BUSINESS AND BOTTLES.
E was still thinking when the busy work of the day was done—thinking anxiously about the same thing.
"It's there, plain as day," he said, in a perplexed tone, sitting down on the corner of the bed, and running his fingers distractedly through his hair. "'Woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink, that puttest thy bottle to him.' That's it, word for word, and that's the Bible, and I do it, why fifty times a day; and I've got to if I stay here. That's a fact, no getting around it. 'Tain't my bottle, though, it's Mr. Roberts', and back of him it's Mr. Hastings'. I do declare!" And Tode paused, overwhelmed with this new thought.
"Whatever do them two men mean now, I'd like to know?" he continued, after a moment. "Don't make no kind of difference, though; that's their lookout, I reckon. It's me that puts the bottle to the neighbors' lips, time and time again. No gettin' around that. They ain't my neighbors, though. I ain't got no neighbors, them are folks that lives next door to you. Well, even then, there's Mr. Ryan, he's next door to mine, and there's young Holden and that peanut man, they're next door on t'other side, and there's Mr. Pierson, he's next door below. Why, now, I've got neighbors thick as hops, nearer than most folks have, and I put the bottle to their lips every day of my life, every single one of 'em."
Silence for a little, and then another phase of the question.
"Well, now, where's the use? If I didn't hand the bottle to 'em, why Jim would; and they'd get it all the same, so where's the difference? That's none of my business," Tode answered himself sharply, and with a touch of the feeling which means, "Get thee behind me, Satan." "It don't say 'woe to Jim,' and I ain't got nothing to do with him; it don't say that if it's got to be done anyhow, I may as well do it as any other fellow. It just says 'woe' right out, sharp and plain; and I know about it, and I do it, that's the point. Stick to that point, Tode Mall, you blockhead, you. If you're arguing a thing, why don't you argue, and not slip and slide all over creation."
Ah, Tode, if only wiser heads than yours would remember that important item.
"Well," said this young logician, rising at last from the edge of his bed, and heaving a bit of a sigh as he did so, "the long and short of it is, it can't be done—never, any more; and then there comes a thing that has got to be done right straight, and I've got to go and do it, and that's the worst of it, and I don't know what to do next, that's a fact; but that's neither here nor there."
With this extremely lucid explanation of his decision and his intentions, Tode put on his hat and went to the post-office.
Thus it happened that when Mr. Hastings mail had been delivered as usual, the boy hesitated, and finally asked with an unusual falter in his voice:
"Can I see Mr. Hastings a minute?"
"Well, sir," said that gentleman, whirling around from his table, and putting himself in a lounging attitude. "Well, sir, what can I do for you this evening? Anything in the line of business?"
This he said with the serio-comic air which he seemed unable to avoid assuming whenever he talked with this traveling companion of his.
Tode plunged at once into the pith of the matter.
"Yes, sir, I've come to talk about business. I've got to leave your hotel, and I thought I'd better come and let you know."
"Indeed! Have you decided to change your occupation? Going to study law or medicine, Tode?"
"I haven't made up my mind," said Tode. "I've just got to the leaving part."
"Bad policy, my boy. Never leave one good foothold until you see just where to put your foot when you spring."
"Ho!" said Tode, "I have stepped in a bog and sunk in; now I've got to spring, and trust to luck for getting on a stone."
Mr. Hastings leaned back in his chair and laughed.
"You'll do," he said at length. "But seriously, my boy, what has happened at the hotel? I heard good accounts of you, and I thought you were getting on finely. Does Jim leave all the boots for you to black, or what is the matter? You musn't quarrel with a good business for trifles."
"It's not Jim nor boots, sir, it's bottles."
"Bottles!"
"Yes, sir, bottles. I'm not going to put 'em to my neighbors any more; and I don't see what any of you mean by it. Like enough, though, you never noticed that figure?"
"Are you sure you know what you are talking about, Tode?" inquired Mr. Hastings, with a curious mixture of amusement and dignity. "Because I certainly do not seem able to follow your train of thought."
"Why, that Habakkuk; he's the one who says it, sir. But then you know it's in the Bible, and I've made up my mind not to do it."
"Ah, I begin to understand. So you came up here to-night for the purpose of delivering a temperance lecture for my benefit. That was kind, certainly, and I am all ready to listen. Proceed."
Never was sarcasm more entirely lost. Tode was as bright and sharp as ever, and had never been taught to be respectful.
"No, sir," he answered, promptly, "I didn't come for that at all. I came to tell you that I had got to quit your business; but if you want to hear a temperance lecture there's Habakkuk; he can do it better than anybody I know of."
Mr. Hastings' dignity broke once more into laughter.
"Well, Tode," he said at last, "I'm sorry you're such a simpleton. I had a higher opinion of your sharpness. I think Mr. Roberts meant to do well by you. Who has been filling your head with these foolish ideas?"
"Habakkuk has, sir. Only one who has said a word."
There was no sort of use in talking to Tode. Mr. Hastings seemed desirous of cutting the interview short.
"Very well," he said, "I don't see but you have taken matters entirely into your own hands. What do you want of me?"
"Nothing, sir, only I—" And here Tode almost broke down; a mist came suddenly before his eyes, and his voice seemed to slip away from him. The poor boy felt himself swinging adrift from the only one to whom he had ever seemed to belong. A very soft, tender feeling had sprung up in his heart for this rich man. It had been pleasant to meet him on the street and think, "I belong to him." The feeling was new to the friendless, worse than orphan boy, and he had taken great pride and pleasure in it; so now he choked, and his face grew red as at last he stammered:
"I—I like you, and—" Then another pause.
Mr. Hastings bowed.
"That is very kind, certainly. What then?"
"Would you let me bring up the mail for you evenings just the same? I wouldn't want no pay, and I'd like to keep doing it for you."
Mr. Hastings shook his head.
"Oh no, I wouldn't trouble a man of your position for the world. Jim, or some other boy, will answer my purpose very well. Since you choose to cut yourself aloof from me when I was willing to befriend you, why you must abide by your intentions, and not hang around after me in any way."
Tode's eyes flashed.
"I don't want to hang around you," he began as he turned to go. Then he stopped again; he was leaving the house for the last time. This one friend of his was out of sorts with him, wouldn't let him come again; and the little Dora, who had showed him about making all the letters and figures, he was to see no more. All the tender and gentle in his heart, and there was a good deal, swelled up again. There were tears in his eyes when he looked back at Mr. Hastings with his message.
"Would you please tell your little girl that I'm glad about the letters and figures, and I'll never forget 'em; and—and—if I can ever do some little thing for you I'll do it."
Someway Mr. Hastings was growing annoyed. He spoke in mock dignity.
"I shall certainly remember your kindness," he said, bowing low. "And if ever I should be in need of your valuable assistance, I shall not hesitate to send for you."
So Tode went out from the Hastings' mansion feeling sore-hearted, realizing thus early in his pilgrimage that there were hard places in the way. He walked down the street with a troubled, perplexed air. What to do next was the question. That is, having settled affairs with Mr. Roberts, and slept for the last time in his little narrow bed, whither should he turn his thoughts and his steps on the morrow? Tode had been earning his living, and enjoying the comforts of a home long enough to have a sore, choked feeling over the thought of giving them up. A sense of desolation, such as he had not felt during all his homeless days, crept steadily over him; and as he walked along the busy street, with his hands thrust drearily into his pockets, he forgot to whistle as was his wont.
Mr. Stephens was hastening home from his office with quick business tread. He was just in front, and instinctively the boy quickened his step to keep pace with the rapid one. Tode knew him well, had waited on him at table when there came now and then a stormy day, and he sought the hotel at the dining hour instead of his own handsome home. He halted presently before a bookstore and went in. Tode lounged in after him. Already the old careless feeling that he might as well do that as any thing had begun to control him again. Mr. Stephens made his purchase, gave a bill in payment and waited for his change, and from his open pocket-book, all unknown to him, there fluttered a bit of paper, and lodged at Tode's feet. Tode glanced quickly about him, nobody else saw it. Mr. Stephens was already deep in conversation with an acquaintance, and might have dropped a dozen bits of paper without knowing it. The paper might be of value, and it might not. Tode composedly put his foot over it, put his hands in his pockets, and stood still. Mr. Stephens departed. There was a bit of brown paper on the floor. Tode stooped and carefully picked that and the other crumpled bit up, and busied himself apparently in wrapping something carefully up in the brown paper. Then he waited again. Presently a clerk came toward him.
"Well, sir, what will you have?"
"Shoe-strings," answered Tode, gravely.
"We don't keep them in a bookstore, my boy."
"Oh, you don't. Then I may as well leave." And Tode vanished.
"Who's the wiser for that, I'd like to know?" he asked himself aloud as soon as the door was closed. Then he started for the hotel in high glee. He stopped under a street lamp to discover what his treasure might be, and behold, it was a ten dollar bill! Now indeed Tode was jubilant; a grand addition that would make to his little hoard, and visions of all sorts of wished for treasures danced through his brain. His spirits rose with every step; he sung and whistled and danced by turns. Had this strange boy then forgotten the errand which had taken him out that evening? Not by any means. He went directly to the office as soon as he reached the house and made known to Mr. Roberts his intention of leaving him. He stood perfectly firm under Mr. Roberts' questioning persuasions and rather tempting offers. He squarely and distinctly gave his reasons for leaving, and endured with a good-natured smile the laugh and the jeers that were raised at his expense. He endured as bravely as he could whatever there was to endure for conscience' sake that evening, and finally went up to his room triumphant—triumphant not only in that, but also over the fact that he had successfully stolen a ten dollar bill. Oh, Tode, Tode! And yet there was the teaching of all his life in favor of that way of getting money, and he knew almost nothing against it. He had only three leaves of a Bible; he had never heard the eighth commandment in his life. He knew in a vague general way that it was wrong, not perhaps to steal, but to be found stealing. Just why he could not have told, but he knew positively this much, that it generally fared ill with a person who was caught in a theft, but his ideas were very vague and misty; besides he did not by any means call himself a thief. He had not gone after the money, it had come to him. He was very much elated, and as he went about making ready for sleep he discussed his plans aloud.
"I'll go into business, just as sure as you live, I will. I'll keep a hotel myself; I'll begin to-morrow; I'll have cakes and pies and crackers and wine. Oh bless me, no, I can't have wine, but coffee. Jolly, I can make tall coffee, I can, and that's what I'll have prezactly. This ten dollar patch will buy a whole stock of goodies, and I won't clerk it another day, see if I do."
By and by he quieted down, so that by the time his candle was blown out and he was settled for the night, graver thoughts began to come.
"'Tain't right to steal," he said aloud. "I know 'tain't right, 'cause a fellow always feels mean and sneaking after it, and 'cause he's so awful afraid of being found out. When I've done a nice decent thing, I don't care whether I'm found out or not; but then I didn't steal. I didn't go into his pocket-book, it blew down to me—no fault of mine; all I did was just to pick a piece of paper off the floor, no harm in that. How did I know it was worth anything? What's the use of me thinking about it anyhow? He'll never miss it in the world; he's rich—my! as rich as the President."
Tode turned uneasily on his pillow, shut his eyes very tight, and pretended to himself that he was asleep. No use, they flew open again. He began to grow indignant.
"I hope I'll never have another ten dollars as long as I live, if it's got to make all this fuss!" he said in a disgusted tone. "I wish I'd never picked up his old rag—I don't like the feeling of it. I didn't steal it, that's sure; but I've got it, and I wish I hadn't."
"The eyes of the Lord are in every place, beholding the evil and the good." That verse again, coming back to him with great force, beholding the evil and the good. Which was this? Was it good? Tode's uneducated, undisciplined conscience had to say nay to this. Well, then, was it evil?
"I feel mean," he said, reflectively. "As mean as a thief, pretty near. I wouldn't like to have anybody know it. I wouldn't tell of it for anything. S'pose I go down there to that prayer-meeting and tell it. Would I do it? No, sir—'cause why? I'm ashamed of it. But then I didn't steal it; I didn't even know it was money. Oh bah! Tode Mall, don't you try to pull wool over your own eyes that way. Didn't you s'pose it was, and would you have took the trouble to get it if you hadn't s'posed so? Come now. And then see here, I wouldn't have anybody know about it; and after all there's them eyes that are in every place, looking right at me. 'Tain't right, that is sure and certain. I didn't steal it, but I've got it, and it ain't mine, and I oughtn't to have it. I could have handed it back easy enough if I'd wanted to. So I don't see but it looks about as mean as stealing, and feels about as mean, and maybe after all it's pretty much the same thing. Now what be I going to do?"
And now he tumbled and tossed harder than ever. That same miserable fear of those pure eyes began to creep over him again, accompanied by a dreary sense of having lost something, some loving presence and companionship on which he had leaned in the darkness.
"I'll never do it again," he said at last, with solemn earnestness. "I never will, not if I starve and freeze and choke to death. I'll let old rags that blow to me alone after this, I will."
Then, after a moment's silence, he clasped his hands together and said with great earnestness:
"O Lord Jesus, forgive me this once, and I'll never do it again—never."
After that he thought he could go to sleep but the heavy weight rested still on his heart. He was not so much afraid of those solemn eyes as he was sorry. An only half understood feeling of having hurt that one friend of his came over him.
"What be I going to do?" he said aloud and pitifully. "I am sorry—I'm sorry I did it, and I'll never do it again."
Still the heavy weight did not lift. Presently he flounced out of bed, and lighted his candle in haste.
"I'll burn the mean old rag up, I will, so," he said with energy. "See if I'm going to lie awake all night and bother about it. I ain't going to use it, either. I don't believe I've got any right to, 'cause it ain't mine."
By this time the ten dollar bill was very near the candle flame. Then it was suddenly drawn back, while a look of great perplexity appeared on Tode's face.
"If it ain't mine what right have I got to burn it up, I'd like to know? I never did see such a fix in my life. I can't use it, and I can't burn it, and the land knows I don't want to keep it. Whatever be I going to do? I wish he had it back again; that's where it ought to be. What if I should—well, now, there's no use talking; but s'pose I ought to, what then?"
And there stood the poor befogged boy, holding the doomed bill between his thumb and finger, and staring gloomily at the flickering candle. At last the look of indecision vanished, and he began rapid preparations for a walk.
