The Story of Antony Grace Part 26

"Why, bless your young heart, where have you been all your life? You're either as cunning as--No, you ain't, you really are as innocent as a lamb."

"I've always been at home with papa and mamma, sir."

"Sir, be hanged! My name's William Revitts; and if you and me's going to be good friends, my boy, you'll drop that sir-ing and mistering, and call me plain Bill."

"Should you like it, sir, if I did?" I asked anxiously.

"No, _sir_, I shouldn't. Yes, I should. Now then, is it to be friends or enemies?"

"Oh, friends, please," I said, holding out my hand.

"Then there's mine, young Antony," he cried seizing it in his great, fingers. "And mind, I'm Bill, or old Bill, whichever you like."

"I'm sure--Bill, I should be glad to be the best of friends," I said, "for I have none."

"Oh, come now, you said that Polly was very good to you."

"What, Mary? Oh yes!"

"Well, then, that's one. But, I say, you know you mustn't be so precious innocent."

"Mustn't I, sir?"

"What!" he cried, bringing his hand down crash on the table.

"Mustn't I, Bill?"

"That's better. No: that you mustn't. I seem to look upon you as quite an old friend since you lived so long with my Polly. But, I say, your education has been horribly neglected. You're quite a baby to the boys up here at your age."

"But papa was so anxious that I should learn everything," I said, as I thought of Mr Ruddle's words, "and we had lessons every day."

"Hah! Yes; but you can't learn everything out o' books," he continued, looking at me curiously. "You never went away to school, then?"

"No. I was going in a month or two."

"Hah! and it was put off. Well, we can't help it now, only you mustn't be so jolly easy-going. Everybody here will glory in taking you in."

"Do you mean cheating me?"

"That's just what I do mean. Why, some chaps would have nailed that sov like a shot, and you'd never have seen it again. You see, I'm in the police, and we couldn't stoop to such a thing, but I know lots o' men as would say as a sov was no use to a boy like you, and think as they ought to take care of it for you."

"Well, wouldn't that be right, Mr Revitts?" I said.

"No, it wouldn't, young greenhorn," he cried sharply, "because they'd take care of it their way."

"Greenhorn?" I said eagerly. "Oh, that's what you mean by my being green! You mean ignorant and unripe in the world's ways."

"That's just what I do mean," he cried, slapping me on the shoulder.

"Brayvo! that's the result of my first lesson," he continued admiringly.

"Why, I'm blessed if I don't think that if I had you here six months, and took pains, I could make a man of you."

"Oh, I wish you would," I cried excitedly. "I do so want to be a true, good man--one such as papa used to speak of--one who could carve his way to a n.o.ble and honourable career, and grow to be loved and venerated and held in high esteem by the world at large. Oh, I would try so hard--I'd work night and day, and feel at last, that I had not tried in vain."

"He-ar! he-ar! Brayvo, brayvo, youngster! Well done our side! That's your style!" he cried, clapping his hands and stamping his feet as I stopped short, flushed and excited with the ideas that had come thronging to my brain, and then gazed at him in a shamefaced and bashful manner. "That's your sort, my boy, I like that. I say, did your father teach you that sorter thing."

"Yes. Mr Rev--Yes, Bill."

"I say, your par, as you called him, wasn't a fool."

"My papa," I said proudly, "I mean my dear father, was the best and kindest of men."

"That I'll lay sixpence he was. Why, I was feeling quite out of heart about you, and thinking you such a hinnocent young goose that I shouldn't know how to help you. Why, lookye here, I've been kicking about in the world ever since I was ten, and been in the police six years, and I couldn't make a speech like that."

"Couldn't you, sir--Mr--I mean Bill?"

"No, that I couldn't. Why, I tell you what. You and I'll stick together and I don't know what we mightn't make of you at last--p'r'aps Lord Mayor o' London. Or, look here, after a few years we might get you in the police."

"In the police?" I faltered.

"To be sure, and you being such a scholard and writing such a hand--I know it, you know. Lookye here," he continued, pulling out a pocket-book, from one of the wallets in which he drew a note I had written for Mary, "I say, you writing such a hand, and being well up in your spelling, you'd rise like a air balloon, and get to be sergeant, and inspector, and perhaps superintendent, and wear a sword! You mark my words, youngster; you've got a future before you."

"Do you think so?"

"I just do. I like you, young Antony, hang me if I don't; and if you stick to me I'll teach you all I know."

"Will you?" I said eagerly.

"Well, all I can. Just hand me that paper o' tobacco. Thankye. I'll have just one more pipe, and then we'll go to dinner."

He filled and lit his pipe, and went on talking.

"First and foremost, don't you get trying to smoke."

"No, I will not," I said.

"That's right. It's all very well for men, a little of it; but I don't like to see boys at it, as too many tries just now. I often sees 'em on my beat, and I never feel so jolly happy as when I come across one looking white after it about the gills, and so sick he can't hold his head straight up. But, as I was a-saying, you stick to me and I'll teach you all I can, and I know two or three things," he continued, closing one eye and opening it again.

"You must, sir."

"Yes; there's some clever chaps I have to deal with sometimes--roughs and thieves and the like; but they have to get up very early in the morning to take me in."

"Do they, sir--Bill?" I said wonderingly.

"There, now you're getting innocent again," he said sharply. "You don't mean to tell me as you don't understand that?"

"Oh yes, I do: you mean that they would have to get up very early to master you--say at daybreak."

"What a young innocent you are," he cried, laughing; and then seeing my pained look, he slapped me on the shoulder again. "It's all right, my boy. You can't help it; and you'll soon learn all these things. I know a lot, but so do you--a sight o' things I don't. Why, I'll be bound to say you could write a long letter without making a single mistake in the spelling."