The Leader of the Lower School Part 29

Mr. Daniel Lucas examined both watch and chain with minute care, then shook his head deprecatingly.

"I'm afraid it wouldn't be of much use to me. You see, it's not exactly in the nature of an antique," he replied.

Gipsy's face fell. To get the money for her journey was a matter of vital importance.

"Couldn't you offer me anything for it?" she pleaded.

The bleary red eyes glanced at her keenly, and appeared to appreciate her disappointment.

"Well, to oblige you, I might go to a matter of seven and six."

"Couldn't you possibly make it ten s.h.i.+llings, with the chain?" hazarded Gipsy. She had no idea of the value of secondhand articles, and thought only of what amount would take her to Liverpool.

"All right--with the chain. But it's a poor bargain for me, mind you.

I'm only doing it just to oblige you," returned Mr. Lucas, opening a drawer and counting out four half-crowns with an alacrity that belied his words. Thankful to have concluded the transaction on any terms, Gipsy seized the money and beat a hasty retreat. She was extremely anxious to reach the station before Miss Poppleton missed her and sent somebody in search of her. She had no idea of the times of the trains, but trusted to luck to catch the next that would take her anywhere in the right direction. With her four precious half-crowns grasped tightly in her hand, she hurried back up the sordid street, and took the shortest cut possible to the railway station. There was quite a crowd at the booking office, so she was able to take her place in the queue of prospective travellers and to obtain her ticket without attracting any special attention.

"Liverpool?" said the inspector who stood at the platform door. "You've just time if you're quick. That's the train over there on No. 3."

Gipsy fled across the bridge with a speed that seriously interfered with the convenience of pa.s.sengers coming in the opposite direction; she rattled down the steps on to Platform 3, and, nearly falling over a pile of luggage, flung herself into the first third-cla.s.s compartment that came to hand.

"Am I right for Liverpool?" she gasped tremulously to the collector who came to punch her ticket.

"Quite right, Miss; change at Preston, that's all," replied the man as he slammed the door.

The porters were thrusting some boxes into the luggage van, and a few latecomers made a last dash for carriages; then the green flag waved, the whistle sounded, and the train started with a jerk. Gipsy, hot, excited, and agitated, drew a long, long breath of relief. She was actually off! They were speeding fast out of the station, and she was leaving Greyfield and Briarcroft, and all the painful experiences of the last few months, entirely behind her. She could hardly believe her good luck in thus slipping away un.o.bserved. True, she had only a half-crown and two pennies left after paying her fare, but she supposed that would be enough to last her until she could go on board a vessel. Surely chance had favoured her in enabling her to reach the station in the nick of time to catch the train, and no doubt she would be equally fortunate when she reached Liverpool. Her fellow pa.s.sengers were uninteresting, and she had no desire to talk to anyone and confide her affairs, so she amused herself with her own thoughts and plans for the future. At Preston she changed, and bought a bun at the refreshment rooms; her dinner had been almost untasted, and she was growing hungry now. It seemed funny to have absolutely no luggage, though in one respect it was a great convenience not to be obliged to haul about a heavy handbag, or to tip a porter out of her extremely small capital.

"I feel almost as if I'd been s.h.i.+pwrecked again--in a borrowed dress and hat, and nothing else to call my own!" she thought with a smile.

It was half-past six before the train arrived at the big Liverpool terminus--rather late in the day to begin all the numerous enquiries which Gipsy was determined to make; but, nothing daunted, she set out at once for Waterloo, to try to find the residence of her old friend Captain Smith. She was directed by a policeman to take an overhead electric car, and travelled several miles above what seemed a wilderness of streets before she reached the suburb in question. Not knowing where to make a beginning, she decided to go first to a post office, thinking that there she might be able to gain the information she wanted. She had somehow imagined Waterloo to be quite a little place, where by diligent enquiry it would be fairly easy to trace such an important person as a sea captain who had been wrecked in the Bay of Biscay; greatly to her dismay, however, she found herself in the midst of what seemed a large city in itself--a veritable maze of long streets and small houses, stretching away into the distance with an endless vista of chimneypots. In a distinctly sober frame of mind she entered the post office and proffered her question.

"Smith? I couldn't tell you, I'm sure; there are so many Smiths," said the girl at the counter, with a superior smile. "One of them may be a sea captain, for anything I know. You'd better look in the Directory."

Gipsy seized upon the book with a sense of relief, and carried it off to a less busy part of the office. She turned up Waterloo, found the list of residents, and went through them in alphabetical order till she reached the letter S. She was appalled to see the number of Smiths who resided at Waterloo. To some of the names the Directory had appended an occupation, but with many it gave no details. Taking one of the telegraph forms she wrote down the addresses of about a dozen Smiths who, she considered, might be likely; then, returning the Directory to the girl at the counter, she started off on her arduous quest.

"I shall go to 'Ocean Villa' first," she thought. "It has a particularly nautical sound. I shouldn't think anybody but a sea captain could possibly live there. 'The Anchorage' sounds hopeful too, though it ought to be the home of somebody who is retired. 'Sea View Cottage' is doubtful, but 'Teneriffe House' is likely. The _Queen of the Waves_ used to touch sometimes at Teneriffe. Oh, dear! the trouble will be to hunt out where they all are."

Poor Gipsy had indeed undertaken a most difficult task. She was obliged to ask her way again and again, and when at length she arrived at "Ocean Villa" it was only to meet with the information that n.o.body of a seafaring description was known there. Much disappointed, she trudged away in an opposite direction to find "The Anchorage", and after walking half a mile or more in search of it, was again confronted with ill success. At "Sea View Cottage" and "Teneriffe House" she fared no better; the occupiers, albeit they belonged to the great family of Smiths, had no connection whatever with the sea: and though she went to several other addresses on her list, the answer was invariably the same.

Utterly tired out, weary and despondent, Gipsy retraced her steps in the direction of the post office. Having parted with her watch, she had no idea of the time, but catching sight of a clock in a public building, she was horrified to find it was nearly a quarter to nine. The days at that season of the year were long, and this particular evening had been more than usually light; moreover, she had been entirely preoccupied with her quest, so she had never given a thought to the rapidly pa.s.sing hours. For the first time the question of where she must sleep presented itself to her.

"I must get back to Liverpool," she thought, "and apply at one of the s.h.i.+pping offices. The docks aren't very far away, so I can get engaged as stewardess and go on board some s.h.i.+p at once, I expect."

But in the meantime a meal was an urgent necessity. She was sick and faint from want of food, and felt as if her tired feet could scarcely carry her farther. Seeing a modest confectioner's shop with a notice "Teas Provided", she went in and asked for some refreshment. The proprietress, a little elderly woman, struck partly by the weary look on her face, and partly by the unusual circ.u.mstance of a girl of her age coming into the shop alone to ask for tea at so late an hour, took her into a small parlour, and while laying the table and bringing in the meal, insinuated a few skilful questions as to where she was going.

Gipsy had decided to pose as a working girl, so she answered readily enough that she was on her way to Liverpool, to find a post as a.s.sistant stewardess; and she wished to be very quick over her tea, so that she might go at once to the s.h.i.+pping offices, procure an engagement, and proceed at once to her vessel.

The expression on the woman's face changed from curiosity to sympathy, and then to utter consternation, as Gipsy briefly stated her intentions.

"But my goodness gracious! You'll never get a situation at this time of night!" she broke out. "Why, don't you know all the offices close at half-past five?"

Gipsy had not known, and the news struck her like a deadly blow.

"The offices all closed! Do you mean to say I can't get on board s.h.i.+p to-night?" she gasped. "Then where in the world am I to go?"

The woman shook her head dubiously.

"Best go back where you've come from," she remarked.

"I can't! I can't!" cried Gipsy. "That's absolutely impossible. Oh! why didn't I know of this before? What shall I do? What shall I do?" and springing up excitedly from the table, she burst into a flood of tears.

For the first time she realized what an extremely rash thing she had done in running away, and in what a terrible position she had placed herself. Alone, friendless, and nearly penniless, in the midst of a great, strange city, with no one who knew her, nowhere to go, and the light already fading so fast that it was dark in the little parlour! She had acted almost on the spur of the moment in leaving Briarcroft, without seriously considering whether her plans were practicable, and now she was reaping the bitter harvest of her own folly. She began heartily to wish herself back at school; even Miss Poppleton's severest scolding was as nothing to the misery of this present crisis, and she yearned for the sight of Miss Edith with a longing that amounted to home-sickness. Wis.h.i.+ng and regretting, however, would not help her in the least. She must find some way out of her difficulty, and that promptly.

"I've only one and ninepence left," she faltered. "And out of that I have to pay for my tea and keep a few pennies to go back into Liverpool with by the car. Could I get a night's lodging anywhere very cheaply? Do you know of a clean place?"

"Better not try cheap lodgings!" said the woman emphatically. "Can't you go home again? No? That's a bad lookout." Then, noticing the utter agony in Gipsy's face, she added: "Well, I'd be sorry to turn a young girl like you out alone at this time of night. I'll let you sleep on the sofa here, if you can manage, and you can get on to Liverpool first thing in the morning."

Manage? Gipsy would have slept on the floor, instead of the sofa, if required. She was only too thankful to be allowed to stay, and was almost ready to hug the little confectioner with grat.i.tude. She was so utterly wearied that she was glad to lie down at once in the parlour, and even before the tea-things were removed from the table she had sunk into a sleep of absolute exhaustion. Her hostess scanned her face narrowly, took in the details of her dress, and examined her school hat with attention, then shook her head.

"Doesn't look much in the stewardess line of business," she muttered.

"There's something wrong here, I'm afraid. I'll have a talk with her to-morrow." Then she locked the parlour door carefully before she went back to the shop.

Gipsy slept straight on until eight o'clock the next morning, when she was aroused by her landlady, who brought her a cup of tea and a piece of thick bread and b.u.t.ter.

"If you'll take the advice of one who knows more of the world than you,"

said the woman, "you'll go back home as fast as you can. Your own folks are the best to look after you. If you've spent all your money, they'd help you at the police station. They'll always send a girl back to her friends." Then, leaving Gipsy to digest her remarks while eating her breakfast, she went to perform household tasks.

The last hint put Gipsy in a panic. With her long night's rest her spirits had revived, and her courage returned. The idea of seeking her father in South Africa appeared once more attractive, and she had no wish to be taken charge of by the police and ignominiously packed back to school. She wondered whether the little confectioner had already gone to inform a constable of her whereabouts. She could and would not allow herself to be thus treated. Hurriedly finis.h.i.+ng the tea and bread and b.u.t.ter, she laid all her money, with the exception of sixpence, on the table, and finding the shop door already open, made her escape into the street. It felt almost like running away a second time, and she was sorry not to have said "Thank you!" for her night's lodging, but she considered the emergency to be critical, and was glad when she turned the corner and was out of sight of the shop. She made her way as fast as possible to the electric railway, and took the first car for Liverpool, determined not to waste any further time in looking for Captain Smith at Waterloo, but to try her utmost to obtain a berth as stewardess. By dint of diligent asking, she managed to find the quarters of one of the s.h.i.+pping companies that ran a line of steamers to South Africa, and after toiling up a long flight of stairs she boldly entered the office, and stated her business to an astonished clerk. He gave her one comprehensive glance, screwed up his mouth, and most impolitely whistled.

"Whew! You're rather juvenile for the job, ain't you?" he asked facetiously. "Ever been on the sea before? 'Tisn't nice when it's rough, I can tell you."

"I'm older than I look," returned Gipsy with dignity, suddenly remembering, however, to her confusion, that she had forgotten to buy a box of hairpins and turn up her hair. "That's to say, I'm quite old enough to be very useful on board s.h.i.+p, and I know all about long voyages. I'd like to speak to the head of the office."

"I dare say you would! But he's not here yet--never comes down till ten or half-past, and I don't believe he'd see you, either. We're not wanting any stewardesses at present--leastways, those we engage have to be on the wrong side of thirty."

"I'll wait and see the head of the office," announced Gipsy firmly.

"Well! Of all the cheek--!"

But at that moment the telephone bell rang violently in an inner room, and the clerk fled to the instrument. After a few minutes he returned, and with a complete change in his manner asked Gipsy to take a seat.

"The Chief will be here before long," he said affably. "If you don't mind waiting a little, I can promise it will be to your advantage."

Gipsy sat down on one of the office chairs, and amused herself for about the s.p.a.ce of ten minutes in studying the s.h.i.+pping advertis.e.m.e.nts that were hung round the walls. She turned eagerly at last when a footstep was heard upon the staircase. Was it the manager of the Tower Line, she wondered, and would he after all be willing to engage her for the work she desired? Her heart beat and throbbed as the door swung open. But instead of a stranger appeared the familiar figure of her friend Meg's father.

"Gipsy! Gipsy!" cried Mr. Gordon reproachfully. "Thank Heaven I've found you! Come along with me at once, child! We must go straight back to Greyfield by the next express."

CHAPTER XIX