Mark the Match Boy 13

Mark the Match Boy 13

"Twenty-five cents," said Ben, coolly.

 

"Twenty-five cents!" ejaculated the customer, with a gasp of amazement.

"Come now, you're jokin'."

 

"No, I aint," said Ben.

 

"You don't mean to say you charge twenty-five cents for five minutes'

work?"

 

"Reg'lar price," said Ben.

 

"Why I don't get but twelve and a half cents an hour when I work out

hayin'," said the young man in a tone expressive of his sense of the

unfairness of the comparative compensation.

 

"Maybe you don't have to pay a big license," said Ben.

 

"A license for blackin' boots?" ejaculated the countryman, in surprise.

 

"In course. I have to deposit five hundred dollars, more or less, in

the city treasury, before I can black boots."

 

"Five--hundred--dollars!" repeated the customer, opening his eyes wide

at the information.

 

"In course," said Ben. "If I didn't they'd put me in jail for a year."

 

"And does he pay a license too?" asked the countryman, pointing to

Mark, who had just come up.

 

"He only has to pay two hundred and fifty dollars," said Ben. "They

aint so hard on him as on us."

 

The young man drew out his wallet reluctantly, and managed to raise

twenty-three cents, which he handed to Ben.

 

"I wouldn't have had my boots blacked, if I'd known the price," he

said. "I could have blacked 'em myself at home. They didn't cost but

three dollars, and it don't pay to give twenty-five cents to have 'em

blacked."

 

"It'll make 'em last twice as long," said Ben. "My blackin' is the

superiorest kind, and keeps boots from wearin' out."

 

"I havn't got the other two cents," said the young man. "Aint that near

enough?"

 

"It'll do," said Ben, magnanimously, "seein' you didn't know the price."

 

The victimized customer walked away, gratified to have saved the two

cents, but hardly reconciled to have expended almost quarter of a

dollar on a piece of work which he might have done himself before

leaving home.

 

"Well, what luck, Mark?" said Ben. "I took in that chap neat, didn't I?"

 

"But you didn't tell the truth," said Mark. "You don't have to buy a

license."

 

"Oh, what's the odds?" said Ben, whose ideas on the subject of truth

were far from being strict. "It's all fair in business. Didn't that

chap open his eyes when I told him about payin' five hundred dollars?"

 

"I don't think it's right, Ben," said Mark, seriously.

 

"Don't you go to preachin', Mark," said Ben, not altogether pleased.

"You've been tied to an old woman's apron-string too long,--that's

what's the matter with you."

 

"Mother Watson didn't teach me the truth," said Mark. "She don't care

whether I tell it or not except to her. It was my mother that told me I

ought always to tell the truth."

 

"Women don't know anything about business," said Ben. "Nobody in

business speaks the truth. Do you see that sign?"

 

Mark looked across the street, and saw a large placard, setting forth

that a stock of books and stationery was selling off at less than cost.

 

"Do you believe that?" asked Ben.

 

"Perhaps it's true," said Mark.

 

"Then you're jolly green, that's all I've got to lay," said Ben. "But

you haven't told me how much you've made."

 

"See here," said Mark, and he drew out his stock of money.

 

"Whew!" whistled Ben, in amazement. "You're in luck. I guess you've

been speculatin' on your license too."

 

"No," said Mark; "one gentleman gave me fifty cents, and two others

paid me double price."

 

"Why, you're gettin' rich!" said Ben. "Aint you glad you've left the

old woman?"

 

But just then Mark lifted up his eyes, and saw a sight that blanched

his cheek. There, bearing down upon him, and already but a few feet

distant, was Mother Watson! She was getting over the ground as fast

as her stoutness would allow. She had already caught sight of Mark,

and her inflamed eyes were sparkling with triumphant joy. Mark saw

with terror that her hand was already feeling in the pocket where she

kept the leather strap. Much as he always feared the strap, the idea

of having it applied to him in the public street made it even more

distasteful.

 

"What shall I do, Ben?" he said, clutching the arm of his companion.

 

"What are you afraid of? Do you see a copp after you?"

 

A "copp" is the street-boy's name for a policeman.

 

"No," said Mark; "there's Mother Watson coming after me. Don't you see

her?"

 

"That's Mother Watson, is it?" asked Ben, surveying the old body with a

critical eye. "She's a beauty, she is!"

 

"What shall I do, Ben? She'll beat me."

 

"No, she won't," said Ben. "You just keep quiet, and leave her to me.

Don't be afraid. She shan't touch you."

 

"She might strike you," said Mark, apprehensively.

 

"She'd better not!" said Ben, very decidedly; "not unless she wants to

be landed in the middle of next week at very short notice."

 

By this time Mother Watson came up, puffing and panting with the

extraordinary efforts she had made She could not speak at first, but

stood and glared at the match boy in a vindictive way.

 

"What's the matter with you, old lady?" asked Ben, coolly. "You aint

took sick, be you? I'd offer to support your delicate form, but I'm

afraid you'd be too much for me."

 

"What do you mean by runnin' away from home, you little thief?" said

the old woman, at length regaining her breath. Of course her remark was

addressed to Mark.

 

"You're very polite, old lady," said Ben; "but I've adopted that boy,

and he's goin' to live with me now."

 

"I aint speakin' to you, you vagabone!" said Mother Watson, "so you

needn't give me no more of your impertinence. I'm a-speakin' to him."

 

"I'm not going to live with you any more," said Mark, gaining a little

courage from the coolness of his friend, the boot-black.

 

"Aint a goin' to live with me?" gasped the old woman, who could hardly

believe she heard aright. "Come right away, sir, or I'll drag you home."

 

"Don't you stir, Mark," said Ben.

 

Mother Watson drew out her strap, and tried to get at the match boy,

but Ben put himself persistently in her way.

 

"Clear out, you vagabone!" said the old lady, "or I'll give you

something to make you quiet."

 

"You'd better keep quiet yourself," said Ben, not in the least

frightened. "Don't you be afraid, Mark. If she kicks up a rumpus, I'll

give her over to a copp. He'll settle her."

 

Mother Watson by this time was very much incensed. She pulled out her

strap, and tried to get at Mark, but the boot-black foiled her efforts

constantly.

 

Carried away with anger, she struck Ben with the strap.

 

"Look here, old lady," said Ben, "that's goin' a little too far. You

won't use that strap again;" and with a dexterous and vigorous grasp he

pulled it out of her hand.

 

"Give me that strap, you vagabone!" screamed the old woman, furiously.

 

"Look here, old lady, what are you up to?" demanded the voice of one

having authority.

 

Mother Watson, turning round, saw an object for which she never had

much partiality,--a policeman.

 

"O sir," said she, bursting into maudlin tears, "it's my bad boy that I

want to come home, and he won't come."

 

"Which is your boy,--that one?" asked the policeman, pointing to Ben

Gibson.

 

"No, not that vagabone!" said the old woman, spitefully. "I wouldn't

own him. It's that other boy."

 

"Do you belong to her?" asked the officer, addressing Mark.

 

"No, sir," said the match boy.

 

"He does," vociferated the old woman.

 

"Is he your son?"

 

"No," she said, after a moment's hesitation.

 

"Is he any relation of yours?"

 

"Yes, he's my nephew," said Mother Watson, making up her mind to a

falsehood as the only means of recovering Mark.

 

"Is this true?" asked the officer.

 

"No, it isn't," said Mark. "She's no relation to me, but when my mother

died she offered to take care of me. Instead of that she's half starved

me, and beaten me with a strap when I didn't bring home as much money as she wanted."