The minute the numbers were up he collected his winnings, stuffed the four five-pound notes tight into his inside pocket, slipped the four sovereigns in his vest, buttoned up his coat, cocked his hat and swaggered back to Jenny.
“Oh, Joe,” Jenny nearly wept, “why didn’t I…”
“Yes, why didn’t you?” he bubbled over. “You should have taken my tip. I’ve won a packet. And don’t say I didn’t warn you. I told you I was going to do it. I’d a notion about Pink Bud all the time.” He could have hugged himself with the delight of having got ahead of them. The sight of her pale, woebegone face made him laugh. He said patronisingly: “Don’t make a song about it, Jenny. I’ll take you out with me to-night. We’ll paint the old town red.”
Skilfully, they gave Alf the slip on the way out. They had done it before; and this time it was easy. Alf, plodding along with his head down, was far too busy cursing Captain Sanglar to see that they were dodging him.
They got to Tynecastle shortly after six, strolled up New-gate Street into Haymarket. All Joe’s earlier despondency had vanished, swept away by a sort of boisterous magnanimity. He condescended towards Jenny with a large, forgiving geniality; he even let her take his arm.
Suddenly, as they turned the corner of Northumberland Street, Joe stiffened, gasped:
“By gum, it can’t be him!” Then he let out a whoop. “Davey! Hey, Davey Fenwick, man!”
David stopped, turned; a slow recognition spread over his face.
“Why, Joe… it’s not you!”
“Ay, it’s me right enough,” Joe crowed, falling upon David with manly exuberance. “It’s me and none other. There’s only one Joe Gowlan in Tynecassel.”
They all laughed. Joe, with a princely wave of his hand, making the necessary introduction.
“This is Miss Sunley, Davey. Little friend of mine. An’ this is Davey, Jenny, a regular pal of Joe’s in the good old days.”
David looked at Jenny. He looked right into her clear, wide eyes. Then, under her smile, he smiled too. Admiration dawned upon his face. Very politely they shook hands.
“Jenny and me was just going to have a bit of snap,” Joe remarked, irresistibly taking charge of the situation. “But now we’ll all have a bit of snap. Fancy a bit of snap, Davey?”
“You bet,” David agreed enthusiastically. “We’re quite near Nun Street. Let’s pop into Lockhart’s.”
Joe nearly collapsed.
“Lockhart’s,” he repeated to Jenny. “Did ye hear him say Lockhart’s?”
“What’s wrong?” inquired David blankly. “It’s a jolly good spot. I often go there for a cup of cocoa in the evening.”
“Cocoa,” moaned Joe weakly, pretending to support himself against an adjacent lamp-post. “Does he take us for a couple of true blue Rechabites?”
“Now, behave, Joe, do,” Jenny entreated him, exchanging a demure glance with David.
Joe galvanised himself dramatically. He went up to David with great effect.
“Look here, my lad. You’re not in the pit now. You’re with Mr. Joe Gowlan. An’ he’s standin’ treat. So shut yer gob an’ come on.”
Saying no more, Joe thrust his thumb in his arm-hole and led the way down Northumberland Street to the Percy Grill. David and Jenny followed. They entered, sat down at a table. Joe’s exhibitionism was superb. This was one of the things he really enjoyed: showing off his ease, address, aplomb, showing off himself. In the Percy Grill he was at home: this last year he had frequently been here with Jenny. A small place it was, common and showy, with a good deal of gilt and a good many red lamp shades, a kind of annexe to the adjoining pub known as the Percy Vaults. There was one waiter with a napkin stuffed into his waistcoat, who came fawning upon them in answer to Joe’s sophisticated call.
“What’ll you have?” Joe demanded. “Mine’s a whisky. An’ yours, Jenny? A port, eh? An’ yours, Davey? Be careful now, lad, an’ don’t say cocoa.”
David smiled, remarked that in this instance he would prefer beer.
When the drinks were brought, Joe ordered a lavish meaclass="underline" chops, sausages and chip potatoes. Then he lolled back in his seat, inspecting David critically, finding him lankier, maturer, curiously improved. With a burst of curiosity he asked:
“What are ye doin’ with yerself now, Davey? Ye’re changed a lot, man.”
David had certainly changed. He was nearly twenty-one now but his pale face and smooth dark hair made him a little older. His brow was good, his chin as stubborn as before. He was inclined to leanness about the jaw, he had a taut and rather finely drawn look, but his shy smile was a delight. He smiled now.
“There’s nothing much to tell, Joe.”
“Ah, come on now,” said Joe patronisingly.
“Well…” said David….
These last three years had not been easy for him, they had left their mark, knocked the immaturity out of his face for good. He had come up to Baddeley on his scholarship of sixty pounds a year, taking lodgings at Westgate Hill opposite the Big Lamp. The money was ridiculously inadequate, his allowance from home sometimes did not come — Robert had once been laid up for two months on end — and David had frequently been up against it. On one occasion he had carried a man’s bag from Central Station to earn a sixpence for his supper.
It was nothing really, his enthusiasm carried him through it with a rush. The enthusiasm came from the discovery of his own ignorance. The first month at Baddeley had demonstrated him as a raw pit lad who had stumbled by good luck, hard elementary coaching and a little natural-born sense into a scholarship. At that David had set himself to get hold of something. He began to read: not the stereotyped reading prescribed by the classes, not just his Gibbon, Macaulay, perhaps but he read well. He read entranced, bewildered sometimes, but stubborn always. He joined the Fabian Society, squeezed sixpence for a gallery seat at the symphony concerts, came to know Beethoven there and Bach, wandered to the Tynecastle Municipal Gallery to discover the beauty of Whistler, Degas and the solitary glowing Manet there.
It was not easy, it was in fact a little pathetic, this troubled, solitary seeking. He was too poor, shabby and proud to make many friends. He wanted friends, but they must come to him.
Then he began to teach, going out to the poorer districts — Saltley, Witton, Hebburn — as a pupil teacher in the elementary schools. He should, of course, by reason of his ideals, have loved it; instead he hated it — the pale, undernourished and often sickly children from the slum areas distracted his attention, distressed him horribly. He wanted to give them boots, clothes and food — not thump the multiplication table into their bemused little heads. He wanted to cart them away to the Wansbeck and set them playing there in the sunshine, instead of rowing them for failing to learn ten lines of incomprehensible “poetry,” about Lycidas dying ere his prime. His heart bled at times for these wretched kids. He knew immediately and irrevocably that he was no use at a blackboard, would never be any good; that this teaching was only a means to an end, that he must get out of it presently, into another, more active, more combative sphere. He must take his B.A. next year, quickly, then move on.
David stopped suddenly: his rare smile broke out again.
“O Lord! Have I been talking all this time? You asked for the sad, sad story… that’s my only excuse!”
But Jenny refused to let him make light of it; she was terribly impressed.
“My,” she remarked, animated yet bashful. “I’d no idea I was going to meet anybody so important.” The port had brought a faint flush to her cheeks; she sparkled upon him.
David looked at her wryly.
“Important! that’s a rich piece of sarcasm, Miss Jenny.”
But Miss Jenny did not mean it for sarcasm. She had never met a student, a real student of Baddeley College before. Students of the Baddeley belonged mostly to a social world on which Jenny had as yet merely gazed with envy. Besides, she thought David, though rather shabby beside Joe’s smooth opulence, quite a good-looking young man — interesting was the word! And finally she felt that Joe had treated her abominably lately — it would be “nice” to play off David against him and make him thoroughly jealous. She murmured: