The individual referred to as Mr Baker, who sat at the table in the attitude of a student, was a robust, hard-featured, black-haired young man of two-or three-and-twenty; judging from his weather-beaten cheeks and huge hands, as well as from the garb he wore, one would have presumed that study was not his normal occupation. There was something of the riverside about him; he might be a dockman, or even a bargeman. He looked intelligent, however, and bore himself with much modesty.
'Now do endeavour to write in shorter sentences,' said Biffen, who sat down by him and resumed the lesson, Reardon having taken up a volume. 'This isn't bad--it isn't bad at all, I assure you;but you have put all you had to say into three appalling periods, whereas you ought to have made about a dozen.'
'There it is, sir; there it is!' exclaimed the man, smoothing his wiry hair. 'I can't break it up. The thoughts come in a lump, if I may say so. To break it up--there's the art of compersition.'
Reardon could not refrain from a glance at the speaker, and Biffen, whose manner was very grave and kindly, turned to his friend with an explanation of the difficulties with which the student was struggling.
'Mr Baker is preparing for the examination of the outdoor Customs Department. One of the subjects is English composition, and really, you know, that isn't quite such a ****** matter as some people think.'
Baker beamed upon the visitor with a homely, good-natured smile.
'I can make headway with the other things, sir,' he said, striking the table lightly with his clenched fist. 'There's handwriting, there's orthography, there's arithmetic; I'm not afraid of one of 'em, as Mr Biffen 'll tell you, sir. But when it comes to compersition, that brings out the sweat on my forehead, I do assure you.
'You're not the only man in that case, Mr Baker,' replied Reardon.
'It's thought a tough job in general, is it, sir?'
'It is indeed.'
'Two hundred marks for compersition,' continued the man. 'Now how many would they have given me for this bit of a try, Mr Biffen?'
'Well, well; I can't exactly say. But you improve; you improve, decidedly. Peg away for another week or two.'
'Oh, don't fear me, sir! I'm not easily beaten when I've set my mind on a thing, and I'll break up the compersition yet, see if Idon't!'
Again his fist descended upon the table in a way that reminded one of the steam-hammer cracking a nut.
The lesson proceeded for about ten minutes, Reardon, under pretence of reading, following it with as much amusement as anything could excite in him nowadays. At length Mr Baker stood up, collected his papers and books, and seemed about to depart;but, after certain uneasy movements and glances, he said to Biffen in a subdued voice:
'Perhaps I might speak to you outside the door a minute, sir?'
He and the teacher went out, the door closed, and Reardon heard sounds of muffled conversation. In a minute or two a heavy footstep descended the stairs, and Biffen re-entered the room.
'Now that's a good, honest fellow,' he said, in an amused tone.
'It's my pay-night, but he didn't like to fork out money before you. A very unusual delicacy in a man of that standing. He pays me sixpence for an hour's lesson; that brings me two shillings a week. I sometimes feel a little ashamed to take his money, but then the fact is he's a good deal better off than I am.'
'Will he get a place in the Customs, do you think?'
'Oh, I've no doubt of it. If it seemed unlikely, I should have told him so before this. To be sure, that's a point I have often to consider, and once or twice my delicacy has asserted itself at the expense of my pocket. There was a poor consumptive lad came to me not long ago and wanted Latin lessons; talked about going in for the London Matric., on his way to the pulpit. I couldn't stand it. After a lesson or two I told him his cough was too bad, and he had no right to study until he got into better health;that was better, I think, than saying plainly he had no chance on earth. But the food I bought with his money was choking me. Oh yes, Baker will make his way right enough. A good, modest fellow.
You noticed how respectfully he spoke to me? It doesn't make any difference to him that I live in a garret like this; I'm a man of education, and he can separate this fact from my surroundings.'
'Biffen, why don't you get some decent position? Surely you might.'
'What position? No school would take me; I have neither credentials nor conventional clothing. For the same reason Icouldn't get a private tutorship in a rich family. No, no; it's all right. I keep myself alive, and I get on with my work.--By-the-bye, I've decided to write a book called "Mr Bailey, Grocer."'
'What's the idea?'
'An objectionable word, that. Better say: "What's the reality?"Well, Mr Bailey is a grocer in a little street by here. I have dealt with him for a long time, and as he's a talkative fellow I've come to know a good deal about him and his history. He's fond of talking about the struggle he had in his first year of business. He had no money of his own, but he married a woman who had saved forty-five pounds out of a cat's-meat business. You should see that woman! A big, coarse, squinting creature; at the time of the marriage she was a widow and forty-two years old. Now I'm going to tell the true story of Mr Bailey's marriage and of his progress as a grocer. It'll be a great book--a great book!'
He walked up and down the room, fervid with his conception.
'There'll be nothing bestial in it, you know. The decently ignoble--as I've so often said. The thing'll take me a year at least. I shall do it slowly, lovingly. One volume, of course; the length of the ordinary French novel. There's something fine in the title, don't you think? "Mr Bailey, Grocer"!'
'I envy you, old fellow,' said Reardon, sighing. 'You have the right fire in you; you have zeal and energy. Well, what do you think I have decided to do?'
'I should like to hear.'
Reardon gave an account of his project. The other listened gravely, seated across a chair with his arms on the back.
'Your wife is in agreement with this?'
