Rumors of the thunderbolt in The Flatiron met Mrs. Stickney on her way home, and her thankfulness for the safety of her boys routed all worry over the loss of the stove. But after a day or two the need of a fire began to press heavily. Granny’s little stove was at her constant disposal, but the stairs between made its use inconvenient. To buy one now, with wages low and work scarcely more than two thirds of the time, was not to be thought of. The new problem promised to be a mighty one.
“Did Mr. Gillespie tell you that mocking birds like Caruso actually sell for two hundred dollars?” the mother inquired of Blue, after the small boy was asleep.
“That’s what he said.”
“It doesn’t seem possible, and I didn’t know but Doodles had made a mistake. Two hundred dollars is a great deal of money to keep in a bird,” she went on. “We can’t afford it—we mustn’t! Think what that would buy! Of course, it would grieve Doodles to sell him, but—”
“He ain’t going to be sold!” interrupted Blue stoutly, closing his book and giving it a savage little push across the table.
“I know, dear! It will be hard. But I’m sure Doodles will be reasonable about it. We need the money now more than we need a bird.”
“He shan’t be sold!” cried the boy defiantly. “Why, it would kill Doodles! He loves him as well as—you do me!”
“No, no, dear! You—”
“He does! You didn’t see him when that woman came—I did! I know! I’ll—I’ll sell myself first! Caruso shan’t go, anyway!” He jumped up, fidgeted about for a while, and then disappeared in the darkness of the unlighted bedroom.
The mother sighed heavily. They were running behind, and had been for several weeks. Work might not pick up before October—how were they to live? She sat thinking, thinking, until the clock struck twelve.