“That’s splendid,” cried the boy, pulling down his jacket-sleeve, which was far too short, and woefully thread-bare. “Then I was thinking of another thing. Saturday nights you are so busy, and have lots of things to carry home—couldn’t I do some of that just as well as the bigger boys? You don’t know how spry I am. Now a basket like that is nothing to me.”
Here the noble little fellow lifted down a basket of groceries that stood on the counter, ready to be carried home, and dragged it, staggering and breathless, across the floor, where he gave way and fell across it, utterly insensible.
Good Mrs. Smith ran around the counter and lifted the poor little fellow in her arms. Then she sat down on a candle-box, and pressing that pale head to her bosom, began to pat him on the back, rub his hands, and push the hair off from his forehead with quick, motherly tenderness. This flamed up to generous rage when her husband came in with his fresh, prosperous look, and asked her what she was about, and what boy she was hugging.
“Come and look for yourself, John Smith, and if you are not quite a heathen and Sandwich Island hottentot, ask God to forgive your cruelty. Look at that face; look at these limp, little hands; just go to the door and look down street towards the house, where all those morning glories only cover up starvation. You brought it on, Smith; you refused them credit when they hadn’t another place to go to, and the poor things are just starved out—starved out! Do you hear me, John Smith? And one of ’em, for anything I know, dead in your wife’s arms—just an awful judgment against you if he is—poor, sweet, innocent darling, as wanted only to work for a morsel of bread. He work? John Smith, I hate you!”
“Come, come, old woman. Isn’t this going a little rough?” said the grocer, quite bewildered, and taken aback by this assault from the most genial and kind creature in the world. “What has got into your head, and who is that in your arms?”
“Who? don’t ask me. It’s little Jimmy Laurence, the son of that splendid policeman, who was shot down in the street by a highway burglar; one of the steadiest customers you had when we wanted custom bad enough, mercy knows. He’s just starved out, mother, sisters and all, and you’ve done it by telling them you couldn’t trust any longer; but I’ll pay you off. They shall have everything they want, if it’s half the store. I’ll send for carts, and have the whole stock moved into their kitchen. How can you look me in the face, John Smith? Bring me some water, brandy, peppermint, hartshorn. Can’t you step about? Or do you want to kill him over again? There!”
CHAPTER V.
A FEAST AFTER A FAMINE.
John Smith had done his best to obey these confused demands. He brought water, and held it in a stone pitcher, while Mrs. Smith thrust her hand to the bottom and sprinkled little Jimmy’s face; but this failed to bring a sign of life back. So he put down the pitcher, and brought a little tin measure half-full of brandy, from some secret corner back in the store, which his better half snatched from him and held to those pale lips. Some drops trickled through the teeth that had fallen slightly apart, and, after a little, the boy began to stir. Then the good woman burst into tears that came in a torrent, deluging all the full-blown roses in her cheeks, and shaking her bosom with sobs.
“There,” she cried holding the lad out on her lap as he struggled to life again; “take him, heft him, make sure what a shadow he is; then down upon your knees, John Smith, and thank God that you’re not quite a murderer! Your meanness will be the death of me yet. Now I warn you. Me and the children, your duty to take care of us? John Smith, John Smith, now don’t get me out of patience.”
“Well, then, what if I say that I am sorry—right down sorry?”