“Do you think stivers grow on my back?” asked the mother the next day. “You still don’t earn a doit! Do you have to buy tobacco for old soldiers?”
Walter had nothing to say. Recently his mother had given him a shilling to give to Holsma’s maid. Walter neglected to do this, and spent one stiver of the money on snuff for an old soldier.
The mother continued her tirade, making use of the word “prodigue,” prodigal.
“No, mother,” said Stoffel, “that isn’t it. He’s behind in everything. He doesn’t know yet how to handle money, that’s it!”
“Yes. He doesn’t know how to handle money! All the other children at his age—when they have a stiver they either save it or buy themselves something. And he—what does he do? He goes and gives it away! Boy, boy, will you never learn any sense?”
Walter was cut to the quick by the accusation of wastefulness and prodigality. In his eyes a prodigal was somebody, a man! “Prodigue, prodigue,” he murmured. He knew the word.
In one of the bedrooms hung a series of crude, highly colored pictures illustrating the story of the prodigal son. The pictures were French; and a study of the titles convinced the family that “prodigue” could mean nothing but prodigal in the worst sense, i. e., “lost.” Stoffel had maintained this proposition against one of his colleagues, till that one drew a lexicon on him.
After much argument it was decided to compromise on the “mistake” in the French Bible by allowing “prodigue” to have sometimes the meaning of “extravagant.” Those pictures had afforded Walter much food for thought.
First picture: The “lost” or prodigal son tells his father good-bye. The old gentleman wears a purple coat. Very pretty—but the prodigal himself! A mantle floated about his shoulders—it seemed to be windy in the colonnade. It was princely; and his turkish trousers were of pure gold. At his side was a bent sabre, and on his head a turban, with a stone in it—certainly onyx, or sardonox, or a pearl, or a precious stone—or whatever it might be!
The old gentleman seemed to be out of humor; but no wonder—all those loaded camels, and the slaves, and all the accessories for that long, long journey! A negro, as black as pitch, was holding a horse by the rein. Another negro was holding the stirrup, and seemed to say: “Off to the Devil; prodigal, get on!”