“IT’S NO USE, Martha,” said Asa Scranton to his wife, as he came in from the street, tired and discouraged. “I’ve tried day after day for a job, and I’ve come to the conclusion that you and the children are better off without me than with me.”
“Oh, no, Asa!” responded the pale, thin woman, who was cooking dinner for some workingmen who boarded with her. “We shall see better days.”
But her words only were hopeful; the voice showed the weariness of one who was almost tired of the daily struggle.
“I don’t know how it is. I’ve worked hard from a boy. The grocery business didn’t pay, though I never left the store till the last man had gone home. Then the builder I worked for failed, and I lost several months’ wages. I guess I’m unlucky. We had quite a bit of money when we married, didn’t we, Martha? And I never supposed you would come to such hard work as this. My debts have hung like a millstone about my neck. They all say: ‘Asa Scranton, you’re a good fellow. You’ll pay principal and interest,’ and never think that a wife and children have need for food and clothing. Sometimes I’ve a mind to run away, and I would if I didn’t hate a coward. I can’t stand seeing you so pale and hopeless-like. I’d like to try the mines—maybe I’d strike it rich.”
“Oh, Asa, don’t think of such a thing! Only the few make any money in mines, and most are poor to the end of their days. Keep up courage. The children are getting larger, and better days are coming.”
“That’s the old story, Martha. Things are not very even in this world, but I don’t complain. If I had work I wouldn’t care how rich other folks are. But just think, Martha! If I strike a mine, as some people have, how good it would seem for you to have a silk dress, and Alice a hat with a feather, like the little girl on the hill. I always wanted John to go to college, seeing that his father couldn’t go. He maybe would be more lucky than I have been.”
While Martha Scranton mended by the open fireplace that evening, Asa sat still and thought—dreamed dreams, half wildly perhaps, of better days to come. They would never come in his present poverty. He would make one last venture. His family could live without him, for his wife for some time had earned all the money which they used.
He was not an indolent man, not a man who lacked ability, but, like thousands of others, he seemed to be in the current of failure, and was drifting down the stream to despair. He dreamed about the mines of Colorado that night as he slept, and during the many waking hours planned how he could reach the favored land. He could sell his silver watch, and pawn his overcoat, even if the coming winter pinched him with cold.
By morning he had decided. He ate breakfast quietly; patted little John upon the head, with a look of unusual pathos in his blue eyes; told Martha that he was going out to look for work; obtained what little money he could; hurried down the street to the station, wiping, with the back of his hand, the tears from his cheeks as he looked only once toward his home; and took the train for the mines.