Mr Polton Explains

R. Austin Freeman

INTRODUCTORY OBSERVATIONS BY MR. POLTON

FRIENDS of Dr. Thorndyke who happen to have heard of me as his servant and technical assistant may be rather surprised to see me making my appearance in the character of an author. I am rather surprised, myself; and I don't mind admitting that of all the tools that I have ever used, the one that is in my hand at the present moment is the least familiar and the most unmanageable. But mere lack of skill shall not discourage me. The infallible method, as I have found by experience, of learning how to do any thing is to do it, and keep on doing it until it becomes easy. Use is second nature, as a copy-book once informed me.

But I feel that some explanation is necessary. The writing of this record is not my own idea. I am acting on instructions; and the way in which the matter arose was this. My master, the Doctor, was commissioned to investigate the case of Cecil Moxdale deceased, and a very queer case it was. So queer that, as the Doctor assures me, he would never have been able to come to a definite conclusion but for one little fact that I was able to supply. I think he exaggerates my importance and that he would have found it out for himself. Still, that one little fact did certainly throw a new light on the case, so, when the time came for the record of it to be written, both the Doctor himself and Dr. Jervis decided that I was the proper person to set forth the circumstances that made the final discovery possible.

That was all very well, but the question was, What were the circumstances and when did they begin? And I could find no answer; for as soon as I thought that I had found the beginning of the train of circumstances, I saw that it would never have happened if something had not happened before it. And so it went on. Every event in my life was the result of some other event, and, tracing them back one after the other, I came to the conclusion that the beginning of the train of circumstances was also the beginning of me. For, obviously, if I had never been born, the experiences that I have to record could never have happened. I pointed this out to the Doctor, and he agreed that my being born was undoubtedly a contributory circumstance, and suggested that perhaps I had better begin with that. But, on reflection, I saw that this was impossible; for, although being born is undeniably a personal experience, it is, oddly enough, one which we have to take on hearsay and which it would therefore be improper to include in one's personal recollections.

Besides, although this history seems to be all about me, it is really an introduction to the case of Cecil Moxdale deceased; and my little contribution to the solving of that mystery was principally a matter of technical knowledge. There were some other matters; but my connection with the case arose out of my being a clock-maker. Accordingly, in these recollections, I shall sort out the incidents of my life, and keep, as far as possible, to those which present me in that character.

There is a surprising amount of wisdom to be gathered from copy-books. From one I learned that the boy is father to the man, and from another, to much the same effect, that the poet is born, not made. As there were twenty lines to the page, I had to repeat this twenty times, which was more than it merited. For the thing is obvious enough, and, after all, there is nothing in it. Poets are not peculiar in this respect. The truth applies to all other kinds of persons, including fools and even clock-makers; that is, if they are real clock- makers and not just common men with no natural aptitude who have drifted into the trade by chance.

Now, I was born a clock-maker. It may sound odd, but such, I am convinced, is the fact. As far back as I can remember, clocks have always had an attraction for me quite different from that of any other kind of things. In later years my interests have widened, but I have still remained faithful to my old love. A clock (by which I mean a mechanical time-keeper of any kind) still seems to me the most wonderful and admirable of the works of man. Indeed, it seems something more: as if it were a living creature with a personality and a soul of its own, rather than a mere machine.

Thus I may say that by these beautiful creations my life has been shaped from the very beginning. Looking down the vista of years, I seem to see at the end of it the old Dutch clock that used to hang on the wall of our kitchen. That clock, and certain dealings with it on a particular and well-remembered day, which I shall mention presently, seem to mark the real starting- point of my journey through life. This may be a mere sentimental delusion, but it doesn't appear so to me. In memory, I can still see the pleasant painted face, changing in expression from hour to hour, and hear the measured tick that never changed at all; and to me, they are the face and the voice of an old and beloved friend.

Of my first meeting with that clock I have no recollection, for it was there when my Aunt Gollidge brought me to her home, a little orphan of three. But in that curious hazy beginning of memory when the events of our childhood come back to us in detached scenes like the pictures of a magic lantern, the old clock is the one distinct object; and as memories become more connected, I can see myself sitting in the little chair that Uncle Gollidge had made for me, looking up at the clock with an interest and pleasure that were never exhausted. I suppose that to a child any inanimate thing which moves of its own accord is an object of wonder, especially if its movements appear to have a definite purpose.

But of explanations I have given enough and of apologies I shall give none; for if the story of my doings should appear to the reader as little worth as it does to me, he has but to pass over it and turn to the case to which it forms the introduction.

Chapter 1 THE YOUNG HOROLOGIST

"DRAT that clock!" exclaimed my Aunt Judy. "Saturday night, too. Of course, it would choose Saturday night to stop."

She looked up malevolently at the stolid face and the motionless pendulum that hung straight down like a plumb-bob, and then, as she hopped up on a chair to lift the clock off its nail, she continued: "Get me the bellows, Nat."

I extricated myself with some difficulty from the little arm-chair. For dear Uncle Gollidge had over looked the fact that boys grow and chairs do not, so that it was now a rather tight fit with a tendency to become, like a snail's shell, a permanent attachment. The separation accomplished, I took the bellows from the hook beside the fire-place and went to my aunt's assistance; she having, in her quick, brisk way, unhooked the pendulum and opened the little side doors of the case. Then I held the clock steady on the table while she plied the bellows with the energy of a village blacksmith, blowing out a most encouraging cloud of dust through the farther door-opening.

"We will see what that will do," said she, slapping the little doors to, fastening the catches and hooking on the pendulum. Once more she sprang up on the chair, replaced the dock on its nail, gave the pendulum a persuasive pat, and descended.

"What is the time by your watch, Dad?" she asked. Old Mr. Gollidge paused in the story that he was telling and looked at her with mild reproach. A great story-teller was old Mr. Gollidge (he had been a ship's carpenter), but Aunt Judy had a way of treating his interminable yarns as mere negligible sounds like the ticking of a clock or the dripping of a leaky tap, and she now repeated her question; whereupon the old gentleman, having contributed to a large spittoon at his side, stuck his pipe in his mouth and hauled a bloated silver watch from the depths of his pocket as if he were hoisting out cargo from the lower hold.

"Watch seems to say," he announced, after looking at it with slight surprise, "as it's a quarter past six."

"Six!" shrieked Aunt Judy. "Why, I heard the church clock strike seven a full half-hour ago."

"Then," said the old gentleman, "'twould seem to be about three bells, say half-past seven. Watch must have stopped."

He confirmed the diagnosis by applying it to his ear, and then, having fished up from another pocket an old-fashioned bronze, crank-shaped key, opened the front glass of the watch, which had the winding-hole in the dial like a clock, inserted the key and proceeded to wind as if he were playing a little barrel-organ.

"Half-past seven, you say," said he, transferring the key to the centre square preparatory to setting the hands.

Aunt Judy looked up at the clock, which was still sluggishly wagging its pendulum but uttering no tick, and shook her head impatiently.

"It's no use guessing," said she. "We shall want to know the time in the morning. If you put on your slipper, Nat, you can run round and have a look at Mr. Abraham's clock. It isn't far to go."

The necessity for putting on my slipper arose from a blister on my heel which had kept me a bootless prisoner in the house. I began cautiously to insinuate my foot into the slipper and had nearly completed the operation when Aunt Judy suddenly interposed.

"Listen," said she; and as we all froze into immobility, the silence was broken by the church clock striking eight. Then old Mr. Gollidge deliberately set the hands of his watch, put it to his ear to make sure that it was going, and lowered it into his pocket; and Aunt Judy, mounting the chair, set the clock to time, gave the pendulum a final pat, and hopped down.

"We'll give it another chance," she remarked, optimistically; but I knew that her optimism was unfounded when I listened for the tick and listened in vain; and, sure enough, the oscillations of the pendulum slowly died away until it hung down as motionless as the weight.

In the ensuing silence, old Mr. Gollidge took up the thread of his narrative.

"And then the boy comes up from the cuddy and says he seemed to hear a lot of water washin' about down below. So the mate he tells me for to sound the well, which I did; and, of course, I found there was a foot or two of water in it. There always was. Reg'ler old basket, that ship was. Always a-drainin' in, a-drainin' in, and the pumps a-goin' something crool."

"Ought to have had a windmill," said Uncle Gollidge, taking a very black clay pipe from his mouth and expectorating skilfully between the bars of the grate, "same as what the Dutchmen do in the Baltic timber trade."

The old gentleman shook his head. "Windmills is all right," said he, "if you've got a cargo of soft timber what'll float anyway. But they won't keep a leaky ship dry. Besides—"

"Now, Nat," said Aunt Judy, hooking a Dutch oven on the bar of the grate, "bring your chair over and keep an eye on the black pudding; and you, Sam, just mind where you're spitting."

Uncle Sam, who rather plumed himself on his marksmanship, replied with a scornful grunt; I rose to my feet (the chair rising with me) and took up my station opposite the Dutch oven, the back flap of which I lifted to make an interested inspection of the slices of black pudding (longitudinal sections, as the Doctor would say) which were already beginning to perspire greasily, in the heat. Meanwhile, Aunt Judy whisked about the kitchen (also the general sitting-room) busily making ready for the morrow, and old Mr. Gollidge droned on tirelessly like the brook that goes on for ever.

Of the morrow's doings I must say a few words, since they formed a milestone marking the first stage of my earthly pilgrimage. It had been arranged that the four of us should spend the Sunday with Aunt Judy's younger Sister, a Mrs. Budgen, who lived with her husband in the country out Finchley way. But my unfortunate blistered heel put me out of the party, much to my regret, for these excursions were the bright spots in my rather drab existence. Aunt Budgen was a kindly soul who gave us the warmest of welcomes, as did her husband, a rather taciturn dairy- farmer. Then there was the glorious drive out of London on the front seat of the Finchley omnibus with its smart, white-hatted driver and the third horse stepping out gaily in front with jingling harness and swaying swingle-bar.

But the greatest delight of these visits was the meeting with my sister, Maggie, who had been adopted by Aunt Budgen at the time when Aunt Judy had taken me. These were the only occasions on which we met, and it was a joy to us both to ramble in the meadows, to call on the cows in the shippon, or to sit together on the brink of the big pond and watch the incredible creatures that moved about in its depths.

However, there were to be compensations. Aunt Judy expounded them to me as I superintended the black pudding, turning the Dutch oven when necessary to brown the opposite sides.

"I'm leaving you three pork sausages; they're rather small ones, but you are rather a small boy; and there are some cold potatoes which you can cut into slices and fry with the sausages, and mind you don't set the chimney on fire. Then there is a baked raisin pudding—you can hot that up in the oven—and a whole jar of raspberry jam. You can take as much of that as you like, so long as you don't make yourself ill; and I've left the key in the book-cupboard, but you must wash your hands before you take any of the books out. I am sorry you can't come with us, and Maggie will be disappointed, too; but I think you'll be able to make yourself happy. I know you don't mind being alone a bit."

Aunt Judy was right. I was a rather solitary boy; a little given to day-dreaming and, consequently, partial to my own society. But she prophesied better than she knew. Not only was I able to make myself happy in my solitude; but that Sunday stands out as one of the red-letter days of my life.

To be sure, the day opened rather cheerlessly. As I stood on the doorstep with my single boot and bandaged foot, watching the departure, I was sensible of a pang of keen disappointment and of something approaching loneliness. I followed the receding figures wistfully with my eyes as they walked away down the street in their holiday attire, Aunt Judy gorgeous in her silk dress and gaily-flowered bonnet and the two men in stiff black broadcloth and tall hats, to which old Mr. Gollidge's fine, silver-topped malacca gave an added glory. At the corner Aunt Judy paused to wave her hand to me; then she followed the other two and was lost to view.

I turned back sadly into the house, which, when I had shut the door, seemed dark and gloomy, and made my way to the kitchen. In view of the early start to catch the omnibus, I had volunteered to wash up the breakfast things, and I now proceeded to get this job off my hands; but as I dabbled at the big bowl in the scullery sink, my thoughts still followed the holiday makers. I saw them mounting the omnibus (it started from St. Martin's Church), and visualized its pea-green body with the blessed word "Finchley" in big gold letters. I saw the driver gather up the reins and the conductor spring up to the monkey-board; and then away the omnibus rattled, and my thoughts went on ahead to the sweet countryside and to Maggie, waiting for me at the stile, and waiting in vain. That was the most grievous part of the affair, and it wrung my heart to think of it; indeed, if it had not been beneath the dignity of a young man of nine to shed tears, I think I should have wept.

When I had finished with the crockery, put the plates in the rack and hung the cups on their hooks, I tidied up the sink and then drifted through into the kitchen, where I looked about me vaguely, still feeling rather miserable and unsettled. From the kitchen I wandered into the parlour, or "best room", where I unlocked the book cupboard and ran my eye along the shelves. But their contents had no attractions for me. I didn't want books; I wanted to run in the fields with Maggie and look on all the things that were so novel and strange to a London boy. So I shut the cupboard and went back to the kitchen, where, once more, I looked about me, wondering what I should do to pass the time. It was too early to think of frying the sausages, and, besides, I was not hungry, having eaten a substantial breakfast.

It was at this moment that my wandering glance lighted on the clock. There it hung, stolid-faced, silent, and motionless. What, I wondered, could be the matter with it? Often enough before had it stopped, but Aunt Judy's treatment with the bellows had always set it ticking again. Now the bellows seemed to have lost their magic and the clock would have to have something different done to it.

But what? Could it be just a matter of old age? Clocks, I realized, grow old like men; and, thinking of old Mr. Gollidge, I realized also that old age is not a condition that can be cured. But I was loth to accept this view and to believe that it had "stopped short, never to go again ", like Grandfather's Clock in the song.

I drew up a high chair, and, mounting it, looked up earnestly at the familiar face. It was a pleasant old clock, comely and even beautiful in its homely way, reflecting the simple, honest outlook of the Black Forest peasants who had made it; the wooden dial painted white with a circle of fine bold hour-figures ("chapters" they call them in the trade), a bunch of roses painted on the arch above the dial, and each of the four corner- spaces, or spandrels, decorated with a sprig of flowers, all done quite skilfully and with the unerring good taste of the primitive artist.

From inspection I proceeded to experiment. A gentle pat at the pendulum set it swinging, but brought no sound of life from within; but when I turned the minute-hand, as I had seen Aunt Judy do, while the pendulum still swung, a faint tick was audible; halting and intermittent, but still a tick. So the clock was not dead. Then I tried a gentle pull at the chain which bore the weight, whereupon the tick became quite loud and regular, and went on for some seconds after I ceased to pull, when it once more died away. But now I had a clue to the mystery. The weight was not heavy enough to keep the clock going; but since the weight had not changed, the trouble must be something inside the clock, obstructing its movements. It couldn't be dust because Aunt Judy had blown it out thoroughly. Then what could it be?

As I pondered this problem I was assailed by a great temptation. Often had I yearned to look into the clock and see what its mysterious " works" were really like, but beyond a furtive peep when the bellows were being plied, I had never had an opportunity. Now, here was a perfect opportunity. Aunt Judy, no doubt, would have disapproved, but she need never know; and, in any case, the clock wouldn't go, so there could be no harm. Thus reasoning, I unhooked the weight from the chain and set it down on the chair, and then, not without difficulty, reached up, lifted the clock off its nail, and, descending cautiously with my prize, laid it tenderly on the table.

I began by opening the little side doors and the lifting them bodily off the brass hooks that served as hinges. Now I could see how to take off the pendulum, and, when I had done this, I carried the clock to the small table by the window, drew up a chair, and, seating myself, proceeded to study the interior at my ease. Not that there was much to study in its simple, artless mechanism. Unlike most of these "Dutch" clocks, it had no alarum (or perhaps this had been removed), and the actual "train" consisted of no more than three wheels and two pinions. Nothing more perfect for the instruction of the beginner could be imagined. There were, it is true, some mysterious wheels just behind the dial in a compartment by them selves and evidently connected with the hands, but these I disregarded for the moment, concentrating my attention on what I recognized as the clock, proper.

It was here that my natural mechanical aptitude showed itself, for by the time that I had studied the train in all its parts, considering each wheel in connection with the pinion to which it was geared, I had begun to grasp the principle on which the whole thing worked. The next proceeding was to elucidate the matter by experiment. If you want to know what effects a wheel produces when it turns, the obvious thing is to turn the wheel and see what happens. This I proceeded to do, beginning with the top wheel, as the most accessible, and turning it very gently with my finger. The result was extremely interesting. Of course, the next wheel turned slowly in the opposite direction, but, at the same time, the wire pendulum- crutch wagged rapidly to and fro.

This was quite a discovery. Now I understood what kept the pendulum swinging and what was cause of the tick; but, more than this, I now had a clear idea as to the function of the pendulum as the regulator of the whole movement. As to the rest of the mechanism, there was little to discover. I had already noticed the ratchet and pawl connected with the pulley, and now, when I drew the chain through, the reason why it moved freely in the one direction and was held immovable in the other was perfectly obvious; and this made clear the action of the weight in driving the clock.

There remained the group of wheels in the narrow space behind the dial. From their position they were less easy to examine, but when I turned the minute- hand and set them in motion, their action was quite easy to follow. There were three wheels and one small pinion, and when I moved the hand round they all turned. But not in the same direction. One wheel and the pinion turned in the opposite direction to the hand, while the other two wheels, a large one and a much smaller one, turned with the hand; and as the large one moved very slowly, being driven by the little pinion, whereas the small one turned at the same speed as the hand, I concluded that the small wheel belonged to the minute-hand, while the large wheel turned the hour-hand. And at this I had to leave it, since the actual connections could not be ascertained without taking the clock to pieces.

But now that I had arrived at a general understanding of the clock, the original problem reappeared. Why wouldn't it go? I had ascertained that it was structurally complete and undamaged. But yet when it was started it refused to tick and the pendulum did nothing but wag passively and presently cease to do even that. When it had stopped on previous occasions, the bellows had set it going again. Evidently, then, the cause of the stoppage had been dust. Could it be that dust had at last accumulated beyond the powers of the bellows? The appearance of the inside of the clock (and my own fingers) lent support to this view. Wheels and case alike presented a dry griminess that seemed unfavourable to easy running. Perhaps the clock simply wanted cleaning.

Reflecting on this, and on the difficulty of getting at the wheels in the narrow space, it suddenly occurred to me that my tooth-brush would be the very thing for the purpose. Instantly, I hopped off to my little bedroom and was back in a few moments with this invaluable instrument in my hand. Pausing only to make up the fire, which was nearly out, I fell to work on the clock, scrubbing wheels and pinions and what ever the brush would reach, with visible benefit to everything, excepting the brush. When the worst of the grime had been removed, I blew out the dislodged dust with the bellows and began to consider how I should test the results of my efforts. There was no need to hang the clock on its nail (and, indeed, I was not disposed to part with it so soon), but it must be fixed up somehow so that the weight and the pendulum could hang free. Eventually, I solved the problem by drawing the small table towards the large one, leaving a space of about nine inches between them, and bridging the space with a couple of narrow strips of wood from a broken-up packing-case. On this bridge I seated the clock, with its chain and the re-hung pendulum hanging down between the strips. Then I hooked on the weight and set the pendulum swinging.

The result was disappointing, but yet my labour had not been all in vain. Start of itself the clock would not, but a slight pull at the chain elicited the longed-for tick, and thereafter for a full minute it continued and I could see the scape wheel turning. But there was no enthusiasm. The pendulum swung in a dead-alive fashion, its excursions growing visibly shorter, until, at length, the ticking stopped and the wheel ceased to turn.

It was very discouraging. As I watched the pendulum and saw its movements slowly die away, I was sensible of a pang of keen disappointment. But still I felt that I had begun to understand the trouble and perhaps I might, by taking thought, hit upon some further remedy. I got up from my chair and wandered restlessly round the room, earnestly cogitating the problem. Something in the clock was resisting the pull of the weight. Now, what could it be? Why had the wheels become more difficult to turn?

So delightfully absorbed was I in seeking the solution of this mystery that all else had faded out of my mind. Gone was all my depression and loneliness. The Finchley omnibus was forgotten; Aunt Budgen was as if she had never been; the green meadows and the pond, and even dear Maggie, had passed clean out of my consciousness. The clock filled the field of my mental vision and the only thing in the world that mattered was the question, What was hindering the movement of its wheels?

Suddenly, in my peregrinations I received an illuminating hint. Stowed away in the corner was Aunt Judy's sewing-machine. Now sewing-machines and clocks are not very much alike, but they both have wheels; and it was known to me that Aunt Judy had a little oil-can with which she used to anoint the machine. Why did she do that? Obviously, to make the wheels run more easily. But if the wheels of a sewing-machine needed oil, why should not those of a clock? The analogy seemed a reasonable one, and, in any case, there could be no harm in trying. Cautiously, and not without some qualms of conscience, I lifted the cover of the machine, and, having found the little, long-snouted oil-can, seized it and bore it away with felonious glee.

My proceedings with that oil-can will hardly bear telling; they would have brought tears to the eyes of a clock-maker. I treated my patient as if it had been an express locomotive with an unlimited thirst for oil. Impartially, I flooded every moving part, within and without: pallets, wheel-teeth, pivots, arbors, the chain-pulley, the "motion wheels" behind the dial, and the centres of the hands. I even oiled the pendulum rod as well as the crutch that held it. When I had finished, the whole interior of the clock seemed to have broken out into a greasy perspiration, and even the woodwork was dark and shiny. But my thoroughness had one advantage: if I oiled all the wrong places, I oiled the right ones as well.

At length, when there was not a dry spot left any where, I put down the oil-can, and "in trembling hope" proceeded to make a fresh trial; and even now, after all these years, I can hardly record the incident without emotion. A gentle push at the pendulum brought forth at once a clear and resonant tick, and, looking in eagerly, I could see the scape wheel turning with an air of purpose and the centre wheel below it moving steadily in the opposite direction. And it was no flash in the pan this time. The swing of the pendulum, instead of dying away as before, grew in amplitude and liveliness to an extent almost beyond belief. It seemed that, under the magical influence of the oil-can, the old clock had renewed its youth.

To all of us, I suppose, there have come in the course of our lives certain moments of joy which stand out as unique experiences. They never come a second time; for though the circumstances may seem to recur, the original ecstasy cannot be recaptured. Such a moment was this. As I sat and gazed in rapture at the old clock, called back to vigorous life by my efforts, I enjoyed the rare experience of perfect happiness. Many a time since have I known a similar joy, the joy of complete achievement (and there is no pleasure like it); but this was the first of its kind, and, in its perfection, could never be repeated.

Presently, there broke in upon my ecstasy the sound of the church clock, striking two. I could hardly believe it, so swiftly had the hours sped. And yet certain sensations of which I suddenly became conscious confirmed it. In short, I realized that I was ravenously hungry and that my dinner had yet to be cooked. I set the hands of the clock to the incredible time and rose to seek the frying-pan. But, hungry as I was, I could not tear myself away from my darling, and in the end I compromised by substituting the Dutch oven, which required less attention. Thus I alternated between cookery and horology, clapping the pudding in the large oven and then sitting down once more to watch the clock until an incendiary sausage, bursting into flame with mighty sputterings, recalled me suddenly to the culinary department.

My cookery was not equal to my horology, at least in its results; yet never have I so thoroughly enjoyed a meal. Black and brittle the sausages may have been and the potatoes sodden and greasy. It was no matter. Hunger and happiness imparted a savour beyond the powers of the most accomplished chef. With my eyes fixed adoringly on the clock (I had "laid my place" where I could conveniently watch the movement as I fed), I devoured the unprepossessing viands with a relish that a gourmet might have envied.

Of the way in which the rest of the day was spent my recollection is rather obscure. In the course of the afternoon I washed up the plates and cleaned the Dutch oven so that Aunt Judy should be free when she came home; but even as I worked at the scullery sink, I listened delightedly to the tick of the clock, wafted to my ear through the open doorway. Later, I made my tea and consumed it, to an obbligato accompaniment of raspberry jam, seated beside the clock; and, when I was satisfied unto repletion, I washed the tea-things (including the tea-pot) and set them out tidily in their places on the dresser. That occupied me until six o'clock, and left me with a full three hours to wait before Aunt Judy should return.

Incredibly long hours they were, in strange contrast to the swift-footed hours of the morning. With anxious eyes I watched the minute hand creeping sluggishly from mark to mark. I even counted the ticks (and found them ninety-six to the minute), and listened eagerly for the sound of the church clock, at once relieved and disappointed to find that it told the same tale. For now my mood had changed somewhat. The joy of achievement became mingled with impatience for its revelation. I was all agog to see Aunt Judy's astonishment when she found the clock going and to hear what she would say. And now, in my mind's eye, the progress of the Finchley omnibus began to present itself. I followed it from stage to stage, crawling ever nearer and nearer to St. Martin's Church. With conscious futility I went out, again and again, to look up the street along which the revellers would approach, only to turn back for another glance at the inexorable minute-hand.

At length, the sound of the church clock striking eight admonished me that it was time to return the clock to its place on the wall. It was an anxious business, for, even when I had unhooked the weight, it was difficult for me, standing insecurely on the chair, to reach up to the nail and find the hole in the back- plate through which it passed. But at last, after much fumbling, with up-stretched arm and my heart in my mouth, I felt the clock supported, and, having started the pendulum, stepped down with a sigh of relief and hooked on the weight. Now, all that remained to do was to put away the oil-can, wash my tooth-brush at the scullery and take it back to my bedroom; and when I had done this and lit the gas, I resumed my restless fittings between the kitchen and the street door.

Nine had struck when, at long last, from my post on the doorstep, I saw the home-corners turn the corner and advance up the lamp-lighted street. Instantly, I darted back into the house to make sure that the clock was still going, and then, returning, met them almost on the threshold. Aunt Judy greeted me with a kindly smile and evidently misinterpreted my eagerness for their return, for, as she stooped to kiss me, she exclaimed: "Poor old Nat! I'm afraid it has been a long, dull day for you, and we were all sorry that you couldn't come. However, there is something to make up for it. Uncle Alfred has sent you a shilling and Aunt Anne has sent you some pears; and Maggie has sent you a beautiful pocket-knife. She was dreadfully disappointed that she couldn't give it to you herself, because she has been saving up her pocket-money for weeks to buy it, and you will have to write her a nice letter to thank her."

Now this was all very gratifying, and when the big basket was placed on the kitchen table and the treasures unloaded from it, I received the gifts with proper acknowledgements. But they aroused no enthusiasm, not even the pocket-knife, for I was bursting with impatience for someone to notice the clock.

"You don't seem so particularly grateful and pleased." said Aunt Judy, looking at me critically; and then, as I fidgetted about restlessly, she exclaimed, "What's the matter with the boy? He's on wires!"

She gazed at me with surprise, and Uncle Sam and the old gentleman turned to look at me curiously. And then, in the momentary silence, Aunt Judy's quick ear caught the tick of the clock. She looked up at it and then exclaimed: "Why, the clock's going; going quite well, too. Did you start it, Nat? But, of course, you must have done. How did you get it to go?"

With my guilty consciousness of the tooth-brush and the borrowed oil-can, I was disposed to be evasive.

"Well, you see, Aunt Judy," I explained, "it was rather dirty inside, so I just gave it a bit of a clean and put a little oil on the wheels. That's all."

Aunt Judy smiled grimly, but asked no further questions.

"I suppose," said she, "I ought to scold you for meddling with the clock without permission, but as you've made it go we'll say no more about it."

"No," agreed old Mr. Gollidge, "I don't see as how you could scold the boy for doing a useful bit of work. The job does him credit and shows that he's got some sense; and sense is what gets a man on in life."

With this satisfactory conclusion to the adventure, I was free to enter into the enjoyment of my newly- acquired wealth; and, having sampled the edible portion of it and tested the knife on a stick of fire-wood, spent the short remainder of the evening in rapturous contemplation of my new treasures and the rejuvenated clock. I had never possessed a shilling before, and now, as I examined Uncle Alfred's gift and polished it with my handkerchief visions of its immense potentialities floated vaguely through my mind; and continued to haunt me, in company with the clock, even when I had blown out my candle and snuggled down into my narrow bed.

Chapter 2 THE PICKPOCKET'S LEAVINGS

IT was shortly after my eleventh birthday that I conceived a really brilliant idea. It was generated by a card in the shop window of our medical attendant, Dr. Pope (in those days, doctors practising in humble neighbourhoods used to keep what were euphemistically described as " Open Surgeries", but which were, in effect, druggists' shops), bearing the laconic announcement, "Boy wanted." I looked at the card and debated earnestly the exact connotation of the word "wanted ". It was known to me that some of my schoolfellows contrived to pick up certain pecuniary trifles by delivering newspapers before school hours or doing small jobs in the evenings. Was it possible that the boy wanted by Dr. Pope might thus combine remunerative with scholastic industry? There would be no harm in enquiring.

I entered, and, finding the Doctor secretly compounding medicine in a sort of hiding-place at the end of the counter, proceeded to state my case without preamble.

The Doctor put his head round the corner and surveyed me somewhat disparagingly.

"You're a very small boy," he remarked.

"Yes, sir," I admitted, "but I am very strong for my size."

He didn't appear much impressed by this, but proceeded to enquire:

"Did Mrs. Gollidge tell you to apply?"

"No, sir," I replied, "it's my own idea. You see, sir, I've been rather an expense to Aunt Judy—Gollidge, I mean—and I thought that if I could earn a little money, it would be useful."

"A very proper idea, too," said the Doctor, apparently more impressed by my explanation than by my strength. "Very well. Come round this evening when you leave school. Come straight here, and you can have some tea, and then you can take a basket of medicine and see how you get on with it. I expect you will find it a bit heavy."

"It will get lighter as I go on, sir," said I; on which the Doctor smiled quite pleasantly, and, having admonished me to be punctual, retired to his hiding-place, and I departed in triumph.

But the Doctor's prediction turned out to be only too correct; for when I lifted the deep basket, stacked with bottles of medicine, I was rather shocked by its weight and had to remind myself of my own prediction that the weight would be a diminishing quantity. That was an encouraging reflection. Moreover, there had been agreeable preliminaries in the form of a Gargantuan tea, including a boiled egg and marmalade, provided by Mrs. Stubbs, the Doctor's fat and jovial housekeeper. So I hooked the basket boldly on my arm—and presently shifted it to the other one—and set forth on my round, consulting the written list provided for me and judiciously selecting the nearest addresses to visit first and thereby lighten the basket for the more distant ones.

Still, there was no denying that it was heavy work for a small boy, and when I had made a second round with a fresh consignment, I felt that I had had enough for one day; and when I returned the empty basket, I was relieved to learn that there was nothing more to deliver.

"Well," said the Doctor as I handed in the basket, "how did you get on?"

"All right, thank you, sir," I replied, "but I think it would be easier if I put rather less in the basket and made more journeys."

The Doctor smiled approvingly. "Yes," he agreed, "that's quite a sensible idea. Give your legs a bit more to do and save your arms. Very well; you think you can do the job?"

"I am sure I can, sir, and I should like to."

"Good," said he. "The pay will be three and sixpence a week. That suit you?"

It seemed to me an enormous sum, and I agreed gleefully; which closed the transaction and sent me homewards rejoicing and almost oblivious of my fatigue.

A further reward awaited me when I arrived home. Aunt Judy, it is true, had professed disapproval of the arrangement as interfering with my "schooling"; but the substantial hot supper seemed more truly to express her sentiments. It recognized my new status as a working man and my effort to pull my weight in the family boat.

The next day's work proved much less arduous, for I put my plan into operation by sorting out the bottles into groups belonging to particular localities, and thus contrived never to have the basket more than half full. This brought the work well within my powers, so that the end of the day found me no more than pleasantly tired; and the occupation was not without its interest, to say nothing of the dignity of my position as a wage-earner. But the full reward of my industry came when, returning home on Saturday night, I was able to set down my three shillings and sixpence on the kitchen table before Aunt Judy, who was laying the supper. The little heap of silver coins, a florin, a shilling, and a sixpence, made a quite impressive display of wealth. I looked at it with proud satisfaction—arid also with a certain wistful curiosity as to whether any of that wealth might be coming my way. I had faint hopes of the odd sixpence, and watched a little anxiously as Aunt Judy spread out the heap with a considering air. Eventually, she picked up the florin and the sixpence, and, pushing the shilling towards me, suddenly put her arm round my neck and kissed me.

"You're a good boy, Nat," said she; and as she released me and dropped the money in her pocket, I picked up my shilling and turned away to hide the tears that had started to my eyes. Aunt Judy was not a demonstrative woman; but, like many undemonstrative persons, could put a great deal of meaning into a very few words. Half a dozen words and a kiss sweetened my labours for many a day thereafter.

My peregrinations with the basket had, among other effects, that of widening the range of my knowledge of the geography of London. In my early days that knowledge was limited to the few streets that I traversed on my way to and from school, to certain quiet back waters in which one could spin tops at one's convenience or play games without undue interruption, and certain other quiet streets in which one was likely to find the street entertainer: the acrobat, the juggler, the fire-eater, or, best of all, the Punch and Judy show.

But now the range of my travels coincided with that of Dr. Pope's practice and led me far beyond the limits of the familiar neighbourhood; and quite pleasant these explorations were, for they brought me into new streets with new shops in them which provided new entertainment. I think shops were more interesting then than they are in these days of mass-production and uniformity, particularly in an old-fashioned neighbourhood where the crafts were still flourishing. A special favourite was Wardour Street, with its picture-frame makers, its antique shops filled with wonderful furniture and pictures and statuettes and gorgeous clocks.

But the shop that always brought me to a halt was that of M. Chanot, the violin-maker, which had, hanging on the door-jamb by way of a trade sign, a gigantic bow (or fiddlestick, as I should have described it). It was stupendous. As I gazed at it with the fascination that the juvenile mind discovers in things gigantic or diminutive, my imagination strove to picture the kind of fiddle that could be played with it and the kind of Titan who could have held the fiddle. And then, as a foil to its enormity, there hung in the window an infant violin, a "kit" such as dancing- masters were wont to carry in the skirt pockets of their ample frock-coats.

A few doors from M. Chanot's was the shop of a second-hand bookseller which was also one of the attractions of the street; for it was from the penny and twopenny boxes that my modest library was chiefly recruited, On the present occasion, having paid my respects to the Lilliputian fiddle and the Brobdingnagian bow, I passed on to see what treasures the boxes had to offer. Naturally, I tried the penny box first as being more adapted to my financial resources. But there was nothing in it which specially attracted me; whereupon I turned my attention to the twopenny box.

Now, if I were disposed to moralize, I might take this opportunity to reflect on the momentous consequences which may emerge from the most insignificant antecedents. For my casual rooting about in the twopenny box started a train of events which profoundly influenced my life in two respects, and in one so vitally that, but for the twopenny box, this story could never have been written.

I had turned over nearly all the contents of the box when from the lowest stratum I dredged up a shabby little volume the spine of which bore in faded gold lettering the title, "Clocks and Locks; Denison." The words instantly rivetted my attention. Shifting the basket to free both my hands, I opened the book at random and was confronted by a beautiful drawing of the interior of a common house-clock, clearly displaying the whole mechanism. It was a wonderful drawing. With fascinated eyes I pored over it, com paring it rapidly with the well-remembered Dutch clock at home and noting new and unfamiliar features. Then I turned over the leaves and discovered other drawings of movements and escapements on which I gazed in rapture. I had never supposed that there was such a book in the world.

Suddenly I was assailed by a horrible doubt. Had I got twopence? Here was the chance of a lifetime; should I have to let it slip? Putting the basket down on the ground, I searched feverishly through my pockets; but search as I might even in the most unlikely pockets, the product amounted to no more than a single penny. It was an awful predicament. I had set my heart on that book, and the loss of it was a misfortune that I shuddered to contemplate. Yet there was the grievous fact; the price of the book was two pence and I had only a penny.

Revolving this appalling situation, I thought of a possible way out of the difficulty. Leaving my basket on the pavement (a most reprehensible thing to do; but no one wants to steal medicine, and there were only three bottles left), I stepped into the shop with the book in my hand and deferentially approached the book-seller, a stuffy-looking elderly man.

"I want to buy this book, sir," I explained, timorously, "but it is twopence, and I have only got a penny. Will you keep it for me if I leave the penny as a deposit? I hope you will, sir. I very much want to have the book."

He looked at me curiously, and, taking the little volume from me, glanced at the title and then turned over the leaves.

"Clocks, hey," said he. "Know anything about clocks?

"Not much, sir," I replied, "but I should like to learn some more."

"Well," said he, "you'll know all about them when you have read that book; but it is stiffish reading for a boy."

He handed it back to me, and I laid my penny on it and put it down on the counter.

"I will try to call for it this evening, sir," said I, "and pay the other penny; and you'll take great care of it, sir, won't you?

My earnestness seemed to amuse him, but his smile was a kindly and approving smile.

"You can take it away with you," said he, "and then you will make sure of it."

Tears of joy and gratitude rose to my eyes, so that I had nearly taken up the penny as well as the book. I thanked him shyly but warmly and, picking up the precious volume, went out with it in my hand. But even now I paused to take another look at my treasure before resuming charge of the neglected basket. At length I bestowed the book in my pocket, and, returning to my proper business, took up the basket and was about to sort out the remaining three bottles when I made a most surprising discovery. At the bottom of the basket, beside the bottles, lay a leather wallet. I gazed at it in astonishment. Of course, it was not mine, and I had not put it there, nor, I was certain, had it been there when I went into the shop. Some one must have put it in during my short absence. But why should anyone present me with a wallet? It could hardly have been dropped into the basket by accident; but yet—I picked it out and examined it curiously, noting that it had an elastic band to keep it closed but that nevertheless it was open. Then I ventured to inspect the inside, but, beyond a few stamps and a quantity of papers, it seemed to contain nothing of interest to me. Besides, it was not mine. I was still puzzling over it when I became aware of a policeman approaching down the street in company with a short, wrathful looking elderly gentleman who appeared to be talking excitedly while the constable listened with an air of resignation. Just as they reached me, the gentleman caught sight of the wallet and immediately rushed at me and snatched it out of my hand.

"Here you are, Constable," he exclaimed, "here is the stolen property and here is the thief, taken red-handed."

"Red-handed be blowed," said the constable. "You said just now that you saw the man run away, and you've led me a dance a-chasing him. You had better see if there is anything missing."

But the wrathful gentleman had already seen that there was.

"Yes!" he roared, "there were three five-pound notes, and they're gone! Stolen! Fifteen pounds! But I'll have satisfaction. I give this young villain in charge. Perhaps he has the notes on him still. We'll have him searched at the station."

"Now, now," said the constable, soothingly, "don't get excited, sir. Softly, softly, you catch the monkey. You said that you saw the man run off."

"So I did; but, of course, this young rascal is a confederate, and I give him in charge."

"Wait a minute, sir. Let's hear what he's got to say. Now, young shaver, tell us how you came by that pocket-book."

I described the circumstances, including my absence in the shop, and the constable, having listened patiently, went in and verified my statement by questioning the bookseller.

"There, sir, you see," said he when he came out, "it's quite simple. The pickpocket fished the notes out of your wallet and then, as he was making off, he looked for some place where he could drop the empty case out of sight, and there was this boy's basket with no one looking after it, just the very place he wanted. So he dropped it in as he passed. Wouldn't have done to drop it in the street where some one might have seen it and run after him to give it back."

The angry gentleman shook his head. "I can't accept that," said he. "It's only a guess, and an unlikely one at that."

"But," the constable protested, "it's what they always do: drop the empty purses or pocket-books in a doorway or a dark corner or post them in pillar-boxes—anywhere to get the incriminating stuff out of sight. It's common sense."

But the gentleman was obdurate. "No, no," he persisted, "that won't do. The common sense of it is that I found this boy with the stolen property in his possession, and I insist on giving him in charge."

The constable was in a dilemma, but he was a sensible man and he made the best of it. "Well, sir," he said, "if you insist, I suppose we must walk round to the station and report the affair. But I can tell you that the inspector won't take the charge."

"He'll have to," retorted the other, "when I have made my statement."

The constable looked at him sourly and then turned to me almost apologetically.

"Well, sonny," said he, "you'll have to come along to the station and see what the inspector has to say."

"Can't I deliver my medicines first?" I pleaded. "The people may be wanting them, and there are only three bottles."

The policeman grinned but evidently appreciated my point of view, for he replied, still half-apologetically: "You're quite right, my lad, but I don't suppose they'll be any the worse for a few minutes more without their physic, and the station is quite handy. Come, now; step out."

But even now the irate gentleman was not satisfied.

"Aren't you going to hold him so that he doesn't escape?" he demanded.

Then, for the first time, the patient constable showed signs of temper. "No, sir," he replied, brusquely, "I am not going to drag a respectable lad through the streets as if he had committed a crime when I know he hasn't."

That settled the matter, and we walked on with the manner of a family party. But it was an uncomfortable experience To a boy of my age, a police station is a rather alarming sort of place; and the fact that I was going to be charged with a robbery was a little disturbing. However, the constable's attitude was reassuring, and, as we traversed Great Marlborough Street and at last entered the grim doorway, I was only moderately nervous.

The proceedings were, as my constabulary friend had foreseen, quite brief. The policeman made his concise report to the inspector, I answered the few questions that the officer asked, and the gentleman made his statement, incriminating me.

"Where did the robbery take place?" the inspector asked.

"In Berwick Street," was the reply. "I was leaning over a stall when I felt myself touched, and then a man moved away quickly through the crowd; and then I missed my wallet and gave chase."

"You were leaning over a stall," the inspector repeated. "Now, how on earth did he get at your wallet?"

"It was in my coat-tail pocket," the gentleman explained.

"In your coat-tail pocket!" the inspector repeated, incredulously; "with fifteen pounds in it, and you leaning over a stall in a crowded street! Why, sir, it was a free gift to a pickpocket."

"I suppose I can carry my wallet where I please," the other snapped.

"Certainly you can—at your own risk. Well, I can't accept the charge against this boy. There is no evidence; in fact, there isn't even any suspicion. It would be only wasting the magistrate's time. But I will take the boy's name and address and make a few inquiries. And I will take yours too and let you know if anything transpires."

He took my name and address (and my accuser made a note of them), and that, so far as I was concerned, finished the business. I took up my basket and went forth a free boy in company with my friend the police man. In Great Marlborough Street we parted, he to return to his beat, and I to the remainder of my round of deliveries.

So ended an incident that had, at one time, looked quite threatening. And yet it had not really ended. Perhaps no incident ever does truly end. For every antecedent begets consequences. Coming events cast their shadows before them; but those shadows usually remain invisible until the events which have cast them have, themselves, come into view. Indeed, it befalls thus almost from necessity; for how can a shadow be identified otherwise than by comparison with the substance?

But I shall not here anticipate the later passages of my story. The consequences will emerge in their proper place. I may, however, refer briefly to the more immediate reactions, though these also had their importance later. The little book which I had purchased (and paid for the same evening) was a treatise on clocks and locks by that incomparable master of horology and mechanism, Edmund Beckett Denison (later to be known as Lord Grimthorpe). It was an invaluable book, and it became my chiefest treasure. Carefully wrapped in a protective cover of brown paper, the precious volume was henceforth my constant companion. The abstruse mathematical sections I had regretfully to pass over, but the descriptive parts were read and re-read until I could have recited them from memory. Even the drawings of the Great Westminster Clock, which had at first appeared so bewildering, became intelligible by repeated study, and the intricacies of gravity escapements and maintaining powers grew simple by familiarity.

Thus did the revered E. B. Denison add a new delight to my life. Not only was every clock-maker's window a thing of beauty and a provider of quiet pleasure, but an object so lowly as the lock of the scullery door— detached by Uncle Sam and by me carefully dismembered—was made to furnish an entertainment compared with which even the Punch and Judy show paled into insignificance.

Chapter 3 OUT OF THE NEST

A CERTAIN philosopher, whose name I cannot recall, has, I understand, discovered that there are several different kinds of time. He is not referring to those which are known to astronomers, such as sidereal mean or apparent time, which differ only in terms of measurement, but to time as it affects the young, the middle-aged and the old.

The discovery is not a new one. Shakespeare has told us that "Time travels in divers paces with divers persons ", and, for me, the poet's statement is more to the point (and perhaps more true) than the philosopher's. For I am thinking of one "who Time ambles withal ", or even "who he stands still withal"; to wit, myself in the capacity of Dr. Pope's bottle-boy. That stage of my existence seemed, and still seems, looking back on it, to have lasted for half a life-time; whereas it occupied, in actual fact, but a matter of months.

It came to an end when I was about thirteen, principally by my own act. I had begun to feel that I was making unfair inroads on the family resources, for, though the school that I attended was an inexpensive one, it was not one of the cheapest. Aunt Judy had insisted that I should have a decent education and not mix with boys below our own class, and accordingly she had sent me to the school conducted by the clergy man of our parish, the Reverend Stephen Page, which was attended by the sons of the local shop-keepers and better-class working men. But modest as the school fees were, their payment entailed some sacrifice; for, though we were not poor, still Uncle Sam's earnings as a journeyman cabinet-maker were only thirty shillings a week. Old Mr. Gollidge, who did light jobs in a carpenter's shop, made a small contribution, and there was half-a-crown a week from my wages; but, when all was said, it was a tight fit and must have taxed Aunt Judy's powers of management severely to maintain the standard of comfort in which we lived.

Moved by these considerations (and perhaps influenced by the monotonous alternation of school and bottle-basket), I ventured to put the case to Aunt Judy and was relieved to find that she took my suggestions seriously and was obviously pleased with me for making them.

"There is something in what you say, Nat," she admitted. "But remember that your schooling has got to last you for life. It's the foundation that you've got to build on, and it would be bad economy to skimp that."

"Quite right," Uncle Sam chimed in. "You can't make a mahogany table out of deal. Save on the material at the start and you spoil the job."

"Still," I urged, "a penny saved is a penny earned," at which Aunt Judy laughed and gave me a playful pat on the head.

"You are a queer, old-fashioned boy, Nat," said she, "but perhaps you are none the worse for that. Well, I'll see Mr. Page and ask him what he thinks about it, and I shall do exactly what he advises. Will that satisfy you?

I agreed readily enough, having the profoundest respect and admiration for my schoolmaster. For the Reverend Stephen Page, though he disdained not to teach the sons of working men, was a distinguished man in his way. He was a Master of Arts—though of what arts I never discovered—and a Senior Wrangler. That is what was stated on the School prospectus, so it must have been true; but I could never understand it, for a less quarrelsome or contentious man you could not imagine. At any rate, he was a most unmistakable gentleman, and, if he had taught us nothing else, his example of good manners, courtesy and kindliness would have been a liberal education in itself.

I was present at the interview, and very satisfactory I found it. Aunt Judy stated the problem and Mr. Page listened sympathetically. Then he pronounced judgement in terms that rather surprised me as coming from a schoolmaster.

"Education and schooling, Mrs. Gollidge, are not quite the same thing. When a boy leaves school to learn a trade, he is not ending his education. Some might say that he is only beginning it. At any rate, the knowledge and skill by which he will earn his living and maintain his family when he has one, and be a useful member of society, is the really indispensable knowledge. Our young friend has a good groundwork of what simple folk call book-learning, and, if he wants to increase it, there are books from which he can learn. Meanwhile, I don't think that he is too young to begin the serious business of life."

That question, then, was settled, and the next one was how the beginning was to be made. As a temporary measure, "while we were looking about", Uncle Sam managed to plant me on his employer, Mr. Beeby, as workshop boy at a salary of five shillings a week. So it came about that I made my final round with the bottles, handed in the basket for the last time, drew my wages and, on the following morning, set forth in company with Uncle Sam en route for Mr. Beeby's workshop in Broad Street. There was only one occupant when we arrived: a round-shouldered, beetle browed, elderly man with rolled-up shirt-sleeves, a linen apron and a square brown-paper cap such as work men commonly wore in those days, who was operating with a very small saw on a piece of wood that was clamped in the bench-vice. He looked up as we entered and remarked:

"So this is the young shaver, is it? There ain't much of him. He'll have to stand on six pennorth of coppers if he is going to work at a bench. Never mind, youngster. You'll be a man before your mother," and with this he returned to his work with intense concentration (I discovered, presently, that he was cutting the pins of a set of dovetails), and Uncle Sam, having provided me with a broom, set me to work at sweeping up the shavings, picking up the little pieces of waste wood and putting them into the large open box in which they were thriftily stored for use in odd jobs. Then he took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves and put on his apron and paper cap; in which costume he seemed to me to be invested with a new dignity; and when he fell to work with a queer-looking, lean-bodied plane on the edge of a slab of mahogany, miraculously producing on it an elegant moulding, I felt that I had never properly appreciated him. Presently the third member of the staff arrived, a young journeyman named Will Foster. He had evidently heard of me, for he saluted me with a friendly grin and a few words of welcome while he was unrobing and getting into working trim. Then he, too, set to work with an air of business on his particular job, the carcase of a small chest of drawers; and I noticed that each of the three men was engaged on his own piece of work, independently of the others. And this I learned later was Mr. Beeby's rule, so far as it was practicable. "If a man carries his own job right through," he once explained to me, "and does it well, he gets all the credit; and if he does it badly, he takes all the blame." It seemed a sensible rule. But that was an age of individualism.

I shall not follow in detail my experiences during the few months that I spent in Mr. Beeby's workshop. My service there was but an interlude between school and my real start in life. But it was a useful interlude, and I have never regretted it. As I was not an apprentice, I received no formal instruction. But little was needed when I had the opportunity of watching three highly expert craftsmen and following their methods from the preliminary sketch to the finished work; and I did, in fact, get a good many useful tips besides the necessary instruction in my actual duties.

As to these, they gradually extended as time went on from mere sweeping, cleaning and tidying to more technical activities, but, from the first, the glue-pots were definitely assigned to me. Once for all, the whole art and mystery of the preparation and care of glue was imparted to me. Every night I emptied and cleaned the glue-pots and put the fresh glue in to soak, for Mr. Beeby would have nothing to do with stale glue; and every morning, as soon as I arrived, I set the pots of fresh glue on the workshop stove. Then, by degrees, I began to learn the use of tools; to saw along a pencil line, to handle a chisel and a jack-plane (with the aid of an improvised platform to bring my elbows to the bench level) and to use the marking gauge and the try-square, so that, presently, I became proficient enough to be given small, rough jobs of sawing and planing to save the time of the skilled workmen.

It was all very interesting (what creative work is not?), and I was happy enough in the workshop with its pleasant atmosphere of quiet, unhurried industry. I liked to watch these three skilful craftsmen doing difficult things with unconscious ease and a misleading appearance of leisureliness, and I learned that this apparently effortless precision was really the result of habitual concentration. The fact was expounded to me by Mr. Beeby on an appropriate occasion.

"You've given yourself the trouble, my lad, of doing that twice over. Now the way to work quickly is to work carefully. Attend to what you are doing and see that you make no mistakes." It was a valuable precept, which I have never forgotten and have always tried to put into practice; indeed, I find myself, to this day, profiting from Mr. Beeby's practical wisdom.

But though I was interested and happy in my work, my heart was not in cabinet-making. Clocks and watches still held my affections, and, on most evenings, the short interval between supper and bedtime was occupied in reading and re-reading the books on horology that I possessed. I now had a quite respect able little library; for my good friend, Mr. Strutt, the Wardour Street bookseller, was wont to put aside for me any works on the subject that came into his hands, and I suspect that, in the matter of price, he frequently tempered the wind to the shorn lamb.

Thus, though I went about my work contentedly, there lurked always at the back of my mind the hope that some day a chance might present itself for me to get a start on the career of a clock-maker. Apprenticeship was not to be thought of, for the family resources were not equal to a premium. But there might be other ways. Meanwhile, I tended the glue-pots and cherished my dream in secret; and in due course, by very indirect means, the dream became a reality.

The chance came, all unperceived at first, on a certain morning in the sixth month of my servitude, when a burly, elderly man came into the workshop carrying a brown-paper parcel. I recognized him instantly as Mr. Abraham, the clock-maker, whose shop in Foubert's Place had been familiar to me since my earliest childhood, and I cast an inquisitive eye on the parcel as he unfastened it on the bench, watched impassively by Mr. Beeby. To my disappointment, the unwrapping disclosed only an empty clock-case, and a mighty shabby one at that. Still, even an empty case had a faint horological flavour.

"Well," said Mr. Beeby, turning it over disparagingly, "it's a bit of a wreck. Shockingly knocked about, and some fool has varnished it with a brush. But it has been a fine case in its time, and it can be again. What do you want us to do with it? Make it as good as new, I suppose."

"Better," replied Mr. Abraham with a persuasive smile.

"Now, you mustn't be unreasonable," said Beeby. "That case was made by a first-class tradesman and no one could make it any better. No hurry for it, I suppose? May as well let us take our time over it."

To this Mr. Abraham agreed, being a workman himself; and, after some brief negotiations as to the cost of the repairs, he took his departure. When he had gone, Mr. Beeby picked up the "wreck", and, exhibiting it to Uncle Sam, remarked:

"It wants a lot of doing to it, but it will pay for a bit of careful work. Care to take it on when you've finished that table?"

Uncle Sam took it on readily, having rather a liking for renovations of good old work; and when he had clamped up some glued joints on his table, fell to work forthwith on the case, dismembering it, as a preliminary measure, with a thoroughness that rather horrified me, until it seemed to be reduced to little more than a collection of fragments. But I realized the necessity for the dismemberment when I saw him making the repairs and restorations on the separated parts, unhampered by their connections with the others.

I followed his proceedings from day to day with deep interest as the work grew; first, when all the old varnish had been cleaned off, the cutting away of damaged parts, then the artful insetting of new pieces and their treatment with stain until from staring patches they became indistinguishable from the old. So it went on, the battered old parts growing newer and smarter every day with no visible trace of the repairs, and, at last, when the fresh polish was hard, the separated parts were put together and the transformation was complete. The shabby old wreck had been changed into a brand-new case.

"Well, Sam," said Mr. Beeby, looking at it critically as its restorer stood it on the newly finished table, "you've made a job of that. It's good now for another hundred years. Ought to satisfy Abraham. Nat might as well run round presently and let him know that it's finished."

"Why shouldn't he take it with him?" Uncle Sam suggested.

Mr. Beeby considered the suggestion and eventually, having admonished me to carry the case carefully, adopted it. Accordingly, the case was wrapped in one or two clean dusters and tied up with string, leaving the gilt top handle exposed for convenience of carrying, and I went forth all agog to see how Mr. Abraham would be impressed by Uncle Sam's wizardry.

I found that gentleman seated at his counter writing on a card, and, as the inscription was in large Roman capitals, my eye caught at a glance the words, "Smart youth wanted.". He rounded off the final D and then looked up at me and enquired: "You are Mr. Beeby's apprentice, aren't you? Is that the case?"

"This is the case, sir," I replied, "but I am not an apprentice. I am the workshop boy."

"Oh! "said he, "I thought you were an apprentice, as you were working at the bench. Well, let's see what sort of a job they've made of the case. Bring it in here."

He preceded me into a small room at the back of the shop which was evidently the place where he worked, and here, having cleared a space on a side bench, he took the case from me and untied the string. When the removal of the dusters revealed the case in all its magnificence, he regarded it with a chuckle of satisfaction.

"It looks a bit different from what it did when you saw it last, sir," I ventured to remark.

He seemed a little surprised, for he gave me a quick glance before replying.

"You're right, my boy; I wouldn't have believed it possible. But there, every man to his trade, and Mr. Beeby is a master of his."

"It was my uncle, Mr. Gollidge, that did the repairs, sir," I informed him, bearing in mind Mr. Beeby's rule that the doer of a good job should have the credit. Again Mr. Abraham looked at me, curiously, as he rejoined: "Then your uncle is a proper tradesman and I take my hat off to him."

I thanked him for the compliment, the latter part of which was evidently symbolical, as he was bareheaded, and then asked: "Is that the clock that belongs to the case, sir?" and I pointed to a bracket clock with a handsome brass, silver-circled dial which stood on a shelf, supported by a movement-holder.

"You're quite right," he replied. "That's the clock; all clean and bright and ready for fixing. Would you like to see it in its case? Because, if so, you may as well help me to put it in."

I agreed, joyfully, and as he released the movement from the holder, I unlocked and opened the back door of the case and "stood by" for further instructions, watching intently every stage of the procedure. There was not much for me to do beyond steadying the case and fetching the screws and the screwdriver; but I was learning how a bracket clock was fixed into its case, and when, at last, the job was finished and the fine old clock stood complete in all its beauty and dignity, I had the feeling of:, at least, having been a collaborator in the achievement.

It had been a great experience. But all the time, a strong under-current of thought had been running at the back of my mind. "Smart youth wanted." Was I a smart youth? Honest self-inspection compelled me to admit that I was not. But perhaps the smartness was only a rhetorical flourish, and in any case, it doesn't do to be too modest. Eventually I plucked up courage to ask: "Were you wanting a boy, sir?"

"Yes," he replied. "Do you know of one who wants a job?"

"I was wondering, sir, if I should be suitable."

"You!" he exclaimed. "But you've got a place. Aren't you satisfied with it? "

"Oh, yes, sir, I'm quite satisfied. Mr. Beeby is a very good master. But I've always wanted to get into the clock trade."

He looked down at me with a broad smile. "My good boy," said he, "cleaning a clockmaker's window and sweeping a clockmaker's floor won't get you very far in the clock trade."

It sounded discouraging, but I was not put off. Experience had taught me that there are boys and boys. As Dr. Pope's bottle boy I had learned nothing and gained nothing but the weekly wage. As Mr. Beeby's workshop boy I had learned the rudiments of cabinet-making and was learning more every day.

"It would be a start, sir, and I think I could make myself useful," I protested.

"I daresay you could," said he (he had seen me working at the bench), "and I would be willing to have you. But what about Mr. Beeby? If you suit him, it wouldn't be right for me to take you away from him."

"Of course, I should have to stay with him until he had got another boy."

"And there is your uncle. Do you think he would let you make the change?"

"I don't think he would stand in my way, sir. But I'll ask him."

"Very well," said he. "You put it to him, and I'll have a few words with Mr. Beeby when I call to settle up."

"And you won't put that card in the window, sir," I urged.

He smiled at my eagerness but was not displeased; indeed, it was evident to me that he was well impressed and very willing to have me.

"No," he agreed, "I'll put that aside for the present."

Much relieved, I thanked him and took my leave; and as I wended homeward to dinner I prepared myself a little nervously, for the coming conference.

But it went off more easily than I had expected. Uncle Sam, indeed, was strongly opposed to the change ("just as the boy had got his foot in and was beginning to learn the trade "), and he was disposed to enlarge on the subject of rolling stones. But Aunt Judy was more understanding.

"I don't know, Sam," said she, "but what the boy's right. His heart is set on clocks, and he'll be happier working among things that he likes than going on with the cabinet-making. But I'm afraid Mr. Beeby won't be pleased."

That was what I was afraid of. But here again my fears proved to be unfounded. On the principle of grasping the nettle, I attacked him as soon as we returned to the workshop after dinner; and certainly, as he listened to my proposal with his great eyebrows lowered in a frown of surprise, he seemed rather alarming, and I began to "look out for squalls". But when I had finished my explanations, he addressed me so kindly and in such a fatherly manner that I was quite taken aback and almost regretful that I had thought of the change.

"Well, my son," said he, "I shall be sorry to lose you. If you had stayed with me I would have given you your indentures free, because you have got the makings of a good workman. But if the clock trade is your fancy and you have a chance to get into it, you are wise to take that chance. A tradesman's heart ought to be in his trade. You go to Mr. Abraham and I'll give you a good character. And you needn't wait for me. Take the job at once and get a start, but look us up now and again and tell us how you are getting on."

I wanted to thank Mr. Beeby, but was too overcome to say much. However, he understood. And now—such is human perversity—I suddenly discovered an unsuspected charm in the workshop and an unwillingness to tear myself away from it; and when "knocking- off time" came and I stowed my little collection of tools in the rush basket to carry away, my eyes filled and I said my last "good night" in an absurd, tremulous squeak.

Nevertheless, I took Mr. Abraham's shop in my homeward route and found it still open; a fact which I noted with slight misgivings as suggestive of rather long hours. As I entered, my prospective employer rose from the little desk at the end of the counter and confronted me with a look of enquiry; whereupon I informed him briefly of the recent developments and explained that I was now a free boy.

"Very well," said he; "then I suppose you want the job. It's five shillings a week and your tea—unless," he added as an afterthought, "you'd rather run round and have it at home. Will that suit you? Because, if it will, you can come to-morrow morning at half-past eight and I will show you how to take down the shutters."

Thus, informally, were my feet set upon the road which I was to tread all the days of my life; a road which was to lead me, through many a stormy passage, to the promised land which is now my secure abiding place.

Chapter 4 THE INNOCENT ACCESSORY

THE ancient custom of hanging out a distinctive shop sign still struggles for existence in old- fashioned neighbourhoods. In ours there were several examples. A ham-and-beef merchant proclaimed the nature of his wares by a golden ham dangled above his shop front; a gold-beater more appropriately exhibited a golden arm wielding a formidable mallet; barbers in different streets displayed the phlebotomist's pole with its spiral hint of blood and bandages; and Mr. Abraham announced the horologer's calling by a large clock projecting on a bracket above his shop.

They all had their uses, but it seemed to me that Mr. Abraham's was most to the point. For whereas the golden ham could do no more for you than make your mouth water, leaving you to seek satisfaction within, and the barber's offer to "let blood" was a pure fiction (at least, you hoped that it was), Mr. Abraham's sign did actually make you a free gift of the time of day. Moreover, for advertising purposes the clock was more efficient. Ham and gold leaf supply only occasional needs; but time is a commodity in constant demand. Its sign was a feature of the little street observed by all wayfarers, and thus conferred distinction on the small, antiquated shop that it surmounted.

At the door of that shop the tenant was often to be seen, looking up and down the street with placid interest and something of a proprietary air; and so I found him, refreshing himself with a pinch of snuff, when I arrived at twenty-six minutes past eight on the morning after my engagement. He received me with unexpected geniality, and, putting away the tortoise shell snuff-box and glancing up approvingly at the clock, proceeded forthwith to introduce me to the art and mystery of taking down the shutters, including the secret disposal of the padlock. The rest of the daily procedure—the cleaning of the small-paned window, the sweeping of the floor, and such dusting as was necessary—he indicated in general terms, and, having shown me where the brooms and other cleaning appliances were kept, retired to the little workshop which communicated with the retail part of the premises, seated himself at the bench, fixed his glass in his eye, and began some mysterious operations on a watch. I observed him furtively in the intervals of my work, and when I had finished, I entered the workshop for further instructions; but by that time the watch had dissolved into a little heap of wheels and plates which lay in a wooden bowl covered by a sort of glass dish-cover, and that was the last that I saw of it. For it appeared that, when not otherwise engaged, my duty was to sit on a stool behind the counter and "mind the shop".

In that occupation, varied by an occasional errand, I spent the first day; and mighty dull I found it after the life and activity of Mr. Beeby's establishment, and profoundly was I relieved when, at half-past eight, Mr. Abraham instructed me to put up the shutters under his supervision. As I took my way home, yawning as I went, I almost wished myself back at Beeby's.

But it was a false alarm. The intolerable dullness of that first day was never repeated. On the following morning I took the precaution to provide myself with a book, but it was not needed; for, while I was cleaning the window, Mr. Abraham went forth, and presently returned with an excessively dirty "grandfather" clock—without its case—which he carried into the workshop and at once began to "take down" (i.e., to take to pieces). As I had finished my work, I made bold to follow him and hover around to watch the operation; and, as he did not seem to take my presence amiss, but chatted in quite a friendly way as he worked, I ventured to ask one or two questions, and meanwhile kept on the alert for a chance to "get my foot in".

When he had finished the "taking down" and had put away the dismembered remains of the movement in a drawer, leaving the two plates and the dial on the bench, he proceeded to mix up a paste of rotten-stone and oil, and then, taking up one of the plates, began to scrub it vigorously with a sort of overgrown tooth brush dipped in the mixture. I watched him attentively for a minute or two, and then decided that my opportunity had come.

"Wouldn't it save you time, sir, if I were to clean the other plate?" I asked.

He stopped scrubbing and looked at me in surprise. "That's not a bad idea, Nat," he chuckled. "Why shouldn't you? Yes, get a brush from the drawer. Watch me and do exactly as I do."

Gleefully, I fetched the brush and set to work, following his methods closely and observing him from time to time as the work progressed. He gave an eye to me now and again, but let me carry out the job completely, even to the final polishing and the "pegging out" of the pivot-holes with the little pointed sticks known as peg-wood. When I had finished, he examined my work critically, testing one or two of the pivot-holes with a clean peg, and finally, as he laid down the plate, informed me that I had made quite a good job of it.

That night I went home in a very different frame of mind. No longer did I yearn for Beeby's. I realized that I had had my chance and taken it. I had got my foot in and was now free of the workshop. Other jobs would come my way and they would not all be mere plate-cleaning. I should see to that. And I did. Cautiously and by slow degrees I extended my offers of help from plates to wheels and pinions, to the bushing of worn pivot-holes and the polishing of pivots on the turns. And each time Mr. Abraham viewed me with fresh surprise, evidently puzzled by my apparent familiarity with the mechanism of clocks, and still more so by my ability to make keys and repair locks, an art of which he knew nothing at all.

Thus, the purpose that had been in my mind from the first was working out according to plan. My knowledge of the structure and mechanism of time- keepers was quite considerable. But it was only paper knowledge, book-learning. It had to be supplemented by that other kind of knowledge that can be acquired only by working at the bench, before I could hope to become a clock-maker. The ambition to acquire it had drawn me hither from Mr. Beeby's, and now the opportunity seemed to be before me.

In fact, my way was made unexpectedly easy, for Mr. Abraham's inclinations marched with mine. Excellent workman as he was, skilful, painstaking and scrupulously conscientious, he had no enthusiasm. As Mr. Beeby would have said, his heart was not in his trade. He did not enjoy his work, though he spared no pains in doing it well. But by nature and temperament he was a dealer, a merchant, rather than a craftsman, and it was his ability as a buyer that accounted for the bulk of his income. Hence he was by no means unwilling for me to take over the more laborious and less remunerative side of the business, in so far as I was able, for thereby he was left with more free time to devote to its more profitable aspects.

Exactly how he disposed of this free time I could never quite make out. I got the impression that he had some other interests which he was now free to pursue, having a deputy to carry on the mere retail part of the business and attend to simple repairs. But how ever that may have been, he began occasionally to absent himself from the shop, leaving me in charge; and as time went on and he found that I managed quite well without him, his absences grew more frequent and prolonged until they occurred almost daily, excepting when there were important repairs on hand. It seemed an anomalous arrangement, but there was really nothing against it. He had instructed me in the simple routine of the business, had explained the artless "secret price marks" on the stock, and ascertained (I think from Beeby) that I was honest and trustworthy, and if he was able to employ his free time more profit ably, there was nothing further to be said.

It was on the occasion of one of these absences that an incident occurred which, simple as it appeared to be at the time, was later to develop unexpected conse quences. This was one of the days on which Mr. Abraham went down into the land of Clerkenwell to make purchases of material and stock. Experience had taught me that a visit to Clerkenwell meant a day off; and, there being no repairs on hand, I made my arrangements to pass the long, solitary day as agreeably as possible. It happened that I had recently acquired an old lock of which the key was missing; and I decided to pass the time pleasantly in making a key to fit it. Accordingly, I selected from the stock of spare keys that I kept in my cupboard a lever key the pipe of which would fit the drill-pin of the lock, but of which the bit was too long to enter; and with this and a small vice and one or two tools, I went out into the shop and prepared to enjoy myself.

I had fixed the vice to the counter, taken off the front plate of the lock (it was a good but simple lock with three levers), clamped the key in the vice and was be ginning to file off the excess length of the bit, preparatory to cutting the steps, when a man entered the shop, and, sauntering up to the counter, fixed an astonished eye on the key.

"Guvnor in?" he enquired.

I replied that he was not.

"Pity," he commented. "I've broke the glass of my watch. How long will he be?"

"I don't think he will be back until the evening. But I can fit you a new glass."

"Can you, though?" said he. "You seem to be a handy sort of bloke for your size. How old are you?"

"Getting on for fourteen," I replied, holding out my hand for the watch which he had produced from his pocket.

"Well, I'm blowed," said he; "fancy a blooming kid of fourteen running a business like this."

I rather resented his description of me, but made no remark. Besides, it was probably meant as a compliment, though unfortunately expressed. I glanced at his watch, and, opening the drawer in which watch- glasses were kept, selected one of the suitable size, tried it in the bezel after removing the broken pieces, and snapped it in.

"Well, I'm sure!" he exclaimed as I returned the watch to him. "Wonderful handy cove you are. How much?"

I suggested sixpence, whereupon he fished a handful of mixed coins out of his pocket and began to sort them out. Finally he laid a sixpence on the counter and once more fixed his eyes on the vice.

"What are you doing to that lock?" he asked.

"I am making a key to fit it," I replied.

"Are you, reely?" said he with an air of surprise. "Actooally making a key? Remarkable handy bloke you are. Perhaps you could do a little job for me. There is a box of mine what I can't get open. Some thing gone wrong with the lock. Key goes in all right but it won't turn. Do you think you could get it to open if I was to bring it along here?"

"I don't know until I have seen it," I replied. "But why not take it to a locksmith?"

"I don't want a big job made of it," said he. "It's only a matter of touching up the key, I expect. What time did you say the guvnor would be back?"

"I don't expect him home until closing time. But he wouldn't have anything to do with a locksmith's job, in any case."

"No matter," said he. "You'll do for me. I'll just cut round home and fetch that box"; and with this he bustled out of the shop and turned away towards Regent Street.

His home must have been farther off than he had seemed to suggest, for it was nearly two hours later when he reappeared, carrying a brown-paper parcel. I happened to see him turn into the street, for I had just received a shop dial from our neighbour, the grocer, and had accompanied him to the door, where he paused for a final message.

"Tell the governor that there isn't much the matter with it, only it stops now and again, which is a nuisance."

He nodded and turned away, and at that moment the other customer arrived with the unnecessary announcement that "here he was ". He set the parcel on the counter, and, having untied the string, opened the paper covering just enough to expose the keyhole; by which I was able to see that the box was covered with morocco leather and that the keyhole guard seemed to be of silver. Producing a key from his pocket, he inserted it and made a show of trying to turn it.

"You see?" said he. "It goes in all right, but it won't turn. Funny, isn't it? Never served me that way before."

I tried the key and then took it out and looked at it, and, as a preliminary measure, probed the barrel with a piece of wire. Then, as the barrel was evidently clean, I tried the lock with the same piece of wire. It was a ward lock, and the key was a warded key, but the wards of the lock and those of the key were not the same. So the mystery was solved; it was the wrong key.

"Well, now," my friend exclaimed, "that's very singler. I could have swore it was the same key what I have always used, but I suppose you know. What's to be done? Do you think you can make that key fit?"

Now, here was a very interesting problem. I had learned from the incomparable Mr. Denison that the wards of a lock are merely obstructions to prevent it from being opened with the wrong key, and that, since the fore edge of the bit is the only acting part of such a key, a wrong key can be turned into a right one by simply cutting away the warded part and leaving the fore edge intact. I had never tried the experiment; but here was an opportunity to put the matter to a test.

"I'll try, if you like," I replied—" that is, if you don't mind my cutting the key about a little."

"Oh, the key is no good to me if it won't open the lock. I don't care what you do to it."

With this, I set to work gleefully, first making a further exploration of the lock with my wire and then carrying the key into the workshop, where there was a fixed vice. There I attacked it with a hack-saw and a file, and soon had the whole of the bit cut away excepting the top and fore edge. All agog to see how it worked, I went back to the shop with a small file in my hand in case any further touches should be necessary, and, inserting the key, gave a gentle turn. It was at once evident that there was now no resistance from the wards, but it did not turn freely. So I withdrew it and filed away a fraction from the fore edge to reduce the friction. The result was a complete success, for when I re-inserted it and made another trial, it turned quite freely and I heard the lock click.

My customer was delighted (and so was I). He turned the key backwards and forwards several times and once opened the lid of the box; but only half an inch—just enough to make sure that it cleared the lock. Then he took out the key, put it in his pocket, and proceeded to replace the paper cover and tie the string.

"Well," said he, "you are a regler master craftsman, you are. How much have I got to pay?"

I suggested that the job was worth a shilling, to which he agreed.

"But who gets that shilling?" he enquired.

"Mr. Abraham, of course," I replied. "It's his shop."

"So it is," said he, "but you have done the job, so here's a bob for yourself, and you've earned it."

He laid a couple of shillings on the counter, picked up his parcel and went out, whistling gleefully.

Now, all this time, although my attention had been concentrated on the matter in hand, I had been aware of something rather odd that was happening outside the shop. My customer had certainly had no companion when he arrived, for I had seen him enter the street alone. But yet he seemed to have some kind of follower; for hardly had he entered the shop when a man appeared, looking in at the window and seeming to keep a watch on what was going on within. At first he did not attract my attention— for a shop window is intended to be looked in at. But presently he moved off, and then returned for another look; and while I was working at the key in the workshop, I could see him on the opposite side of the street, pretending to look in the shop windows there, but evidently keeping our shop under observation.

I did not give him much attention while I was working at my job; but when my customer departed, I went out to the shop door and watched him as he retired clown the street. He was still alone. But now, the follower, who had been fidgeting up and down the pavement opposite, and looking in at shop windows, turned and walked away down the street, slowly and idly at first, but gradually increasing his pace as he went, until he turned the corner quite quickly.

It was very queer; and, my curiosity being now fairly aroused, I darted out of the shop and ran down the street, where, when I came to the corner, I could see my customer striding quickly along King Street, while the follower was "legging it" after him as hard as he could go. What the end of it was I never saw, for the man with the parcel disappeared round the corner of Argyll Place before the follower could come up with him.

It was certainly a very odd affair. What could be the relations of these two men? The follower could not have been a secret watcher, for there he was, plainly in view of the other. I turned it over in my mind as I walked back to the shop, and as I entered the transaction in the day-book (" key repaired, 1/-") and dropped the two shillings into the till, having some doubt as to my title to the "bob for myself". (But its presence was detected by Mr. Abraham when we compared the till with the day-book, and it was, after a brief discussion, restored to me.) Even when I was making a tentative exploration of the shop dial and restoring the vanished oil to its dry bearings and pallets, I still puzzled over this mystery until, at last, I had to dismiss it as insoluble.

But it was not insoluble, though the solution was not to appear for many weeks. Nor, when my customer disappeared round the corner, was he lost to me for ever. In fact, he re-visited our premises less than a fortnight after our first meeting, shambling into the shop just before dinner-time and greeting me as before with the enquiry:

"Guvnor in?"

"No," I replied, "he has just been called out on business, but he will be back in a few minutes." (He had, in fact, walked round, according to his custom about this time, to inspect the window of the cook's shop in Carnaby Street.) "Is there anything that I can do?"

"Don't think so," said he. "Something has gone wrong with my watch. Won't go. I expect it is a job for the guvnor."

He brought out from his pocket a large gold watch, which he passed across the counter to me. I noted that it was not the watch to which I had fitted the glass and that it had a small bruise on the edge. Then I stuck my eyeglass in my eye, and having opened, first the case and then the dome, took a glance at the part of the movement that was visible. That glance showed me that the balance-staff pivot was broken, which accounted sufficiently for the watch's failure to go. But it showed me something else—something that thrilled me to the marrow. This was no ordinary watch. It was fitted with that curious contrivance that English watchmakers call a "tourbillion"—a circular revolving carriage on which the escapement is mounted, the purpose being the avoidance of position errors. Now, I had never seen a tourbillion before, though I had read of them as curiosities of advanced watch construction, and I was delighted with this experience, and the more so when I read on the movement the signature of the inventor of this mechanism, Breguet á Paris. So absorbed was I with this mechanical wonder that I forgot the existence of the customer until he, somewhat brusquely, drew my attention to it. I apologized and briefly stated what was the matter with the watch.

"That don't mean nothing to me," he complained. "I want to know if there's much wrong with it, and what it will cost to put it right."

I was trying to frame a discreet answer when the arrival of Mr. Abraham relieved me of the necessity. I handed him the watch and my eyeglass and stood by to hear his verdict.

"Fine watch," he commented. "French make. Seems to have been dropped. One pivot broken; probably some others. Can't tell until I have taken it down. I suppose you want it repaired."

"Not if it is going to be an expensive job," said the owner. "I don't want it for use. I got a silver one what does for me. I bought this one cheap, and I wish I hadn't now. Gave a cove a flyer for it."

"Then you got it very cheap," said Mr. Abraham.

"S'pose I did, but I'd like to get my money back all the same. That's all I ask. Care to give me a flyer for it?"

Mr. Abraham's eyes glistened. All the immemorial Semitic passion for a bargain shone in them. And well it might. Even I could tell that the price asked was but a fraction of the real value. It was a tremendous temptation for Mr. Abraham.

But, rather to my surprise, he resisted it. Wistfully, he looked at the watch, and especially at the hall-mark, or its French equivalent, for nearly a minute; then, with a visible pang of regret, he closed the case and pushed the watch across the counter.

"I don't deal in second-hand watches," said he.

"Gor!" exclaimed our customer, "it ain't second hand for you. Do the little repairs what are necessary, and it's a new watch. Don't be a mug, Mister. It's the chance of a lifetime."

But Mr. Abraham shook his head and gave the watch a further push.

"Look here!" the other exclaimed, excitedly, "the thing's no good to me. I'll take four pund ten. That's giving it away, that is. Gor! You ain't going to refuse that! Well, say four pund. Four blooming jimmies! Why, the case alone is worth more than double that."

Mr. Abraham broke out into a cold sweat. It was a frightful temptation, for what the man said was literally true. But even this Mr. Abraham resisted; and eventually the owner of this priceless timepiece, realizing that "the deal was off", sulkily put it in his pocket and slouched out without another word.

"Why didn't you buy it, sir?" I asked. "It was a beautiful watch."

"So it was," he agreed, "and a splendid case—twenty-two carat gold; but it was too cheap. I would have given him twice what he asked if I had known how he came by it."

"You don't think he stole it, sir, do you?" I asked.

"I suspect someone did," he replied, "but whether this gent was the thief or only the receiver is not my affair."

It wasn't mine either; but as I recalled my former transaction with this "gent" I was inclined to form a more definite opinion; and thereupon I decided to keep my own counsel as to the details of that former transaction. But circumstances compelled me to revise that decision when the matter was reopened by someone who took a less impersonal view than that of Mr. Abraham. That someone was a tall, military-looking man who strode into our shop one evening about six weeks after the watch incident. He made no secret of his business, for, as he stepped up to the counter, he produced a card from his pocket and introduced himself with the statement:

"You are Mr. David Abraham, I think. I am Detective Sergeant Pitts."

Mr. Abraham bowed graciously, and, disregarding the card, replied that he was pleased to make the officer's acquaintance; whereupon the sergeant grinned and remarked: "You are more easily pleased than most of my clients."

Mr. Abraham smiled and regarded the officer with a wary eye. "What can I have the pleasure of doing for you?" he asked.

"That's what I want to find out," said the sergeant. "I have information that, on or about the thirteenth of May, you made a skeleton key for a man named Alfred Coomey, alias John Smith. Is that correct?"

"No," Abraham replied, in a startled voice, "certainly not. I never made a, skeleton key in my life. Don't know how to, in fact."

The officer's manner became perceptibly more dry. "My information," said he, "is that on the date mentioned, the said Coomey, or Smith, brought a jewel case to this shop and that you made a skeleton key that opened it. You say that is not true."

"Wait a moment," said Abraham, turning to me with a look of relief; "perhaps the sergeant is referring to the man you told me about who brought a box here to have a key fitted when I was out. It would be about that date."

The sergeant turned a suddenly interested eye on me and remarked:

"So this young shaver is the operator, is he? You'd better tell me all about it; and first, what sort of box was it?"

"I couldn't see much of it, sir, because it was wrapped in brown paper, and he only opened it enough for me to get at the keyhole. But it was about fifteen inches long by about nine broad, and it was covered with green leather and the keyhole plate seemed to be silver. That is all that I could see."

"And what about the key?"

"It was the wrong key, sir. It went in all right, but it wouldn't turn. So I cut away part of the bit so that it would go past the wards and then it turned and opened the lock."

The sergeant regarded me with a grim smile.

"You seem to be a rather downy young bird," said he. "So you made him a skeleton key, did you? Now, how did you come to know how to make a skeleton key?"

I explained that I had read certain books on locks and had taken a good deal of interest in the subject, a statement that Mr. Abraham was able to confirm.

"Well," said the sergeant, "it's a useful accomplishment, but a bit dangerous. Don't you be too handy with skeleton keys, or you may find yourself taking a different sort of interest in locks and keys."

But here Mr. Abraham interposed with a protest.

"There's nothing to make a fuss about, Sergeant. The man brought his box here to have a key fitted, and my lad fitted a key. There was nothing incorrect or unlawful in that."

"No, no," the sergeant admitted, "I don't say that there was. It happens that the box was not his, but, of course, the boy didn't know that. I suppose you couldn't see what was in the box?"

"No, sir. He only opened it about half an inch, just to see that it would open."

The sergeant nodded. "And as to this man, Coomey; do you think you would recognize him if you saw him again?"

"Yes, sir, I am sure I should. But I don't know that I could recognize the other man."

"The other man!" exclaimed the sergeant. "What other man?"

"The man who was waiting outside;" and here I described the curious proceedings of Mr. Coomey's satellite and so much of his appearance as I could remember.

"Ha!" said the sergeant, "that would be the foot man who gave Coomey the jewel-case. Followed him here to make sure that he didn't nip off with it. Well, you'd know Coomey again, at any rate. What about you, Mr. Abraham?"

"I couldn't recognize him, of course. I never saw him."

"You saw him later, you know, sir, when he came in with the watch," I reminded him.

"But you never told me—" Abraham began, with a bewildered stare at me; but the sergeant broke in, brusquely: "What's this about a watch, Mr. Abraham? You didn't mention that. Better not hold anything back, you know."

"I am not holding anything back," Abraham protested. "I didn't know it was the same man;" and here he proceeded to describe the affair in detail and quite correctly, while the sergeant took down the particulars in a large, funereal note-book.

"So you didn't feel inclined to invest," said he with a sly smile. "Must have wrung your heart to let a bargain like that slip."

"It did," Abraham admitted, "but, you see, I didn't know where he had got it."

"We can take it," said the sergeant, "that he got it out of that jewel-case. What sort of watch was it? Could you recognize it?"

"I am not sure that I could. It was an old watch. French make, gold case, engine-turned with a plain centre. No crest or initials."

"That's all you remember, is it? And what about you, young shaver? Would you know it again?"

"I think I should, sir. It was a peculiar watch; made by Breguet of Paris, and it had a tourbillion."

"Had a what!" exclaimed the sergeant. "Sounds like some sort of disease. What does he mean?" he added, gazing at Mr. Abraham.

The latter gave a slightly confused description of the mechanism, explaining that he had not noticed it, as he had been chiefly interested in the case; whereupon the sergeant grinned and remarked that the melting-pot value was what had also interested Mr. Coomey.

"Well," he concluded, shutting up his note-book, "that's all for the present. I expect we shall want you to identify Coomey, and the other man if you can; and when the case comes up for the adjourned hearing, you will both have to come and give evidence. But I will let you know about that later." With this and a nod to Mr. Abraham and a farewell grin at me, he took his departure.

Neither to my employer nor myself was the prospect of visiting the prison and the court at all alluring, especially as our simultaneous absence would entail shutting up the shop; and it was a relief to us both when the sergeant paid us a second, hurried visit to let us know that, as the accused men had decided to plead guilty, our testimony would not be required. So that disposed of the business so far as we were concerned.

Chapter 5 MR. PARRISH

IT has been remarked, rather obviously, that it is an ill wind that blows nobody good, and also that one man's meat is another man's poison. The application of these samples of proverbial wisdom to this history is in the respective effects of a severe attack of bronchitis upon Mr. Abraham and me. The bronchitis was his, with all its attendant disadvantages, an unmitigated evil, whereas to me it was the determining factor of a beneficial change.

While he was confined to his bed, under the care of the elderly Jewess who customarily "did for him ", my daily procedure was, when I had shut up the shop, to carry the contents of the till with the day-book to his bedroom that he might compare them and check the day's takings; and it was on one of these occasions, when he was beginning to mend, that the change in my prospects came into view.

"I have been thinking about you, Nat," said he. "You're an industrious lad, and you've done your duty by me since I've been ill, and I think I ought to do something for you in return. Now, you're set on being a clock-maker, but you can't get into the trade without serving an apprenticeship in the regular way. Supposing I were willing to take you on as my apprentice, how would you like that?"

I jumped at the offer, but suggested that there might be difficulties about the premium.

"There wouldn't be any premium," said he. "I should give you your indentures free and pay the lawyer's charges. Think it over, Nat, and see what your uncle and aunt have to say about it."

It didn't require much thinking over on my part, nor, when I arrived home in triumph and announced my good fortune, was there any difference of opinion as to the practical issue, though the respective views were differently expressed. Uncle Sam thought it "rather handsome of the old chap" (Mr. Abraham was about fifty-five), but Aunt Judy was inclined to sniff.

"He hasn't done badly all these months," said she, "with a competent journeyman for five shillings a week; and he'd be pretty well up a tree if Nat left him to get another job. Oh, he knows which side his bread's buttered."

There may have been some truth in Aunt Judy's comment, but I thought there was more wisdom in old Mr. Gollidge's contribution to the debate.

"It may be a good bargain for Mr. Abraham," said he, "but that don't make it a worse bargain for Nat. It's best that both parties should be suited."

In effect, it was agreed that the offer should be accepted; and when I conveyed this decision to Mr. Abraham, the necessary arrangements were carried through forthwith. The indentures were drawn up, on Mr. Abraham's instructions, by his solicitor, a Mr. Cohen, who brought them to the shop by appointment; and when they had been submitted to and approved by Aunt Judy, they were duly signed by both parties on a small piece of board laid on the invalid's bed, and I was then and there formally bound apprentice for the term of seven years to "the said David Abraham hereinafter called the Master", who, for his part, undertook to instruct me in the art and mystery of clock-making. I need not recite the terms of the indenture in detail, but I think Aunt Judy found them unexpectedly liberal. To my surprise, I was to be given board and lodging; I was to receive five shillings a week for the first year and my wages were to increase by half-a-crown annually, so that in my last year I should be receiving the full wage of a junior journeyman, or improver.

These were great advantages; for henceforth not only would Aunt Judy be relieved of the cost of maintaining me, but she would now have an additional room to dispose of profitably. But beyond these material benefits there were others that I appreciated even more. Now, as an apprentice, I was entitled to instruction in that part of the "art and mystery" which was concerned with the purchase of stock and material. It is true that, at the time, I did not fully realize the glorious possibilities contained in this provision. Only when, a week or so later, Mr. Abraham (hereinafter called the Master) was sufficiently recovered to descend to the shop, did they begin to dawn on me.

"We seem to be getting short of material," said he after an exploratory browse round the workshop. "I am not well enough to go out yet, so you'll have to run down to Clerkenwell and get the stuff. We'd better draw up a list of what we want."

We made out the list together, and then "the Master" gave me the addresses of the various dealers with full directions as to the route, adding, as I prepared to set forth: "Don't be any longer than you can help, Nat. I'm still feeling a bit shaky."

The truth of the latter statement was so evident that I felt morally compelled to curtail my explorations to the utmost that was possible. But it was a severe trial. For as I hurried along Clerkenwell Road I found myself in a veritable Tom Tiddler's Ground. By sheer force of will, I had to drag myself past those amazing shop windows that displayed—better and more precious than gold and silver—all the wonders of the clock-maker's art. I hardly dared to look at them. But even the hasty glance that I stole as I hurried past gave me an indelible picture of those unbelievable treasures that I can recall to this day. I see them now, though the years have made familiar the subjects of that first, ecstatic, impression: the entrancing tools and gauges, bench-drills and wheel-cutters, the lovely little watch maker's lathe, fairer to me than the Rose of Sharon or the Lily of the Valley, the polishing heads with their buffs and brushes, the assembled movements, and the noble regulator with its quicksilver pendulum, dealing with seconds as common clocks do with hours. I felt that I could have spent eternity in that blessed street.

However, my actual business, though it was but with dealers in "sundries", gave me the opportunity for more leisured observations. Besides Clerkenwell Road, it carried me to St. John's Gate and Clerkenwell Green; from which, at last, I tore myself away and set forth at top speed towards Holborn to catch the omnibus for Regent Circus (now, by the way, called Oxford Circus). But all the way, as my carriage rumbled sleepily westward, the vision of those Aladdin caves floated before my eyes and haunted me until I entered the little shop and dismissed my master to his easy-chair in the sitting- room. Then I unpacked my parcels, distributed their contents in the proper receptacles, put away the precious price-lists that I had collected for future study, and set about the ordinary business of the day.

I do not propose to follow in detail the course of my life as Mr. Abraham's apprentice. There would, in deed, be little enough to record; for the days and months slipped by unreckoned, spent with placid contentment in the work which was a pleasure to do and a satisfaction when done. But apart from the fact that there would be so little to tell, the mere circumstances of my life are not the actual subject of this history. Its purpose is, as I have explained, to trace the antecedents of certain events which occurred many years later when I was able to put my finger on the one crucial fact that was necessary to disclose the nature and authorship of a very singular crime. With the discovery of that crime, the foregoing chapters have had at least some connection; and in what follows I shall confine myself to incidents that were parts of the same train of causation.

Of these, the first was concerned with my Uncle Sam. By birth he was a Kentish man, and he had served his time in a small workshop at Maidstone, conducted by a certain James Wright. When his apprenticeship had come to an end, he had migrated to London; but he had always kept in touch with his old master and paid him occasional visits. Now, about the end of my third year, Mr. Wright, who was getting too old to carry on alone, had offered to take him into partnership; and the offer being obviously advantageous, Uncle Sam had accepted and forthwith made preparations for the move.

It was a severe blow to me, and I think also to Aunt Judy. For though I had taken up my abode with Mr. Abraham, hardly an evening had passed which did not see me seated in the familiar kitchen (but not in my original chair) facing the old Dutch clock and listening to old Mr. Gollidge's interminable yarns. That kitchen had still been my home as it had been since my infancy. I had still been a member, not only of the family, but of the household, absent, like Uncle Sam, only during working hours. But henceforth I should have no home—for Mr. Abraham's house was a mere lodging; no family circle, and, worst of all, no Aunt Judy.

It was a dismal prospect. With a sinking heart I watched the preparations for the departure and counted the days as they slid past, all too quickly; and when the last of the sands had run out and I stood on the platform with my eyes fixed on the receding train, from a window of which Aunt Judy's arm protruded, waving her damp handkerchief, I felt as might have felt some marooned mariner following with despairing gaze the hull of his ship sinking below the horizon. As the train disappeared round a curve, I turned away and could have blubbered aloud; but I was now a young man of sixteen, and a railway station is not a suitable place for the display of the emotions.

But in the days that followed, my condition was very desolate and lonely; and yet, as I can now see, viewing events with a retrospective eye, this shattering misfortune was for my ultimate good. Indeed, it yielded certain immediate benefits. For, casting about for some way of disposing of the solitary evenings, I discovered an institution known as the Working Men's College, then occupying a noble old house in Great Ormond Street; whereby it came about that the homely kitchen was replaced by austere but pleasant class rooms, and the voice of old Mr. Gollidge recounting the mutiny on the Mar' Jane by those of friendly young graduates explaining the principles of algebra and geometry, of applied mechanics and machine- drawing.

The next incident, trivial as it will appear in the telling, had an even more profound effect in the shaping of my destiny; indeed, but for that trifling occurrence, this history could never have been written. So I proceed without further apologies.

On a certain morning at the beginning of the fourth year of my apprenticeship, my master and I were in the shop together reviewing the stock when a rather irate-looking elderly gentleman entered, and, fixing a truculent eye on Mr. Abraham, demanded:

"Do you know anything about equatorial clocks?" Now, I suspect that Mr. Abraham had never heard of an equatorial clock, all his experience having been in the ordinary trade. But it would never do to say so. Accordingly he temporized.

"Well, sir, they don't, naturally, come my way very often. Were you wanting to purchase one?"

"No, I wasn't, but I've got one that needs some slight repair or adjustment. I am a maker of philosophical instruments and I have had an equatorial sent to me for overhaul. But the clock won't budge; won't start at all. Now, clocks are not philosophical instruments and I don't pretend to know anything about 'em. Can you come round and see what's the matter with the thing?"

This was, for me, a rather disturbing question. For our visitor was none other than the gentleman who had accused me of having stolen his pocket-book. I had recognized him at the first glance as he entered, and had retired discreetly into the background lest he should recognize me. But now I foresaw that I should be dragged forth into the light of day. And so it befell.

"I am afraid," Mr. Abraham said, apologetically, "that I can't leave my business just at the moment. But my assistant can come round with you and see what is wrong with your equa—with your clock."

Our customer looked at me, disparagingly, and my heart sank. But either I had changed more than I had supposed in the five years that had elapsed, or the gentleman's eyesight was not very acute (it turned out that he was distinctly near-sighted). At any rate, he showed no sign of recognition, but merely replied gruffly: "I don't want any boys monkeying about with that clock. Can't you come yourself?"

"I am afraid I really can't. But my assistant is a perfectly competent workman, and I take full responsibility for what he does."

The customer grunted and scowled at me.

"Very well," he said, with a very bad grace. "I hope he's better than he looks. Can you come with me now?"

I replied that I could; and, having collected from the workshop the few tools that I was likely to want, I went forth with him, keeping slightly in the rear and as far as possible out of his field of view. But, to my relief, he took no notice of me, trudging on doggedly and looking straight before him.

We had not far to go, for, when we had passed half way down a quiet street in the neighbourhood of Oxford Market, he halted at a door distinguished by a brass plate bearing the inscription, "W. Parrish, Philosophical Instrument Maker,", and, inserting a latch-key, admitted himself and me. Still ignoring my existence, he walked down a long passage ending in what looked like a garden door but which, when he opened it, proved to be the entrance to a large workshop in which were a lathe and several fitted benches, but, at the moment, no human occupants other than ourselves.

"There," said he, addressing me for the first time, but still not looking at me, "that's the clock. Just have a look at it, and mind you don't do any damage. I've got a letter to write, but I'll be back in a few minutes."

With this he took himself off, much to my satisfaction, and I proceeded forthwith to make a preliminary inspection. The "patient" was a rather large telescope mounted on a cast-iron equatorial stand. I had never seen an equatorial before except in the form of a book-illustration, but from this I was able easily to recognize the parts and also the clock, which was perched on the iron base with its winding-handle within reach of the observer. This handle I tried, but found it fully wound (it was a spring-driven clock, fitted with governor balls and a fly, or fan), and I then proceeded to take off the loose wooden case so as to expose the movement. A leisurely inspection of this disclosed nothing structurally amiss, but it had an appearance suggesting long disuse and was desperately in need of cleaning.

Suspecting that the trouble was simply dirt and dry pivots, I produced from my bag a little bottle of clock- oil and an oiler and delicately applied a small drop of the lubricant to the empty and dry oil-sinks and to every point that was exposed to friction. Then I gave the ball-governor a cautious turn or two, whereupon my diagnosis was immediately confirmed; for the governor, after a few sluggish revolutions as the oil worked into the bearings, started off in earnest, spinning cheerfully and in an obviously normal fashion.

This was highly satisfactory. But now my curiosity was aroused as to the exact effect of the clock on the telescope. The former was geared by means of a long spindle to the right ascension circle, and on this was a little microscope mounted opposite the index. To the eyepiece of this microscope I applied my eye, and was thrilled to observe the scale of the circle creeping almost imperceptibly past the vernier. It was a great experience. I had read of these things in the optical text books, but here was this delightful mechanism made real and active before my very eyes. I was positively en tranced as I watched that slow, majestic motion; in fact I was so preoccupied that I was unaware of Mr. Parrish's re-entry until I heard his voice; when I sprang up with a guilty start.

"Well," he demanded, gruffly, "have you found out—Oh, but I see you have."

"Yes, sir," I said, eagerly, "it's running quite well now, and the right ascension circle is turning freely, though, of course, I haven't timed it."

"Ho, you haven't, hey?" said he. "Hm. Seem to know all about it, young fellow. What was the matter with the clock?"

"It only wanted a little adjustment," I replied, evasively, for I didn't like to tell him that it was only a matter of oil. "But," I added, "it really ought to be taken to pieces and thoroughly cleaned."

"Ha!" said he, "I'll let the owner do that. If it goes, that is all that matters to me. You can tell your master to send me the bill."

He still spoke gruffly, but there was a subtle change in his manner. Evidently, my rapid performance had impressed him, and I thought it best to take the undeserved credit though I was secretly astonished that he, a practical craftsman, had not been able to do the job himself.

But I had impressed him more than I realized at the time. In fact, he had formed a ridiculously excessive estimate of my abilities, as I discovered some weeks later when he brought a watch to our shop to be cleaned and regulated, and stipulated that I should do the work myself "and not let the old fellow meddle with it". I assured him that Mr. Abraham (who was fortunately absent) was a really skilful watchmaker, but he only grunted incredulously.

"I want the job done properly," he insisted, "and I want you to do it yourself."

Evidently Mr. Abraham's evasions in the matter of equatorial clocks had been noted and had made an unfavourable impression. It was unreasonable— but Mr. Parrish was an unreasonable man—and, like most unreasonable beliefs, it was unshakable. Nor did he make any secret of his opinion when, on subsequent occasions during the next few months, he brought in various little repairs and renovations and sometimes interviewed my principal. For Mr. Parrish had no false delicacy—nor very much of any other kind. But Mr. Abraham took no offence. He knew (as Aunt Judy had observed) which side his bread was buttered; and as he was coming more and more to rely on me, he was willing enough that my merits should be recognized.

So, through those months, my relations with Mr. Parrish continued to grow closer and my future to shape itself invisibly. Little did I guess at the kind of grist that the Mills of God were grinding.

Chapter 6 FICKLE FORTUNE

"THE best-laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley." The oft-quoted words were only too apposite in their application to the plans laid by poor Mr. Abraham for the future conduct of his own affairs and mine. Gradually, as the years had passed, it had become understood between us that, when the period of my apprenticeship should come to an end, I should become his partner and he should subside into the partial retirement suitable to his increasing age.

It was an excellent plan, advantageous to us both. To him it promised a secure and restful old age, to me an assured livelihood, and we both looked forward hope fully to the time, ever growing nearer, when it should come into effect.

But, alas! it was never to be. Towards the end of my fourth year, his old enemy, bronchitis, laid its hand on him and sent him, once more, to his bedroom. But this was not the customary sub-acute attack. From the first it was evident that it was something much more formidable. I could see that for myself; and the doctor's grave looks and evasive answers to my questions confirmed my fears. Nor was evasion possible for long. On the fifth day of the illness, the ominous word "pneumonia" was spoken, and Miriam Goldstein, Mr. Abraham's housekeeper, was directed to summon the patient's relatives.

But, promptly as they responded to the call, they were too late for anything more than whispered and tearful farewells. When they arrived, with Mr. Cohen the solicitor, and I conducted them up to the sick room, my poor master was already blue-faced and comatose; and it was but a few hours later, when they passed out through the shop with their handkerchiefs to their eyes, that Mr. Cohen halted to say to me in a husky under tone, "You can put up the shutters, Polton," and then hurried away with the others.

I shall not dwell on the miserable days that followed, when I sat alone in the darkened shop, vaguely meditating on this calamity, or creeping silently up the stairs to steal a glance at the shrouded figure on the bed. Of all the mourners, none was more sincere than I. Quiet and undemonstrative as our friendship had been, a genuine affection had grown up between my master and me. And not without reason. For Mr. Abraham was not only a kindly man; he was a good man, just and fair in all his dealings, scrupulously honest, truthful and punctual, and strict in the discharge of his religious duties. I respected him deeply and he knew it; and he knew that in me he had a faithful friend and a dependable comrade. Our association had been of the happiest and we had looked forward to many years of pleasant and friendly collaboration. And now he was gone, and our plans had come to nought.

In those first days I gave little thought to my own concerns. It was my first experience of death, and my mind was principally occupied by the catastrophe itself, and by sorrow for the friend whom I had lost. But on the day after the funeral I was suddenly made aware of the full extent of the disaster as it affected me. The bearer—sympathetic enough—of the ill tidings was Mr. Cohen, who had called to give me my instructions.

"This is a bad look-out for you, Polton," said he. "Mr. Abraham ought to have made some provision on your behalf, and I think he meant to. But it was all so sudden. It doesn't do to put off making your will or drafting a new one."

"Then, how do I stand, sir?" I asked.

"The position is that your apprenticeship is dissolved by your master's death, and I, as the executor, have to sell the business as a going concern, according to the provisions of the will, which was made before you were apprenticed. Of course, I shall keep you on, if you are willing, to run the business until it is sold; perhaps the purchaser may agree to take over your indentures or employ you as assistant. Meanwhile, I will pay you a pound a week. Will that suit you?"

I agreed, gladly enough, and only hoped that the purchaser might not make too prompt an appearance. But in this I was disappointed, for, at the end of the third week, Mr. Cohen notified me that the business was sold, and on the following day brought the new tenant to the premises; a rather raffish middle-aged man who smelt strongly of beer and bore the name of Stokes.

"I have explained matters to Mr. Stokes," said Mr. Cohen, "and have asked him if he would care to take over your indentures; but I am sorry to say that he is not prepared to. However, I leave you to talk the matter over with him. Perhaps you can persuade him to change his mind. Meanwhile, here are your wages up to the end of the week, and I wish you good luck."

With this he departed, and I proceeded, forthwith, to try my powers of persuasion on Mr. Stokes. "It would pay you to take me on, sir," I urged. "You'd get a very cheap assistant. For, though I am only an apprentice, I have a good knowledge of the trade. I could do all the repairs quite competently. I can take a watch down and clean it; in fact, Mr. Abraham used to give me all the watches to clean."

I thought that would impress him, but it didn't. It merely amused him.

"My good lad," he chuckled, "you are all behind the times. We don't take watches down, nowadays, to clean 'em. We just take off the dial, wind 'em up, wrap 'em in a rag soaked in benzine, and put 'em in a tin box and let 'em clean, themselves."

I gazed at him in horror. "That doesn't seem a very good way, sir," I protested. "Mr. Abraham always took a watch down to clean it."

"Ha!" Mr. Stokes replied with a broad grin, "of course he would. That's how they used to do 'em at Ur of the Chaldees when he was serving his time. Hey? Haw haw! No, my lad. My wife and I can run this business. You'll have to look elsewhere for a billet."

"And about my bedroom, sir. Could you arrange to let me keep it for the present? I don't mean for nothing, of course."

"You can have it for half-a-crown a week until you have found another place. Will that do?"

I thanked him and accepted his offer; and that concluded our business, except that I spent an hour or two showing him where the various things were kept, and in stowing my tools and other possessions in my bedroom. Then I addressed myself to the problem of finding a new employer; and that very afternoon I betook myself to Clerkenwell and began a round of all the dealers and clock-makers to whom I was known.

It was the first of many a weary pilgrimage, and its experiences were to be repeated in them all. No one wanted a half-finished apprentice. My Clerkenwell friends were all master craftsmen and they employed only experienced journeymen, and the smaller tradesmen to whom the dealers referred me were mostly able to conduct their modest establishments without assistance. It was a miserable experience which, even now, I look back on with discomfort. Every morning I set out, with dwindling hope, to search unfamiliar streets for clockmakers' shops or to answer obviously inapplicable advertisements in the trade journals; and every evening I wended—not homewards, for I had no home—but to the hospitable common room of the Working Men's College, where, for a few pence, I could get a large cup of tea and a slab of buttered toast to supplement the scanty scraps of food that I had allowed myself during the day's wanderings. But presently even this was beyond my means, and I must needs, for economy, buy myself a half-quartern" household" loaf to devour in my cheerless bedroom to the accompaniment of a draught from the water-jug.

In truth, my condition was becoming desperate. My tiny savings—little more than a matter of shillings—were fast running out in spite of an economy in food which kept me barely above the starvation level. For I had to reserve the rent for my bedroom, that I might not be shelterless as well as famished, so long as any fraction of my little hoard remained. But as I counted the pitiful collection of shillings and sixpences at the bottom of my money-box—soon they needed no counting—I saw that even this was coming to an end and that I was faced by sheer destitution. Now and again the idea of applying for help to Aunt Judy or to Mr. Beeby drifted through my mind; but either from pride or obstinacy or some more respectable motive, I always put it away from me. I suppose that, in the end, I should have had to pocket my pride, or whatever it was, and make the appeal; but it was ordained otherwise.

My capital had come down to four shillings and sixpence, which included the rent for my bedroom due in five days' time, when I took a last survey of my position. The end seemed to be fairly in sight. In five days I should be penniless and starving, without even a night's shelter. I had sought work in every likely and unlikely place and failed ever to come within sight of it. Was there anything more to be done? Any possibility of employment that I had overlooked? As I posed the question again and again, I could find no answer but a hopeless negative. And then, suddenly, I thought of Mr. Parrish. He at least knew that I was a workman. Was it possible that he might find me something to do?

It was but a forlorn hope; for he was not a clock- maker, and of his trade I knew nothing. Nevertheless, no sooner had the idea occurred to me than I proceeded to give effect to it. Having smartened myself up as well as I could, I set forth for Oxford Market as briskly as if I had a regular appointment; and having the good luck to find him at home, put my case to him as persuasively as I was able in a few words.

He listened to me with his usual frown of impatience, and, when I had finished, replied in his customary gruff manner:

"But, my good lad, what do you expect of me? I am not a clock-maker and you are not an instrument-maker. You'd be no use to me."

My heart sank, but I made one last, despairing effort. "Couldn't you give me some odd jobs, sir, such as filing and polishing, to save the time of the skilled men? I shouldn't want much in the way of wages."

He began to repeat his refusal, more gruffly than before. And then, suddenly, he paused; and my heart thumped with almost agonized hope.

"I don't know," he said, slowly and with a considering air. "Perhaps I might be able to find you a job. I've just lost one of my two workmen and I'm rather short-handed at the moment. If you can use a file and know how to polish brass, I might give you some of the rough work to do. At any rate, I'll give you a trial and see what you can do. But I can't pay you a workman's wages. You'll have to be satisfied with fifteen shillings a week. Will that do for you?"

Would it do! It was beyond my wildest hopes. I could have fallen on his neck and kissed his boots (not simultaneously, though I was fairly supple in the joints in those days). Tremulously and gratefully, I accepted his terms, and would have said more, but he cut me short.

"Very well. You can begin work to-morrow morning at nine, and you'll get your wages when you knock off on Saturday. That's all. Off you go."

I wished him "good morning!" and off I went, in an ecstasy of joy and relief reflecting incredulously on my amazing good fortune. Fifteen shillings a week! I could hardly believe that my ears had not deceived me. It was a competence. It was positive affluence.

But it was prospective affluence. My actual possessions amounted to four shillings and sixpence; but it was all my own, for the half-crown that had been ear marked for rent was now available for food. Still, this was Monday morning and wages were payable on Saturday night, so I should have to manage on nine pence a day until then. Well, that was not so bad. In those days, you could get a lot of food for ninepence if you weren't too particular and knew where to go. At the cook's shop in Carnaby Street where I used to buy Mr. Abraham's mid-day meal and my own, we often fed sumptuously on sixpence apiece; and now the recollection of those simple banquets sent me hurrying thither, spurred on by ravenous hunger and watering at the mouth as imagination pictured that glorious, steamy window.

As I turned into Great Marlborough Street, I en countered Mr. Cohen, just emerging from the Police Court, where he did some practice as advocate. He stopped to ask what I was doing; and, when I had announced my joyful tidings, he went on to cross- examine me on my experiences of the last few weeks, listening attentively to my account of them and looking at me very earnestly.

"Well, Polton," he said, "you haven't been putting on a great deal of flesh. How much money have you got?

I told him, and he rapidly calculated the possibilities of expenditure.

"Ninepence a day. You won't fatten a lot on that. Where did you get the money?"

"I used to put by a little every week when I was at work, sir," I explained; and I could see that my thrift commended itself to him.

"Wise lad," said he, in his dry, legal way. "The men who grow rich are the men who spend less than they earn. Come and have a bit of dinner with me. I'll pay," he added, as I hesitated.

I thanked him most sincerely, for I was famished, as I think he had guessed, and together we crossed the road to a restaurant kept by a Frenchman named Paragot. I had never been in it, but had sometimes looked in with awe through the open doorway at the sybarites within, seated at tables enclosed in pews and consuming unimaginable delicacies. As we entered, Mr. Cohen paused for a few confidential words with the proprietor's sprightly and handsome daughter, the purport of which I guessed when the smiling damsel deposited our meal on the table and I contrasted Mr. Cohen's modest helping with the Gargantuan pile of roast beef. Yorkshire pudding and baked potatoes which fairly bulged over the edge of my plate.

"Have a drop of porter," said Mr. Cohen. "Do you good once in a way;" and, though I would sooner have had water, I thought it proper to accept. But if the taste of the beer was disagreeable, the pleasant pewter tankard in which it was served was a refreshment to the eye. And I think it really did me good. At any rate, when we emerged into Great Marlborough Street, I felt like a giant refreshed; which is something to say for a young man of four feet eleven.

As we stood for a moment outside the restaurant, Mr. Cohen put his hand in his pocket and produced a half sovereign.

"I'm going to lend you ten shillings, Polton," said he. "Better take it. You may want it. You can pay me back a shilling a week. Pay at my office. If I am not there, give it to my clerk and make him give you a receipt. There you are. That's all right. Wish you luck in your new job. So long."

With a flourish of the hand, he bustled off in the direction of the Police Court, leaving me grasping the little gold coin and choking with gratitude to this—I was going to say "Good Samaritan", but I suppose that would be a rather left-handed compliment to an orthodox Jew with the royal name of Cohen.

I spent a joyous afternoon rambling about the town and looking in shop windows, and, as the evening closed in, I repaired to a coffee-shop in Holborn and consumed a gigantic cup of tea and two thick slices of bread and butter ("pint of tea and two doorsteps ", in the vernacular). Then I turned homeward, if I may use the expression in connection with a hired bedroom, resolving to get a long night's rest so as to be fresh for the beginning of my new labours in the morning.

Chapter 7 INTRODUCES A KEY AND A CALENDAR

WHEN I entered the workshop which was to be the scene of my labours for the next few months, I found in it two other occupants: an elderly workman who was engaged at a lathe and a youth of about my own age who was filing up some brass object that was fixed in a vice. They both stopped work when I appeared, and looked at me with evident curiosity, and both greeted me in their respective ways; the workman with a dry "good morning", and the other with a most peculiar grin.

"You're the new hand, I suppose," the former suggested, adding, "I don't know what sort of a hand you are. Can you file flat?"

I replied that I could, whereupon he produced a rough plate of brass and handed it to me.

"There," said he, "that casting has got to be filed smooth and true and then it's got to be polished. Let's see what you can do with it."

Evidently, he had no extravagant expectations as to my skill, for he watched me critically as I put my tool-bag on the bench and selected a suitable file from my collection (but I could see that he viewed the bag with approval); and every few minutes he left his work to see how I was getting on. Apparently, the results of his observations were reassuring, for his visits gradually became less frequent, and finally he left me to finish the job alone.

During that first day I saw Mr. Parrish only once, for he did his own work in a small private workshop, which was always kept locked in his absence, as it contained a very precious dividing machine, with which he engraved the graduations on the scales of measuring instruments such as theodolites and sextants. This, with some delicate finishing and adjusting, was his province in the business, the larger, constructive work being done by his workmen. But on this occasion he came into the main workshop just before" knocking-off time" to hear the report on my abilities.

"Well, Kennet," he demanded in his gruff way, "How has your new hand got on? Any good?"

Mr. Kennet regarded me, appraisingly, and after a brief consideration, replied: "Yes, I think he'll do."

It was not extravagant praise; but Mr. Kennet was a man of few words. That laconic verdict established me as a permanent member of the staff.

In the days that followed, a quiet friendliness grew up between us. Not that Mr. Kennet was a specially prepossessing person. Outwardly a grey-haired, shrivel led, weasel-faced little man, dry and taciturn in manner and as emotionless as a potato, he had his kindly impulses, though they seldom came to the surface. But he was a first-class craftsman who knew his trade from A to Z, and measured the worth of other men in terms of their knowledge and skill. The liking that, from the first, he took to me, arose, I think, from his observation of my interest in my work and my capacity for taking pains. At any rate, in his undemonstrative way, he made me aware of his friendly sentiments, principally by letting me into the mysteries and secrets of the trade and giving me various useful tips from the storehouse of his experience.

My other companion in the workshop was the youth whom I have mentioned, who was usually addressed and referred to as Gus, which I took to represent Augustus. His surname was Haire, and I understood that he was some kind of relation of Mr. Parrish's; apparently a nephew, as he always spoke of Mr. Parrish as his uncle, though he addressed him as "Sir." His position in the workshop appeared to be that of a pupil, learning the business—as I gathered from him—with a view to partnership and succession. He lived on the premises, though he frequently went away for the week-ends to his home, which was at Malden in Essex.

The mutual liking of Mr. Kennet and myself found no counterpart in the case of Gus Haire. I took an instant distaste of him at our first meeting; which is rather remarkable, since I am not in the least addicted to taking sudden likes or dislikes. It may have been his teeth, but I hope not; for it would be unpardonable to allow a mere physical defect to influence one's judgment of a man's personal worth. But they were certainly rather unpleasant teeth and most peculiar. I have never seen anything like them, before or since. They were not decayed. Apparently, they were quite sound and strong, but they were covered with brown spots and mottlings which made them look like tortoise-shell. They were also rather large and prominent; which was unfortunate, as Gus was distinctly sensitive about them. Whence the remarkable grin which had so impressed me when we first met. It was habitual with him, and it startled me afresh every time. It began as a fine broad grin displaying the entire outfit of tortoise-shell. Then suddenly, he became conscious of his teeth, and in an instant the grin was gone. The effect was extraordinary, and not by any means agreeable.

Still, as I have said, I hope it was not the teeth that prejudiced me against him. There were other, and much better, reasons for my disliking him. But these developed later. My initial distaste of him may have been premonitory. In some unimaginable way, I seemed instinctively to have recognized an enemy.

As to his hardly-concealed dislike of me, I took it to be merely jealousy of Kennet's evident preference. For that thorough-going craftsman had no use for Gus. The lad was lazy, inattentive, and a superlatively bad workman; faults enough to damn him in Kennet's eyes. But there were other matters, which will transpire in their proper place.

In these early days I was haunted by constant anxiety as to the security of my position. There was really not enough for me to do. Mr. Parrish was getting on in years and some of his methods were rather obsolete. Newer firms with more up-to-date plant were attracting orders that would formerly have come to him, so that his business was not what it had been. But even of the work that was being done I could, at first, take but a small share. Later, when I had learned more of the trade, Kennet was able to turn over to me a good deal of his own work, so that I became, in effect, something like a competent journeyman. But in the first few weeks I often found myself with nothing to do, and was terrified lest Mr. Parrish should think that I was not earning my wage.

It was a dreadful thought. The idea of being set adrift once more to tramp the streets, hungry and despairing, became a sort of permanent nightmare. I worked with intense care and effort to learn my new trade and felt myself making daily progress. But still "Black Care rode behind the horseman". Something had to be done to fill up the hours of idleness and make me seem to be worth my pay. But what?

I began by taking down the workshop clock and cleaning it. Then I took off the lock of the workshop door, which had ceased to function, and made it as good as new; which seemed at the time to be a fortunate move, for, just as I was finishing it, Mr. Parrish came into the workshop and stopped to watch my proceedings.

"Ha!" said he, "so you are a locksmith, too. That's lucky, because I have got a job for you. The key of my writing-table has broken in the lock and I can't get the drawer open. Come and see what you can do with it."

I picked up my tool-bag and followed him to his workshop (which also served as an office), where he showed me the closed drawer with the stem of the broken key projecting about a quarter of an inch.

"There must be something wrong with the lock," said he, "for the key wouldn't turn, and when I gave it an extra twist it broke off. Flaw in the key, I expect."

I began by filing a small flat on the projecting stump, and then, producing a little hand-vice from my bag, applied it to the stump and screwed it up tight. With this I was able to turn the key a little backwards and forwards, but there was evidently something amiss with the lock, as it would turn no further. With my oiler, I insinuated a touch of oil on to the bit of the key and as much of the levers as I could reach and continued to turn the key to and fro, watched intently by Mr. Parrish and Gus (who had left his work to come and look on). At last, when I ventured to use a little more force, the resistance gave way and the key made a complete turn with an audible click of the lock.

As I withdrew the key, Mr. Parrish pulled out the drawer, which, as I saw, contained, among other things, a wooden bowl half-filled with a most untidy collection of mixed money: shillings, half-crowns, coppers, and at least two half-sovereigns. I looked with surprise at the disorderly heap and thought how it would have shocked poor Mr. Abraham.

"Well," said Mr. Parrish, "what's to be done? Can you make a new key?"

"Yes, sir," I replied, "or I could braze the old one together."

"No," he replied, "I've had enough of that key. And what about the lock?"

"I shall have to take that off in any case, because the ironmonger won't sell me a key-blank unless I show the lock. But it will have to be repaired."

"Very well," he agreed. "Take it off and get the job done as quickly as you can. I don't want to leave my cash-drawer unlocked."

I had the lock off in a few moments and took it away, with the broken key, to the workshop, where I spent a pleasant half-hour taking it to pieces, cleaning it, and doing the trifling repairs that it needed; and all the time, Gus Haire watched me intently, following me about like a dog and plying me with questions. I had never known him to be so interested in anything. He even accompanied me to the ironmonger's and looked on with concentrated attention while I selected the blank. Apparently, locksmithing was more to his taste than the making of philosophical instruments.

But the real tit-bit of the entertainment for him was the making of the new key. His eyes fairly bulged as he followed the details of the operation. I had in my bag a tin box containing a good-sized lump of stiff moulding- wax, which latter I took out, and, laying it on the bench, rolled it out flat with a file-handle. Then, on the flat surface, I made two impressions of the broken key, one of the profile of the bit and the other of the end, showing the hole in the "pipe"; and, having got my pattern, I fell to work on the blank. First, I drilled out the bore of the pipe, then I filed up the blank roughly to the dimensions with the aid of callipers, and, when I had brought it to the approximate size, I began carefully to shape the bit and cut out the "steps" for the levers, testing the result from time to time by fitting it into the impressions.

At length, when it appeared to fit both impressions perfectly, I tried it in the lock and found that it entered easily and turned freely to and fro, moving the bolt and levers without a trace of stiffness. Naturally, I was quite pleased at having got it right at the first trial. But my satisfaction was nothing compared with that of my watcher, who took the lock from me and turned the key to and fro with as much delight as if he had made it himself. Even Kennett, attracted by Gus's exclamations, left his work (he was making a reflecting level—just a simple mirror with a hole through it, mounted in a suspension frame) to come and see what it was all about.

But Gus's curiosity seemed now to be satisfied, for, when I took the lock and the new key to Mr. Parrish's workroom, he did not accompany me. Apparently, he was not interested in the mere refixing of the lock; whereas Mr. Parrish watched that operation with evident relief. When I had finished, he tried the key several times, first with the drawer open and then with it closed, finally locking the drawer and pocketing the key with a grunt of satisfaction.

"Where's the broken key?" he demanded as I prepared to depart. "I'd better have that."

I ran back to the workshop, where I found Gus back at his vice, industriously filing something, and Kennet still busy with his level. The latter looked round at me as I released the key from the hand-vice, and I explained that I had forgotten to give the broken key to Mr. Parrish. He nodded and still watched me as I retired with it in my hand to return it to its owner; and when I came back to the workshop he put down his level and strolled across to my bench, apparently to inspect the slab of wax. I, also, inspected it, and saw at once that it was smaller than when I had left it; and I had no doubt that the ingenious Gus had "pinched" a portion of it for the purpose of making some private experiments. But I made no remark; and, having obliterated the key-impressions with my thumb, I peeled the wax off the bench, squeezed it up into a lump, and put it into my bag. Whereupon Kennet went back to his level without a word.

But my suspicions of Master Gus's depredations were confirmed a few days later when, Kennet and I happening to be alone in the workshop, he came close to me and asked, in a low tone: "Did you miss any of that wax of yours the other day?"

"Yes, I did; and I'm afraid I suspected that Gus had helped himself to a bit."

"You were right," said Kennet. "He cut a piece off and pocketed it. But before he cut it off, he made two impressions of the key on it. I saw him. He thought I didn't, because my back was turned to him. But I was working on that level, and I was able to watch him in the mirror."

I didn't much like this, and said so.

"More don't I," said Kennet. "I haven't said anything about it, because it ain't my concern. But it may be yours. So you keep a look-out. And remember that I saw him do it."

With this and a significant nod he went back to the lathe and resumed his work.

The hardly-veiled hint that "it might be my concern" was not very comfortable to reflect on, but there was nothing to be done beyond keeping my tool-bag locked and the key in my pocket, which I was careful to do; and as the weeks passed, and nothing unusual happened, the affair gradually faded out of my mind.

Meanwhile, conditions were steadily improving. I had now learned to use the lathe and even to cut a quite respectable screw, and, as my proficiency in creased, and with it my value as a workman, I began to feel my position more secure. And even when there was nothing for me to do in the workshop, Mr. Parrish found me odd jobs about the house, repairing locks, cleaning his watch, and attending to the various clocks, so that I was still earning my modest wage. In this way I came by a piece of work which interested me immensely at the time and which had such curious consequences later that I venture to describe it in some detail.

It was connected with a long-case, or "grandfather" clock, which stood in Mr. Parrish's workroom a few feet from his writing-table. I suspect that it had not been cleaned within the memory of man, and, naturally, there came a time when dirt and dry pivots brought it to a standstill. Even then, a touch of oil would probably have kept it going for a month or two, but I made no such suggestion. I agreed emphatically with Mr. Parrish's pronouncement that the clock needed a thorough overhaul.

"And while you've got it to pieces," he continued, "perhaps you could manage to fit it with a calendar attachment. Do you think that would be possible?"

I pointed out that it had a date disc, but he dismissed that with contempt.

"Too small. Want a microscope to see it. No, no, I mean a proper calendar with the day of the week and the day of the month in good bold characters that I can read when I am sitting at the table. Can you do that?"

I suggested that the striking work would be rather in the way, but he interrupted: "Never mind the striking work. I never use it. I hate a jangling noise in my room. Take it off if it's in the way. But I should like a calendar if you could manage it."

Of course, there was no difficulty. A modification of the ordinary watch-calendar movement would have answered. But when I described it, he raised objections.

"How long does it take to change?" he asked.

"About half an hour, I should think. It changes during the night."

"That's no use," said he. "The date changes in an instant, on the stroke of midnight. A minute to twelve is, say, Monday; a minute after twelve is Tuesday. That ought to be possible. You make a clock strike at the right moment; why couldn't you do the same with a calendar? It must be possible."

It probably was; but no calendar movement known to me would do it. I should have to invent one on an entirely different principle if my powers were equal to the task. It was certainly a problem; but the very difficulty of it was an attraction, and in the end I promised to turn it over in my mind, and meanwhile I proceeded to take the clock out of its case and bear it away to the workshop. There, under the respectful observation of Gus and Mr. Kennet, I quickly took it down and fell to work on the cleaning operations; but the familiar routine hardly occupied my attention. As I worked, my thoughts were busy with the problem that I had to solve, and gradually my ideas began to take a definite shape. I saw, at once, that the mechanism required must be in the nature of an escapement; that is to say, that there must be a constant drive and a periodical release. I must not burden the reader with mechanical details, but it is necessary that I should give an outline of the arrangement at which I arrived after much thought and a few tentative pencil drawings.

Close to the top of the door of the case I cut two small windows, one to show the date numbers and the other the days of the week. Below these was a third window for the months, the names of which were painted in white on a band of black linen which travelled on a pair of small rollers. But these rollers were turned by hand and formed no part of the mechanism. There was no use in complicating the arrangements for the sake of a monthly change.

And now for the mechanism itself! The names of the days were painted in white on a black drum, or roller, three inches in diameter, and the date numbers were painted on an endless black ribbon which was carried by another drum of the same thickness but narrower. This drum had at each edge seven little pins, or pegs; and the ribbon had, along each edge, a series of small eyelet holes which fitted loosely on the pins, so that, as the drum turned, it carried the ribbon along for exactly the right distance. Both drums were fixed friction-tight on a long spindle, which also carried at its middle a star wheel with seven long, slender teeth, and at its end a ratchet pulley over which ran a cord carrying the small driving-weight. Thus the calendar movement had its own driving-power and made no demands on that of the clock.

So much for the calendar itself; and now for its connection with the clock. The mechanism "took off" from the hour-wheel which carries the hour-hand and makes a complete turn in twelve hours, and which, in this clock, had forty teeth. Below this, and gearing with it, I fixed another wheel, which had eighty teeth, and consequently turned once in twenty-four hours. I will call this "the day-wheel." On this wheel I fixed, friction-tight, so that it could be moved round to adjust it, what clockmakers call a "snail"; which is a flat disc cut to a spiral shape, so that it looks like the profile of a snail's shell. Connecting the snail with the calendar was a flat, thin steel bar (I actually made it from the blade of a hack saw) which I will call" the pallet-bar." It moved on a pivot near its middle and had at its top end a small pin which rested against the edge of the snail and was pressed against it by a very weak spring. At its lower end it had an oblong opening with two small ledges, or pallets, for the teeth of the star-wheel to rest on. I hope I have made this fairly clear. And now let us see how it worked.

We will take the top end first. As the clock "went," it turned the snail round slowly (half as fast as the hour-hand); and as the snail turned, it gradually pushed the pin of the pallet-bar, which was resting against it, farther and farther from its centre, until the end of the spiral was reached. A little further turn and the pin dropped off the end of the spiral ("the step") down towards the centre. Then the pushing-away movement began again. Thus it will be seen that the rotation of the snail (once in twenty-four hours) caused the top end of the pallet-bar to move slowly outwards and then drop back with a jerk.

Now let us turn to the lower end of the pallet-bar. Here, as I have said, was an oblong opening, interrupted by two little projecting ledges, or pallets. Through this opening the star-wheel projected, one of its seven teeth resting (usually) on the upper pallet, and held there by

the power of the little driving weight. As the snail turned and pushed the top end of the pallet-bar outwards, the lower end moved in the opposite directtion, and the pallet slid along under the tooth of the wheel. When the tooth reached the end of the upper pallet, it dropped off on to the lower pallet and remained there for a few minutes. Then, when the pin dropped into the step of the snail, the lower pallet was suddenly withdrawn from under the tooth, which left the wheel free to turn until the next tooth was stopped by the upper pallet. Thus the wheel made the seventh of a revolution; but so, also, did the two drums which were on the same spindle, with the result that a new day and date number were brought to their respective windows; and the change occupied less than a second.

The above is only a rough sketch of the mechanism, omitting the minor mechanical details, and I hope it has not wearied the reader. To me, I need not say, the work was a labour of love which kept me supremely happy. But it also greatly added to my prestige in the workshop. Kennet was deeply impressed by it, and Gus followed the construction with the keenest interest and with a display of mechanical intelligence that rather surprised me. Even Mr. Parrish looked into the workshop from time to time and observed my progress with an approving grunt.

When the construction was finished, I brought the case into the workshop and there set the clock up—at first without the dial—to make the final adjustments. I set the snail to discharge at twelve noon, as midnight was not practicable, and the three of us used to gather round the clock as the appointed hour approached, for the gratification of seeing the day and date change in an instant at the little windows. When the adjustment was perfect, I stopped the clock at ten in the morning and we carried it in triumph to its usual abiding place, where, when I had tried the action to see that the tick was even, I once more stopped the pendulum and would have left it to the care of its owner. But Mr. Parrish insisted that I should come in in the evening and start it myself and further, that I should stay until midnight and see that the date did actually change at the correct moment. To which I agreed very readily; whereby I not only gained a supper that was a banquet compared with my customary diet and had the satisfaction of seeing the date change on the very stroke of midnight, but I received such commendations from my usually undemonstrative employer that I began seriously to consider the possibility of an increase in my wages in the not too distant future.

But, alas! the future had something very different in store for me.

Chapter 8 MR. PARRISH REMEMBERS

FOR a month or two after the agreeable episode just recounted, the stream of my life flowed on tranquilly and perhaps rather monotonously. But I was quite happy. My position in Mr. Parrish's establishment seemed fairly settled and I had the feeling that my employer set some value on me as a workman. Not, however, to the extent of increasing my salary, though of this I still cherished hopes. But I did not dare to raise the question; for at least I had an assured livelihood, if a rather meagre one, and so great was my horror of being thrown out of employment that I would have accepted the low wage indefinitely rather than risk my security. So I worked on contentedly, poor as a church mouse, but always hoping for better times.

But at last came the explosion which blew my security into atoms. It was a disastrous affair and foolish, too; and what made it worse was that it was my own hand that set the match to the gunpowder. Very vividly do I recall the circumstances, though, at first, they seemed trivial enough. A man from a tool-maker's had come into the workshop to inspect a new slide-rest that his firm had fitted to the lathe. When he had examined it and pronounced it satisfactory, he picked up the heavy bag that he had brought and was turning towards the door when Mr. Parrish said:

"If you have got the account with you, I may as well settle up now."

The man produced the account from his pocket-book and handed it to Mr. Parrish, who glanced at it and then, diving into his coat-tail pocket, brought out a leather wallet (which I instantly recognized as an old acquaintance) and, extracting from it a five-pound note, handed the latter to the man in exchange for the receipt and a few shillings change. As our visitor put away the note, Mr. Parrish said to me: "Take Mr. Soames's bag, Polton, and carry it out to the cab."

I picked up the bag, which seemed to be filled with tool-makers' samples, and conveyed it out to the waiting "growler", where I stowed it on the front seat, and, waiting with the door open, saw Mr. Soames safely into the vehicle and shut him in. Returning into the house, I encountered Mr. Parrish, who was standing at the front door; and then it was that some demon of mischief impelled me to an act of the most perfectly asinine folly.

"I see, sir," I said with a fatuous smirk, "that you still carry your wallet in your coat-tail pocket."

He halted suddenly and stared at me with a strange, startled expression that brought me to my senses with a jerk. But it was too late. I saw that the fat was in the fire, though I didn't guess how much fat there was or how big was the fire. After a prolonged stare, he commanded, gruffly:

"Come into my room and tell me what you mean." I followed him in, miserably, and when he had shut the door, I explained:

"I was thinking, sir, of what the inspector at the police station said to you about carrying your wallet in your tail pocket. Don't you remember, sir?"

"Yes," he replied, glaring at me ferociously, "I remember. And I remember you, too, now that you have reminded me. I always thought that I had seen you before. So you are the young rascal who was found in possession of the stolen property."

"But I didn't steal it, sir," I pleaded.

"Ha!" said he. "So you said at the time. Very well. That will do for the present."

I sneaked out of the room very crest-fallen and apprehensive. "For the present!" What did he mean by that? Was there more trouble to come? I looked nervously in at the workshop, but as the other occupants had now gone to dinner, I took myself off and repaired to an a-la-mode beef shop in Oxford Market, where I fortified myself with a big basinful of the steaming compound and "topped up" with a halfpennyworth of apples from a stall in the market. Then I whiled away the remainder of the dinner hour rambling about the streets, trying to interest myself in shop windows, but unable to rid myself of the haunting dread of what loomed in the immediate future.

At length, as the last minutes of the dinner hour ran out, I crept back timorously, hoping to slink unnoticed along the passage to the workshop. But even as I entered, my forebodings were realized. For there was my employer, evidently waiting for me, and a glance at his face prepared me for instant dismissal. He motioned to me silently to follow him into his room, and I did so in the deepest dejection; but when I entered and found a third person in the room, my dejection gave place to something like terror. For that third person was Detective Sergeant Pitts.

He recognized me instantly, for he greeted me drily by name. Then, characteristically, he came straight to the point.

"Mr. Parrish alleges that you have opened his cash drawer with a false key and have, from time to time, taken certain monies from it. Now, before you say any thing, I must caution you that anything you may say will be taken down in writing and may be used in evidence against you. So be very careful. Do you wish to say anything?"

"Certainly I do," I replied, my indignation almost overcoming my alarm. "I say that I have no false key, that I have never touched the drawer except in Mr. Parrish's presence, and that I have never taken any money whatsoever."

The sergeant made a note of my reply in a large black note-book and then asked: "Is it true that you made a key to fit this drawer?"

"Yes, for Mr. Parrish; and he has that key and the broken one from which it was copied. I made no other key."

"How did you make that key? By measurements only, or did you make a squeeze?"

"I made a squeeze from the broken key, and, as soon as the job was finished, I destroyed it."

"That's what he says," exclaimed Mr. Parrish, "but it's a lie. He kept the squeeze and made another key from it."

The sergeant cast a slightly impatient glance at him and remarked, drily: "We are taking his statement," and continued:

"Now, Polton, Mr. Parrish says that he marked some, or all, of the money in that drawer with a P. scratched just behind the head. If you have got any money about you, perhaps you would like to show it to us."

"Like, indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Parrish. "He'll have to be searched whether he likes it or not."

The sergeant looked at him angrily, but, as I proceeded to turn out my pockets and lay the contents on the table, he made no remark until Mr. Parrish was about to pounce on the coins that I had laid down, when he said, brusquely: "Keep your hands off that money, Mr. Parrish. This is my affair."

Then he proceeded to examine the coins, one by one, laying them down again in two separate groups. Having finished, he looked at me steadily and said:

"Here, Polton, are five coins: three half-crowns and a shilling and a sixpence. All the half-crowns are marked with a P. The other coins are not marked. Can you explain how you came by those half-crowns?"

"Yes, sir. I received them from Mr. Parrish when he paid me my wages last Saturday. He gave me four half-crowns, two forms and a shilling; and he took the money from that drawer."

The sergeant looked at Mr. Parrish. "Is that correct?" he asked.

"I paid him his wages—fifteen shillings—but I don't admit that those are the coins I gave him."

"But," the sergeant persisted, "did you take the money from that drawer?"

"Of course I did," snapped Parrish. "It's my petty-cash drawer."

"And did you examine the coins to see whether they were marked?"

"I expect I did, but I really don't remember."

"He did not," said I. "He just counted out the money and handed it to me."

The sergeant gazed at my employer with an expression of bewilderment.

"Well, of all—" he began, and then stopped and began again: "But what on earth was the use of marking the money and then paying it out in the ordinary way?"

The question stumped Mr. Parrish for the moment. Then, having mumbled something about "a simple precaution", he returned to the subject of the squeeze and the key. But the sergeant cut him short.

"It's no use just making accusations without proof. You've got nothing to go on. The marked money is all bunkum, and as to the key, you are simply guessing. You've not made out any case at all."

"Oh, haven't I?" Parrish retorted. "What about that key and the lock that he repaired and the stolen money? I am going to prosecute him, and I call on you to arrest him now."

"I'm not going to arrest him," said the sergeant; "but if you still intend to prosecute, you'd better come along and settle the matter with the inspector at the station. You come, too, Polton, so that you can answer any questions."

Thus did history repeat itself. Once more, after five years, did I journey to the same forbidding destination in company with the same accuser and the guardian of the law. When we arrived at the police station and were about to enter, we nearly collided with a smartly dressed gentleman who was hurrying out, and whom I recognized as my late benefactor, Mr. Cohen. He recognized me at the same moment and stopped short with a look of surprise at the sergeant.

"Why, what's this, Polton?" he demanded. "What are you doing here?"

"He is accused by this gentleman," the sergeant explained, "of having stolen money from a drawer by means of a false key."

"Bah!" exclaimed Mr. Cohen. "Nonsense. He is a most respectable lad. I know him well and can vouch for his excellent character."

"You don't know him as well as I do," said Mr. Parrish, viciously.

Mr. Cohen turned on him a look of extreme disfavour and then addressed the sergeant.

"If there is going to be a prosecution, Sergeant, I shall undertake the defence. But I should like to have a few words with Polton and hear his account of the affair before the charge is made."

To this Mr. Parrish was disposed to object, muttering something about" collusion ", but, as the inspector was engaged at the moment, the sergeant thrust my adviser and me into a small, empty room and shut the door. Then Mr. Cohen began to ply me with questions, and so skilfully were they framed that in a few minutes he had elicited, not only the immediate circumstances, but also the material antecedents, including the incident of the wax squeeze and Mr. Kennet's observations with the reflecting level. I had just finished my recital when the sergeant opened the door and invited us to step into the inspector's office.

Police officers appear to have astonishing memories. The inspector was the same one who had taken—or rather refused—the charge on my former visit, and I gathered that not only was his recognition of accused and accuser instantaneous, but that he even remembered the circumstances in detail. His mention of the fact did not appear to encourage Mr. Parrish, who began the statement of his case in a rather diffident tone; but he soon warmed up, and finished upon a note of fierce denunciation. He made no reference to the marked coins, but the sergeant supplied the deficiency with a description of the incident to which the inspector listened with an appreciative grin.

"It comes to this, then," that officer summed up. "You have missed certain money from your cash-drawer and you suspect Polton of having stolen it because he is able to make a key."

"And a very good reason, too," Mr. Parrish retorted, defiantly.

"You have no proof that he did actually make a key?"

"He must have done so, or he wouldn't have been able to steal the money."

The inspector exchanged glances of intelligence with the sergeant and then turned to my adviser.

"Now, Mr. Cohen, you say you are acting for the accused. You have heard what Mr. Parrish has said. Is there any answer to the charge?"

"There is a most complete and conclusive answer," Mr. Cohen replied. "In the first place I can prove that Polton destroyed the wax squeeze immediately when he had finished the key. Further, I can prove that, while Polton was absent, trying the key in the lock, some other person abstracted a piece of the wax and made an impression on it with the broken key. He thought he was unobserved, but he was mistaken. Someone saw him take the wax and make the squeeze. Now, the person who made that squeeze was a member of Mr. Parrish's household, and so would have had access to Mr. Parrish's office in his absence."

"He wouldn't," Mr. Parrish interposed. "I always lock my office when I go away from it."

"And when you are in it," the inspector asked, "where is the key?"

"In the door, of course," Mr. Parrish replied impatiently.

"On the outside, where anyone could take it out quietly, make a squeeze and put it back. And somebody must have made a false key if the money was really stolen. The drawer couldn't have been robbed when you were in the office."

"That is exactly what I am saying," Mr. Parrish protested. "This young rogue made two keys, one of the door and one of the cash-drawer."

The inspector took a deep breath and then looked at Mr. Cohen.

"You say, Mr. Cohen, that you can produce evidence. What sort of evidence?"

"Absolutely conclusive evidence, sir," Mr. Cohen replied. "The testimony of an eye-witness who saw Polton destroy his squeeze and saw the other person take a piece of the wax and make the impression. If this case goes into Court, I shall call that witness and he will disclose the identity of that person. And then I presume that the police would take action against that person."

"Certainly," replied the inspector. "If Mr. Parrish swears that money was stolen from that drawer and you prove that some person, living in the house, had made a squeeze of the drawer-key, we should, naturally, charge that person with having committed the robbery. Can you swear, Mr. Parrish, that the money was really stolen and give particulars of the amounts?"

"Well," replied Mr. Parrish, mightily flustered by these new developments, "to the best of my belief—but if there is going to be a lot of fuss and scandal, perhaps I had better let the matter drop and say no more about it."

"That won't do, Mr. Parrish," my champion said, sharply. "You have accused a most respectable young man of a serious crime, and you have actually planted marked money on him and pretended that he stole it. Now, you have got, either to support that accusation—which you can't do, because it is false—or withdraw the charge unconditionally and acknowledge your mistake. If you do that, in writing, I am willing to let the matter drop, as you express it. Otherwise, I shall take such measures as may be necessary to establish my client's innocence."

The pretty obvious meaning of Mr. Cohen's threat was evidently understood, for my crestfallen accuser turned in dismay to the inspector with a mumbled request for advice; to which the officer replied, briskly:

"Well. What's the difficulty? You've been guessing, and you've guessed wrong. Why not do the fair thing and admit your mistake like a man?"

In the end, Mr. Parrish surrendered, though with a very bad grace; and when Mr. Cohen had written out a short statement, he signed it, and Sergeant Pitts attested the signature and Mr. Cohen bestowed the document in his wallet; which brought the proceedings to an end. Mr. Parrish departed in dudgeon; and I—when I had expressed my profound gratitude to Mr. Cohen for his timely help—followed him, in considerably better spirits than when I had arrived.

But as soon as I was outside the police station, the realities of my position came back to me. The greater peril of the false charge and possible conviction and imprisonment, I had escaped; but the other peril still hung over me. I had now to return to my place of employment, but I knew that there would be no more employment for me. Mr. Parrish was an unreasonable, obstinate man, and evidently vindictive. No generous regret for the false accusation could I expect, but rather an exacerbation of his anger against me. He would never forgive the humiliation that Mr. Cohen had inflicted on him.

My expectations were only too literally fulfilled. As I entered the house, I found him waiting for me in the hail with a handful of silver in his fist.

"Ha!" said he, "so you have had the impudence to come back. Well, I don't want you here. I've done with you. Here are your week's wages, and now you can take yourself off."

He handed me the money and pointed to the door, but I reminded him that my tools were in the workshop and requested permission to go and fetch them.

"Very well," said he, "you can take your tools, and I will come with you to see that you don't take any thing else."

He escorted me to the workshop, where, as we entered, Kennet looked at us with undissembled curiosity, and Gus cast a furtive and rather nervous glance over his shoulder. Both had evidently gathered that there was trouble in the air.

"Now," said Mr. Parrish, "look sharp. Get your things together and clear out."

As the order was given, in a tone of furious anger, Gus bent down over his bench and Kennet turned to watch us with a scowl on his face that suggested an inclination to take a hand in the proceedings. But if he had had any such intention, he thought better of it, though he continued to look at me, gloomily, as I packed my bag, until Mr Parrish noticed him an demanded, angrily:

"What are you staring at, Kennet? Mind your own business and get on with your work."

"Polton got the sack?" asked Kennet.

"Yes, he has," was the gruff reply.

"What for?" Kennet demanded with equal gruffness.

"That's no affair of yours," Parrish replied. "You attend to your own job."

"Well," said Kennet, "you are sending away a good workman, and I hope he'll get a better billet next time. So long, mate." and with this he turned back sulkily to his lathe, while I, having now finished packing my bag, said "good-bye" to him and was forthwith shepherded out of the workshop.

As I took my way homeward—that is, towards Foubert's Place—I reflected on the disastrous change in my condition that a few foolish words had wrought. For I could not disguise from myself the fact that my position was even worse than it had been when poor Mr. Abraham's death had sent me adrift. Then, I had a reasonable explanation of my being out of work, Just now I should not dare to mention my last employer. I had been dismissed on suspicion of theft. It was a false suspicion and its falsity could be proved. But no stranger would go into that question. The practical effect was the same as if I had been guilty. I should have to evade any questions as to my last employment.

A review of my resources was not more encouraging. I had nine shillings left from my last wages and the fifteen shillings that Mr. Parrish had just paid me, added to which was a small store in my money-box that I had managed to put by from week to week. I knew the amount exactly, and, casting up the entire sum of my wealth, found that the total was two pounds, three shillings and sixpence. On that I should have to subsist and pay my rent until I should obtain some fresh employment; and the ominous question as to how long it would last was one that I did not dare to consider.

When I had put away my tool-bag in the cupboard and bestowed the bulk of my money in the cash-box, I took a long drink from the water-jug to serve in lieu of tea and set forth towards Clerkenwell to use what was left of the day in taking up once more the too-familiar quest.