Sturdy and Strong: or, How George Andrews Made His Way. Henty George Alfred
That's all right; come along. I have squared Ned, and it's all right."
He led the way down two or three streets and then stopped at a gateway.
"You stop here," he said, "and I will see as there aint no one but Ned about."
He returned in a minute.
"It's all clear! Ned, he's a-rubbing down a hoss; he won't take no notice of yer as yer pass. He don't want to see yer, yer know, 'cause in case anyone comed and found yer up there he could swear he never saw yer go in, and didn't know nothing about yer. I will go with yer to the door, and then yer will see a ladder in the corner; if yer whip up that yer'll find it all right up there."
"But you are coming too, aint you?" George asked.
"Oh, no, I aint a-coming. Yer don't want a chap like me up there. I might pick yer pocket, yer know; besides I aint your sort."
"Oh, nonsense!" George said. "I should like to have you with me, Bill; I should really. Besides, what's the difference between us? We have both got to work for ourselves and make our way in the world."
"There's a lot of difference. Yer don't talk the way as I do; yer have been brought up different. Don't tell me."
"I may have been brought up differently, Bill. I have been fortunate there; but now, you see, I have got to get my living in the best way I can, and if I have had a better education than you have, you know ever so much more about London and how to get your living than I do, so that makes us quits."
"Oh, wery well," Bill said; "it's all the same to this child. So if yer aint too proud, here goes."
He led the way down a stable yard, past several doors, showing the empty stalls which would be all filled when the market carts arrived. At the last door on the right he stopped. George looked in. At the further end a man was rubbing down a horse by the faint light of a lantern, the rest of the stable was in darkness.
"This way," Bill whispered.
Keeping close behind him, George entered the stable. The boy stopped in the corner.
"Here's the ladder. I will go up fust and give yer a hand when yer gets to the top."
George stood quiet until his companion had mounted, and then ascended the ladder, which was fixed against the wall. Presently a voice whispered in his ear:
"Give us your hand. Mind how yer puts your foot."
In a minute he was standing in the loft. His companion drew him along in the darkness, and in a few steps arrived at a pile of hay.
"There yer are," Bill said in a low voice; "yer 'ave only to make yourself comfortable there. Now mind you don't fall down one of the holes into the mangers."
"I wish we had a little light," George said, as he ensconced himself in the hay.
"I will give you some light in a minute," Bill said, as he left his side, and directly afterwards a door opened and the light of a gaslight in the yard streamed in.
"That's where they pitches the hay in," Bill said as he rejoined him. "I shuts it up afore I goes to sleep, 'cause the master he comes out sometimes when the carts comes in, and there would be a blooming row if he saw it open; but we are all right now."
"That's much nicer," George said. "Now here's a loaf I brought with me. We will cut it in half and put by a half for the morning, and eat the other half between us now, and I have got some cheese here too."
"That's tiptop!" the boy said. "Yer're a good sort, I could see that, and I am pretty empty, I am, for I aint had nothing except that bit of duff yer gave me since morning, and I only had a crust then. 'Cept for running against you I aint been lucky to-day. Couldn't get a job nohows, and it aint for want of trying neither."
For some minutes the boys ate in silence. George had given much the largest portion to his companion, for he himself was too dead tired to be very hungry. When he had finished, he said:
"Look here, Bill; we will talk in the morning. I am so dead beat I can scarcely keep my eyes open, so I will just say my prayers and go off to sleep."
"Say your prayers!" Bill said in astonishment. "Do yer mean to say as yer says prayers!"
"Of course I do," George replied; "don't you?"
"Never said one in my life," Bill said decidedly; "don't know how, don't see as it would do no good ef I did."
"It would do good, Bill," George said. "I hope some day you will think differently, and I will teach you some you will like."
"I don't want to know none," Bill said positively. "A missionary chap, he came and prayed with an old woman I lodged with once. I could not make head nor tail of it, and she died just the same, so you see what good did it do her?"
But George was too tired to enter upon a theological argument. He was already half asleep, and Bill's voice sounded a long way off.
"Good-night," he muttered; "I will talk to you in the morning," and in another minute he was fast asleep.
Bill took an armful of hay and shook it lightly over his companion; then he closed the door of the loft and threw himself on the hay, and was soon also sound asleep. When George woke in the morning the daylight was streaming in through the cracks of the door. His companion was gone. He heard the voices of several men in the yard, while a steady champing noise and an occasional shout or the sound of a scraping on the stones told him the stalls below were all full now.
George felt that he had better remain where he was. Bill had told him the evening before that the horses and carts generally set out again at about nine o'clock, and he thought he had better wait till they had gone before he slipped down below. Closing his eyes he was very soon off to sleep again. When he woke, Bill was sitting by his side looking at him.
"Well, you are a oner to sleep," the boy said. "Why, it's nigh ten o'clock, and it's time for us to be moving. Ned will be going off in a few minutes, and the stables will be locked up till the evening."
"Is there time to eat our bread and cheese?" George asked.
"No, we had better eat it when we get down to the market; come along."
George at once rose, shook the hay off his clothes, and descended the ladder, Bill leading the way. There was no one in the stable, and the yard was also empty. On reaching the market they sat down on two empty baskets, and at once began to eat their bread and cheese.
CHAPTER II.
TWO FRIENDS
"I did wake before, Bill," George said after he had eaten a few mouthfuls; "but you were out."
"Yes, I turned out as soon as the carts began to come in," Bill said, "and a wery good morning I have had. One old chap gave me twopence for looking arter his hoss and cart while he went into the market with his flowers. But the best move was just now. A chap as was driving off with flowers, one of them swell West-end shops, I expect, by the look of the trap, let his rug fall. He didn't see it till I ran after him with it, then he gave me a tanner; that was something like. Have yer finished yer bread and cheese?"
"Yes," George said, "and I could manage a drink of water if I could get one."
"There's a fountain handy," Bill said; "but you come along with me, I am agoing to stand two cups of coffee if yer aint too proud to take it;" and he looked doubtfully at his companion.
"I am not at all too proud," George said, for he saw that the slightest hesitation would hurt his companion's feelings.
"It aint fust-rate coffee," Bill said, as with a brightened look on his face he turned and led the way to a little coffee-stall; "but it's hot and sweet, and yer can't expect more nor that for a penny."
George found the coffee really better than he had expected, and Bill was evidently very much gratified at his expression of approval.
"Now," he said, when they had both finished, "for a draw of 'baccy," and he produced a short clay pipe. "Don't yer smoke?"
"No, I haven't begun yet."
"Ah! ye don't know what a comfort a pipe is," Bill said. "Why, when yer are cold and hungry and down on your luck a pipe is a wonderful