A Rough Shaking Part 12

"Sixpence," said the man sullenly.

The mechanic laid sixpence on the cover of the cart.

"I ought to ha' made you weigh and make up," he said. "Where's your scales?"

"Mind your own business."

"I mean to. Here! I want another sixpenny loaf--but I want it weighed this time!"

"I ain't bound to sell bread in the streets. You can go to the shop. Them loaves is for reg'lar customers."

He moved off with his cart, and the crowd began to disperse. The boys stood absorbed, each in what remained of his half-loaf.

When he looked up, Clare saw that they were alone. But he caught sight of their benefactor some way off, and ran after him.

"Oh, sir!" he said, "I was so hungry, I don't know whether I thanked you for the loaf. We'd had nothing to-day but the sweepings of a mill."

"G.o.d bless my soul!" said the man. "People say there's a G.o.d!" he added.

"I think there must be, sir, for you came by just then!" returned Clare.

"How do you come to be so hard-up, my boy? Somebody's to blame somewheres!"

"There ain't no harm in being hungry, so long as the loaf comes!"

rejoined Clare. "When I get work we shall be all right!"

"That's your sort!" said the man. "But if there had been a G.o.d, as people say, he would ha' made me fit to gi'e you a job, i'stead o'

stan'in' here as you see me, with ne'er a turn o' work to do for myself!"

"I'll work my hardest to pay you back your sixpence," said Clare.

"Nay, nay, lad! Don't you trouble about that. I ha' got two or three more i' my pocket, thank G.o.d!"

"You have two G.o.ds, have you, sir?" said Clare;"--one who does things for you, and one who don't?"

"Come, you young shaver! you're too much for me!" said the man laughing.

Tommy, having finished his bread, here thought fit to join them. He came slyly up, looking impudent now he was filled, with his hands where his pockets should have been.

"It was you stole the loaf, you little rascal!" said the workman, seeing thief in every line of the boy.

"Yes," answered Tommy boldly, "an' I don't see no harm. The baker had lots, and he wasn't 'ungry! It was Clare made a mull of it! He's such a duffer you don't know! He acshally took it back to the brute! He deserved what he got! The loaf was mine. It wasn't his! _I_ stole it!"

"Oh, ho! it wasn't his! it was yours, was it?--Why do you go about with a chap like this, young gentleman?" said the man, turning to Clare. "I know by your speech you 'ain't been brought up alongside o'

sech as him!"

"I had to go away, and he came with me," answered Clare.

"You'd better get rid of him. He'll get you into trouble."

"I can't get rid of him," replied Clare. "But I shall teach him not to take what isn't his. He don't know better now. He's been ill-used all his life."

"You don't seem over well used yourself," said the man.

He saw that Clare's clothes had been made for a boy in good circ.u.mstances, though they had been long worn, and were much begrimed. His face, his tone, his speech convinced him that they had been made for _him_, and that he had had a gentle breeding.

"Look you here, young master," he continued; "you have no right to be in company with that boy. He'll bring you to grief as sure as I tell you."

"I shall be able to bear it," answered Clare with a sigh.

"He'll be the loss of your character to you."

"I 'ain't got a character to lose," replied Clare. "I thought I had; but when n.o.body will believe me, where's my character then?"

"Now you're wrong there," returned the man. "I'm not much, I know; but I believe every word you say, and should be very sorry to find myself mistaken."

"Thank you, sir," said Clare. "May I carry your bag for you?"

If Clare had seen what then pa.s.sed in Tommy's mind, at the back of those glistening ferret-eyes of his, he would have been almost reconciled to taking the man's advice, and getting rid of him. Tommy was saying to himself that his pal wasn't such a duffer after all--he was on the lay for the man's tools!

Tommy never reasoned except in the direction of cunning self-help--of fitting means and intermediate ends to the one main object of eating. It is wonderful what a sharpener of the poor wits hunger is!

"I guess I'm the abler-bodied pauper!" answered the man; and picking up the bag he had dropped at his feet while they conversed, he walked away.

There are many more generous persons among the poor than among the rich--a fact that might help some to understand how a rich man should find it hard to enter into the kingdom of heaven. It is hard for everybody, but harder for the rich. Men who strive to make money are unconsciously pulling instead of pus.h.i.+ng at the heavy gate of the kingdom.

"Tommy!" said Clare, in a tone new to himself, for a new sense of moral protection had risen in him, "if ever you steal anything again, either I give you a hiding, or you and I part company."

Tommy bored his knuckles into his red eyes, and began to whimper. Again it was hard for Tommy! He had followed Clare, thinking to supply what was lacking to him; to do for him what he was not clever enough to do for himself; in short, to make an advantageous partners.h.i.+p with him, to which he should furnish the faculty of picking up unconsidered trifles. Tommy judged Clare defective in intellect, and quite unpractical. He was of the mind of the mult.i.tude. The common-minded man always calls the man who thinks of righteousness before gain, who seeks to do the will of G.o.d and does not seek to make a fortune, unpractical. He _will_ not see that the very essence of the practical lies in doing the right thing.

Tommy, in a semi-conscious way, had looked to Clare to supply the strength and the innocent look, while he supplied the head and the lively fingers; and here was Clare knocking the lovely plan to pieces!

He did well to be angry! But Clare was the stronger; and Tommy knew that, when Clare was roused, though it was not easy to rouse him, he could and would and did fight--not, indeed, as the little coward said to himself _he_ could fight, like a wild cat, but like a blundering hornless old cow defending her calf from a cur.

In the heart of all his selfishness, however, Tommy did a little love Clare; and his love came, not from Tommy, but from the same source as his desire for food, namely, from the G.o.d that was in Tommy, the G.o.d in whom Tommy lived and had his being with Clare. Whether Tommy's love for Clare would one day lift him up beside Clare, that is, make him an honest boy like Clare, remained to be seen.

Finding his demonstration make no impression, Tommy took his knuckles out of his eye-holes and thrust them into his pocket-holes, turned his back on his friend, and began to whistle--with a lump of self-pity in his throat.

Chapter XVIII.

Beating the town.

They turned their faces again toward the centre of the town, and resumed their walk, taking in more of what they saw than while they had not yet had the second instalment of their daily bread. What a thing is food! It is the divineness of the invention--the need for the food, and the food for the need--that makes those who count their dinner the most important thing in the day, such low creatures: nothing but what is good in itself can be turned into vileness. It is a delight to see a boy with a good honest appet.i.te; a boy that _loves_ his dinner is a loathsome creature. Eat heartily, my boy, but be ready to share, even when you are hungry, and have only what you could eat up yourself, else you are no man. Remember that you created neither your hunger nor your food; that both came from one who cares for you and your neighbours as well.

In the strength of the half-loaf he had eaten, the place looked to Clare far more wonderful, and his hopes of earning his bread grew yet more radiant. But he pa.s.sed one shop after another, and always something prevented him from going in. One after another did not look just the right sort, did not seem to invite him: the next might be better! I dare say but for that half-loaf, he would have made a trial sooner, but I doubt if he would have succeeded sooner. He did not think of going to parson, doctor, or policeman for advice; he went walking and staring, followed by Tommy with his hands in his pocketless pocket-holes. Clare was not yet practical in device, though perfect in willingness, and thorough in design. Up one street and down another they wandered, seeing plenty of food through windows, and in carts and baskets, but never any coming their way, except in the form of tempting odours that issued from almost every house, and grew in keenness and strength toward one o'clock. Oh those odours!--agonizing angels of invisible yet most material good! Of what joys has not the Father made us capable, when the poorest necessity is linked with such pain! What a tormenting thing--and what a good must be meant to come out of it!--to be hungry, downright, cravingly hungry with the whole microcosm, and not a halfpenny to buy a mouthful of a.s.suagement!--to be a.s.sailed with wafts of deliriously undefined promise, not one of which seems likely to be fulfilled!--promise true to men hurrying home to dinner or luncheon, but only rousing greater desire in such as Clare and Tommy. Not one opportunity of appropriation presented itself, else it would have gone ill with Tommy, now that the eyes and ears of his guardian were on the alert. For Clare thought of him now as a little thievish pup, for whose conduct, manners, and education he was responsible.