Blockade Runner

Chapter One

Fire on a Steamship

Me sir, me, I'll go!

My hand shot up as if I was an enthusiastic schoolboy wanting to answer a question in class.

Mr Pembroke looked at me dismissively, and then glanced round the rest of the general office. The clerks had their heads down, studying their ledgers. It seemed that no one else was prepared to sacrifice his evening to act as one of the night watchmen on the Messalina. The owners had been let down by the shipyard. We were brokers for the ship, and Mr Pembroke had been asked to remedy the problem.

His severe glance swung back to me. As he stood in the doorway to the partners’ office, he pushed back the tails of his frock coat, stuffed his hands into his pockets and rocked backwards and forwards as if in thought. Then his bearded chin jutted.

So be it, Wells. Get yourself down to Lungleys and report to John Reynolds.

He paused.

And don't make a mess of it. Remember the firm's reputation. I can't see how you can bungle it, but I don't want to hear of any more of your bull-at-a-gate nonsense.

He swung round and strode into the partners’ office, firmly closing the door behind him. My friend David Hardcastle, the most junior clerk, sniggered.

And make sure you're on the right ship!

I flushed. He was referring to an episode where in my haste, I had come back to the office with the cargo capacity details for the Caroline in mistake for the Carolina. I felt that my reputation had been sullied unfairly. As a distant relation of Mr Pembroke's I had been lucky to get my place as an office boy at Stringer, Pembroke and I had been determined to prove myself. Through an excess of misplaced zeal, I had made mistakes.

Sheepishly I put my papers away, closed the lid of my desk and left the office. The wind tore at my clothes as I hurried across London Bridge to take the train to Deptford. Little did I realise that this was the start of one of the most dramatic evenings of my life, triggering a chain of events that would transform everything for me.

The evening started quietly enough. The gale that had been blowing all day had now died down and the Messalina was lying almost motionless at her moorings off Deptford. The Thames was at high water. The Messalina was an elegant sight, low and sleek against the evening sky. She was a big ship, wooden built in New York, and nearly two hundred and fifty feet long. She was a three-masted steamship, driven by two huge side wheels. She had been built as a passenger ship for the Atlantic crossing, but now her new owner was converting her for cargo. It was unusual in those days to use steamships as merchantmen, as the coal usage was too expensive. I could only imagine that she was destined to be an exceptionally large mail ship.

To me the sleek, gleaming elegance of the Messalina struck a strange contrast with the prosaic grime of Deptford itself. Charles Lungley & Co. had finished their work on the ship some days earlier, and had transferred her back to the owners. As I lived nearby, I had seen the ship in Lungley's shipyard; I had even watched cargo being loaded on board from lighters coming up from Woolwich.

I was excited at the prospect of spending a night on the ship. Mr Reynolds, the other night watchman, was an experienced seaman, and a local Deptford character. He claimed to have served as a cabin boy with Admiral Nelson on the Theseus at Santa Cruz; it was there that Nelson had lost his right arm, and Reynolds was rumoured to have Nelson's right hand in a jar of rum in his room. Reynolds was rough but engaging, and I liked him.

The light was just beginning to fail as John Reynolds and I rowed across to the Messalina to relieve the shipkeeper. Reynolds was at the oars. During the day, that stretch of the Thames at Deptford would have been as busy as Piccadilly, but late in the evening there was hardly a soul about. In the height of summer the Thames stank of London's effluent, but it was early June, and the smell was just tolerable. Reynolds was a wizened little man in his sixties, and his sharp eyes scanned the Thames as he pulled us across towards the ship. He was wearing the untidy clothes of a retired seaman, with a peaked nautical cap partly covering his long grey locks.

What are they doing Tom?

Reynolds gave a jerk of his head towards three men in a small rowing boat moored against a buoy.

Fishing?

Reynolds sniffed the air and laughed.

It won't be a fish they'll be catching here. Half the sewage in London's in the river, it joins the other half at Greenwich. I'm going to ask them. Take the oars a moment, lad.

He stood up in the skiff to call out to the other boat. We rocked a little as Reynolds steadied himself. He cupped his hands.

Ahoy there! Need any help?

"We're waiting for the Rebecca," a gruff voice replied, she sure is late. Should have been here an hour back.

Good luck! called Reynolds, and he sat down.

I'll take them oars again, Tom.

He paused and said reflectively,

E's not from these parts that fellow. Where d'you think ‘e comes from?

Sounds American, but it could be anywhere, Mr Reynolds, I said, half the sailors in the world seem to come to Deptford to join their ships, don't they?

True enough. Look Tom, when we gets to the ship we'll go over ‘er together. Our duties are simple enough, so you'll be able to get some sleep later. I knows what you young lads are for needing sleep!

What do we have to do?

"It's easy, Tom. Once we've checked the ship, we must just make sure that the lanterns stay lit at each end of ‘er, and watch out for other ships – who knows whether the Rebecca may not come galumphing through the gloom and go smack damn right straight into ‘er. And with ‘er cargo, that could be the bloody end of us."

I have to admit that I blushed at Reynolds’ coarse language. My widowed mother had brought me up very strictly, and I found his words offensive. He gave an amused smile.

You've gone as pink as a girl, Tom, what's the matter? It's only sailors’ talk.

I looked down at my feet. No lad of my age likes being accused of being girlish, but I could think of no smart response.

What's her cargo, Mr Reynolds?

They've been bringing boxes up from Woolwich.

He could see the blank expression on my face, and he smiled.

"The Arsenal's at Woolwich, Tom. It's cases of rifles and ammunition. Rumour is the Messalina's to be a blockade-runner. You know, smuggling stuff to the rebels in the Southern States."

The Civil War in America had started a few months earlier with Lincoln's presidential victory in 1860. The London papers were full of it. South Carolina had seceded, and many of the other Southern States soon followed. I had heard that some London shipowners were involved in running Lincoln's blockade of the Southern ports, but this was the first evidence I had seen of it. I stared at the Messalina with new interest.

Despite his modest size, John Reynolds was remarkably proficient with the oars. Soon we had arrived at the ship, and we were making fast at the stern. We were surprised to see that there was no other boat tied up there. We joined Mr Brown, the shipkeeper, who was a rotund friendly man whose deeply tanned, chubby face seemed permanently wreathed in smiles.

Where's your boat, Alfred? was Reynolds first question.

You don't miss nothing do you? Brown replied, one of the Lungley's engineers was on board – something to do with the boilers. He asked if he could take my boat back. Can you take me across John? The Missus won't be too pleased if I don't turn up. She'll think I'm spending the night at the Anchor again!

I'll do it if you'll buy me a pint, but we'll go over the ship first. You don't mind standing first watch do you Tom? You're a sensible lad aren't you? I'm sure you can look after things. I'll only be away for an hour. All you'll have to do is inspect the lanterns every quarter of an hour or so, and keep an eye out for shipping.

I was surprised and rather pleased at the request to look after the Messalina on my own. Responsibility was coming to me slowly at Stringer, Pembroke and I wanted to take on more. I liked to have a go at things, even if I regretted it afterwards. Besides, I felt that I could hardly refuse, especially if it meant more accusations of a lack of manliness.

I'll do it Mr Reynolds.

Good lad.

Brown and Reynolds knew each other well, and they chatted amiably as we checked the ship from bow to stern. Our brief was to make sure that all fires were extinguished, and that the only external lights were the lanterns fore and aft. By half past nine we were satisfied with the state of the ship. Brown and Reynolds clambered down into the skiff and Reynolds gave me a cheery wave before he spun the boat round and headed towards the quay at Lungley's shipyard.

Don't fall asleep ‘till I get back Tom! he shouted, as he pulled away, and I could hear the two of them laughing and joking as they headed towards Deptford.

Now that I was alone on the ship, I felt almost as though I was the captain. I suppose at eighteen I should have been more nervous, but at the start it was pride that filled my head, although as darkness crept up, I have to admit that my responsibilities seemed to grow in size as the light diminished. It was quiet, but someone must have been working late in Deptford, as I could hear a carpenter sawing in the distance. There was the gentle lap of the water against the Messalina's hull, and the occasional sounds of distant laughter and shouting. Soon the public houses would be closing. I thought wistfully of the cheery light and laughter in the public bar of the Anchor and Crown and the short walk back to my widowed mother's tiny house in Deptford.

I shivered. The day had been warm enough, but now the light breeze off the Thames was chilly.

Mr Reynolds and I had decided to have our headquarters in the saloon. I made my way there in the gathering gloom, and I turned up the lamps. Whilst this made the saloon bright and cosy, it enhanced the darkness of the night. The reflections of the lamplight in the saloon windows made it hard to see anything outside, although I could see the glow of fashionable London to the west. The gloom made me edgy, but I told myself that I had to make my inspections of the warning lanterns, and make sure that we were not in any danger from shipping. There was a chronometer in the saloon; I used this to set the time for my promised quarter hour inspections. It was now just gone half past nine, and I calculated that I would probably only have to make three before Mr Reynolds returned.

I confess that in the periods between those first inspections I was too restless to sit down and make myself comfortable. I paced up and down, glancing frequently at the chronometer. Often I would go to the saloon windows to check for any approaching ships, but I saw nothing. The inspections themselves were reassuring. The river was quiet, and the Messalina rode serenely at her moorings. Each time I left the saloon I found it difficult to adjust my eyes to the darkness, but eventually I could see enough to ensure that we were in no danger. Creaking and scuffling sounds came from the ship, but nothing that seemed unusual to me.

After my third inspection, I finally sat down at the saloon table and felt in my jacket pocket for the book I was carrying - Wilkie Collins’ latest. Somehow the words didn't sink in. My imagination was filled with thoughts about the Messalina's rumoured purpose. If the gossip was correct, soon she would be crossing the Atlantic and dodging Union warships as she tried to get through to New Orleans or Charleston, in support of the Southern cause. There seemed to be something very romantic and dashing about the brave stand being taken by the Southern States. I had read about the brave souls who were risking their lives to run through Lincoln's blockade fleet. Was this ship really going to be going on adventures like that?

Suddenly I was wrenched back to reality by the sound of something heavy scraping along the starboard side of the ship. A glance at the chronometer showed me that it was nearly half past ten, and I realised that it must be Reynolds returning to the ship. I stuffed The Woman in White back into my pocket and raced out onto the deck.

Is that you Mr Reynolds? I shouted.

The scraping sound had ceased now, but I thought I could hear the sound of oars dipping into the water. There was no reply to my shout.

Mr Reynolds, where are you? I called out again, do you need a hand?

I wondered what could have caused the scraping sound. Was there a ship or something equally heavy adrift in the Thames? There was a smell of burning wood and paraffin, which I assumed to be coming from somewhere on shore. I ran to the stern of the Messalina, but there was no sign of anything sinister. I ran anxiously down the other side of the ship towards the bow, and then I could see the shadowy outline of a boat being rowed quickly away from the ship. Could this be Reynolds, having lost sight of the Messalina? I shouted again at the top of my voice.

Mr Reynolds, I'm over here!

Finally a voice came from the rowing boat.

"We're not Reynolds, we're the tender to the Rebecca, and then more quietly, pull on those oars, Fraser."

It was the same gruff American voice that we had heard earlier in the evening.

I was relieved to have found an explanation for what had happened, and I was comforted by the thought that they weren't big enough to have caused any damage. But I was puzzled by their actions. If they had barged into us by mistake, why had they not tried to apologise or explain? They were now a fair distance away, so I went back to the stern of the Messalina and looked towards Deptford to see if I could see Reynolds and his boat. I looked as hard as I could into the gloom, and in a few moments I was relieved to see his slight figure plying the oars of his skiff. Every minute or so he would glance over his shoulder towards the ship to make sure he was heading in the right direction. It seemed to me that he was rowing with increasing urgency. As he got closer he caught sight of me.

Stand by Tom, he shouted.

When he reached the ship, he pulled sideways on to me and threw me a rope. As he scrambled on board he asked sharply,

What was that shouting? Was that you?

Yes, Mr Reynolds, I…

We've got no time for that now. There's a light showing through one of the portholes where there damn well shouldn't be. Follow me!

He ran along the deck to the saloon.

Wait there! he cried.

He dashed in and grabbed one of the lamps. Then we were running along the deck again, and he jerked open a door behind the port paddlewheel box.

Hold that!

He passed me the lamp and scrambled down a ladder into the ship's hold.

Pass the lamp down!

I placed the lamp by the top of the ladder, and clambered halfway down. Then I passed the lamp to Reynolds, and jumped the last few rungs to join him.

He ran along a shadowy corridor to a door, I reached to open it, but he pushed me aside to open it himself. We were greeted by darkness. He ran to another door. This time when the door was opened we were met by a blaze of light and the crackle of flames. There was the acrid smell of smoke, and a strong reek of lamp oil. My heart sank in the realisation that this fire must have started whilst I was on sole watch. But what had I done wrong? I had followed Reynolds’ instructions to the letter. He closed the door again quickly, and turned to me.

It's the lamp room Tom … no steam pressure for the pumps, dammit … we'll have to get water from over the side. Get those buckets there!

Every wooden ship at that time was plentifully supplied with fire buckets, as fire was one of the hazards most feared by seamen and shipowners. Reynolds’ wiry frame was seized with energy. He put down the lamp, and fitting the buckets inside one another we grabbed all we could see, and Reynolds sprang for the ladder to get back up to the deck level. I followed him as fast as I could. Reynolds found a length of rope, and then he was filling the buckets from the Thames with impressive speed. I watched as he tipped the buckets onto their sides and pulled them against the current to fill them. Soon the sleeves of Reynolds’ jacket were wringing wet from the rope as he pulled the buckets up onto the deck. As each bucket was filled I lugged it to the top of the ladder, trying not to spill any water. When the last one was filled, Reynolds carried it over to the others, and we started the difficult process of getting them down into the hold and along to the lamp room door.

Reynolds put his hand on the door handle. Then he turned sharply to me.

Stand back Tom!

He had to struggle to open the door, as it must have warped with the heat. When it finally opened he leapt back, and it was fortunate that he did so. Heat and smoke billowed out of the opening. The fire was far worse than before, and soon we were both choking from the smoke. Reynolds ripped two pieces of material from his shirt, and soaked them with water from one of the buckets.

Tie that round your nose and mouth! he shouted.

Then we feverishly dashed the contents of bucket after bucket through the doorway and over the flames, but the water seemed to have little effect. Reynolds tried to shut the door again, but it was too distorted to close. We collected up the empty buckets and rushed back for the deck.

It's bad Tom, Reynolds said as he filled the buckets again, we'll give it one more try. If we can't get a grip of it, we must go for the engines.

He never seemed to tire as he hauled the buckets of water out of the Thames and onto the deck. I offered to help.

You do your part, and I'll do mine, was all he said.

Getting the buckets down to the hold again was increasingly difficult in the smoke and heat. The fire was spreading towards the lamp room doorway. We flung the water as close to the fire as we could, and then we scrambled up to the deck again.

We'll go for the engines, get to the stern! shouted Reynolds.

Shouldn't one of us stay? Don't we need to keep the fire under control?

Reynolds looked at me keenly.

How are you with the oars?

Not really…

Then we'll both have to go. I'm not leaving you here; it's too dangerous. Come on Tom!

How can I explain the decision I made then? Was it because of Mr Pembroke's warning not to make a mess of my assignment? Or was it just my own impetuous temperament? Perhaps it was a combination of the two. But whatever the reason, I refused to leave the ship.

Have it your own way Tom, said Reynolds, "I can't stand here arguing, but stay on deck! Get as much water as you can through that doorway. Don't go down the ladder. I'm off! I'll be back as quick as I can."

And with that he sprinted along the deck to the stern, flung himself into the skiff and rowed powerfully towards Deptford. I watched him for a moment with a sinking heart, but the smell and crackle of the fire galvanised me into action, and then I was filling those buckets as fast as I could.

Reynolds had made it look easy, but at first all that the buckets would do for me was to float on the surface of the Thames. Feverishly I tried to learn the knack of filling them and finally I achieved it. Then I was able to collect them together by the door to the hold. I ignored the instruction to stay on deck, and somehow I managed to manhandle the buckets down the ladder. The passageway was filling with thick black pungent smoke, but I got to the lamp room. I could see the fire was worse as I emptied the buckets; it was the paraffin that seemed to make it spread so fast. I raced back on deck again with the buckets.

Twice I repeated the process, until finally the smoke was too thick for me to be able to get down the ladder. I emptied the buckets down into the hold, and stood exhausted on the deck. I glanced towards Deptford to see if there was any sign of the floating fire engines. Disappointed, I turned towards the saloon. There was the flicker of fire. One of the windows was scorched and broken and the flames and sparks were beginning to lick upwards into the night sky.

Somehow the fire must have worked its way up into the cabins and through to the saloon. They all seemed to be burning. Until then my fear had concentrated on the risk of being blamed for allowing the fire to start, and I hadn't worried too much for my own safety. But now I could see that I was in imminent danger. It was clear that the fire was not far from breaking out all over the ship.

Already it was no longer possible to get to the stern of the Messalina, so I made my way anxiously to the bow. I tried to work out what to do as the fire intensified; I had never learned to swim, but frankly that made little difference at Deptford. The water there was so dirty that you stood little chance of life if you were unlucky enough to drink any of it. The prospect was dire. Even in that moment of virtual despair I checked my pocket to make sure that my precious library book was still there. I almost thought of it as a talisman to get me through this hour of trial. Then I turned my mind to escape.

Eventually I calculated that my best chance would be to shin along the bow rope to the mooring buoy. It was going to be dangerous, but maybe it was my best chance of survival.

I waited as long as I could.

Finally I felt that I must make the attempt, but just as I was bracing myself to start, I heard the sound of a steam whistle. I looked towards Deptford, and my heart lifted as I saw the two Deptford floating fire engines steaming towards the ship. I had seen them moored off Deptford so many times, but I had never imagined that the first time I would see them in action would be when they were coming to my rescue! Relief flooded through me.

Moments later the leading engine was crashing alongside the Messalina and I was dragged over the rail to safety before the two ships parted again.

I must have looked a strange sight, with my face, hands and clothing blackened with smoke from the hold; much of me was soaked with water from the buckets, but everyone was far too busy to notice it. Reynolds ran over to me, and soon he was wringing my hand, and thanking me for staying with the ship.

The steam pumps were fired up, and soon we were flooding the fire with water from the Thames. It took a full hour for the flames to be extinguished.

I was in a state of shock, and coughing badly by the time they got me to Deptford. The smoke seemed to have got right down into my lungs. I half remember offering to stay, but they put me ashore and got me home. A large crowd of idlers had collected to watch the fire, and one of them offered to run to the railway station to find a cab. Soon I was at home, with a doctor tending to me.

Even though the fire had been put out, the Messalina's cargo was considered too dangerous to allow her to stay where she was. She was towed out to the mouth of the Thames, and it was only after her cargo was removed that she was brought back to Dudgeon's for repair.

The police never traced the three men who we assumed had started the fire. Despite all attempts to find them, they seemed to have disappeared like ghosts in the dawn. The Rebecca also proved to be a phantom, and failed to make an appearance. Reynolds was voluble in his praise of me to anyone who would listen. I received the heartfelt thanks of the Messalina's owners and a ten pound reward for my part in saving the ship.

Two days after the fire I was fully recovered and back in the office of my employers Stringer, Pembroke, in the City of London. Mr Pembroke was in Liverpool that day, but late in the morning his partner Edgar Stringer made an appearance. He was a tall, fair-haired, handsome man, elegantly dressed, with a gardenia in the buttonhole of his fashionable frock coat. He was wearing a beautifully brushed tall silk hat. He stopped at my desk before going through to the partners’ office. There was a faint smell of expensive hair oil as he stood close to me.

Pembroke tells me you're a hero, Wells, he said languidly in his aristocratic voice, congratulations old fellow. No after effects I trust?

I'm fine sir,

Damn tricky business though, he continued, "Pembroke thinks that those characters in the rowing boat you spotted could have been President Lincoln's agents. He thinks that the Messalina's owner was preparing her to run the blockade into the Southern States. If those chaps set fire to her, then Lincoln's arm is getting far too damned long. By-the-by, if they did get on board it was damn lucky you didn't come across them. You'd have been a gonner if you had."

He turned to go into his office.

In truth I was still worried that I might get some of the blame for the fire, even though I had followed Reynolds’ instructions. Mr Stringer's comments gave me reassurance.

A couple of minutes later he came out of his office again and flung a copy of The Times newspaper towards me.

Here, read about yourself! They call it ‘Fire on a Steamship’; Pembroke tells me that half of it's wrong as usual. Look old fellow, we're very grateful for what you did. Pembroke and I would like to find some new opportunities for you.

Thank you, Mr Stringer.

Chapter Two

The Whispering Gallery

When Mr Pembroke returned to London the following day, I received his thanks for my efforts on the Messalina, and he also promised new opportunities. I was impatient, and to me they seemed to come slowly. My pay was less than a pound a week in those days, and by the time I had paid my train fare and given something to my mother, there was very little left. But I said nothing, and tried to be patient.

The Stringer, Pembroke offices were at Austin Friars in the City of London, a quiet little road off Old Broad Street, conveniently close to the Baltic Exchange and the Bank of England. The Baltic was where the shipbrokers did most of their business, but my position was far too lowly to gain entry there. My friend David Hardcastle and I were keen as mustard to get on, and often we were there by eight in the morning. Usually we were the first into the office, to be greeted by the familiar dingy, gas-lit rooms, and the smell of ink, sea coal fires and wooden floors damp from scrubbing.

A week after the dramatic events on the Messalina I arrived in the office to find that David was already there. He was as short as I was tall, and his elfin face was sharp eyed and full of fun. There was almost a competition between us to arrive first, and as usual David made a joke of it.

You're late Tom. Another crash on the Deptford line? How many killed?

No, I said, this time it was a herd of giraffes on the track, escaped from the Zoological Gardens. I think Stringer will be eating giraffe haunch at his club today.

Ah, the elegant gentleman! exclaimed David wistfully, how on earth did he ever become a partner in this firm? I think he must know the secrets of Lord Pembroke's past life. Which is he, trunk murderer or railway share swindler?

We can only dream of Stringer's life of luxury, I said.

I closed my eyes.

I have been at my country house in Surrey … had lunch at my club …a snooze in the billiard room … dinner at Willis's … I'm on my way to a ball at Buckingham Palace …

I opened my eyes again.

Then I wake up in my third class carriage on my way back to my mother's boarding house in Deptford.

With a giraffe sitting on the seat opposite, said David.

We both laughed.

At least Mr Pembroke generates business for us, I said.

Yes, responded Hardcastle with a groan, and now I must get on with entering all these ships’ tonnages in the charter ledger, or his lordship will give me one of his set-downs.

We were sitting on high stools at raised desks in the Stringer, Pembroke general office. Hardcastle was now making painstaking entries in a massive leather-bound ledger with his quill pen. I was sorting the mail. The general office looked out over Austin Friars. At that time of the morning clerks were hurrying to their offices, and pages and office boys were scurrying about on errands. But Mr Pembroke was always early into the office, and soon we could see him walking up Austin Friars with his brisk stride. Although he was still just short of thirty, he was already balding, but this was concealed under his tall hat. He invariably wore the same unfashionable, elderly frock coat, but otherwise he was tidily dressed. He glanced sharply at us as he came up the stairs, and I knew that look. He ran a tight ship; he wanted to be sure we were at our tasks.

Then the office door flew open, and there was Pembroke's bearded face peering into the room.

Good morning to you both. Will you be in the office tomorrow, Wells? he asked, in his abrupt style of speech.

Yes, Mr Pembroke.

Mr Blair is visiting us. He brings his sister Mrs Munro and her daughter. They were caught in Paris when the hostilities started in America. They are returning to Wilmington. The ladies wish to visit St. Paul's. I will be at the Baltic with Mr Blair. Will you be a guide to them? Richard will take the party in my Brougham.

I agreed, and Mr Pembroke went on to explain that Mr Blair and the Munros were staying with Mr Lindsay, the retired founder of our firm, whilst they tried to find trans-Atlantic passages on a steamship.

I noticed that Mr Pembroke was looking at me critically.

Can you try to look a bit more respectable, Wells? Those trousers are too short. Your legs are sticking out like bean poles.

I blushed at his criticism of my appearance. My father had been tall, and I was too. I knew that my linen was old and worn, and my jacket cut too short, but I had hoped that all of this was not too obvious. I assured him that I would be wearing my Sunday best, and would not let the office down.

Ah, the duties of the office boy, said Hardcastle when Mr Pembroke had left, now do you regret being Mr Pembroke's cousin? A fine fool you'll look showing two fat old trouts round the cathedral.

I'm only a distant relation; but I wouldn't have got this job otherwise. I don't think Mr Pembroke would have taken me on for my school reports.

The following day I appeared in the office as respectably dressed as I could, in my Sunday frock coat, lightly checked trousers and with a well brushed tall hat. I had suffered some taunts and jeers on my journey in the third class carriage on the train from Deptford, and my sufferings did not end there. Hardcastle was already in the office when I came in.

Excuse me, sir, he said, with a stately bow, I think you have come to the wrong address. Piccadilly is a short ride in a hansom from here, and St. James's Street is easy to find.

Hardcastle! You know perfectly well why I'm dressed up like this.

Just make sure that the two old birds don't faint when they see you in all your glory, he sniggered.

My answer to Hardcastle was a clip round the ear. After a short scuffle we settled down to our work. Both of us were making ledger entries and we worked carefully. The quill pen was an unforgiving instrument, and blotches often led to pages having to be re-written. Suddenly a whistle from Hardcastle broke my concentration.

I spy strangers! Take a look at the young lady old tubby Blair has with him!

Mr Blair and his party had arrived in a four-wheeler. He was a stout man and very fond of his food. I could see the two ladies he was escorting to the front door, and the younger one was a