Part 52 (1/2)

True, he had long since ceased to believe that he was really to be found by searching. Everything combined to baffle search, almost to forbid it, and yet he had constantly lived in a vague expectation of finding or hearing of him some day accidentally and unawares. But this advertis.e.m.e.nt filled him with self-reproach. What right had he to do anything, to rest a day, till he had found this lost boy--lost by his fault, by his sin? No wonder he had not prospered. No wonder the bad name had haunted him and dragged him down! One thing was certain-- whether what he knew was known to others or not, it was his duty to aid now in this new search. So he wrote as follows to Messrs. Wilkins & Wilkins:--

”_Private and Confidential_.

”The writer of this knew Gerard Forrester at Bolsover School two years ago, and was responsible almost wholly for the accident referred to.

The writer left Bolsover in consequence, and has not seen Forrester since. In May of the following year he made inquiries at Grangerham, Forrester's native place, where he ascertained that the boy had been removed there from Bolsover and had remained for some time with his grandmother, Mrs Wilc.o.x. Mrs Wilc.o.x, however, was ordered to the South for her health, and died at Torquay. Forrester, who appears to have been a cripple, and unable to help himself, was then left in charge of his old nurse, who left Grangerham shortly afterwards, it is said, in order to take the boy to a hospital--where, no one could say. That is the last the writer heard. Messrs. W. & W. might do well to apply to the clergyman and Wesleyan minister at Grangerham, who may have some later news. The writer would be thankful to be of any service in helping to find one whom he has so terribly wronged; and any letter addressed 'J., at Jones's Coffee-House, Drury Lane,' will find him.

”It should be said that when Forrester was last seen, only faint hopes were held out as to his recovery, even as a cripple.”

An anxious time followed. It was hard to work as usual--harder still to wait. The idea of Forrester being after all found took strange possession of his mind, to the exclusion of all else. The prospect which had seemed to open before him appeared suddenly blocked; he could think of nothing ahead except that one possible meeting.

So preoccupied was he, that his own advertis.e.m.e.nt for work was forgotten the day after it appeared; and when two days later he found a letter pushed under the door, his heart leaped to his mouth with the conviction that it could refer to nothing but the one object before him. It did not; it was a reply to his advertis.e.m.e.nt.

”J-- is requested to call to-morrow, at 10 a.m., on Mr Trotter, 6, Porson Square, in reference to his advertis.e.m.e.nt for literary work.”

With some trepidation, and no particular expectations, Jeffreys presented himself at the appointed time, and found himself face to face with a testy little gentleman, with by no means large pretensions to literary authority.

He took in the shabby-looking advertiser at a glance, and suited his tone accordingly.

”So you're the chap, are you? You're the nice educated literary chap that wants a job, eh?”

”I am.”

”What can you do? Write poetry?”

”I never tried.”

”Write 'istory, or 'igh hart, and that sort of thing?”

”I have not tried. I know mostly about bibliography.”

”Bibli--who? You'll turn your 'and to anything for a crust, I suppose.

Do you ever do anything in the puff line?”

Jeffreys admitted he had not.

”'Cos I want a chap to crack up my 'Polyglot Pickle' in proper literary style. None of your commonplace maunderings, but something smart and startling. What do you say? Can you do it or not?”

Jeffreys heart sank low. ”I'll try--”

”Can you do it?” demanded the proud inventor.

”Yes,” said Jeffreys desperately.

”All right,” said Mr Trotter, greatly relieved. ”I want a book of twenty pages. Write anything you like, only bring the pickles in on each page. You know the style. Twenty blood-curdling ballads, or Aesop's fables, or something the public's bound to read. Something racy, mind, and all ending in the pickle. It's a good thing, so you needn't be afraid of overdoing it. You shall have a bob a page, money down, or twenty-five bob for the lot if you let me have it this time to- morrow. Remember, nothing meek and mild. Lay it on thick. They're the best thing going, and got a good name. Polyglot, that's many tongues; everybody tastes 'em.”

Jeffreys, with a dismal sense of the humour of the situation, accepted his n.o.ble task meekly, and sat down in Mr Trotter's back room with a bottle of the pickles on the table before him.

The reader shall be spared the rubbish he wrote. To this day he flares up angrily if you so much as mention the Polyglot Pickle to him.