The sobs suddenly stopped and Stubby stared at her. And what he said after a long stare was: “I guess there ain't no use in you and me talking about it.”
“That's right,” said she, relieved; “now you go right off to sleep.” And she left him, never dreaming why Stubby had seen there was no use talking about it.
Nor did he talk about it; but a change came over Stubby's funny little person in the next few days. The change was particularly concerned with his jaw, though there was something different, too, in the light in his eyes as he looked straight ahead, and something different in his voice when he said: “Come on, Hero.”
He got so he could walk into a store and demand, in a hard little voice: “Want a boy to do anything for you?” and when they said, “Got more boys than we know what to do with, sonny,” Stubby would say, “All right,” and stalk sturdily out again. Sometimes they laughed and said: “What could you do?” and then Stubby would stalk out, but possibly a little less sturdily.
Vacation came the next week, and still he had found nothing. His father, however, had been more successful. He found a place where they wanted a boy to work in a yard a couple of hours in the morning. For that Stubby was to get a dollar and a half a week. But that was to be turned in for his “keep.” There were lots of mouths to feed—as Stubby's mother was always calling to her neighbour across the alley.
But the yard gave Stubby an idea, and he earned some dimes and one quarter in the next week. Most folks thought he was too little—one kind lady told him he ought to be playing, not working—but there were people who would let him take a big shears and cut grass around flower beds, and things like that. This he had to do afternoons, when he was supposed to be off playing, and when he came home his mother sometimes said some folks had it easy—playing around all day.
It was now the first week in July and Stubby had a dollar and twenty cents. It was getting to the point where he would wake in the night and find himself sitting up in bed, hands clenched. He dreamed dreams about how folks would let him live if he had ninety-nine cents but how he only had ninety-seven and a half, so they were going to shoot him.
Then one day he found Mr. Stuart. He was passing the house after having asked three people if they wanted a boy, and they didn't, and seemed so surprised at the idea of their wanting him that Stubby's throat was all tight, when Mr. Stuart sang out: “Say, boy, want a little job?”
It seemed at first it must be a joke—or a dream—anybody asking him if he wanted one, but the man was beckoning to him, so he pulled himself together and ran up the steps.
“Now here's a little package”—he took something out of the mail box. “It doesn't belong here. It's to go to three-hundred-two Pleasant street. You take it for a dime?”