HARD TIMES.
How proud Dick felt next day when he walked into the grocery
establishment that was also the post-office, laid his half-sovereign on
the counter, and said he had come to pay his dog-tax. Stranger was with
him, and in such high spirits that he found it hard to believe the dog
did not understand the nature of their errand.
"So you're not going to get rid of the retriever after all, then,"
remarked the post-mistress, after filling in and handing Dick the
receipt for his money.
"No," said the little boy; and then he pointed at the notice that had
not yet been removed from the window, and added, "That's how I got my
half-sovereign, Mrs. Mortimore. The colonel gave it to me for bringing
his match-box back to him last evening."
"You don't say so, Dick Wilkins!" ejaculated the woman, with
good-natured interest. "Well, you are lucky, and no mistake! Some one
told me only yesterday how upset all you children were at the thought
of parting with your dog. See! here's your two-and-sixpence change; and
here's a quarter-pound packet of tea that you can take home to your
mother as a present from me. Tell her I hope she'll enjoy it. She was
looking shocking thin and pale, I thought, when last I saw her."
"Thank you very much for the tea," said Dick gratefully. "Mother'll be
glad of it, I'm sure." And with this he turned towards the entrance
of the shop, and would have gone his way had not the talkative
post-mistress called him back to the counter again.
"If you take my advice, Dick Wilkins," she went on, "you'll get that
mother of yours to go and see the doctor. She's a failing woman—you
mark my words. Get Dr. Rogers to give your mother something—there's a
good boy!—or, in my belief, you won't have a mother to care for you
much longer."
Now Mrs. Mortimore was a kind woman and a well-meaning one. But she
lacked discretion, as this fact she would have realized could she have
heard Dick Wilkins sob himself to sleep in his own little room when
night-time came. Never did child love parent more devotedly than this
one did his mother. Therefore the post-mistress's words of warning sank
deep into his heart, and haunted him increasingly during the long hours
of the night.
Days passed, and work became even scarcer than hitherto. The cold got
more intense; and great was Dick's distress one evening on finding his
mother employed in cutting up her warm shawl to make bodices for the
twins.
"Mother," he burst forth, "oh, please, don't do it! You'll catch your
death of cold if you go out in this bitter wind without anything over
your shoulders. Let me go to the rector's wife and ask her for a couple
of cast-off wraps for Willie and Joe."
"No, no! I couldn't think of it, Dick! I never begged in my life!" was
the widow's answer.
"Do you feel bad this evening?" asked the boy in anxious tones. "I
mean—does your side ache worse than usual?"
"No, dear, not worse than usual. Why, Dick, folks would think I was a
grand body, if they knew how careful you were of me."
"I want you to see the doctor, mother. You do look ill and bad!"
declared Dick gravely.
"That's nonsense! It's the cold that nips me up," was the prompt
return. "'Tis freezing hard to-night again. I shouldn't be surprised if
the ice on the lake bears soon. Then you and the children'll be able to
go and watch the skating between whiles. Lord Bentford is certain to
throw his grounds open to the public as usual. O—oh!"
"What made you cry out like that? Why, you've got your hand tied up!
What's amiss with it?"
"There's a sore place on one of the fingers; and when I knocked it
against the table, it made me cry out. 'Twill be easier in a minute;"
and Mrs. Wilkins turned her face aside that Dick might not see it was
drawn with pain.
"How long has your finger been bad?" the little boy demanded.
"Not more than a few days. I hurt it on Tuesday with a pin that one of
the servants at the Manor House left in her apron when she gave it to
me to wash; but I didn't bind it up till an hour ago."
"And you've been working with it sore all day!" cried Dick, in much
concern. "Hasn't it pained you, mother?"
His mother confessed that it had been painful, but that a pennyworth of
ointment would soon put it to rights. Dick, however, insisted on her
seeing the doctor, who told her that her finger had been poisoned by
the stab of the pin. He told her, too, that her blood had got into an
unhealthy state, and that she must have plenty of good food if she was
to get well.
The poor woman was in despair. One by one her few remaining sticks of
furniture were sold for bread. Poor Dick was sure that God would never
desert them, and that help would soon arrive.
Then all at once a bright idea flashed into Dick's mind. To-morrow
would be Saturday, and school holiday. He would put a gimlet in his
pocket, go to Lord Bentford's lake, which by now was bearing, and try
to earn a few coppers by putting on the gentlefolks' skates. He would
not breathe one word of his intention to any one; no, not even to his
mother. So he went supperless to bed that night, full of hope for the
success of his new venture on the morrow.