THE SICK WORKMAN.
Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Curtis noticed that their son listened to the
conversation; but he did, and remembered it.
The next day he harnessed Whitefoot into his donkey carriage as soon
as he had read his chapter, with his mamma, and drove away with all
speed to Woodlawn.
Mr. Fuller and most of the workmen had left; but Joe Allen and his
father were busy in the conservatory which they were just finishing.
It was a beautiful building, the centre much higher than the rest, to
be filled with climbing roses, vines, etc.; the sides sloped off until
they were only high enough to allow free entrance at the doors. It was
finished in a highly ornamental manner, and in the distance resembled
a heathen pagoda.
This was Joe's first effort at architecture; and he was proud of it.
When he left Oxford he was going directly to Mr. Bryant's with whom
his kind friend Mr. Curtis had made arrangements for him to study and
perfect himself in his chosen pursuit.
Joe was not at work when Bertie found him; he was giving directions to
the man who had brought a load of marble blocks for the walks.
The little fellow found he would be busy for some time; so he
sauntered on to the back of the building till he came to the painter
Mr. Dodge, who was engaged in setting some panes of glass which had
been broken. He smiled directly when he saw Bertie, but he did not
speak, and presently the child noticed he was very pale. Occasionally
he put his handkerchief to his mouth; and the little fellow was
frightened when he saw that it was spotted with blood.
"Oh, dear!" he exclaimed, "you are sick. You must go home, and send
for the Doctor."
"I confess I don't feel like moving a mountain this morning," answered
Dodge, with a sickly laugh; "I'm on my last job at painting. Did you
know it?"
"What do you mean?"
"I wasn't brought up to be a painter; and it doesn't agree with me."
"What did you do before?"
"Oh, I turned my hand to anything! I took up painting because it paid
best at the time, and I had my mother and sister to support."
"What shall you do then?"
"I don't know." He laid down his putty knife and leaned back, wiping
his mouth again.
"I know you're sick," Bertie urged anxiously, "and I'm going to call
my papa."
"No, don't! I've had such turns before; but they do make me weak as a
baby."
But the child was alarmed, and had already gone. When he returned the
painter had risen and was slowly walking toward the house on his way
to his boarding place.
"My son," said Mr. Curtis, "call Whitefoot and harness him into the
carriage as quick as you can."
"Sit down on the boards, Dodge, until he brings the donkey round.
Bertie tells me you think painting disagrees with you."
"Yes, sir, I am sure it does. I half promised my mother never to do
another day's work at it; but when Torrey was hurt I couldn't refuse
Mr. Fuller; he's been a good friend to me in times past."
"What would you choose for an employment?"
"Out-door work, sir, was what I was brought up to. I shall try to get
something at that. There's nothing more healthy for the lungs than
being over horses and cattle."
The gentleman noticed that the effort of talking seemed to give the
man pain, and instantly checked him from saying more.
"You must stop at once," he urged in a firm voice. "Such warnings as
that," pointing to the blood-stained handkerchief, "are not to be
trifled with. I shall send a physician to see you; and I will talk
with you again."
At noon Mr. Curtis found that the woman who boarded Mr. Dodge
couldn't keep him while he was sick; and arrangements were made at
once to remove him to the chamber in Mrs. Taylor's farm-house which
Patrick Riley had left.
The next day he was so much worse that his mother was sent for; and
thus an acquaintance commenced which continued for life.