“He goin’ to send them over in the mornin’,” replied June gravely. “Didn’ have none good enough, he say. How soon we goin’ to cook that coffee, Mas’ Wayne?”
“Not for a long time yet,” said Wayne resolutely. “We aren’t going to have any supper at all until all these windows are fixed, June. It’s getting cold in here already and we’ll just naturally freeze tonight if we don’t get something over them. Come on and get to work. Where’s the tin?”
It was almost twilight when they actually finished the undertaking. It is doubtful if they would have finished at all that evening if June hadn’t discovered a piece of tar paper nearly three yards long and a yard wide near the railroad embankment. It was torn and held some holes, but it was far better than nothing and it covered three windows, with the aid of a few pieces of wood found in the same locality. Those windows presented a strange appearance, but nobody cared about the looks of them. At least, when the door was closed and the stove was going, the car was warm enough for comfort even if the smoke did bring tears to their eyes. Until the coffee was boiled they kept the fire up, but after that they were very glad to let it go out. They had the equivalent of two cups of coffee apiece and finished most of the bread and butter. They were very hungry and it was so much easier to satisfy present appetites than to give thought to the morrow. The coffee was somewhat muddy, but, as June said ecstatically, “it certainly did taste scrumptuous!”
After supper they sat huddled in a corner of the seat opposite the dying fire and talked. For some reason their thoughts tonight dwelt largely with Sleepersville, and Wayne wondered this and June that, and they decided that at the very first opportunity Wayne was to write back there and let his stepfather and June’s mother know that they were alive and well. And they wondered about Sam, too, and how he would like this new home. And presently they stretched themselves out on the seat, sharing the horse blanket as best they could, and slumbered soundly.
[CHAPTER VII]
THE LUCK CHANGES
The next day luck turned. Wayne went to work for Callahan’s Livery Stable, and June, happening into the Union Hotel with a drummer’s sample cases, witnessed the discharge of a bell boy, applied for the position, got it, was thrust into a dark-blue uniform and, half an hour later, was climbing stairs and answering calls as though he had done nothing else all his life. The wage was only three dollars a week, and out of that he was required to deposit ten dollars as security for the uniform, which meant that for three weeks he would get nothing from his employer. Ordinarily he would have had to deposit that ten dollars before starting to work, but the fact that his services were badly needed at the moment and the fact that he neither had ten dollars nor could get it, caused the proprietor to waive the rule. But June didn’t bother about that ten dollars, for he knew that it was tips and not wages that counted in his job, and he believed in his ability to get the tips. He didn’t return to the new home very rich that night, to be sure, for he hadn’t yet learned the ropes and his chances had been few, but it didn’t take him long to put his new position on a paying basis. At the end of three days everyone in the hotel knew June and liked him. He was always willing, always ready, and always cheerful. And he was always polite, a fact which made him a favourite with the guests, accustomed as they were to the half-sullen services of the other boys. Dimes and even quarters dropped into June’s pocket at a rate that astonished him. When, at the end of his second week of service, he counted up his wealth and discovered that it totalled the stupendous sum of nine dollars and eighty cents he rolled his eyes and confided to Wayne that he “didn’ know there was so much money in the whole world!” The main drawback to June’s work was that his period of duty began at six o’clock in the morning and lasted until four in the afternoon, necessitating a very early rising hour in the car. Wayne’s own duties didn’t begin until eight, and in consequence he had two hours on his hands that he didn’t know what to do with. Breakfast was always over by half-past five and a minute or two later June was streaking across the field to the railroad track. At about twenty-five minutes to six there was a milk train due and June had become an adept at swinging himself to a platform as it slowed down at the yard entrance. Just at first his presence, when discovered, was resented, but presently the train hands good-naturedly failed to see him and he rode into town huddled up on a car step. When, as infrequently happened, the train was late June was put to it to reach the hotel on time, but he always did it by hook or by crook even if he had to run most of the way over the uneven ties.
Wayne’s job brought him seventy-five cents a day—when he worked. He didn’t always work, for it was only when one of the regular men was taken away to a drive at a funeral or a wedding that his services were required. But he had to report every morning, in any case, and it was rather surprising how many folks were married or buried in Medfield! He liked driving a carriage well enough, but waiting for fares at the station in all sorts of weather wasn’t pleasant. It was a sort of lazy job, too. On the whole, he was far from satisfied with it and continually kept his eyes open for something better. It was rather a blow to his pride to have June bring home four or five dollars each week while he almost never earned more than three. Still, he was thankful for what he got, for it enabled them to live very comfortably in their novel home.
One of the first things Wayne did was to recover Sam. Denny Connor parted with the dog reluctantly, but consoled himself with the fact that as Sam had been with him only four days and hadn’t got used to the change he wouldn’t miss him as much as he might have.