Chapter Four.

How Mr Dempster used his Cane.

My life at the office grew more miserable every day, and Mr Isaac Dempster more tyrannical.

That’s a big word to use, and seems more appropriate to a Roman emperor than to a London auctioneer; but, on quietly thinking it over, it is quite correct, for I honestly believe that that man took delight in abusing Esau and me.

Let me see; what did some one say about the employment of boys? “A boy is a boy; two boys are half a boy; and three boys are no boy at all.”

Of course, as to the amount of work they do. But it is not true, for I know—one of the auction-room porters told me—that Mr Dempster used to keep two men-clerks in his office, till they both discharged themselves because they would not put up with what the porter called “his nastiness.” Then we were both engaged.

That was one day when Dingle came down in his green baize apron and carpet-cap, and had to wait till our employer returned from his lunch.

“Ah!” he said, “the guv’nor used to lead them two a pretty life, and keep ’em ever so late sometimes.”

“But he had more business then, I suppose?” I said.

“Not he. Busier now, and makes more money. Nobody won’t stop with him.”

“Yes, they will,” said Esau. “You said you’d been with him fourteen years.”

“Yes,” said Dingle, showing his yellow teeth, “but I’m an auctioneer’s fixtur’, and going ain’t in my way.”

“Why not?” asked Esau.

“Got a wife and twelve children, squire, and they nails a man down.”

Just then Mr Dempster came in, ordered Dingle to go into his room, and we could hear him being well bullied about something, while as he came out he laughed at us both, and gave his head a peculiar shake.

“Off!” he whispered. “Flea in each ear.”

I mention this because it set me thinking that if we two lads of sixteen or seventeen did all the work for which two men were formerly kept, we could not be quite so useless and stupid as Mr Dempster said.

I know that my handwriting was not so very good, and I was not quite so quick with my pen as Esau, but his writing was almost like copper-plate, and I used to feel envious; though I had one consolation—I never made Esau’s mistakes in spelling.

But nothing we ever did was right, and as the weeks went on, made bright to me now by my visits up in North London, Esau would throw down his pen three or four times a day, rub his hands all over his curly head, and look over the top of the desk at me.

“Now then,” he used to say; “ready?”

“Ready for what?”

“To go and ’list. We’re big enough now.”

“Nonsense!”

“’Tain’t nonsense,” he said one morning, after Mr Dempster had been a little more disagreeable than usual about some copying not being finished, and then gone out, leaving me thinking what I could do to give him a little more satisfaction, so as to induce him to raise the very paltry salary he paid me. “’Tain’t nonsense. Mother says that if I stop I shall some day rise and get to be Lord Mayor, but I don’t think Demp would like it, so when you’re ready we’ll go.—Ready?”

“No.”

“You are a fellow!” said Esau, taking up his pen again. “I say, though, I wish we could get places somewhere else.”

“Why not try?”

“Because it would only be to do writing again, and it’s what makes me so sleepy. I’m getting worse—keep making figures and writing out catalogues till my head gets full of ’em.”

“It is tiring,” I said, with a sigh. “But do go on; he’ll be so cross if that list isn’t finished.”

“Can’t help it. I’m ever so much more sleepy this morning, and the words get running one atop of another. Look here,” he cried, holding up a sheet of ruled paper. “This ought to have been ‘chest of drawers,’ and it’s run into one word, ‘chawers’; and up higher there’s another blunder, ‘loo-table,’—it’s gone wrong too—do you see?—‘lable.’ My head’s all a buzz.”

“Tear it up quickly and write it again.”

“Shan’t; I shall correct it. No, I know. I shall cut the paper up, and stick it on another sheet, and write these lines in again. Pass the gum. Oh!”

“What’s the matter?”

“Here’s ‘mogany’ lower down, and ‘Tarpet’ for ‘Turkey carpet.’”

“Write it again, do,” I said, for I dreaded the scene that I knew there would be.

“Ah, well, all right, but I know I shall muddle it again, and—”

“As usual,” cried Mr Dempster, and we both started back on to our stools, for we had been standing up on the rails leaning towards each other over the double desk, so intent on the errors that we had not heard him open the door softly—I believe, on purpose to surprise us.

We began writing hard, and I felt my heart beating fast, as our employer banged the door heavily and strode up to the desk.

I gave one quick glance at him as he turned to Esau’s side, and snatched up the sheet of paper the boy tried to hide under the blotting-pad; and as I looked I saw that his face was flushed and fierce-looking as I had never seen it before.

“Hah!” he ejaculated, as he took off his glossy hat and stood it on a chair, with his ivory-handled Malacca cane across it. “Pretty stuff this, upon my word. Here, let me look at that letter.”

He reached over and snatched the missive I was writing from the desk, and held it up before him.

“Do you call that writing?” he roared. “Disgraceful! Abominable! The first boy I met in the street would do better. There—and there—and there!”

He tore the letter to fragments and threw the paper in my face.

“Now then; write another directly,” he cried; “and if you dare to—Here, what are you going to do?” he roared, as Esau took hold of the sheet of paper containing the errors.

“Going to write it over again, sir.”

“Write it over again, you miserable impostor!” he cried, as he snatched the paper back and laid a leaden weight upon it. “I’ll teach you to waste my time and paper gossiping—that’s what it means.”

“Here, what are you going to do?” cried Esau, as Mr Dempster seized him by the collar.

“I’ll show you what I’m going to do, you idle young scoundrel,” cried Mr Dempster, and he reached out his hand to take his stout cane from where it lay across his hat.

“Here, don’t you hit me,” cried Esau; and he tried to get away, as I sat breathless, watching all that was going on, and thinking that Mr Dempster dared not use the walking-cane in the way he seemed to threaten. Esau evidently thought he would, for he struggled hard now, but in vain, and he was dragged towards the chair. Then, as pulling seemed no use, the lad changed his tactics, and he darted forward to make for the door, just as Mr Dempster’s hand was touching the stick, which he did not secure, for the jerk he received sent cane and hat off the chair on to the floor.

“You dog!” roared Dempster, as the hat went on to the oilcloth with a hollow bang.

“Don’t you hit me!” cried Esau, struggling wildly to escape; and the next moment, as they swayed to and fro, I heard a