Post Haste

“Simply enough,” replied Aspel, with an attempt to look indifferent and easy, in which he was only half-successful “I went into a music-hall one night and got into a row with a drunk man who insulted me. That’s how I came by my damaged face. Then about two weeks ago a fellow picked my pocket. I chased him down into one of his haunts, and caught him, but was set upon by half a dozen scoundrels who overpowered me. They will carry some of my marks, however, for many a day—perhaps to their graves; but I held on to the pick-pocket in spite of them until the police rescued me. That’s how my clothes got damaged. The worst of it is, the rascals managed to make away with my purse.”

“My dear fellow,” said Mr Blurt, laughing, “you have been unfortunate. But most young men have to gather wisdom from experience.—And now, what of your prospects? Excuse me if I appear inquisitive, but one who is so deeply indebted to you as I am cannot help feeling interested in your success.”

“I have no prospects,” returned the youth, with a tone and look of bitterness that was not usual to him.

“What do you mean?” asked his friend in surprise, “have you not seen Sir James Clubley?”

“No, and I don’t intend to see him until he has answered my letter. Let me be plain with you, Mr Blurt. Sir James, I have heard from my father, is a proud man, and I don’t much (half) like the patronising way in which he offered to assist me. And his insolent procrastination in replying to my letter has determined me to have nothing more to do with him. He’ll find that I’m as proud as himself.”

“My young friend,” said Mr Blurt, “I had imagined that a man of your good sense would have seen that to meet pride with pride is not wise; besides, to do so is to lay yourself open to the very condemnation which you pronounce against Sir James. Still further, is it not possible that your letter to him may have miscarried? Letters will miscarry, you know, at times, even in such a well-regulated family as the Post-Office.”

“Oh! as to that,” returned Aspel quickly, “I’ve made particular inquiries, and have no doubt that he got my letter all right.—But the worst of it is,” he continued, evidently wishing to change the subject, “that, having lost my purse, and having no account at a banker’s, I find it absolutely necessary to work, and, strange to say, I cannot find work.”

“Well, if you have been searching for work with a black eye and a torn coat, it is not surprising that you have failed to find it,” said Mr Blurt, with a laugh. “But, my dear young friend and preserver,” he added earnestly, “I am glad you have come to me. Ah! if that ship had not gone down I might have—well, well, the proverb says it’s of no use crying over spilt milk. I have still a little in my power. Moreover, it so happens that you have it in your power to serve me—that is to say, if you are not too proud to accept the work I have it in my power to offer.”

“A beggar must not be a chooser,” said Aspel, with a light laugh.

“Well, then, what say you to keeping a shop?”

“Keeping a shop!” repeated Aspel in surprise.

“Ay, keeping a shop—this shop,” returned Mr Blurt; “you once told me you were versed in natural history; here is a field for you: a natural-historical shop, if I may say so.”

“But, my dear sir, I know nothing whatever about the business, or about stuffing birds—and—and fishes.” He looked round him in dismay. “But you are jesting!”

Mr Blurt declared that he was very far from jesting, and then went on to explain the circumstances of the case. It is probable that George Aspel would have at once rejected his proposal if it had merely had reference to his own advantage, and that he would have preferred to apply for labour at the docks, as being more suitable work for a sea-king’s descendant; but the appeal to aid his friend in an emergency went home to him, and he agreed to undertake the work temporarily, with an expression of face that is common to men when forced to swallow bitter pills.

Thus George Aspel was regularly, though suddenly, installed. When evening approached Mrs Murridge lighted the gas, and the new shopman set to work with energy to examine the stock and look over the books, in the hope of thereby obtaining at least a faint perception of the nature of the business in which he was embarked.

While thus engaged a woman entered hastily and demanded her pheasant.

“Your pheasant, my good woman?”

“Yes, the one I left here to-day wi’ the broken heye. I don’t want to ’ave it mended; changed my mind. Will you please give it me back, sir?”

“I must call the gentleman to whom you gave it,” said Aspel, rather sharply, for he perceived the woman had been drinking.

“Oh! you’ve no need, for there’s the book he put my name down in, an’ there’s the bird a-standin’ on the shelf just under the howl.”

Aspel turned up the book referred to, and found the page recently opened by Mr Blurt. He had no difficulty in coming to a decision, for there was but one entry on the page.

“This is it, I suppose,” he said. “‘A woman—I should say an idiot—left a pheasant, minus’—”

“No more a hidyot than yourself, young man, nor a minus neither,” cried the woman, swelling with indignation, and red in the face.

Just then a lady entered the shop, and approached the counter hurriedly.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, almost in a shriek of astonishment, “Mr Aspel!”

“Mr Aspel, indeed,” cried the woman, with ineffable scorn,—“Mr Impudence, more like. Give me my bird, I say!”

The lady raised her veil, and displayed the amazed face of Miss Lillycrop.

“I came to inquire for my old friend—I’m so grieved; I was not aware—Mr Aspel—”

“Give me my bird, I say!” demanded the virago.

“Step this way, madam,” said Aspel, driven almost to distraction as he opened the door of the back shop. “Mrs Murridge, show this lady up to Mr Blurt’s room.—Now then, woman, take your—your—brute, and be off.”

He thrust the one-eyed pheasant into the customer’s bosom with such vigour that, fearing a personal assault, she retreated to the door. There she came to a full stop, turned about, raised her right hand savagely, exclaimed “You’re another!” let her fingers go off with the force of a pea-cracker, and, stumbling into the street, went her devious way.

Chapter Ten.

A Mystery Cleared Up

When night had fairly hung its sable curtains over the great city, Mr Blurt descended to the shop.

“Now, Mr Aspel, I’ll relieve you. The lady you sent up, Miss Lillycrop, is, it seems, an old friend of my brother, and she insists on acting the part of nurse to-night. I am all the better pleased, because I have business to attend to at the other end of the town. We will therefore close the shop, and you can go home. By the way, have you a home?”

“O yes,” said Aspel, with a laugh. “A poor enough one truly, off the Strand.”

“Indeed?—that reminds me: we always pay salaries in advance in this office. Here is a sovereign to account of your first quarter. We can settle the amount afterwards.”

Aspel accepted the coin with a not particularly good grace.

“Now then, you had better—ha—excuse me—put up the shutters.”

Instantly the youth pulled out the sovereign and laid it on the counter.

“No, sir,” he said firmly; “I am willing to aid you in your difficulties, but I am not willing to become a mere shop-boy—at least not while there is man’s work to be had.”

Mr Blurt looked perplexed. “What are we to do?” he asked.

“Hire a little boy,” said Aspel.

“But there are no little boys about,” he said, looking out into the street, where the wind was sending clouds of dust and bits of straw and paper into the air. “I would do it myself, but have not time; I’m late as it is. Ah! I have it—Mrs Murridge!”

Calling the faithful domestic, he asked if she knew how to put up the shutters, and would do it. She was quite willing, and set about it at once, while Mr Blurt nodded good-night, and went away.

With very uncomfortable feelings George Aspel stood in the shop, his tall figure drawn up, his arms crossed on his broad breast, and his finely formed head bent slightly down as he sternly watched the operation.

Mrs Murridge was a resolute woman. She put up most of the shutters promptly in spite of the high wind, but just as she was fixing the last of them a blast caught it and almost swept it from her grasp. For two seconds there was a tough struggle between Boreas and the old woman. Gallantry forbade further inaction. Aspel rushed out just in time to catch Mrs Murridge and the shutter in his strong arms as they were about to be swept into the kennel. He could do no more, however, than hold them there, the wind being too much even for him. While in this extremity he received timely aid from some one, whom the indistinct light revealed as a broad-shouldered little fellow in a grey uniform. With his assistance the shutter was affixed and secured.

“Thank you, friend, whoever you are,” said Aspel heartily, as he turned and followed the panting Mrs Murridge.

But the “friend,” instead of replying, seized Aspel by the arm and walked with him into the shop.

“George Aspel!” he said.