WAYNE PARTS WITH SAM
There was no breakfast the next morning other than copious draughts of
water from the tank in the station waiting-room. At least, there was
none for the boys; Sam found an ancient crust of bread along the track
and made the most of it. At a little after eight they parted, agreeing
to meet uptown at noon so that should one or the other have earned any
money they might eat. Wayne’s ill luck stayed with him and at a little
after twelve he sought the corner near the post office and found June
already on hand. June had the enormous sum of twenty cents, earned by
carrying a drummer’s sample cases from store to store for a period of
well over an hour, and it took the boys something less than two minutes
to find a lunch-room and climb to a couple of stools. Wayne was for
conserving half their fortune, but when June’s eyes rolled covetously
at the good things displayed, and June earnestly assured him of his
ability to earn more money that afternoon, Wayne recklessly consented
to the spending of the whole amount. The fact that he was every bit as
hungry as June had a good deal to do with his change of mind.
That lunch tasted awfully good. Also, as June remarked wistfully, it
tasted “moreish.” But their money was exhausted and they parted again
at the lunch-room door and went their separate ways. How many flights
of stairs he climbed that afternoon, how many doors he opened, how many
blocks of hard pavement he trod, Wayne didn’t know, but even Sam showed
evidences of exhaustion when, at twilight, downhearted and despairing,
boy and dog returned to the shed by the railroad track.
“I reckon,” Wayne confided, “you and I are hoodooed, Sam. Reckon
there isn’t anything for us to do but just slink back home the best
way we can, old chap.” And Sam, trotting along beside him, raised
understanding eyes and wagged the stump of his tail sympathetically.
June was downcast and woe-begone and self-accusing. Not a cent had
he accumulated since noon. Luck had fairly deserted him. Every offer
of services had been refused and a big, red-faced man had chased him
out of a butcher shop with upraised cleaver when June had tried to
negotiate for “a little ol’ piece o’ meat.” Hunger again faced them,
and, to make matters worse, they were homeless. Wayne slumped down
on the wheelbarrow and studied the situation from all angles, while
June kept a sharp and nervous watch for that troublesome policeman. At
length Wayne arose with a look of settled determination on his face.
“Come on,” he said. “We’ve got to eat, June. If we don’t we can’t look
for work. Mr. Connor wants Sam and----”
June let out a wail. “You ain’ goin’ to sell Sam, Mas’ Wayne! Please
don’ you do that! Why, I ain’ hungry scarcely at all yet! Why, I don’
reckon you got any _right_----”
“I’m not going to sell him,” interrupted Wayne impatiently, even
indignantly. “I’m going to ask Mr. Connor to take him and let us have
our meals until we can pay him and get Sam back. That’s fair, isn’t it?
Sam won’t mind--much. He’ll be warm and have plenty to eat and--and
all.”
“He ain’ goin’ to be happy,” replied June, shaking his head sorrowfully,
“but I reckon he won’ mind a awful lot if you kind of explains to him
jus’ how it is, Mas’ Wayne. But you reckon Mister Denny goin’ to do it?”
“I mean to ask him, anyway,” answered Wayne stoutly. “He can’t do any
more than refuse. So come along before the place fills up.”
Fortunately they found the lunch-wagon empty save for the presence of
Mr. Connor himself and one tattered individual consuming coffee and
doughnuts at a far end of the counter. Denny was reading the evening
paper under a light beside the glistening, sizzing coffee urn. “Hello,
boys,” he greeted cordially. “And how’s the world using you these days?
You wasn’t in this morning, was you?”
“No, sir,” answered Wayne. “I--could I speak to you a minute, Mr.
Connor?”
“Sure.” Denny laid the paper down and followed Wayne out of earshot of
the lone patron. “What is it, my boy?”
In a low voice Wayne confided their predicament and made his proposal.
Denny was sympathetic, and interjected, “I want to know!”, “Think of
that now!”, and similar remarks during the narrative, and when Wayne
had finished turned instantly and slid two cups and saucers toward the
coffee urn.
“Here,” he exclaimed, “you fellers put this down before you do any more
jabbering. There’s the sugar forninst you, Junius. What’ll you have to
eat, now? Beef stew, corned beef hash, ham, eggs----” He ran an eye
down the placard on the wall. “What’ll it be, boys?”
“Then you don’t mind doing it?” asked Wayne. “I’ll be awfully much
obliged to you, Mr. Connor. I don’t know just when I can pay you back,
but it won’t be very long, I reckon, and----”
“Ah, go on!” replied Denny gruffly. “Eat what you want. I don’t want
your dog, kid!”
But Wayne was firm, even with the fragrant odour of that coffee in his
nostrils, while June, already on a stool, was rolling longing eyes at
the pies and cakes standing in rows on the shelves. “If you won’t take
Sam for--for security,” said Wayne earnestly, “I won’t do it, sir. He
won’t be any trouble and he doesn’t eat very much. I reckon you’d have
to keep him tied up for a couple of days, because he might try to get
away and follow me, but he’d soon get used to you, sir.”
Denny frowned thoughtfully from Wayne to Sam. “That’s all right,” he
said at last, “only suppose I get fond of him, eh? I got an awful weak
heart for dogs, kid. Look here, I tell you what. Sam can be security,
do you see, and you can keep him just the same. Then if you don’t pay
up, do you see, I’ll take him. Now what’s it going to be? That corned
beef hash is pretty good tonight, and if you put a couple of eggs on
it----”
“That’s silly,” interrupted Wayne. “Suppose we left town?”
“Oh, I’d have to risk that. You wouldn’t, though. Sure, I know you’re a
straight lad.”
Wayne shook his head, sighed, and pushed the untasted coffee away.
“Come on, June,” he said resolutely. “We’ve got to be travelling.”
“Huh?” queried June dismayedly. “Ain’ we goin’ to eat nothin’?”
“Not here. Mr. Connor doesn’t like our plan, June.”
“Don’ like it? How come he don’ like it? Look here, Mister Denny, that
Sam dog’s the smartest, knowin’est dog as is, yes, sir! You can’ make
no mistake if you takes him, sir. He’s got the cutest tricks----”
“I guess I’ve got to take him,” said Denny ruefully. “But I don’t see
why you ain’t satisfied if I am. Oh, all right. Get on a stool there
and feed your face, kid. You win. What about that hash now?”
Half an hour later, almost painfully replete with food and coffee,
the boys left the Golden Star Lunch. Sam, tied with a cord behind the
counter, sent wails of anguish after them, and Wayne hurried his steps
and finally broke into a run. Only when a corner of a building along
the track had shut off the lugubrious sounds did Wayne slow down again.
After that they traversed a block in silence. Then it was June who
spoke.
“Dogs is awful human folks, ain’ they?” he asked subduedly.
Wayne nodded but didn’t answer. Presently, though, he broke out
defiantly with: “We’ve got to redeem him, June! He isn’t going to be
happy there, Sam isn’t. He--he’s going to be mighty lonesome.” Then:
“So am I,” he added gruffly.
“Yes, sir, I reckon he’s goin’ to be powerful mis’able at firs’,”
agreed June. “We jus’ got to get to work an’ get him back, ain’t we,
Mas’ Wayne?”
“We surely have,” agreed Wayne decidedly. “And I’m going to find a job
tomorrow or--or bust!”
They stayed in the waiting-room, the object of deep suspicion on the
part of the station policeman, who, fortunately, was not the officer
who had ordered them away from the little shed, until the eleven-twelve
express had pulled out. Then, when the baggage-man went through and
put out most of the lights and the ticket seller closed and locked the
door of his office and started for home, they exchanged the warmth of
the waiting-room for the chill of outdoors and sleepily sought a place
to spend the rest of the night. It wasn’t difficult. An empty box car
on a sidetrack invited them with a half-opened door and they clambered
in, closed the door behind them, and settled in a corner, drawing
the horse blanket which June had carried around with him all evening
over their tired bodies. They lay awake for a good while, talking,
planning, wondering about Sam. At intervals an engine would roll past
with clanking wheels, sometimes throwing red gleams from the open door
of its fire box through the cracks of the box car. Later an express
thundered by, shaking the earth. But that was after they had fallen
asleep, and the roar only half awakened Wayne and disturbed June not a
particle.
They awoke late the next morning, stiff-limbed but rested, and dropped
from the car and went back to the station for a wash-up. Then came hot
coffee and fried eggs and rolls at the lunch-wagon, but no reunion with
Sam, for Denny explained that he had taken Sam home with him and that
he was at that moment tied to a leg of the kitchen table.
“He howled a good deal during the night,” said Denny philosophically,
“but I guess he didn’t keep anyone awake. He seemed a bit easier in his
mind this morning, though, and the missis gave him a good breakfast and
when I left he was licking the baby’s face. I guess he’s going to be
all right in a day or two, but if the kid gets fond of him and I get
fond of him----” Denny shook his head. “You haven’t changed your mind
about selling him, have you?”
Wayne said no, and the proprietor of the lunch-wagon sighed. “Well, I
was only thinking maybe that would make it a lot easier for all hands.
But I won’t be urging you, kid. He’s a nice little dog and he sure is
fond of you. Any time you want to see him you go around to the house
and tell the missis who you are, see? No. 28 Grove Street’s the place.
Ring the second bell. Well, so long, fellers. Good luck!”
Perhaps it was Denny’s wish that influenced Fortune that day, for when
the two met at noon June proudly displayed two quarters and Wayne was
happy over the possibility of securing work in a livery stable. “He
said I was to come back in the morning,” explained Wayne as they sought
the little lunch-room that they had patronised the previous day. “I
reckon he means to take me, June. Wouldn’t that be great?”
“It surely would, Mas’ Wayne. What-all he want you to do?”
“Drive a carriage, one of the closed carriages that take passengers
from the station. That’s something I can do, June, drive!”
“Yes, sir, you surely can drive. But that ain’ scarcely fit work for a
gen’leman like you is, Mas’ Wayne.”
“I reckon what you do doesn’t matter much, June,” replied Wayne. “I
reckon you can be a gentleman and drive a carriage, too. Anyway, I’d
rather be earning some money. Just being a gentleman doesn’t get you
anything as far as I can see.”
June shook his head at that but didn’t dispute it. He had something
on his mind, and as soon as they were seated at the lunch-counter he
broached it. “We got to fin’ a place to live, ain’ we, Mas’ Wayne?”
he began. Wayne agreed, and June went on. “Yes, sir. Then let me tell
you.” What he told amounted to this. His search for the illusive
two-bit piece had taken him farther afield than usual and he had
plodded to the outskirts of the town where there was a stamping works
and a dyehouse and a few other small factories. His journey had brought
him no recompense in money but he had discovered their future domicile.
It was, he explained, an old street car which had at some time been
pulled out into a meadow beyond the factories. “I reckon it was a horse
car, like they used to have in Sleepersville, Mas’ Wayne, before the
trolleys done come. Mos’ of the windows is knocked out, but we could
easy board ’em up. An’ one of the doors don’ shut tight. But it’s got
a long seat on both its sides an’ we could sleep fine on them seats.
An’ there’s a little old stove at one end that someone done left there,
an’ a stovepipe astickin’ out through the roof. I ask a man at the tin
factory an’ he say no one ain’ live in it for a long time. An’ there’s
a branch close by it, too; mighty nice tastin’ water, Mas’ Wayne; an’
some trees an’ no one to ask you no questions, an’ everythin’!”
“That sounds great, June,” said Wayne eagerly. “How far is it?”
“Must be a good two miles, I reckon. You go down this away and you bear
over yonder-like an’ you follow the railroad right straight till you
come to it.”
“It must be near where we got put off the train the other night,” said
Wayne.
“No, sir, ’tain’, it’s in the other direction; other side of town.”
“Oh, that’s right. Well, now look here, June. We’ve got thirty cents
left and that’s enough to keep us going until tomorrow, and I’m pretty
sure to get that job in the morning. Why don’t we go out there now and
have a look at the place?”
“Yes, sir, that’s what I was thinkin’. We could find some boards,
maybe, an’ fix up them windows, an’ get some wood for a fire----”
“We’d better take that blanket out, though, in case we decided to stay
there, June. There wouldn’t be any use coming back to town, would
there?”
June looked dubious. “How about some supper?” he asked.
“I forgot that. But, look here, if there’s a stove there----”
“Yes, sir! Get us some coffee an’ bread----”
“And cook our own supper!” concluded Wayne triumphantly.
“Ain’ that fine? You take this yere money, Mas’ Wayne, an’ buy them
things, an’ I’ll run back an’ fetch that blanket.” June grinned from
ear to ear, displaying a wealth of glistening white teeth.
“You’re sure no one owns that car, though, June? We don’t want to get
settled down there and then be put out the way they put us out of the
little shed.”
“Huh, ain’ no police ever gets aroun’ there, I reckon,” answered June.
“Man said it didn’ belong to no one, too.”
“All right. You get the blanket and I’ll buy what I can and meet you at
the post office in fifteen minutes or so.”
June disappeared, and Wayne paid the two cheques and set out to find a
grocery store. When he had completed his purchasing just one lonesome
nickel remained in his pocket, but he had acquired a modest amount of
cheap coffee, five cents’ worth of butter, a loaf of bread, a can of
condensed milk and some sugar. Five minutes later they were footing it
down the main street of Medfield, Wayne bearing the provisions and
June the horse blanket which was a load in itself. It seemed that June
had not underestimated the distance a particle, nor the difficulties
of travel, for after they had traversed the poorer part of town their
road stopped abruptly and they were forced to take to the railroad
track and, since trains were coming and going frequently, make their
way along by the little path on the side of the embankment. Coal
yards, lumber yards, a foundry, vacant lots heaped with cinders and
rubbish, and, at last, the open country, dotted here and there with
small factories which, possibly because of lower land values, had been
set up on the outskirts of town. June explained that he had found his
way there in the morning by the road, but that the road was “way over
yonder an’ a heap longer.” Presently he pointed out the stamping works,
or tin factory, as he called it, and then directed Wayne’s gaze further
and to the right.
“See that bunch of trees, Mas’ Wayne? See somethin’ jus’ other side of
’em? That’s it, sir!”
“Oh! But it’s a long ways from town, June.”
“It’s a right smart walk, yes, sir, but the rent’s mighty cheap!” And
June chuckled as he led the way down the embankment, through a fence
and into a boggy meadow. Further away a sort of road wound in the
direction of the stamping works, and toward this June proceeded. The
road scarcely deserved the name, but it was drier than the meadow.
It appeared to have been constructed of a mixture of broken bricks,
ashes, and tin cuttings and the latter glowed in the afternoon sunlight
like bits of gold. They left the road at the stamping works, through
whose open windows came the hum and clash of machinery, skirted a huge
pile of waste tin, and went on across the field, choosing their way
cautiously since every low spot held water. By now the abandoned horse
car stood before them in all its glory of weather-faded yellow paint,
broken windows, rusted roof, and sagging platforms. At one end some
two feet of stovepipe protruded at a rakish angle from the roof. Wayne
looked, saw, and was dubious. But when June asked proudly, “What you
think of her, Mas’ Wayne?” he only said, “Fine, June!”