"Where do you live?where do you take your meals and sleep?""Why,as to that,I have not much time for eating and drinking.
Generally I eat my dinner as I go along the road,where there's lots of blackberries by way of pudding--which is grand!Supper,when I do get it,I like best on this bark-heap,after the men are away,and the tan-yard's clear.Your father lets me stay.""And where is your lodging,then?Where do you sleep?"He hesitated--coloured a little."To tell the truth--anywhere I can.
Generally,here."
"What,out-of-doors?"
"Just so."
I was much shocked.To sleep out-of-doors seemed to me the very lowest ebb of human misery:so degrading,too--like a common tramp or vagabond,instead of a decent lad.
"John,how can you--why do you--do such a thing?""I'll tell you,"said he,sitting down beside me in a dogged way,as if he had read my thoughts,guessed at my suspicions,and was determined to show that he feared neither--that he would use his own judgment,and follow his own will,in spite of anybody."Look here.
I get three shillings a week,which is about fivepence a day;out of that I eat threepence--I'm a big,growing lad,and it's hard to be hungry.There's twopence left to pay for lodging.I tried it once--twice--at the decentest place I could find,but--"here an expression of intolerable disgust came over the boy's face--"I don't intend to try that again.I was never used to it.Better keep my own company and the open air.Now you see.""Oh,John!"
"Nay--there's no need to be sorry.You don't know how comfortable it is to sleep out of doors;and so nice to wake in the middle of the night and see the stars shining over your head.""But isn't it very cold?"
"No--not often.I scoop out a snug little nest in the bark and curl up in it like a dormouse,wrapped in this rug,which one of the men gave me.Besides,every morning early I take a plunge and a swim in the stream,and that makes me warm all day."I shivered--I who feared the touch of cold water.Yet there with all his hardships,he stood before me,the model of healthy boyhood.
Alas!I envied him.
But this trying life,which he made so light of,could not go on.
"What shall you do when winter comes?"
John looked grave."I don't know:I suppose I shall manage somehow--like the sparrows,"he answered,perceiving not how apposite his illustration was.For truly he seemed as destitute as the birds of the air,whom ONE feedeth,when they cry to Him.
My question had evidently made him thoughtful;he remained silent a good while.
At last I said:"John,do you remember the woman who spoke so sharply to you in the alley that day?""Yes.I shall never forget anything which happened that day,"he answered,softly.
"She was my nurse once.She is not such a bad woman,though trouble has sharpened her temper.Her biggest boy Bill,who is gone off for a soldier,used to drive your cart,you know.""Yes?"said John,interrogatively;for I was slow in putting forth my plans--that is,as much of them as it was needful he should know.
"Sally is poor--not so very poor,though.Your twopence a night would help her;and I dare say,if you'll let me speak to her,you might have Bill's attic all to yourself.She has but one other lad at home:it's worth trying for.""It is indeed.You are very kind,Phineas."He said no more words than these--but their tone spoke volumes.
