HARRISON IN TROUBLE.
"The drunkard and the glutton shall come to poverty."
WHEN Harrison awoke the next morning it was with the remembrance
of some great sorrow, like that after his little sister's death.
He pressed his hands to his forehead, and presently the events of the
previous evening rushed into his mind. It was not merely the loss,
but the manner of the loss, which so distressed the poor child.
The thought that his father, who, since entering the oyster-saloon,
had never paid one farthing toward the support of his family, should
be guilty of such insufferable meanness as to steal the earnings
of his little son, was what crushed his young heart. For the first
time since he had been old enough to work, his mother found it
difficult to start him forth to his daily toil. He appeared wholly
discouraged; and not until she appealed to him by his love for her
and his sympathy in her afflictions, could she excite him to any
ambition, or even hope for the future. Poor woman! It was indeed a
great self-sacrifice for her to send him away from home. She actually
yearned for his society and sympathy now that her heart-strings
seemed one by one breaking, as her hopes for her husband died away
within her breast. But she knew by past experience that he would be
far happier to be engaged in his regular employment than if he sat
down to brood over his griefs.
When he reached the hotel, a carriage was just driving away, and
Harrison had only time to catch a glimpse of the beautiful face
of Ella and the pale one of her brother before they turned the corner
of the street and disappeared from view. Tears of disappointment
filled the swollen eyes of the poor boy, though a moment before he
had hoped that he should not see Ella that morning. How could he
account to her for his altered appearance. He could never expose the
shame of his father.
Through the day Mrs. Danforth waited and watched for the coming of
her husband. She hoped he would return during the absence of
Harrison. But she waited and watched in vain. Many times during the
morning her heart beat fast, and then almost ceased to beat, as she
fancied she recognized his footstep upon the stairs; but when it
passed she was obliged to lay down her work, so faint and languid was
she from the intense excitement. At noon Harrison had only time
to run home and tell her that he had been sent of an errand up town,
and should not return until night.
How she passed the long hours until sundown she never could tell;
but at length she experienced such a dreadful pressure upon her
spirits that she could endure it no longer. She hastily prepared
for a walk, and bent her steps toward the fatal spot which had proved
the grave of all her hopes for her husband's reformation. Arrived at
the scene, she cast wistful glances through the long windows,
but could not see him. It was a place where women were not often
found, and she shuddered as she turned the handle of the door and
stood within the room. A coarse-looking man stopped suddenly in his
passage across the floor with a waiter of oysters, and she asked,
in a hesitating manner; "Is Mr. Danforth here?"
"Danforth? No; he has not been here today. Mr. Lamson has scolded
well, and threatened to give him walking orders; so if you see him
you'd better send him along quick step."
"O! my poor misguided husband!" groaned Mrs. Danforth, as she feebly
turned from the door. "Why will you wander from the only friend
you have on earth! Why will you throw away the love of the one heart
that clings to you in the midst of sorrow and disgrace!"
When Harrison ran hastily home after his long walk, he found the key
turned in the door and his mother absent. This was so unusual
a circumstance that he wondered much what could have called her out
at such an hour. The busy scenes of the day had served to divert
his mind from himself, and the natural buoyancy of youth had already
turned the channel of his thoughts, so that hope once more whispered
of bright visions in the future. But now, as he wandered listlessly
about the rooms, looking so dismal at this hour without her whose
smile had always seemed to give light and warmth to the place,
he wondered that he could call any event sorrowful while she was left
to him.
At last he heard a weary footstep ascending the stairs, and darted
across the room to welcome his mother. The deepening twilight
prevented him from seeing the expression of woe upon her features;
but he knew she was tired, and exclaimed, cheerfully, "I'll put on
the tea, mother! that always rests you." The table was already
spread, and the mother and son seated themselves.
"I do wonder where father is?" cried Harrison, for the first time
since his loss mentioning his father's name. "I guess he's ashamed
to come home."
"Hush, dear! don't speak so! I'm afraid something has happened
to him. I went to the saloon, but he has not been there all day."
The poor woman covered her face, and the sobs that would not be
longer suppressed burst forth.
Harrison's sympathy was excited at once. "I wish I knew where to go
and inquire for him, mother," he said; "but he has often been gone
longer than this. Perhaps he will be home before we go to bed."
Mrs. Danforth listened to his cheering words, and tried to hope that
they would prove true; but the long weary weeks of anxiety since her
husband had been in the oyster-saloon had worn upon her frame, and
she was conscious of being really unfit for exertion. Then her head
ached terribly, so that she was easily persuaded to go to bed, where
the remainder of the evening Was passed in listening to her son as he
read passage after passage from her favorite Psalms.
The next morning Harrison awoke early, and, having dressed himself
in haste, ran softly down the stairs, before the other inmates of the
house were astir, and sped quickly away to the street where his
father worked. But to his disappointment, when he arrived at the
saloon, the door was barred, and, after knocking several times,
was just on the point of leaving, when a colored man drew back
the bolt.
From this person, who was cleaning the rooms, the boy learned that
his father had of late been so unsteady in his attendance upon his
business that his employer had threatened to turn him away. This was
all the information that he could gain, and with it he ran home
to comfort his mother.
She had risen, and was wondering where he had gone.
"Good news, mother!" he called out, "I have been to father's place.
He is not there yet, but the man told me he had often been absent
before. Now, when he did not come home, we always thought he was
there; so I guess he'll come back again just as he has always done."
"Thank you, my son; I really hope it may be so; and now if you will
cut a few sticks of kindling we will have some breakfast."
Harrison cut the wood, kindled the fire, and swept the room, and then
said, "If you can get along now, mother, I'll go to the hotel.
I promised cook I'd be there right early. They have orders for a
grand dinner to-day. She'll be sure to give me some breakfast, and
I'll be home as soon as I can."
Fortunately for Harrison, his habits of neatness and industry
rendered him of great service to his employers. He went from one
thing to another as he was bid, and, amidst all the confusion and
scolding of the kitchen, was always civil and obliging, ready to give
a helping hand to any one who needed his assistance. Mr. Clarkson
visited the kitchen to give orders about the extra work, saying that
he would hire in more help if it was necessary. Cook told him she had
rather have Harrison than half a dozen strangers, for he would do
just what she told him. The gentleman patted him on the head, called
him a smart boy, and then, taking out his porte-monaie, presented him
with a silver half-dollar.
There was so much to be done that the lad feared he should miss
seeing his little friend but at last one of the waiters asked him
to scour a tray of knives, and he gladly took refuge with his brick
and board out of the heated kitchen into the cool, shady court.
"Why, Harrison! how do you do? I have looked for you this long time,"
soon called out the familiar voice. "I went into the country
yesterday, and we're all going out there for the summer. I wish you
could go too."
"I wish I could," said the boy seriously.
"Have you bought the bonnet yet?"
"No; I never can buy one. My money was all stolen away. I had four
dollars, enough to buy a real beauty: but it's all gone now."
Harrison's lips quivered, and the tears gushed to his eyes.
"Oh, that is too bad! I'm very sorry; don't cry." Ella, whose own
eye-lashes were heavy with unshed tears, ran quickly to impart to her
mother the sorrowful tale.
She was absent more than fifteen minutes, and the lad had nearly
completed his task when she reappeared, jumping up and down for very
gladness.
"Harrison!" she called out, "when you've done your work you must be
sure and come to our room, number five in the long hall. Mother has
something to give you. Oh, won't you be glad! Don't you forget, now."
The boy did not think it very likely he should forget; but, faithful
to his employers, he gathered up his well-scoured knives and
re-entered the kitchen, saying as he did so, "I'm so busy to-day,
I don't know when I shall be ready to go home."
The dinner was a triumph. Every body said so. Mr. Clarkson and all
concerned were in high spirits, and Harrison came in for his full
share of praise. It was half-past five when he took his well-filled
basket from the cook, and setting it in a safe place, washed his face
and hands till they shone then, having smoothed his hair out in the
court with his pocket-comb, he ascended the stairs in search of
number five.
Mr. Haven had come in, and was seated in a large lounging-chair
giving his wife an account of a sad scene he had just witnessed.
A man had been found in the dock, having apparently been in the water
two or three days. Some papers in his pockets informed the police who
he was, and in coming from the wharf he had passed them, bearing the
body to a wagon to convey it home.
"Had he a family?" inquired Mrs. Haven, with deep feeling.
"I did not learn," was the reply.
In the mean time Bridget had answered Harrison's low knock, and he
had advanced halfway across the room before his presence was noticed,
so absorbed were they in the sad tale.
"O mamma! here is Harrison!" called out Ella.
"Don't scream so, Ella!" exclaimed Alfred in a fretful tone. "Your
voice goes right through my head."
"Come here, my boy," said Mr. Haven, kindly. "Ella says you're in
trouble."
The lad blushed, but answered modestly, "I lost all my money, sir.
I suppose she told you what I was saving it for."
"Yes, and it was a very worthy object. Have you any suspicion of the
thief?"
Poor boy, his head fell upon his breast and his lips trembled as he
replied softly, "Yes, sir, but I had rather not tell who it was."
"I dare say he stole it himself," cried Alfred, spitefully.
"Leave the room, Alfred," said his father, sternly.
"O brother!" remonstrated Ella, "how wicked to talk so."
Harrison held up his head, and gave one lightning glance
of indignation into the face of the ill-natured boy. There was truth,
honesty, and wounded feeling in the expressive countenance; and both
Mr. and Mrs. Haven grew every moment more interested in the
young lad.
"You have a good mother, I know," added the gentleman, in whose mind
rose a suspicion of the truth. "Ella has told us about her, and so
Mrs. Haven has prepared a present for her."
The little girl brought carefully on her outstretched hand, from the
next room, a neat bonnet, tastefully trimmed.
"Thank you, oh, thank you, ma'am!" exclaimed the boy, with a look of
unmistakable gratitude. "How pleased mother will be. Shall I take it
now, ma'am?"
"Yes! Are you going directly home? Bring me the box, Ella."
After again expressing his pleasure in a low voice to the child,
Harrison took the bandbox, and, passing through the kitchen, obtained
his basket, and ran all the way home.