Harold; ‘but he’d have been too much for me if Paul hadn’t come to help.  He’s a deal bigger than me.’

The boys all made a thumping and scuffling with their feet, as if to applaud Harold; and their master said, ‘Tell us how it was.’

Harold gave the account in a very good simple manner, only he did not say who the robber was—he did not like to do so—indeed, he would not quite believe it could be his old friend Dick.  The boys clapped and thumped doubly when he came to the switching, and still more at the tumble into the water.

‘Do you know who the fellow was?’ asked Mr. Carter.

‘Yes, I knowed him,’ said Harold, and stopped there.

‘But you had rather not tell.  Is that it?’

‘Please, Sir, he’s gone, and I wouldn’t get him into trouble.’

At this the school-boys perfectly stamped, and made signs of cheering.

‘And who is the boy that came to help you?’

‘Paul Blackthorn, Sir; he’s a boy from the Union who worked at Farmer Shepherd’s.  He’s a right good boy, Sir; but he’s got no friends, nor no—nothing,’ said Harold, pausing ere he finished.

‘Why didn’t you bring him up with you?’ asked the master.

‘Please, Sir, he wouldn’t come.’

‘Well,’ said Mr. Carter, ‘you’ve behaved like a brave fellow, and so has your friend; and here’s something in token of gratitude for the rescue of our property.’

It was a crown piece.

‘And here,’ said the boy whose watch had been saved, ‘here’s half-a-crown.  Shake hands, you’re a jolly fellow; and I’ll tell my uncle about you.’

Harold was a true Englishman, and of course his only answer could be, ‘Thank you, Sir, I only did my duty;’ and as the other boys, whose money had been rescued, brought forward more silver pledges of gratitude, he added, ‘I’ll take it to Paul—thank you, Sir—thank you, Sir.’

‘That’s right; you must share, my lad,’ said the school-master.  ‘It is a reward for both of you.’

‘Thank you, Sir, it was my duty,’ repeated Harold, making his bow.

‘Sir, Sir, pray let us give him three cheers,’ burst out the head boy in an imploring voice.

Mr. Carter smiled and nodded; and there was such a hearty roaring and stamping, such ‘hip, hip, hurrah!’ bursting out again and again, that the windows clattered, and the room seemed fuller of noise than it could possibly hold.  It is not quite certain that Mr. Carter did not halloo as loud as any of the boys.

Harold turned very red, and did not know which way to look while it was going on, nor what to do when it was over, except to say a very odd sort of ‘Thank you, Sir;’ but his heart leapt up with a kind of warm grateful feeling of liking towards those boys for going along with him so heartily; and the cheers gave a pleasure and glow that the coins never would have done, even had he thought them his own by right.

He was not particularly good in this; he had never felt the pinch of want, and was too young to care; and he did not happen to wish to buy anything in particular just then.  A selfish or a covetous boy would not have felt as he did; but these were not his temptations.  Knowing, as he did, that the assault had been the consequence of his foolish boasts about the money-letters, and that he, being in charge, ought to defend them to the last gasp, he was sure he deserved the very contrary from a reward, and never thought of the money belonging to any one but Paul, who had by his own free will come to the rescue, and saved the bag from robbery, himself from injury and disgrace.

How happy he was in thinking what a windfall it was for his friend, and how far it would go in fitting him up respectably!

Peggy was ready to trot nearly as fast as he wished her down the lane to the place where he had left Paul; and no sooner did Harold come in sight of the olive-coloured rags, than he bawled out a loud ‘Hurrah!  Come on, Paul; you don’t know what I’ve got for you!  ’Twas a young gentleman’s watch as you saved; and they’ve come down right handsome! and here’s twelve-and-sixpence for you—enough to rig you out like a regular swell!  Why, what’s the matter?’ he added in quite another voice, as he had now come up to Paul, and found him sitting nearly doubled up, with his head bent over his knees.

He raised his face up as Harold came, and it was so ghastly pale, that the boy, quite startled, jumped off his pony.

‘Why, old chap, what is it?  Have you got knit up with cold, sitting here?’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Paul; but his very voice shivered, his teeth chattered, and his knees knocked together with the chill.  ‘The pains run about me,’ he added; but he spoke as if he hardly knew what he was doing or saying.

‘You must come home with me, and Mother will give you something hot,’ said Harold.  ‘Come, you’ll catch your death if you don’t.  You shall ride home.’

He pulled Paul from his seat with some difficulty, and was further alarmed when he found that the poor fellow reeled and could hardly stand; but he was somewhat roused, and knew better what he was about.  Harold tried to put him on the pony, but this could not be managed: he could not help himself enough, Peggy always swerved aside, nor was Harold strong enough to lift him up.

The only thing to be done was for Harold to mount, and Paul to lean against the saddle, while the pony walked.  When they had to separate at the ford, poor Paul’s walk across the bridge was so feeble and staggering, that Harold feared every moment that he would fall where the rail was broken away, but was right glad to put his arm on his shoulder again to help to hold him up.  The moving brought a little more life back to the poor boy’s limbs, and he walked a little better, and managed to tell Harold how he had felt too miserable to speak to any one after the rating the farmer had given him, and how he had set out on the tramp for more work, though with hope so nearly dead in his heart, that he only wished he could sit down and die.  He had walked out of the village before people were about, so as not to be noticed, and then had found himself so weak and weary that he could not get on without food, and had sat down by the hedge to eat the bit of bread he had with him.  Then he had taken the first lonely-looking way he saw, without knowing that it was one of Harold’s daily rides, and was slowly dragging himself up the hill from the ford when the well-known voice, shouting for help, had suddenly called him back, and filled him with spirit and speed that were far enough off now, poor fellow!

That was a terrible mile and a half—Harold sometimes thought it would never be over, or that Paul would drop down, and he would have to gallop off for help; but Paul was not one to give in, and somehow they got back at last, and Harold, with his arm round his friend, dragged him through the garden, and across the shop, and pushed him into the arm-chair by the fire, Mrs. King following, and Ellen rushing down from up-stairs.

‘There!’ cried Harold, all in a breath, ‘there he is!  That rascal tried to rob me on Ragglesford Bridge, and was nigh too much for me; but he there came and pulled him off me, and got spilt into the river, and he’s got a chill, and if you don’t give him something jolly hot, Mother, he’ll catch his death!’

Mrs. King thought so too: Paul’s state looked to her more alarming than it did even to Harold.  He did not seem able to think or speak, but kept rocking himself towards the fire, and that terrible shivering shaking him all over.

‘Poor lad!’ she said kindly.  ‘I’ll tell you what, Harold, all you can do is put him into your bed at once.—Here, Ellen, you run up first, and bring me a shirt to warm for him.  Then we’ll get his own clothes dried.’

‘No, no,’ cried Harold, with a caper, ‘we’ll make a scare-crow of ’em.  You don’t know what I know, Mother.  I’ve got twelve shillings and sixpence here all his own; and you’ll see what I won’t do with it at old Levi’s, the second-hand clothes man, to-night.’

Harold grew less noisy as he saw how little good the fire was doing to his patient, and how ill his mother seemed to think him.  He quietly obeyed her, by getting him up-stairs, and putting him into his own bed, the first in which Paul had lain down for more than four months.  Then Mrs. King sent Harold out for some gin; she thought hot spirits and water the only chance of bringing back any life after such a dreadful chill; and she and Ellen kept on warming flannels and shawls to restore some heat, and to stop the trembling that shook the bed, so that Alfred felt it, even in the next room, where he lay with the door open, longing to be able to help, and wishing to understand what could have happened.

At last, the cordial and the warm applications effected some good.  Paul was able to say, ‘I don’t know why you are so good to me,’ and seemed ready to burst into a great fit of crying; but Mrs. King managed to stop him by saying something about one good turn deserving another, and that she hoped he was coming round now.

Harold was now at leisure to tell the story in his brother’s room.  Alfred did not grieve now at his brother’s being able to do spirited things; he laughed out loud, and said, ‘Well done, Harold!’ at the switching, and rubbed his hands, and lighted up with glee, as he heard of the Ragglesford boys and their cheers; and then, Harold went eagerly on with his scheme for fitting up Paul at the second-hand shop, both Mrs. King and Alfred taking great interest in his plans, till Mrs. King hearing something like a moan, went back to Paul.

She found his cheeks and hands as burning hot as they had been cold; they were like live coals; and what was worse, such severe pains were running all over his limbs, that he was squeezing the clothes into his mouth that he might not scream aloud.

Happily it was Mr. Blunt’s day for calling; and before the morning was over he came, and after a few words of explanation, he stood at Paul’s bedside.

Not much given to tenderness towards the feelings of patients of his degree, Mr. Blunt’s advice was soon given.  ‘Yes, he is in for rheumatic fever—won’t be about again for a long time to come.  I say, Mistress, all you’ve got to do is to send in your boy to the Union at Elbury, tell ’em to send out a cart for him, and take him in as a casual pauper.  Then they may pass him on to his parish.’

Therewith Mr. Blunt went on to attend to Alfred.

‘Then you think this poor lad will be ill a long time, Sir?’ said Mrs. King, when Mr. Blunt was preparing to depart.

‘Of course he will; I never saw a clearer case!  You’d better send him off as fast as you can, while he can be moved.  He’ll have a pretty bout of it, I dare say.

‘It is nothing infectious, of course, Sir?’ said the mother, a little startled by this hastiness.

‘Infectious—nonsense! why, you know better than that, Mrs. King; I only meant that you’d better get rid of him as quick as you can, unless you wish to set up a hospital at once—and a capital nurse you’d be!  I would leave word with the relieving officer for you, but that I’ve got to go on to Stoke, and shan’t be at home till too late.’