Mark the Match Boy 6

Mark the Match Boy 6

CHAPTER V.

 

INTRODUCES MARK, THE MATCH BOY.

 

 

It was growing dark, though yet scarcely six o'clock, for the day was

one of the shortest in the year, when a small boy, thinly clad, turned

down Frankfort Street on the corner opposite French's Hotel. He had

come up Nassau Street, passing the "Tribune" Office and the old Tammany

Hall, now superseded by the substantial new "Sun" building.

 

He had a box of matches under his arm, of which very few seemed to

have been sold. He had a weary, spiritless air, and walked as if quite

tired. He had been on his feet all day, and was faint with hunger,

having eaten nothing but an apple to sustain his strength. The thought

that he was near his journey's end did not seem to cheer him much. Why

this should be so will speedily appear.

 

He crossed William Street, passed Gold Street, and turned down

Vandewater Street, leading out of Frankfort's Street on the left. It

is in the form of a short curve, connecting with that most crooked of

all New York avenues, Pearl Street. He paused in front of a shabby

house, and went upstairs. The door of a room on the third floor was

standing ajar. He pushed it open, and entered, not without a kind of

shrinking.

 

A coarse-looking woman was seated before a scanty fire. She had

just thrust a bottle into her pocket after taking a copious draught

therefrom, and her flushed face showed that this had long been a habit

with her.

 

"Well, Mark, what luck to-night?" she said, in a husky voice.

 

"I didn't sell much," said the boy.

 

"Didn't sell much? Come here," said the woman, sharply.

 

Mark came up to her side, and she snatched the box from him, angrily.

 

"Only three boxes gone?" she repeated. "What have you been doing all

day?"

 

She added to the question a coarse epithet which I shall not repeat.

 

"I tried to sell them, indeed I did, Mother Watson, indeed I did,"

said the boy, earnestly, "but everybody had bought them already."

 

"You didn't try," said the woman addressed as Mother Watson. "You're

too lazy, that's what's the matter. You don't earn your salt. Now give

me the money."

 

Mark drew from his pocket a few pennies, and handed to her.

 

She counted them over, and then, looking up sharply, said, with a

frown, "There's a penny short. Where is it?"

 

"I was so hungry," pleaded Mark, "that I bought an apple,--only a

little one."

 

"You bought an apple, did you?" said the woman, menacingly. "So that's

the way you spend my money, you little thief?"

 

"I was so faint and hungry," again pleaded the boy.

 

"What business had you to be hungry? Didn't you have some breakfast

this morning?"

 

"I had a piece of bread."

 

"That's more than you earned. You'll eat me out of house and home, you

little thief! But I'll pay you off. I'll give you something to take

away your appetite. You won't be hungry any more, I reckon."

 

She dove her flabby hand into her pocket, and produced a strap, at

which the boy gazed with frightened look.

 

"Don't beat me, Mother Watson," he said, imploringly.

 

"I'll beat the laziness out of you," said the woman, vindictively. "See

if I don't."

 

She clutched Mark by the collar, and was about to bring the strap

down forcibly upon his back, ill protected by his thin jacket, when a

visitor entered the room.

 

"What's the matter, Mrs. Watson?" asked the intruder.

 

"Oh, it's you, Mrs. Flanagan?" said the woman, holding the strap

suspended in the air. "I'll tell you what's the matter. This little

thief has come home, after selling only three boxes of matches the

whole day, and I find he's stole a penny to buy an apple with. It's for

that I'm goin' to beat him."

 

"Oh, let him alone, the poor lad," said Mrs. Flanagan, who was a

warm-hearted Irish woman. "Maybe he was hungry."

 

"Then why didn't he work? Them that work can eat."

 

"Maybe people didn't want to buy."

 

"Well, I can't afford to keep him in his idleness," said Mrs. Watson.

"He may go to bed without his supper."

 

"If he can't sell his matches, maybe people would give him something."

 

Mrs. Watson evidently thought favorably of this suggestion, for,

turning to Mark, she said, "Go out again, you little thief, and mind

you don't come in again till you've got twenty-five cents to bring to

me. Do you mind that?"

 

Mark listened, but stood irresolute:

 

"I don't like to beg," he said.

 

"Don't like to beg!" screamed Mrs. Watson. "Do you mind that, now, Mrs.

Flanagan? He's too proud to beg."

 

"Mother told me never to beg if I could help it," said Mark.

 

"Well, you can't help it," said the woman, flourishing the strap in a

threatening manner. "Do you see this?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Well, you'll feel it too, if you don't do as I tell you. Go out now."

 

"I'm so hungry," said Mark; "won't you give me a piece of bread?"

 

"Not a mouthful till you bring back twenty-five cents. Start now, or

you'll feel the strap."

 

The boy left the room with a slow step, and wearily descended the

stairs. I hope my young readers will never know the hungry craving

after food which tormented the poor little boy as he made his way

towards the street. But he had hardly reached the foot of the first

staircase when he heard a low voice behind him, and, turning, beheld

Mrs. Flanagan, who had hastily followed after him.

 

"Are you very hungry?" she asked.

 

"Yes, I'm faint with hunger."

 

"Poor boy!" she said, compassionately; "come in here a minute."

 

She opened the door of her own room which was just at the foot of the

staircase, and gently pushed him in.

 

It was a room of the same general appearance as the one above, but was

much neater looking.

 

"Biddy Flanagan isn't the woman to let a poor motherless child go

hungry when she's a bit of bread or meat by her. Here, Mark, lad, sit

down, and I'll soon bring you something that'll warm up your poor

stomach."

 

She opened a cupboard, and brought out a plate containing a small

quantity of cold beef, and two slices of bread.

 

"There's some better mate than you'll get of Mother Watson. It's cold,

but it's good."

 

"She never gives me any meat at all," said Mark, gazing with a look of

eager anticipation at the plate which to his famished eye looked so

inviting.

 

"I'll be bound she don't," said Mrs. Flanagan. "Talk of you being lazy!

What does she do herself but sit all day doing nothin' except drink

whiskey from the black bottle! She might get washin' to do, as I do, if

she wanted to, but she won't work. She expects you to get money enough

for both of you."

 

Meanwhile Mrs. Flanagan had poured out a cup of tea from an old tin

teapot that stood on the stove.

 

"There, drink that, Mark dear," she said. "It'll warm you up, and

you'll need it this cold night, I'm thinkin'."

 

The tea was not of the best quality, and the cup was cracked and

discolored; but to Mark it was grateful and refreshing, and he eagerly

drank it.

 

"Is it good?" asked the sympathizing woman, observing with satisfaction

the eagerness with which it was drunk.

 

"Yes, it makes me feel warm," said Mark.

 

"It's better nor the whiskey Mother Watson drinks," said Mrs. Flanagan.

"It won't make your nose red like hers. It would be a sight better for

her if she'd throw away the whiskey, and take to the tea."

 

"You are very kind, Mrs. Flanagan," said Mark, rising from the table,

feeling fifty per cent. better than when he sat down.

 

"Oh bother now, don't say a word about it! Shure you're welcome to the

bit you've eaten, and the little sup of tea. Come in again when you

feel hungry and Bridget Flanagan won't be the woman to send you off

hungry if she's got anything in the cupboard."

 

"I wish Mother Watson was as good as you are," said Mark.

 

"I aint so good as I might be," said Mrs. Flanagan; "but I wouldn't be

guilty of tratin' a poor boy as that woman trates you, more shame to

her! How came you with her any way? She aint your mother, is she."

 

"No," said Mark, shuddering at the bare idea. "My mother was a good

woman, and worked hard. She didn't drink whiskey. Mother was always

kind to me. I wish she was alive now."

 

"When did she die, Mark dear?"

 

"It's going on a year since she died. I didn't know what to do, but

Mother Watson told me to come and live with her, and she'd take care of

me."

 

"Sorra a bit of kindness there was in that," commented Mrs. Flanagan.

"She wanted you to take care of her. Well, and what did she make you

do?"

 

"She sent me out to earn what I could. Sometimes I would run on errands, but lately I have sold matches."