"Well, mother, it might have been worse," said Richard, sitting down to
his humble dinner about a week later. "Here, Jessie, pull my ears."
Jessie, who looked very pale and red-eyed, as if with weeping, went
behind her father's chair, took hold of his ears playfully, and pulled
them, while he drew one hand before his face.
"Will that do, dear?" she said, drawing his head back so that she could
kiss his puzzled forehead.
"Beautiful, my darling! Nothing like it. Tightens the skin, and takes
out all the wrinkles. Keeps you young-looking, and makes your wife fond
of you. Don't it, mother?"
Mrs Shingle sighed, but looked at him affectionately, as she placed a
spoon in the potatoes.
"That's right," said Dick. "Smiles is human sunshine, and don't cost
anything. You both look as bright again to-day. Hallo! old fellow," he
continued, thrusting a spoon into some hash. "Now, it won't do, you
know. You can't deceive me, in spite of your brown gravy. You're that
half-shoulder of mutton we had on Sunday."
"Yes, it is, Dick," said Mrs Shingle.
"I knew it. Didn't he gape wide open as soon as I cut into him, and
pretend that three people had been helped? Oh, I knew him again! Come,
look bright, both of you: things might be worse. See how I'm trying to
shine! Come on: the best side of the looking-glass, both of you. The
glue and wood will do for old Max."
In spite of his endeavours, the dinner was a sorry repast, the only one
who enjoyed it being the boy; and as soon as it was cleared away, Dick
and the others resumed their work.
"Do you really mean to go, Dick?" said his wife at last, after making
three or four efforts to speak.
"Yes, certain!" he said; and he glanced at Jessie, who was just then
looking at him, when both lowered their eyes directly.
"But how can we leave without paying?" Mrs Shingle ventured to say at
last.
"Sell the furniture," said Dick bitterly. "There--it's no use, mother,
I won't humble myself to him no more. I've as good as took a couple of
rooms off St John Street, and go we will--for many reasons," he added.
"But, Dick dear--"
"Hold your tongue, mother!" he cried sternly. "I'm going to turn over a
new leaf. Other folks make money; I'm going to make some now--somehow.
But I don't know how," he added to himself. "Now, you sir, get on--
we've got to make a fortune yet," he continued, hammering away; while
Jessie's sewing machine clicked musically, and her little
white-stockinged feet seemed to twinkle as they played up and down.
Mrs Shingle looked very much in trouble, for every now and then she
wiped a furtive tear from her eye.
"How much money did you bring from the warehouse this morning, my gal?"
said Dick suddenly, as he looked up from playing cat's-cradle over a
boot.
Jessie gazed at him in a frightened manner, and then dropped her head
lower over her machine, while her hands trembled so that she could
hardly direct her work.
"I say, Jessie, my gal, how much did you draw this morning?"
"None, father," said Jessie, with a sob. And then, covering her face
with her hands, she burst into a passion of weeping.
"Why, Jess, my gal--Jess!" cried Dick, dropping stirrup-leather and
boot. "Here, you sir: here's a penny. Go down to Wilson's and get a
pen'orth o' wax."
"But here is plenty, master," said the boy.
"Go down to Wilson's and get a pen'orth o' wax," said Dick sternly.
"Hadn't I better go to Singley's, sir? it ain't half so far."
"Go and get a pen'orth o' wax at Wilson's," said Dick angrily. And he
saw the boy off the premises before he crossed to Jessie.
"Why, what's the matter, my pretty one?" he said tenderly.
"Oh, father dear, don't be cross with me," she sobbed. "I couldn't tell
you before."
"Just as if your poor stoopid old goose of a father could be cross with
you!" he said, fondling her and drawing her close to his heart. "At
least," he added, "I could be cross, but not with anything you'd go and
do. Now, then, what's the matter?"
"Oh, father, I can never go to the warehouse again."
"What?" said Dick; "not go--"
"No, father," she sobbed: "that man--"
She stopped short, and Dick, with his face working, patted her tenderly
on the shoulder, and then rolled up his sleeves.
"It's only father, my precious: tell him all about it," he whispered.
As he spoke he made a sign to Mrs Shingle to be silent. "That man,
father," she sobbed hysterically--"several times lately--insulted me--
dare not say anything--the money--you so poor, dear!"
"Jessie," cried Dick, in a choking voice, "my poor darling,--if I'd
known!"
"Yes, father dear, I know," she cried, placing her arm round his neck
and kissing him tenderly; "but you wanted the money so badly, I would
not speak."
"But it was wrong, my darling," he said angrily. "But tell me--all."
"This morning--I went," she faltered, "and there was no one in the room,
and he caught me in his arms--and kissed me," she sobbed, with her face
like crimson. Then, indignantly, "I screamed out, and Tom--"
"Was Tom there?" cried Dick reproachfully.
"Yes, father; I could not help his being there. We had never spoken
since that dreadful day, when Uncle Max--"
"Yes," said Dick hastily: "go on."
"But he has come and watched me every day, father, at a distance, and
seen me go to and from the warehouse."
"Bless him!" muttered Dick.
"And when I shrieked out," continued Jessie, with a look of pride
lighting up her face, "Tom rushed in; and, oh, father, it was very
dreadful!"
"What was?" said Dick hoarsely, for he was evidently suffering from
suppressed passion.
"Tom!"
"Mr Thomas Fraser, my gal?"
"Mr Thomas beat him dreadfully," continued Jessie, "till he cried for
mercy; and dear Tom--"
"Mr Thomas, my gal," said Dick, correcting.
"Made him go down upon his knees and beg my pardon, and then he brought
me away."
"God bless him!" said Dick fervently, "But it's Mr Thomas Fraser, my
dear; and he's nothing to you but a brave, true young fellow, who acted
like a man. But, that it should come to this!" he groaned, striding up
and down the room. "This is being a poor man, and having to eat other
people's bread. Oh, it's dreadful, dreadful! If she'd been rich Max's
daughter, mother, no one would have dared to insult her; and as for this
blackguard, I'll--"
He caught up the hammer, and had reached the door, when Jessie and her
mother ran and clung to him, Mrs Shingle locking the door till he
promised to be content with the castigation the fellow had received.
"Mr Tom would be sure to beat him well, father," said Mrs Shingle.
"Well, that is one comfort," said Dick, cooling a little. "I should
have nearly killed any blackguard who had touched you. Well, mother,"
he continued, "when things comes to the worst they mends; but it don't
seem to be so with us any more than with shoes, unless some one mends
'em, I mean to mend ours somehow. `Why don't you try?' every one says.
Well, I do try."
Just then the boy came back, and making a sign to Jessie and his wife
not to let him see their trouble, all tried to resume their work, but in
a despairing, half-hearted manner, in the midst of which, in a doleful,
choking voice, Dick began to sing over his sewing, while the boy seemed
to keep time with the hammer with which he was driving in nails.
"For we always are so jolly, oh--
So jolly, oh--so jolly, oh--so jolly--"
sang Dick; but he had soon done, and his voice trailed off into a dismal
wail, as, unable to contain themselves, Jessie's face went down over her
sewing machine and Mrs Shingle hid hers in her apron.
"My God! what can I do?" the poor fellow moaned, as, with a catching in
his breath, he glanced at those most dear to him. "I hav'n't a shilling
in the world, and the more I try--the more I try--"
He caught up a hammer savagely, and began to beat vigorously at the
leather, forcing himself to sing again, as if he had not seen the
trouble of his wife and child--
"To get his fill, the poor boy did stoop,
And, awful to state, he was biled in the soup."
"Oh, master, please, master, don't sing that dreadful song," cried Union
Jack, with a dismal howl. "I can't bear it: please, master, I can't
bear it, indeed."
"Hold your tongue, you young ruffian," cried Dick, with a pitiful
attempt at being comic. "It's a good job we've got you in stock; for if
things do come to the worst, you'll make a meal for many a day to come."
"Oh, please, don't talk like that, master," cried the boy.
"Dick, dear," whispered his wife, "don't tease the poor lad: he half
believes you."
"I'm not teasing of him, mother," said Dick aloud; "only it's a pity to
have to boil him all at once, instead of by degrees. Here, get out the
cold tea, mother, and let's take to drinking--have a miserable day, and
enjoy ourselves. Jessie, my gal, you'll rust that machine raining on it
like that. Come, mother, rouse up; it'll all come right in the end."
"I was not crying, Dick," said Mrs Shingle,--"not much."
"Yes, you were," he cried, with a rollicking air of gaiety. "I saw two
drips go on your apron and one in that child's shoe. Come, cheer up."
There was a pause then, during which all again tried hard to work; but
the knowledge that they were about to turn out of the little home, and
that their prospects were so bitter, combined with sorrow for their
child, made a sob or two burst from Mrs Shingle's breast, while even
the boy kept on sniffing.
"Here, I can't stand this," groaned Dick at last, getting up and walking
about the room. "I don't spend no money, mother--only a half-ounce or
two of tobacco for myself, and one now and then for poor old Hopper, who
seems to be cutting us now we are so down. You don't spend much,
mother: and it's as true as gorspel about shoemakers' wives being the
worst shod; while as for me, I haven't had a real new pair this ten
years."
"Don't take on about it, Dick," said Mrs Shingle, making a brave effort
to smile. And she took and patted her husband's hand affectionately.
"I wouldn't care, mother, if things were better for you two; and I can't
see as it's my extravagance as does it."
"Oh, no, no, Dick dear."
"One half-pint of beer this month, and it's the beer as is the ruin of
such as me," he said, with a comical look--"and one screw of tobacco
this week, and the paper as was round it, for thickness, why, it was
like leather."
"Don't, don't mind, Dick," whispered Mrs Shingle. "We'll sell the
things, and clear ourselves, and start free again."
"It's all right, mother," he cried, with a kind of gulp. "It's got to
the worst pitch now--see if it ain't. Don't make it rain indoors," he
added, in a remonstrating tone; "'specially when we've only one umbrella
in the house, and it's broke. Here, Jessie, my gal, what's that song
you sing about the rain?"
"`There's sunshine after rain,' father," said Jessie, looking up in so
piteous a way that Dick had hard work to keep back a sob; but with
another struggle to drive off his cares, he cried--
"To be sure. `There's sunshine after rain, my boys; there's sunshine
after rain,'" he sang, making up words, and a peculiar doleful tune of
his own, as he set-to again and hammered vigorously at a piece of
leather. "Work away, Union Jack, and sing, you dog--`There's sunshine
af--aft--after--'"
The hammer fell at his feet, and he rose once more.
"Go away, Jack, my boy," he said, in a different tone of voice.
"No, no, master: don't send me back," cried the boy passionately. "I'm
very sorry; and I'll try so--so very hard not to be hungry."
"Hush, my boy, hush!" said Dick softly.
"And when I am, master, I'll never--never say I am. Don't send me
away."
"Tell him--tell him, mother," whispered Dick, who had been so near
breaking down before that the boy's passionate appeal completely
unmanned him.
"There's nobody to care for there, master, and it's all whitewash. Miss
Jessie, please ask him not to send me away."
"Come here, Jack," said Mrs Shingle.
"No, no, missus; I'll stop here on bread and water--I will, missus.
Please let me stay!"
"I--I only want you to go outside for a bit, Jack," said Dick, with his
lips quivering. "Go out and play, my boy."
"But," said the boy suspiciously, "you won't cut off, master, and leave
me. Fain larks, you know."
"No, no, no, my lad. Go and stop out in the court." The boy gazed
keenly in his face, and then, with a suspicious look in his eyes, went
outside.
"It seems to me as the poorer people is the fonder they get of you,
mother," said Dick pitifully. "Oh, my gal, what have we done, that we
should be so poor? Here have I worked early and late for the few pence
we drag together, and can't get on. It's because I'm a wretched
bungler, and it would have been better if I'd never been born."
"Dick, dear Dick," whispered his wife, as he sat down despairingly, and
leaned his head upon his hand, while she bent over him. "Don't give
way. I can bear anything but that."
"I do try, my gal, harder than you think," he groaned; "and when I'm
making most of a fool of myself, and laughing and singing, it's because
I've got such a gnawing here."
He raised his hand to strike his chest, but it was caught by Jessie, who
drew it round her neck as she knelt at his feet.
"And I've been so much trouble instead of a comfort, father; and it's
all my fault," she sobbed.
"Your fault, my precious!" he cried, as he took her piteous face in his
hands and kissed it a dozen times over--"your fault! Why, you've been
like sunshine in the place ever since you used to sit on your little
stool there, and play with the bits of leather, and build houses with
mother's cotton-reels. Your fault, my darling! There--there--there!
It's all over, mother, and the sun's coming out again. It won't rain
any more to-day."
There was a pause here, and the little place was very silent as the
cries of the children at play floated in.
"There, we'll have Jack in again. And, look here: it's cowardly and
mean of me to give up like that; but it's the last time. So there,
mother," he said, smiling, as he rose and stood between them, "as a
respectable tradesman I object to swearing, as is only allowable when
you want to take an oath. I'm going to take an oath now, when I says
I'll be cussed if I give way again, and--"
"Here's a letter, master!" cried the boy, rushing in.
"A letter?" said Dick, taking it with his apron. "Who's been a-writing
to me? Perhaps it's about that money, mother, and we shall--Here, my
eyes are all of a swim. Did the postman give it to you, Jack?"
"Yes, master, at the door," said the boy eagerly.
Mrs Shingle took the letter, and opened it, to find a clean, new
ten-pound note inside, which she spread out and held to her husband.
Dick took it, turned it upside down, over, round and round, and held it
up to the light.
"It's--it's a duffer, mother," he said at last, with his voice
trembling; "it's a flash note, like--like they are at the races. Bank
of Elegance."
"`For the Governor and Company of the Bank of England,'" read Jessie
slowly.
"No! Does it say so?" cried Dick excitedly. "Then it's a good one, and
it's a mistake. It isn't for me. Give me the envelope."
He took it hastily, and read aloud, "Mr Richard Shingle, Shoemaker,
Crowder's Buildings, Lower Street, Islington."
"That's me, mother," he said, looking from wife to daughter, "ain't it?"
"Yes, Dick, it is for you."
"Let's look inside. What does it say in the letter?"
"Nothing! There, we've only the blank sheet of paper in which the note
was wrapped. Yes, on one corner, the words--`For you, Richard
Shingle.'"
"Then, it's from that Tom Fraser," cried Dick, plucking up; "and I won't
take it."
"No, father," cried Jessie eagerly; and she trembled, too, as she took
the paper. "It is not his writing; and he would have said `_Mr_.
Richard Shingle.'"
"So he would, my gal," said Dick, nodding. "Then it's from Max; and
he's sorry he's been so hard on me--dear old Max! And he wants to be
friends again. Blood is thicker than water, after all, mother; and I
always said it was. There, I'm as pleased as if it was a hundred from
any other man."
The tears stood in his eyes, as he looked from one to the other; but to
read no sympathy in the countenance of wife and child.
"That's five times, you know, the money's come like that," said Dick,
"and always when we've been in great trouble. It is from Max, mother;
and his roughness is only the way he's got."
A faint flush of hope illumined Jessie's face as she tried to believe
her father's words; but it died out directly.
"Why, mother," cried Dick joyously, "we can clear all off, and have some
money to go on with; and- But, I say, if Max sent this, he wouldn't like
us to go."
"Max did not send it," said Mrs Shingle decidedly. "Eh?"
"I am sure of it," she said.
"Then you know who did?"
"If I knew who sent it, Dick," said the poor woman, laying her hand upon
his arm, "you'd have known too."
"So I should, mother--so I should," he said quietly, as he nodded his
head. "Who could it be, then?"
"Some good, true friend, who don't want to be known," said Mrs Shingle.
"It would be a bitter pill to swallow," said Dick thoughtfully, "if it
was done in charity--a gilded pill, mother, wrapped up in that bit of
paper. Oh, mother, mother!" he cried, stamping up and down the room,
"I'm only a poor, miserable fellow, but I've got my pride, like better
men. I don't like this beggarly dependence on other people--this taking
money in charity. If I could only hit a bright--invent some new thing
that all the world would buy!"
"Watts was an inventor, and made the steam engine," said the boy softly.
"Hang Watts!" cried Dick impatiently. "Here, you be quiet. I don't
want your union-school copy-books here."
"All right, master," said the boy, with a sniff.
Dick walked up and down the room in an excited way, with the bank-note
in his left hand, while a bluebottle fly came in at the window and
buzzed round the room, now up, now down, its loud hum rising and
falling, as, apparently taken off from his previous thoughts, the man
followed it, and as it settled he twice made ineffectual efforts to
catch it.
"_Buzz_--_uzz_--_buzz_! _Um_--_um_--_um_!" went the fly; while Jack
stood with open mouth and an old slipper, ready to hit at the insect if
it came his way; Mrs Shingle and Jessie glancing at one another, and
then following Dick in a troubled fashion with their eyes, as he still
pursued the great bluebottle.
"You've a fine time of it, you have," he said, "you great, lazy
wind-flitter!"
"_Buzz_--_buzz_!--_um_--_um_--_um_!" went the fly, round and round.
"Ah," said Dick, "some men hit bright ideas, and make fortunes, but I
don't; and it seems (ah! I nearly had you that time)--seems, mother, as
if we go on as we are that we may toil on (well, he is a sharp one, but
I'll have him yet)--toil on till we get to the workhouse!"
"Oh, don't, please, master--don't go there," cried the boy. "Now,
master--quick, quick. He's settled on the edge of the last shelf."
"I see him," said Dick, going cautiously up, with hand ready to catch
the fly.
But, before he reached it, away it went round and round the room again.
"_Buzz_--_uzz_!--_um_--_um_--_um_!"
"There's nothing done without trying, mother," continued Dick, who was
excited now over his chase. "Try again, try again till you succeed's
the way. Now, you know, if I was to--was to--(Ah, gone again; but I'll
have you yet)--you see, I might--"
"Now, master, there he is," whispered Jack; "you'll have it now."
"Yes," said Dick, "I shall get it now. You see, mother, shoemaking and
cobbling's all very well, but it means starvation to us, though it's a
thing in common demand. If I could invent--(Ah! I shall have you
directly)."
He went cautiously across the room.
"Invent a pair o' boots as won't never wear out, master," whispered the
boy. "Now look, master--there, on the wall!"
The buzzing had ceased, and all was very still in the low, shabby room,
as the bluebottle settled on the centre of a figure in the common
wall-paper; and Dick went forward, on tiptoe, while, somehow drawn into
a keen interest in the pursuit, they knew not why, Mrs Shingle and
Jessie still looked on.
Slowly and cautiously, as if determined to make up this time for his
many failures, Richard Shingle advanced closer and closer, just as a ray
of sunshine fell on the wall, making the fly, which was cleaning and
brushing itself, stand out plainly before them all.
It was as if the capture of that fly had something to do with their
future in life, and the activity that Dick threw into the pursuit was
shared by all present.
Would he catch it? Would he fail?
That was the mental question asked, as he made a scoop of his hand, drew
just within the required distance, paused for a moment, and then--
There was a rapid dash of a hand across the sunlit patch, and Dick stood
up, with outstretched arm and closed fist.
"_Bizz_--_izz_--_izz_" went the captured fly, within the tightened hand,
as Jack gave his knee a delighted slap.
"At last--at last!" shouted Dick. "I've got it, mother, now. Do you
hear, Jessie? I've got it."
"Got what?" they cried.
He paused for a moment or two, turned to them with a curious look upon
his face, and then said quietly--
"The fly on the wall."
"Jessie, my darling--he's mad," whispered Mrs Shingle, running to him.
"Oh, Dick, Dick!"
"No, mother," he cried, "I'm not mad; and I've made my fortune."
As he spoke he held his hand to the window, unclosed it, and the fly
darted into the sunshine--free.
"At last!" said Dick softly. "`Hit a bright,'" Max said, "and--I've let
it go."