The road to this Far-away began in the summer vacation of the year when
he was supposed to be twelve. It was the year when he first went to
work, though the work was meant to last for no more than a few weeks.
Mr. Quidmore, a market gardener at Bere, in Connecticut, some seven
or eight miles eastward toward the Sound, had come over to ask Mr.
Tollivant for a few hours' work in straightening out his accounts.
Straightening out accounts for men who were but amateurs at bookkeeping
was a means by which Mr. Tollivant eked out his none-too-generous
salary.
It was a Sunday afternoon in June. They were in the yard, looking at
the Plymouth Rocks behind their defenses of chicken-wire. That is, Mr.
Quidmore was looking at the Plymouth Rocks, but Tom was looking at Mr.
Quidmore. Mr. and Mrs. Tollivant were giving their guest information as
to how they raised their hens and marketed their eggs.
It was a family affair. Mrs. Tollivant prepared the food; Cecilia fed
the birds; Art hunted for the eggs; Bertie and Tom packed them. Mr.
Quidmore was moved to say:
"I wish I had a fine boy like your Art to help me with the
berrypicking. Good money in it. Three a week and his keep for as long
as the strawberries hold out."
Tom saw Mrs. Tollivant shake her head at her husband behind Mr.
Quidmore's back. This meant disapproval. Disapproval could not be
disapproval of the work, but of Mr. Quidmore. Art already gave his
holiday services to a dairy for a dollar less than Mr. Quidmore's
offer, and no keep. It was the employer, then, and not the employment
that Mrs. Tollivant distrusted.
And yet Mr. Quidmore fascinated Tom. He had never before seen anyone
whose joints had the looseness of one of those toys which you worked
with a string. He was so slim, too, that you got little or no
impression of a body beneath his flapping clothes. Nervously restless,
he walked with a shuffle of which the object seemed the keeping of his
shoes from falling off. When he talked or laughed one side of his long
thin face was screwed up as if by some early injury or paralysis. The
right portion of his lips could smile, while the left trembled into
a rictus. This made his speech slower and more drawling than Tom was
accustomed to hear; but his voice was naturally soft, with a quality in
it like cream. It was the voice that Tom liked especially.
In reply to the suggestion about Art, Mr. Tollivant replied, as one who
sees only a well-meant business proposal,
"We'd like nothing better, Brother Quidmore; but the fact is Art has
about as much as he can do for the rest of his vacation." He waved his
hand toward Tom. "What do you say to this boy?"
At the glorious suggestion Tom's heart began to fail for fear. He was
not a fine boy like Arthur Tollivant. The possibility of earning
three dollars a week, to say nothing of his board, was too much like
the opening up of an Aladdin's palace for the hope to be more than
deceptive. It was part of his daily humiliation never to have had
any money of his own. The paternity of the State paid for his food,
shelter, and education; but it never supplied him with cash, or with
any cash that he ever saw. To have three dollars a week jingling in
his pocket would not only lift him out of his impotent dependence, but
would make him a man. While Mr. Quidmore walked round him, inspecting
him as if he were a dog or pig or other small animal for sale, he held
himself with straightness, dignity, and strength. If he was for sale he
would do his best to be worthy of his price.