Worthy of his Name by Eglanton Thorne

GUS followed his father into the small back room which was their home. It was a comfortless room, with an unmade bed in one corner and a small table in the middle, on which was a penny bottle of ink, a couple of quill pens, and a dingy remnant of blotting-paper. It also contained two rickety chairs and a large, old-fashioned trunk, on the top of which lay about a score of books, most of them in a more or less shabby condition. The few poor articles of furniture were the property of Sally Dent; only the trunk, the books, and the writing materials belonged to her lodger.

The room was small, but it was not close. The window, grey with dust, was open at top and bottom, letting in the fresh, soft air of the fair May day. Lavender Terrace was not shut in from the winds of heaven. Before it ran the railway, and behind lay stretch of waste ground, around which new houses were rising. It was neither in London nor in the country, but one of those dreary new neighbourhoods to be found on the skirts of the metropolis which have lost their rural charm ere yet they have gained the advantages and respectability of a suburban locality. There were fields still at Glensford, and through one of them a stream made its way; but its banks were littered with rubbish, and its waters choked and befouled by the refuse cast into them. There were generally gipsy carts to be seen in these fields, and gipsy children with bare feet and tangled locks disporting themselves by the stream.

Gus watched his father silently, but with eager eyes, as he unrolled the paper parcel, and brought to view a loaf of bread and some slices of cooked ham. Then, without words, the boy went to a small cupboard by the fireplace, brought out the remnant of linen which did service as a tablecloth, with plates, knives and forks, and as rapidly as possible made the few simple preparations for their meal. The last of these was to place before his father a tall black bottle and a tumbler.

It was now two o'clock, and this was the first meal of the day; yet ere he attacked the food, for which he had so keen an appetite, the boy bent his head and repeated a brief grace. It was the habit in which he had been reared, and its omission would have drawn on him a reprimand from his father.

The boy ate hungrily, but a few mouthfuls seemed to content his father. He laid down his knife and fork, mixed himself a tumblerful of spirit and water, and sat slowly sipping it, and watching his boy the while with his hopeless, melancholy eyes.

"Gus," he said suddenly, "what is your name?"

"Gus Rew," answered the boy, with a smile. His spirits were rising as he took the sorely needed food, and he fancied that his father's mood was also waxing cheerful.

"No, that is not your name," was the unexpected reply.

Gus looked at his father with a shrewd, discerning glance. He was taking but a moderate draught; he never drank deeply so early in the day. Had it been night, Gus would have wondered at no strange, inexplicable words that might fall from his lips; but he did wonder now.

"What do you mean, father? " he asked.

"The name by which the people here know us is not our real name. I called myself Devereux once when we lived in another part, but people soon cut it down to Rew, and I let it be so. Shall I tell you your right name, Gus?"

"Yes," said the boy, forgetting to eat in his astonishment.

"Augustus Devereux Carruthers."

"My! " exclaimed Gus, his eyes opening wide in astonishment. "That's a good long one."

"It is your name, however. Can you remember it?"

"I don't know as I can," replied Gus.

"Then I'll write it down for you. It may be of importance to you some day that you should know your right name. But mind, boy, you are to keep it to yourself. Not a word to any one about it unless I give you leave."

Gus nodded.

"Now, if you've finished, clear the table and get me pen and ink."

The boy obeyed.