Blair of Balaclava: A Hero of the Light Brigade
9781465679598
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
‘YOU young brute, why don’t you mind what you’re doing, blundering about?’ ‘I couldn’t help it, Jenkins; it was quite an accident. Your foot was stuck out, and I stumbled over it.’ ‘It was nothing of the sort, you clumsy wretch; and take that to remind you that I’m Mr Jenkins.’ As he spoke, the lanky, pale-faced youth rose from the table, where he had been sitting nibbling the end of a quill, and soundly boxed the ears of a small, delicate-looking boy who, while carrying an inkpot across the office, had stumbled and upset some of the black fluid upon the lavender-coloured continuations of Mr Silvester Jenkins. Not content with boxing the boy’s ears, Mr Jenkins seized him by the arm, which he twisted savagely. ‘Oh, oh—Jenkins! don’t—please don’t! You do hurt!’ ‘And I will too, you young pig!’ The scene was taking place in the close and dismal office of Messrs Phogg & Cheetham, Solicitors, House Agents, &c. The tiny windows, partly covered with a wire blind and partly with big bills, allowed but little daylight to penetrate into the office, Messrs Phogg & Cheetham seeming to prefer, in more senses than one, working in the dark. While the boy’s cries still rang out, a third person, who had been seated in the darkest corner of the office, perched up on a high stool, making entries in a book of vast dimensions, quietly descended from his seat, and in two strides stood before Mr Jenkins. This third person was a well-set-up, handsome young fellow of about sixteen, with a firm chin, clear-cut features, and honest hazel eyes. ‘Leave Mallinson alone,’ he said quietly to Mr Jenkins; ‘you’re hurting him.’ ‘And a good job too. He’s spoilt my trousers!’ ‘It was an accident, and he’s sorry. Now let him go.’ ‘I sha’n’t, and you mind your own business, John Blair, or you’ll get kicked out into the gutter.’ A slight flush crept into Blair’s cheeks, and Jenkins gave Mallinson’s arm another twist that made the poor boy almost shriek with pain. This was more than the quick temper of Jack Blair could stand. The pent-up animosity of months broke out; and, never pausing to consider the probable consequences of his act, or to remember that the dandified being before him was his master’s nephew, he caught Mr Jenkins by the collar, shook him as a terrier would a rat, then hurled him across the office, where he fell with a crash in the fireplace. Picking himself up, with a snarl of rage Jenkins seized a heavy ebony ruler, which he aimed with all his might at Blair. It struck that youth a sharp blow on the head, making him see stars for a moment, then glanced off and smashed one of the small, dirty panes of glass in the window. Mr Jenkins’ triumph was, however, but short-lived. Roused to fury by the sting of the blow, Blair stepped up to the angry bully, his right and left shot out with lightning-like rapidity; and, receiving one on his mouth and one on his ample nose, Mr Jenkins measured his length upon the floor again, where he lay like a whipped cur, shouting ‘Murder!’ and ‘Police!’ In the midst of the hubbub, a door which led to the private office of Mr Phogg opened, and a tall, thin, black-bearded man appeared in the doorway. He gave a rapid look round the office, readjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles, took another look, then asked in cutting tones, ‘What is the meaning of this low, disgraceful conduct?’ Mr Jenkins picked himself up from the floor, holding his coloured silk handkerchief to his nose; little Mallinson shrank back into a corner; while Blair put his hands in his trouser-pockets with a resigned air, knowing there was trouble ahead for him, but determined to meet it boldly.
