“In the town it is different,” sighed the old man. “In small places people are kinder. I know, for I taught school for many years at Lixuri in Cephalonia and one helped the other when there was trouble.”
Aleko looked up suddenly.
“Give me your name, master.”
“My name is Themistocli.”
“Listen, then, Kyr Themistocli; now, with the sun-blaze, no one comes out to have their boots cleaned after noon, so there is no work before the evening newspapers are published. I will keep you an Embros every day, and at two, or at three, after you have had your sleep, I will bring it and read it to you, and then you need not spend your lepta.”
“But, my child …”
“Oh, I can read. I can read without stopping at the big words. Also I do not sing when I read. It is not I who say so; it was one of the members of the Parnassos at our examinations, when we all read out aloud. He said to the master, ‘That boy there, with the yellow hair, is the only one who can read without singing.’ Shall I come, Kyr Themistocli? Shall I come to-morrow?”
The old man groped with his hand until he found Aleko’s arm and patted it gently.
“You are a good boy to a poor blind man.”
“No,” said Aleko wriggling a little, “I like to read, and since you were a schoolmaster perhaps you will know things when I ask you.”