A Rough Shaking, George MacDonald [highly illogical behavior txt] 📗

him, and that dear old horse that was almost past work, and was always ready to do his best.-I'm afraid they've killed him by now!" he added, with another sigh.

"But beasts 'ain't got souls, and you can't love them. And if you could, that's no reason why you should see them again."

"I do love them, and perhaps they have souls!" rejoined Clare.

"You mustn't believe that! It's quite shocking. It's nowhere in the Bible."

"Is everything that is not in the Bible shocking, sir?"

"Well, I won't say that; but you're not to believe it."

"I suppose you don't like animals, sir! Are you afraid of their going to the same place as you when they die?"

"I wouldn't have a boy about me that held such an unscriptural notion! The Bible says-the spirit of a man that goeth upward, and the spirit of a beast that goeth downward!"

"Is that in the Bible, sir?"

"It is," answered the baker with satisfaction, thinking he had proved his point.

"I'm so glad!" returned Clare. "I didn't know there was anything about it in the Bible! Then when I die I shall only have to go down somewhere, and look for them till I find them!"

The baker was silenced for a moment.

"It's flat atheism!" he cried. "Get out of my shop! What is the world coming to!"

Clare turned and went out.

But though a bilious, the baker was not an unreasonable or unjust man except when what he had been used to believe all his life was contradicted. Clare had not yet shut the door when he repented. He was a good man, though not quite in the secret of the universe. He vaulted over the counter, and opened the door with such a ringing of its appended bell as made heavy-hearted Clare turn before he heard his voice. The long spare white figure appeared on the threshold, framed in the doorway.

"Hi!" it shouted.

Clare went meekly back.

"I've just remembered hearing-but mind I know nothing, and pledge myself to nothing--"

He paused.

"I didn't say I was sure about it," returned Clare, thinking he referred to the fate of the animals, "but I fear I'm to blame for not being sure."

"Come, come!" said the baker, with a twist of his mouth that expressed disgust, "hold your tongue, and listen to me.-I did hear, as I was saying, that Mr. Maidstone, down the town, had one of his errand-boys laid up with scarlet fever. I'll take you to him, if you like. Perhaps he'll have you,-though I can't say you look respectable!"

"I 'ain't had much chance since I left home, sir. I had a bit of soap, but--"

He bethought him that he had better say nothing about his family. Tommy had picked his pocket of the soap the night before, and tried to eat it, and Clare had hidden it away: he wanted it to wash the baby with as soon as he could get some warm water; but when he went to find it to wash his own face, it was gone. He suspected Tommy, but before long he had terrible ground for a different surmise.

"You see, sir," he resumed, "I had other things to think of. When your tummy's empty, you don't think about the rest of you-do you, sir?"

The baker could not remember having ever been more than decently, healthily hungry in his life; and here he had been rough on a well-bred boy too hungry to wash his face! Perhaps the word one of these little ones came to him. He had some regard for him who spoke it, though he did talk more about him on Sundays than obey him in the days between.

"I don't know, my boy," he answered. "Would you like a piece of bread?"

"I'm not much in want of it at this moment," replied Clare, "but I should be greatly obliged if you would let me call for it by and by. You see, sir, when a man has no work, he can't help having no money!"

"A man!" thought the baker. "God pity you, poor monkey!"

He called to some one to mind the shop, removed his apron and put on a coat, shut the door, and went down the street with Clare.


Chapter XXX.

The draper.


At the shop of a draper and haberdasher, where one might buy almost anything sold, Clare's new friend stopped and walked in. He asked to see Mr. Maidstone, and a shopman went to fetch him from behind. He came out into the public floor.

"I heard you were in want of a boy, sir," said the baker, who carried himself as in the presence of a superior; and certainly fine clothes and a gold chain and ring did what they could to make the draper superior to the baker.

"Hm!" said Mr. Maidstone, looking with contempt at Clare.

"I rather liked the look of this poor boy, and ventured to bring him on approval," continued the baker timidly. "He ain't much to look at, I confess!"

"Hm!" said the draper again. "He don't look promising!"

"He don't. But I think he means performing," said the baker, with a wan smile.

"Donnow, I'm sure! If he 'appened to wash his face, I could tell better!"

Clare thought he had washed it pretty well that morning because of his cut, though he had, to be sure, done it without soap, and had been at rather dirty work since!

"He says he's been too hungry to wash his face," answered the baker.

"Didn't 'ave his 'ot water in time, I suppose!-Will you answer for him, Mr. Ball?"

"I can't, Mr. Maidstone-not one way or another. I simply was taken with him. I know nothing about him."

Here one of the shopmen came up to his master, and said,

"I heard Mr. Ball's own man yesterday accuse this very boy of taking a loaf from his cart."

"Yesterday!" thought Clare; "it seems a week ago!"

"Oh! this is the boy, is it?" said the baker. "You see I didn't know him! All the same, I don't believe he took the loaf."

"Indeed I didn't, sir! Another boy took it who didn't know better, and I took it from him, and was putting it back on the cart when the man turned round and saw me, and wouldn't listen to a word I said. But a working-man believed me, and bought the loaf, and gave it between us."

"A likely story!" said the draper.

"I've heard that much," said the baker, "and I believe it. At least I have no reason to believe my man against him, Mr. Maidstone. That same night I discovered he had been cheating me to a merry tune. I discharged him this morning."

"Well, he certainly don't look a respectable boy," said the draper, who naturally, being all surface himself, could read no deeper than clothes; "but I'm greatly in want of one to carry out parcels, and I don't mind if I try him. If he do steal anything, he'll be caught within the hour!"

"Oh, thank you, sir!" said Clare.

"You shall have sixpence a day," Mr. Maidstone continued, "-not a penny more till I'm sure you're an honest boy."

"Thank you, sir," iterated Clare. "Please may I run home first? I won't be long. I 'ain't got any other clothes, but--"

"Hold your long tongue. Don't let me hear it wagging in my establishment. Go and wash your face and hands." Clare turned to the baker.

"Please, sir," he said softly, "may I go back with you and get the piece of bread?"

"What! begging already!" cried Mr. Maidstone.

"No, no, sir," interposed the baker. "I promised him a piece of bread. He did not ask for it."

The good man was pleased at his success, and began to regard Clare with the favour that springs in the heart of him who has done a good turn to another through a third. Had he helped him out of his own pocket, he might not have been so much pleased. But there had been no loss, and there was no risk! He had beside shown his influence with a superior!

"I am so much obliged to you, sir!" said Clare as they went away together. "I cannot tell you how much!"

He was tempted to open his heart and reveal the fact that three people would live on the sixpence a day which the baker's kindness had procured him, but prudence was fast coming frontward, and he saw that no one must know that they were in that house! If it were known, they would probably be turned out at once, which would go far to be fatal to them as a family. For, if he had to pay for lodgings, were it no more than the tramps paid Tommy's grandmother, sixpence a day would not suffice for bare shelter. So he held his tongue.

"Thank me by minding Mr. Maidstone's interests," returned his benefactor. "If you don't do well by him, the blame will come upon me."

"I will be very careful, sir," answered Clare, who was too full of honesty to think of being honest; he thought only of minding orders.

They reached the shop; the baker gave him a small loaf, and he hurried home with it The joy in his heart, spread over the days since he left the farm, would have given each a fair amount of gladness.

Taking heed that no one saw him, he darted through the passage to the well, got across it better this time, rushed over the wall like a cat, fell on the other side from the unsteadiness of his potsherds, rose and hurried into the house, with the feeble wail of his baby in his ears.


Chapter XXXI.

An addition to the family.


The door to the kitchen was open: Tommy must be in the garden again! When he reached the nursery, as he called it to himself, he found the baby as he had left her, but moaning and wailing piteously. She looked as if she had cried till she was worn out. He threw down the clothes to take her. A great rat sprang from the bed. On one of the tiny feet the long thin toes were bleeding and raw. The same instant arose a loud scampering and scuffling and squealing in the room. Clare's heart quivered. He thought it was a whole army of rats. He was not a bit afraid of them himself, but assuredly they were not company for baby! Already they had smelt food in the house, and come in a swarm! What was to be done with the little one? If he stayed at home with her, she must die of hunger; if he left her alone, the rats would eat her! They had begun already! Oh, that wretch, Tommy! Into the water-but he should go!

I hope their friends will not take it ill that, all his life after, Clare felt less kindly disposed toward rats than toward the rest of the creatures of God.

But things were not nearly so bad as Clare thought: the scuffling came from quite another cause. It suddenly ceased, and a sharp scream followed. Clare turned with the baby in his arms. Almost at his feet, gazing up at him, the rat hanging limp from his jaws, stood the little castaway mongrel he had