Christopher Hibbault, Roadmaker Part 24

"I won't do it again," said his father deprecatingly. "I apologise."

Aymer gravely bowed his head and the subject was dropped. But when they were alone that evening, Mr. Aston reverted to it.

"What are you going to do with Sam Sartin?" he asked, "and why are you doing it?"

"Sam must settle the first question himself," said Aymer, idly drawing appalling pictures of steamrollers on the fly-leaf of a book, "as to the second--" he paused in his drawing, put the book down and turned to his father.

"Christopher's got the makings of a rabid socialist in him. If he's not given good data to go on he will be a full disciple when he's twenty-one, all theories and dreams, caught in a mesh of words. I don't want that. It's natural too, for, after all, Christopher is not of the People, any more than--than his mother was." He examined his pencil critically. "She always credited them with the fine aspirations and pure pa.s.sions of her own soul, instead of allowing them the very reasonable and just aspirations and ambitions that they have and should be able to reach. Sam may be an exception, but I don't think he is. I'm quite ready to give Christopher a free hand to help him, provided he knows what he wants himself."

"To provide an object lesson for Christopher?"

"Yes, precisely."

"Is it quite fair on Sam?"

Aymer looked up quickly.

"He benefits anyway."

"Possibly; but you do not care about that."

"Christopher does."

"Ah, yes. Christopher does. That is worth considering. Otherwise----"

"Otherwise?"

"How far are we justified in experimenting with our fellow-creatures, I wonder?"

CHAPTER XII

It was a day of expectancy--and promise--of blackthorn breaking into snowy showers, and of meadows richly green, blue sky and white cloud--and a sense of racing, headlong life joyously tremulous over the earth.

The boys had met at Paddington Station, Sam Sartin by no means abashed at his own appearance in an old suit of Christopher's, and wearing, in deference to his friend's outspoken wishes, a decorous dark-blue tie and un.o.btrusive s.h.i.+rt. He looked what he was--a good, solid, respectable working lad out for a holiday. Excitement, if he felt it, was well suppressed, surprise at the new world of luxury--they travelled down first--was equally carefully concealed. The code of manners in which he was reared was stringent in this particular.

Christopher, on the contrary, was in high spirits. Sam had watched him come down the platform, out of the corner of his eye, with a queer sense of proud possession. He would have liked to proclaim to the world that the young master there, who walked like a prince, was his own particular pal. Yet he pretended not to see him till Christopher clapped him on the shoulder with a warm greeting.

"I've got the tickets. Come on," said the giver of the treat. "I say, what a day, Sammie--if it's good in London what will it be in the country?"

"Cold, I shouldn't wonder. What's the matter with London?" said the c.o.c.kney sarcastically.

"Old Bricks and Mortar," retorted Christopher gaily. "You'll know what's the matter with it when you come back. It's too jolly small."

"Big enough for me. But the country's well enough to play in. I say, Mr. Christopher, I've been thinking, we may not find any boats. It's early."

"Oh, I've seen to that," said Christopher with the faintest suspicion of lordliness in his voice. "I wrote to the man I know at Maidenhead to have a boat ready--a good one."

Sam grinned. "My, what a head-piece we've got, to be sure."

The other flushed a little. "It was really Caesar who suggested it," he owned.

Sam had never been down that line before, so Christopher pointed out the matters of interest. They found their boat ready at Maidenhead, bestowed their coats in the bow and settled themselves. Christopher insisted on Sam's rowing stroke. Sam thought politeness obliged him to refuse, but he ultimately gave in. He retrieved the little error in manners by handling his oar in a masterly way. "Stroke shaping well,"

Christopher heard the boatman say as they went off.

The wind on the river was cold enough and, in spite of the bright sun, cut through them. But half an hour's steady pulling brought them into a glow and mood to enjoy themselves. Christopher called for a rest.

Sam looked over his shoulder.

"Tired?"

"No," responded the other, laughing, "but we didn't come down just to row 'eyes in boat'; I want to look at the world."

"Nothing but green fields and trees and cows."

"I like cows."

"I don't."

Nevertheless he desisted from work, and they drifted on. Christopher was bubbling over with a great secret that was to be the crowning episode of the day. It would be fatal to divulge it too early, so he plunged into friendly discussions and they rowed on happy in the physical exertion, the clean, fresh air and the smiling earth.

It was not till after lunch that Christopher decided the great matter must be broached, to allow time to discuss it in full detail. They had changed places and he was stroke now. He pulled with a slower swing but greater power than Sam and for some time bent to his work in silence, thinking over what he was going to say. He took a rapid mental survey of Sam's present life and future, of what it held and more especially of what it did not hold; the limitations, the lack of opportunity, the struggle for existence that left no room for ambitions or hopes. And he, with Caesar's help, was going to change all that, and open the gates of the world wide for him. If the thought were exhilarating, it had also a serious side. He was not afraid, he was too young for that, but he had sense enough to know it was a big thing to uproot a life and plant it in a new spot more congenial to growth.

Mr. Aston's words to him that morning came back with puzzling insistence. "Remember," he had said in his kindly way, "no two people see life through the same gla.s.ses. Don't be surprised if Sam's make you squint." What did he mean? It was just because he, Christopher, was not sure of Sam's real ambition that he was to be given the choice. He amused himself while cogitating over it, tasting like an epicure the flavour of the good wine to be drunk presently. Sam complained he was a bad stroke, and they changed again. This better suited his plans. He could see the town boy's thin sloping shoulders bend evenly before him. Sam was no athlete in build, but his pa.s.sion for rowing had stood him in good stead and developed muscle and endurance.

"He'll choose something in boats," thought Christopher, mentally picturing Sam as captain of a great liner and then as an alternative, as an admiral of the Fleet, and so came the crucial point.

"Sam, if you had your choice, what would you be?"

"Dunno."

"But think. I want to know. A greengrocer like Mr. Gruner? Ho, ho!" he shouted out wholesome laughter.

Sam grinned. He was less ready to laugh. Life had taken toll of that birthright already.

"I hate vegetables. Beastly, dirty things," he said prosaically. "No, I wouldn't be a _green_-grocer."

"Well what? An engineer? A doctor, lawyer, parson?"

"Why not a king now?" scoffed Sam.

"Not enough situations vacant. I mean it, really. What would you be if you were as free to choose as I am?"

"If I were you, you mean."

"No, not that. If you could choose for yourself as I have."