BUSINESS AND BOTTLES.
He was still thinking when the busy work of the day was done--thinking
anxiously about the same thing.
"It's _there_, plain as day," he said, in a perplexed tone, sitting down
on the corner of the bed, and running his fingers distractedly through
his hair. "'Woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink, that puttest
thy bottle to him.' That's it, word for word, and that's the Bible, and
I do it, why fifty times a day; and I've got to if I stay here. That's a
fact, no getting around it. 'Tain't my bottle, though, it's Mr.
Roberts', and back of him it's Mr. Hastings'. I do declare!" And Tode
paused, overwhelmed with this new thought.
"Whatever do them two men mean now, I'd like to know?" he continued,
after a moment. "Don't make no kind of difference, though; that's
_their_ lookout, I reckon. It's _me_ that puts the bottle to the
neighbors' lips, time and time again. No gettin' around that. They ain't
my neighbors, though. I ain't got no neighbors, them are folks that
lives next door to you. Well, even then, there's Mr. Ryan, he's next
door to mine, and there's young Holden and that peanut man, they're next
door on t'other side, and there's Mr. Pierson, he's next door below.
Why, now, I've got neighbors thick as hops, nearer than most folks have,
and I put the bottle to their lips every day of my life, every single
one of 'em."
Silence for a little, and then another phase of the question.
"Well, now, where's the use? If _I_ didn't hand the bottle to 'em, why
Jim _would_; and they'd get it all the same, so where's the difference?
That's none of my business," Tode answered himself sharply, and with a
touch of the feeling which means, "Get thee behind me, Satan." "It don't
say 'woe to Jim,' and I ain't got nothing to do with him; it don't say
that if it's got to be done anyhow, I may as well do it as any other
fellow. It just says '_woe_' right out, sharp and plain; and I know
about it, and I do it, that's the point. Stick to that point, Tode Mall,
you blockhead, you. If you're arguing a thing, why don't you _argue_,
and not slip and slide all over creation."
Ah, Tode, if only wiser heads than yours would remember that important
item.
"Well," said this young logician, rising at last from the edge of his
bed, and heaving a bit of a sigh as he did so, "the long and short of it
is, it can't be done--never, any more; and then there comes a thing that
has got to be done right straight, and I've got to go and do it, and
that's the worst of it, and I don't know what to do next, that's a fact;
but that's neither here nor there."
With this extremely lucid explanation of his decision and his
intentions, Tode put on his hat and went to the post-office.
Thus it happened that when Mr. Hastings mail had been delivered as
usual, the boy hesitated, and finally asked with an unusual falter in
his voice:
"Can I see Mr. Hastings a minute?"
"Well, sir," said that gentleman, whirling around from his table, and
putting himself in a lounging attitude. "Well, sir, what can I do for
you this evening? Anything in the line of business?"
This he said with the serio-comic air which he seemed unable to avoid
assuming whenever he talked with this traveling companion of his.
Tode plunged at once into the pith of the matter.
"Yes, sir, I've come to talk about business. I've got to leave your
hotel, and I thought I'd better come and let you know."
"Indeed! Have you decided to change your occupation? Going to study law
or medicine, Tode?"
"I haven't made up my mind," said Tode. "I've just got to the leaving
part."
"Bad policy, my boy. Never leave one good foothold until you see just
where to put your foot when you spring."
"Ho!" said Tode, "I have stepped in a bog and sunk in; now I've got to
spring, and trust to luck for getting on a stone."
Mr. Hastings leaned back in his chair and laughed.
"You'll do," he said at length. "But seriously, my boy, what has
happened at the hotel? I heard good accounts of you, and I thought you
were getting on finely. Does Jim leave all the boots for you to black,
or what is the matter? You musn't quarrel with a good business for
trifles."
"It's not Jim nor boots, sir, it's bottles."
"Bottles!"
"Yes, sir, bottles. I'm not going to put 'em to my neighbors any more;
and I don't see what any of you mean by it. Like enough, though, you
never noticed that figure?"
"Are you sure you know what you are talking about, Tode?" inquired Mr.
Hastings, with a curious mixture of amusement and dignity. "Because I
certainly do not seem able to follow your train of thought."
"Why, that Habakkuk; he's the one who says it, sir. But then you know
it's in the Bible, and I've made up my mind not to do it."
"Ah, I begin to understand. So you came up here to-night for the purpose
of delivering a temperance lecture for my benefit. That was kind,
certainly, and I am all ready to listen. Proceed."
Never was sarcasm more entirely lost. Tode was as bright and sharp as
ever, and had never been taught to be respectful.
"No, sir," he answered, promptly, "I didn't come for that at all. I came
to tell you that I had got to quit your business; but if you want to
hear a temperance lecture there's Habakkuk; he can do it better than
anybody _I_ know of."
Mr. Hastings' dignity broke once more into laughter.
"Well, Tode," he said at last, "I'm sorry you're such a simpleton. I had
a higher opinion of your sharpness. I think Mr. Roberts meant to do well
by you. Who has been filling your head with these foolish ideas?"
"Habakkuk has, sir. Only one who has said a word."
There was no sort of use in talking to Tode. Mr. Hastings seemed
desirous of cutting the interview short.
"Very well," he said, "I don't see but you have taken matters entirely
into your own hands. What do you want of me?"
"Nothing, sir, only I--" And here Tode almost broke down; a mist came
suddenly before his eyes, and his voice seemed to slip away from him.
The poor boy felt himself swinging adrift from the only one to whom he
had ever seemed to belong. A very soft, tender feeling had sprung up in
his heart for this rich man. It had been pleasant to meet him on the
street and think, "I belong to him." The feeling was new to the
friendless, worse than orphan boy, and he had taken great pride and
pleasure in it; so now he choked, and his face grew red as at last he
stammered:
"I--I like you, and--" Then another pause.
Mr. Hastings bowed.
"That is very kind, certainly. What then?"
"Would you let me bring up the mail for you evenings just the same? I
wouldn't want no pay, and I'd like to keep doing it for you."
Mr. Hastings shook his head.
"Oh no, I wouldn't trouble a man of your position for the world. Jim, or
some other _boy_, will answer my purpose very well. Since you choose to
cut yourself aloof from me when I was willing to befriend you, why you
must abide by your intentions, and not hang around after me in any way."
Tode's eyes flashed.
"I don't _want_ to hang around you," he began as he turned to go. Then
he stopped again; he was leaving the house for the last time. This one
friend of his was out of sorts with him, wouldn't let him come again;
and the little Dora, who had showed him about making all the letters and
figures, he was to see no more. All the tender and gentle in his heart,
and there was a good deal, swelled up again. There were tears in his
eyes when he looked back at Mr. Hastings with his message.
"Would you please tell your little girl that I'm glad about the letters
and figures, and I'll never forget 'em; and--and--if I can ever do some
little thing for you I'll do it."
Someway Mr. Hastings was growing annoyed. He spoke in mock dignity.
"I shall certainly remember your kindness," he said, bowing low. "And if
ever I should be in need of your valuable assistance, I shall not
hesitate to send for you."
So Tode went out from the Hastings' mansion feeling sore-hearted,
realizing thus early in his pilgrimage that there were hard places in
the way. He walked down the street with a troubled, perplexed air. What
to do next was the question. That is, having settled affairs with Mr.
Roberts, and slept for the last time in his little narrow bed, whither
should he turn his thoughts and his steps on the morrow? Tode had been
earning his living, and enjoying the comforts of a home long enough to
have a sore, choked feeling over the thought of giving them up. A sense
of desolation, such as he had not felt during all his homeless days,
crept steadily over him; and as he walked along the busy street, with
his hands thrust drearily into his pockets, he forgot to whistle as was
his wont.
Mr. Stephens was hastening home from his office with quick business
tread. He was just in front, and instinctively the boy quickened his
step to keep pace with the rapid one. Tode knew him well, had waited on
him at table when there came now and then a stormy day, and he sought
the hotel at the dining hour instead of his own handsome home. He halted
presently before a bookstore and went in. Tode lounged in after him.
Already the old careless feeling that he might as well do that as any
thing had begun to control him again. Mr. Stephens made his purchase,
gave a bill in payment and waited for his change, and from his open
pocket-book, all unknown to him, there fluttered a bit of paper, and
lodged at Tode's feet. Tode glanced quickly about him, nobody else saw
it. Mr. Stephens was already deep in conversation with an acquaintance,
and might have dropped a dozen bits of paper without knowing it. The
paper might be of value, and it might not. Tode composedly put his foot
over it, put his hands in his pockets, and stood still. Mr. Stephens
departed. There was a bit of brown paper on the floor. Tode stooped and
carefully picked that and the other crumpled bit up, and busied himself
apparently in wrapping something carefully up in the brown paper. Then
he waited again. Presently a clerk came toward him.
"Well, sir, what will you have?"
"Shoe-strings," answered Tode, gravely.
"We don't keep them in a bookstore, my boy."
"Oh, you don't. Then I may as well leave." And Tode vanished.
"Who's the wiser for that, I'd like to know?" he asked himself aloud as
soon as the door was closed. Then he started for the hotel in high glee.
He stopped under a street lamp to discover what his treasure might be,
and behold, it was a ten dollar bill! Now indeed Tode was jubilant; a
grand addition that would make to his little hoard, and visions of all
sorts of wished for treasures danced through his brain. His spirits rose
with every step; he sung and whistled and danced by turns. Had this
strange boy then forgotten the errand which had taken him out that
evening? Not by any means. He went directly to the office as soon as he
reached the house and made known to Mr. Roberts his intention of leaving
him. He stood perfectly firm under Mr. Roberts' questioning persuasions
and rather tempting offers. He squarely and distinctly gave his reasons
for leaving, and endured with a good-natured smile the laugh and the
jeers that were raised at his expense. He endured as bravely as he could
whatever there was to endure for conscience' sake that evening, and
finally went up to his room triumphant--triumphant not only in that, but
also over the fact that he had successfully stolen a ten dollar bill.
Oh, Tode, Tode! And yet there was the teaching of all his life in favor
of that way of getting money, and he knew almost nothing against it. He
had only three leaves of a Bible; he had never heard the eighth
commandment in his life. He knew in a vague general way that it was
wrong, not perhaps to steal, but to be _found_ stealing. Just why he
could not have told, but he knew positively this much, that it
generally fared ill with a person who was caught in a theft, but his
ideas were very vague and misty; besides he did not by any means call
himself a thief. He had not gone after the money, it had come to him. He
was very much elated, and as he went about making ready for sleep he
discussed his plans aloud.
"I'll go into business, just as sure as you live, I will. I'll keep a
hotel myself; I'll begin to-morrow; I'll have cakes and pies and
crackers and wine. Oh bless me, no, I can't have wine, but coffee.
_Jolly_, I can make tall coffee, I can, and that's what I'll have
_prezactly_. This ten dollar patch will buy a whole stock of goodies,
and I won't clerk it another day, _see_ if I do."
By and by he quieted down, so that by the time his candle was blown out
and he was settled for the night, graver thoughts began to come.
"'Tain't right to steal," he said aloud. "I know 'tain't right, 'cause a
fellow always feels mean and sneaking after it, and 'cause he's so awful
afraid of being found out. When I've done a nice decent thing, I don't
care whether I'm found out or not; but then I didn't steal. I didn't go
into his pocket-book, it blew down to me--no fault of mine; all I did
was just to pick a piece of paper off the floor, no harm in that. How
did _I_ know it was worth anything? What's the use of me thinking about
it anyhow? He'll never miss it in the world; he's rich--my! as rich as
the President."
Tode turned uneasily on his pillow, shut his eyes very tight, and
pretended to himself that he was asleep. No use, they flew open again.
He began to grow indignant.
"I hope I'll never have another ten dollars as long as I live, if it's
got to make all this fuss!" he said in a disgusted tone. "I wish I'd
never picked up his old rag--I don't like the feeling of it. I didn't
steal it, that's sure; but I've got it, and I wish I hadn't."
"The eyes of the Lord are in every place, beholding the evil and the
good." That verse again, coming back to him with great force, beholding
the evil and the good. Which was this? Was it good? Tode's uneducated,
undisciplined conscience had to say nay to this. Well, then, was it
evil?
"I feel mean," he said, reflectively. "As mean as a thief, pretty near.
I wouldn't like to have anybody know it. I wouldn't tell of it for
anything. S'pose I go down there to that prayer-meeting and tell it.
Would I do _it_? No, _sir_--'cause why? I'm ashamed of it. But then I
didn't _steal_ it; I didn't even know it was money. Oh bah! Tode Mall,
don't you try to pull wool over your own eyes that way. Didn't you
s'pose it was, and would you have took the trouble to get it if you
hadn't s'posed so? Come now. And then see here, I wouldn't have anybody
know about it; and after all there's them eyes that are in every place,
looking right at me. 'Tain't right, that is sure and certain. I didn't
steal it, but I've got it, and it ain't mine, and I oughtn't to have it.
I could have handed it back easy enough if I'd wanted to. So I don't see
but it looks about as mean as stealing, and feels about as mean, and
maybe after all it's pretty much the same thing. Now what be I going to
do?"
And now he tumbled and tossed harder than ever. That same miserable fear
of those pure eyes began to creep over him again, accompanied by a
dreary sense of having lost something, some loving presence and
companionship on which he had leaned in the darkness.
"I'll never do it again," he said at last, with solemn earnestness. "I
_never will_, not if I starve and freeze and choke to death. I'll let
old rags that blow to me alone after this, I will."
Then, after a moment's silence, he clasped his hands together and said
with great earnestness:
"O Lord Jesus, forgive me this once, and I'll never do it
again--never."
After that he thought he could go to sleep but the heavy weight rested
still on his heart. He was not so much afraid of those solemn eyes as he
was sorry. An only half understood feeling of having hurt that one
friend of his came over him.
"What be I going to do?" he said aloud and pitifully. "I _am_ sorry--I'm
sorry I did it, and I'll never do it again."
Still the heavy weight did not lift. Presently he flounced out of bed,
and lighted his candle in haste.
"I'll burn the mean old rag up, I will, so," he said with energy. "See
if I'm going to lie awake all night and bother about it. I ain't going
to use it, either. I don't believe I've got any right to, 'cause it
ain't mine."
By this time the ten dollar bill was very near the candle flame. Then it
was suddenly drawn back, while a look of great perplexity appeared on
Tode's face.
"If it ain't mine what right have I got to burn it up, I'd like to know?
I never did see such a fix in my life. I can't use it, and I can't burn
it, and the land knows I don't want to keep it. Whatever be I going to
do? I wish he had it back again; that's where it ought to be. What if I
should--well, now, there's no use talking; but s'pose I ought to, what
then?"
And there stood the poor befogged boy, holding the doomed bill between
his thumb and finger, and staring gloomily at the flickering candle. At
last the look of indecision vanished, and he began rapid preparations
for a walk.
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