"A tailor."
Do you like to see a man sewing, Charley? I don't. I don't believe that their great muscular arms were intended to wield a needle, especially when so many feminine fingers are forced to be idle for want of employment; so I never like to see a tailor.—Oh, yes, I do, too. I came very near forgetting Tom Willcut.
Who was he? I don't know, any more than you do. The first time I saw him, was in an old tumble-down building, where the wind played hide and go seek through the timbers; and where more men, women, dogs and children were huddled together, than four walls of the like size ever held before.
In one of the smallest of these rooms, I first saw Tom; sitting, with a white cotton cap upon his head, cross-legged on the floor, stitching away by the dim light of a tallow candle. A line stretched across the room, on which hung some coarse pea-jackets and trousers which he had finished, while at his side stood a rough table, with the remains of some supper, and two unwashed cups and saucers.
Two cups and saucers, thought I: pray, who shares this little room with that poor, pale tailor?
Ah, I see! In yonder bed, which I had not noticed, lies a woman, and on her breast a little wee baby. Well may Tom sit drawing out his thread, hour after hour, by that dim candle.
1 coughed a little bit. Tom shaded his eyes with his hand, looked up, and invited me in. That was just what I wanted, you know. Then, he dusted off a chair with the tail of his coat, and I sat down.
"Is that your baby?" said I.
"It is ours," said he, looking over, with a proud smile, at his wife.
I liked Tom from that very minute. Of course, his wife wanted to own half of such a nice little baby—and the first one, too—and it was very gallant of tailor Tom, to say "ours," instead of "mine:" it showed he had a soul above buttons. Ask your mother if it didn't.