Ben Blair Part 2

He waited a moment. "Won't you let me help myself, then, mamma?"

The eyes of the mother moistened.

"Mamma," the child repeated, gently shaking his mother's shoulder, "won't you let me help myself?"

"There's nothing for you to eat, sonny, nothing at all."

The blue child-eyes widened; the serious little face puckered.

"Why ain't there anything to eat, mamma?"

"Because there isn't, bubby."

The reasoning was conclusive, and the child accepted it without further parley; but soon another interrogation took form in his active brain.

"It's cold, mamma," he announced. "Aren't you going to build a fire?"

Again the mother coughed, and a flush of red appeared upon her cheeks.

"No," she answered with a sigh.

"Why not, mamma?"

There was not the slightest trace of irritation in the answering voice, although it was clearly an effort to speak.

"I can't get up this morning, little one."

Mysteries were multiplying, but the small Benjamin was equal to the occasion. With a spring he was out of bed, and in another moment was stepping gingerly upon the cold bare floor.

"I'm going to build a fire for you, mamma," he announced.

The homely mongrel whined a welcome to the little lad's appearance, and with his tail beat a friendly tattoo upon the kennel floor; but the woman spoke no word. With impa.s.sive face she watched the shivering little figure as it hurried into its clothes, and then, with celerity born of experience, went about the making of a fire. Suddenly a hitherto unthought-of possibility flashed into the boy's mind, and leaving his work he came back to the bunk.

"Are you sick, mamma?" he asked.

Instantly the woman's face softened.

"Yes, laddie," she answered gently.

Carefully as a nurse, the small protector replaced the cover at his mother's back, where his exit had left a gap; then returned to his work.

"You must have it warm here," he said.

Not until the fire in the old cylinder makeshift was burning merrily did he return to his patient; then, standing straight before her, he looked down with an air of childish dignity that would have been comical had it been less pathetic.

"Are you very sick, mamma?" he said at last, hesitatingly.

"I am dying, little son." She spoke calmly and impersonally, without even a quickening of the breath. The thin hand, lying on the tattered cover, did not stir.

"Mamma!" the old-man face of the boy tightened, as, bending over the bed, he pressed his warm cheek against hers, now growing cold and white.

At the mouth of the kennel two bright eyes were watching curiously.

Their owner wriggled the tip of his muzzle inquiringly, but the action brought no response. Then the muzzle went into the air, and a whine, long-drawn and insistent, broke the silence.

The boy rose. There was not a trace of moisture in his eyes, but the uncannily aged face seemed older than before. He went over to a peg where his clothes were hanging and took down the frayed garment that answered as an overcoat. From the bunk there came another cough, quickly m.u.f.fled; but he did not turn. Cap followed coat, mittens cap; then, suddenly remembering, he turned to the stove and scattered fresh chips upon the glowing embers.

"Good-bye, mamma," said the boy.

The mother had been watching him, although she gave no sign. "Where are you going, sonny?" she asked.

"To town, mamma. Someone ought to know you're sick."

There was a moment's pause, wherein the mongrel whined impatiently.

"Aren't you going to kiss me first, Benjamin?"

The little lad retraced his steps, until, bending over, his lips touched those of his mother. As he did so, the hand which had lain upon the coverlet shifted to his arm detainingly.

"How were you thinking of going, son?"

A look of surprise crept into the boy's blue eyes. A question like this, with its obvious answer, was unusual from his matter-of-fact mother. He glanced at her gravely.

"I'm going afoot, mamma."

"It's ten miles to town, Benjamin."

"But you and I walked it once together. Don't you remember?"

An expression the lad did not understand flashed over the white face of Jennie Blair. Well she remembered that other occasion, one of many like the present, when she and the little lad had gone in company to the settlement of which Mick Kennedy's place was a part, in search of someone whom after ten hours' delay they had succeeded in bringing home,--the remnant and vestige of what was once a man.

"Yes, I know we did, Bennie."

The boy waited a moment longer, then straightened himself.

"I think I'd better be starting now."

But instead of loosening its hold, the hand upon the boy's shoulder tightened. The eyes of the two met.

"You're not going, sonny. I'm glad you thought of it, but I can't let you go."

Again there was silence for so long that the waiting dog, impatient of the delay, whined in soft protest.

"Why not, mamma?"

"Because, Benjamin, it's too late now. Besides, there wouldn't be a person there who would come out to help me."

The boy's look of perplexity returned.

"Not if they knew you were very sick, mamma?"