Beyond the City - Page 67/92

When Doctor Walker had departed, the Admiral packed all his possessions

back into his sea chest with the exception of one little brass-bound

desk. This he unlocked, and took from it a dozen or so blue sheets of

paper all mottled over with stamps and seals, with very large V. R.'s

printed upon the heads of them. He tied these carefully into a small

bundle, and placing them in the inner pocket of his coat, he seized his

stick and hat.

"Oh, John, don't do this rash thing," cried Mrs. Denver, laying her

hands upon his sleeve. "I have seen so little of you, John. Only three

years since you left the service. Don't leave me again. I know it is

weak of me, but I cannot bear it."

"There's my own brave lass," said he, smoothing down the grey-shot hair.

"We've lived in honor together, mother, and please God in honor we'll

die. No matter how debts are made, they have got to be met, and what

the boy owes we owe. He has not the money, and how is he to find it? He

can't find it. What then? It becomes my business, and there's only one

way for it."

"But it may not be so very bad, John. Had we not best wait until after

he sees these people to-morrow?"

"They may give him little time, lass. But I'll have a care that I don't

go so far that I can't put back again. Now, mother, there's no use

holding me. It's got to be done, and there's no sense in shirking it."

He detached her fingers from his sleeve, pushed her gently back into an

arm-chair, and hurried from the house.

In less than half an hour the Admiral was whirled into Victoria Station

and found himself amid a dense bustling throng, who jostled and pushed

in the crowded terminus. His errand, which had seemed feasible enough in

his own room, began now to present difficulties in the carrying out, and

he puzzled over how he should take the first steps. Amid the stream of

business men, each hurrying on his definite way, the old seaman in his

grey tweed suit and black soft hat strode slowly along, his head sunk

and his brow wrinkled in perplexity. Suddenly an idea occurred to him.

He walked back to the railway stall and bought a daily paper. This he

turned and turned until a certain column met his eye, when he smoothed

it out, and carrying it over to a seat, proceeded to read it at his

leisure.

And, indeed, as a man read that column, it seemed strange to him that

there should still remain any one in this world of ours who should be in

straits for want of money. Here were whole lines of gentlemen who were

burdened with a surplus in their incomes, and who were loudly calling

to the poor and needy to come and take it off their hands. Here was the

guileless person who was not a professional moneylender, but who would

be glad to correspond, etc. Here too was the accommodating individual

who advanced sums from ten to ten thousand pounds without expense,

security, or delay. "The money actually paid over within a few hours,"

ran this fascinating advertisement, conjuring up a vision of swift

messengers rushing with bags of gold to the aid of the poor struggler. A

third gentleman did all business by personal application, advanced money

on anything or nothing; the lightest and airiest promise was enough to

content him according to his circular, and finally he never asked

for more than five per cent. This struck the Admiral as far the most

promising, and his wrinkles relaxed, and his frown softened away as

he gazed at it. He folded up the paper rose from the seat, and found

himself face to face with Charles Westmacott.