The brother clerks

by Mary Ashley Townsend

Suddenly, a trembling hand was laid on Guly's arm, and a supplicating voice murmured humbly: "Un picayune, Monsieur; in pity, Monsieur, one picayune to buy me bread."

By the light of a street lamp, Guly saw a pale and wrinkled face, in which deep lines of grief or misfortune were deeply traced, raised pleadingly toward him. The face was so old, yet so very much lower than himself, that he at first thought the speaker must be in a sitting posture there, beneath the lamp. But a second glance showed to his wondering gaze the veriest dwarf his eyes had ever fallen upon. In height, the figure was not taller than a child of four years; yet the head was very large, the face possessed of its full growth of cunning and experience, the shoulders broad, but painfully humped, and the whole upper portion of the body immensely too large for the short and slender limbs, which served for its support. And yet, as if all this wretched deformity were not enough, one leg was shorter than the other, and the foot was a club one. To assist him in walking, he carried a pair of crutches, apparently much too long for him, which raised his spindle arms in their loose sockets, and rendered the hump more horrible. When he moved, his crutches spread out on either side of him, as he swung along between them, taking

up a vast deal of room without any apparent necessity. His coat had apparently been the property of some great man of the previous century, for it was braided and embroidered, and trimmed to an extent rarely seen in the present age; and the immense holes in the elbows, and the tatters in the skirt, laughed heartily at the rusty trimmings which it bore. It was so long and large too, that it almost precluded the necessity of any other clothes, for it quite enveloped his whole person, as he swung along between his crutches, dragged on the ground behind like the train of a lady's dress. His pantaloons had also once belonged to some full grown specimen of humanity, but had been torn off to suit the dimensions of the present owner—and, altogether, the appearance of this miserable object, with his one blind eye, and the cunning leer in the other, was calculated to excite both pity and disgust. The brothers looked upon him for a moment in mute astonishment, until again startled by that squeaking, supplicating voice—"Un picayune, Monsieur—one picayune to buy me bread!"

Guly took a dime from his purse, and dropped it into the ragged cap which the beggar extended, while he held his crutches by pressing his arms close to his body. As the piece dropped into its ragged receptacle, he shook it up from the greasy folds, and tipped his left eye down to look upon it, not unlike a vulture glancing down at its prey. After eyeing it a moment, he held the cap toward Arthur, as if expecting something from that quarter.

Arthur had already searched every pocket for the change, which he felt certain was there the day before; but, to his utter astonishment, it was all gone, together with a very beautiful portemonnaie his mother had given him when he left her, and in which, the day before, he had placed two ten dollar bills, for the purpose of sending home when he should write.

He knew he could not have spent it all in yesterday's rout, and the conviction forced itself painfully upon his mind that he had been robbed.

As the mendicant held forth his cap, he shook his head, and showed his empty hands, at which movement the old man raised his eyebrows inquisitively, and muttered a most disagreeable and chuckling "Hih! hih! hih! hih!" He then picked out the dime with trembling fingers, and slipped it quickly into some unseen deposit about his person; then, with one more lift of his grey brows, adjusted his crutches, and swung himself away.

The brothers gazed after the receding figure, until the mist entirely obscured it, and the skirts of the long coat could no longer be heard trailing on the pavement; then, again linking their arms, proceeded on their way.

Although Guly dwelt wonderingly upon the incident they had just met with, Arthur maintained a moody silence; nor could aught that his brother said, direct his thoughts from the new course the recent event had turned them upon.