Pony Boy Page 2

  Corky lay in bed. His life seemed full of exciting possibilities.

  Tomorrow he would probably be approached in the street, say by managers of factories and businesses, and he would be asked if he’d care to take jobs on. Messenger boy, office boy, or an apprentice job at carpentry, painting, engineering, or printing. And such jobs as these would be put before him. After all, employers naturally wanted the best at the cheapest figure obtainable; you couldn’t blame them, you were the same yourself. The Postmaster General might come after him to accept a job as telegraph boy. Since they were short of boys he might offer Corky a motor-bike job on the spot. Of course, none of these positions would be highly-paid. But he would have to consider them, though it wasn’t likely he would accept such common employment.

  There was always the chance that some private detective would be on the look-out for an assistant. Especially if Corky got around Baker Street where most detectives hung about. They usually picked on young Chinese boys to work for them, because they were well-known to have “impassive countenances.” Just the same, he, Corky, would close his eyes to mere slits and nobody could say for certain that he wasn’t Chinese. Should he catch the eye of any individual in the street who had the appearance of a detective—smoking a large pipe and in deep thought—oh yes, Corky would spot him at a glance. And he would return a gaze quite as inscrutable as the detective’s. Of course, he wouldn’t be engaged in the normal manner, asking for references and that sort of thing. The detective would make some test of his nerve—perhaps swoop down on Corky with a pearl-handled dagger, or stick a pistol, one with a silencer, into Corky’s ribs. Corky would simply set his eyes on the man more impassively than ever. He wouldn’t blink. Not once. Even the detective’s stern staring would find itself wilting a little from the clash of that cool gaze—behind which lay a will of steel. Pity he couldn’t hypnotise a little. He might command the detective to take five shillings from his pocket and hand it over. Not that he wouldn’t return it later. He would of course. Out of sheer honesty, for the man could not possibly know he had given it. Or drugs. Couldn’t he soak his handkerchief in chloroform before he left home in the morning? When the detective had trailed him Corky might suddenly disguise himself as a half-wit child, or an old man going drawing his pension, and the moment the detective was looking around Corky would clap the drugged cloth to his mouth. Immediately he dropped off Corky would carry him by the “fireman’s lift” back to his apartment. He’d know where it would be, because detectives always carry visiting cards with them. When the man came round over Corky giving him coffee, Corky would tell him what had happened and the man would admit that for the first time in his life he had been outwitted. For a moment then Corky might relax his inscrutable expression, but only for a moment. He would consider the detective’s offer that he should become his assistant. Finally, he would accept. No regular wage, just expenses for Scotland, America, Amsterdam, and places like that—by air of course. Their first job would be a search for a diamond necklace, or a black pearl. Or some kidnapped heiress. One never knew.

  Corky saw and felt all this very clearly before he went to sleep. But he brought his common sense, or rather, he clamped cold-blooded daytime reality down upon it. No, it would not do. It was possible of course, but not probable. He might easily walk London in the morning—and not get a job. Oh no, could that happen? No job? Suppose it did—what then? He’d be trudging home, tired, hungry and weary. Discouraged? No! He’d have his chin in the air, and be watching everything that was going on. There’s a cry! What’s the matter? Why is everyone shouting? Look, a pair of runaway horses! Listen, the driver bawling! “Keep clear!” What a mighty pair they are! Hear the crack of their iron-shod hooves! Their snorting noses in the air. They must be belting at fifty miles an hour. Watch the people dodge in the doorways and alleys. Suddenly there’s a woman’s scream. What is it? That little figure in white innocently crossing the road. She doesn’t know what’s going on. “My child! My child!” screams the mother. “Save my child!” They’ve all lost their heads. Even the big policeman is not quick enough. The two horses are tearing upon that tiny figure. It is like some pagan chariot descending slaughterously upon a young Christian maid. “My child!” the woman makes one last heartrending cry. The child—she is a young girl in fact—suddenly sees her peril. She is stricken helpless. It is too late ...! Is it too late? Who is that small figure that seems to unleash himself with dynamic potency from the pavement, and leap with incredible speed before those clashing hooves? He’ll be crushed! No—no, can it be he will save her? Oh, how comes that superhuman strength and nerve—that amazing power which sweeps the child from the path of the juggernaut, holds it to his breast, retaining a grip, a grip that must be of tempered steel on the reins, for he brings those charging animals to a harmless halt beside the Bank of England! Calms them, even pets them. And modestly returns the child to its mother. It is Corky, of course.

  The child is much older than he imagined. She is about twelve. The most beautiful girl he has ever seen. She wants to kiss him. The policemen are holding the crowd back. Corky wants to sneak quietly away. He hates a fuss. But they won’t let him get away. He bends his head against the volley of cameras directed at him. The girl is the daughter of a Queen, she is a princess in fact. A foreign one, come to London to learn the language. But she speaks in impeccable English. The mother appeals to Corky that he come to visit the royal household. They will ever be his devoted servants. They never forget to repay a debt. They would even go to war on Corky’s behalf. Without question. “Would he go to their country and be chief of the police? of the army? the air force?” Ah, the air force. He would consider that. He’d have a special private plane of his own—one that could land on houses preferred. Then he’d visit his Uncle Dave regularly.

  But what was this wealthy looking gent making so much fuss about? What was this card he had given him? Samuel Goldwyn ...? Now where had Corky seen that name? What address, Hollywood? Ah, the films, he wants to make Corky a star. Corky bows and apologises to the people. “Sorry, but I must be going ... I’m afraid I’ll be late in getting Uncle’s tea ready.” He just gives a light kiss to the princess’s forehead. Easy to see she will love no other but Corky. His piercing glance and powerful fingers give him a clear road through the crowd. What is this the newsboys are calling as he nears home. Headlines: “Cockney boy refuses kingdom and offers of millions! Turns aside Princess’s hand, and world-fame on screen. Chooses to remain in small home with Uncle Dave!”

  Yes, that’s how it had been last night. It wasn’t quite the same in the streets today. There seemed to be an absolute shortage of detectives, runaway horses, princesses, film magnates, and that sort of thing. At the corner of Tower Bridge Road, Corky hesitated. Then he decided to go right over the bridge. He would make a direct attack on the City. He’d get right down to rock-solid fact, eschew all dreaming, go straight forward into reality—er! ... what was that song they used to sing at school? oh!

  “Turn again Whittington, thou worthy citizen, Lord Mayor of London!” And the heart of him uttered a warning to that financial heart of the metropolis: “Look out, City! Corky is descending on you!”

  3 In Search of a Job

  “Make the pants straight,” I says.

  “I’ll bend ’em meself.”

  HIS first place of seeking work was a printing house. He walked straight in there, and couldn’t find anyone. Then he went up the stairs. There was a long corridor, lots of long corridors, and people coming out and going in doors, but he couldn’t catch one eye to ask it a question. At the finish he got absolutely lost. He kept going down and down steps. He was certain that they must eventually lead him to the outside door. But they didn’t. Instead they took him right into the throbbing vitals of the building. Machines were rolling and humming. But he couldn’t see anyone. Then suddenly a man glided out with his sleeves rolled up, and carrying a fresh sheaf of papers.

  “Hy, you there!” he bellowed. And before Corky knew what wa
s happening the man had planted the papers on him: “Room 57, Miss Hardbattle. Quick as you can,” he snapped.

  “But, but, sir——” stammered Corky, “I don’t work here.”

  “What?” roared the man. “That’s a new ’un, that is. Yesterday you said you’d a sore ankle, the day before you said you were looking for somebody, and today you don’t work here! Now listen, I’m just about fed up with this game. Room 57 as fast as you can go. Off! Before I help you there with this!” He pointed to a heavy-toed boot. Off Corky went. He was glad to get away from the stuffy atmosphere. He went up some steps. He felt a good cool draught blowing and he followed it. He came to a small open door, and nipped outside, and found himself at the back of the building. He made a couple of quick turns and came on the main road. Then he remembered the papers!

  Instantly it struck his heart that there was going to be trouble and misunderstanding if Miss Hardbattle did not receive these papers. And misunderstanding Corky could not bear to be the cause of. “You will have a matter thrashed out—even if it gets you hanged!” his Uncle Dave had once told him. And it was more or less true, except he wouldn’t go quite so far. But it did set his mind at rest to get at the bottom of things. And if he dumped the papers in an ash bin, he would be curious all his life as to the outcome of the matter. What had this man to say to Miss Hardbattle? and what had happened to the boy that he was mistaken for? and how had they accounted for the loss of the papers? It would stalk him to the end of his days. He couldn’t have that. So in the main entrance he went with the bundle. This time there was an attendant there. He approached Corky:

  “Well, me young shaver, what can I do for you?”

  Corky thrust the papers out: “Please could you have these sent to Miss Hardbattle at room 57?”

  “H’mm, where are you from?” asked the man.

  “The Union Castle Line,” replied Corky. He had once seen those words on a brass plate outside some shipping office. It was many years ago, but now at last, he’d got them off his tongue. And what a pleasure it was. He looked up into the man’s puzzled face, shoved the papers at him, and remarked, “I did use to do for the Ellerman and Dempsey Line,” and with that turned sharply on his heel, and strode out.

  Just as he was putting a free foot in the city street Corky heard a “Hy, there!” He hesitated, then turned to find the inquiring face of the attendant on him:

  “Sure you never did for the Nippon-Shanghai-Kysha-Line?” the man called.

  “Never heard of ’em!” replied Corky.

  But going down the street, face flushed, and expression not quite so impassive as he would have wished, Corky realised there was one thing he would never know for sure: whether he’d been kidding the doorman—or the doorman kidding him!

  That short encounter stimulated Corky. He managed to fling aside his doubts over the leg-pull, and now, for quite a way along the street he felt his young blood buttressing the ribs over his chest, so that it stuck out, and set his shoulders wide and stiff. But gradually it settled to normal again. And as Corky stepped slowly into the next building his blood had sunk sluggishly round his toes.

  There was a lift door open before him, and the liftman waiting impatiently for Corky to get a move on. Not liking to hurt the man’s feelings by declining the offer he dashed into the lift.

  “Third,” uttered a long, thin girl. “Second,” a sharp-faced man put in. “Fourth!” a bass voice rumbled. “Fifth,” snapped a voice from the corner. Corky saw the liftman looking at him so he numbered off with a squeaky “Sixth!”

  “There you are, the fifth, an’ don’t forget next time that’s the top floor.” Corky strode out of the lift, along the corridor, and feeling the man’s eyes might still be on him, and wishing to appear confident, he knocked at a big door marked Tom, Tom, Tom, and Toms.

  “Come in,” roared a voice. Fearfully Corky turned the handle and went in. There was a man with two red ears, sitting before a small electric fire. He didn’t turn round. He just yelled. “Well ...?”

  Corky felt it was rather not like what his Uncle Dave or men like that would have done, to expect somebody to talk to a fleshy bald head and two ears. Still, that had to be put up with.

  “Do you want a boy?” he croaked.

  “Boy? Boy?” thundered the man, and then went silent for a time. Corky was now getting what his uncle called ‘aeriated’.

  “Yes, a boy,” he shouted. “A human being, with arms, legs, teeth, eyes, hair, and brains. And feelings, too, come to that.” Now the chair swivelled round, and a face faced Corky that put him in mind of a letter box. He couldn’t say why, but it just did.

  “What is it you want?” the man asked grimly.

  “A job. A job. Work, work, work,” cried Corky.

  At this the man dropped his head back and began roaring helplessly. He’d stop to wipe his eyes with a tremendous handkerchief, and murmur, “A job ...! Ha, ha, ha,” and begin again with deep chuckles of stomach mirth that swelled to mad guffaws of laughing. When he did recover some measure of composure, Corky spoke:

  “But this isn’t getting me a job——”

  The man put his hand up: “Don’t, don’t send me off again.”

  “What’s so very funny about it?” asked Corky.

  “Can you see this office?” asked the man. “Yesterday there were seven of us. Today there’s only me. Soon they will call for this last chair, then I shall have to go. I shall have to go looking for a job—that’s what I found so very funny about it. I’m bankrupt. I owe ten thousand pounds, to be exact, ten thousand pounds, one shilling and threepence ha’penny. Oh, by the way, if you’re not doing anything, would you mind slipping out for a cigar. Get me a Pompilla, they’re a half-crown each, and there’s threepence for yourself. Tell him I want a very strong one, the last was on the weak side—it broke in my pocket. Ha, ha, ha!”

  “Subtle or brittle?” asked Corky, rather shortly. Then he returned the threepence which the man had thrust at him. “I’m not out for charity, it’s a job I want, but thanks all the same. And, on second thoughts, if you owe ten thousand pound, I think you’d better save this half-crown toward it, not suck and smoke it away. Good-day, sir.”

  At the next three places Corky was told they “didn’t want any.” But at the last place he got in conversation with the office boy, who was hiding behind the heating pipes.

  “Oh, the guv’nor won’t be here for another hour. I heard him ringing to say his old woman had come to town with him and he wouldn’t be in till eleven.”

  “But it’s after that now,” said Corky.

  “I know, but eleven means half-past one. If he’d said he wasn’t coming in till after lunch it would have meant he wouldn’t be coming in at all. Yes, the old ’struggle and strife’ takes him round the shops——”

  “Struggle and strife?”

  “Yay, his wife. I’ll catch out when he comes back.”

  “Why?” asked Corky.

  “Oh, the office boy always does,” he replied airily. “If the directors squabble among themselves it’s the office boy gets it in the neck at the finish. They keep passing it on from one to t’other until it gets down to me—I happen to be at the bottom. Of course, there used to be the cat. I could give that a kick in the pants if I wanted to—but in many ways you’ll find us boys aren’t so childish. Anyway, the cat’s gone—took its hook over the weekend.”

  “I say, what’s that ringing I keep hearing?”

  “Nothing, forget it. Look here, in place of going after an office job, why don’t you join the navy?”

  “Why don’t you?” asked Corky.

  “It’s the bell-bottoms. I have the feeling they’re just that bit too wide for a pair of legs as short as mine. What do you think?”

  Corky examined the legs. They were rather on the short side.

  “Something of the sort,” said the boy, surveying himself. “Or is it they don’t go far enough down? Still, that can’t be it, they’re touching the floor.”

  “E
r, are they just a bit bowed?” ventured Corky.

  “Just a shade. I’ve tried walking stiff-legged but it don’t seem much use. It was the same when I got measured for my first long pants—the tailor was going down my legs with the tape measure and I had to warn him——”

  “Warn him?”

  “Yay. ‘Make the pants straight,” I says. ‘I’ll bend ’em meself.’”

  “Funny,” said Corky, “but I seem to have had bells in my ear this last hour.”

  “No, that’s all right. They’re ringing for me. Not that they really want me. It’s just that they can’t bear somebody doing nothing and them working. I understand because I’m the same way myself. But do you definitely think my legs couldn’t stand up to bell-bottoms?”

  “Oh, they might at a pinch.”

  “But I’m not sure the Recruiting Officer would take me now. He said I was a phenomenon last time I went.”

  “How was that?”

  “Well, you know you’ve got to be twenty-eight inches around the chest to get in the navy. Well, I kept practising deep breathing and chest expansion for weeks, till I could just make it full of wind. He told me to stand natural when he stretched the tape measure around me, but I had my lungs full and my chest out, just so I’d be able to make the grade. He was very slow about it and it was all I could do to hold my breath. He jotted the measurement down on his cuff, and when I thought it was all over he said, ‘Expand.’ Well, I was just about at the end of my control, I collapsed right in, and he measured and wrote it down. Then he looked at his cuff and stared at me. ‘You’re a phenomenon,’ he says, ‘a human freak. You’ve a normal measurement of twenty-eight inches, but expanded you go down to twenty-four-and-a-half! You’ve more in you when you’ve nothing in you, than you have when you’re full up.’”

  “Hard cheese,” said Corky. “But frankly, as one man to another, you can’t recommend office work?”