Chapter LX.
The shoe-black.
The head-clerk, while he had not a word against him, as he confessed
to Mr. Shotover, yet thought Clare would never make a man of
business. When pressed to say on what he grounded the opinion, he
could only answer that the lad did not seem to have his heart in it.
But if, to be a man of business, it is not enough to do one's duty
scrupulously, but the very heart must be in it, then is there
something wrong with business. The heart fares as its treasure: who
would be content his heart should fare as not a few sorts of treasure
must? Mr. Woolrige passed no such judgment, however, upon certain
older young men in the bank, whose hearts certainly were not in the
business, but even worse posited.
One cold, miserable day, at once damp and frosty, on which it was
quite unfit to take Ann out, Clare, having eaten a hasty dinner, and
followed it with a walk, was returning through the town in good time
for the recommencement of business, when he came upon a little boy, at
the corner of a street, blowing his fingers, and stumping up and down
the pavement to keep his blood moving while he waited for a job: his
brushes lay on the top of his blacking-box on the curbstone. Clare saw
that he was both hungry and cold--states of sensation with which he
was far too familiar to look on the signs of them with indifference.
To give him something to do, and so something to eat, he went to his
block and put his foot on it. The boy bustled up, snatched at his
brushes, and began operations. But, whether from the coldness or
incapacity of his hands, Clare soon saw that his boots would not be
polished that afternoon.
"You don't seem quite up to your business, my boy!" he said. "What's
the matter?"
The boy made no answer, but went on with his vain attempt. A moment
more, and Clare saw a tear fall on the boot he was at work upon.
"This won't do!" said Clare. "Let me look at _your_ boots."
The boy stood up, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
"Ah!" said Clare, "I don't wonder you can't polish my boots, when you
don't care to polish your own!"
"Please, sir," answered the boy, "it's Jim as does it! He's down wi'
the measles, an' I ain't up to it."
"Look here, then! I'll give you a lesson," said Clare. "Many's the
boot I've blacked. Up with your foot! I'll soon show you how the
thing's done!"
"Please, sir," objected the boy, "there ain't enough boot left to take
a polish!"
"We'll see about that!" returned Clare. "Put it up. I've worn worse in
my time."
The boy obeyed. The boot was very bad, but there was enough leather to
carry some blacking, and the skin took the rest.
Clare was working away, growing pleasantly hot with the quick, sharp
motion, while two of his fellow clerks were strolling up on the other
side of the corner, who had been having more with their lunch than was
good for them. Swinging round, they came upon a well dressed youth
brushing a ragged boy's boots. It was an odd sight, and one of them,
whose name was Marway, thought to get some fun out of the phenomenon.
"Here!" he cried, "I want my boots brushed."
Clare rose to his feet, saying,
"Brush the gentleman's boots. I will finish yours after, and then you
shall finish mine."
"Hullo, Nursie! it's you turned boot-black, is it?--Nice thing for the
office, Jack!" remarked Marway, who was the finest gentleman, and the
lowest blackguard among the clerks.
He put his foot on the block. The boy began his task, but did no
better with his boots than he had done with Clare's.
"Soul of an ass!" cried Marway, "are you going to keep my foot there
till it freezes to the block? Why don't you do as Nursie tells you?
_He_ knows how to brush a boot! _You_ ain't worth your salt! You ain't
fit to black a donkey's hoofs!"
"Give me the brushes, my boy," said Clare.
The boy rose abashed, and obeyed. After a few of Clare's light rapid
strokes, the boots looked very different.
"Bravo, Nursie!" cried Marway. "There ain't a flunkey of you all could
do it better!"
Clare said nothing, finished the job, and stood up. Marway, turning on
the other heel as he set his foot down, said, "Thank you, Nursie!"
and was walking off.
"Please, Mr. Marway, give the boy his penny," said Clare.
But Marway wanted to _take a rise out of_ Clare.
"The fool did nothing for me!" he answered. "He made my boot worse
than it was."
"It was I did nothing for you, Mr. Marway," rejoined Clare. "What I
did, I did for the boy."
"Then let the boy pay you!" said Marway.
The shoe-black went into a sudden rage, caught up one of his brushes,
and flung it at Marway as he turned. It struck him on the side of the
head. Marway swore, stalked up to Clare and knocked him down, then
strode away with a grin.
The shoe-black sent his second brush whizzing past his ear, but he
took no notice. Clare got up, little the worse, only bruised.
"See what comes of doing things in a passion!" he said, as the boy
came back with the brushes he had hastened to secure. "Here's your
penny! Put up your foot."
The boy did as he was told, but kept foaming out rage at the bloke
that had refused him his penny, and knocked down his friend. It did
not occur to him that he was himself the cause of the outrage, and
that his friend had suffered for him. Clare's head ached a good deal,
but he polished the boy's boots. Then he made him try again on his
boots, when, warmed by his rage, he did a little better. Clare gave
him another penny, and went to the bank.
Marway was not there, nor did he show himself for a day or two. Clare
said nothing about what had taken place, neither did the others.
