A FRIEND INDEED.
It had been understood, when Ralph went to Wilkesbarre that morning,
that he should return in the afternoon. Bachelor Billy was very much
surprised, therefore, when he returned from his work, not to find
the boy waiting for him. Indeed, he had more than half expected that
Ralph would come up to the breaker to walk home with him, or would, at
least, meet him on the way. The Widow Maloney had not seen him, she
said; and when supper was ready she sent her little girl down the road
to look for him, and to tell him to hurry home.
Before they had finished eating, the child came back, saying that she
could not find him. They were not worried about him, though; they
thought he had been delayed at court, and would come in on one of the
later trains. So, after supper, Billy lighted his pipe and walked down
toward the city, hoping to meet the lad. He went on until he reached
the railroad station. They told him there that the next train would be
in from Wilkesbarre in about an hour. He concluded to wait for it, so
he sat on one of the benches, and watched the people coming and going,
and smoked his clay-pipe in comparative comfort. The train came at
last, and the passengers from it crowded through the hall-way, and out
into the street. But among them all Bachelor Billy could not discover
Ralph. He saw Mrs. Burnham coming from the cars, though, and it
occurred to him that possibly she might know something about the boy.
She had doubtless come from Wilkesbarre; indeed it was not unlikely
that she had been in court. He did not hesitate to inquire of her; she
knew him very well, and always had a kind word for him when she came
to see Ralph.
He took off his cap and approached her. "Beggin' your pardon, Mistress
Burnham," he said, "but ha' ye seen aught o' Ralph?"
The lady stopped in surprise, but in a moment she recognized the man,
and, throwing aside her veil, she replied: "Oh, Billy, is that you?
Ralph, did you say? I have not seen him. Why?"
"He went to Wilkesbarre the day, ma'am, an' he s'ould 'a' comit hame
sooner, an' I thocht mayhap ye might 'a' rin across the lad, d'ye see.
Pardon me for a-stoppin' o' ye."
The lady still stood, holding her child by the hand.
"Did he go alone?" she asked.
"No, he went doon wi' Muster Sharpman."
"And has Mr. Sharpman returned?"
"I did na thenk to ask; that was fulish in me,--I s'ould 'a' gone
there first."
"I think Mr. Sharpman will look after him. I do not think you need to
worry; perhaps it was necessary for them to remain overnight. But, if
Ralph does not come in the morning, you must let me know, and I shall
assist you in searching for him."
"Thank ye, Mistress Burnham, thank ye, kindly! I canna feel greatly
concernit ower the lad, sin' he's verra gude at carin' for himsel'.
But, gin he does na come i' the mornin', I s'all mak' search for 'im.
Here's James a-waitin' for ye"; going ahead, as he spoke, to stand by
the fretting horses while James held open the carriage door.
"Good-night, Billy!" came from inside the coach as it rolled away; and
"Good-night, Billy!" echoed the sweet voice of the child.
"Good-nicht to both o' ye!" he shouted, standing to watch them until
the carriage disappeared into the darkness.
"She's verra kin'," he said to himself, as he walked up the street
toward home, "verra kin', but it's no' sic a care as the lad's ane
mither s'ould ha' ower 'im, an' he awa' fra hame i' the darkness o'
the nicht so. But she dinna ken, she dinna ken as he be her son. Coom
a day when that's plain to her, an' she'd spare naught to save 'im fra
the ghost o' danger."
When Bachelor Billy reached home, Mrs. Maloney was at the door to
ask about Ralph. The man told her what Mrs. Burnham had said, and
expressed an earnest hope that the boy would come safely back in the
morning. Then' he went to his room, started a fire in the grate, and
sat down, by it to smoke.
It was already past his customary bed-time, but he could not quite
make up his mind to go to bed without Ralph. It seemed a very lonely
and awkward thing for him to do. They had gone to bed together every
night for nearly three years, and it is not easy to break in upon such
a habit as that.
So Billy sat by the fire and smoked his pipe and thought about the
boy. He was thoroughly convinced that the child was Robert Burnham's
son, and all of his hopes and plans and ambitions, during these days,
were centred in the effort to have Ralph restored his family, and
to his rights as a member of that family. It would be such a fine
thing for the boy, he thought. In the first place, he could have an
education. Bachelor Billy reverenced an education. To him, it was
almost a personality. He held that, with an education, a man could
do anything short of performing miracles; that all possibilities of
goodness or greatness that the world holds were open to him. The very
first thing he would choose for Ralph would be an education. Then the
child would have wealth; that, too, would be a great thing for him
and, through him, for society. The poor would be fed, and the homeless
would be sheltered. He was so sure of the boy's honest heart and
moral firmness that he knew wealth would be a blessing to him and not
a curse.
And a beautiful home! Once he had been in Robert Burnham's house; and,
for days thereafter, its richness and beauty and its homelike air had
haunted him wherever he went. Yes, the boy would have a beautiful
home. He looked around on the bare walls and scanty furniture of his
own poor dwelling-place as if comparing them with the comforts and
luxuries of the Burnham mansion. The contrast was a sharp one, the
change would be great. But Ralph was so delicate in taste and fancy,
so high-minded, so pure-souled, that nothing would be too beautiful
for him, no luxury would seem strange, no life would be so exalted
that he could not hold himself at its level. The home that had haunted
Bachelor Billy's fancy was the home for Ralph, and there he should
dwell. But then--and the thought came suddenly and for the first time
into the man's mind--when the boy went there to live, he, Billy, would
be alone, _alone_. He would have no one to chatter brightly to him
at the dawn of day, no one to walk with him to their daily tasks at
Burnham Breaker, to eat from the same pail with him the dinner that
had been prepared for both, to come home with him at night, and fill
the bare room in which they lived with light and cheer enough to flood
a palace. Instead of that, every day would be like this day had been,
every night would be as dull and lonely as the night now passing.
How could he ever endure them?
He was staring intently into the fire, clutching his pipe in his hand,
and spilling from it the tobacco he had forgotten to smoke.
The lad would have a mother, too,--a kind, good, beautiful mother to
love him, to caress him, to do a million more things for him than his
Uncle Billy had ever done or ever could do. And the boy would love his
mother, he would love her very tenderly; he ought to; it was right
that he should; but in the beauty and sweetness of such a life as that
would Ralph remember him? How could he hope it? Yet, how could he bear
to be forgotten by the child? How could he ever bear it?
In his intensity of thought the man had risen to his feet, grasping
his clay pipe so closely that it broke and fell in fragments to the
hearth.
He looked around again on the bare walls of his home, down on his own
bent form, on his patched, soiled clothing and his clumsy shoes, then
he sank back into his chair, covered his face with his hands, and gave
way to tears. He had lived in this world too long not to know that
prosperity breeds forgetfulness, and he felt already in his heart a
foretaste of the bitterness that should overwhelm him when this boy,
whom he loved as his own child, should leave him alone, forgotten.
But after a time he looked up again. Pleasanter thoughts were in
his mind. They were thoughts of the days and nights that he and
the boy had spent together, from the time when he had found him,
sick, helpless, and alone, on the dusty highway, in the heat of the
midsummer sun, to these days that were now passing, with their strange
revelations, their bright hopes, their shadowy fears.
But in all his thought there was no touch of disappointment, no trace
of regret. It was worth it all, he told himself,--worth all the care
he had given to the boy, all the money he had spent to restore him
to health, worth all he had ever done or ever could do for him, just
to have had the lad with him for a year, a month, a week: why it was
worth it all and more, yes, vastly more, just to have felt the small
hand laid once on his arm, to have seen the loving eyes look up once
into his, and to have heard the clear voice say, "Dear Uncle Billy" in
the confiding way he knew so well.
It was nearly midnight when Bachelor Billy went to bed, and long after
that hour before he fell asleep.
He awoke several times during the night with a sense of loneliness
and desolation pressing down upon him, and he arose early to prepare
for his day's work. It was arranged at the breakfast-table that Mrs.
Maloney's oldest girl should go down to Lawyer Sharpman's office to
inquire about Ralph, and Billy was to come home at noon, contrary to
his custom, to hear her report.
Daylight is a great promoter of natural cheer, and the man went away
to his work with a strong hope in his heart of Ralph's speedy return;
and when the long morning had passed and he hurried back to his home,
he half expected that the boy would meet him on the way. But he was
disappointed; even Mrs. Maloney's girl had no news for him. She had
been to Sharpman's office twice, she said, and had not found him in,
though the clerk had told her that Mr. Sharpman had returned from
Wilkesbarre the day before.
Billy decided then that it was time to make active search for the boy,
and when he had finished a hurried dinner, he put on his best clothes
and started for the city. He thought it would be wise for him to
go first to Sharpman's office and learn what he could there. The
lawyer had not yet returned from lunch, but the clerk said he would
positively be in at half-past one, so Billy took the proffered chair,
and waited. Sharpman came promptly at the time, greeted his visitor
cordially, and took him into his private office.
"Well, my friend; what can I do for you?" he asked.
"I cam' to see aboot Ralph, sir; Ralph as lives wi' me."
"Oh! are you Buckley? William Buckley?"
"I am, sir. I want to know when saw ye the lad last?"
"Why, about eleven o'clock yesterday. He came up on the noon train,
didn't he?"
"I ha' no' seen 'im."
"Haven't seen him!" exclaimed Sharpman, in a voice expressive of much
alarm. "Haven't seen him since when, man?"
"Not sin' yester-mornin', when I said 'good-by' till the lad, an' went
t' the breaker. I got scared aboot 'im, an' cam' to look 'im oop."
Bachelor Billy had become infected with Sharpman's alarm.
"Well, we _must_ look him up," said the lawyer, putting on his hat,
which he had just laid aside, and taking up a light overcoat. "Come,
we'll go down to the station and see if we can learn anything of him
there."
Sharpman was really very anxious about the boy; it would interfere
sadly with his scheme to have Ralph disappear again, now. The two men
went out from the door together and down the street at a rapid pace.
But they had not taken two steps around the corner into Lackawanna
Avenue, when they came face to face with the missing boy. He was a
sorry sight, limping slowly along, covered with dust, exhausted from
his journey. He was no less surprised to meet Bachelor Billy and the
lawyer, than they were to meet him, and all three stood speechless,
for a moment, with astonishment.
"Why, Ralph!" exclaimed Billy, "Ralph, lad, whaur ye been?"
But Ralph did not know what to say. An overwhelming sense of shame
at his unfortunate adventure and at his wretched condition had come
suddenly to him, and the lawyer's sharp eyes, fixed steadily upon him,
increased his embarrassment not a little.
"Why don' ye speak, lad? Tell Uncle Billy what's happenit to ye; coom
noo!" and the man took the child's hands affectionately into his.
Then Ralph spoke. From a full heart, poor lad, he made his confession.
"Well, Uncle Billy, I got lost in Wilkesbarre; I wasn't used to it,
an' I went into a saloon there, an' they got all my money, an' I got
onto the train 'ithout a ticket, an' the conductor put me off, an' I
had to walk the rest o' the way home; an' I'm pirty tired, an' dirty,
an' 'shamed."
Sharpman laughed aloud.
"Ah! that's Wilkesbarre charity," he said; "you were a stranger, and
they took you in. But come, let's go back to my office and talk it
over."
Secluded in the lawyer's private room Ralph told the whole story of
his adventures from the time he left Sharpman at the court-house door.
When he had finished, Bachelor Billy said, "Puir lad!" then, turning
to Sharpman, "it was no' his fau't, thenk ye?"
"Oh, no!" said the lawyer, smiling, "any one might have met with the
same fate: dreadful town, Wilkesbarre is, dreadful! Have you had any
dinner, Ralph?"
"No, sir," said Ralph, "I haven't."
"Well, come into my wash-room and brighten yourself up a little.
You're somewhat travel-stained, as it were."
In ten minutes Ralph reappeared, looking clean and comparatively
fresh.
"Now," said Sharpman, "you don't resemble quite so strongly the man
who went down from Jerusalem to Jericho. Here, take this," reaching
out some money, "and go down to the restaurant on the corner and
surprise yourself with the best dinner you can buy. Oh, you can pay
it back," as the boy hesitated about accepting the money; "we'll call
it a loan if you like. Come, you agreed to obey my instructions, you
know. Buckley will wait here for you till you get back. Now, don't
hurry!" he said, as Ralph passed out at the door, "there's plenty of
time."
For some minutes after the boy's departure, Sharpman and Bachelor
Billy sat talking over Ralph's recent adventure. Then the conversation
turned to the prospect for the future, and they agreed that it was
very bright. Finally, the lawyer said:--
"He was pretty sick when you first found him, wasn't he?"
"He was that, verra bad indeed."
"Called a doctor for him, didn't you?"
"Oh, yes! Dr. Gunther. He comed every day for a for'night, an' often
he comed twice i' the same day. He was awfu' sick, the chil' was."
"Footed the doctor's bill, I suppose, didn't you?"
"Oh, yes, yes; but I did na min' that so long's the lad got well."
"Had to pay the woman to nurse him and look after him, I take it?"
"Oh! well, yes; but she needit the money, mon, an' the lad he needit
the noorsin', an' it was doin' a bit double good wi' ma siller, do ye
see?"
"Well, you've housed and clothed and fed the boy for a matter of three
years or thereabouts, haven't you?"
"Why, the lad's lived wi' me; he had a right to't. He's the same as my
own son'd be, min' ye."
"You collect his wages, I presume?"
"Oh, now! what'd I be doin' wi' the wee bit money that a baby like
him'd earn? He's a-savin' o' it. It ain't much, but mayhap it'll buy
a bit o' schoolin' for the lad some day. Ye s'ould see the braw way
he'll read an' write now, sir."
Sharpman sat for some time as if in deep thought. Finally, he said:--
"Look here, Buckley! You're a poor man; you can't afford to throw away
what little money you earn, nor to let an opportunity slip for turning
an honest penny. You have done a good deal for the boy; I don't see
why you shouldn't be rewarded."
"I've had ma reward, sir, i' the blessin' o' the lad's company."
"Yes, that's all very true, but a man must not rob himself; it's
not right. You are getting along in years; you should have a little
something to lay by for old age. We are sure to establish Ralph's
identity, and to recover his interest in his father's estate. I know
that the boy would be delighted to have you paid out of the funds that
would come into our hands, and I am very certain that Mrs. Burnham
would be proud to have your services acknowledged in that way. The
basis of compensation would not be so much the time, labor, and money
actually expended by you, as it would be the value of the property
rescued and cared for. That would figure into a very nice sum. I think
you had better let me manage it, and secure for you something to lay
by for a rainy day, or for old age that is sure to fall on you. What
do you say?"
But Bachelor Billy had risen to his feet, excited, and in earnest.
"I'm a poor mon, Muster Sharpman," he said, "an' money's worth a deal
to me, but I could na tak' it for a-doin' what I ha' for Ralph."
"Why, I am sure your services have been of infinite value, both to the
boy and to his mother."
"Mayhap! mayhap! that's no' for me to say. But I canna do it. I could
na look ony mon i' the eye wi' a cent o' the lad's money i' ma purse.
It'd seem as though I'd been a-doin' for 'im a' these years wi' a
purpose to get it back in siller some day, an' I never did; I never
thocht o' it, sir. The chil's been as free an' welcome as the sunshine
wi' me. The bit money I ha' spent, the bit care I ha' had wi' 'im, why
that was paid back wi' dooble interest the first week he could sit oop
i' the bed an' talk. It's a blessin' to hear the lad talk to ye. Na,
na! do what ye can for Ralph. Spare naught to get his rightfu' dues;
but me, there's not a penny comin' to me. I've had ma pay, an' that
lang sin', lang sin', do ye mind."
The lawyer waved his hand, as much as to say: "Very well, you're a
fool, but it's not my fault. I have placed the opportunity within your
reach; if you do not choose to grasp it, you're the loser, not I." But
Sharpman felt that he was the loser, nevertheless.
He knew that his shrewd scheme to use this honest man as a tool for
the furtherance of his own ends had fallen through, and that the
modest sum which he had expected to gain for himself in this way would
never be his.
He was not quite so cordial when Ralph returned from his dinner; and,
after a few words of admonition to the boy, he dismissed the pair, and
set himself diligently to the task of preparing a new scheme to take
the place of the one that had just vanished.