Part 28 (1/2)

”Good-night, or good morning rather.”

It was a policeman who spoke, and who looked rather suspiciously at the lonely looking young man.

”Good morning,” replied d.i.c.k; ”it's not long to daylight is it?”

”Another hour or two yet. Lost your way?”

”I've come from King's Cross. I travelled by the midnight train, and there were no conveyances to be got.”

”Ah, petrol's a bit scarce yet; but I hear we shall have more soon. Anywhere you want to get?”

”Yes, I'm going to Jones' Hotel.”

”That's close to the British Museum; and only a few minutes away. I suppose your room's booked all right. The hotels are very crowded in London just now.”

”That'll be all right. Good morning, and thank you!”

”That's all right, sir. Go to the end of the square, turn to the right, then take the second street to the left and you are there.”

A few minutes later d.i.c.k was at the hotel. The night porter knew him well, and showed him into the smoke-room, where there was a good fire, and comfortable arm-chairs.

”You'll be all right here till breakfast, sir, won't you? After that you can see the manager.”

Five minutes later d.i.c.k was asleep.

A few hours later he met some of his political confreres, two of whom begged him to lodge with them.

It was not much of a place they a.s.sured him, but the best their money would run to. ”Four hundred a year's very little in London, and that you'll find out before long,” one of them a.s.sured him.

”Every penny has to be looked after, and by living two or three together we can do things cheaper.”

After seeing their lodgings, however, d.i.c.k determined to look around for himself. He did not relish the idea of sharing apartments with others. He wanted privacy, and he felt, although, like himself, these men were ”Labour Members,” that he had little in common with them.

”I thought of trying to get a small, cheap flat,” he said.

”Not to be thought of with our pay,” was the laughing response. ”Of course you being a bachelor may have saved up a bit, or it may be that you think you'll be able to make a few pounds by journalism.”

”Some do it, don't they?” he asked.

”They all want to do it, that's why there's so little chance. But I hear you are a bit of a swell, been to a public school and all that kind of thing, so you may have friends at court. Done anything that way?”

d.i.c.k shook his head. ”Never,” he replied; ”but no one knows what he can do till he tries.”

After considerable difficulty d.i.c.k happened upon a service flat which, although it cost more than he had calculated upon, was so convenient, and appealed to him so strongly, that he took it there and then.

Indeed he felt a pleasant sense of proprietors.h.i.+p, as he sat alone in his new home that night. The room was very small, but it was cosy. A cheerful fire burnt in the grate, and the reading-lamp threw a grateful light upon the paper he held in his hand.

”I must get a writing-desk and some book-cases, and I shall be as right as rain,” he reflected. ”This is princely as a sitting-room, and although the bedroom is only a box, it's quite big enough for me.”

He closed his eyes with lazy contentment, and then began to dream of his future. Yes, ambition was still strong within him, and the longing to make a material, yes, an international, reputation was never so insistent as now. He wondered if he could do it, wondered whether being a Labour Member would ever lead to anything.

”A voting machine at four hundred a year.”

He started up as though something had strung him. He remembered who had said those words to him, remembered how they had wounded him at the time they were spoken. Was that all he was after his hopes and dreams? He had been a big man at Eastroyd. People had stopped in the streets to point him out; but in London he was n.o.body.

”A voting machine at four hundred a year!”

Yes, but he would be more. He had proved that he had brains, and that he could appeal to the mult.i.tude. He had his feet on the ladder now, and---- His mind suddenly switched off. He was no longer in his newly acquired flat, he was walking from King's Cross to Jones' Hotel, he was pa.s.sing through a lonely square.

”Go to Wendover.”

How the words haunted him. Every time the wind blew he had heard them, and---- He started to his feet. ”Well, why not? I have nothing to do to-morrow, and I can get there in a couple of hours.”

The next morning he eagerly made his way to Victoria Station.

CHAPTER x.x.xI.

d.i.c.k HEARS STRANGE NEWS.

”Good mornin', sir.”

The porter touched his cap and looked at d.i.c.k curiously.

”Good morning, Wheelright. You are here still?”

”Yes, sir. They took the other chap, and left no one in his place, so to speak. So me and the stationmaster have had to do everything. I was sort of superannuated, so to speak, when you was 'ere, so I had to take on my old job when Ritter went. However, I'd 'ear that he'll soon be back.”

”Yes, the boys are coming home now.”

”And a good job, too. Not but what me and the stationmaster have carried on, so to speak, and I'm as good a man as ever I was.”

d.i.c.k remembered old Wheelright well. He did odd jobs at the station during his short stay at Wendover Park, and was known among the people in the neighbourhood as ”Old So-to-speak.” He was also noted as an inveterate gossip.

”Comin' down to live 'ere again, so to speak?” he queried, looking at d.i.c.k curiously.

”No,” replied d.i.c.k. ”Just paying a short visit. I shall be returning by the 4.20 at the latest.”

Wheelright shuffled on at d.i.c.k's side. He was much tempted to ask him further questions, but seemed afraid.

”You don't know where--where Squire Riggleton is, I suppose, sir?

”Why do you ask that?”

”I was wondering, that's all. There's been a good deal of talk about him, so to speak. Some say he was took for the army just the same as if he hadn't sixpence. I have heard he was took prisoner by the Germans, too. But some people will talk. Have you heard 'bout his being killed, sir?”

”No, I never heard that.”