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Title: Three People

Author: Pansy

Release Date: March 13, 2007 [EBook #20808]

Language: English

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THREE PEOPLE

BY
PANSY

          AUTHOR OF "LOST ON THE TRAIL," "TIP LEWIS AND
          HIS LAMP," "ESTER RIED," "FOUR GIRLS AT CHAUTAUQUA,"
          "CHAUTAUQUA GIRLS AT HOME," ETC.

[Illustration]

          BOSTON
          LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.




[Illustration] PANSY [Illustration]

TRADE-MARK

Registered in U. S. Patent Office.

          Entered according to the Act of Congress, by
          WESTERN TRACT AND BOOK SOCIETY,
          In the Office of the Congressional Librarian, District of
          Columbia, 1871.

COPYRIGHT, 1899, BY ISABELLA M. ALDEN.

       *       *       *       *       *

THREE PEOPLE.

[Illustration: "ARE YOU A TOTAL ABSTAINER?"--_Page 60._]




CONTENTS.


          CHAPTER

               I. SOME BABIES                              5
              II. JOHN BIRGE'S OPPORTUNITY                15
             III. WOLFIE                                  26
              IV. BRAIN WORK                              37
               V. TODE'S AMBITION                         49
              VI. NEW IDEAS                               57
             VII. TWO T'S                                 67
            VIII. WHICH SHALL PROSPER, THIS OR THAT?      77
              IX. TAKE IT AWAY                            89
               X. HABAKKUK                               100
              XI. BUSINESS AND BOTTLES                   113
             XII. THE STEPPING STONE                     128
            XIII. TODE'S REAL ESTATE                     145
             XIV. SIGNS AND WONDERS                      162
              XV. EXIT TODE MALL                         178
             XVI. PLEDGES AND PARTNERSHIPS               195
            XVII. TRANSLATIONS                           211
           XVIII. WINE IS A MOCKER                       223
             XIX. THE THREE PEOPLE MEET AGAIN            242
              XX. MRS. JENKINS' TOMMY                    255
             XXI. MIDNIGHT WORK                          270
            XXII. POOR PLINY                             289
           XXIII. JUDGMENTS                              305
            XXIV. A DOUBLE CRISIS                        322
             XXV. STEPS UPWARD                           336
            XXVI. THEODORE'S INSPIRATION                 349
           XXVII. DAWN AND DARKNESS                      364
          XXVIII. DEATH AND LIFE                         383
            XXIX. SOME MORE BABIES                       398




THREE PEOPLE




CHAPTER I.

SOME BABIES.


"Tie the sash a very little looser, nurse, and give the loops a more
graceful fall; there--_so_. Now he's a beauty! every inch of him." And
Mrs. Hastings moved backward a few steps in order to get the full
effect.

A beauty he was, certainly; others beside his mother would have admitted
that. What baby fresh from a bath, and robed in the daintiest and most
perfect of baby toilets, with tightly curling rings of brown hair
covering the handsome head; with great sparkling, dancing blue eyes, and
laughing rosebud mouth; with hands and feet and body strung on invisible
wires, and quivering with life and glee, was ever other than a beauty?

The whole house was in commotion in honor of the fact that Master Pliny
L. Hastings, only son and heir of the great Pliny Hastings, Senior, of
Hastings' Hall, had "laughed and cried, and nodded and winked," through
the entire space of three hundred and sixty-five days and nights, and
actually reached the first anniversary of his birthday.

A remarkable boy was Pliny Hastings. He didn't know yet that his father
was a millionaire, but he must have surmised it, for, as far back as he
could remember, his bits of sleeves had been looped with real pearls;
rosewood and lace and silk and down had united to make his tiny bed; he
had bitten his first tooth through on a sphere of solid gold--and all
the wonderful and improbable contrivances for royal babyhood that could
be bought or imagined, met together in that grand house on the Avenue
for this treasured bit of humanity.

On this particular day baby was out in all his glory; he had made the
circuit of the great parlors, stopping on his way to be tossed toward
the ceiling, in the arms of first one uncle and then another. He had
been kissed and cuddled by all the aunties and cousins, until his cheeks
were rosy with triumph; and, finally, he had been carried, shouting
with glee, high up on his father's shoulder, down to the dining-room,
and occupied the seat of honor at the long table, where he crowed, and
laughed, and clapped his hands over every plum that found its way into
his dainty mouth. This conduct was interspersed, however, by sundry
dives and screams after the coffee urn and the ice pitcher, and various
unattainable things--for there were unattainable things, even for Pliny
Hastings. Oh, the times and times in his young life that he had cried
for the beautiful round moon, and got it not! And even gaslight and
firelight had hitherto eluded his eager grasp; but he had learned no
lessons from his failures, and still pitched and dived after
impossibilities in the most insane fashion. To-day he looked with
indifference on the gold-lined silver cup bearing his name and age, and
wanted the great carving fork instead. He cared not a whit that the
sparkling wine was poured, and glasses were touched, and toasts drank on
his account; but a touch of wisdom must have come over his baby brain,
for he made a sudden dash at his father's glass, sending the red wine
right and left, and shivering the frail glass to fragments; he did more
than that, he promptly seized on one of the sharpest bits, and thereby
cut a long crooked gash in the sweet chubby finger, and was finally
borne, shrieking and struggling, from the room, his little heart filled
with mingled feelings of terror and rage. So much for Baby Hastings and
his birthday.

       *       *       *       *       *

In a neat white house, no more than a mile away from this great mansion,
there was another baby. It was just when Pliny Hastings was hurried away
to the nursery that this baby's mother folded away papers, and otherwise
tidied up her bit of a nursery, then pushed a little sewing chair in
front of her work table, and paused ere she sat down to give another
careful tuck to the blanketed bundle, which was cuddled in the great
rocking chair, fast asleep. Then she gathered the doubled up fist into
her hand, and caressed it softly, while she murmured: "Bless his
precious little heart! he takes a splendid nap for his birthday, so he
does."

"Ben," this to the gentleman who was lounging in another rocker, reading
the paper, "does it seem possible that Bennie is a year old to-day? I
declare, Ben, we ought to have got him a present for his birthday."

The father looked up from his paper with a good-natured laugh. "Seems to
me he's rather youthful to begin on that tack, isn't he?"

"Oh, Ben, no! I want every one of his birthdays to be so nice and
pleasant. Do, papa, come here and see how nice he looks, with his hair
all in a curl."

Thus appealed to, Mr. Phillips came over to the arm-chair, and together
they stood looking down on the treasured bit of flesh and blood.

"Our eldest born," the mother said, softly.

"And youngest, too, for the matter of that," answered Mr. Phillips,
gaily.

His wife laughed. "Ben, there isn't the least bit of sentiment in you,
is there? Now they are having a wonderful time to-day in the grand
corner house on the Avenue, the Hastings' house, you know, and it's all
because their baby is a year old to-day, and he isn't a bit nicer than
ours."

"Their baby's father is worth a million."

"I don't care if he is worth a billion, that don't make their baby any
sweeter. Say, Ben, I just wish, for the fun of it, we had some little
cunning thing for his birthday present."

Mr. Phillips seemed to be very much amused. "Well," he said, still
laughing, "Which shall it be, a razor or a jack-knife?"

His wife actually shuddered. "Ben!" she said, with a reproachful face,
"how _can_ you say such dreadful things? What if he should grow up and
commit suicide?"

"What if I had a boy, and he should grow to be a man, and another man
should tread on his toes, and he should knock the other man down, and
the other man should die, and they should hang my boy," rattled off Mr.
Phillips in anything but a grave tone.

"Little woman, that's what I should call looking into the future, isn't
it?"

A knock at the door interrupted them, and Roxie, the tidy little maid of
all work, who had been out for an afternoon, appeared to them, talking
rapidly.

"If you please, ma'am, I'm a quarter late, and could you please to
excuse me; the clock around the corner doesn't go, and Kate she didn't
know the time; and Mrs. Meeker said would you please accept her love and
these grapes in a basket. She says they're the finest of the lot, and
you needn't mind sending of it home, 'cause she'll let little Susie step
around after it."

This mixture set Mr. Phillips off into another of his hearty laughs; but
when they were alone again, he seized one of the great purple clusters,
and flinging himself on the floor in front of the baby, exclaimed:

"I'll tell you what we'll do, little wife: we'll present one of these to
the boy, and then you and I will eat it in honor of his birthday,
unless, indeed, there may be some bad omen in this, even. You know the
juice of the grape may, under certain circumstances, become a dangerous
article?"

Mrs. Phillips laughed carelessly as she nestled in the little sewing
chair, and prepared to enjoy the grapes. "No," she said, gaily; "grapes
are very harmless omens to me. I'm not the least afraid that Baby Benny
will ever be a drunkard."

       *       *       *       *       *

There used to be in Albany, not many years ago, a miniature "Five
Points," and one didn't have to go very far up what is now Rensselaer
Street to find it, either. There were tenement houses, which from attic
to basement swarmed with filthy, ragged, repulsive human life.

In one of the lowest and meanest of these many cellars, on the very day,
and at the identical hour, in which Master Pliny Hastings held high
carnival at his father's table, and Baby Benny Phillips nestled and
dreamed among the soft pillows of his mother's easy chair, a little
brother of theirs, clad in dirt and rags, crawled over the reeking
floor, and occupied himself in devouring eagerly every bit of potato
skin or apple paring that came in his way. Was there ever a more forlorn
looking specimen of a baby! It was its birthday, too--there are more
babies in the world than we think for whose birthdays might be
celebrated on the same day. But this one knew nothing about it--dear me!
neither did his mother. I doubt if it had once occurred to her that this
poor bit of scrawny, dirty, terrible baby had been through one whole
year of life. And yet, perhaps, she loved her boy a little--her face
looked sullen rather than wicked. On the whole, I think she did, for as
she was about to ascend the stairs, with the sullen look deepening or
changing into a sort of gloomy apprehension, she hesitated, glanced
behind her, and finally, with a muttered "Plague take the young one,"
turned back, and, catching him by the arm of his tattered dress, landed
him on the topmost step, in a mud-puddle! but she did it because she
remembered that he would be very likely to climb into the tub of
soapsuds that stood at the foot of the bed, and so get drowned.

Mrs. Ryan came up her cellar stairs at the same time, and looked over at
her neighbor, then from her to her forlorn child, who, however, enjoyed
the mud-puddle, and finally commenced a conversation.

"How old is that young one of yours?"

"Pretty near a year--why, let me see--what day is it?--why, I'll be
bound if he ain't _just_ a year old this very day."

"Birthday, eh? You ought to celebrate."

"Humph," said the mother, with a darkening face, "we shall likely; we do
most generally. His loving father will get drunk, and if he don't pitch
Tode head over heels out here on the stones, in honor of his birthday,
I'll be thankful. Tode Mall, you stop crawling out to that gutter, or
I'll shake you within an inch of your life!"

This last, in a louder and most threatening tone, to the ambitious baby.
But poor Tode didn't understand, or forgot, or something, for while his
mother talked with her companion, out he traveled toward the inviting
gutter again, and tumbled into it, from whence he was carried, dripping
and screaming, by his angry mother, who bestowed the promised shake, and
added a vigorous slapping, whereat Tode kicked and yelled in a manner
that proved him to be without doubt a near relative of Master Pliny
Hastings himself. Three brothers they were, Messrs. Pliny, Bennie and
Tode, opening their wondrous eyes on the world on precisely the same day
of time, though under such different circumstances, and amid such
different surroundings, that I doubt if it looked equally round to them
all. Besides, they hadn't the least idea each of the existence of the
other; but no matter for that, they were brothers, linked together in
many a way.

Perhaps you wouldn't have had an idea that their fathers were each
occupied in the same business; but such was the case. Pliny L. Hastings,
the millionaire, owned and kept in motion two of the hotels in a western
city where the bar-rooms were supplied with marble counters, and the
customers were served from cut-glass goblets, resting on silver salvers.
Besides he was a wholesale liquor dealer, and kept great warehouses
constantly supplied with the precious stuff. Bennie Phillips'
good-natured father was a grocer, on a modest and unpretending scale;
but he had a back room in his store where he kept a few barrels of
liquor for medicinal purposes, and a clerk in attendance. Tode Mall's
father kept an unmitigated grog-shop, or rum hole, or whatever name you
are pleased to call it, without any cut glass or medicinal purposes
about it, and sold vile whisky at so much a drink to whoever had sunk
low enough to buy it. So now you know all about how these three baby
brothers commenced their lives.




CHAPTER II.

JOHN BIRGE'S OPPORTUNITY.


One day it rained--oh, terribly. Albany is not a pleasant city when it
rains, and Rensselaer Street is not a pleasant street. That was what
John Birge thought as he held his umbrella low to avoid the slanting
drops, and hurried himself down the muddy road, hurried until he came to
a cellar stairs, and then he stopped short in the midst of rain and
wind, such a pitiable sight met his eye, the figure of a human being,
fallen down on that lowest stair in all the abandonment of drunkenness.

"This is awful!" muttered John Birge to himself. "I wonder if the poor
wretch lives here, and if I can't get him in."

Wondering which, he hurried down the stairs, made his way carefully past
the "poor wretch" and knocked at the door. No answer. He knocked louder,
and this time a low "come in" rewarded him, and he promptly obeyed it.
A woman was bending over a pile of straw and rags, and an object lying
on top of them; and a squalid child, curled in one corner, with a wild,
frightened look in his eyes. The woman turned as the door opened, and
John Birge recognized her as his mother's washerwoman.

"Oh, Mr. Birge," she said, eagerly, "I'm too thankful for anything at
seeing you. This woman is going so fast, she is; and what to do I don't
know."

Mr. Birge set down his umbrella and shook himself free of what drops he
could before he approached the straw and rags; then he saw that a woman
lay on them, and on her face the purple shadows of death were gathering.

"What is it?" he asked, awe-struck. "What is the matter?"

"Clear case of murder, I call it. Her man is a drunkard, and a fiend,
too, leastways when he's drunk he is--and he's pitched her down them
there stairs once too often, I reckon. I was goin' to my work early this
morning, and I heard her groaning, so I come in, and I just staid on
ever since. Feelings is feelings, if a body does have to lose a day's
work to pay for 'em. She lies like that for a spell, and then she rouses
up and has an awful turn."

"Turn of what? Is she in pain?"

"No, I reckon not; it's her mind. She knows she's going, and it makes
her wild, like. Maybe you can talk to her some, and do her good--there,
she sees you!"

A pair of stony, rather than wild, eyes were suddenly fixed on Mr.
Birge's face. He bent over her and spoke gently.

"My poor woman, what can I do for you?"

"Nothing at all," she said, stolidly. "My heart's broke, and that's the
end of it. It don't make no difference what comes next, I'm done with
it."

"But, my poor friend, are you ready for what is coming to you?"

"You mean I'm dying, I s'pose. Yes, I know that, and it makes no kind of
difference. I've had enough of living, the land knows. Things can't be
worse with me than they are here."

And now John spoke eagerly.

"But don't you know that they can be better, that there is a home and
rest and peace waiting for you, and that the Lord Jesus Christ wants
you?"

"I don't know anything about them things. I might, I s'pose, if I'd been
a mind to. It's too late now, and I don't care about that, either.
Things _can't_ be worse, I tell you."

"It's _not_ too late; don't ruin yourself with that folly. The Lord is
all powerful. He can do _anything_. He doesn't need _time_ as men do.
He can save you _now_ just as well as he could last year. All you have
to do is to ask him; he will in no wise cast out; he 'is able to save to
the _uttermost_.' Believe on him, and the work is all done."

It is impossible to tell the eager energy with which these words were
poured forth by the man who saw that the purple shadows were creeping
and the time was short; but the same stony look still settled on the
listener's face, and she repeated with the indifference of despair--

"It's no use--my time is gone--it don't matter. My heart's broke, I tell
you, and I don't care."

"He _will_ save you if you will let him; he wants to. I can't tell you
how much he has promised to hear the very faintest, latest call. Say
'Lord Jesus forgive me' with all your heart, and the work is done."

A sudden change swept over the sick stolid face, a gleam of interest in
the dreary eyes, and she spoke with eagerness.

"Do you say he can do everything?"

"_Everything._ 'Whatever ye ask in my name, _believing_, ye shall
receive.' These are his own words."

"Does he believe in rum?"

"No!" promptly replied the startled, but strongly temperate John Birge.

"Then I'll pray," was the quick response. "I never prayed in my life,
but I will now; like enough I can save him yet. You folks think he can
hear everything that's said, don't you?"

Strangely moved as well as startled, her visitor answered her only by a
bow. The shaking hands were clasped, and in a clear firm voice the sick
woman spoke:

"O Lord, don't let Tode ever drink a drop of rum!"

Then the little boy crouching in the corner, rose up and came quickly
over to his mother.

"Keep away, Tode," said the woman at the foot of the bed, speaking in an
awe-stricken voice. "Keep away, don't touch her; she ain't talking to
you."

Not so much as a glance did the mother bestow upon her boy, but repeated
over and over again the sentence, "O Lord, don't let Tode ever touch a
drop of rum."

"Is that the way?" she asked, suddenly turning her sharp bright eyes
full on Mr. Birge.

"Is that the way they pray? are them the right kind of words to use?"

"My poor friend," began he, but she interrupted him impatiently.

"Just tell me if that's the name you call him by when you pray?"

"Yes," he said. "Only won't you add to them, 'And forgive and save _me_
for Jesus' sake.'"

"Never mind me," she answered, promptly. "'Tain't of no consequence
about me, never has been; and I haven't no time to waste on myself. I
want to save him. 'O Lord, don't let Tode ever touch a drop of rum.'"

"He doesn't need time," pleaded her visitor. "He can hear both prayers
at once. He can save both you and Tode in a second of time; and he loves
you and is waiting."

This was her answer:

"O Lord, don't let Tode ever touch a drop of rum."

All that woman's soul was swallowed up in the one great longing. Unable
longer to endure the scene in silence, John Birge dropped on his knees
and said:

"Lord Jesus, hear this prayer for her boy, and save this poor woman who
will not pray for herself."

The words seemed to arrest her attention.

"What do _you_ care?" she added, at length.

"The Lord Jesus cares. He died to save you."

Then John Birge repeated his prayer, adding a few simple words.

The little silence that followed was broken by the repetition of the
poor woman's one solemn sentence:

"O Lord, don't let Tode ever touch a drop of rum."

"And save me," added John Birge.

"And save me"--her lips took up the sentence--"for Jesus' sake."

"For Jesus' sake."

The next time she added these words of her own accord; and again and
again was the solemn cry repeated, until there came a sudden changing of
the purple shadows into solemn ashy gray, and with one half-murmured
effort, "not a drop of rum" and "for Jesus' sake," the voice was forever
hushed.

The neighbor watcher was the first to break the stillness.

"Well, I never in all my life!" she ejaculated, speaking solemnly. "For
the land's sake! I wish every rum-seller in the world could a heard her.
Well, her troubles is over, Mr. Birge. Now, what's to be done next?"

"Is she anything to you, Mary, except an acquaintance?"

"I'm thankful to say she ain't. If she had been I'd expect to die of
shame for letting her die in this hole. She's a neighbor of mine, at
least I live around the corner; but I don't know much about her, only
that her man comes home drunk about every night, and tears around like a
wild beast."

Which last recalled to John's remembrance the reason of his being in
that room.

"Is that her husband lying out there?" he asked, nodding toward the
door.

"Yes, it is. Been there long enough to know something by this time, I
should think, too."

"It seems to me the first thing to be done is to get him in here; it
isn't decent to leave him in this storm."

"It's decenter than he deserves, in my opinion, enough sight," Mary
muttered.

Nevertheless they went toward the door, and with infinite pains and much
fearful swearing from the partially roused man, they succeeded in
pushing and pulling and dragging him inside the cellar on the floor,
when he immediately sank back into heavy sleep.

"Isn't he a picture of a man, now?" said the sturdy Mary, with a face
and gesture of intense disgust.

"I would rather be he than the man who sold him the rum," her companion
answered, solemnly. "Well, Mary, have you time to stay here awhile, or
must you go at once?"

"I'll _take_ time, sir. Feelings is feelings, if I be poor; and I can't
leave the boy and all, like this."

"Very well. You shall not suffer for your kind act. I'll go at once to
notify the Coroner and the proper authorities, and meantime my mother
will probably step around. Shall I have this fellow taken to the
station?"

"No," said Mary, with another disgusted look at the drunken man. "Let
the beast sleep it out; he's beyond hurting anybody, and _she_ wouldn't
want him sent to the station."

       *       *       *       *       *

"It was the most solemnly awful sight I ever saw," said John Birge,
telling it all over to his friend McElroy. "I never shall forget that
woman's prayer. It was the most tremendous temperance lecture I ever
heard."

"Is the woman buried?"

"Yes, this afternoon. They hurry such matters abominably, McElroy.
Mother saw, though, that things were decent, and did what she could. We
mean to keep an eye on the boy. He has great wild eyes, and a head that
suggests great possibilities of good or evil, as the case may be. We
would like to get him into one of the Children's Homes, and look after
him. I meant to go around there this very evening and see what I could
do. What do you say to going with me now?"

"Easy enough thing to accomplish, I should think. I presume his father
will be glad to get rid of him; but it's storming tremendously, is it
not?"

"Pretty hard. It does four-fifths of the time in Albany, you know.
Wouldn't you venture?"

"Why, it strikes me not, unless it were a case of life and death, or
something of that sort. I should like to assist in rescuing the waif,
but won't it do to-morrow?"

"I presume so. We'll go to-morrow after class, then. Well, take the
rocking chair and an apple, and make yourself comfortable. I say,
McElroy, when I get into my profession I'll preach temperance, shall not
you?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Rain and wind and storm were over by the next afternoon; the sun shone
out brilliantly, trying to glorify even the upper end of Rensselaer
Street through which the two young men were sauntering, in search of the
waif on whom John Birge meant to keep an eye.

"I'm strangely interested in the boy," Birge was saying. "That prayer
was something so strange, so fearfully solemn, and the circumstances
connected with my stumbling upon them at all were so sad. I was sorry
after I left that I had not tried to impress upon the little fellow's
mind the solemn meaning of his mother's last words. I half went back to
have a little talk with him, but then I thought there would be
sufficient opportunity for that in the future. Here, this is the cellar.
Be careful how you tread, these steps are abominable. Hallo! Why, what
on earth!"

They descended the stairs; they knocked at the door, but they received
no answer; they tried the door, it was locked; they looked in at the
rickety window, the miserable stove, the rags, even the straw, were
gone--no trace of human residence was to be seen.

It does not take long to move away from Rensselaer Street. Tode and his
father were gone; and neither then nor afterward for many a day, though
John Birge and his companion made earnest search, were they to be found.
The "sufficient opportunity" was gone, too, and young Birge kept no eye
on the boy; but there was an All-seeing eye looking down on poor Tode
all the while.




CHAPTER III.

WOLFIE.


Mr. Hastings started on a journey. It was midwinter, so he muffled
himself in overcoat and furs, and carried his great fur-lined traveling
cloak, all nicely rolled and strapped, ready for extra occasions.

He was not in the very best humor when the night express reached Albany,
and he had finally changed his quarters from the Central to the Hudson
River Railroad. His arrangements had not been made for spending the
night on the train at all; his plan was to be fairly settled under the
blankets in a New York hotel by this time, but there had been detention
after detention all along his route. So the great man settled himself
with what grace he could, and unstrapped the fur-lined cloak, and made
other preparations for passing a night in the cars, his face, meanwhile,
wearing an ominous frown.

It was not so much the sitting-up all night that troubled him, for Mr.
Hastings was in excellent health, and an excellent traveler, and really
did not so much mind the fatigue; but he was a man accustomed to
carrying out his plans and intentions to the very letter, and it jarred
upon him to have even snow and ice audacious enough to interfere.

There were other travelers that night who had no fur-lined cloaks. One
in particular, who sat near the stove, and made such good use of the
dampers that Mr. Hastings had no use for his cloak, even after
unstrapping it, but flung it into a great furry heap on the nearest seat
behind him, and knew not then, nor ever, that the insignificant little
act was one of the tiny links in the chain of circumstances that were
molding Tode Mall's life.

Tode Mall started on a journey that very evening. He didn't pack his
valise, nor take his overcoat, nor ride to the depot in a carriage. In
fact, his father kicked him out of the cellar like a foot-ball, and bade
him good-by in these words:

"There! get out. And don't let me ever see a sight of your face again."

Tode rolled over once in the snow, then got up and shook himself, and
made prompt answer:

"All right! I'm agreed."

He then stuffed his hands into the ragged pockets of his ragged jacket,
and marched off up town, and because he happened to roll over and come
up with his face turned in the direction of the depot, is the only known
reason why he walked _up_ town instead of _down_.

Apparently he didn't take his father's late treatment very much to
heart.

"He's drunk," he said, philosophically. "That's what's the matter with
him. In about two hours he'll be over this part of the carouse and be
snoring, then I'll slip back all right, if I don't freeze beforehand.
Ain't it cold, though. I must travel faster than this."

On he went aimlessly, reached the depot presently, and followed the
crowd who crossed the river, for no better reason than that a great many
people seemed to be going that way. Following a portion of this same
crowd brought him at last to a platform of the departing train, just as
the steam-horse was giving a premonitory snort, and the official called
out for the second time:

"All aboard!"

"No, we ain't exactly," said Tode. "But it wouldn't take long to get
aboard if that is what you want, particularly if you've got a fire in
there."

And he peered curiously in at the drowsy passengers. It was just at this
point that Mr. Hastings threw his furry cloak away from him, and
settled among his other wraps for a night's rest. The action caught
Tode's eye.

"My! ain't that fellow comfortable?" chuckled he to himself. "Got a wolf
there that he don't appear to need. If he'd lend it to me I wouldn't
mind keeping him company for a spell. S'pose I try it?"

And suiting the action to the word he pushed open the door, and walked
boldly forward among the sleepy people, halted at the stove, and while
the delicious sense of warmth crept slowly over him he kept one eye on
Mr. Hastings until he felt sure, just as the train got fairly into
motion, that the gentleman had fairly commenced his nap, then he slid
himself into the empty seat, and used his hands and his wits in so
disposing of the "wolf" that it would cover his cuddled up body
completely, and at the same time look like nothing but an innocent cloak
thrown carelessly on the seat; and he chuckled as distinctly as he dared
when he heard the conductor's voice calling "tickets" to the sleepy
people, and presently the door opened, and shut with a slam, and the
silence that followed showed that he considered his business with that
car finished.

"He didn't ask Wolfie for his ticket," giggled Tode. "I reckon he don't
know he's alive, no more don't the man that thinks he owns him. I say
now, what if he gets a cold streak, and wants to borrow Wolfie for
himself after a spell? Poh!" he added after a minute, "it's easy enough
to get out the way I came in; but it will be time enough to do it when I
_have_ to. I ain't going to keep doing it all night. I vote for _one_
good warm nap, I do--so here goes."

And Tode went straightway to the land of dreams. The night wore on, the
restless traveler near the stove dozed and wakened and attended to the
dampers, thereby all unknowingly contributing his mite to Tode's warm
journey. The train halted now and again at a station, and a few sleepy
people stumbled off, and a few wide-awake ones came on, but still seats
were comparatively plenty and no one disturbed the fur cloak. In the
course of time Tode's sleep grew less sound; he twisted around as much
as his limits would allow, and punched an imaginary bed-fellow with his
elbow, muttering meanwhile:

"Keep still now. Which of you is joggling?"

The joggling continued, and at last the boy twisted and punched himself
awake and into a sitting posture, and finally the look of unmixed
astonishment with which he took in his surroundings, gave way to one of
unmistakable fun.

"Here's a go!" he at last informed himself. "I've come a journey and no
mistake; made a night of it sure as I live. Lucky I waked up first of
this crowd. If somebody had sat down on Wolfie now by mistake, there
might have been trouble. Guess I'll look about me."

He shook himself free from the cloak and sauntered out on the platform.
The gray dawn was just glimmering over the frozen earth, the world
looked snowy and icy and desolate. On swept the train, and not a
familiar object met his eye. Did Tode feel dreary and homesick, lost in
the whizzing strangeness, sorry he had come? Did he want to shrink away
from sight and sound? Did he feel that he would give anything in the
world to be landed at that moment somewhere near Broadway in Albany? Not
a bit of it! Nothing of the sort entered his brain. _He_ feel homesick!
Why his home was anywhere and nowhere. Since that day, years ago, when
his mother died, he had had less of a home than even before. Sometimes
he slept on the cellar floor with his father, but oftener in the street,
in a stable, or curled in a barrel when he had the good fortune to find
one--_anywhere_; but never in all his life had he spent such a
comfortable night as this last had been. But his father? Oh dear, you
don't know what fathers can become to their children, if you think he
missed him. Please remember his last act had been to kick his son out of
a cellar into the snow; but Tode bore him no ill-will for this or any
other attention. Oh no, nor good-will either. Why, his father was
simply less than nothing to him. So this morning, without an idea as to
what he was going to do next, he stood and watched himself being whirled
into New York, with no feeling save one of extreme satisfaction at the
success of his last night's plan, and alert only to keep out of the
reach of the conductor. The car door slammed behind him, and he turned
quickly, as two gentlemen came out. One of them eyed him closely, and
finally addressed him.

"Who are you with, my lad?"

Tode chuckled inwardly at this question, but added promptly enough,

"A man in there," nodding his head toward the car which contained Mr.
Hastings.

"Humph! the man must be crazy to let his servant travel in such a suit
as that in this bitter weather."

This remark was addressed to his companion as the two passed into the
next car. Tode chuckled outright this time; he had a new idea.

"That's the talk," he informed himself. "I'm his servant; just it
prezackly--much obliged. I hadn't thought of that arrangement before,
but I like the plan first rate. Maybe Wolfie and I will get another
night or so together by the means."

So now he had two items of business on hand, dodging the conductor and
keeping an eye on his traveling companion. The first he managed to
accomplish by dint of always passing out at one end of the car just as
that official was entering at the other, aided in his scheme by the fact
that it was not yet light, and also that they were fairly in the city.
But the last was an extremely difficult matter. A dozen times, as he
breathlessly pushed and elbowed his way through the hurrying crowd, did
he think that he had hopelessly lost sight of his guide, and as often
did he catch another glimpse of him and push on. At last a car, not too
full for Mr. Hastings to crowd himself into, rewarded his signal, and
Tode plunged after him as far as the platform. There he halted. There
were many passengers and much fare to collect, so our young scamp had
enjoyed quite a ride before his turn came.

"Fare," said the conductor at last, briefly and sharply, right at his
elbow.

"Yes, sir," answered Tode as promptly. "Only it's pretty cold and
windy."

"Pay your fare," shouted the conductor.

"Oh bless me--yes, to be sure."

And Tode fumbled in both pockets, drawing out bits of strings and balls
of paper and ends of candles, everything but pennies; then looked up
with an innocent face.

"Why, as true as you live, I haven't got a cent."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"Why riding, to be sure. It's enough sight nicer than walking this windy
day. Your driver stopped for everybody that held up his hand. I saw him,
so when I was invited kind of, how did I know I'd have to pay?"

The demure, innocent, childlike air with which Tode rattled off this
story can not be described. The conductor laughed.

"You're either _very_ green or VERY old," he said at last. "And I'm not
sure which. Where do you want to go?"

"Oh I ain't a bit particular. You needn't go out of your way on my
account. I'll ride right along with you, and look at the sights."

Which accommodating spirit seemed greatly to amuse the other platform
riders; and as the car stopped at that moment for passengers, the
conductor turned away with a laugh, and left Tode to enjoy his ride in
peace.

On they went, and in spite of driving snow and sleet, Tode managed to
make the acquaintance of the driver, and get considerable amusement out
of his trip, when he suddenly broke off in the midst of a sentence, and
cleared the steps with a bound. Mr. Hastings had left the car and
crossed the street. Then commenced another chase, around the corner,
down one block, up another, on and on, until Tode, panting and
breathless, brought up at last before a grand hotel, inside which Mr.
Hastings vanished. Tode pushed boldly forward, shied behind a fat
gentleman who ran against them in the hall, and remained hidden long
enough to overhear the following conversation:

"Why, Mr. Hastings! How do you do? When did you arrive?"

"By the morning train, sir. All full here?"

"Well, comfortably so. Make room for you without a doubt. Stop here?"

"Yes, sir. Always do."

"Remain long?"

"No, return on Friday. Waiter, this way, sir."

Tode drew a long breath of relief, and dodged out.

"Well," said he, with a satisfied air, "I'm thankful to say I've got
that man landed at last where he'll be likely to stay for some time.
He's Mr. Hastings, is he? It's convenient to know who one belongs to.
Now I must trudge off and do a little business on my own account, seeing
we 'return on Friday.' First let's take a look at the name of this place
where I've decided to leave him, and this street is--yes, I see. _Now_
I'm all right--trust me for finding my way here again. Don't you be one
mite worried, Brother Hastings, I'll be around in time."

And Tode disappeared around a corner, whistling merrily.

[Illustration]




CHAPTER IV.

BRAIN-WORK.


What Tode _didn't_ do during those three days' tarry in New York could
be told almost better than what he did. No country novice visiting the
great city for the first time could have begun to crowd in the sights
and scenes that revealed themselves to Tode's eager, wide-open eyes, in
the same space of time.

The boy had the advantage of most such, in that he had not much to eat,
and nowhere to eat it; also that he was in the habit of sleeping nowhere
in particular, consequently these matters took up very little of his
time. However he fared well, better than usual. He carried a package for
an over-loaded man for a short distance, thereby earning ten cents,
which he immediately expended in peanuts, and became peanut merchant for
the time being. So by dint of changing his business ten or a dozen
times, and being always on the alert, and understanding pretty
thoroughly the art of economy, he managed his lodging and three meals a
day, and was richer by twenty-five cents on the morning when he prepared
to take his departure than he was when he arrived in the city, a fact of
which few people who have been spending several days in New York can
boast.

Tode's fancy for attaching himself to Mr. Hastings still continued in
full force, and brought him bright and early on Friday morning around to
the hotel, where he had last seen him. Not one minute too early,
however, and but for Mr. Hastings' own tardiness too late. He had just
missed a car, and no other was in sight. Tode took in the situation at a
glance, and hopped across the street.

"Carry your baggage, sir?"

Mr. Hastings had a valise, a package, a cane, an umbrella, and the great
fur-lined cloak. He appreciated Tode's assistance.

"Yes," he said. "Take this, and this."

Away they went down town to head off another car, which was presently
signaled.

"Jump in, boy, and be ready to help me at the other end, if you're a
mind to," said Mr. Hastings, graciously, noticing the wistful look on
the boy's face, and thinking he wanted a ride.

Tode obeyed in great glee; he considered this a streak of luck. He sat
beside Mr. Hastings and watched with great satisfaction while that
gentleman counted out double fare. For the first time, Tode thought they
had assumed proper positions toward each other. Of course Mr. Hastings
ought to pay his fare since he belonged to him.

Arrived at the depot, and Mr. Hastings' baggage properly disposed of,
himself paid, and supposed to be dismissed, Tode was in a quandary. Here
was the train, and on it he meant to travel; but how to manage it was
another question. It was broad daylight; sleep and Wolfie couldn't serve
him now. He stuffed his hands into his pocket, and studied ways and
means; eyes bent on the ground, and the ground helped him, rather a bit
of pasteboard did. He picked it up, and read, first in bewilderment then
in delight: "New York to Castleton." A ticket! all properly stamped, and
paid for, undoubtedly. Did Tode hesitate, have great qualms of
conscience, consider what he ought to do, how to set about to find the
owner? He never once thought of any thing. Poor Tode hardly knew so much
as that there were such articles as consciences, much less that he had
anything to do with them. Somebody had lost his ticket, and _he_ had
found it, and it was precisely what he wanted. Once at Castleton, it
would be an easy matter to get to Albany. He thrust the precious card
into his pocket, swung himself on the train, and selected his seat at
leisure. Tode had never been to Sabbath-school, had never in his life
knelt at the family altar and been prayed for. There are boys, I fear
me, who having been shielded by both these things, placed in like
position would have followed his example.

The seat he selected was as far as possible removed from the one which
Mr. Hastings occupied. It was no part of Tode's plan to be discovered by
that gentleman just at present. On the whole, this part of his journey
was voted "tame." He had to sit up in his seat, and show his ticket like
any one else; and it required no skill at all to forget to jump off at
Castleton, and so of necessity be carried on. He sauntered over in Mr.
Hastings' vicinity once, and heard an important conversation.

"Can you tell me, sir," inquired that gentleman of his next neighbor,
"whether by taking the midnight train at Albany I shall reach Buffalo in
time to connect with a train on the Lake Shore Road?"

"You will, sir; but it is a slow train. By keeping right on now you can
connect with the Lake Shore Express."

"I know; but I have business that will detain me in Albany."

"So have I," muttered Tode, well pleased with the arrangement, and went
back to his seat.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Halloo, Tode! where you been?" called out a sixteen-year old comrade
from a cellar grocery window, as Tode turned out of Broadway that same
evening.

"Been traveling for my health. Say, Jerry, seen anything of father
lately?"

"He's gone off on a frolic. Went night before last--bag and baggage."

"Where did he go?"

Jerry shook his head.

"More than I know. Doubt if he knew himself about the time he started;
but he'll bring up all right after a spell, likely."

Landed in Albany, the only home he knew, Tode had his first touch of
loneliness and depression. The cellar was closed, his father gone, no
one knew where nor for how long an absence, nor even if he meant to
return at all. Tode was cold and dreary. Up to this time he had followed
out his whim of belonging to the owner of the fur cloak, merely _as_ a
whim, with no definite purpose at all; but now, queerly enough, parted
with the man with whom he had journeyed, and over whom he kept so close
a watch during these four days, he had a feeling of loneliness as if he
had lost something--he begun to wish he did belong to him in very truth.
Suppose he did, worked for him say, and earned a warm place to sleep in
of nights--this was the hight of his present ambition. The warm place to
sleep suggested to him the good night's rest under the cloak, and also
the fact that there was another bitter night shutting down rapidly over
the earth, and that he had no spot for shelter.

"I'll push on," he said at last, in a decisive tone. "I'd as lief go to
Buffalo as anywhere else--the thing is to get there; but then I can get
_on_ the cars, and get _off_ at Buffalo if I can, and before if I _have_
to."

This matter settled, his spirits began to rise at once; and by the time
Mr. Hastings and he crowded their way through the midnight train, the
cars contained no such gleeful spirit as Tode Mall's.

More skill was needed than on the preceding journey, for the fur-lined
cloak was thrown over the back of the seat fronting him this time, and
Mr. Hastings sat erect and wide awake, and looked extremely cross.

"I have the most extraordinary luck," he was telling a man, as Tode
entered. "Nothing but delay and confusion since I left home. Never had
such an experience before."

But the car was warm and the air was heavy, and Mr. Hastings' erect head
began to nod in a suspicious manner. Tode watched and waited, and was
finally rewarded. The gentleman made deliberate preparations for a nap,
and was soon taking it.

Now for the young scamp's trial of skill! He slipped into the vacant
seat--he curled himself into a ball--he pulled and twitched softly and
dextrously at the fur cloak, to make it come down and lie over him in
such a manner that it would look like pure accident; and at last he was
settled for the night. He felt the soft, delicious, furry warmth once
more, and he hugged his friend and fairly shook with delight and
triumph.

"Oh, ho! Ha! Hum!" he chuckled. "How _are_ you, Wolfie? How've you been?
You and me is friends, we is. We're travelers, we are. Now, we'll have a
tall sleep. Ain't this just the jolliest thing, though?"

Then Tode went to sleep. By and by he felt a jerking. He roused up, the
car lamps were burning dim. Mr. Hastings was pulling at his cloak and
eyed _him_ severely, but Tode innocently and earnestly helped him to
right it, and treated its tumble over on to _him_ as a very natural
accident. The train was at a stand-still. Tode thought best to find out
his whereabouts. He went out to the platform.

"What station is this?" he inquired of a boy who, like himself, was
peering into the darkness.

"Oh, this is a way-station. We'll be in Syracuse in about half an hour.
We've got to change cars there."

"We don't if we're going to Buffalo," answered Tode, in a business-like
tone. He knew nothing whatever about the matter.

"Yes we do, too. Got to wait an hour. I just asked the conductor."

Tode walked in and took his seat; he saw his way clear. Presently came
the conductor, and halted before him. Tode's hand sought his pocket.

"How much to Syracuse?" he questioned; and being naturally told the rate
of fare from their last stopping place to Syracuse, he counted it out
and sat back at his leisure.

At Syracuse Mr. Hastings went into the hotel to get his breakfast. Tode
walked the piazza and whistled for his; besides he had something to do.
He didn't see his way clear, but the more difficult the way grew the
more delightful it looked to Tode, and the more determined was he to
tread it. The hour sped on. Mr. Hastings' breakfast was concluded. He
was in the depot now talking with an acquaintance. Tode was just behind
him thinking still.

"All aboard!" shouted the official. "Passengers for Buffalo this way!"

And Mr. Hastings caught up valise, bundle, umbrella, cane, and
vanished--all those, but the fur-lined cloak lay innocently cuddled in a
warm heap on the seat. Tode seized upon it in an instant and hugged it
close.

"Oh, Wolfie, Wolfie!" he chuckled, "You're the best friend I got in the
world. You went and got left on my account, didn't you?"

It was but the work of a moment to hustle himself and his prize into the
train--_not_ into the car that Mr. Hastings had taken--and once more
they were off.

When they were fairly under way he presented himself before the
astonished eyes of Mr. Hastings with this brief sentence:

"Here he is, sir, safe and sound."

"Here who is?"

"Wolfie, sir. You left him lying on a seat in Syracuse, and I got him
and jumped on."

"Why, is it possible I left my cloak? Why, bless me! I never did such a
careless thing before in my life; and so you jumped on, and have got
carried off by the means. Well, sir, you're an honest boy; and now what
shall I give you to make it all right?"

"I want to get to Buffalo like sixty," answered Tode, meekly. "And I
haven't a cent to my name."

"You do, eh? And you would like to have me pay your fare? Well, that's
not an unreasonable demand, seeing this is a very valuable cloak."

And Mr. Hastings counted out the fare to Buffalo and a few pennies over;
and Tode thankfully received it, and went out and sat down in a corner
and whistled.

Imagine Mr. Hastings' astonishment when, soon after he had made his last
change of cars and was speeding homeward on the Lake Shore Road, Tode
appeared to him.

"Well!" was his exclamation, "what are you doing here? This isn't
Buffalo."

"No, sir; but a fellow sometimes has to get to Buffalo before he can get
to Cleveland, you know."

"Oh, you're bound for Cleveland, are you? And who pays your way this
time?"

"Well, sir," said Tode, gravely, "I'm traveling with you."

"What?"

"I _am_. I've been from Albany to New York with you, and I left you at
the hotel, and I came after you on Friday, and carried your valise and
things to the cars, and came up to Albany with you, and waited for you
until the midnight train, and came on to Syracuse with you, and waited
while you got your breakfast--and here I am."

Unbounded amazement kept Mr. Hastings silent. Presently he asked,
incredulously:

"Who paid your fare all this time?"

"Wolfie, principally."

"Who?"

"Wolfie," pointing to the cloak. "I hid under him, and cuddled up, and
he made it all right with the conductor."

Mr. Hastings' face was a study--astonishment, indignation and fun each
struggling for the mastery. At last his face broadened, and his eyes
twinkled, and he leaned back in his seat and indulged in a long, loud,
hearty laugh. Tode's eyes twinkled, but he waited decorously for the
laugh to subside.

"This is the most ridiculous thing I ever heard of in my life," began
the gentleman when he could speak.

"So you're traveling with _me_, are you? And what do you propose to do
when you get to Cleveland?"

"Mean to work for you, sir."

"Upon my word! How do you know I shall need your help?"

"You've needed it several times on this journey," said Tode,
significantly.

Whereupon Mr. Hastings laughed again.

"You'll do," he said at length. "I don't see that you need any help from
me. I should say that you are thoroughly capable of taking care of
yourself."

Tode shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm a stranger on this road," he answered, gravely. "Just as you was on
the Central and them roads, I suppose."

"And you think inasmuch as you took care of me during the time I spent
on _your_ roads, I ought to return the favor now we are on _mine_." This
with a strong emphasis on that word "_mine_."

"Well, sir, I don't know that I ever did so foolish a thing in my life,
but then you must be considered as a remarkable specimen. Conductor,
could you do me the favor to pass this youngster through to Cleveland?"

Mr. Hastings spoke with easy assurance. Tode didn't know how nearly he
had touched the truth when he hinted at the great man's power on _that_
road.

"Certainly, sir," answered the obliging conductor, "if it will be a
favor to you."

"All right, sir. Now, young man, help yourself to a seat, and I shall
expect to be most thoroughly cared for during the rest of this journey."

Tode obeyed with great alacrity, and gave himself a great many little
commendatory nods and pats for the successful way in which he had
managed the whole of this delicate and difficult business.




CHAPTER V.

TODE'S AMBITION.


Mr. Hastings' elegant carriage was drawn up at a safe distance from the
puffing iron animal who had just screeched his way into the depot. The
coachman on the box managed with dextrous hand the two black horses who
seemed disposed to resent the coming of their puffing rival, while with
his hand resting on the knob of the carriage door, looking right and
left for somebody, and finally springing forward to welcome his father,
was Master Pliny Hastings, older by fourteen years than when that dinner
party was given in honor of his birthday.

"Tumble up there with the driver," was Mr. Hastings' direction to Tode,
who stood and looked with open-eyed delight on carriage, horses, driver,
_everything_, while father and son exchanged greeting.

Pliny _did_ wait until the carriage door was closed before he burst
forth with:

"Father, where on earth did you pick up that bundle of rags, and what
did you bring him home for?"

"He brought me, I believe," answered Mr. Hastings, laughing at the droll
remembrance. "At least I think you'll find that's his version of the
matter."

"What are you going to do with him?"

"More than I know. I'm entirely at his disposal."

"Father, how queer you are. What's his name?"

"Upon my word I don't know. I never thought to inquire. You may question
him to your heart's content when you get home. There is a funny story
connected with him, which I will tell you sometime. Meantime let me rest
and tell me the news."

"He is a very smart specimen, Augusta," explained Mr. Hastings to his
wife that evening, when she looked aghast at the idea of harboring Tode
for the night.

"A remarkable boy in some respects, and I fancy he may really become a
prize in the way of a waiter at one of the hotels. These fellows who
have brought themselves up on the street do sometimes develop a
surprising aptitude for business, and I am greatly mistaken if this one
is not of that stamp. I'll take him off your hands in the morning,
Augusta, and he can't demoralize Pliny in one evening. Besides," he
added as a lofty afterthought, "if my son can be injured by coming in
contact with evil in any shape, I am ashamed of him."

In very much the same style was Tode introduced at one of the grand
hotels the next morning.

"The boy is sharp enough for _anything_," explained Mr. Hastings to the
landlord. "I don't believe you will find his match in the city. Suppose
you take him in, and see what you can do for him?"

The landlord eyed the very ragged, and very roguish, and very doubtful
looking personage thus introduced with a not particularly hopeful face;
but Mr. Hastings was a person to be pleased first and foremost under all
circumstances, so the answer was prompt.

"Well, sir, if you wish it we will give him a trial, of course; but what
can we set him at in that plight?"

"Um," remarked Mr. Hastings, thoughtfully, "I hadn't thought of that. Oh
well, he means to earn some better clothes at once. Isn't that so, my
lad?"

Tode nodded. He hadn't thought of such a thing--his aim was still only
a warm place to sleep in; but he immediately set down better clothes as
another hight to be attained.

"Meantime, Mr. Roberts, hasn't Tom some old clothes that he has
outgrown? This fellow is shorter than Tom, I should think. He'll work
for his board and clothes, of course, for the present. Can you make it
go, Mr. Roberts?"

Mr. Roberts thought he could, and as Mr. Hastings drew on his gloves he
remarked to that gentleman aside:

"I've taken a most unaccountable interest in the young scamp. He's a
_scamp_, no mistake about that, and he'll have to be looked after very
closely. But then he's sharp, sharp as steel; just the sort to develop
into a business man with the right kind of training, such as he will
receive here. The way in which he wheedled me into bringing him home
with me was a most astonishing proceeding. I shall have to tell you all
about it when we are more at leisure. Good-morning, sir."

And Mr. Hastings bowed himself out.

By noon Tode was fairly launched upon his new life, and made such good
use of his eyes and ears that in some respects he knew more about the
business than did the new errand boy who had been there for a week. For
the first time in his life he was going to earn his living.

Mr. Hastings was correct in his opinion. Tode was sharp; yet he was
after all, not unlike a piece of soft putty, ready to be molded into
almost any shape, ready to take an impression from anything that he
chanced to touch. If the people who dined at that great hotel on the
Avenue during those following weeks could have known how the chance
words which they let drop, and in dropping forgot, were gathered up by
that round-eyed boy, how startled they would have been! There was one
memory which stood out sharply in Tode's life--it was of his mother's
death. The boy had never in his fifteen years of life heard but one
prayer, that was his mother's, it was for him: "O Lord, don't let Tode
ever drink a drop of rum." He had very vague ideas in regard to prayer,
very bewildering notions concerning the Being to whom this prayer was
addressed; but he knew what rum was--he had excellent reason to know;
and he knew that these words of his mother's had been terribly earnest
ones--they had burned themselves into his brain. He remembered his
mother as one who had given him what little care and kindness he had
ever received. Finally he had a sturdy, positive, emphatic will of his
own, which is not a bad thing to have if one takes proper care of it. So
without any sort of idea as to the right or wrong of the matter, with
perfect indifference as to whether this thing came under either head, he
had sturdily resolved that he would never, no never, so long as he
lived, drink a drop of rum. In this resolution he had been strengthened
by the constant jeers and gibes and offerings of his father not only but
of his boon companions.

There are natures which grow stronger by opposition. Tode had one of
these; so the very forces which would have met to ruin nine boys out of
ten, came and rallied around him to strengthen his purpose. So Tode,
having been brought up, or rather having come up, thus far in one of the
lowest of low grog-shops, had steadily and defiantly adhered to his
determination. It was seven years since his mother's prayer had gone up
to God; Tode, only seven at that time, but older by almost a dozen years
than are those boys of seven who have been tenderly and carefully reared
in happy homes, had taken in the full force of that one oft-repeated
sentence and had lived it ever since.

Behold him now, the caterpillar transformed into the butterfly. He had
shuffled off the grog-shop, and fluttered into one of the brightest of
Cleveland hotels. The bright-winged moth singes itself in the brilliant
gaslight sometimes where the caterpillar never comes.

Queer thoughts came into Tode's head with that suit of new clothes with
which he presently arrayed himself. Not particularly new, either. Tom
Roberts was in college, and they were his cast-off attire, worn before
he, too, in his way became a butterfly; and he would not have been seen
in them--no, nor have had it enter into the mind of one of his college
mates that he ever _had_ been seen in them, for a considerable sum even
of spending money.

Different eyes have such different ways of looking at the same thing.
Tode will never forget how that suit of clothes looked to _his_ eyes,
nor how, when arrayed in them, he stood before his bit of glass, and
took a calm, full, deliberate survey of himself. To be sure, Tom being a
chunk and Tode being long limbed, notwithstanding Mr. Hastings'
supposition to the contrary, pants and jacket sleeves were somewhat
lacking in length; moreover there was a patch on each knee, and you have
no idea how nice those patches looked to Tode. Why, bless you! he was
used to seeing great jagged, unseemly holes where these same neat
patches now were. Also he had on a shirt! A real, honest white shirt;
and so persistently does one improvement urge upon us the necessity of
another in this world, that Tode had already been obliged to doff his
shirt once in order to bring his face and hair into something like
propriety, that the contrast might not be too sharp.

There was a stirring of new emotions in his heart. Perhaps he then and
there resolved to be a genius, to be the president, or at least the
governor; perhaps he did, but he only gave his thoughts utterance after
this fashion:

"Jemima Jane! Do you tell the truth, you young upstart in the glass
there? Be you Tode Mall, no mistake? Well now, for the land's sake, a
fellow _does_ look better in a shirt, that's as true as whistling. I
mean to have a shirt of my own, I do now. S'pose these are mine after I
earn 'em. Oh, ho; _me_ earn a shirt for myself. Ain't that rich now?
What you s'pose Jerry would think of that, hey, old fellow in the glass?
Well, why not? Like enough I'll earn a pair of boots some day. I will
now, true's you live; it's real jolly. I wonder a fellow never thought
of it before. Oh I'll be some; I'll have a yellow bow one of these days
for a cravat, see if I don't!"

And this was the hight and end and aim of Tode's ambition.




CHAPTER VI.

NEW IDEAS.


"Come," said Pliny Hastings, halting before the hotel, and addressing
his companion, "father said if it snowed hard when school was out to
come in here to dinner."

"Well, go ahead, then," answered his friend, gaily. "Father didn't tell
me so, and I suppose I must go home."

"Oh bother--come on and get some dinner with me; then when the pelting
storm is over we'll go up together."

So the two came into the great dining-room, and Tode came briskly
forward to help them. Tode had been in his new sphere for more than
three weeks, and already began to pride himself on being the briskest
"fellow in the lot."

Pliny Hastings ordered dinner for two with an ease and promptness that
proved him to be quite accustomed to the proceeding; and Tode dodged
hither and thither, and finally hovered near, and looked on with
admiring eyes as the two ate and drank, and talked and laughed. Thus
far in his life Tode had been, without being aware of it, a believer in
"blood descent," distinct spheres in life, and all that sort of
nonsense. He was a boy to be sure, but it had never so much as occurred
to him that he could be even remotely connected with such specimens of
boyhood as were before him now. Not that they were any better than he.
Oh no, Tode never harbored such a thought for a moment; but then they
were different, that he saw, and like many another unthinking mortal, he
never gave a thought to the difference that home, and culture, and
Christianity must necessarily make. But what nonsense am I talking! Tode
didn't know there _were_ any such words, but then there _are_ people who
_do_, and who reason no better than did he.

While he looked and enjoyed, Pliny was seized with a new want, and
leaned back in his chair with the query:

"Where's Tompkins? Oh, Mr. Tompkins, here you are. Can you make Ben and
me something warm and nice this cold day?"

Mr. Tompkins paused in his rush through the room.

"In a very few minutes, Master Hastings, I will be at your service. Let
me see--could you wait five minutes?"

Pliny nodded.

"Very well then. Tode, you may come below in five minutes, and I shall
be ready."

Tode went and came with alacrity, and stood waiting and enjoying while
the two drained their glasses.

There was a little wet sugar left in the bottom of Pliny's glass, and
he, catching a glance from Tode's watchful eye, suddenly held it forth,
and spoke in kindly tone:

"Want that, Todie?"

Tode, a little taken aback, shook his head in silence.

"You don't like leavings, eh? Get enough of the real article, I presume.
How do they make this? I dare say you know, now you are at
headquarters?"

Tode shook his head again.

"Belongs to the trade," he answered, with an air of wisdom.

"Oh it does. Well how much of it do you drink in a day?"

"Not a drop."

"Bah!"

Tode didn't resent this incredulous tone. He was used to being doubted;
moreover he knew better than did any one else that there was no special
reason for trusting him, so now he only laughed.

"Come, tell us, just for curiosity's sake, I'd like to know how much
your queer brain will bear. I won't tell of you."

"You won't believe me," answered Tode coolly, "so what's the use of
telling you."

"I will, too, if you'll tell me just exactly. This time I'll believe
every word."

"Well then, not a drop."

"Why not?" queried Pliny, still incredulous. "Don't you like it?"

"Can't say. Never tasted it."

"Weren't you ever where there was any liquor before?"

"Slightly!" chuckled Tode over the remembrance of his cellar life, and
knowing by a sort of instinct that these two had never been inside of
such a place in their lives.

Pliny continued his examination:

"Don't you like the smell of it?"

"First-rate."

"Then why don't you take it?"

"Ain't a going to."

"But _why_?"

And then for the first time his companion spoke:

"Are you a total abstainer?"

"What's them?"

Both boys stopped to laugh ere they made answer.

"Why people who think it wicked to 'touch, taste or handle,' you know.
Say, Pliny, did you know there's quite an excitement on the subject up
our way? Old Mousey is round trying to get all the folks to promise not
to sell Joe any more brandy."

"Stuff and nonsense!" oracularly pronounced Pliny, quoting the
unanswerable argument of his elders.

"Fact. And folks say Joe has been drunk more times in a week since than
he ever was before."

"Of course, that's the way it always works, trying to _make_ folks do
what they won't do. Joe ought to be hung, though. What does a fellow
want to be a fool for and go and get drunk? But say, Todie, why don't
you drink a drop?"

"I ain't a going to," was Tode's only answer.

The two friends looked at each other curiously.

"You're green," said Pliny, at last.

"Yes," said Tode, promptly, "maybe; so's the moon."

Whereat the two laughed and strolled away.

"Isn't he a queer chap?" they said to each other as they went out into
the snow.

Meantime Tode looked after them for a moment before he began briskly to
gather up the remains of the feast. Tode had some new ideas. He had
formerly lived a stratum below the temperance movement; it had scarce
troubled his father's cellar; so he had to-day discovered that there
were others besides his mother who prayed their sons not to drink a drop
of rum. Also that a young man who went and got drunk was considered a
fool by elegant young men, such as he had just been serving. Also, and
sharpest, these two evidently thought him "green." If they had said a
thief or scamp Tode would have laughed, but "green!" that touched.

"I'll show them a thing or to, maybe," he said, defiantly, as he seized
a pile of plates and vanished.

Now our three babies, nurtured severally in the lace-canopied crib, in
the plump-cushioned rocking-chair, in the reeking cellar corner, had
come together from their several "spheres" and held their first
conversation. Other hungry people came for their dinner and Tode served
them, and was very attentive to their wants and their words. A busy life
the boy led during these days--a brisk, bustling life, which kept him in
a state of perpetual delight. There was something in his nature which
answered to all this rush and systematic confusion of business, and
rejoiced in it. He liked the air of method and system which even the
simplest thing wore; he liked the stated hours for certain duties; the
set programme of employment laid out for each; the set places for every
thing that was to be handled; the very bells, as with their different
tongues they called him hither and thither to different duties, were all
so much music to him. He did not know why he chuckled so much over his
work; why, at the sound of one of his bells, he gave that quick spring
which was so rapidly earning him a reputation for remarkable promptness;
but in truth there was that in the boy which met and responded to all
these things. Every bit of the clock-work machinery filled him with a
kind of glee.

There was another reason why Tode enjoyed his hotel life. He had
discovered himself to be an epicure, and an amazing quantity of the good
things of this life fell to his share--no, hardly that--but disappeared
mysteriously from shelf and jar and box, and only grave,
innocent-looking Tode could have told whither they went. Mince-pies, and
cranberry-pies, and lemon-pies, and the whole long catalogue of pies,
were equal favorites of his, and huge pieces of them had a way of not
being found. Poor Tode, his training-school had been a sad one; the very
first principle of honesty was left out of his street education, and the
only rule he recognized was one which would assist him in not being
discovered. So he eluded sharp eyes and hoodwinked sharp people; he
commended himself for being a cute, and, withal, a lucky fellow. On the
whole, although Tode was certainly clad in decent garments, and slept in
a comfortable bed, and was to all outward appearances earning a
respectable living, I can not say that I think he was really improving.
There were ways and means of leading astray in that hotel, to which even
his street life had not given him access; and if anybody's brain ever
appeared ripe for mischief of any sort, it was certainly Tode Mall's.
Any earthly friend, if he had possessed one, would have watched his
course just now with trembling terror, and made predictions of his
certain downfall. But Tode had no friend in all that great city; not one
who ever gave him a second thought. Christian men came there often, and
were faithfully served by the boy whose soul was very precious in their
Master's eyes, but his servants never thought to speak a word to the
soul for the Master. Why should they?--it was a hotel, and they had come
in to get their dinner; that duty accomplished and they would go forth
to attend the missionary meeting, or the Bible meeting, or the tract
meeting, or some other good meeting; but those and the hotel dinner were
distinct and separate matters, and the little Bibleless heathen, who
served them to oysters and coffee, went on his way, and they went
theirs. But God looked down upon them all. As the days passed, the three
boys, whose lives had been cast in such different molds, met often.
Pliny Hastings liked exceedingly to come to the hotel for his dinner,
and, loitering around wherever best suited his fancy, await his father's
carriage. This was very much pleasanter than the long walk alone; and he
liked to bring Ben Phillips with him--first, because he was in some
respects a generous-hearted boy, and liked to bestow upon Ben the
handsome dinners which he knew how to order; and secondly, because he
was a pompous boy, and liked to show off his grandeur to his simple
friend. Was there another reason never owned even to each other, why
these two boys loved to come to that place rather than to their pleasant
homes? Did it lie in the bottom of those bright glasses filled with
"something nice and warm," which Pliny never forgot to order? Sometimes
little Mrs. Phillips worried, and good-natured Mr. Phillips laughed and
"poohed" at her fancies. Sometimes Mr. Hastings sharply forbade his
son's visits to his favorite hotel, and the next windy day sent him
thither to dine. Sometimes his fond mother thought his face singularly
flushed, and wondered why he suffered so much from headache; but only
Tode who had come up in the atmosphere, and knew all about it, cool,
indifferent Tode, looked with wise eyes upon the two boys, and remarked
philosophically to himself:

"Them two fellows will get drunk some day, fore they know what they're
up to."

[Illustration]




CHAPTER VII.

TWO T'S.


Evil days had fallen upon Tode. He stood before the window with an
unmistakable frown on his face. The demon "Ambition" had taken
possession of him, and metamorphosed him so that he didn't know himself.
The Hastings' carriage passed in its elegant beauty, and as Tode gazed
his frown deepened. Not that he wanted to be seated among the velvet
cushions with Mrs. Hastings and Miss Dora. Oh no, he still belonged to
that other sphere; but he did long with a burning, absorbing passion to
be seated on the box, not with the driver, but alone, himself _the_
driver, above all others. Oh to be able to grasp those reins, to guide
and direct those two proud-stepping horses, to wind in and out of the
crowded street, to drive where no other dared to go, to extricate the
wheels very skillfully from among the bewildering confusion, to be a
prince among drivers! He could do it, he _knew_ he could, if only he
had the chance; but how was that to be had? Poked up here, carrying
plates and cups, and cleaning knives, wouldn't help him to that
longed-for place, Tode said, and drummed crossly on the window pane.
Already he was changed in the short space of six weeks. The clothes
clean, and whole, the clean warm bed, the plentiful supply of food, had
become every-day affairs to him, and were now just nothing at all in
comparison with those prancing horses, and his desire to get dominion
over them. Sad results had come of this new desire; all his list of
duties had dropped suddenly into entire insignificance, and he had taken
to leaving black stains on the knives, and rivers of water on the
plates, and being just exactly as long as he chose to be in doing
everything. Mr. Roberts was getting out of sorts with him, and things
were looking very much as though he would soon be discharged, and
permitted to gaze after the black horses with no troublesome
interruptions such as came to him at this present moment.

"Bother the coffee and the old fellow who wants it. I hope it will be
hot enough to scald him. I'll drink it half up on the way in, anyhow,"
muttered Tode, as he turned slowly and reluctantly from the window,
whence he could see Jonas just getting into a delightful snarl among
the wheels. Jonas was Mr. Hastings' coachman. Three gentlemen were
waiting for coffee and oysters; two friends talking and laughing while
they ate; one, sitting apart from the others, eating with haste and with
a preoccupied air. Tode having served them, fell into his accustomed
habit of hovering near, ready for service, and making use of his ears.
Curious yet respectful glances were cast now and again at the
preoccupied stranger; and when he paid his bill and departed in haste,
the two broke into a conversation concerning him.

"Richest man in this city," remarked one of them, swallowing an immense
oyster. "Made it all in ten years, too. Came here a youngster
twenty-five years ago; had exactly twenty-five cents in the world."

"How did he make his money?" queried his friend.

Whereat Tode drew nearer and listened more sharply. He was immensely
interested. He was certainly a youngster, and twenty-five cents was the
exact amount of money he possessed.

"I heard a man ask him just that question once, and he answered,
book-fashion. He's a precise sort of a fellow, and it makes me think of
Ben Franklin, or some of those fellows who ate and drank and slept by
rule.

"'Well, sir,' he said, drawing himself up in a proud way that he has.
'Well, sir, the method is very simple. I made it a point to live up to
three maxims: Do everything exactly in its time. Do everything as well
as possible. Learn everything I possibly can about everything that can
be learned.'"

The two laughed immensely over these directions, then swallowed their
last drops of coffee and departed, leaving Tode in an ecstasy of glee.
He had learned how to secure the management of those horses; they were
not beyond his reach after all. If so great things were attainable
merely from the following out of those simple rules, why then the
position of coachman was attainable to him.

"Easy enough thing to do," he said, as he freshened the tables for new
comers. "It's just going straight ahead, pitching into what you've got
to do, and doing it first-rate, and finding out about everything under
the sun as fast as you can. I can do all _that_."

And having reduced the synopsis of all success to language that best
suited his style, Tode straightened the cloths and brought fresh
napkins, and gave an extra touch to the glittering silver, and managed
to throw so much practice from his newly acquired stock in trade into
his movements, that Mr. Roberts, passing through the room, said within
himself: "That queer scamp is improving again. I believe I'll hold on to
him a while longer." So sunshine came back to Tode. Not that he gave up
the horses--not he, it was not his way to give up; but he had bright
visions in the dim distant future of himself seated grandly on a stylish
coach box, and he whistled for joy and pushed ahead.

The very next afternoon Tode was sent on an errand to the Hastings
mansion. It wasn't often he got out in the daytime, so he made the most
of his walk; and the voice was fresh and cheery which floated up to
Pliny Hastings as he tossed wearily among the pillows in his mother's
room.

"Is that Tode? Yes, it is, I hear his voice. Dora, ring the bell, I want
to have him come up here."

"My son--" began Mrs. Hastings.

"Oh now, mother, do let a fellow breathe. I've staid poked up here until
I'm ready to fly, and he's just as cute as he can be. Ring the bell,
Dora."

Dora obeyed, and in a very few minutes thereafter Tode was ushered into
the elegance of Mrs. Hastings' sitting-room.

"_You_ sick," he said, pausing in his work of gazing eagerly about him
to bestow a pitying glance on Pliny's pale face. "Jolly! that's awful
stupid work, ain't it? What's the matter?"

"I should think it was," Pliny answered, laughing a little though at
Tode's tone. "I've a confounded sick headache, that's what's the
matter."

"Pliny!" Mrs. Hastings said, rebukingly.

"Oh bother, mother! Excruciating headache then, if that suits you
better. Tode, have you seen Ben to-day?"

"Not a sign of him. Couldn't think what had become of you two. You're as
thick as hops, ain't you?"

Pliny glanced uneasily at his mother, but a summons to the parlor
relieved him, and the three were left alone. Dora returned to her
writing, and her small fingers glided swiftly over the page. Tode
watched her with wondering and admiring eyes.

"Be you writing?" he exclaimed at last.

"Why, yes," said Dora. "Don't you see I am?"

"How old be you?"

"I'm eleven years old. You never studied grammar, did you?"

"And you know how to write?"

"Why, yes," said Dora again, this time laughing merrily. "I've known how
more than a year."

Tode's answer was grave and thoughtful:

"I'm fifteen."

"Are you, though?" said Pliny. "That's just my age."

"And can't _you_ write?" questioned Dora.

"Me?" said Tode, growing gleeful over the thought. "I shouldn't think I
could."

"Aren't you ever going to learn?"

"Never thought of it. Is it fun? No, I don't suppose I'll ever learn.
Yes, I will, too. You learn me, will you?"

"How could I? Do you mean it? Do you truly want to learn? Dear me! I
never could teach you; mamma wouldn't allow it."

For an answer Tode stepped boldly forward, deterred by no feeling of
impropriety, and looked over the little lady's shoulder at the round
fair letters.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing to the first letter of a sentence.

"That is T; capital T. Why, that's the very first letter of your name."

"I don't see anything capital about it; it twists around like a snake.
What do you curl it all up like that for?"

"Why, that's the way to make it. Mamma says I make a very pretty letter
T, and it's a capital because--because--Oh, Pliny, why is it a capital?"

"Because it is," answered Pliny, promptly.

"Oh yes," said Tode, quickly. "Course that's the reason. Queer we
didn't think of it." Then to Dora. "Let's see you snarl that thing
around."

Dora quickly and skillfully obeyed.

"Do it again, and don't go so like lightning. How can a fellow tell what
you're about?"

So more slowly, and again and again was the feat repeated until at last
Tode seized hold of the pen as he said:

"Let me have a dab at the fellow; see if I can draw him."

"Why, you do it real well. Really and truly he does, Pliny," said the
delighted Dora.

"But do you know there are two t's?" she added, turning again to her
pupil. "One has a cross to it, just so. You make a straight mark with a
little crook to it; then you cross it, _so_."

Pliny from his sofa chuckled and exclaimed over this explanation: "A
straight mark with a little crook to it. Oh, ho!" But the others were
absorbed, and bent eagerly over their paper, and thus the horrified Mrs.
Hastings found them on her return from the parlor, the offshoot from a
cellar rum hole bending his curly head close beside _her daughter's_!

She exclaimed in indignant astonishment:

"Dora Hastings!"

And eager, innocent Dora hastened to make answer:

"Mamma, he can make the two t's; the capital and the other, you know;
and he has them both on this piece of paper. Just see, mamma."

"Say, now," interrupted Tode, "I've decided to do them all. You learn
me, will you? I'm to come up here every night after this with the seven
o'clock mail. Just you make a letter on a paper for me, the big fellow,
and the little one, you know, and I'll work at it off and on the next
day, and have it ready for you at night. Will you do it? Come now."

Pliny raised himself on one elbow, his face full of interest:

"Take a figure, Tode, with your letters; figures are a great deal
sharper than letters. I'll make one a night for you."

"All right," said Tode. "I don't mind working in a figure now and then.
A fellow might need to use 'em."

"Mamma," said Dora, "may I? I should so love to; it would be real
teaching, you know. He is fifteen years old, and he don't know how to
write, and it won't take one little minute of my time. Oh please yes,
mamma."

What _could_ the elegant Mrs. Hastings say? What was there to say to so
simple, original, yet so absurd a request? Still she was annoyed, and
looked it, but she did not speak it, and Tode was not sensitive to
looks, or words either, for that matter, and moved with a brisker, more
business-like step back to the hotel, and someway felt an inch taller,
for was he not to have a new letter and a figure every evening, and did
he not know how to make two t's?

[Illustration]




CHAPTER VIII.

WHICH SHALL PROSPER, THIS OR THAT?


The Rev. John Birge stood before the window in his cosy little study,
and drummed disconsolately and dismally on the pane. Without there was a
genuine carnival among the elements, a mingling of snow and rain, which
became ice almost as it fell, and about which a regular northeast wind
was blustering. The Rev. John looked, and drummed, and knitted his
brows, and finally turned abruptly to little Mrs. John, who sat in the
smallest rocking-chair, toasting her feet on the hearth.

"Now, Emma, isn't it strange that of all the evenings in the week
Thursday should be the one so constantly stormy? This is the third one
in succession that has been so unpleasant that very few could get out."

This sentence was delivered in a half-impatient, half-desponding tone;
and Mrs. John took time to consider before she answered, soothingly:

"Well, you will have the satisfaction of feeling that those who come out
this evening love the prayer-meeting enough to brave even such a storm
as this, and of remembering that there are many others who would brave
it if they dared."

But the minister was not to be beguiled into comfort; he gave an
impatient kick to an envelope that lay at his feet, and continued his
story.

"I haven't a _thing_ prepared suitable for such an evening as this. My
intention was to have a short, practical, personal talk, addressed
almost entirely to the unconverted; and I shall have Deacon Toles and
Deacon Fanning, and a few other gray-haired saints, who don't need a
word of it, to listen to me. I had in mind just the persons that I hoped
to reach by this evening's service, and that makes it all the more
discouraging to feel almost absolutely certain that not one of them will
be out to-night. I certainly do not see why it is that the one evening
of the week, which as Christians we try to give to God, should be so
often given up to storm."

Mrs. John could not see her husband's face this time, it had been turned
again to the window pane; but there was that in the tone of his voice
which made her change her tactics.

"It _is_ a pity and a shame," she said, in demure gravity, "that
Thursday evening of all others should prove stormy. Do you think it can
be possible that our Heavenly Father knows that so many of his people
have made it an evening of prayer? Or if he does, can't he possibly send
some poor little sinner to meeting, if it be his will to do so, as well
as those saints you spoke of?"

The minister did not reply for a little. Presently he turned slowly from
the window and met his wife's gaze; then he laughed, a low, half-amused,
half-ashamed laugh. He could afford to do so, for be it known this was a
new order of things in the minister's household. Truth to tell, it was
the little wife who became out of sorts with the weather, with the
walking, with the people, and had to be reasoned, or coaxed, or petted
into calm by the grave, earnest, faithful, patient minister; and his
rebellious spirit had been slain to-night by the use of some of his own
weapons, hurled at him indeed in a pretty, graceful, feminine way, but
he recognized them at once, and could afford to laugh. Afterward when he
had buckled his overshoes and buttoned his overcoat, and prepared to
brave the storm in answer to the tolling bell, he came over to the
little rocking-chair.

"My dear," he said, "we will kneel down and have a word of prayer, that
our Father will have this meeting in his care, and bring good out of
seeming ill."

And as they knelt together they had changed places again, and the
minister's wife looked up with a kind of wistful reverence to the calm,
earnest face of her husband.

"It storms like the mischief," Mr. Roberts said on this same evening, as
he closed the door with a bang, and a shrug of his shoulders. "Very few
people will venture out this evening. Tode, if you want an hour or two
for a frolic, now is your time to take it. After you have been up with
the mail you can go where you like until the train is due."

Here was fun for Tode. This would give him two full hours, and he had at
least two dozen schemes for filling up the time; but it chanced that
wind and sleet and cold were too much even for him.

"Jolly!" he said. "What a regular old stunner _that_ was," as a gust of
wind nearly blew him away; and he clapped both hands to his head to see
if his cap had withstood the shock.

"This ain't just the charmingest kind of an evening that ever I was out.
I'd tramp back to our hotel quicker, only a fellow don't like to spend
his evening just exactly where he does all the others when it's a
holiday. I wonder what's in here? They're singing like fun, whatever
'tis. I mean to peek in--might _go_ in; no harm done in taking a look.
'Tain't anyways likely that it blows in there as it does out here. Tode
and me will just take a look, we will."

And he pushed open the door and slipped into the nearest seat by the
fire just as the singing was concluded, and the Rev. John Birge began to
read; and the words he read were about that strange old story of the
great company and the lack of food, and the lad with the five barley
loaves and two small fishes, and the multitude that were fed, and the
twelve baskets of fragments that remained--story familiar in all its
details to every Sabbath-school scholar in the land, but utterly new to
Tode, falling on his ear for the first time, bearing all the charm of a
fairy tale to him. There was just one thing that struck this ignorant
boy as very strange, that a company of men and women, some of them
gray-headed, should spend their time in coming together that stormy
evening, and reading over and talking about so utterly improbable a
tale. He listened eagerly to see what might be the clew to this mystery.

"We are wont to say," began Mr. Birge, "that the age of miracles is
past; yet if we knew in just what mysterious, unknown paths God leads
the children of this day to himself, I think some of their experiences
would seem to us no less miraculous than is this story which we are
considering to-night."

No clew here to the mystery; only a number of words which Tode did not
understand, and something about God, which he could not see had anything
to do with the fairy story. I wonder if we Christian people ever fully
realize how utterly ignorant the neglected poor are of Bible truth. One
more ignorant in the matter than was Tode can hardly be imagined. He
knew, to be sure, that there was a day called Sunday, and that stores
and shops as a general rule were closed on that day, just why he would
have found very difficult to explain. He knew that there were such
buildings as churches, and that these were opened on these same Sundays,
and that well-dressed people went into them, but they had nothing
whatever to do with _him_. Oh no, neither had Sunday nor churches. He
knew in a vague general way that there was a Being called God, who
created all things, and that the aforesaid well-dressed people were in
some way connected with him; but it chanced, oh, bitter chance, that
there had never come to him the slightest intimation that God in Christ
was busy looking up the homeless, the friendless, the forsaken ones of
earth, and bidding them find home and friend and joy in him. The meeting
continued with but one other interruption. Midway in the services the
door opened somewhat noisily, and with many a rustle and flutter Mrs.
Hastings and Miss Dora made their way from out the storm and found
shelter in the quiet chapel. This was just as Deacon Fanning asked a
question.

"Mr. Birge, don't you think this little story is to teach us, among
other things, that God can take the very few, weak, almost worthless
materials that we bring him, and do great things with them?"

"I think we may learn that precious truth from the story," answered Mr.
Birge. "And I never feel saddened and discouraged with the thought that
I have nothing with which to feed the multitudes, that this story does
not bring me comfort. God doesn't need even our five barley loaves, but
stoops to use them that we may feel ourselves workers together with
him."

What queer talk it was! Tode had never heard anything like it in his
life.

Then Deacon Toles had something to say.

"Andrew, Simon Peter's brother, just expresses our feelings, I think,
sometimes. 'There is a lad here which hath five barley loaves, and two
small fishes; but what are they among so many?' Andrew was gloomy and
troubled even while talking face to face with Jesus. Not disposed to
think that the Master could do anything with so little food as that,
it's just the way I feel every now and then. 'Lord, here we are, a
handful of people, and we have fragments of the bread of life in our
hearts: but what are we among so many?'"

"Yet the Lord fed the five thousand despite Andrew's doubts," chimed in
the pastor. "May we not hope and pray that he will deal thus graciously
with us?"

Tode could make nothing of it all, and was half inclined to slip out and
go on his way; but the same dear Savior who had so long ago fed the five
thousand had his All-seeing Eye bent on this one poor boy, and had
prepared a crumb for him.

There arose from the seat near the door an old gray-haired man. His
dress was very plain and poor, his manner was uncultured, his language
was ungrammatical. There were those who were disposed to think that so
illiterate a man as old Mr. Snyder ought not to take up the valuable
time. However old Mr. Snyder prayed, and Tode listened.

"O, dear Jesus," he said, "the same who was on the earth so many years
ago, and fed the hungry people, feed us to-night. We are poor, we want
to be rich; take us for thy children; help us to come to thee just as
the people used to do when thou didst walk this very earth, and ask for
what we want. We need a friend just like Jesus for our own--a friend who
will love us always, who will take care of us always, who will give us
everything we need, and heaven by and by. We know none are too poor or
too bad for thee to take and wash in thy blood, and feed with thy love
which lasts forever. Give us faith to trust thee always, to work for
thee here, and to keep looking ahead to that home in heaven, which thou
hast got all ready for us when we die. Amen."

There were those present who did not quite see the connection of this
prayer with the topic of the evening. There were those who thought it
very commonplace and rather childish in language. But how can we tell
what strange, bewildering thoughts it raised in the heart of our poor
Tode?

Was there really such a somebody somewhere as that man talked about, who
would make people rich, or anyhow give them all they needed; who would
take care of them, no matter how poor or how bad; who would even take
care of them in that awful time when they had to die, and all this just
for the asking? If there were any truth in it why didn't folks ask, and
have it all? But then if there wasn't, what did these folks all mean?

"They don't look like fools; now that's a fact," said Tode,
meditatively, and was in great bewilderment.

The meeting closed. Mrs. Hastings rustled up to the minister.

"So sorry to have intruded upon you, Mr. Birge, but the gale was so
unusually severe. Dora and I were making our way to the carriage, which
was but a very short distance away, and just as we reached your door
there came a fearful gust of wind and we were obliged to desist."

While Mr. Birge was explaining that to come to prayer-meeting was not
considered an intrusion, Dora turned to Tode. Now Tode had in mind all
day a burning desire to tell Dora that he had made all the twenty-six
letters of the alphabet, just twenty-six times on twenty-six old
envelopes that he had gathered together from various waste-baskets, and
could "make every one of 'em to a dot." But instead of all this he said:

"Say, do you believe all this queer talk?"

"What do you mean, Tode?"

"Why this about the youngster, and his fishes and bread, and such lots
of folks eating 'em, and more left when they got done than there was
when they begun. Likely story, ain't it?"

Dora's eyes were large and grave.

"Why, Tode, it's in the Bible," she said, reverently.

Tode knew nothing about reverence, and next to nothing about the Bible.

"What of that?" he said, defiantly. "It's queer stuff all the same; and
what did that old man mean about his friend, and taking care of folks,
everybody, good or bad, and feeding 'em, and all that?"

"It's about Jesus, Tode. Don't you know; he died, you see, for us, and
if we love him he'll take care of us, and take us to heaven. Sometimes
do you think that you'll belong to him, Tode? I do once in a while."

"I don't know anything what you're talking about," was Tode's answer,
more truthful than grammatical.

"Why, give your heart to him, you know, and love him, and pray, and all
that. But, Tode, won't you run around to Martyn's and order the carriage
for us? John was to wait there until we came, and I guess he'll think we
are never coming."

Mrs. Hastings repeated the direction, and Tode vanished, brushing by in
his exit the very man who had prayed at his dying mother's bedside years
before, and who had intended to keep an eye on him. As he slid along the
icy pavements the boy ruminated on what he had heard, and especially on
that last explanation, "Why, give your heart to him, you know, and love
him, and pray, and all that." To whom, and how, and where, and when?
What a perfectly bewildering confusion it all was to Tode.

"I'll be hanged if I can make head or tail to any of it," he said aloud.

Then he whistled, but after a moment his whistle broke off into a great
heavy sigh. Someway there was in Tode's heart a dull ache, a longing
aroused that night, and which nothing but the All-seeing, All-pitying
Love could ever soothe.

"There were fourteen people in prayer-meeting," the Rev. John informed
his wife. "The two deacons of whom I spoke, and several other good men.
I couldn't make use of my lecture at all, for there were none present
but professing Christians, save and except Mrs. Pliny Hastings, who
apologized for _intruding_!"

And then the husband and wife laughed, a half-amused, half-sorrowful
laugh.

After a moment Mr. Birge added:

"There _was_ a rather rough-looking boy there; strayed in from the
storm, I presume. I meant to speak with him, but Mrs. Hastings annoyed
me so much that it escaped my mind until he brushed past me and
vanished."




CHAPTER IX.

"TAKE IT AWAY!"


Tode rang the bell at Mr. Hastings', and waited in some anxiety as to
whether he should get a glimpse of Miss Dora. He had some momentous
questions to ask her. Fortune, or, in other words, Providence, favored
him. While he waited for orders, Dora danced down the hall with a
message.

"Tode, papa says you are to come in the dining-room and wait; he wants
to send a note by you."

"All right," said Tode, following her into the brightly lighted room,
and plunging at once into his subject.

"Look here, what did you mean the other night about hearts, and things?"

"About what?"

"Why, don't you know? Down there to the meeting."

"Oh! Why I meant _that_; just what I said. That's the way they always
talk at a prayer-meeting about Jesus, and loving him, and all that."

"Was that a prayer-meeting where we was t'other night?"

"Why yes, of course. Tode, have you got the letters and figures all
made?"

"Do you go every time?"

"What, to prayer-meeting? What a funny idea. No, of course not. It
stormed, you know, and we had to go in somewhere. Wasn't it an awful
night?"

"Who is Jesus, anyhow?"

"Why, he is God. Tode, how queer you act. Why don't you ask Mr. Birge,
or somebody, if you want to know such things. Mamma says he is awful."

"Awful!"

"Yes, awful good, you know. He's the minister down there at that chapel.
Wasn't it a funny looking church? Ours don't look a bit like that. Tode,
where do you go to church?"

"My!" said Tode, with his old merry chuckle. "That's a queer one. _I_
don't go to church nowhere; never did."

"You ought to," answered Miss Dora, with a sudden assumption of dignity.
"It isn't nice not to go to church and to Sunday-school. _I_ go. Pliny
doesn't, because he has the headache so much. Shall I show you my
card?"

And she produced from her pocket a dainty bit of pasteboard, and held it
up.

"There, that's our verse. The whole school learn it for next Sunday.
Then we shall have a speech about it."

A sudden shiver ran through Tode's frame as he read the words printed on
that card:

"The eyes of the Lord are in every place, beholding the evil and the
good."

He knew very little about that All-seeing Eye, but it came upon him like
a great shock, the picture of the eye of God reaching everywhere,
beholding the _evil_. He felt afraid, and alone, and desolate. He did
not know what was the matter with him, he had felt so strangely troubled
and unhappy since that evening of the meeting. Almost the tears came
into his eyes as he stood there beside Dora, looking down at that
terrible verse.

"Take it away," he said, suddenly, turning from the bit of pasteboard.
"I don't want his eyes looking at me."

"You can't help it," Dora answered, with great emphasis. "There are more
just such verses, 'Thou God seest me;' and oh, plenty of them. And he
certainly _does_ see you all the time, whether you want him to or not."

"Well stop!" said Tode, with a sudden gruffness that Dora had never seen
in him before. "I don't want to hear another bit about it, nor your
verse, nor anything--not a word. I wish you had let me alone. I don't
believe it, anyhow, nor I won't, nor I ain't a going to--so."

At that moment Mr. Hastings' note came, and miserable Tode went on his
way. _How_ miserable he was; the glimmering lamps along the gloomy
streets seemed to him eyes of fire burning into his thoughts; the very
walls of his darkened room, when he had reached that retreat, seemed to
glow on every side with great terrible, all-seeing eyes. Over and over
again was that fearful sentence repeated: "The eyes of the Lord are in
every place, beholding the evil." Just then he stopped. He had suddenly
grown so vile in his own eyes that it seemed to him that there was
nothing good left to behold; he tumbled and tossed on his narrow bed; he
covered himself, eyes, head, all, in the bed-clothes; but it was of no
use, that piercing Eye saw into the darkness and through all the
covering--and oh, Tode was afraid!

He was a brave, fearless boy; no darkness had ever before held any
terrors for him. I am not sure that he would not have whistled
contemptuously over a whole legion of supposed ghosts. He was entirely
familiar with, and quite indifferent to, that most frightful of all
human sights, a reeling, swearing drunkard; but this was quite another
matter, this great solemn eye of God, which he felt to-night for the
first time, looking steadily down upon him, never forgetting him for a
moment, never by any chance turning away and giving him time to go to
sleep. Tode didn't know why he felt this terrible new feeling; he didn't
know that the loving, pitying Savior had his tender eyes bent on him,
and was calling him, that God had used that powerful thrust from the
Spirit to wound his sinful heart; he knew nothing about it, save that he
was afraid, and desolate and very miserable. Suddenly he sprung up, a
little of his ordinary determination coming back to him.

"What's the use," he muttered, "of a fellow lying shivering here; if I
can't sleep, I might as well give it up first as last I'll go down to
the parlor, and whistle 'Yankee Doodle,' or something else until train
time."

But his hand trembled so in his attempt to strike a light, that he
failed again and again. Finally he was dressed, and went out into the
hall. Mr. Roberts opened his own door at that moment, and seeing the boy
gave him what he thought would be a happy message:

"Tode, you can sleep over to-night. Jim is on hand, and you may be ready
for the five o'clock train."

No excuse now for going down stairs, and the wretched boy crept back to
his room; _utterly_ wretched he felt, and he had no human friend to help
him, no human heart to comfort him. He wrapped a quilt about him and sat
down on the edge of his bed to calculate how long his bit of candle
would probably burn, and what he _should_ do when he was left once more
in that awful darkness. On his table lay a half-burnt lamp lighter. He
mechanically untwisted it, and twisted it up again, busy still with that
fearful sentence: "The eyes of the Lord are in _every_ place." The
lighter was made of a bit of printed paper, and Tode could read. The
letters caught his eye, and he bent forward to decipher them; and of all
precious words that can be found in our language, came these home to
that troubled youth: "Look unto me and be ye saved, all--" Just there
the paper was burned. No matter, be ye _saved_, that was what he wanted.
He felt in his inmost soul that he needed to be saved, from himself, and
from some dreadful evil that seemed near at hand. Now how to do it? The
smoke-edged bit of paper said, "Look unto me." Who was that blessed
_Me_, and where was he, and how could Tode look to him?

Quick as lightning the boy's memory went back to that evening in the
chapel, and the wonderful story of one Jesus, and the gray-haired man
in the corner, who stood up and shut his eyes, and spoke to Jesus just
as if he had been in the room. Perhaps, oh, _perhaps_, the All-seeing
Eye belonged to him? No, that could not be, for that card said, "The
eyes of the Lord," and Tode knew that meant God, but you see he knew
nothing about that blessed Trinity, the three in One. Then he remembered
his question to Dora: "Who is Jesus, anyhow?" and her answer: "Why, he
is God." What if it should in some strange way all mean God? Couldn't he
try? Suppose he should stand up in the corner like that old man, and
shut his eyes and speak to Jesus? What harm could it do? A great
resolution came over him to try it at once. He went over to the corner
at the foot of his bed with the first touch of reverence in his face
that perhaps it had ever felt. He closed his eyes and said aloud: "O
Jesus, save me." Over and over again were the words repeated, solemnly
and slowly, and in wonderful earnestness: "O Jesus, save me." Gradually
something of the terror died out of his tones, and there came instead a
yearning, longing sound to his voice, while again and yet again came the
simple words: "O Jesus, save me."

After a little Tode came quietly out of his corner, deliberately blew
out his light and went to bed, not at all unmindful of the All-seeing
Eye; but someway it had ceased to burn. He felt very grave and solemn,
but not exactly afraid, and a new strange feeling of some loving
presence in his room possessed his heart, and the thought of that name
Jesus brought tears into his eyes, he didn't know why. He didn't know
that there was such a thing as being a Christian; he didn't know that he
had anything to do with Christ; he didn't know that he was in the least
different from the Tode who lay there but an hour before only. Yes, that
solemn Eye did not make him afraid now; and with an earnest repeatal of
his one prayer, which he did not know _was_ prayer, "O Jesus, save me,"
Tode went to sleep.

But I think that the recording angel up in heaven opened his book that
night and wrote a new name on its pages, and that the ever-listening
Savior said, "_I_ have called him by his name; he is mine."

In the gray glimmering dawn of the early morning Tode stood out on the
steps, and waited for the rush of travelers from the train. They came
rushing in, cold and cross, many of them unreasonable, too, as cold and
hungry travelers so often are; but on each and all the boy waited,
flying hither and thither, doing his utmost to help make them
comfortable; being apparently not one whit different from the bustling
important boy who flew about there every morning intent upon the same
duties, and yet he had that very morning fallen heir to a glorious
inheritance. True, he did not know it yet, but no matter for that, his
title was sure.

The days went round, and Sunday morning came. Now Sunday was a very busy
day at the hotel. Aside from the dreadful Sunday trains that came
tearing into town desecrating the day, the whole country seemed to
disgorge itself, and pleasure-seekers came in cliques of twos and fours
for a ride and a warm dinner on this gala day. Tode had wont to be busy
and blithe on these days, but on this eventful Sabbath morning it was
different. Gradually he was becoming aware that some strange new
feelings possessed his heart. He had continued the repeatal of the one
prayer, "O Jesus, save me;" going always to the corner at the foot of
his bed, and closing his eyes to repeat it. And now he was conscious of
the fact that he had little thrills of delight all over him when he said
these words, and a new, strange, sweet sense of protection and
friendship stole over him from some unknown source. Now a longing
possessed him to know something more about Jesus. He had heard of him at
only one place, that chapel. Naturally his thoughts turned toward it. He
knew it would be open on that day, and "Who knows," said ignorant Tode
to himself, "but they might happen to say something about him to-day."
In short, Tode, knowing nothing about "Remember the Sabbath day, to keep
it holy," never having so much as heard that there _was_ a fourth
commandment, wanted to go to church. And wanting this very much, knew at
the same time that it was an extremely doubtful case, utterly unlikely
that he should be allowed to go.

He brushed his hair before his bit of glass, and buttoned on his clean
collar, all the time in deep thought. A sudden resolution came to him,
that old man had said Jesus would give us everything we wanted or needed
or something like that.

"I'll try it," said Tode, aloud and positively. "'Tain't no harm if it
don't do no good, and 'tain't nobody's business, anyhow."

And with these strangely original thoughts on the subject of prayer, he
went into his corner, but once there the reverent look with which he
nowadays pronounced that sacred name spread over his face as he said, "O
Jesus, I want to go to that church, and I s'pose I can't." This was
everything Tode was conscious of wanting just at present, so this was
all he said, only repeating it again and again.

Then when he went down stairs he marched directly to headquarters, and
made known his desires.

"Mr. Roberts, I want this forenoon to myself. Can I have it?"

"You do," answered Mr. Roberts, eyeing him thoughtfully. "Well, as such
requests are rare from you, and as Jim's brother is here to help, I
think I may say yes."

"A queer, bright, capable boy," Mr. Roberts thought, looking after Tode
as he dashed off down town. "Going to make just the man for our
business. I must begin to promote him soon."

As for Tode he was in high glee.

"What brought that Jim's brother over to help to-day?" he asked himself.
"I'd like to know _that_ now. I believe I do, as sure as I'm alive, that
_he_ heard every word, and has been and fixed it all out. I most know he
has, 'cause things didn't ever happen around like this for me before."

The pronoun "he" did not refer to Jim's brother, and was spoken with
that touch of awe and reverence which had so lately come to Tode. And I
think that the words were recorded up in heaven, as having a meaning not
unlike the acknowledgment of those less ignorant disciples, "Lord, I
believe."




CHAPTER X.

HABAKKUK.


The church toward which Tode bent his eager steps was quite filled when
he reached it, but the sexton made a way for him, and he settled into a
seat with a queer, awkward sense of having slipped into a spot that was
not intended for such as he; but the organ tones took up his attention,
and then in a moment a burst of music from the congregation, among the
words of which he could catch ever and anon that magic name Jesus. So at
least they were going to sing about him. Yes, and talk to him also, for
Mr. Birge's prayer, though couched in language quite beyond Tode's
reaching, yet closed with the to him wonderful sentence, "We ask in the
name and for the sake of Jesus our Redeemer." When he opened the great
book which Tode knew was the Bible, the boy was all attention; something
more from the Bible he was anxious to hear. He got out his bit of pencil
and a crumpled twist of paper, and when Mr. Birge announced that he
would read the fourth Psalm, Tode bent forward and carefully and
laboriously made a figure four and the letters S A M in his very best
style, and believed that he had it just right. Then he listened to the
reading as sometimes those do not who can glibly spell the words. Yet
you can hardly conceive how like a strange language it sounded to him,
so utterly unfamiliar was he with the style, so utterly ignorant of its
meaning. Only over the last verse he had almost laughed.

"I will both lay me down in peace and sleep; for thou, Lord, only makest
me dwell in safety."

_Didn't_ he know about that? The awful night, those dreadful eyes, and
the peace in which he laid down and slept at last.

"Oh, ho," he said to himself, "some other fellow has had a time of it,
too, I guess, and put it in the Bible. I'm glad I've found out about it
just as I did."

Tode didn't mean to be irreverent. You must continually bear in mind the
fact that he didn't know the meaning of the word; that he knew nothing
about the Bible, nor dreamed that the words which so delighted him were
those of inspiration, sounding down through the ages for the peace and
comfort of such as he.

Presently Mr. Birge announced his text, reading it from that same great
book, and Tode's heart fluttered with delighted expectation as he heard
the words, "Jesus of Nazareth passeth by." The _very_ name! and of all
news this, that he passes by. Oh, Tode _wanted_ so to see him, to hear
about him. He sat erect, and his dark cheek flushed with excitement as
he listened eagerly to every word. And the Spirit of the Master had
surely helped to indite that sermon, for it told in its opening
sentences the simple story, entirely new to Tode.

"A little more than eighteen hundred years ago, very near a certain
city, might have been seen a large concourse of people, differently
circumstanced in life, many of them such as had been healed of the
various diseases with which they had long been afflicted. This throng
were following a person upon whose words they hung, and by whose power
many of them had been healed. As they passed by the roadside sat a blind
man begging. He, hearing the crowd, asks what it is. They answer, 'Jesus
of Nazareth passeth by.'"

Thus, through the beautiful and touching story, he dwelt on each detail,
giving it vivid coloring, bringing it almost before the very eyes of the
eager boy, who drank in every word.

The truth grew plain to his mind, that this Jesus of Nazareth once on
earth had now gone back to heaven, and yet, oh beautiful mystery, still
was here; and he heard for the first time that old, old story of the
scoffed and spit upon, and bleeding and dying Savior; heard of his
prayer even in dying for the cruel ones who took his life. So simply and
so tenderly was the story told, that when the minister exclaimed: "Oh
what a loving, sympathizing, forgiving Savior is ours!" Tode, with his
eyes blinded by tears, repeated the words in his heart, and felt "amen."

Then came the explanation of his passing by us now, daily, hourly,
calling us in a hundred ways, and then--a few sentences written, it
would seem, expressly for Tode's own need:

"Sometimes," said the minister, "he passes by, speaking to the soul with
some passage from the Word. Did you never wonder that some portion, some
little sentence from the Bible, should so forcibly impress your mind,
and so cling to you? Perhaps you tried to drive it away so much did it
trouble you, but still it hovered around, and seemed to keep repeating
itself over and over to your heart. Be not deceived. This was Jesus of
Nazareth passing by, waiting for you to say, 'Jesus, thou Son of David,
have mercy on me.'"

Was ever anything so wonderful! How could Mr. Birge have found out
about it--that dreadful night--and the one verse saying itself over and
over again! Then to think that it was Jesus himself calling and waiting.
Could it be possible--was he really calling _him_? And the tears which
had been gathering in Tode's eyes dropped one by one on his hand.

Presently, as he listened, the minister's tones grew very solemn.

"There are none before me to-day who can say, 'He never came to me.'
Sinner, he is near you now, near enough to hear your voice, near enough
to answer your call. Will you call upon him? Will you let him help you?
Will you take him for your Savior? Will you serve him while you live on
earth that you may live in heaven to serve him forever?"

From Tode's inmost soul there came answers to these solemn questions: "I
will, I will, I will."

And there went out from the church that Sabbath day one young heart who
felt himself cured of his blindness by that same Jesus of Nazareth; who
felt himself given up utterly to Jesus, body and soul and life; and
without a great insight as to what that solemn consecration meant, he
yet took in enough of it to feel a great peace in his heart.

"There goes a Christian man, if ever there was one." This said a
gentleman to his companion, speaking of another who had passed them.

Tode overheard it, and stood still on the street.

"A Christian," said he to himself, quoting from a sentence in Mr.
Birge's sermon. "A Christian is one who loves and serves the Lord Jesus
Christ with his whole heart." Then aloud. "I wonder, I do wonder now, if
I am a Christian? Oh, what if I was!" A moment of earnest thought, then
Tode held up his head and walked firmly on. "I _mean_ to be," he said,
with a ring in his voice that meant decision.

Tode was dusting and putting in order a lately vacated room one morning.
He was whistling, too; he whistled a great deal these days, and felt
very bright and happy. He picked up three leaves which had evidently
been torn from an old book; reading matter was rather scarce with him,
and he stopped the dusting to discover what new treasure might be
awaiting him here. He spelled out, slowly and carefully, the name at the
top: "H-a-b-a-k-k-u-k."

"Queerest name for a book ever I heard of," he muttered. "Words must
have been scarce, I reckon. Let's see what it reads about. School book,
like enough; if 'tis I'll get it all by heart."

And Tode sat down upon the edge of a chair to investigate. The story,
if story it were, commenced abruptly to him.

"Scorn unto them," being the first words on the page. He read on: "They
shall deride every stronghold; for they shall heap dust and take it."

"My! what curious talk," said Tode. "What ever is it coming at? I can't
make nothing out of it."

Nevertheless he read on; only a few lines more and then this sentence:
"Art thou not from everlasting, O Lord my God, mine Holy One?"

A sudden look of intelligence and delight flushed over Tode's face; and
springing up he rushed into the hall and down the stairs, nearly
tumbling over Mr. Ryan in his haste.

Mr. Ryan was a good-natured boarder, and on very friendly terms with
Tode.

"Oh, Mr. Ryan!" burst forth Tode. "What is this reading on these
leaves?"

"Why, Tode, what's up now; forgot how to read?"

"Oh bother, no; but I mean where did it come from. It's tore out of a
book, don't you see?"

"Piece of a Bible," answered Mr. Ryan, giving the leaves a careless and
the boy a searching glance. "What is there so interesting about it?"

"What's it got such a queer name for? What does H-a-b-a-k-k-u-k spell,
and what does it mean?"

"That's a man's name, I believe."

"Who was he, and what about him?"

"More than I know, my boy. Never heard of him before that I know of.
What do you care?"

It was Tode's turn to bestow a searching glance.

"Got a Bible of your own?" he asked at last.

"Oh yes, I own one, I believe."

"And never read it! Bah, what good does it do you to have books if you
don't read 'em? Now I'm going to find out about this 'H-a-b-a-k-k-u-k,'
and then I shall know more than you do."

Mr. Ryan laughed a little, but withal seemed somewhat embarrassed. Tode
left him and sped back to his dusting.

"Queer chap that," muttered Mr. Ryan. "I don't know what to make of
him."

And a little sense of what might be termed shamefacedness stole over him
at the thought that this ignorant boy prized more highly his three
leaves of a Bible, picked out of the waste-basket, and possibly was
going to know more about it than he, Edgar Ryan, had gleaned from his
own handsomely bound copy, wherein his Christian mother had written
years ago his own loved name. Mr. Ryan, the cultivated young lawyer,
took down his handsome Bible from the shelf of unused books as soon as
he had reached his office, dusted it carefully, and turned over the
leaves to discover something about Habakkuk.

As for Tode, he literally poured over his three leaves. Very little of
the language did he understand--the great and terrible figures were
utterly beyond his knowledge; yet as he read them once, and again and
again, something of the grandeur and sublimity stole into his heart,
helped him without his knowledge, and now and then a word came home, and
he caught a vague glimpse of its meaning. "Thou art of purer eyes than
to behold evil." That was plain; that must mean the great All-seeing
Eyes, for Tode knew enough of human nature to have much doubt as to
whether any human eyes were pure. But then those unsleeping eyes _did_
behold evil--saw. Oh, Tode could conceive better than many a
Sabbath-school scholar can just how much evil there was to behold. How
was that? Ah! Tode's brain didn't know, couldn't tell; but into his
heart had come the knowledge that between all the evil men and women in
this evil world, and those pure eyes of an angry God, there stood the
blood-red cross of Christ.

There were many guests to be waited on; the tables were filling rapidly.
Tode was springing about with eager steps, handling deftly coffee,
oysters, wine, anything that was called for--bright, busy, brisk as
usual. As he set a cup of steaming coffee beside Mr. Ryan's plate, that
gentleman glanced up good-humoredly and addressed him.

"Well, Tode, how is Habakkuk?"

"First-rate, sir, only there's some queer things in it."

"I should think there was!" laughed Mr. Ryan, spilling his coffee in his
mirth. "Rather beyond you, isn't it?"

"Well, _some_ of it," said Tode, hesitatingly. "But it all means
_something_, likely, and I'm learning it, so I'll have it on hand to
find out about one of these days, when I find a lawyer or somebody who
can explain it, you know."

This last with a twinkle of the eye, and a certain almost noiseless
chuckle, that said it was intended to hit.

"You're learning it!" exclaimed Mr. Ryan, undisguised astonishment
mingling with his amusement.

"Yes, sir. Learn a figure a day. It's all marked off into figures, you
know, sir."

"Well, of all queer chaps, you're the queerest!"

And Mr. Ryan went off into another laugh as Tode sped away to a new
corner. By the time he was ready for a second cup of coffee, Mr. Ryan
was also ready with more questions.

"Well, sir, what's to-day's figure?"

"For the earth shall be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the
Lord, as the waters cover the sea," repeated Tode, promptly and glibly.

"Indeed! and what do you make out of that?"

"It makes itself; and that's something that's going to be one of these
days."

"Oh, and what does the 'glory of the Lord' mean, Tode?"

"_I_ don't know; expect _he_ does, though," answered Tode, simply and
significantly.

Mr. Ryan didn't seem inclined to continue that line of questioning.

"Well," he said, presently, "let's turn to an easier chapter. What's
to-morrow's figure?"

"Don't know. I might look though, if you wanted to hear." And Tode drew
his precious three leaves from his vest pocket.

"Oh, you carry Habakkuk about with you, do you? Well, let's have the
figure by all means, only pass me that bottle of wine first."

But Tode's face paled and his limbs actually shook.

"I can't do it," he said at last.

"You can't! Why, what's up?"

"Just look for yourself, sir. It's the figure 15." And he thrust the bit
of leaf before the gay young lawyer, and pointed with his finger to the
spot.

Of all words that could have come before his eyes just then, it seemed
strange indeed that these should be the ones:

"Woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink!"

"Pshaw!" said Mr. Ryan at last, with a little nervous laugh. "Don't be a
goose, Tode. Take your paper away and pass me the wine."

"I can't, sir," answered Tode, earnestly. "I promised him to-day, I did,
that I was going to do it all just as fast as I found it out."

"Promised who? What are you talking about?"

"Promised the Lord Jesus Christ, sir. I told him this very day."

"Fiddlesticks. You don't understand. This refers to drunkards."

"It don't say so," answered Tode, simply.

"Yes, it does. Don't it say, 'and makes him drunk?'"

"It says and makes him drunk _also_," Tode said, with a sharp, searching
look.

Mr. Ryan laughed that short nervous laugh again.

"You ought to study law, Tode," was all _he_ said. Then after a moment.
"I advise you to attend to business, and let Habakkuk look after
himself. Jim, pass that wine bottle this way."

This to another attendant who was near at hand, and Tode moved away to
attend to other wants, and to turn over in his mind this new and
startling thought.

[Illustration]




CHAPTER XI.

BUSINESS AND BOTTLES.


He was still thinking when the busy work of the day was done--thinking
anxiously about the same thing.

"It's _there_, plain as day," he said, in a perplexed tone, sitting down
on the corner of the bed, and running his fingers distractedly through
his hair. "'Woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink, that puttest
thy bottle to him.' That's it, word for word, and that's the Bible, and
I do it, why fifty times a day; and I've got to if I stay here. That's a
fact, no getting around it. 'Tain't my bottle, though, it's Mr.
Roberts', and back of him it's Mr. Hastings'. I do declare!" And Tode
paused, overwhelmed with this new thought.

"Whatever do them two men mean now, I'd like to know?" he continued,
after a moment. "Don't make no kind of difference, though; that's
_their_ lookout, I reckon. It's _me_ that puts the bottle to the
neighbors' lips, time and time again. No gettin' around that. They ain't
my neighbors, though. I ain't got no neighbors, them are folks that
lives next door to you. Well, even then, there's Mr. Ryan, he's next
door to mine, and there's young Holden and that peanut man, they're next
door on t'other side, and there's Mr. Pierson, he's next door below.
Why, now, I've got neighbors thick as hops, nearer than most folks have,
and I put the bottle to their lips every day of my life, every single
one of 'em."

Silence for a little, and then another phase of the question.

"Well, now, where's the use? If _I_ didn't hand the bottle to 'em, why
Jim _would_; and they'd get it all the same, so where's the difference?
That's none of my business," Tode answered himself sharply, and with a
touch of the feeling which means, "Get thee behind me, Satan." "It don't
say 'woe to Jim,' and I ain't got nothing to do with him; it don't say
that if it's got to be done anyhow, I may as well do it as any other
fellow. It just says '_woe_' right out, sharp and plain; and I know
about it, and I do it, that's the point. Stick to that point, Tode Mall,
you blockhead, you. If you're arguing a thing, why don't you _argue_,
and not slip and slide all over creation."

Ah, Tode, if only wiser heads than yours would remember that important
item.

"Well," said this young logician, rising at last from the edge of his
bed, and heaving a bit of a sigh as he did so, "the long and short of it
is, it can't be done--never, any more; and then there comes a thing that
has got to be done right straight, and I've got to go and do it, and
that's the worst of it, and I don't know what to do next, that's a fact;
but that's neither here nor there."

With this extremely lucid explanation of his decision and his
intentions, Tode put on his hat and went to the post-office.

Thus it happened that when Mr. Hastings mail had been delivered as
usual, the boy hesitated, and finally asked with an unusual falter in
his voice:

"Can I see Mr. Hastings a minute?"

"Well, sir," said that gentlema