Three People Part 6

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 astonis.h.i.+ng 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 st.u.r.dy, 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 st.u.r.dily 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 G.o.d; 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 b.u.t.terfly. 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 b.u.t.terfly; 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 gla.s.s, 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 s.h.i.+rt! A real, honest white s.h.i.+rt; 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 fas.h.i.+on:

"Jemima Jane! Do you tell the truth, you young upstart in the gla.s.s there? Be you Tode Mall, no mistake? Well now, for the land's sake, a fellow _does_ look better in a s.h.i.+rt, that's as true as whistling. I mean to have a s.h.i.+rt of my own, I do now. S'pose these are mine after I earn 'em. Oh, ho; _me_ earn a s.h.i.+rt for myself. Ain't that rich now?

What you s'pose Jerry would think of that, hey, old fellow in the gla.s.s?

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 gla.s.ses.

There was a little wet sugar left in the bottom of Pliny's gla.s.s, 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: