The grocer was immaculately clean, and his eye ran over the greasy-looking boy.
“We’ll have to fix him up a bit,” said master.
“I’ll take him,” said Mr. Washburn, “on your recommendation.”
“Don’t work him too hard at first,” said master. “You’re a hustler, I know.”
The lad opened his dull eyes, and looked so dismayed, that the two men burst out laughing. Finally the young fellow laughed too. He felt that he would not be imposed on.
Master then took him to the village shoemaker whose wife kept a boarding-house for young men. Here were a number of city lads who were working in Mr. Bonstone’s automobile school. It was now close on six o’clock, and they were all sitting on the front veranda, with their feet on the railing. Master introduced the newcomer, and asked one of the lads to take him to the dry goods store, and buy a ready-made suit, and have it charged to him; also to take him to Neighbourhood Hall, and introduce him, and give him a good time.
The newcomer, whose name was Walt Dixon, took everything as a matter of course. He showed neither surprise nor gratitude. Master nodded his head slightly to the lad who was to take him in charge. That meant, “Watch him—find out what his morals are. If there’s anything that would endanger village life, let me know, and I’ll ship him elsewhere.”
Now all this happened some time ago, and as Gringo says, “It’s up to Walt Dixon to make good.” But he can’t. He’s merely a putty sort of lad. He does his work spasmodically, he tries the grocer’s patience, he has always to be watched and guarded. Nobody likes him, nobody dislikes him. He’s not immoral, and not strictly moral. He’s a kind of grown-up baby, master says, but he’s supporting himself, and he’s out of New York, where he loafed and lived off the earnings of his mother and sister.
The only good thing about him is that he is faintly grateful, and slightly attached to my master, and I should not wonder if some day he would be brought to our house to work in some capacity or other.
The most of master’s “brother-boys,” as he calls them, are bright, smart lads who have gone wrong, usually through no fault of their own, and when their feet are set on a right track, they run like hounds toward a definite goal.