CHAPTER X. – A FALSE ALARM
They reached home unmolested. Arthur went straight to Mr. Channing, who was lying, as usual, on his sofa, and bent over him with a smile, sweet and hopeful as that of Hamish.
“Father, may I gain fifty pounds a year, if I can do it, without detriment to my place at Mr. Galloway’s?”
“What do you say, my boy?”
“Would you have any objection to my taking the organ at college on week days? Mr. Williams has offered it to me.”
Mr. Channing turned his head and looked at him. He did not understand. “You could not take it, Arthur; you could not be absent from the office; and young Jupp takes the organ. What is it that you are talking of?”
Arthur explained in his quiet manner, a glad light shining in his eyes. Jupp had left the college for good; Mr. Williams had offered the place to him, and Mr. Galloway had authorized him to accept it. He should only have to go to the office for two hours before breakfast in a morning, to make up for the two lost in the day.
“My brave boy!” exclaimed Mr. Channing, making prisoner of his hand. “I said this untoward loss of the suit might turn out to be a blessing in disguise. And so it will; it is bringing forth the sterling love of my children. You are doing this for me, Arthur.”
“Doing it a great deal for myself, papa. You do not know the gratification it will be to me, those two hours’ play daily!”
“I understand, my dear—understand it all!”
“Especially as—” Arthur came to a sudden stop.
“Especially as what?” asked Mr. Channing.
“As I had thought of giving up taking lessons,” Arthur hastily added, not going deeper into explanations. “I play quite well enough, now, to cease learning. Mr. Williams said one day, that, with practice, I might soon equal him.”
“I wonder what those parents do, Arthur, who own ungrateful or rebellious children!” Mr. Channing exclaimed, after a pause of thought. “The world is full of trouble; and it is of many kinds, and takes various phases; but if we can only be happy in our children, all other trouble may pass lightly over us, as a summer cloud. I thank God that my children have never brought home to me an hour’s care. How merciful He has been to me!”
Arthur’s thoughts reverted to Hamish and his trouble. He felt thankful, then, that it was hid from Mr. Channing.
“I have already accepted the place, papa. I knew I might count upon your consent.”
“Upon my warm approbation. My son, do your best at your task. And,” Mr. Channing added, sinking his voice to a whisper, “when the choristers peal out their hymn of praise to God, during these sacred services, let your heart ascend with it in fervent praise and thanksgiving. Too many go through these services in a matter-of-course spirit, their heart far away. Do not you.”
Hamish at this moment came in, carrying the books. “Are you ready, sir? There’s not much to do, this evening.”
“Ready at any time, Hamish.”
Hamish laid the books before him on the table, and sat down. Arthur left the room. Mr. Channing liked to be alone with Hamish when the accounts were being gone over.
Mrs. Channing was in the drawing-room, some of the children with her. Arthur entered. “Mrs. Channing,” cried he, with mock ceremony, “allow me to introduce you to the assistant-organist of the cathedral.”
She smiled, supposing it to be some joke. “Very well, sir. He can come in!”
“He is in, ma’am. It is myself.”
“Is young Mr. Jupp there?” she asked; for he sometimes came home with Arthur.
“Young Mr. Jupp has disappeared from public life, and I am appointed in his place. It is quite true.”
“Arthur!” she remonstrated.
“Mamma, indeed it is true. Mr. Williams has made me the offer, and Mr. Galloway has consented to allow me time to attend the week-day services; and papa is glad of it, and I hope you will be glad also.”
“I have known of it since this morning,” spoke Tom, with an assumption of easy consequence; while Mrs. Channing was recovering her senses, which had been nearly frightened away. “Arthur, I hope Williams intends to pay you?”
“Fifty pounds a year, And the copying besides.”
“Is it true, Arthur?” breathlessly exclaimed Mrs. Channing.
“I have told you that it is, mother mine. Jupp has resigned, and I am assistant-organist.”
Annabel danced round him in an ecstasy of delight. Not at his success—success or failure did not much trouble Annabel—but she thought there might be a prospect of some fun in store for herself. “Arthur, you’ll let me come into the cathedral and blow for you?”
“You little stupid!” cried Tom. “Much good you could do at blowing! A girl blowing the college organ! That’s rich! Better let Williams catch you there! She’d actually go, I believe!”
“It is not your business, Tom; it is Arthur’s,” retorted Annabel, with flushed cheeks. “Mamma, can’t you teach Tom to interfere with himself, and not with me?”
“I would rather teach Annabel to be a young lady, and not a tomboy,” said Mrs. Channing. “You may as well wish to be allowed to ring the college bells, as blow the organ, child.”
“I should like that,” said Annabel. “Oh, what fun, if the rope went up with me!”
Mrs. Channing turned a reproving glance on her, and resumed her conversation with Arthur. “Why did you not tell me before, my boy? It was too good news to keep to yourself. How long has it been in contemplation?”
“Dear mamma, only to-day. It was only this morning that Jupp resigned.”
“Only to-day! It must have been decided very hastily, then, for a measure of that sort.”
“Mr. Williams was so put to it that he took care to lose no time. He spoke to me at one o’clock. I had gone to him to the cathedral, asking for the copying, which I heard was going begging, and he broached the other subject, on the spur of the moment, as it seemed to me. Nothing could be decided until I had seen Mr. Galloway, and I spoke to him after he left here, this afternoon. He will allow me to be absent from the office an hour, morning and afternoon, on condition that I attend for two hours before breakfast.”
“But, Arthur, you will have a great deal upon your hands.”
“Not any too much. It will keep me out of mischief.”
“When shall you find time to do the copying?”
“In an evening, I suppose. I shall find plenty of time.”
As Hamish had observed, there was little to do at the books, that evening, and he soon left the parlour. Constance happened to be in the hall as he crossed it, on his way to his bedroom. Judith, who appeared to have been on the watch, came gliding from the half-opened kitchen door and approached Constance, looking after Hamish as he went up the stairs.
“Do you see, Miss Constance?” she whispered. “He is carrying the books up with him, as usual!”
At this juncture, Hamish turned round to speak to his sister. “Constance, I don’t want any supper to-night, tell my mother. You can call me when it is time for the reading.”
“And he is going to set on at ‘em, now, and he’ll be at ‘em till morning light!” continued Judith’s whisper. “And he’ll drop off into his grave with decline!—‘taint in the nature of a young man to do without sleep—and that’ll be the ending! And he’ll burn himself up first, and all the house with him.”
“I think I will go and speak to him,” debated Constance.
“I should,” advised Judith. “The worst is, if the books must be done, why, they must; and I don’t see that there is any help for it.”
But Constance hesitated, considerably. She did not at all like to interfere; it appeared so very much to resemble the work of a spy. Several minutes she deliberated, and then went slowly up the stairs. Knocking at Hamish’s door, she turned the handle, and would have entered. It was locked.
“Who’s there?” called out Hamish.
“Can I come in for a minute, Hamish? I want to say a word to you.”
He did not undo the door immediately. There appeared to be an opening and closing of his desk, first—a scuffle, as of things being put away. When Constance entered, she saw one of the insurance books open on the table, the pen and ink near it; the others were not to be seen. The keys were in the table lock. A conviction flashed over the mind of Constance that Judith was right, in supposing the office accounts to be the object that kept him up. “What can he do with his time in the day?” she thought.
“What is it, Constance?”
“Can you let me speak to you, Hamish?”
“If you won’t be long. I was just beginning to be busy,” he replied, taking out the keys and putting them into his pocket.
“I see you were,” she said, glancing at the ledger. “Hamish, you must not be offended with me, or think I interfere unwarrantably. I would not do it, but that I am anxious for you. Why is it that you sit up so late at night?”
There was a sudden accession of colour to his face—Constance saw it; but there was a smile as well. “How do you know I do sit up? Has Judy been telling tales?”
“Judy is uneasy about it, and she spoke to me this evening. She has visions of the house being burnt up with every one in it, and of your fatally injuring your health. I believe she would consider the latter calamity almost more grievous than the former, for you know you were always her favourite. Hamish; is there no danger of either?”
“There is not. I am too cautious for the one to happen, and, I believe, too hardy for the other. Judy is a simpleton,” he laughed; “she has her water-butt, and what more can she desire?”
“Hamish, why do you sit up? Have you not time for your work in the day?”
“No. Or else I should do it in the day. I do not sit up enough to hurt me. I have, on an average, three hours’ night-work, five days in the week; and if that can damage a strong fellow like me, call me a puny changeling.”
“You sit up much longer than that?”
“Not often. These light days, I sometimes do not sit up half so long; I get up in the morning, instead. Constance, you look grave enough for a judge!”
“And you, laughing enough to provoke me. Suppose I tell papa of this habit of yours, and get him to forbid it?”
“Then, my dear, you would work irreparable mischief,” he replied, becoming grave in his turn. “Were I to be prevented from doing as I please in my chamber in this house, I must find a room elsewhere, in which I should be my own master.”
“Hamish!”
“You oblige me to say it, Constance. You and Judy must lay your heads together upon some other grievance, for, indeed, for this particular one there is no remedy. She is an old goose, and you are a young one.”
“Is it right that we should submit to the risk of being set on fire?”
“My dear, if that is the point, I’ll have a fire-escape placed over the front door every night, and pay a couple of watchmen to act as guardians. Constance!” again dropping his tone of mockery, “you know that you may trust me better than that.”
“But, Hamish, how do you spend your time, that you cannot complete your books in the day?”
“Oh,” drawled Hamish, “ours is the laziest office! gossiping and scandal going on in it from morning till night. In the fatigue induced by that, I am not sure that I don’t take a nap, sometimes.”
Constance could not tell what to make of him. He was gazing at her with the most perplexing expression of face, looking ready to burst into a laugh.
“One last word, Hamish, for I hear Judith calling to you. Are you obliged to do this night-work?”
“I am.”
“Then I will say no more; and things must go on as it seems they have hitherto done.”
Arthur came running upstairs, and Hamish met him at the chamber door. Arthur, who appeared strangely agitated, began speaking in a half-whisper, unconscious that his sister was within. She heard every word.
“Judy says some young man wants you, Hamish! I fear it may be the fellow to serve the writ. What on earth is to be done?”
“Did Judy say I was at home?”
“Yes; and has handed him into the study, to wait. Did you not hear her calling to you?”
“I can’t—see him,” Hamish was about to say. “Yes, I will see him,” he added after a moment’s reflection. “Anything rather than have a disturbance which might come to my mother’s ears. And I suppose if he could not serve it now, he would watch for me in the morning.”
“Shall I go down first, and hear what he has to say?”
“Arthur, boy, it would do no good. I have brought this upon myself, and must battle with it. A Channing cannot turn coward!”
“But he may act with discretion,” said Arthur. “I will speak to the man, and if there’s no help for it, I’ll call you.”
Down flew Arthur, four stairs at a time. Hamish remained with his body inside his chamber door, and his head out. I conclude he was listening; and, in the confusion, he had probably totally forgotten Constance. Arthur came bounding up the stairs again, his eyes sparkling.
“A false alarm, Hamish! It’s only Martin Pope.”
“Martin Pope!” echoed Hamish, considerably relieved, for Martin Pope was an acquaintance of his, and sub-editor of one of the Helstonleigh newspapers. “Why could not Judy have opened her mouth?”
He ran down the stairs, the colour, which had left his face, returning to it. But it did not to that of Constance; hers had changed to an ashy whiteness. Arthur saw her standing there; saw that she must have heard and understood all.
“Oh, Arthur, has it come to this? Is Hamish in that depth of debt!”
“Hush! What brought you here, Constance?”
“What writ is it that he fears? Is there indeed one out against him?”
“I don’t know much about it. There may be one.”
She wrung her hands. “The next thing to a writ is a prison, is it not? If he should be taken, what would become of the office—of papa’s position?”
“Do not agitate yourself,” he implored. “It can do no good.”
“Nothing can do good: nothing, nothing. Oh, what trouble!”
“Constance, in the greatest trouble there is always one Refuge.”
“Yes,” she mentally thought, bursting into tears. “What, but for that shelter, would become of us in our bitter hours of trial?”
CHAPTER XI. – THE CLOISTER KEYS
It was the twenty-second day of the month, and nearly a week after the date of the last chapter. Arthur Channing sat in his place at the cathedral organ, playing the psalm for the morning; for the hour was that of divine service.
“O give thanks unto the Lord, for He is gracious: and His mercy endureth for ever!”
The boy’s whole heart went up with the words. He gave thanks: mercies had come upon him—upon his; and that great dread—which was turning his days to gall, his nights to sleeplessness—the arrest of Hamish, had not as yet been attempted. He felt it all as he sat there; and, in a softer voice, he echoed the sweet song of the choristers below, verse after verse as each verse rose on the air, filling the aisles of the old cathedral: how that God delivers those who cry unto Him—those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death; those whose hearts fail through heaviness, who fall down and there is none to help them—He brings them out of the darkness, and breaks their bonds in sunder. They that go down to the sea in ships, and occupy their business in great waters, who see the works of the Lord, and His wonders in the deep; whose hearts cower at the stormy rising of the waves, and in their agony of distress cry unto Him to help them; and He hears the cry, and delivers them. He stills the angry waves, and calms the storm, and brings them into the haven where they would be; and then they are glad, because they are at rest.
“O that men would therefore praise the Lord for His goodness: and declare the wonders that He doeth for the children of men!
“And again, when they are minished, and brought low: through oppression, through any plague or trouble; though He suffer them to be evil intreated through tyrants: and let them wander out of the way in the wilderness; yet helpeth He the poor out of misery: and maketh him households like a flock of sheep.
“Whoso is wise will ponder these things: and they shall understand the loving-kindness of the Lord.”
The refrain died away, the gentle echo died after it, and silence fell upon the cathedral. It was broken by the voice of the Reverend William Yorke, giving out the first lesson—a chapter in Jeremiah.
At the conclusion of the service, Arthur Channing left the college. In the cloisters he was overtaken by the choristers, who were hastening back to the schoolroom. At the same moment Ketch, the porter, passed, coming towards them from the south entrance of the cloisters. He touched his hat in his usual ungracious fashion to the dean and Dr. Gardner, who were turning into the chapter-house, carrying their trenchers, and looked the other way as he passed the boys.
Arthur caught hold of Hurst. “Have you ‘served out’ old Ketch, as you threatened?” he laughingly asked.
“Hush!” whispered Hurst. “It has not come off yet. We had an idea that an inkling of it had got abroad, so we thought it best to keep quiet for a few nights, lest the Philistines should be on the watch. But the time is fixed now, and I can tell you that it is not a hundred nights off.”
With a shower of mysterious nods and winks, Hurst rushed away and bounded up the stairs to the schoolroom. Arthur returned to Mr. Galloway’s. “It’s the awfullest shame!” burst forth Tom Channing that day at dinner (and allow me to remark, par parenthèse, that, in reading about schoolboys, you must be content to accept their grammar as it comes); and he brought the handle of his knife down upon the table in a passion.
“Thomas!” uttered Mr. Channing, in amazed reproof.
“Well, papa, and so it is! and the school’s going pretty near mad over it!” returned Tom, turning his crimsoned face upon his father. “Would you believe that I and Huntley are to be passed over in the chance for the seniorship, and Yorke is to have it, without reference to merit?”
“No, I do not believe it, Tom,” quietly replied Mr. Channing. “But, even were it true, it is no reason why you should break out in that unseemly manner. Did you ever know a hot temper do good to its possessor?”
“I know I am hot-tempered,” confessed Tom. “I cannot help it, papa; it was born with me.”
“Many of our failings were born with us, my boy, as I have always understood. But they are to be subdued; not indulged.”
“Papa, you must acknowledge that it is a shame if Pye has promised the seniorship to Yorke, over my head and Huntley’s,” reiterated Tom, who was apt to speak as strongly as he thought. “If he gets the seniorship, the exhibition will follow; that is an understood thing. Would it be just?”
“Why are you saying this? What have you heard?”
“Well, it is a roundabout tale,” answered Tom. “But the rumour in the school is this—and if it turns out to be true, Gerald Yorke will about get eaten up alive.”
“Is that the rumour, Tom?” said Mrs. Channing.
Tom laughed, in spite of his anger. “I had not come to the rumour, mamma. Lady Augusta and Dr. Burrows are great friends, you know; and we hear that they have been salving over Pye—”
“Gently, Tom!” put in Mr. Channing.
“Talking over Pye, then,” corrected Tom, impatient to proceed with his story; “and Pye has promised to promote Gerald Yorke to the seniorship. He—”
“Dr. Burrows has gone away again,” interrupted Annabel. “I saw him go by to-day in his travelling carriage. Judy says he has gone to his rectory; some of the deanery servants told her so.”
“You’ll get something, Annabel, if you interrupt in that fashion,” cried Tom. “Last Monday, Dr. Burrows gave a dinner-party. Pye was there, and Lady Augusta was there; and it was then they got Pye to promise it to Yorke.”
“How is it known that they did?” asked Mr. Channing.
“The boys all say it, papa. It was circulating through the school this morning like wild-fire.”
“You will never take the prize for logic, Tom. How did the boys hear it, I ask?”
“Through Mr. Calcraft,” replied Tom.
“Tom!”
“Mr. Ketch, then,” said Tom, correcting himself as he had done before. “Both names are a mile too good for him. Ketch came into contact with some of the boys this morning before ten-o’clock school, and, of course, they went into a wordy war—which is nothing new. Huntley was the only senior present, and Ketch was insolent to him. One of the boys told Ketch that he would not dare to be so, next year, if Huntley should be senior boy. Ketch sneered at that, and said Huntley never would be senior boy, nor Channing either, for it was already given to Yorke. The boys took his words up, ridiculing the notion of his knowing anything of the matter, and they did not spare their taunts. That roused his temper, and the old fellow let out all he knew. He said Lady Augusta Yorke was at Galloway’s office yesterday, boasting about it before Jenkins.”
“A roundabout tale, indeed!” remarked Mr. Channing; “and told in a somewhat roundabout manner, Tom. I should not put faith in it. Did you hear anything of this, Arthur?”
“No, sir. I know that Lady Augusta called at the office yesterday afternoon while I was at college. I don’t know anything more.”
“Huntley intends to drop across Jenkins this afternoon, and question him,” resumed Tom Channing. “There can’t be any doubt that it was he who gave the information to Ketch. If Huntley finds that Lady Augusta did assert it, the school will take the affair up.”
The boast amused Hamish. “In what manner will the school be pleased to ‘take it up?’” questioned he. “Recommend the dean to hold Mr. Pye under surveillance? Or send Lady Augusta a challenge?”
Tom Channing nodded his head mysteriously. “There is many a true word spoken in jest, Hamish. I don’t know yet what we should do: we should do something. The school won’t stand it tamely. The day for that one-sided sort of oppression has gone out with our grandmothers’ fashions.”
“It would be very wrong of the school to stand it,” said Charley, throwing in his word. “If the honours are to go by sneaking favour, and not by merit, where is the use of any of us putting out our mettle?”
“You be quiet, Miss Charley! you juniors have nothing to do with it,” were all the thanks the boy received from Tom.
Now the facts really were very much as Tom Channing asserted; though whether, or how far, Mr. Pye had promised, and whether Lady Augusta’s boast had been a vain one, was a matter for speculation. Neither could it be surmised the part, if any, played in it by Prebendary Burrows. It was certain that Lady Augusta had, on the previous day, boasted to Mr. Galloway, in his office, that her son was to have the seniorship; that Mr. Pye had promised it to her and Dr. Burrows, at the dinner-party. She spoke of it without the least reserve, in a tone of much self-gratulation, and she laughingly told Jenkins, who was at his desk writing, that he might wish Gerald joy when he next saw him. Jenkins accepted it all as truth: it may be questioned if Mr. Galloway did, for he knew that Lady Augusta did not always weigh her words before speaking.
In the evening—this same evening, mind, after the call at the office of Lady Augusta—Mr. Jenkins proceeded towards home when he left his work. He took the road through the cloisters. As he was passing the porter’s lodge, who should he see in it but his father, old Jenkins, the bedesman, holding a gossip with Ketch; and they saw him.
“If that ain’t our Joe a-going past!” exclaimed the bedesman.
Joe stepped in. He was proceeding to join in the converse, when a lot of the college boys tore along, hooting and shouting, and kicking a ball about. It was kicked into the lodge, and a few compliments were thrown at the boys by the porter, before they could get the ball out again. These compliments, you may be quite sure, the boys did not fail to return with interest: Tom Channing, in particular, being charmingly polite.
“And the saucy young beast’ll be the senior boy soon!” foamed Mr. Ketch, as the lot decamped. “I wish I could get him gagged, I do!”
“No, he will not,” said Joe Jenkins, speaking impulsively in his superior knowledge. “Yorke is to be senior.”
“How do you know that, Joe?” asked his father.
Joe replied by relating what he had heard said by the Lady Augusta that afternoon. It did not conciliate the porter in the remotest degree: he was not more favourably inclined to Gerald Yorke than he was to Tom Channing. Had he heard the school never was to have a senior again, or a junior either, that might have pleased him.
But on the following morning, when he fell into dispute with the boys in the cloisters, he spoke out his information in a spirit of triumph over Huntley. Bit by bit, angered by the boys’ taunts, he repeated every word he had heard from Jenkins. The news, as it was busily circulated from one to the other, caused no slight hubbub in the school, and gave rise to that explosion of Tom Channing’s at the dinner-table.
Huntley sought Jenkins, as he had said he would do, and received confirmation of the report, so far as the man’s knowledge went. But Jenkins was terribly vexed that the report had got abroad through him. He determined to pay a visit to Mr. Ketch, and reproach him with his incaution.
Mr. Ketch sat in his lodge, taking his supper: bread and cheese, and a pint of ale procured at the nearest public-house. Except in the light months of summer, it was his habit to close the cloister gates before supper-time; but as Mr. Ketch liked to take that meal early—that is to say, at eight o’clock—and, as dusk, for at least four months in the year, obstinately persisted in putting itself off to a later hour, in spite of his growling, and as he might not shut up before dusk, he had no resource but to take his supper first and lock up afterwards. The “lodge” was a quaint abode, of one room only, built in an obscure nook of the cathedral, near the grand entrance. He was pursuing his meal after his own peculiar custom: eating, drinking, and grumbling.
“It’s worse nor leather, this cheese! Selling it to a body for double-Gloucester! I’d like to double them as made it. Eight-pence a pound!—and short weight beside! I wonder there ain’t a law passed to keep down the cost o’ provisions!”
A pause, given chiefly to grunting, and Mr. Ketch resumed:—
“This bread’s rougher nor a bear’s hide! Go and ask for new, and they palms you off with stale. They’ll put a loaf a week old into the oven to hot up again, and then sell it to you for new! There ought to be a criminal code passed for hanging bakers. They’re all cheats. They mixes up alum, and bone-dust, and plaster of Paris, and—Drat that door! Who’s kicking at it now?”
No one was kicking. Some one was civilly knocking. The door was pushed slightly open, and the inoffensive face of Mr. Joseph Jenkins appeared in the aperture.
“I say, Mr. Ketch,” began he in a mild tone of deprecation, “whatever is it that you have gone and done?”
“What d’ye mean?” growled old Ketch. “Is this a way to come and set upon a gentleman in his own house? Who taught you manners, Joe Jenkins?”
“You have been repeating what I mentioned last night about Lady Augusta’s son getting the seniorship,” said Jenkins, coming in and closing the door.
“You did say it,” retorted Mr. Ketch.
“I know I did. But I did not suppose you were going to repeat it again.”
“If it was a secret, why didn’t you say so?” asked Mr. Ketch.
“It was not exactly a secret, or Lady Augusta would not have mentioned it before me,” remonstrated Joe. “But it is not the proper thing, for me to come out of Mr. Galloway’s office, and talk of anything I may have heard said in it by his friends, and then for it to get round to his ears again! Put it to yourself, Mr. Ketch, and say whether you would like it.”
“What did you talk of it for, then?” snarled Ketch, preparing to take a copious draught of ale.
“Because I thought you and father were safe. You might both have known better than to speak of it out of doors. There is sure to be a commotion over it.”
“Miserable beer! Brewed out of ditch-water!”
“Young Mr. Huntley came to me to-day, to know the rights and the wrongs of it—as he said,” continued Joseph. “He spoke to Mr. Galloway about it afterwards—though I must say he was kind enough not to bring in my name; only said, in a general way, that he had ‘heard’ it. He is an honourable young gentleman, is that Huntley. He vows the report shall be conveyed to the dean.”
“Serve ‘em right!” snapped the porter. “If the dean does his duty, he’ll order a general flogging for the school, all round. It’ll do ‘em good.”
“Galloway did not say much—except that he knew what he should do, were he Huntley’s or Channing’s father. Which I took to mean that, in his opinion, there ought to be an inquiry instituted.”
“And you know there ought,” said Mr. Ketch.
“I know! I’m sure I don’t know,” was the mild answer. “It is not my place to reflect upon my superiors, Mr. Ketch—to say they should do this, or they should do that. I like to reverence them, and to keep a civil tongue in my head.”
“Which is what you don’t do. If I knowed who brewed this beer I’d enter an action again him, for putting in no malt.”
“I would not have had this get about for any money!” resumed Jenkins. “Neither you nor father shall ever catch me opening my lips again.”
“Keep ‘em shut then,” growled old Ketch.
Mr. Ketch leisurely finished his supper, and the two continued talking until dusk came on—almost dark; for the porter, churl though he was, liked a visitor as well as any one—possibly as a vent for his temper. He did not often find one who would stand it so meekly as Joe Jenkins. At length Mr. Jenkins lifted himself off the shut-up press bedstead on which he had been perched, and prepared to depart.
“Come along of me while I lock up,” said Ketch, somewhat less ungraciously than usual.
Mr. Jenkins hesitated. “My wife will be wondering what has become of me; she’ll blow me up for keeping supper waiting,” debated he, aloud. “But—well, I don’t mind going with you this once, for company’s sake,” he added in his willingness to be obliging.
The two large keys, one at each end of a string, were hung up just within the lodge door; they belonged to the two gates of the cloisters. Old Ketch took them down and went out with Jenkins, merely closing his own door; he rarely fastened it, unless he was going some distance.
Very dark were the enclosed cloisters, as they entered by the west gate. It was later than the usual hour of closing, and it was, moreover, a gloomy evening, the sky overcast. They went through the cloisters to the south gate, Ketch grumbling all the way. He locked it, and then turned back again.