Bernard Brooks' Adventures: The Experience of a Plucky Boy

CHAPTER XXI. A DAY IN LONDON

Bernard found the Arundel Hotel, to which he had been directed, neat and quiet. It was more like a large boarding-house than a hotel. The terms were very reasonable, and that with him was an important consideration.

There were several Americans among the guests, including two ministers and a schoolma’am of uncertain age, who was taking a well-earned rest after fifteen years of service in the public schools of Massachusetts.

It was next to her that Bernard had a seat at the table. Being, from her profession, attracted by young people, she was led to feel an interest in the bright and attractive boy with whom the exigencies of hotel life had brought her in contact.

“You are an American boy, I take it?” she said.

“Yes, miss.”

“Miss Smith,” she suggested, smiling. “It is a little more convenient to know the name of the person to whom you are speaking.”

“Miss Smith, then. My name is Bernard Brooks.”

“Ah, indeed! I think there is a Brooks family in Somerville, Massachusetts, where I am teaching. Are they related to you?”

“I don’t think so. I come from New York State.”

“Here we are all Americans. Have you arrived’ lately?”

“Only two days since.”

“And it is your first visit to England?”

“Yes.”

“Do you intend to visit the continent?”

“I should like to.”

“But that probably depends upon your traveling companions.”

“I have no traveling companions.”

“Did you come to England alone?” asked Miss Smith, in some surprise.

“No. I was in the company of Professor Puffer.”

“Indeed! I never heard of the gentleman. Is he a professor of Harvard?”

“I don’t think he is connected with any college. I am told that he is interested in antiquities, and has written upon the subject.”

“I should like to meet him,” said the schoolmistress.

“Perhaps you will introduce me.”

“I am afraid I cannot. The professor and I have parted.”

“Why, if it isn’t taking too great a liberty to ask?”

“I didn’t like him. He didn’t treat me well. Once, in a fit of sleep-walking, he tried to throw me into the sea.”

“That seems strange. Certainly you were justified in leaving him. Where is he now?”

“I left him in Liverpool.”

“But didn’t he have charge of you?”

“Yes; but I think I can take better care of myself.”

“You may think me intrusive, but I am old enough to be your mother; that is, almost,” she added cautiously. “Didn’t he have charge of money for your expenses?”

“I was engaged to assist him as his private secretary. I was to have twenty-five dollars a month and my expenses paid.”

“That was very good pay. I see that you are in a difficult position. Do you really think it would be unsafe for you to stay with him?”

“I am sure of it.”

“Then, of course, that settles it. Have you taken the advice of any older person?”

“I took the advice of Mr. Nelson Sturgis, from Boston.”

“That is a very good Boston name. Is Mr. Sturgis in this hotel?”

“No; he went to the Charing Cross.”

“If you don’t think me impertinent, how do you expect to defray your expenses? Is there any one in America who will provide you with the necessary fund?”

“No. There is a man in New York who calls himself my guardian, but he certainly is not my friend. He put me in charge of this Professor Puffer, and from a letter I picked up I find he wants to get rid of me.”

“But how will you live?”

“I shall try to get something to do, Miss Smith.”

“That will be hard in a city like London, where you are a stranger.”

“I have no doubt of that, but there is no other course open to me.”

“If you were in America you would stand a better chance. I wish I could think of any way of helping you. I have a nephew about your age, and I can’t help thinking what if he were in your position. Shall you stay long at this hotel?”

“I shall have money enough to stay a week or two.”

“And I shall be here about a week. I must think for you.”

“I wish you would,” said Bernard gratefully. “It seems pleasant to have some one interested in you.”

“Won’t this Mr. Sturgis do something for you?”

“He has already. It is he who paid my expenses from Liverpool. He seems a very nice gentleman, and I am sure he is friendly to me.”

“You had better look over the daily papers, and if you see any place advertised which you think you can fill, apply for it.”

“Thank you. I will take your advice.”

During the afternoon Bernard walked through the Strand and Fleet Street. He found plenty to attract his attention. Though the signs were English he found a great difference between English and American shops. Near the Bank of England he met Nelson Sturgis.

“Glad to meet you, Bernard,” said the Boston drummer. “I have some news for you.”

“What is it, Mr. Sturgis?”

“Your friend, the professor, has called upon me at the Charing Cross.”

Bernard was startled.

“How do you think he guessed we were there?”

“In the easiest way in the world. He found the cabby who had driven us to the hotel.”

“Was he looking for me?”

“Yes. When he saw me his face brightened. He demanded you, thinking that you were somewhere in the hotel.”

“It is lucky I didn’t stay there. Is he there now?”

“No; finding that he was mistaken, he went away disappointed.”

“Suppose we meet him in the street?”

“Bluff him. Refuse to go with him. He would have to prove a right to control you, and that would be difficult. How do you like your hotel?”

“Very much. It is comfortable and cheap.”

“Have you made any acquaintances?”

“Yes; a schoolma’am from Massachusetts.”

“Is she young and pretty?” asked Mr. Sturgis with a smile.

“No; she is plain, and, as to age, I think she must be near forty. She might do for you,” suggested Bernard with a roguish look.

“Thank you. Your description doesn’t seem attractive.”

“She is a very nice lady, however, and has given me some good advice about getting a position.”

“I am glad of that. I wish I could do something for you, but my stay in London is very limited.”

“I am sorry for that. I shall feel very lonely when you are gone.”

“And unfortunately I go to-morrow.”

“Where?”

“To some of the manufacturing districts. You know my trip is a business one. How are you off for money?”

“I can get along for the present, and I hope before long to get a place.”

“I hope so, but I fear your being an American will interfere with you. The English have an idea that American boys have too much license, and they would hesitate to take one into their employment.”

“It seems queer to see boys even younger than I am with silk hats on.”

“Yes; but it is the English style. You can’t pass for an English boy – of the better class – without following their example.”

“I wouldn’t do that. They look like guys. Just let one of them appear in New York rigged out in that way. Why, the other boys would mob him.”

“That is true. Still I don’t know, but it is well when you are in Rome to do as the Romans do.”

“Does that mean that you recommend me to put on one of those tiles?”

“Well, not at present,” said Mr. Sturgis. “If it would procure you a position I should advise you to do so.”

Presently the two separated, and Bernard strolled on alone, his companion having a business call to make near the bank.

“Have a shine?”

The boy who asked the question was a typical London street urchin, with ragged clothes, and face and hands bearing evidence of his occupation.

Bernard looked at his shoes. They certainly stood in need of polishing, but he knew that his means were small and daily diminishing, and was cautious enough to ask the price.

“A penny,” answered the street boy.

Bernard signed to the boy to begin.

The boy understood his business, and went to work like an expert.

“Do you earn much?” asked Bernard.

“That’s as it happens. When I’m lucky I make one and eight pence or two shillin’s. Yesterday a gent – he was an American – give me sixpence for a shine. Americans are rich.”

“Not all of them. I am an American.”

“Have you got a bowie knife?”

“No,” answered Bernard, with a laugh. “What makes you ask?”

“I was readin’ a story in a paper that said all the American boys carried bowie knives.”

“That’s a mistake.”

Bernard was feeling for a penny to pay the young bootblack when he heard a snort of triumph, and looking up, he saw Professor Puffer bearing down upon him.

CHAPTER XXII. DICK THE BOOTBLACK

What’s the matter?” asked the bootblack, noting the swift change in Bernard’s face.

“That man – he is after me!” ejaculated Bernard, preparing to move on.

He knew that it would be disagreeable to have an encounter with Professor Puffer and he thought it better to get out of his way.

Whether he could do so was doubtful, as the professor was close at hand.

“I’ll help you,” said the bootblack, “if you’ll give me a shilling. You be here in an hour.”

“All right,” said Bernard, and he started to run.

But by this time Professor Puffer was only ten feet away. He felt that Bernard was within his grasp.

But he did not reckon for the bootblack. The latter advanced to meet the professor, and managed to stumble in front of him so that Puffer, whose legs were short, fell over him, striking forcibly on his face. Meanwhile Bernard was hurrying away.

Professor Puffer got up in a furious rage.

“What are you running over me for?” he demanded, shaking his fist at the bootblack.

The latter began to rub his knees vigorously.

“What are you runnin’ over me for?” he demanded in an injured tone.

Professor Puffer eyed him suspiciously. He hardly knew whether the encounter was premeditated or not, “Did you see a boy rather taller than you dressed in a dark suit? I think you have been blacking his shoes.”

“Yes, I did, and he run away without payin’ me. Is he your boy?”

“Yes. Where did he go?”

“I dunno. You ran over me so that I couldn’t see. Will you pay for the shine?”

“No; he must pay for it himself. But I’ll give you a sixpence if you’ll find him for me.”

“All right! Give me the money.”

“Not now. I’ll wait till you find him for me.”

“I don’t do business in that way, mister.”

“I believe you’re in league with him,” said the professor suspiciously.

“I dunno what that means,” returned the boy innocently. “Don’t you try your long words on me. If he was your boy, what made him run away from you?”

“Because he is a bad lot. He won’t obey me.”

“Ain’t he bad, though?” said the bootblack virtuously. “And you look like such a kind old man, too. He’d ought to be flogged, that he had.”

“I am not so very old,” said the professor quickly; for, like a good many others, he didn’t care to be considered aged.

“That so! You don’t look more’n sixty.”

“I am not near that,” said Puffer. “But that is of no importance. If you’ll help me you will find it for your advantage.”

“I’ll try. S’pose I do find him, where will I find you?”

The professor took out a card and wrote his address on it.

“I’ll tell you what to do,” he said. “If you find Bernard – ”

“Is that his name?”

“Yes. Bernard Brooks. If you see him, find out where he lives and come and tell me.”

“What will you do to him, if you catch him?” asked the bootblack, with curiosity.

“Never you mind! I will take him back into my charge. I may send him to a boarding-school.”

“I wish some kind gentleman would send me to a boardin’-school,” said the bootblack, with an angelic expression. “Say, mister, won’t you adopt me?”

“I cannot afford it. Besides, I have trouble enough with the boy I have; but I can’t stand waiting here. You are sure you didn’t see where the boy went?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Somehow that boy continually eludes me,” muttered Puffer, as he walked disappointed away. “I begin to hate him.”

Meanwhile Bernard had not gone very far. He had darted into a narrow street, and, himself screened from observation, watched the interview between the professor and the bootblack. Though he could not hear what was said, he judged that his street friend was not betraying him.

“He has an honest face, though a dirty one,” he reflected. “He has earned the money I promised him.”

When Professor Puffer had disappeared from the scene he crossed to where the bootblack was standing.

“Well,” he said, “so he’s gone.”

“Yes.”

“You had quite a talk with him.”

“Yes. I fooled the old man. He’s goin’ to give me sixpence for lettin’ him know where you live.”

Bernard laughed.

“You can tell him any place you like,” he said.

“Then I’ll tell him you’re boardin’ with Queen Victoria at Buckingham Palace.”

“I don’t think he’ll give you sixpence for that.”

“I don’t want any of his money,” said the bootblack contemptuously. “He’s no good.”

“What did he say about me?”

“He says you’re a bad lot.”

“I’ve heard that before. I’d a good deal rather have you for a friend than him.”

“Would you?” asked the bootblack, with an expression of gratification. “What is your name?”

“Dick Sprowl.”

“Then, Dick, there’s my hand.”

“My hand is dirty. You’d better not take it.”

“I don’t care whether your hand is dirty or not. Your heart is all right. There’s the shilling I promised you.”

“You’re a gentleman,” said the bootblack. “Say, you needn’t give me any money as long as you’re my friend.”

“Yes, Dick, take the money, and my friendship, too.”

Bernard returned to the Arundel Hotel in time for dinner.

He met Miss Minerva Smith on the doorstep, waiting for the door to open.

“Well, Bernard,” she said pleasantly, “has anything happened?”

“Yes; I fell in with Professor Puffer.”

“Where?”

“On the Strand.”

“Was the interview a pleasant one?”

Bernard laughed.

“To tell the truth, I didn’t wait to see him.”

Then he told of the professor’s approach, and of his escape by the help of the bootblack.

“You seem to have been fortunate. Have you heard of any position?”

“No,” answered Bernard, shaking his head. “I am not so lucky as that. I am beginning to feel a little anxious. I am not sure but I ought to find a cheaper boarding place.”

“I don’t think you could – that is, a satisfactory one. Perhaps it may not be necessary. In looking over a morning paper I saw an advertisement which might possibly prove of advantage to you.”

“Let me see it!” said Bernard eagerly.

“I will show it to you after dinner.”

“That may be too late.”

“No; the applicant was to call between three and four this afternoon.”

After dinner Miss Smith produced the paper, and called Bernard’s attention to this advertisement.

WANTED – By a young man about to make a voyage for his health, a pleasant traveling companion. Apply, between three and four o’clock this afternoon at Morley’s Hotel, Trafalgar Square.

Walter Cunningham.

“How would that suit you, Bernard?” asked Miss Smith.

“Very well indeed.”

“Then you are not afraid of seasickness?”

“No; in my voyage across the Atlantic I had no trouble in that way. Do you think I shall have any chance of success?”

“I think your appearance would recommend you. The chief obstacle would be your youth. If you were as old as I am – ” and she smiled and paused.

“Can’t you lend me a few years, Miss Smith,” asked Bernard.

“I should be only too glad to do so,” replied the schoolmistress; “but I am afraid that is not practicable.”

“Perhaps I should be expected to bear my own expenses,” suggested Bernard. “Of course, that would be out of the question.”

“That is hardly likely. At any rate, you will soon learn all the particulars.”

“Where is Trafalgar Square?”

“Not much over a mile distant. You might take a hansom.”

“I think I will. Otherwise I might fall in with Professor Puffer again, and even if I escaped from him, the delay might prove fatal.”

“Very true. Fortunately, the expense will be trifling.”

Bernard went up to his room and put on a clean collar. He brushed his hair carefully also. His shoes were all right, thanks to his young street friend, Dick Sprowl.

Then he went to the Strand and hailed a hansom.

“I want to go to Morley’s Hotel, Trafalgar Square,” he said. “Do you know where it is?”

“Yes, sir,” answered cabby, with a pitying smile. “I’ll have you there in a jiffy.”

In about fifteen minutes the cab drew up in front of a plain hotel, and the driver assisted Bernard to descend.

Bernard satisfied himself that this was Morley’s Hotel, and dismissing the cab driver he advanced to the entrance. The result of his application would be so important to him that he could not help feeling nervous.

CHAPTER XXIII. AN APARTMENT AT MORLEY’S HOTEL

Bernard was shown up-stairs to an apartment on the second floor. He was ushered into an anteroom, where four persons were already sitting. These Bernard inferred were applicants for the post of traveling companion.

When he entered, the others regarded him with interest, and, as it seemed, with amusement. His youth made it seem ridiculous in their eyes for him to aspire to the position advertised.

Bernard, too, was interested in taking stock of his competitors.

One was a tall young man, of about thirty-five, dressed in a tightly fitting suit, the coat buttoned up to the throat. Whatever his qualifications might be, he looked stiff and uncompanionable.

His next neighbor was considerably shorter, quite smartly dressed, and his face wore a self-satisfied smirk, as if he had a remarkably good opinion of himself. Another was a man of at least forty, with a middle-aged look, and an air of discouragement about him.

The fourth was an awkward looking young man, not over twenty-one, who seemed bashful and ill at ease. He was just from the university, where he had not quite completed the full course, and, whatever his scholarship might be, looked inexperienced and unpractical.

A man servant appeared, and looking about him doubtfully, signaled to the first mentioned applicant to follow him. While he was closeted with the advertiser, the others were expectant and ill at ease. They feared that choice would be made of the first applicant.

At the end of ten minutes he reappeared in the anteroom. All eyes were turned upon him.

“Are you engaged?” asked applicant No. 2.

The tall young man answered complacently, “Not yet, but I probably shall be. Mr. Cunningham will communicate with me.”

He left the room, and No. 2 followed the servant into the advertiser’s presence. He reappeared at the end of five minutes.

“Well?” asked the man of middle age anxiously.

“I think it will be me,” was the reply. “Mr. Cunningham was very social and agreeable. Between ourselves, there isn’t the slightest chance of the other man being taken. He flattered himself too much.”

“Is he going to write to you?”

“Yes. I told him that the first man fully expected the appointment, but he only laughed. I understood what that meant.”

So No. 2 departed and No. 3 was invited into the advertiser’s presence.

He, too, came back at the end of from five to ten minutes, but he did not look as confident as the two who preceded him.

“Are you chosen?” asked the university man eagerly.

“No, and I don’t think I shall be. Mr. Cunningham evidently regarded me as too old. He is himself a young man. I don’t think he is over twenty-three or twenty-four.”

The college man brightened up. This seemed favorable to his chances. As he argued, Cunningham would naturally prefer a person somewhere near his own age.

At a signal, from the servant he entered the presence of Walter Cunningham, his face flushing with nervous embarrassment.

Soon he, too, came out, and there was but one applicant left – Bernard – to greet him. He, too, had been of opinion that the college man would be accepted.

“Am I to congratulate you?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” answered the university man.

“Mr. Cunningham was very kind and friendly. He has reserved his decision, and tells me that if I am selected I will hear from him in two days.”

“Follow me, young man,” said the servant, signaling to Bernard.

Bernard found himself almost immediately in the presence of Walter Cunningham. The advertiser was a pleasant looking young man, whose appearance attracted Bernard. He looked rather surprised at Bernard’s youth.

“Have you come in answer to my advertisement?” he asked.

“I have,” replied Bernard. “I can see that you think me very young.”

“Well, certainly you are not very old,” returned Cunningham, smiling pleasantly. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“And I am twenty-three.”

“It is rather presumptuous in me to answer your advertisement, but there was no limitation of age.”

“True. You were quite justified in applying. You are not English?”

“No; I am an American.”

“So I judged. I know something of America. Two years since I spent six months in the States. I have seen most of your large cities, from New York to San Francisco.”

“I am sorry to say that my traveling has been very limited.”

“And you really have no special qualifications for the position of a traveling companion?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you acquainted with any of the modern languages?”

“I can read French pretty easily.”

Mr. Cunningham looked pleased.

“That will be a help,” he said. “Do you speak it at all?”

“Just a little. I wrote French exercises, and had a few lessons in French conversation. Of course, I have very small claim to the place, but it is quite important for me to find employment, and an American lady – a teacher – suggested to me to apply.”

“Then your means are limited? Have you parents?”