“She threw a saucer square at me,” he explained, in a low voice. “She had a table knife, and she’s stronger than I am, so I just had to smash her with that,” and he pointed to a stick of wood. “It saved her from murder, Al. I’m going away. It will maybe bring her round. If I stayed, she’d raise all sorts of rows and maybe get me to drinking again. She’s been out to that rum shop. I found her, when I got home, dressed as she is, trying to warm a can of soup in the frying-pan. She tried to say she hadn’t been drinking, and then we had the row, lad. Get her to bed, if you can. Get her out of the way, because when she sees me she’s sure to begin it all over. I can’t stop here, can I?”
“No, get away,” I said; “we’ve had rows enough. Send us some, money when you get work, and it’ll be all right. Come and see us, if you get a good place. We might move away from here.”
He packed his bundle, and went to the city on the next trolley-car, and left me alone to fight the matter through. I was earning four and a half dollars a week, and knew that we would have to fight hard if uncle did not send us any money. After I had placed my aunt in bed and left her to manage as best she could, knowing that her sobs would die down and a deep sleep ensue, I went out on the front step and sat down to think matters over.
“Now everybody in the village, the designer, and all your fine friends will know that your aunt drinks,” I thought. “What’s the use trying to be somebody and have these miserable things in the way!” How were we to get through the winter? It seemed inevitable that I should have to go back to the mill. The mill was bound to get me, in the long run. It was only playing with me in letting me out in the sun, the fresh air, and the fields for a while. The mill owned me. I would have to go back!
We tried to live through the winter, without getting word from my uncle, on the money I earned. Occasionally aunt would take some liquor, but she seemed to realize at last that she must not indulge overmuch. One day, growing desperate, I said to her, “If I catch you drinking on my money, now, I’ll leave home, you see! I’ll earn money to buy food, but I won’t earn it for no saloon-keeper, mark my words!” I was only then beginning to see the light in which my own, personal rights to freedom stood. My aunt scolded me for awhile at such unheard of rebellion and such masterly impudence, but she took notice of my earnestness and knew that I would keep my word.
Finally the struggle became too much for us. We saw that we could not starve longer on the little wage I was earning, so we made plans to return to the city where the mills were plenty and where I might earn more money. My aunt was only too eager to get away from a place where it was impossible to hide one’s actions.
A card came from my uncle announcing that he had returned to New Bedford already, and asking us to come and join him.
“Yes,” smiled my aunt, “I’ll bet he’s thinking of his stomach. He finds, when he’s away, that it isn’t every lodging-house keeper that can cook potato pies and things as tasty as his own wife. That’s what he’s homesick for, I’ll bet. Write him that we’ll be on hand. He means all right, but I’ll guarantee he’s half starved.”
I eagerly accepted the privilege of running ahead to New Bedford to rent a tenement. I said to myself, “Yes, and I’ll get one so far away from saloons that the temptation will not be under their noses, anyway!”
That was almost an impossible thing. The rents were excessively high in such paradises. I had to compromise by renting a downstairs house on what seemed to be a respectable street. The nearest saloon was five blocks away.