A DAY'S WORK AND ITS WAGES.
ALL day long Davie had swept a crossing in Harley Street—he knew
better than to sweep in a neighbourhood where the inhabitants were not
rich—and in that long day's work had only earned fivepence-halfpenny.
It was very little, less than he usually had, but there seemed no hope
of getting more. The passengers were few on such a wretched night as
this, and as it was eight o'clock, Davie came to the conclusion that he
had better make his way home, and hope for better luck to-morrow.
Had he been more fortunate, he would have run quickly through the
streets, but Davie's heart was heavy, and light feet never keep company
with a heavy heart. So he went slowly on his way, wishing that he had
more than four-pence-halfpenny in his pocket—he had been obliged to buy
some bread with one of the pennies—and wondering what they "should" do
if his mother had not been able to finish and take back the four pairs
of trousers which she had had from a wholesale tailors' firm.
It was her business to sew on the buttons, make the button-holes, put
in the lining and pockets, and, in fact, do everything except the
machine work, which had been done before they were given to her. For
the four pairs she would have one shilling and four pence. If she had
taken back her work there would be a fire and a supper awaiting him on
his return, but Davie doubted very much that any such pleasure was in
store for him. His mother had been so ill during the last few days that
she had often been obliged to put aside her work and lie down for an
hour or two.
That morning she had been worse than usual, Davie could hardly bear
to look at her, she seemed so weak and poorly. And forcing himself
to speak cheerfully, he had told her "she wasn't to fret if she
couldn't finish the trousers, for that he was sure he should come home
with a heap of coppers in his pocket—enough to last them for ever
so long." After such a speech it was dreadful to go back with only
fourpence-halfpenny.
As Davie went slowly down Regent Street, his attention was attracted
by the brilliant light that streamed from the windows of a church. It
was not in Regent Street, but a few yards down a narrow turning that
opened out into that main thoroughfare. Davie felt that he should like
to go inside for a little while, away from the damp and the cold,
but he doubted whether he should be allowed to do so, because of his
broom. He might, however, be permitted to sit in the porch. It would be
better than nothing, and perhaps he would hear some music. That would
be something quite new again, for since Davie had regarded himself as
a "family man,"—that is, that he had a mother and a baby brother and
sister to think about and care for,—he had almost entirely given up
going to the Abbey. To creep into the porch then and listen to the
music would be quite a treat.
The outer door stood open, and stepping inside, Davie found himself
in a large porch. There was a bench running round the walls, and upon
this he seated himself, resolving that if nobody turned him out, he
would remain to hear the hymn which, he had no doubt, would be sung
at the close of the service. But he had not been there very many
minutes before he became aware of another sound, the sound of a voice
so clear and ringing that at times Davie almost caught the sense of
the words as he sat there with the wall between him and it. Then it
was so sweet that it quite fascinated him, and he forgot everything in
listening intently to the musical vibrations that, from being scarcely
distinguishable, rose and swelled till they thrilled him through and
through. So absorbed was he in listening, and so bent upon catching
every echo of the voice, that he was unconscious of the entrance of an
old gentleman, who, on catching sight of the little crossing-sweeper,
stopped abruptly in his hurried passage across the porch.
[Illustration: To creep into the porch and listen to the music would be
quite a treat.]
"My child, what are you doing there?"
The voice was not in the least sharp, nor was Davie an individual to be
easily frightened, nevertheless he was considerably startled. The fact
was, that for the moment he had almost forgotten his own existence. The
question suddenly awoke him to a recollection of who he was, and where
he was.
Starting to his feet, he gasped, "Please, sir, I was only a-listening
to what the preacher was a-saying."
"But you can't hear out here, can you?"
"Yes, sir."
"What! Hear every word he says?"
"No, sir, not the words, 'tis the sound of it, the roll of it like,
that I was a-listening to." Then emboldened by the kind look that was
bent upon him, he added, "Please, sir, I may stay, mayn't I?"
"If you like, you may, but why don't you go inside?"
"I've got my broom, sir, and I thought as how they wouldn't let me go
in with that!"
"Well, then, leave it outside."
Leave it outside! No, that would be most unwise. It might be stolen or
get lost in some way. Davie's broom was his friend. Once lose it, and
he did not know how he should get another, for brooms cost money, and
money was very, very scarce. The gentleman saw that he and his property
were not to be parted.
"Would you really like to come inside?" he asked kindly.
"Yes, sir, just," and Davie having now thoroughly recovered his
self-possession, raised a pair of bright brown eyes to the questioner.
Perhaps they, even more than his words, told the gentleman that he was
in earnest.
"Come in with me then. If you behave yourself properly, there is no
reason why you should not, broom or no broom."
And with that, he turned towards the door, while Davie, in a state of
eager expectation, followed closely behind.
What a crowd, to be sure! Nothing but heads, heads, heads, and above
the heads, far away at the other end of the church, looking down upon
the people from the pulpit, was the preacher. His face was very pale,
almost as white as the surplice he wore, and he had large black eyes
that fixed themselves upon his hearers as if he would read their very
thoughts. All this Davie took in at a single glance, and it seemed to
the boy that as he came into the church the black eyes fixed themselves
upon him and watched him as he followed his guide—with difficulty, for
every available space was crowded with listeners—to a corner under the
gallery.
"If you like to stand, you will be able to see as well as hear,"
whispered the old gentleman, pointing to a vacant seat upon a bench. It
was a great wonder that it was vacant, but it was just in the corner,
and in such a dark corner too that no doubt it had been overlooked.
"Now, if you'll give me your broom," he continued, "I'll put it under
here for you; you won't inconvenience anybody with it then."
So saying he put the broom under the bench, and giving a hand to Davie,
assisted him to mount.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]