THE opportune arrival of the child inaugurated a season of comparative
prosperity in the home of Timothy Crump. To persons accustomed to live
in their frugal way, three hundred dollars seemed a fortune. Nor, as
might have happened in some cases, did this unexpected windfall tempt
the cooper or his wife to extravagances.
“Let us save something against a rainy day,” said Mrs. Crump.
“We can, if I get work soon,” answered her husband. “This little one
will add but little to our expenses, and there is no reason why we
should not save up at least half of it.”
“There's no knowing when you will get work, Timothy,” said Rachel, in
her usual cheerful way; “it isn't well to crow before you're out of the
woods.”
“Very true, Rachel. It isn't your failing to look too much at the sunny
side of the picture.”
“I'm ready to look at it when I can see it anywhere,” said his sister,
in the same enlivening way.
“Don't you see it in the unexpected good fortune which came with this
child?” asked Timothy.
“I've no doubt it seems bright enough, now,” said Rachel, gloomily, “but
a young child's a great deal of trouble.”
“Do you speak from experience, Aunt Rachel?” inquired Jack, demurely.
“Yes;” said his aunt, slowly; “if all babies were as cross as you were
when you were an infant, three hundred dollars wouldn't begin to pay for
the trouble of having one round.”
Mr. Crump and his wife laughed at this sally at Jack's expense, but
the latter had his wits about him sufficiently to answer, “I've always
heard, Aunt Rachel, that the crosser a child is the pleasanter he will
grow up. What a very pleasant baby you must have been!”
“Jack!” said his mother, reprovingly; but his father, who looked upon it
as a good joke, remarked, good-humoredly, “He's got you there, Rachel.”
The latter, however, took it as a serious matter, and observed that,
when she was young, children were not allowed to speak so to their
elders. “But, I don't know as I can blame 'em much,” she continued,
wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron, “when their own parents
encourage 'em in it.”
Timothy was warned, by experience, that silence was his best (sic)
defence. Since anything he might say would only be likely to make
matters worse.
Aunt Rachel sank into a fit of deep despondency, and did not say another
word till dinner time. She sat down to the table with a profound sigh,
as if there was little in life worth living for. Notwithstanding this,
it was observed that she had a good appetite. Indeed, Rachel seemed to
thrive on her gloomy views of life and human nature. She was, it must
be acknowledged, perfectly consistent in all her conduct, as far as this
peculiarity was concerned. Whenever she took up a newspaper, she always
looked first to the space appropriated to deaths, and next in order to
the column of accidents, casualties, etc., and her spirits were visibly
exhilarated when she encountered a familiar name in either list.
Mr. Crump continued to look out for work, but it was with a more
cheerful spirit. He did not now feel as if the comfort of his family
depended absolutely upon his immediate success. Used economically, the
money he had by him would last nine months, and during that time it was
impossible that he should not find something to do. It was this sense
of security--of possessing something upon which he could fall back--that
enabled him to keep up good heart. It is too generally the case that
people are content to live as if they were sure of constantly retaining
their health and never losing their employment. When a reverse does come
they are at once plunged into discouragement, and feel that something
must be done immediately. There is only one way to fend off such an
embarrassment, and that is to resolve, whatever may be the amount of
the income, to lay aside some part to serve as a reliance in time of
trouble. A little economy--though it involves privation--will be well
repaid by the feeling of security thus engendered.
Mr. Crump was not compelled to remain inactive as long as he feared. Not
that his line of business revived,--that still remained depressed,--but
another path was opened to him for a time.
Returning home late one evening, the cooper saw a man steal out from
a doorway, and assault a gentleman whose dress and general appearance
indicated probable wealth. Seizing him by the throat, the villain
effectually prevented him from calling the police, and was engaged in
rifling his pockets when the cooper arrived at the scene. A sudden blow
on the side of the head admonished the robber that he had more than one
to deal with.
“Leave this man instantly,” said the cooper, sternly, “or I will deliver
you into the hands of the police.”
The villain hesitated, but fear prevailed, and springing to his feet, he
hastily made off under cover of the darkness.
“I hope you have received no injury,” said Timothy, respectfully,
turning towards the stranger he had rescued.
“No, my worthy friend, thanks to your timely assistance. The rascal
nearly succeeded, however.”
“I hope you have lost nothing, sir.”
“Nothing, fortunately. You can form an idea of the value of your
interference, when I say that I have fifteen hundred dollars with me,
all of which I should undoubtedly have lost.”
“I am glad,” said the cooper, “that I was able to do you such essential
service. It was by the merest chance that I came this way.”
“Will you add to my indebtedness by accompanying me with that trusty
club of yours? I have some little distance yet to go, and the amount
of money I have with me makes me feel desirous of taking every possible
precaution.”
“Willingly,” said the cooper.
“But I am forgetting,” said the gentleman, “that you yourself will be
obliged to return alone.”
“I do not carry enough money to make me fear an attack,” said Mr. Crump,
laughing. “Money brings care I have always heard, and now I realize it.”
“Yet most people are willing to take their chance of that,” said the
merchant.
“You are right, sir, nor can I call myself an exception. Still I should
be satisfied with the certainty of constant employment.”
“I hope you have that, at least.”
“I have had until recently.”
“Then, at present, you are unemployed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What is your business?”
“That of a cooper.”
“I must see what I can do for you. Can you call at my office to-morrow,
say at twelve o'clock?”
“I shall be glad to do so, sir.”
“I believe I have a card with me. Yes, here is one. And this is my
house. Thank you for your company, my good friend. I shall see you
to-morrow.”
They stood before a handsome dwelling-house, from whose windows, draped
by heavy crimson curtains, a soft light proceeded. The cooper could hear
the ringing of childish voices welcoming home their father, whose
life, unknown to them, had been in such peril, and he could not but be
grateful to Providence that he had been the means of frustrating the
designs of the villain who would have robbed him, and perhaps done him
farther injury.
He determined to say nothing to his wife of the night's adventure until
after his meeting appointed for the next day. Then if any advantage
accrued to him from it, he would tell the whole at once.
When he reached home, Mrs. Crump was sewing beside the fire. Aunt
Rachel sat with her hands folded in her lap, with an air of martyr-like
resignation to the woes of life.
“I've brought you home a paper, Aunt Rachel,” said the cooper,
cheerfully. “You may find something interesting in it.”
“I sha'n't be able to read it this evening,” said Rachel, mournfully.
“My eyes have troubled me lately. I feel that it is more than probable
that I am growing blind. But I trust I shall not live to be a burden to
you. Your prospects are dark enough without that.”
“Don't trouble yourself with any fears of that sort, Rachel,” said the
cooper, cheerily. “I think I know what will enable you to use your eyes
as well as ever.”
“What?” asked Rachel, with melancholy curiosity.
“A pair of spectacles,” said her brother, incautiously.
“Spectacles!” retorted Rachel, indignantly. “It will be a good many
years before I am old enough to wear spectacles. I didn't expect to be
insulted by my own brother. But it's one of my trials.”
“I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, Rachel,” said the cooper,
perplexed.
“Good night,” said Rachel, rising and taking a small lamp from the
table.
“Come, Rachel, don't go yet. It is early.”
“After what you have said to me, Timothy, my self-respect will not
permit me to stay.”
Rachel swept out of the room with something more than her customary
melancholy.
“I wish Rachel war'n't quite so contrary,” said the cooper. “She turns
upon a body so sudden, it's hard to know how to take her. How's the
little girl, Mary?”
“She's been asleep ever since six o'clock.”
“I hope you don't find her very much trouble. That all comes upon you,
while we have the benefit of the money.”
“I don't think of that, Timothy. She is a sweet child, and I love her
almost as much as if she were my own. As for Jack, he perfectly idolizes
her.”
“And how does Aunt Rachel look upon her?”
“I am afraid she will never be a favorite with Rachel.”
“Rachel never took to children much. It isn't her way. Now, Mary, while
you are sewing, I will read you the news.”