Mark the Match Boy 12
While he is getting on in such an encouraging manner we must go back to
Mother Watson.
When Mark did not return the night before she grumbled considerably,
but no thought of his intentional desertion dawned upon her. Indeed,
she counted upon his timidity and lack of courage, knowing well that
a more spirited boy would have broken her chain long before. She only
thought, therefore, that he had not got the twenty-five cents, and did
not dare to come back, especially as she had forbidden him to do so.
So, determining to give him a taste of the leather strap in the
morning, she went to bed, first taking a fresh potation from the
whiskey bottle, which was her constant companion.
Late in the morning Mother Watson woke, feeling as usual, at that
hour of the day, cross and uncomfortable, and with a strong desire to
make some one else uncomfortable. But Mark, whom she usually made to
bear the burden of her temper, was still away. For the first time the
old woman began to feel a little apprehensive that he had deserted
her. This was far from suiting her, as she found his earnings very
convenient, and found it besides pleasant to have somebody to scold.
She hastily dressed, without paying much attention to her toilet.
Indeed, to do Mother Watson justice, her mind was far from being filled
with the vanity of dress, and if she erred on that subject it was in
the opposite extreme.
When her simple toilet was accomplished she went downstairs, and
knocked at Mrs. Flanagan's door.
"Come in!" said a hearty voice.
Mrs. Flanagan was hard at work at her wash-tub, and had been for a good
couple of hours. She raised her good-natured face as the old woman
entered.
"The top of the morning to you, Mother Watson," she said. "I
hope you're in fine health this morning, mum." "Then you'll be
disappointed," said Mrs. Watson. "I've got a bad feeling at my stomach,
and have it most every morning."
"It's the whiskey," thought Mrs. Flanagan; but she thought it best not
to intimate as much, as it might lead to hostilities.
"Better take a cup of tea," said she.
"I haven't got any," said the old woman. "I wouldn't mind a sup if
you've got some handy."
"Sit down then," said Mrs. Flanagan, hospitably. "I've got some left
from breakfast, only it's cold, but if you'll wait a bit, I'll warm it
over for you."
Nothing loth, Mother Watson sank into a chair, and began to give a full
account of her ailments to her neighbor, who tried hard to sympathize
with her, though, knowing the cause of the ailments, she found this
rather difficult.
"Have you seen anything of my boy this morning?" she asked after a
while.
"What, Mark?" said Mrs. Flanagan. "Didn't he come home last night?"
"No," said the old woman, "and he isn't home yet. When he does come
I'll give him a dose of the strap. He's a bad, lazy, shiftless boy,
and worries my life out."
"You're hard on the poor boy, Mother Watson. You must remember he's but
a wisp of a lad, and hasn't much strength."
"He's strong enough," muttered Mother Watson. "It's lazy he is. Just
let him come home, that's all!"
"You told him not to come home unless he had twenty-five cents to bring
with him."
"So I did, and why didn't he do it?"
"He couldn't get the money, it's likely, and he's afraid of bein' bate."
"Well, he will be bate then, Mrs. Flanagan, you may be sure of that,"
said the old woman, diving her hand into her pocket to see that the
strap was safe.
"Then you're a bad, cruel woman, to bate that poor motherless child,"
said Mrs. Flanagan, with spirit.
"Say that again, Mrs. Flanagan," ejaculated Mother Watson, irefully.
"My hearin' isn't as good as it was, and maybe I didn't hear you right."
"No wonder your hearin' isn't good," said Mrs. Flanagan, who now broke
bounds completely. "I shouldn't think you'd have any sense left with
the whiskey you drink."
"Perhaps you mean to insult me," said the old woman, glaring at her
hostess with one of the frowns which used to send terror to the heart
of poor Mark.
"Take it as you please, mum," said Mrs. Flanagan, intrepidly. "I'm
entirely willin'. I've been wanting to spake my mind a long while, and
now I've spoke it."
Mother Watson clutched the end of the strap in her pocket, and eyed
her hostess with a half wish that it would do to treat her as she had
treated Mark so often; but Mrs. Flanagan with her strong arms and
sturdy frame looked like an antagonist not very easily overcome, and
Mrs. Watson forbore, though unwillingly.
Meanwhile the tea was beginning to emit quite a savory odor, and the
wily old woman thought it best to change her tactics.
Accordingly she burst into tears, and, rocking backward and forward,
declared that she was a miserable old woman, and hadn't a friend in the
world, and succeeded in getting up such a display of misery that the
soft heart of Mrs. Flanagan was touched, and she apologized for the
unpleasant personal observations she had made, and hoped Mother Watson
would take the tea.
To this Mother Watson finally agreed, and intimating that she was
faint, Mrs. Flanagan made some toast for her, of which the cunning
old woman partook with exceeding relish, notwithstanding her state of
unhappiness.
"Come in any time, Mother Watson," said Mrs. Flanagan, "when you want a
sip of tea, and I'll be glad to have you take some with me."
"Thank you, Mrs. Flanagan; maybe I'll look in once in a while. A sip of
tea goes to the right spot when I feel bad at my stomach."
"Must you be goin', Mother Watson?"
"Yes," said the old woman; "I'm goin' out on a little walk, to see my
sister that keeps a candy-stand by the Park railins. If Mark comes in,
will you tell him he'll find the matches upstairs?"
This Mrs. Flanagan promised to do, and the old woman went downstairs,
and into the street.
But she had not stated her object quite correctly. It was true that she
had a sister, who was in the confectionery and apple line, presiding
over one of the stalls beside the Park railings. But the two sisters
were not on very good terms, chiefly because the candy merchant,
who was more industrious and correct in her habits than her sister,
declined to lend money to Mother Watson,--a refusal which led to a
perfect coolness between them. It was not therefore to see her that the
old woman went out. She wanted to find Mark. She did not mean to lose
her hold upon him, if there was any chance of retaining it, and she
therefore made up her mind to visit the places where he was commonly to
be found, and, when found, to bring him home, by violence, if necessary.
So with an old plaid cloak depending from her broad shoulders, and her
hand grasping the strap in her pocket, she made her way to the square,
peering about on all sides with her ferret-like eyes in the hope of
discovering the missing boy.
CHAPTER XI.
MARK'S VICTORY.
Meanwhile Mark, rejoicing in his new-found freedom, had started on
a business walk among the stores and offices at the lower part of
Nassau Street, and among the law and banking offices of Wall Street.
Fortunately for Mark there had been a rise in stocks, and Wall Street
was in a good-humor. So a few of the crumbs from the tables of the
prosperous bankers and brokers fell in his way. One man, who had just
realized ten thousand dollars on a rise in some railway securities,
handed Mark fifty cents, but declined to take any of his wares. So this
was all clear profit and quite a windfall for the little match boy.
Again, in one or two cases he received double price for some of his
matches, and the result was that he found himself by eleven o'clock the
possessor of two dollars and a quarter, with a few boxes of matches
still left.
Mark could hardly realize his own good fortune. Somehow it seemed a
great deal more profitable as well as more agreeable to be in business
for himself, than to be acting as the agent of Mother Watson. Mark
determined that he would never go back to her unless he was actually
obliged to do so.
He wanted somebody to sympathize with him in his good fortune, and, as
he had nearly sold out, he determined to hunt up Ben Gibson, and inform
him of his run of luck.
Ben, as he knew, was generally to be found on Nassau Street, somewhere
near the corner of Spruce Street. He therefore turned up Nassau Street
from Wall, and in five minutes he reached the business stand of his
friend Ben.
Ben had just finished up a job as Mark came up. His patron was a
young man of verdant appearance, who, it was quite evident, hailed
from the country. He wore a blue coat with brass buttons, and a tall
hat in the style of ten years before, with an immense top. He gazed
with complacency at the fine polish which Ben had imparted to his
boots,--a pair of stout cowhides,--and inquired with an assumption of
indifference:-"Well, boy, what's the tax?"
댓글 없음:
댓글 쓰기