Chapter 11: The Original Badger

As Mr. Bankes spoke, Mary Anne dashed over the little bridge which spans the Mole, and in another second they were passing through East Molesey. Nothing was said as they raced through the devious village street. The world in East Molesey was just beginning to think of waking up. A few labourers were visible, on their road to work. When they reached the river, some of the watermen were preparing their boats, putting them ship-shape for the day, and on Tagg’s Island there were signs of life.

Over Hampton Court Bridge flew Mary Anne; past the barracks, where there were more signs of life, and where Hussars were recommencing the slightly monotonous routine of a warrior’s life, and then the mare was brought to a sudden standstill at the corner of the green.

“The parting of the ways--you go yours, and I go mine, and I rather reckon, young one, it won’t be long before you wish there’d been no parting, and we’d both rolled on together. Which way are you going to London?”

“I thought about going through Kingston.”

“All right, you can either go through Bushy Park here, or you can go Kingston way. But don’t let me say a word about the road you go, especially as it don’t seem to me to matter which it is--round by the North Pole and Timbuctoo for all I care, for you’re in no sort of hurry, and all you want is to get there in the end.”

“Can’t I get to Kingston by the river?”

“Certainly. You go through the barrack yard there, and through the little gate which you’ll see over at the end on your right, and you’ll be on the towing-path. And then you’ve only got to follow your nose and you’ll get to Kingston Bridge, and there you are. The nearest is by Frog’s Walk here, along by the walls, but please yourself.”

“I’d sooner go by the river.”

“All right.”

Mr. Bankes put his hand into his trousers pocket, and when he pulled it out it was full of money.

“Look here, it seems that I’ve had a hand in this little scrape, though I’d no more idea you’d swallow every word of what I said than I had of flying. You’re about as fine a bunch of greens as ever I encountered, and that’s the truth. But, anyhow, I had a hand, and as I’m a partner in the spree I’m not going to sort you all the kicks and collar all the halfpence. And I tell you”--Mr. Bankes raised his voice to a very loud key, as though Bailey was arguing the point instead of sitting perfectly still--”I tell you that for a boy like you to cut and run with the sum of one and fivepence in his pocket is a thing I’m not going to stand. No, not on any account, so hold out your hand, you leather-headed noodle, and pocket this.”

Bertie held out his hand, Mr. Bankes counted into it five separate sovereigns.

“Now sling your hook!”

Before Bertie had a chance to thank him, or even to realize the sudden windfall he had encountered, Mr. Bankes had caught hold of him, lifted him bodily from his seat, and placed him on the road. Mary Anne had started, and the trap was flying past the Cardinal Wolsey, on the Hampton Road. Left standing there, with the five sovereigns tightly grasped in his palm, Bailey decided that Mr. Bankes had rather a sudden way of doing things.

He remained motionless a minute watching the receding trap. Perhaps he expected, perhaps he hoped, that Mr. Bankes would look round and wave him a parting greeting; but there was nothing of the kind. In a very short space of time the trap was out of sight and he was left alone. Just for that instant, just for that first moment, in which he realized his solitude, he regretted that he had not acted on his late companion’s advice, and pursued the journey with Mary Anne. Then he looked at the five pounds he held in his hand.

“Well, here’s a go!”

He could scarcely believe his eyes. He took up each of the coins separately and examined it. Then he placed them in a low on his extended palm, and stared. Their radiance dazzled him.

“Catch me going back while I’ve got all this, I should rather like somebody to see me at it. Five pounds!” Here was a long-drawn respiration. “Fancy him tipping me five pounds! I call that something like a tip. Won’t I spend it! Just fancy having five pounds to spend on what you like! Well, I never did!”

“Hallo, you boy, got anything nice to look at?”

Bertie turned. A soldier, in a considerable state of undress, was standing a few yards behind him, watching his proceedings.

“What’s that to you?” asked Bertie.

He put both his hands into his trousers pockets, keeping tight hold on the precious sovereigns, and turning, walked up the barrack yard. As he passed, the soldier grinned; but Bertie condescended to pay no heed.

“If I’d had a fortune left to me, I’d stand a man a drink, if it was only the price of half a pint.”

This was what the soldier shouted after Bertie. One or two of the troopers who were engaged in various ways, and who were all more or less undressed, looking very different from the dashing pictures of military splendour which they would shortly present upon parade, stared at the boy as he went by, but no one spoke to him.

Once on the towing-path, he turned his face Kingston-wards and hastened on. These five sovereigns burnt a hole in his pocket. When his capital had been represented by the sum of one and fivepence he had been dimly conscious that it would be necessary to be careful in his outlay. He had even outlined a system of expenditure. But five pounds!

They represented boundless wealth. He had been once presented by a grateful patient of his father’s with a tip of half a sovereign. That was the largest sum of which he had ever been in possession at one and the same time, and no sooner had the donor’s back been turned than his mother had confiscated five shillings of that. She declared that it was intended the half-sovereign should be divided among his brothers and sisters, and the five shillings went in the division. But five pounds! What were five shillings, or even half a sovereign, to five pounds.