"SWEET CHARITY'S SAKE."
"You see," Howard was explaining to Ned, that evening, "he'd put in his
charge for the blast, and was tamping it down all right; but he kicked
over his drill, and the end fell on an extra package of giant powder."
"I know that," interrupted Ned. "Papa said he was outrageously careless,
to have any of the stuff lying around loose; and 'twas a wonder that
there weren't any more men near enough to be killed. Poor old Mike! He's
worked in the mine ever since 'twas first opened, and he was one of
their best men."
"I don't see how he came to be so careless, then," said Marjorie, wisely
shaking her head over the matter. "I should suppose he'd have known
better by this time."
"They do know better," said Ned thoughtfully; "only they get hardened to
the risk and don't think much about it, or else say their luck will hold
out. But Mike has the worst of it. Do you know, this is the first
accident in the Blue Creek I ever remember, and I used to see Mike 'most
every day, so I can't get to believe it a bit. It seems as if it
couldn't be true."
"Papa was all broken up to-night," added Grant. "He knows all the old
foremen, and Mike was the best one of them all."
"I believe I'd rather die 'most any way than be blown up," said Allie,
with a shudder. "It must be so hard for his family. But didn't you say
somebody else was hurt, Howard?"
"Just one boy," answered Howard, rising and walking nervously about the
room, as the scene came freshly to his mind. "I don't know who he was,
for nobody seemed to be sure of his name. He had dark hair, and was
about Charlie Mac's size, I should think. They brought him up in the
cage just as Charlie and I stopped at the shaft, and the first thing we
knew, we were right beside him."
"What's it going to do to him?" asked Marjorie, as her bright face grew
very serious at the picture that Howard had brought before her.
"No one knew, for the doctor wasn't there, of course, and they took him
right off home. Papa said he was an English boy that lived over the
creek," said Grant, stretching himself out on the sofa, with his heels
on the cushion.
Marjorie sprang up and shook herself, with a little shiver.
"Don't let's talk about it any more," she exclaimed. "It just makes me
sick to think of it."
"But it's there, all the same, whether we talk about it or not; and if
you'd seen it, as we did, you couldn't forget it, even if you did keep
still," said Howard soberly; and Allie added,--
"Besides, maybe if we talk about it we can find out there's something to
do, to help out."
For an hour, the five young people, gathered in the Everetts' parlor,
had been telling over the details of the accident. As Ned had said, it
had been a long time since the Blue Creek had been visited by an
accident like those which so frequently occurred in the neighboring
mines, and this, killing, as it did, one of the oldest and best-known of
the miners, had created an intense excitement in the little town.
Immediately following the explosion, there had been put in circulation a
report of the accident so exaggerated that it had brought to the spot
the wives of half the miners in the camp, each one of whom was confident
that her husband was among the twenty or more men said to have been
killed. It had been this hasty gathering which had caught Grant's eye;
and the Everetts and Allie had hurried down into the town just in time
to learn the truth that but one man was killed, and to watch the excited
groups as they slowly dispersed, so noisy in their joy that their own
friends had escaped, that they forgot to give more than a passing
thought to poor, careless Mike, whose working days were ended. But that
came later; and among all his mourners there were none more sincere than
the little group at the Everetts', who knew and appreciated the real
worth of the jovial, brawny Irishman, whose pleasant word and helping
hand were extended to all with whom he ever came in contact. They were
still talking of him when the bell rang; and, a moment later, Wang Kum
ushered Dr. Brownlee into the parlor. At sight of him, Marjorie sprang
up impulsively.
"Oh, doctor, tell us about the poor boy! How is he?" she asked abruptly,
without waiting for any formal greeting.
"If you mean the one who was hurt at the mine this afternoon," the
doctor was beginning, when Ned hastily interposed,--
"Hold on a minute, Dr. Brownlee; but don't sit down in that chair.
There's something wrong about the stuff it's covered with; 'tisn't real
leather, and it melts and gets sticky in summer, or when there's a hot
fire. You'd better steer clear of it. We mean to keep it out of the
way."
"You might use it for a trap," suggested the doctor laughingly, as he
pushed aside the great easy-chair, and settled himself in a willow
rocker. Then his face grew grave again, as he turned back to Marjorie.
"He's as badly hurt as he can be," he went on. "He'll get over it, but
he'll never be able to do anything more. He hasn't come to his senses
yet, and I wish he needn't, for the present, for he has a hard time
before him," he added, as he rose to meet Louise, who came into the room
just then.
"I'm a little upset to-night," he said apologetically, in answer to her
exclamation about the coldness of his hand. "To be perfectly honest,
this is my first accident case; and it's a very different thing from
seeing people quietly ill in bed, even if you know they can't get well.
I was at the house when they brought him in, and I hope I sha'n't often
have to go through such a scene again."
"Tell me about it," said Louise, with a gentle sympathy which lent a new
grace to her beauty. "I'm not afraid to hear, and perhaps I can do
something for them by and by."
And the doctor told, forgetting himself, and even the charming young
woman before him, as he went on with the story of the mother's frantic
sorrow over her only son, of the boy's half-conscious suffering, and of
the long, helpless life before him. The girl's eyes filled with tears as
she listened, though her pity for the lad was mingled with a new
admiration for the speaker. The tale did not lie entirely in the mere
words describing the accident; but, under all that, it told of the
generous, kindly sympathy of the true doctor, who shrinks from the sight
of pain, even while he gives his life to watching and helping it.
Two weeks later Marjorie was spending a stormy afternoon at the
Burnams', when Ned appeared on the piazza.
"Hullo!" he exclaimed, as he furled his dripping umbrella, and shook
himself out of his rubber coat. "You'd better believe I'm wet. Lou went
off before it rained, and I had to pack her rubbers and umbrella over to
her. It's no joke to walk a mile in such a pour."
"Where is she?" asked Allie, while she hospitably drew up a chair for
her guest.
"Over the creek with that boy of hers. She puts in ever so much time
there, since he's better. She says he's crazy to read and be read to, so
she goes over 'most every day," responded Ned, as he wriggled away from
the too exuberant caresses of Ben.
"How is he getting on?" inquired Marjorie.
"All right, as much as he can. Lou says he's bright and knows a good
deal."
"How kind she's been to him!" said Allie thoughtfully. "And Charlie,
too. He buys lots of things for him, and sends them over by Dr.
Brownlee."
"Good for Charlie Mac! That's just like him," said Ned enthusiastically.
"Where is he, anyhow?"
"We supposed he was over at your house with Grant," answered Howard from
the corner where he sat, industriously whittling at a set of small
wooden pegs.
"It must be nice to have money, and do all sorts of things like that,"
sighed Marjorie. "I can't afford to buy books and fruit, for I'm always
short on my allowance; and mamma won't let me give up my lessons, even
for one day, so I can't do what Miss Lou does."
"Poor Marj! It's a hard case; for time's money, and you haven't any of
either," remarked Howard.
"Wait a minute!" she answered, starting from her chair, and pacing up
and down the room, as was her habit when much absorbed. "I'm getting
hold of an idea."
"Hold on, then, and don't let it go," advised Ned, dodging the sofa
pillow that Marjorie hurled at him.
"Listen!" she commanded imperatively. "It's really and truly a good
plan. You know we haven't any too much money, for we all of us spend our
allowances faster than we get them; but let's begin to save, and put it
all together, till by and by we can send him something."
"Good, Marjorie! What a splendid idea!" exclaimed Allie, fired with zeal
at the thought.
"But, I say," remonstrated Howard; "how long are you going to keep up
the scheme? I can save like a house afire, for a little while; but
Christmas is coming, and I've promised to give Allie a rubber doll, and
charity begins at home, you know. I'm willing to help on your lad for a
month or so; but let's put a limit to it."
"I didn't think you'd be so stingy, Howard," said Marjorie, turning on
him a gaze of virtuous sorrow.
"'T isn't stingy," retorted Howard; "it's common sense. I 'm as sorry
for him as you are; but I think we'd better go easy on it a little, and
see how we come out."
"Let's try it for a month," interposed Allie hastily, for she saw that
Marjorie was growing indignant. "If we save all we can, we shall have a
good deal by that time. What shall we get him?"
"A whole set of Henty's books," suggested Ned promptly.
"No; I think he'd like a tool-chest better," said Howard, eyeing with
disfavor the shabby knife in his hand.
"What an idea, Howard! He couldn't use a tool-chest, even if he had
one," said Allie, laughing disrespectfully at her brother's suggestion.
"We want to get him something he could have the good of all the time.
What do you say, Marjorie?"
"Miss Lou said he used to sing a good deal," observed Marjorie, her
virtue coming to the surface once more. "Why wouldn't it be nice to get
him one of the new hymnals; a great big one, with all the tunes in it? I
think he'd find it very comforting."
A pause followed her words; then the boys burst into a shout of
laughter. Marjorie looked a little aggrieved.
"I don't see what you're laughing at," she said, with a suspicion of a
pout. "Hymns are a great deal better for such people than your crazy old
books and tool-chests."
"Don't be a jay, Marjorie," said Ned bluntly. "He isn't any more _such
people_ than we are; and because a fellow is down on his luck he doesn't
want everybody shying coffins at him. But here comes Grant; let's see
what he says. Then we can save up for a month, and see how much we get;
after that, we can tell better what to do with it."
For the next four weeks a spirit of miserliness seemed to have broken
out among the young people, who scrimped and saved and denied themselves
for days, only to succumb to the temptations of "just one little bit of
a treat," which swept away most of their savings again, and left them no
better off than before. The day after they had taken their great
resolution, they went down town in a body, and invested most of the
funds at the disposal of the syndicate in an elaborate toy bank, in the
form of a dog who stolidly swallowed their stray bits of silver and
nickel into an iron strong-box below, which nothing but a powerful
hammer could ever succeed in opening. As soon as this purchase was made,
and a nest-egg solemnly deposited in its miniature vault, their zeal
cooled, and the dog was left in Allie's keeping for a week of slow
starvation. It is true that Charlie often begged to be allowed to
contribute from his own more abundant resources; but it had been agreed
that he could only add one fifth to the combined offerings of the
others; so, though the end of the month was fast approaching, the bank
was still nearly as light as when it came from the store, and only
responded with a faint rattle to Allie's frequent shakings.
Matters were in this condition, one day, when Grant dropped in for one
of his frequent short calls on Marjorie.
"Mustn't stay," he answered briefly; "I'm on my way down to get my hair
cut. I'm going to try Charlie Mac's barber; he gets a better shape on
your hair, somehow."
"Extravagant boy!" said Marjorie reproachfully. "You'll have to pay him
ever so much. How much does he charge, anyway?"
"Six bits," answered Grant, as he picked up his hat, and took hold of
the door knob.
"That's perfectly shameful," said Marjorie. "It's ever so much more than
you generally pay. I'll tell you what: I'll do it for you for ten cents,
and you can have all the rest to put in our bank. You haven't begun to
give your share."
"I can't help it; a fellow can't live on nothing," said Grant
defensively. "I've only had two sodas and a new bat this week. Besides,
I want my hair cut like Charlie's."
"I should think you would be ashamed to spend so much on just your
looks, when you think of that poor, exploded boy," said Marjorie in a
sanctimonious tone. "And then," she added persuasively, "if you let me
cut it for ten cents, you can spend some for a treat and put the rest in
the bank."
Grant wavered. The prospect of having an unexpected treat, and at the
same time of putting a little money into their hoard was an attractive
one; but, after all, his boyish soul was filled with a vain desire to
see how his yellow hair would look, after being cut by Charlie's man.
Moreover, Charlie's barber was an expensive luxury, and Grant had
experienced some difficulty in coaxing the necessary funds out of Mrs.
Pennypoker, so he had a little natural misgiving as to her opinion of
his putting the money to other uses.
"You could get a soda, and ever so many pine nuts," went on the tempter,
touching her victim's weakest spot.
Grant yielded a little.
"Have you ever cut anybody's hair?" he demanded.
"No; but I can, well enough. It's just as easy." And Marjorie gave her
hand an impressive sweep through the air. "I know just exactly how," she
added.
"You're sure you can make it look all right?" asked Grant again, while
there floated through his mind a blissful vision of himself, tranquilly
eating pine nuts, and of the others, standing grouped about him,
praising his generosity.
"Course I can; why not?" said Marjorie scornfully. "Don't you s'pose I
know how a boy's hair ought to look?"
"And you'll do it for ten cents?"
"Yes."
"All right; sail in!" And Grant dropped into a chair and closed his
eyes, as if he were about to be decapitated.
"You needn't think I'm going to do it here in the parlor," said
Marjorie. "It's going to make an awful muss; you must come out of
doors."
"You needn't think I'm going to freeze," retorted the victim, opening
his eyes to glare at her belligerently. "If I give you the job, and pay
you all that for it, I'm going to have something to say about the way
it's done. You can spread down a paper, if you're afraid."
"Well," said Marjorie reluctantly; "I don't know but 'twould be cold on
the piazza. Wait a minute, and I'll be ready."
Her preparations were quickly made. A layer of newspapers was spread
over the carpet, and a chair set out in the middle of the room. Then she
tied a blue checked apron around Grant's neck, and announced herself as
in readiness.
"Sit down there," she commanded, as she dived into a box of scrap-book
materials for a pair of paste-stained scissors; "and don't you dare to
wiggle, for I shall cut you if you do." And she gave the scissors an
expressive clash above his head.
"All right," said Grant again, as he once more closed his eyes and
assumed a look of abject misery.
Then silence fell upon the room, and for a long half hour the stillness
was only broken by the clatter of the loose-jointed scissors, and an
occasional moan from Grant, when the blunt points collided with his skin
with more than ordinary vigor. With one hand clutching the boy's yellow
head for support, Marjorie stood over him, clipping and trimming, then
stopping to contemplate the result of her labors, before attacking a new
spot. She had started out upon her undertaking valiantly enough; but a
dozen reckless slashes had begun to awaken some slight misgivings in her
mind, and she proceeded more slowly and with frequent pauses, while an
anxious pucker about her brows showed that she was not entirely
satisfied with her work. Worst of all, Grant was beginning to grow
restive.
"'Most through?" he had inquired some time before.
But Marjorie had consoled him with assurances of his speedy release; and
he had resigned himself to the inevitable and sat quiet for ten minutes
longer. Then he burst out again.
"Say, Marjorie," he protested; "you scratch like fun; and you've been
long enough about it to cut a dozen hairs. Hurry up, there!"
"I'm almost through," she answered hastily. "Your hair's so tough it
takes me longer than I thought 'twould."
"How's it going to look?"
"Lovely!" responded Marjorie, with a fervor which she was far from
feeling, while she made a few hurried clips at a long lock which, in
some way, had escaped her vigilance. "There!" she added. "That's all.
You can get up."
Grant rose and shook himself; then, with the apron still hanging about
his neck, he marched to the nearest mirror and gazed at the reflection
of his shorn head. It was a strange picture that met his eyes. His head
was encircled with narrow furrows, where the scissors had done their
work so well that not a spear of hair rose above the bare skin. These
ridges were intermingled with patches of stubble of varying length;
while, here and there, a long lock had escaped entirely, and, in the
lack of its former support, now stood out from his scalp at an
aggressive angle, like the fur on the back of an angry cat. The whole
effect resembled nothing so much as a piece of half-cleared woodland,
where the workman's axe had here levelled everything to the ground, here
left a clump or two of bushes, and here spared an occasional giant tree
which towered far above its fallen comrades, in the conscious pride of
its unimpaired strength.
The result was novel; but Grant appeared to fail to appreciate it, for
when he turned back to face Marjorie again his brown eyes were blazing,
and he was well-nigh speechless with indignation.
"You beastly fraud!" he shouted, while he rubbed his hand over his
denuded pate, with a tenderly caressing motion, as if to console it for
its appearance.
"What's the matter?" asked Marjorie faintly.
"Matter!" stormed Grant. "Look at my head and see for yourself. You said
you could cut my hair all right, and you've just spoiled it all. I won't
pay you one cent. It'll take weeks and weeks for it to get back again."
"It looks all right," said Marjorie stubbornly; "and you've got to pay
me. You said you would, and you never lie. The time I spent on it is
worth more than ten cents, anyway."
"I sha'n't pay you," retorted Grant doggedly.
"You shall!"
"I won't!"
"Then I'll tell Allie and Charlie, and all the rest, that you're stingy
and a great big cheat."
"Tell away if you're mean enough."
"And I'll tell Mrs. Pennypoker; and she'll send you to bed without your
supper, for stealing her money."
"Didn't steal it!"
"Yes, you did, too! She gave it to you for something, and you were going
to spend part of it for soda; that's stealing."
"'T isn't, either!"
"'T is, too, and you know it! And if you aren't ashamed of it why don't
you want me to tell her?"
Grant saw that his enemy had outflanked him, and that his only possible
course was to make the best terms he could.
"Now, see here," he said more quietly, as he pointed to his head again;
"this isn't worth anything; but you've cornered me, so I can't get out.
But, if I pay you, you must give me back a nickel, to pay for the hole
you snicked out of my ear."
Marjorie's face fell. She had been hoping that he would not notice the
little red spot on the tip of his left ear.
"And then," continued Grant remorselessly; "you can just put on your
hat, and come along with me to Allie's. We'll each put a nickel in the
bank, and then we'll be square. But you'd better believe I'll tell the
boys who did this, so they won't get taken in as I did."
A week later, Charlie and Allie opened the bank and counted the funds.
Only sixty-five cents had accumulated there; Allie's face fell as she
surveyed the meagre hoard.
"Hush up!" commanded Charlie, as he dropped something yellow and shining
into her lap. "I was in a bad fix last summer, and I know how 'tis, so I
ought to help on more than the rest of you. You just keep still and
don't say anything to the others."
And no one else ever knew the full history of the magazine that put in
its appearance at the beginning of the following month, with a greeting
to the stranger boy from his friends across the creek.