“VERY few men are more than 16 years old when it comes to the pinch. So, if you can remember the style of a boy’s work, and more particularly of his play, you can make a close guess later on as to what he will do, and why, and how.”
Reading this, my mind goes roving into the past, and I realize that some of my revolutionary characteristics, and any faith or trust I may possess, had their beginnings well before the period mentioned by Rudyard Kipling.
At the age of twelve, when giants and dragons still seemed realities, I considered that every little town or village around Walthamstow demanded discovery and exploration, and was as full of promises of high enterprise and adventure as my youthful mind could dream of, or my ambition desire, Hearing my father speak of a little town named Park, separated from us by what appeared to be very enchanting country, where lived an aunt of mine, I marked this as the objective of my next exploration. Very early one morning I stealthily aroused my six-year-old brother George, and, with many whispered promises of great gain and honor, backed up by the display of a brand new three-penny bit, I drew him out of doors before anybody was about, and we set out to visit our relative, determined to be back for breakfast.
Nobody saw us depart, and the streets were deserted at that early hour; but as I had carefully inquired beforehand as to the direction to be taken, very soon we were well out of town, having for additional company our father’s pet Pomeranian pup.
The route seemed a rather devious and difficult one, as we had to pass through several other townships, but adventures soon came our way.
Before it was fully day we reached an old-fashioned wayside inn, with a large beer garden attached. There was an air of mystery and wickedness about the place that seemed very fascinating. There were odd-looking plaster statues of Bacchus and Venus, a dancing platform, some queer-shaped summerhouses, and other attractions; and as the side gate had been left open, I drew my wee brother into this strange new world. I regret to say that in order to enhance the effect, I persuaded him that he was a very privileged person, and that this treat had cost me―I don’t remember how much I said, but he opened his blue eyes wider than ever.
Then came a desert stretch with no houses, but with two wonderful “huge lakes,” I called them, though in reality they were only reservoirs, and by the time we reached the next village we were hungry lads, and the two halfpenny buns did not go far. We were growing tired, but very soon, on reaching the banks of a small river, we were simply fascinated by the sight of the oddly-colored barges, and the dark, deep lock, and at once forgot our hunger and weariness. Having heard that a grandfather of ours had once been some important authority on the river directorate, I was emboldened to board a very rakish-looking barge, and addressing a big, burly bargee, I said, “Please, sir, Mr. Glass was our grandfather; can we have a ride?” The man stared at us in a very surprised but good-natured fashion, and, though I don’t suppose he had ever heard of this grandfather, we were soon “all aboard” on the good ship, dog and all, on a tremendous adventure, traveling upstream to the next lock. My late descent of the big rapids of the Tocantins was not half so thrilling, and even today I never see one of those sturdy old barges, with their lovely smell of tar, without experiencing a delightful and inexplicable thrill. As we walked back along the towpath, again (once more I blush for shame) I duly informed my little brother that he was a most fortunate boy, and that this naval trip had been a great expense to me, and I fear there were several other similar “expenses” during that day.
We now felt in high feather, and passing through Tottenham town we soon reached Park. Only then I began to realize that we were faced with an unforeseen difficulty―I had not my aunt’s address! Nobody seemed to know the lady; until I thought to visit the railway station, though there the stationmaster shook his head gravely―he had never heard the name.
By this time we were both desperately hungry, and beginning to feel that things were not quite “according to plan,” when a sympathetic porter thought he remembered the lady, and soon we were hopefully knocking at the door of our much-sought-for relative. Our aunt opened the door herself, and at once gave way to expressions of astonishment and alarm on hearing our story. However, she soon prepared us a good breakfast, and our spirits revived accordingly; but without allowing us to rest, she at once packed us off home again, with the strictest injunctions to make haste about it.
It was now well past midday, and we began to remember we had a home, but I reassured George as to just what my father would say, by telling him that after so brave an adventure nothing could be said. In this very righteous mood we were rapidly covering the ground, and were just clear of Tottenham, when my brother exclaimed in great alarm, “Where is the dog?” In vain we searched around, calling and whistling. The dog was lost! The spirit of heroics rapidly evaporated as we thought of reaching home without the family pet. Sadly and very heavily we turned back to the last town, looking everywhere―but no Nell was to be seen. We had given up hope; it seemed a terrible catastrophe, when, finding ourselves in a secluded lane, we thought we might pray about it. Down we knelt together by the side of that hedgerow, and very earnest was our prayer. Suddenly, ere yet we had finished our supplications, a loud bark brought us to our feet, and, oh! most wonderful and joyful thing, the beautiful little dog came bounding towards us! This answer to prayer made a deep and never-to-be-forgotten impression on my young mind, and well I remember how, but a few years later, when hopelessly striving against the entanglement of a hated sin, the thought of the past came back, and I fell on my face before God and sought His deliverance, and deliverance came―once and for all.
Our travels were now nearing their end, though the barges had proved too strong a temptation against our aunt’s commands, and it was drawing very close to “the end of a glorious day” as we began to enter Walthamstow again. Then came a bolt from the blue! A dreadful giant bore down upon us in the shape of a burly policeman, who had been watching us for some minutes.
Tremblingly we replied to his questions; it seemed so terrible to be spoken to by a real, live policeman. Greater still was our alarm when he informed us that all the police of the district were on the lookout for two missing boys, adding, “And your mother is in a fine pickle about you. You had better walk on ahead quickly, and I’ll follow just behind.”
What an awful procession that was! What fearful criminals we seemed; how terribly tired we suddenly felt; and poor Georgie began to whimper. On reaching home we found everything in a tumult. We were supposed to be drowned, and my distracted mother was still out searching for us wherever streams or ponds were to be found. Very humbly I crawled up to the top attic to await my father’s return from the city, fully prepared for the worst. Downstairs, my little brother soon gave a very detailed account of our travels, and dwelt upon the amount of money I was supposed to have spent by the way, all of which greatly surprised the family. The financial side of our adventures troubled my father, however, and I found it far too difficult to explain, and so, of course, the inevitable happened, leaving me a sadder, though, I hope, a wiser boy, and here we shall draw the curtain.
Not many years later, in eighteen-eighty something, another event took place of a very different character, though with a happier ending.
I had left school at an early age, and was beginning what was to have been a great career in the “Daily Chronicle” office in Fleet Street, London, though I fear I did not yet realize the importance of life. For some weeks, instead of having a good dinner of beef and potatoes in a certain lane off Fleet Street, I had contented myself with a jam puff, a scone, and a glass of milk, spending the balance in fireworks for the coming 5th of November. With some sense of self-importance, I meant to have a special display that year, such as might well impress the neighbors. When the great day dawned many shillings had been spent in the way just indicated, and yet when lunch time came round, I used all my dinner money to buy a few small odds and ends for my younger brothers.
When I returned to the office it was still early, and it was a cold, foggy day, so down into the vaults I went. Beneath the great office I found a group of juniors warming themselves at the charcoal fires, which were kept burning day and night to keep dry the proof files of the great paper, which had been set aside daily since the first publication a hundred years ago and more. On such a day these fires were very attractive, but, alas! on this fatal occasion some imp or other must tempt me to poke a squib or two in the embers, and to test the efficacy of the crackers. A harmless performance it was, but a vast amount of smoke was unwittingly produced.
The clock struck one, and, quite unconscious of impending tragedy, we all made our way upstairs to our respective desks, and were soon engrossed in our duties.
A little later, a chance remark of one of the clerks caused me to glance towards the door of the vaults, and to my horror I saw a thin curl of gunpowder smoke issuing from beneath, and soon a pungent smell of fireworks began to fill the office. After that sight I dared not raise my eyes from the ledger, though I soon became aware of considerable comment and some kind of investigation going forward around my head. The very next thing I remember was feeling a tap on the shoulder from the chief of the department, and hearing the awful words: “The general manager wants to see you in Salisbury Square.” The private office of that great man was a kind of “holy of holies” to us youngsters, and he himself a very awesome being, never seen, and far more potent than Queen Victoria herself.
The dread interview was stern and brief, and though I otherwise had a good character, I was now requested to hand in my resignation forthwith; and thus, rather ignominiously, ended my journalistic career. That same night, away upstairs in bed, I lay listening with very mixed feelings to the loud shouts of glee from the children in the garden below as they let off all my fireworks, bought at such a cost. I felt I was surely the most miserable boy on earth... but, there came another day.
Twenty years now passed, when again I found myself walking down Fleet Street, and very much had happened in that interval. Best of all, I had found Christ as my Saviour while working on the deepest gold mine in the world, in Central Brazil, and I was now a missionary, home for my first furlough. There had been trouble in the house that morning, as our baby had turned on the bath taps, with damaging results, and the landlord had informed me that there would be ₤2 to pay. Funds just then were rather low, but we had made it a matter of prayer. The reader will be wondering what all this could have to do with the firework incident; well, we shall see.
As I walked along the old street, full of memories of days long past, the “Chronicle” office came in view, and, of course, I had to look in and see if any of the old generation yet remained. They did, and we had a great time talking and laughing together over those bygone times, nor was the Guy Fawkes incident forgotten. Then somebody suggested that I should visit the chief. It never is easy work to gain admission to such a man, but when finally I persuaded the beadle to let me enter, the awesome inmate looked up at me in rather a worried manner, and said, “What can I do for you, sir?”
“The last time I entered here was twenty years ago, sir,” I replied; adding, “and then it was to get the sack.”
“Oh,” said the big man, “take a seat.”
We had a most interesting and friendly talk together, in which it transpired that he was a Christian. Of course I had much to say about Brazil, and especially about the newly-awakening interest in her numerous tribes of redskins. As I rose to leave, the chief was most cordial, and said, “Do write us up something about those Indians, and we will put it in the paper.”
The article was written and duly published, and a few days later, to our great surprise, I received a three-pound check from the editor, which fully met the landlord’s claims―and covered the cost of those long-lost fireworks, too.