Mark the Match Boy 16

Mark the Match Boy 16

"I was once a street boy like you."

 

"You!" repeated the match boy, in surprise.

 

"Yes. But where do you sleep?"

 

"At the Lodging House."

 

"It is a good place. Michael, you had better go to the post-office now."

 

Mark looked about him a little anxiously.

 

"Where are my matches?" he asked.

 

"Just outside; I'll get them," said Michael, promptly.

 

He brought them in, and then departed on his errand.

 

"I guess I'd better be going," said Mark, rising feebly.

 

"No," said Richard. "You are not able. Come here and sit down. You will

feel stronger by and by. Did you eat any breakfast this morning?"

 

"A little," said Mark, "but I was not very hungry."

 

"Do you think you could eat anything now?" Mark shook his head.

 

"No," he said, "I don't feel hungry. I only feel tired."

 

"Would you like to rest?"

 

"Yes. That's all I want."

 

"Come here then, and I will see what I can do for you."

 

Mark followed his new friend into the warehouse, where Richard found

a soft bale of cotton, and told Mark he might lie down upon it. This

the poor boy was glad enough to do. In his weakness he was disposed

to sleep, and soon closed his eyes in slumber. Several times Richard

went out to look at him, but found him dozing, and was unwilling to

interrupt him.

 

The day wore away, and afternoon came.

 

Mark got up from his cotton bale, and with unsteady steps came to the

door of the counting-room.

 

"I'm going," he said.

 

Richard turned round.

 

"Where are you going?"

 

"I'm going to the Lodge. I think I won't sell any more matches to-day."

 

"I'll take all you've left," said Richard. "Don't trouble yourself

about them. But you are not going to the Lodge."

 

Mark looked at him in surprise.

 

"I shall take you home with me to-night," he said. "You are not well,

and I will look after you. At the Lodge there will be a crowd of boys,

and the noise will do you harm."

 

"You are very kind," said Mark; "but I'm afraid I'll trouble you."

 

"No," said Richard, "I shan't count it a trouble. I was once a poor boy

like you, and I found friends. I'll be your friend. Go back and lie

down again, and in about an hour I shall be ready to take you with me."

 

It seemed strange to Mark to think that there was somebody who proposed

to protect and look after him. In many of the offices which he visited

he met with rough treatment, and was ordered out of the way, as if he

were a dog, and without human feelings. Many who treated him in this

way were really kind-hearted men who had at home children whom they

loved, but they appeared to forget that these neglected children of the

street had feelings and wants as well as their own, who were tenderly

nurtured. They did not remember that they were somebody's children,

and that cold, and harshness, and want were as hard for them to bear

as for those in a higher rank of life. But Mark was in that state of

weakness when it seemed sweet to throw off all care or thought for the

future, and to sink back upon the soft bale with the thought that he

had nothing to do but to rest.

 

"That boy is going to be sick," thought Richard Hunter to himself. "I

think he is going to have a fever."

 

It was because of this thought that he decided to carry him home. He

had a kind heart, and he knew how terrible a thing sickness is to these

little street waifs, who have no mother or sister to smooth their

pillows, or cheer them with gentle words. The friendless condition of

the little match boy touched his heart, and he resolved that, as he had

the means of taking care of him, he would do so.

 

"Michael," he said, at the close of business hours, "I wish you would

call a hack."

 

"What, to come here?" asked Micky, surprised.

 

"Yes. I am going to take that little boy home with me. I think he is

going to be sick, and I am afraid he would have a hard time of it if I

sent him back into the street."

 

"Bully for you, Mr. Hunter!" said Micky, who, though rough in his

outward manners, was yet capable of appreciating kindness in others.

There were times indeed in the past when he had treated smaller boys

brutally, but it was under the influence of passion. He had improved

greatly since, and his better nature was beginning to show itself.

 

Micky went out, and soon returned in state inside a hack. He was

leaning back, thinking it would be a very good thing if he had a

carriage of his own to ride in. But I am afraid that day will never

come. Micky has already turned out much better than was expected, but

he is hardly likely to rise much higher than the subordinate position

he now occupies. In capacity and education he is far inferior to his

old associate, Richard Hunter, who is destined to rise much higher than

at present.

 

Richard Hunter went to the rear of the warehouse where Mark still lay

on his bale.

 

"Come," he said; "we'll go home now."

 

Mark rose from his recumbent position, and walked to the door. He saw

with surprise the carriage, the door of which Micky Maguire held open.

 

"Are we going to ride in that?" he asked.

 

"Yes," said Richard Hunter. "Let me help you in."

 

The little match boy sank back in the soft seat in vague surprise at

his good luck. He could not help wondering what Ben Gibson would say if

he could see him now.

 

Richard Hunter sat beside him, and supported Mark's head. The driver

whipped up his horse, and they were speedily on their way up the Bowery

to St. Mark's Place.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIV.

 

RICHARD HUNTER'S WARD.

 

 

It was about half-past five o'clock in the afternoon when the carriage

containing Richard Hunter and the match boy stopped in front of his

boarding-place in St. Mark's Place. Richard helped the little boy out,

saying, cheerfully, "Well, we've got home."

 

"Is this where you live?" asked Mark, faintly.

 

"Yes. How do you like it?"

 

"It's a nice place. I am afraid you are taking too much trouble about

me."

 

"Don't think of that. Come in."

 

Richard had ascended the front steps, after paying the hackman, and

taking out his night-key opened the outside door.

 

"Come upstairs," he said.

 

They ascended two flights of stairs, and Richard threw open the door

of his room. A fire was already burning in the grate, and it looked

bright and cheerful.

 

"Do you feel tired?" asked Richard.

 

"Yes, a little."

 

"Then lie right down on the bed. You are hungry too,--are you not?"

 

"A little."

 

"I will have something sent up to you."

 

Just then Fosdick, who, it will be remembered, was Richard Hunter's

room-mate, entered the room. He looked with surprise at Mark, and then

inquiringly at Richard.

 

"It is a little match boy," explained the latter, "who fell in a

fainting-fit in front of our office. I think the poor fellow is going

to be sick, so I brought him home, and mean to take care of him till he

is well."

 

"You must let me share the expense, Dick," said Fosdick.

 

"No, but I'll let you share the care of him. That will do just as well."

 

"But I would rather share the expense. He reminds me of the way I was

situated when I fell in with you. What is your name?"

 

"Mark Manton," said the match boy.

 

"I've certainly seen him somewhere before," said Fosdick, reflectively.

"His face looks familiar to me."