Sawn Off Part 24

"Yes, father; I could not help his being there. We had never spoken since that dreadful day, when Uncle Max--"

"Yes," said d.i.c.k hastily: "go on."

"But he has come and watched me every day, father, at a distance, and seen me go to and from the warehouse."

"Bless him!" muttered d.i.c.k.

"And when I shrieked out," continued Jessie, with a look of pride lighting up her face, "Tom rushed in; and, oh, father, it was very dreadful!"

"What was?" said d.i.c.k hoa.r.s.ely, for he was evidently suffering from suppressed pa.s.sion.

"Tom!"

"Mr Thomas Fraser, my gal?"

"Mr Thomas beat him dreadfully," continued Jessie, "till he cried for mercy; and dear Tom--"

"Mr Thomas, my gal," said d.i.c.k, correcting.

"Made him go down upon his knees and beg my pardon, and then he brought me away."

"G.o.d bless him!" said d.i.c.k fervently, "But it's Mr Thomas Fraser, my dear; and he's nothing to you but a brave, true young fellow, who acted like a man. But, that it should come to this!" he groaned, striding up and down the room. "This is being a poor man, and having to eat other people's bread. Oh, it's dreadful, dreadful! If she'd been rich Max's daughter, mother, no one would have dared to insult her; and as for this blackguard, I'll--"

He caught up the hammer, and had reached the door, when Jessie and her mother ran and clung to him, Mrs Shingle locking the door till he promised to be content with the castigation the fellow had received.

"Mr Tom would be sure to beat him well, father," said Mrs Shingle.

"Well, that is one comfort," said d.i.c.k, cooling a little. "I should have nearly killed any blackguard who had touched you. Well, mother,"

he continued, "when things comes to the worst they mends; but it don't seem to be so with us any more than with shoes, unless some one mends 'em, I mean to mend ours somehow. `Why don't you try?' every one says.

Well, I do try."

Just then the boy came back, and making a sign to Jessie and his wife not to let him see their trouble, all tried to resume their work, but in a despairing, half-hearted manner, in the midst of which, in a doleful, choking voice, d.i.c.k began to sing over his sewing, while the boy seemed to keep time with the hammer with which he was driving in nails.

"For we always are so jolly, oh-- So jolly, oh--so jolly, oh--so jolly--"

sang d.i.c.k; but he had soon done, and his voice trailed off into a dismal wail, as, unable to contain themselves, Jessie's face went down over her sewing machine and Mrs Shingle hid hers in her ap.r.o.n.

"My G.o.d! what can I do?" the poor fellow moaned, as, with a catching in his breath, he glanced at those most dear to him. "I hav'n't a shilling in the world, and the more I try--the more I try--"

He caught up a hammer savagely, and began to beat vigorously at the leather, forcing himself to sing again, as if he had not seen the trouble of his wife and child--

"To get his fill, the poor boy did stoop, And, awful to state, he was biled in the soup."

"Oh, master, please, master, don't sing that dreadful song," cried Union Jack, with a dismal howl. "I can't bear it: please, master, I can't bear it, indeed."

"Hold your tongue, you young ruffian," cried d.i.c.k, with a pitiful attempt at being comic. "It's a good job we've got you in stock; for if things do come to the worst, you'll make a meal for many a day to come."

"Oh, please, don't talk like that, master," cried the boy.

"d.i.c.k, dear," whispered his wife, "don't tease the poor lad: he half believes you."

"I'm not teasing of him, mother," said d.i.c.k aloud; "only it's a pity to have to boil him all at once, instead of by degrees. Here, get out the cold tea, mother, and let's take to drinking--have a miserable day, and enjoy ourselves. Jessie, my gal, you'll rust that machine raining on it like that. Come, mother, rouse up; it'll all come right in the end."

"I was not crying, d.i.c.k," said Mrs Shingle,--"not much."

"Yes, you were," he cried, with a rollicking air of gaiety. "I saw two drips go on your ap.r.o.n and one in that child's shoe. Come, cheer up."

There was a pause then, during which all again tried hard to work; but the knowledge that they were about to turn out of the little home, and that their prospects were so bitter, combined with sorrow for their child, made a sob or two burst from Mrs Shingle's breast, while even the boy kept on sniffing.

"Here, I can't stand this," groaned d.i.c.k at last, getting up and walking about the room. "I don't spend no money, mother--only a half-ounce or two of tobacco for myself, and one now and then for poor old Hopper, who seems to be cutting us now we are so down. You don't spend much, mother: and it's as true as gorspel about shoemakers' wives being the worst shod; while as for me, I haven't had a real new pair this ten years."

"Don't take on about it, d.i.c.k," said Mrs Shingle, making a brave effort to smile. And she took and patted her husband's hand affectionately.

"I wouldn't care, mother, if things were better for you two; and I can't see as it's my extravagance as does it."

"Oh, no, no, d.i.c.k dear."

"One half-pint of beer this month, and it's the beer as is the ruin of such as me," he said, with a comical look--"and one screw of tobacco this week, and the paper as was round it, for thickness, why, it was like leather."

"Don't, don't mind, d.i.c.k," whispered Mrs Shingle. "We'll sell the things, and clear ourselves, and start free again."

"It's all right, mother," he cried, with a kind of gulp. "It's got to the worst pitch now--see if it ain't. Don't make it rain indoors," he added, in a remonstrating tone; "'specially when we've only one umbrella in the house, and it's broke. Here, Jessie, my gal, what's that song you sing about the rain?"

"`There's sunshine after rain,' father," said Jessie, looking up in so piteous a way that d.i.c.k had hard work to keep back a sob; but with another struggle to drive off his cares, he cried--

"To be sure. `There's sunshine after rain, my boys; there's sunshine after rain,'" he sang, making up words, and a peculiar doleful tune of his own, as he set-to again and hammered vigorously at a piece of leather. "Work away, Union Jack, and sing, you dog--`There's sunshine af--aft--after--'"

The hammer fell at his feet, and he rose once more.

"Go away, Jack, my boy," he said, in a different tone of voice.

"No, no, master: don't send me back," cried the boy pa.s.sionately. "I'm very sorry; and I'll try so--so very hard not to be hungry."

"Hush, my boy, hush!" said d.i.c.k softly.

"And when I am, master, I'll never--never say I am. Don't send me away."

"Tell him--tell him, mother," whispered d.i.c.k, who had been so near breaking down before that the boy's pa.s.sionate appeal completely unmanned him.

"There's n.o.body to care for there, master, and it's all whitewash. Miss Jessie, please ask him not to send me away."

"Come here, Jack," said Mrs Shingle.

"No, no, missus; I'll stop here on bread and water--I will, missus.

Please let me stay!"

"I--I only want you to go outside for a bit, Jack," said d.i.c.k, with his lips quivering. "Go out and play, my boy."