THE RESOLUTION.
An artist sitting in the shade under a tree, painting a bit of rustic
gate and a lane bright with many honeysuckles. Presently he is conscious
of a movement behind him, and looking round, sees a sturdily built boy
of some ten years of age, with an old bull-dog lying at his feet, and
another standing by his side, watching him.
"Well, lad, what are you doing?"
"Nowt!" said the boy promptly.
"I mean," the artist said with a smile, "have you anything to do? if
not, I will give you sixpence to sit still on that gate for a quarter of
an hour. I want a figure."
The boy nodded, took his seat without a word, and remained perfectly
quiet while the artist sketched him in.
"That will do for the present," the artist said. "You can come and sit
down here and look at me at work if you like; but if you have nothing to
do for an hour, don't go away, as I shall want you again presently.
Here is the sixpence; you will have another if you'll wait. What's your
name?" he went on, as the boy threw himself down on the grass, with his
head propped up on his elbows.
"Bull-dog," the lad said promptly; and then colouring up, added "at
least they call me Bull-dog, but my right name be Jack Simpson."
"And why do they call you Bull-dog, Jack?"
The artist had a sympathetic voice and spoke in tones of interest, and
the lad answered frankly:
"Mother--that is, my real mother--she died when I were a little kid, and
Juno here, she had pups at the time--not that one, she's Flora, three
years old she be--and they used to pretend she suckled me. It bain't
likely, be it?" he asked, as if after all he was not quite sure about it
himself. "Schoolmaster says as how it's writ that there was once two
little rum'uns, suckled by a wolf, but he can't say for sure that it's
true. Mother says it's all a lie, she fed me from a bottle. But they
called me Bull-dog from that, and because Juno and me always went about
together; and now they call me so because," and he laughed, "I take a
good lot of licking before I gives in."
"You've been to school, I suppose, Jack?"
"Yes, I've had five years schooling," the boy said carelessly.
"And do you like it?"
"I liked it well enough; I learnt pretty easy, and so 'scaped many
hidings. Dad says it was cos my mother were a schoolmaster's daughter
afore she married my father, and so learning's in the blood, and comes
natural. But I'm done with school now, and am going down the pit next
week."
"What are you going to do there? You are too young for work."
"Oh, I sha'n't have no work to do int' pit, not hard work--just to open
and shut a door when the tubs go through."
"You mean the coal-waggons?"
"Ay, the tubs," the boy said. "Then in a year or two I shall get to be a
butty, that ull be better pay; then I shall help dad in his stall, and
at last I shall be on full wages."
"And after that?" the artist asked.
The lad looked puzzled.
"What will you look forward to after that?"
"I don't know that there's nowt else," the boy said, "except perhaps
some day I might, perhaps--but it ain't likely--but I might get to be a
viewer."
"But why don't you make up your mind to be something better still,
Jack--a manager?"
"What!" exclaimed the boy incredulously; "a manager, like Fenton, who
lives in that big house on the hill! Why, he's a gentleman."
"Jack," the artist said, stopping in his work now, and speaking very
earnestly, "there is not a lad of your age in the land, brought up as a
miner, or a mechanic, or an artisan, who may not, if he sets it before
him, and gives his whole mind to it, end by being a rich man and a
gentleman. If a lad from the first makes up his mind to three things--to
work, to save, and to learn--he can rise in the world. You won't be able
to save out of what you get at first, but you can learn when your work
is done. You can read and study of an evening. Then when you get better
wages, save something; when, at twenty-one or so, you get man's wages,
live on less than half, and lay by the rest. Don't marry till you're
thirty; keep away from the public-house; work, study steadily and
intelligently; and by the time you are thirty you will have a thousand
pounds laid by, and be fit to take a manager's place."
"Do'st mean that, sir?" the boy asked quickly.
"I do, Jack. My case is something like it. My father was a village
schoolmaster. I went when about twelve years old to a pottery at
Burslem. My father told me pretty well what I have told you. I
determined to try hard at any rate. I worked in every spare hour to
improve myself generally, and I went three evenings a week to the art
school. I liked it, and the master told me if I stuck to it I might be a
painter some day. I did stick to it, and at twenty could paint well
enough to go into that branch of pottery. I stuck to it, and at
five-and-twenty was getting as high pay as any one in Burslem, except
one or two foreign artists. I am thirty now. I still paint at times on
china, but I am now getting well known as an artist, and am, I hope, a
gentleman."
"I'll do it," the boy said, rising slowly to his feet and coming close
to the artist. "I'll do it, sir. They call me Bull-dog, and I'll stick
to it."
"Very well," the artist said, holding out his hand; "that's a bargain,
Jack. Now, give me your name and address; here are mine. It's the 1st of
June to-day. Now perhaps it will help you a little if I write to you on
the 1st of June every year; and you shall answer me, telling me how you
are getting on, and whether I can in any way give you help or advice. If
I don't get an answer from you, I shall suppose that you have got tired
of it and have given it up."
"Don't you never go to suppose that, sir," the boy said earnestly. "If
thou doesn't get an answer thou'llt know that I've been killed, as
father was, in a fall or an explosion. Thank you, sir." And the boy
walked quietly off, with the old bull-dog lazily waddling behind him.
"There are the makings of a man in that boy," the artist said to
himself. "I wish though I had finished his figure before we began to
talk about his plans for the future. I shall be very proud of that boy
if he ever makes a name for himself."
That evening Jack sat on a low stool and gazed into the fire so steadily
and silently that Bill Haden, albeit not given to observe his moods,
asked:
"What ail'st, lad? What be'st thinkin' o'?"
Jack's thoughts were so deep that it took him some time to shake them
off and to turn upon his stool.
"Oi'm thinking o' getting larning."
"Thinking o' getting larning!" the miner repeated in astonishment, "why,
'ee be just a dun o' getting larning. 'Ee ha' been at it for the last
foive year, lad, and noo thou'st going to be done wi' it and to work in
the pit."
"Oi'm a going to work in the pit, dad, and oi'm a gwine to get larning
too. Oi've made oop my mind, and oi'm gwine to do it."
"But bain't 'ee got larning?" the miner said. "Thou canst read and write
foine, which is more nor I can do and what dost want more?"
"Oi'm a going to get larning," Jack said again, steadily repeating the
formula, "and oi'm gwine soom day to be a manager."
Bill Haden stared at the boy and then burst into a fit of laughter.
"Well, this bangs a'."
Mrs. Haden was as surprised but more sympathetic.
"Bless the boy, what hast got in your head now?"
Jack showed not the slightest sign of discomfiture at his father's
laughter.
"I met a chap to-day," he said in answer to Mrs. Haden, "as told I that
if I made up my moind to work and joost stuck to 't, I could surely make
a man o' myself, and might even roise soom day to be a manager; and I'm
a going to do it."
"Doant 'ee say a word to check the boy, Bill," Mrs. Haden said to her
husband, as he was about to burst out into jeering remarks. "I tell 'ee,
what Jack says he sticks to, and you oughter know that by this time.
What the man, whos'ever he might be, said, was right, Jack," she went
on, turning to the boy. "Larning is a great thing. So far you ain't
showed any turn for larning, Jack, as I ever see'd, but if you get it
you may raise yourself to be an overman or a viewer, though I doan't say
a manager; that seems too far away altogether. If you stick to what you
say you may do it, Jack. I can't help you in larning, for I ain't got
none myself, but if I can help you in any other way I 'ull, and so 'ull
feyther, though he does laugh a bit."
"He be roight enough to laugh," Jack said, "for I hain't had any turn
that way, I doant know as I ha' now, but I'm a going to try, and if
trying can do it," he said in his steady tones, "oi'll do it. I think I
ha' got some o' the bull-dog strain in me, and I'll hoult on to it as
Bess would hoult on to a man's throat if she pinned him."
"I know you will, my lad," Mrs. Haden said, while her husband, lighting
his pipe and turning to go out, said:
"It matters nowt to me one way or t'other, but moind, lad, larning or no
larning, thou'st got to go into the pit next week and arn your living."
"Jack," Mrs. Haden said presently, "dost know, I wouldn't do nowt wi'
this new fancy o' thine, not till arter thou'st a been to work i' the
pit for a while; a week or two will make no differ to 'ee, and thou
doan't know yet how tired ye'll be when ye coom oop nor how thou'lt
long for the air and play wi' lads o' thy own age. I believe, Jack,
quite believe that thou be'st in arnest on it, and I know well that when
thou dost begin thou'lt stick to 't. But it were better to wait till
thou know'st what 'tis thou art undertaking."
Jack felt that there was a good deal in what his mother said. "Very
well, mother. 'Twant make no differ to me, but oi'll do as th' asks me."