A difficult question indeed, for a boy of fifteen, with but twenty-five pounds, and without a friend in the world. Was he, indeed, without a friend? he asked himself. There was Dr. Parker. Should he apply to him? But the doctor had started for a trip on the Continent the day after the school had broken up, and would not return for six weeks. It was possible that, had he been at home, he might have offered to keep Frank for a while; but the boys seldom stayed at his school past the age of fifteen, going elsewhere to have their education completed. What possible claim had he to quarter himself upon the doctor for the next four years, even were the offer made? No, Frank felt; he could not live upon the doctor's charity. Then there were the parents of the boys he had saved from drowning. But even as he sat alone Frank's face flushed at the thought of trading upon services so rendered. The boy's chief fault was pride. It was no petty feeling, and he had felt no shame at being poorer than the rest of his schoolfellows. It was rather a pride which led him unduly1 to rely upon himself, and to shrink from accepting favors from any one. Frank might well, without any derogation, have written to his friends, telling them of the loss he had suffered and the necessity there was for him to earn his living, and asking them to beg their fathers to use their interest to procure2 him a situation as a boy clerk, or any other position in which he could earn his livelihood3.
Frank, however, shrunk from making any such appeal, and determined4 to fight his battle without asking for help. He knew nothing of his parents' relations. His father was an only son, who had been left early an orphan5. His mother, too, had, he was aware, lost both her parents, and he had never heard her speak of other relations. There was no one, therefore, so far as he knew, to whom he could appeal on the ground of ties of blood. It must be said for him that he had no idea how hard was the task which he was undertaking6. It seemed to him that it must be easy for a strong, active lad to find employment of some sort in London. What the employment might be he cared little for. He had no pride of that kind, and so that he could earn his bread he cared not much in what capacity he might do it.
Already preparations had been made for the sale of the furniture, which was to take place next day. Everything was to be sold except the scientific books which had belonged to his father. These had been packed in a great box until the time when he might place them in a library of his own, and the doctor kindly7 offered to keep it for him until such time should arrive. Frank wrote a long letter to Ruthven, telling him of his loss, and his reasons for leaving Deal, and promising8 to write some day and tell him how he was getting on in London. This letter he did not intend to post until the last thing before leaving Deal. Lucy had already gone to her new home, and Frank felt confident that she would be happy there. His friend, the doctor, who had tried strongly, but without avail, to dissuade9 Frank from going up to London to seek his fortune there, had promised that if the lad referred any inquiries10 to him he would answer for his character.
He went down to the beach the last evening and said goodbye to his friends among the fishermen, and he walked over in the afternoon and took his last meal with Farmer Gregson.
“Look ye here, my lad,” the farmer said as they parted. “I tell ye, from what I've heerd, this London be a hard nut to crack. There be plenty of kernel11, no doubt, when you can get at it, but it be hard work to open the shell. Now, if so be as at any time you run short of money, just drop me a line, and there's ten pound at your service whenever you like. Don't you think it's an obligation. Quite the other way. It would be a real pleasure to me to lend you a helping12 hand.”
Two days after the sale Frank started for London. On getting out of the train he felt strange and lonely amid the bustle13 and confusion which was going on on the platform. The doctor had advised him to ask one of the porters, or a policeman, if he could recommend him to a quiet and respectable lodging14, as expenses at an hotel would soon make a deep hole in his money. He, therefore, as soon as the crowd cleared away, addressed himself to one of the porters.
“What sort of lodgings15 do you want, sir?” the man said, looking at him rather suspiciously, with, as Frank saw, a strong idea in his mind that he was a runaway16 schoolboy.
“I only want one room,” he said, “and I don't care how small it is, so that it is clean and quiet. I shall be out all day, and should not give much trouble.”
“You're wanting a room I hear, sir,” the man said. “I have a little house down the Old Kent Road, and my missus lets a room or two. It's quiet and clean, I'll warrant you. We have one room vacant at present.”
“I'm sure that would suit me very well,” Frank said. “How much do you charge a week?”
“Three and sixpence, sir, if you don't want any cooking done.”
Frank took the address, and leaving his portmanteau in charge of the porter, who promised, unless he heard to the contrary, that he would bring it home with him when he had done his work, he set off from the station.
Deal is one of the quietest and most dreary18 places on the coast of England, and Frank was perfectly19 astounded20 at the crowd and bustle which filled the street, when he issued from the railway approach, at the foot of London Bridge. The porter had told him that he was to turn to his left, and keep straight along until he reached the “Elephant and Castle.” He had, therefore, no trouble about his road, and was able to give his whole attention to the sights which met his eye. For a time the stream of omnibuses, cabs, heavy wagons21, and light carts, completely bewildered him, as did the throng22 of people who hastened along the footway. He was depressed23 rather than exhilarated at the sight of this busy multitude. He seemed such a solitary24 atom in the midst of this great moving crowd. Presently, however, the thought that where so many millions gained their living there must be room for one boy more, somewhat cheered him. He was a long time making his way to his place of destination, for he stared into every shop window, and being, although he was perfectly ignorant of the fact, on the wrong side of the pavement, he was bumped and bustled25 continually, and was not long in arriving at the conclusion that the people of London must be the roughest and rudest in the world. It was not until he ran against a gentleman, and was greeted with the angry, “now then, boy. Where are you going? Why the deuce don't you keep on your own side of the pavement?” that he perceived that the moving throng was divided into two currents, that on the inside meeting him, while the outside stream was proceeding26 in the same direction as himself. After this he got on better, and arrived without adventure at the house of the porter, in the Old Kent Road.
It was a small house, but was clean and respectable, and Frank found that the room would suit him well.
“I do not wait upon the lodgers,” the landlady27 said, “except to make the beds and tidy the rooms in the morning. So if you want breakfast and tea at home you will have to get them yourself. There is a separate place downstairs for your coals. There are some tea things, plates and dishes, in this cupboard. You will want to buy a small tea kettle, and a gridiron, and a frying pan, in case you want a chop or a rasher. Do you think you can cook them yourself?”
“Frank, amused at the thought of cooking and catering28 for himself, said boldly that he should soon learn.
“You are a very young gentleman,” the landlady said, eyeing him doubtfully, “to be setting up on your own hook. I mean,” she said, seeing Frank look puzzled, “setting up housekeeping on your own account. You will have to be particular careful with the frying pan, because if you were to upset the fat in the fire you might have the house in a blaze in a jiffey.”
Frank said that he would certainly be careful with the frying pan.
“Well,” she went on, “as you're a stranger to the place I don't know as you could do better than get your tea, and sugar, and things at the grocer's at the next corner. I deals there myself, and he gives every satisfaction. My baker29 will be round in a few minutes, and, if you likes, I can take in your bread for you. The same with milk.”
These matters being arranged, and Frank agreeing at once to the proposition that as he was a stranger it would make things more comfortable were he to pay his rent in advance, found himself alone in his new apartment. It was a room about ten feet square. The bed occupied one corner, with the washstand at its foot. There was a small table in front of the fireplace, and two chairs; a piece of carpet half covered the floor, and these with the addition of the articles in the cupboard constituted the furniture of the room. Feeling hungry after his journey Frank resolved to go out at once and get something to eat, and then to lay in a stock of provisions. After some hesitation30 regarding the character of the meal he decided31 upon two Bath buns, determining to make a substantial tea. He laid in a supply of tea, sugar, butter, and salt, bought a little kettle, a frying pan, and a gridiron. Then he hesitated as to whether he should venture upon a mutton chop or some bacon, deciding finally in favor of the latter, upon the reflection that any fellow could see whether bacon were properly frizzled up, while as to a chop there was no seeing anything about it till one cut it. He, therefore, invested in a pound of prime streaky Wiltshire bacon, the very best, as the shopman informed him, that could be bought. He returned carrying all his purchases, with the exception of the hardware. Then he inquired of his landlady where he could get coal.
“The green grocer's round the corner,” the landlady said. “Tell him to send in a hundredweight of the best, that's a shilling, and you'll want some firewood too.”
The coal arrived in the course of the afternoon, and at half past six the porter came in with Frank's trunk. He had by this time lit a fire, and while the water was boiling got some of his things out of the box, and by hanging some clothes on the pegs32 on the back of the door, and by putting the two or three favorite books he had brought with him on to the mantelpiece, he gave the room a more homelike appearance. He enjoyed his tea all the more from the novelty of having to prepare it himself, and succeeded very fairly for a first attempt with his bacon.
When tea was over he first washed up the things and then started for a ramble33. He followed the broad straight road to Waterloo Bridge, stood for a long time looking at the river, and then crossed into the Strand34. The lamps were now alight and the brightness and bustle of the scene greatly interested him. At nine o'clock he returned to his lodgings, but was again obliged to sally out, as he found he had forgotten candles.
After breakfast next morning he went out and bought a newspaper, and set himself to work to study the advertisements. He was dismayed to find how many more applicants35 there were for places than places requiring to be filled. All the persons advertising36 were older than himself, and seemed to possess various accomplishments37 in the way of languages; many too could be strongly recommended from their last situation. The prospect38 did not look hopeful. In the first place he had looked to see if any required boy clerks, but this species of assistant appeared little in demand; and then, although he hoped that it would not come to that, he ran his eye down the columns to see if any required errand boys or lads in manufacturing businesses. He found, however, no such advertisements. However, as he said to himself, it could not be expected that he should find a place waiting for him on the very day after his arrival, and that he ought to be able to live for a year on his five and twenty pounds; at this reflection his spirits rose and he went out again for a walk.
For the first week, indeed, of his arrival in London Frank did not set himself very earnestly to work to look for a situation. In his walks about the streets he several times observed cards in the window indicating that an errand boy was wanted. He resolved, however, that this should be the last resource which he would adopt, as he would much prefer to go to work as a common lad in a factory to serving in a shop. After the first week he answered many advertisements, but in no case received a reply. In one case, in which it was stated that a lad who could write a good fast hand was required in an office, wages to begin with eight shillings a week, he called two days after writing. It was a small office with a solitary clerk sitting in it. The latter, upon learning Frank's business, replied with some exasperation39 that his mind was being worried out by boys.
“We have had four hundred and thirty letters,” he said; “and I should think that a hundred boys must have called. We took the first who applied40, and all the other letters were chucked into the fire as soon as we saw what they were about.”
Frank returned to the street greatly disheartened.
“Four hundred and thirty letters!” he said. “Four hundred and thirty other fellows on the lookout41, just as I am, for a place as a boy clerk, and lots of them, no doubt, with friends and relations to recommend them! The lookout seems to be a bad one.”
Two days later, when Frank was walking along the strand he noticed the placards in front of a theater.
“Gallery one shilling!” he said to himself; “I will go. I have never seen a theater yet.”
The play was The Merchant of Venice, and Frank sat in rapt attention and interest through it. When the performance was over he walked briskly homewards. When he had proceeded some distance he saw a glare in the sky ahead, and presently a steam engine dashed past him at full speed.
“That must be a house on fire,” he said. “I have never seen a fire;” and he broke into a run.
Others were running in the same direction, and as he passed the “Elephant and Castle” the crowd became thicker, and when within fifty yards of the house he could no longer advance. He could see the flames now rising high in the air. A horrible fear seized him.
“It must be,” he exclaimed to himself, “either our house or the one next door.”
It was in vain that he pressed forward to see more nearly. A line of policemen was drawn42 up across the road to keep a large space clear for the firemen. Behind the policemen the crowd were thickly packed. Frank inquired of many who stood near him if they could tell him the number of the house which was on fire; but none could inform him.
Presently the flames began to die away, and the crowd to disperse43. At length Frank reached the first line of spectators.
“Can you tell me the number of the houses which are burned?” Frank said to a policeman.
“There are two of them,” the policeman said “a hundred and four and a hundred and five. A hundred and four caught first, and they say that a woman and two children have been burned to death.”
“That is where I live!” Frank cried. “Oh, please let me pass!”
“I'll pass you in,” the policeman said good naturedly, and he led him forward to the spot where the engines were playing upon the burning houses. “Is it true, mate,” he asked a fireman, “that a woman and two children have been burned?”
“It's true enough,” the fireman said. “The landlady and her children. Her husband was a porter at the railway station, and had been detained on overtime44. He only came back a quarter of an hour ago, and he's been going on like a madman;” and he pointed45 to the porter, who was sitting down on the doorsteps of a house facing his own, with his face hidden in his hands.
Frank went and sat down beside him.
“My poor fellow,” he said, “I am sorry for you.”
Frank had had many chats with his landlord of an evening, and had become quite friendly with him and his wife.
“I can't believe it,” the man said huskily. “Just to think! When I went out this morning there was Jane and the kids, as well and as happy as ever, and there, where are they now?”
“Happier still,” Frank said gently. “I lost my mother just as suddenly only five weeks ago. I went out for a walk, leaving her as well as usual, and when I came back she was dead; so I can feel for you with all my heart.”
“I would have given my life for them,” the man said, wiping his eyes, “willing.”
“I'm sure you would,” Frank answered.
“There's the home gone,” the man said, “with all the things that it took ten years' savings46 of Jane and me to buy; not that that matters one way or the other now. And your traps are gone, too, I suppose, sir.”
“Yes,” Frank replied quietly, “I have lost my clothes and twenty-three pounds in money; every penny I've got in the world except half a crown in my pocket.”
“And you don't say nothing about it!” the man said, roused into animation47. “But, there, perhaps you've friends as will make it up to you.”
“I have no one in the world,” Frank answered, “whom I could ask to give me a helping hand.”
“Well, you are a plucky48 chap,” the man said. “That would be a knock down blow to a man, let alone a boy like you. What are you going to do now?” he asked, forgetting for the moment his own loss, in his interest in his companion.
“I don't know,” Frank replied. “Perhaps,” he added, seeing that the interest in his condition roused the poor fellow from the thought of his own deep sorrow, “you might give me some advice. I was thinking of getting a place in an office, but of course I must give that up now, and should be thankful to get anything by which I can earn my bread.”
“You come along with me,” the man said rising. “You've done me a heap of good. It's no use sitting here. I shall go back to the station, and turn in on some sacks. If you've nothing better to do, and nowhere to go to, you come along with me. We will talk it all over.”
Pleased to have some one to talk to, and glad that he should not have to look for a place to sleep, Frank accompanied the porter to the station. With a word or two to the nightmen on duty, the porter led the way to a shed near the station, where a number of sacks were heaped in a corner.
“Now,” the man said, “I will light a pipe. It's against the regulations, but that's neither here nor there now. Now, if you're not sleepy, would you mind talking to me? Tell me something about yourself, and how you come to be alone here in London. It does me good to talk. It prevents me from thinking.”
“There is very little to tell,” Frank said; and he related to him the circumstances of the deaths of his father and mother, and how it came that he was alone in London in search of a place.
“You're in a fix,” the porter said.
“Yes, I can see that.”
“You see you're young for most work, and you never had no practice with horses, or you might have got a place to drive a light cart. Then, again, your knowing nothing of London is against you as an errand boy; and what's worse than all this, anyone can see with half an eye that you're a gentleman, and not accustomed to hard work. However, we will think it over. The daylight's breaking now, and I has to be at work at six. But look ye here, young fellow, tomorrow I've got to look for a room, and when I gets it there's half of it for you, if you're not too proud to accept it. It will be doing me a real kindness, I can tell you, for what I am to do alone of an evening without Jane and the kids, God knows. I can't believe they're gone yet.”
Then the man threw himself down upon the sacks, and broke into sobs49. Frank listened for half an hour till these gradually died away, and he knew by the regular breathing that his companion was asleep. It was long after this before he himself closed his eyes. The position did, indeed, appear a dark one. Thanks to the offer of his companion, which he at once resolved to accept for a time, he would have a roof to sleep under. But this could not last; and what was he to do? Perhaps he had been wrong in not writing at once to Ruthven and his schoolfellows. He even felt sure he had been wrong; but it would be ten times as hard to write now. He would rather starve than do this. How was he to earn his living? He would, he determined, at any rate try for a few days to procure a place as an errand boy. If that failed, he would sell his clothes, and get a rough working suit. He was sure that he should have more chance of obtaining work in such a dress than in his present attire50.
Musing51 thus, Frank at last dropped off to sleep. When he woke he found himself alone, his companion having left without disturbing him. From the noises around him of trains coming in and out, Frank judged that the hour was late.
“I have done one wise thing,” he said, “anyhow, and as far as I can see it's the only one, in leaving my watch with the doctor to keep. He pointed out that I might have it stolen if I carried it, and that there was no use in keeping it shut up in a box. Very possibly it might be stolen by the dishonesty of a servant. That's safe anyhow, and it is my only worldly possession, except the books, and I would rather go into the workhouse than part with either of them.”
Rising, he made his way into the station, where he found the porter at his usual work.
“I would not wake you,” the man said; “you were sleeping so quiet, and I knew 'twas no use your getting up early. I shall go out and settle for a room at dinner time. If you will come here at six o'clock we'll go off together. The mates have all been very kind, and have been making a collection to bury my poor girl and the kids. They've found 'em, and the inquest is tomorrow, so I shall be off work. The governor has offered me a week; but there, I'd rather be here where there's no time for thinking, than hanging about with nothing to do but to drink.”
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unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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kernel
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| n.(果实的)核，仁；(问题)的中心，核心 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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perfectly
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astounded
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wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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throng
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depressed
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solitary
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bustled
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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catering
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baker
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hesitation
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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pegs
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| n.衣夹( peg的名词复数 )；挂钉；系帐篷的桩；弦钮v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的第三人称单数 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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ramble
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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applicants
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| 申请人，求职人( applicant的名词复数 ) | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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accomplishments
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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overtime
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| adj.超时的，加班的；adv.加班地 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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47
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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48
plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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49
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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50
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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51
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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