By Arnold Bennet
IIn the Five Towns the following history is related by thosewho know it as something side-splittingly funny—as one ofthe best jokes that ever occurred in a district devoted to jokes.
And I， too， have hitherto regarded it as such. But upon mysoul， now that I come to write it down， it strikes me as being，after all， a pretty grim tragedy. However， you shall judge， andlaugh or cry as you please.
It began in the little house of Mrs Carpole， up at Bleakridge，on the hill between Bursley and Hanbridge. Mrs Carpole wasthe second Mrs Carpole， and her husband was dead. She hada stepson， Horace， and a son of her own， Sidney. Horace isthe hero， or the villain， of the history. On the day when theunfortunate affair began he was nineteen years old， and amodel youth. Not only was he getting on in business， not onlydid he give half his evenings to the study of the chemistryof pottery and the other half to various secretaryships inconnection with the Wesleyan Methodist Chapel and Sundayschool，not only did he save money， not only was he a comfortto his stepmother and a sort of uncle to Sidney， not only washe an early riser， a total abstainer， a non-smoker， and a goodlistener； but， in addition to the practice of these manifold andrare virtues， he found time， even at that tender age， to pay histailor’s bill promptly and to fold his trousers in the same creaseevery night—so that he always looked neat and dignified.
Strange to say， he made no friends. Perhaps he was just athought too perfect for a district like the Five Towns； a sinor so might have endeared him to the entire neighbourhood.
Perhaps his loneliness was due to his imperfect sense ofhumour， or perhaps to the dull， unsmiling heaviness of hissomewhat flat features.
Sidney was quite a different story. Sidney， to use hismother’s phrase， was a little jockey. His years were theneight. Fair-haired and blue-eyed， as most little jockeys are，he had a smile and a scowl that were equally effective intyrannizing over both his mother and Horace， and he wasbeloved by everybody. Women turned to look at him in thestreet. Unhappily， his health was not good. He was afflicted bya slight deafness， which， however， the doctor said he wouldgrow out of； the doctor predicted for him a lusty manhood.
In the meantime， he caught every disease that happened to beabout， and nearly died of each one. His latest acquisition hadbeen scarlet fever. Now one afternoon， after he had ‘peeled’
and his room had been disinfected， and he was beginningto walk again， Horace came home and decided that Sidneyshould be brought downstairs for tea as a treat， to celebratehis convalescence， and that he， Horace， would carry himdownstairs. Mrs Carpole was delighted with the idea， andSidney also， except that Sidney did not want to be carrieddownstairs—he wanted to walk down.
‘I think it will be better for him to walk， Horace dear，’ said MrsCarpole， in her thin， plaintive voice. ‘He can， quite well. And youknow how clumsy you are. Supposing you were to fall！’
Horace， nevertheless， in pursuance of his programme ofbeing uncle to Sidney， was determined to carry Sidney. Andcarry Sidney he did， despite warnings and kickings. At least hecarried him as far as the turn in the steep stairs， at which pointhe fell， just as his stepmother had feared， and Sidney with him.
The half-brothers arrived on the ground floor in company， butHorace， with his eleven stone two， was on top， and the poorsuffering little convalescent lay moveless and insensible.
It took the doctor forty minutes to bring him to， and allthe time the odour of grilled herrings， which formed partof the uneaten tea， made itself felt through the house like aSatanic comment on the spectacle of human life. The scenewas dreadful at first. The agony then passed. There were nobruises on the boy， not a mark， and in a couple of hours heseemed to be perfectly himself. Horace breathed again， andthanked Heaven it was no worse. His gratitude to Heavenwas， however， slightly premature， for in the black middle ofthe night poor Sidney was seized with excruciating pains inthe head， and the doctor lost four hours’ sleep. These painsreturned at intervals of a few days， and naturally the child’sconvalescence was retarded. Then Horace said that AirsCarpole should take Sidney to Buxton for a fortnight， and hepaid all the expenses of the trip out of his savings. He wasdesolated， utterly stricken； he said he should never forgivehimself. Sidney improved， slowly.
II
After several months， during which Horace had given upall his limited spare time to the superintendence of the child’sfirst steps in knowledge， Sidney was judged to be sufficientlystrong to go to school， and it was arranged that he shouldattend the Endowed School at the Wedgwood Institution.
Horace accompanied him thither on the opening day of theterm—it was an inclement morning in January—and left theyoung delicate sprig， apparently joyous and content， to the careof his masters and the mercy of his companions. But Sidneycame home for dinner weeping—weeping in spite of his newmortar-board cap， his new satchel， his new box of compasses，and his new books. His mother kept him at home in theafternoon， and by the evening another of those terrible attackshad supervened. The doctor and Horace and Mrs Carpoleonce more lost much precious sleep. The mysterious maladycontinued. School was out of the question.
And when Sidney took the air， in charge of his mother，everybody stopped to sympathize with him and to stroke hiscurls and call him a poor dear， and also to commiserate MrsCarpole. As for Horace， Bursley tried to feel sorry for Horace，but it only succeeded in showing Horace that it was hiding asentiment of indignation against him. Each friendly face as itpassed Horace in the street said， without words， ‘there goes theyouth who probably ruined his young stepbrother’s life. Andthrough sheer obstinacy too！ He dropped the little darling inspite of warnings and protests， and then fell on the top of him.
