# The Leader of the Lower School/Chapter 18
### CHAPTER XVIII Gipsy at Large

And where, all this time, was Gipsy, whom we left running down the road in the direction of Greyfield?
She tore along at the top of her speed, until she had put a considerable distance between herself and Briarcroft; then, panting and almost breathless, she slackened her pace, and looked round to see whether anyone was following her. As nobody of a more suspicious character than an errand boy and a nurse girl with a perambulator was in sight, she began to congratulate herself that she had escaped unobserved. How soon her absence would be discovered depended upon when Miss Poppleton or one of the monitresses next paid a visit to the dressing-room; and she laughed to picture the consternation that would ensue when the door was unlocked and her prison found to be vacant. No doubt they would send in search of her, but in the meantime she had stolen a march upon them, and given herself the advantage of a start, so she hoped by using all possible haste to get away before she was traced.
As she strode rapidly along, all her old vagabond instincts arose, and the gipsy element which had justified her name came strongly to the fore. It was ​a delightful, mild afternoon, with blue sky and bright sunshine; the gardens on either side of the road were gay with pink hawthorn and long, drooping sprays of laburnum, while blackbirds, thrushes, chaffinches, and tits were singing in a perfect chorus of joy. It felt so glorious to be as free as the birds, to be rid of all the tiresome rules and restrictions and conventions that had oppressed her soul for the last eight months, to be accountable to nobody but herself, and to be able to do just what she chose and go where she liked. School seemed as a nightmare behind her, and the world a fresh wonderland which it was her happy privilege to have the chance to explore.
"I'll never go back again—never!" she resolved. "Not if I have to sweep a crossing or sell flowers! But I don't think it will come to that, because I'm sure I can get a post on board ship. Oh, what a blissful relief it is to be on my own for once! I've made up my mind to find Dad, if I have to go to the ends of the earth to hunt for him."
In the exuberance of her spirits she almost danced along, humming now Schubert's "Wander Song", with its ringing refrain:
"Oh! surely he must careless be, Who never loved to wander free, To wander! To wander!"
or "The Miller of Dee", with special emphasis on the words:
"I care for nobody, no, not I! And nobody cares for me."
The sight of the town of Greyfield, with its streets ​and shops, changed the current of her thoughts, and brought the more sober reflection that she had no money in her pocket, and that it was a matter of urgent necessity to obtain some if she meant to reach Liverpool and start for South Africa. The fare, she knew, was about seven shillings, and though she hoped to be able to embark on board ship almost immediately after her arrival at the port, she supposed she would require something in the way of food on the journey. It went to her heart to be obliged to sell her beautiful gold watch, but in the circumstances it seemed the only thing to be done, and she braced her mind to part with it. She had no previous experience of selling things, so, choosing out the best jeweller's shop in the High Street, she marched blithely in, and taking off her watch and chain laid them upon the counter.
"Yes, Miss; want repairing, I suppose?" enquired the assistant who came to attend to her.
"No, they're in perfectly good order; but I wish to sell them. What price can you give me for them?" returned Gipsy confidently.
The man looked at her in decided astonishment, then pushed back the watch across the counter with a marked decrease of civility.
"We don't do that kind of business," he replied shortly.
"Won't you buy it then?" asked Gipsy in accents of blank disappointment.
"No; it's not in our line at all."
"Then where should I be able to sell it?"
"I couldn't say; probably at a secondhand shop. We only deal in new articles."
​Very much disconcerted and snubbed, Gipsy snatched up her watch and chain and fled from the shop. She had evidently made a mistake in applying at a first-class jeweller's, and she was angry at having exposed herself to the humiliation of a rebuff. With two flaming spots in her cheeks, she stalked down the High Street, and into one of the narrower and more modest by-streets, where smaller shops were to be found. She walked on for quite a long way without meeting with any place that looked in the least degree likely; then at last, at the corner of an even humbler street still, she found a secondhand furniture dealer, who, to judge by the contents of his windows, seemed also to trade in a variety of miscellaneous articles. On the pavement in front of the shop were spread forth specimens of chairs, tables, and washstands, and inside she could see a goodly array of glass, antique china, old jewellery, old silver, prints, pictures, books, candlesticks, firearms, and an assortment of small pieces of bric-à-brac. Over the door was the name of Daniel Lucas.
"This looks more the kind of place," she murmured. "I'll have a try here, at any rate."
The interior of the shop was so crowded with furniture that it was quite difficult to walk between the piled-up sideboards and sofas to the corner where a very dirty and shabby-looking individual, with untidy grey hair and unshaven chin, was busy adding up accounts. He paused with a grimy finger in the middle of a column of figures, and peered at Gipsy with a pair of red, bleary eyes.
"I see you sell secondhand jewellery here, and want ​to know if you care to buy a watch," she began, with rather less assurance than at her former interview.
"It depends on the article. Have you brought it with you?" replied the old man cautiously.
"It's real gold, and so is the chain," volunteered Gipsy, as she produced her treasure.
Mr. Daniel Lucas examined both watch and chain with minute care, then shook his head deprecatingly.
"I'm afraid it wouldn't be of much use to me. You see, it's not exactly in the nature of an antique," he replied.
Gipsy's face fell. To get the money for her journey was a matter of vital importance.
"Couldn't you offer me anything for it?" she pleaded.
The bleary red eyes glanced at her keenly, and appeared to appreciate her disappointment.
"Well, to oblige you, I might go to a matter of seven and six."
"Couldn't you possibly make it ten shillings, with the chain?" hazarded Gipsy. She had no idea of the value of secondhand articles, and thought only of what amount would take her to Liverpool.
"All right—with the chain. But it's a poor bargain for me, mind you. I'm only doing it just to oblige you," returned Mr. Lucas, opening a drawer and counting out four half-crowns with an alacrity that belied his words. Thankful to have concluded the transaction on any terms, Gipsy seized the money and beat a hasty retreat. She was extremely anxious to reach the station before Miss Poppleton missed her and sent somebody in search of her. She had no idea ​of the times of the trains, but trusted to luck to catch the next that would take her anywhere in the right direction. With her four precious half-crowns grasped tightly in her hand, she hurried back up the sordid street, and took the shortest cut possible to the railway station. There was quite a crowd at the booking office, so she was able to take her place in the queue of prospective travellers and to obtain her ticket without attracting any special attention.
"Liverpool?" said the inspector who stood at the platform door. "You've just time if you're quick. That's the train over there on No. 3."
Gipsy fled across the bridge with a speed that seriously interfered with the convenience of passengers coming in the opposite direction; she rattled down the steps on to Platform 3, and, nearly falling over a pile of luggage, flung herself into the first third-class compartment that came to hand.
"Am I right for Liverpool?" she gasped tremulously to the collector who came to punch her ticket.
"Quite right, Miss; change at Preston, that's all," replied the man as he slammed the door.
The porters were thrusting some boxes into the luggage van, and a few latecomers made a last dash for carriages; then the green flag waved, the whistle sounded, and the train started with a jerk. Gipsy, hot, excited, and agitated, drew a long, long breath of relief. She was actually off! They were speeding fast out of the station, and she was leaving Greyfield and Briarcroft, and all the painful experiences of the last few months, entirely behind her. She could hardly believe her good luck in thus slipping away ​unobserved. True, she had only a half-crown and two pennies left after paying her fare, but she supposed that would be enough to last her until she could go on board a vessel. Surely chance had favoured her in enabling her to reach the station in the nick of time to catch the train, and no doubt she would be equally fortunate when she reached Liverpool. Her fellow passengers were uninteresting, and she had no desire to talk to anyone and confide her affairs, so she amused herself with her own thoughts and plans for the future. At Preston she changed, and bought a bun at the refreshment rooms; her dinner had been almost untasted, and she was growing hungry now. It seemed funny to have absolutely no luggage, though in one respect it was a great convenience not to be obliged to haul about a heavy handbag, or to tip a porter out of her extremely small capital.
"I feel almost as if I'd been shipwrecked again—in a borrowed dress and hat, and nothing else to call my own!" she thought with a smile.
"HE PAUSED AND PEERED AT GIPSY"
"Smith? I couldn't tell you, I'm sure; there are so many Smiths," said the girl at the counter, with a superior smile. "One of them may be a sea captain, for anything I know. You'd better look in the Directory."
Gipsy seized upon the book with a sense of relief, and carried it off to a less busy part of the office. She turned up Waterloo, found the list of residents, and went through them in alphabetical order till she reached the letter S. She was appalled to see the number of Smiths who resided at Waterloo. To some of the names the Directory had appended an occupation, but with many it gave no details. Taking one of the telegraph forms she wrote down the addresses of about a dozen Smiths who, she considered, might be likely; then, returning the Directory to the girl at the counter, she started off on her arduous quest.
"I shall go to 'Ocean Villa' first," she thought. "It has a particularly nautical sound. I shouldn't think anybody but a sea captain could possibly live there. 'The Anchorage' sounds hopeful too, though it ought ​to be the home of somebody who is retired. 'Sea View Cottage' is doubtful, but 'Teneriffe House' is likely. The Queen of the Waves used to touch sometimes at Teneriffe. Oh, dear! the trouble will be to hunt out where they all are."
Poor Gipsy had indeed undertaken a most difficult task. She was obliged to ask her way again and again, and when at length she arrived at "Ocean Villa" it was only to meet with the information that nobody of a seafaring description was known there. Much disappointed, she trudged away in an opposite direction to find "The Anchorage", and after walking half a mile or more in search of it, was again confronted with ill success. At "Sea View Cottage" and "Teneriffe House" she fared no better; the occupiers, albeit they belonged to the great family of Smiths, had no connection whatever with the sea: and though she went to several other addresses on her list, the answer was invariably the same.
Utterly tired out, weary and despondent, Gipsy retraced her steps in the direction of the post office. Having parted with her watch, she had no idea of the time, but catching sight of a clock in a public building, she was horrified to find it was nearly a quarter to nine. The days at that season of the year were long, and this particular evening had been more than usually light; moreover, she had been entirely preoccupied with her quest, so she had never given a thought to the rapidly passing hours. For the first time the question of where she must sleep presented itself to her.
"I must get back to Liverpool," she thought, "and ​apply at one of the shipping offices. The docks aren't very far away, so I can get engaged as stewardess and go on board some ship at once, I expect."
But in the meantime a meal was an urgent necessity. She was sick and faint from want of food, and felt as if her tired feet could scarcely carry her farther. Seeing a modest confectioner's shop with a notice "Teas Provided", she went in and asked for some refreshment. The proprietress, a little elderly woman, struck partly by the weary look on her face, and partly by the unusual circumstance of a girl of her age coming into the shop alone to ask for tea at so late an hour, took her into a small parlour, and while laying the table and bringing in the meal, insinuated a few skilful questions as to where she was going. Gipsy had decided to pose as a working girl, so she answered readily enough that she was on her way to Liverpool, to find a post as assistant stewardess; and she wished to be very quick over her tea, so that she might go at once to the shipping offices, procure an engagement, and proceed at once to her vessel.
The expression on the woman's face changed from curiosity to sympathy, and then to utter consternation, as Gipsy briefly stated her intentions.
"But my goodness gracious! You'll never get a situation at this time of night!" she broke out. "Why, don't you know all the offices close at half-past five?"
Gipsy had not known, and the news struck her like a deadly blow.
"The offices all closed! Do you mean to say I can't get on board ship to-night?" she gasped. "Then where in the world am I to go?"
​The woman shook her head dubiously.
"Best go back where you've come from," she remarked.
"I can't! I can't!" cried Gipsy. "That's absolutely impossible. Oh! why didn't I know of this before? What shall I do? What shall I do?" and springing up excitedly from the table, she burst into a flood of tears. For the first time she realized what an extremely rash thing she had done in running away, and in what a terrible position she had placed herself. Alone, friendless, and nearly penniless, in the midst of a great, strange city, with no one who knew her, nowhere to go, and the light already fading so fast that it was dark in the little parlour! She had acted almost on the spur of the moment in leaving Briarcroft, without seriously considering whether her plans were practicable, and now she was reaping the bitter harvest of her own folly. She began heartily to wish herself back at school; even Miss Poppleton's severest scolding was as nothing to the misery of this present crisis, and she yearned for the sight of Miss Edith with a longing that amounted to home-sickness. Wishing and regretting, however, would not help her in the least. She must find some way out of her difficulty, and that promptly.
"I've only one and ninepence left," she faltered. "And out of that I have to pay for my tea and keep a few pennies to go back into Liverpool with by the car. Could I get a night's lodging anywhere very cheaply? Do you know of a clean place?"
"Better not try cheap lodgings!" said the woman emphatically. "Can't you go home again? No? ​That's a bad lookout." Then, noticing the utter agony in Gipsy's face, she added: "Well, I'd be sorry to turn a young girl like you out alone at this time of night. I'll let you sleep on the sofa here, if you can manage, and you can get on to Liverpool first thing in the morning."
Manage? Gipsy would have slept on the floor, instead of the sofa, if required. She was only too thankful to be allowed to stay, and was almost ready to hug the little confectioner with gratitude. She was so utterly wearied that she was glad to lie down at once in the parlour, and even before the tea-things were removed from the table she had sunk into a sleep of absolute exhaustion. Her hostess scanned her face narrowly, took in the details of her dress, and examined her school hat with attention, then shook her head.
"Doesn't look much in the stewardess line of business," she muttered. "There's something wrong here, I'm afraid. I'll have a talk with her to-morrow." Then she locked the parlour door carefully before she went back to the shop.
Gipsy slept straight on until eight o'clock the next morning, when she was aroused by her landlady, who brought her a cup of tea and a piece of thick bread and butter.
"If you'll take the advice of one who knows more of the world than you," said the woman, "you'll go back home as fast as you can. Your own folks are the best to look after you. If you've spent all your money, they'd help you at the police station. They'll always send a girl back to her friends." Then, leaving ​Gipsy to digest her remarks while eating her breakfast, she went to perform household tasks.
The last hint put Gipsy in a panic. With her long night's rest her spirits had revived, and her courage returned. The idea of seeking her father in South Africa appeared once more attractive, and she had no wish to be taken charge of by the police and ignominiously packed back to school. She wondered whether the little confectioner had already gone to inform a constable of her whereabouts. She could and would not allow herself to be thus treated. Hurriedly finishing the tea and bread and butter, she laid all her money, with the exception of sixpence, on the table, and finding the shop door already open, made her escape into the street. It felt almost like running away a second time, and she was sorry not to have said "Thank you!" for her night's lodging, but she considered the emergency to be critical, and was glad when she turned the corner and was out of sight of the shop. She made her way as fast as possible to the electric railway, and took the first car for Liverpool, determined not to waste any further time in looking for Captain Smith at Waterloo, but to try her utmost to obtain a berth as stewardess. By dint of diligent asking, she managed to find the quarters of one of the shipping companies that ran a line of steamers to South Africa, and after toiling up a long flight of stairs she boldly entered the office, and stated her business to an astonished clerk. He gave her one comprehensive glance, screwed up his mouth, and most impolitely whistled.
"Whew! You're rather juvenile for the job, ain't ​you?" he asked facetiously. "Ever been on the sea before? 'Tisn't nice when it's rough, I can tell you."
"I'm older than I look," returned Gipsy with dignity, suddenly remembering, however, to her confusion, that she had forgotten to buy a box of hairpins and turn up her hair. "That's to say, I'm quite old enough to be very useful on board ship, and I know all about long voyages. I'd like to speak to the head of the office."
"I dare say you would! But he's not here yet—never comes down till ten or half-past, and I don't believe he'd see you, either. We're not wanting any stewardesses at present—leastways, those we engage have to be on the wrong side of thirty."
"I'll wait and see the head of the office," announced Gipsy firmly.
"Well! Of all the cheek—!"
But at that moment the telephone bell rang violently in an inner room, and the clerk fled to the instrument. After a few minutes he returned, and with a complete change in his manner asked Gipsy to take a seat.
"The Chief will be here before long," he said affably. "If you don't mind waiting a little, I can promise it will be to your advantage."
Gipsy sat down on one of the office chairs, and amused herself for about the space of ten minutes in studying the shipping advertisements that were hung round the walls. She turned eagerly at last when a footstep was heard upon the staircase. Was it the manager of the Tower Line, she wondered, and would he after all be willing to engage her for the work she desired? Her heart beat and throbbed as the door ​swung open. But instead of a stranger appeared the familiar figure of her friend Meg's father.
"Gipsy! Gipsy!" cried Mr. Gordon reproachfully. "Thank Heaven I've found you! Come along with me at once, child! We must go straight back to Greyfield by the next express."