CHAPTER VII.
THE WIDOW AND THE FATHERLESS.
The husband of widow Martin had been killed by a railroad accident. The family were very poor. Mrs. Martin could sew, and she could have sustained her family if she had had a machine. But fingers are not worth much against iron wheels. And so, while others had machines, Mrs. Martin could not make much without one. She had been obliged to ask help from the overseer of the poor.
Mr Lampeer, the overseer, was a hard man. He had not skill enough to detect impostors, and so he had come to believe that everybody who was poor was rascally. He had but one eye, and he turned his head round in a curious way to look at you out of it. That dreadful one eye always seemed to be going to shoot. His voice had not a chord of tenderness in it, but was in every way harsh and hard. It was said that he had been a schoolmaster once. I pity the scholars.
Widow Martin lived—if you could call it living—in a tumble-down looking house, that would not have stood many earthquakes. She had tried diligently to support her family and keep them together; but the wolf stood always at the door. Sewing by hand did not bring in quite money enough to buy bread and clothes for four well children, and pay the expenses of poor little Harry’s sickness; for all through the summer and fall Harry had been sick. At last the food was gone, and there was nothing to buy fuel with. Mrs. Martin had to go to the overseer of the poor.
She was a little, shy, hard-working woman, this Mrs. Martin; so when she took her seat among the paupers of every sort in Mr. Lampeer’s office, and waited her turn, it was with a trembling heart. She watched the hard man, who didn’t mean to be so hard, but who couldn’t tell the difference between a good face and a counterfeit; she watched him as he went through with the different cases, and her heart beat every minute more and more violently. When he came to her he broke out with—
“What’s your name?” in a voice that sounded for all the world as if he were accusing her of robbing a safe.
“Sarah Martin,” said the widow, trembling with terror, and growing red and white in turns. Mr. Lampeer, who was on the lookout for any sign of guiltiness, was now sure that Mrs. Martin could not be honest.
“Where do you live?” This was spoken with a half sneer.
“In Slab Alley,” whispered the widow, for her voice was scared out of her.
“How many children have you got?”
Mrs. Martin gave him the list of her five, with their ages, telling him of little Harry, who was six years old and an invalid.
“Your oldest is twelve and a girl. I have a place for her, and, I think, for the boy, too. You must bind them out. Mr. Slicker, the landlord of the Farmers’ Hotel, will take the girl, and I think James Sweeny will take the boy to run errands about the livery stable. I’ll send you some provisions and coal to-day; but you must let the children go. I’ll come to your house in a few days. Don’t object; I won’t hear a word. If you’re as poor as you let on to be, you’ll be glad enough to get your young ones into places where they’ll get enough to eat. That’s all, not a word, now.” And he turned to the next applicant, leaving the widow to go home with her heart so cold.
Let Susie go to Slicker’s tavern! What kind of a house would it be without her? Who would attend to the house while she sewed? And what would become of her girl in such a place? And then to send George, who had to wait on Harry, to send him away forever was to shut out all hope of ever being in better circumstances. Then she could not sew, and the children could never help her. God pity the people that fall into the hands of public charity!
The next few days wore heavily on with the widow. What to do she did not know. At night she scarcely slept at all. When she did drop into a sleep, she dreamed that her children were starving, and woke in fright. Then she slept again, and dreamed that a one-eyed robber had gotten in at the window, and was carrying off Susie and George. At last morning came. The last of the food was eaten for breakfast, and widow Martin sat down to wait. Her mind was in a horrible state of doubt. To starve to death together, or to give up her children! That was the question which many a poor mother’s heart has had to decide. Mrs. Martin soon became so nervous she could not sew. She could not keep back the tears, and when Susie and George put their arms about her neck and asked what was the matter, it made the matter worse. It was the day before Christmas. The sleigh-bells jingled merrily. Even in Slab Alley one could hear sounds of joy at the approaching festivities. But there was no joy in Widow Martin’s house or heart. The dinner hour had come and passed. The little children were hungry. And yet Mrs. Martin had not made up her mind.
At the appointed time Lampeer came. He took out the two indentures with which the mother was to sign away all right to her two eldest children. It was in vain that the widow told him that if she lost them she could do no work for her own support, and must be forever a pauper. Lampeer had an idea that no poor person had a right to love children. Parental love was, in his eyes, or his eye, an expensive luxury that none but the rich should indulge in.
“Mrs. Martin,” he said, “you may either sign these indentures, by which your girl will get a good place as a nurse and errand girl for the tavern-keeper’s wife, and your boy will have plenty to eat and get to be a good hostler, or you and your brats may starve!” With that he took his hat and opened the door.
“Stop!” said Mrs. Martin, “I must have medicine and food, or Harry will not live till Sunday. I will sign.”
The papers were again spread out. The poor-master jerked the folds out of them impatiently, in a way that seemed to say, “You keep me an unconscionable long time about a very small matter.”
When the papers were spread out, Mrs. Martin’s two oldest children, who began to understand what was going on, cried bitterly. Mrs. Martin took the pen and was about to sign. But it was necessary to have two witnesses, and so Lampeer took his hat and called a neighbor-woman, for the second witness.
Mrs. Martin delayed the signature as long as she could. But seeing no other help, she took up the pen. She thought of Abraham with the knife in his hand. She hoped that an angel would call out of heaven to her relief. But as there was no voice from heaven, she dipped the pen in the ink.
Just then some one happened to knock at the door, and the poor woman’s nerves were so weak that she let the pen fall, and sank into a chair. Lampeer, who stood near the door, opened it with an impatient jerk, and—did the angel of deliverance enter?
It was only Willie Blake and Sammy Bantam.
CHAPTER VIII.
SHARPS AND BETWEENS.
Let us go back. We left Willie awhile ago puzzling over that twenty-four dollars. After many hours of thought and talk with Sammy about how they should manage it, two gentlemen gave them nine dollars, and so there was but fifteen more to be raised. But that fifteen seemed harder to get than the fifty they had already gotten. At last Willie thought of something. They would try the sewing-machine man. Mr. Sharps would throw off fifteen dollars.
But they did not know Mr. Sharps. Though he made more than fifteen dollars on the machine, he hated to throw anything off. He was always glad to put on. Sammy described him by saying that “Mr. Sharps was not for-giving but he was for-getting.”
They talked; they told the story; they begged. Mr. Sharps really could not afford to throw off a cent. He was poor. Taxes were high. He gave a great deal. (I do not know what he called a great deal. He had been to church three times in a year, and twice he had put a penny in the plate. I suppose Mr. Sharps thought that a great deal. And so it was, for him, poor fellow.) And then the butcher had raised the price of meat; and he had to pay twenty-three dollars for a bonnet for his daughter. Really, he was too poor. So the boys went away down-hearted.
But Sammy went straight to an uncle of his, who was one of the editors of the Thornton Daily Bugle. After a private talk with him he started back to Mr. Sharps. Willie followed Sammy this time. What Sammy had in his head Willie could not make out.
“I’ll fix him!” That was the only word Sammy uttered on the way back.
“Now, Mr. Sharps,” he began, “my uncle’s name is Josiah Penn. Maybe you know him. He’s one of the editors of the Thornton Daily Bugle. I’ve been talking with him. If you let me have a Feeler and Stilson sewing-machine for fifty dollars, I will have a good notice put in the Daily Bugle.”
Mr. Sharps whistles a minute. He thought he could not do it. No, he was too poor.
“Well, then, Willie,” said Sammy, “we’ll go across the street and try the agent of the Hillrocks and Nibbs machine. I think Mr. Betweens will take my offer.”
“O!” said Mr. Sharps, “you don’t want that machine. It’s only a single thread, and it will ravel, and—well—you don’t want that.”
“Indeed, my mother says there isn’t a pin to choose between them,” said Sammy; “and I can give Mr. Betweens just as good a notice as I could give you.”
“Very well, take the machine for fifty dollars. I do it just out of pity for the widow, you know. I never could stand by and see suffering and not relieve it. You won’t forget about that notice in the Daily Bugle, though, will you?”
No, Sammy wouldn’t forget.
It was now the day before Christmas, and the boys thought they had better get the machine down there.
So they found Billy Horton, who belonged to their class, and who drove an express wagon, and told him about it. He undertook to take it down. But first, he drove around the town and picked up all the boys of the class, that they might share in the pleasure.
Meantime, a gentleman who had heard of Willie’s efforts, gave him a five dollar bill for widow Martin. This Willie invested in provisions, which he instructed the grocer to send to the widow.
He and Sammy hurried down to widow Martin’s, and got there, as I told you in the last chapter, just as she was about to sign away all right, title, and interest in two of the children whom God had given her; to sign them away at the command of the hard Mr. Lampeer, who was very much irritated that he should be interrupted just at the moment when he was about to carry the point; for he loved to carry a point better than to eat his breakfast.
CHAPTER IX.
THE ANGEL STAYS THE HAND.
When the boys came in, they told the widow that they wished to speak with little sick Harry. They talked to Harry awhile, without noticing what was going on in the other part of the room.
Presently Willie felt his arm pulled. Looking round, he saw Susie’s tearful face. “Please don’t let mother give me and George away.” Somehow all the children in school had the habit of coming to this long-headed Willie for help, and to him Susie came.
That word of Susie’s awakened Willie. Up to that moment he had not thought what Mr. Lampeer was there for. Now he saw Mrs. Martin holding the pen with trembling hand, and making motions in the air preparatory to writing her name. Most people not used to writing, write in the air before they touch the paper. When Willie saw this, he flew across the room and thrust his hand upon the place where the name ought to be, saying,—
“Don’t do that, Mrs. Martin! Don’t give away your children!”
Poor woman! the pen dropped from her hand as the knife had dropped from Abraham’s. She grasped Willie’s arm, saying,—
“How can I help it? Do tell me!”
But Lampeer had grasped the other arm, and broke out with—
“You rogue, what do you mean?”
Willie’s fine blue eyes turned quickly into Lampeer’s one muddy eye.
“Let go!” he said, very quietly but very determinedly, “don’t strike me, or my father will take the law on you.”
Lampeer let go.
Just then the groceries came, and a minute later, Billy Horton’s wagon drove up with the machine, and all the other boys, who came in and shook hands with the poor but delighted mother and her children. I cannot tell you any more about that scene. I only know that Lampeer went out angry and muttering.
CHAPTER X.
TOMMY PUFFER.
Willie was happy that night. He went down to the festival at the Mission. There was Tommy Puffer’s soft, oyster-like body among the scholars of the Mission. He was waiting for something good. His mouth and eyes were watering. He looked triumphantly at the boys from the other school. They wouldn’t get anything so nice. The superintendent announced that no boy’s name would be called for a paper bag of “refreshments” but those who had been present two Sundays. And so poor starving Tommy Puffer had to carry his pudding-bag of a body home again without a chance to give it an extra stuffing.
CHAPTER XI.
AN ODD PARTY.
I cannot tell you about the giving of the broom-machine to the blind broom-maker; of the ton of coal to Parm’ly, and of all the other things that happened on Christmas Day when the presents were given. I must leave these things out. As for Aunt Parm’ly, she said she did not know, but dat dare coal seemed like it come from de sky.
But there was an ample feast yet for the boys at the Sunday-school, for many biscuits, and cakes, and pies had been baked. But every time Willie looked at the walking stick he thought of “the poor, the maimed, the lame, and the blind.” And so he and Sammy Bantam soon set the whole school, teachers and all, a-fire with the idea of inviting in the inmates of the county poor-house. It was not half so hard to persuade the members of the school to do this as it was to coax them to the first move; for when people have found out how good it is to do good, they like to do good again.
Such a company it was! There was old crazy Newberry, who had a game-bag slung about his neck, and who imagined that the little pebbles in it were of priceless value. Old Dorothy, who was nearly eighty, and who, thanks to the meanness of the authorities, had not tasted any delicacy, not so much as a cup of tea, since she had been in the alms-house; and there were half-idiots, and whole idiots, and sick people, and crippled people, armless people and legless people, blind people and deaf. Such an assortment of men, women, and little children, you cannot often find. They were fed with the good things provided for the Sunday-school children, much to the disgust of Tommy Puffer and his mother. For Tommy was bent on getting something to eat here.
There were plenty of people who claimed the credit of suggesting this way of spending the Christmas. But Willie did not say anything about it, for he remembered what Christ had said about blowing a trumpet before you. But I think Sammy Bantam trumpeted Willie’s fame enough.
It would be hard to tell who enjoyed the Christmas the most. But I think the givers found it more blessed than the receivers. What talk Mr. Blake heard in his rounds I cannot tell. If you want to know, you must ask the Old Ebony.