after that first perfect latin lesson, johnny’s road to success seemed in a measure broken, and though he by no means achieved perfection every time, his failures were less total and humiliating, day by day, and, to use his own beautiful simile about the hat, he began to find “pegs” in his head whereon he could hang his daily stint of latin. but it was still hard work; there was no denying that; and if his affection for his father had not been very strong and true, the task would have been still more difficult. but somehow, whenever mr. leslie came home looking more tired than usual, or turned into a joke one of the many little acts of self-denial and unselfish courtesy which helped to make his home so bright, it seemed to johnny that it would be mean indeed to grumble over this one thing, which he was doing to please his father.
he had been much impressed by the manner in which he had learned that first perfect lesson, for, on the previous sunday, when he had recited the verses which told how the five barley loaves and two small fishes had fed the hungry multitude in the wilderness, he had thought, and said, that it must have been easier for those people who saw the master perform such miracles, to follow him, than it was now for those who must “walk by faith” entirely, with no gracious face and voice to draw them on.
his mother did not contradict him, just then; she rarely did, when he said anything like that; she preferred to wait, and let him find out for himself, with more or less help from her. so she only answered, this time,—
“was the thimble really hidden last night, johnny? you know i was called away before anybody found it, and you were all declaring that this time, you were sure, it couldn’t be ‘in plain sight.’”
johnny laughed, but he looked a little foolish, too, as he answered,—
“why no, mamma—it was perched on the damper of the stove. i declare, that game puzzles me more and more every time we play it; i might as well be an idiot and be done with it! but what made you think of that just now, mamma dear?”
“i suppose it came into my mind because i want you to look a little harder before you let yourself be quite certain about the miracles,” replied his mother, “and i will give you a sort of clue. you know papa’s business is a very absorbing one, and you often hear people wondering how he finds time for all the other things he does, but i never wonder; it seems to me that he gives all his time to the master, and that he is so free from worrying care—so sure he will have time enough for all that is really needful, that he loses none in fretting or hesitating; he just goes right on. there is a dear old saying of the friends that i always like—‘proceed as the way opens.’ now if you will think about it, and about how uses for money, and for all our gifts and talents, come in some way to all who are in earnest about using them rightly, perhaps you will see what i mean. ‘a heart at leisure from itself’ can do a truly wonderful amount of work for other people.”
a dim idea of his mother’s meaning had come into johnny’s mind, even then, and suddenly, after he had done work which he had thought would fill half an hour, in fifteen minutes, a flash of light followed, and he “saw plainly.”
i cannot tell you of all the small chances which came to him daily, but many of them you can guess by looking for your own. he tried hard to remember what his mother had said about willing service and cheerful giving. “oh bother!” was not heard very often, now, and when it was, it was generally followed speedily by some “little deed of kindness” which showed that it had been repented of.
he was rushing home from school one day in one of his “cyclones,” as tiny called the wild charges which he made upon the house when he was really in a hurry. it was a half-holiday, and most of the boys had agreed to go skating together, just as soon as some ten or fifteen mothers could be brought within shouting distance. the ice was lasting unusually late, and the weather was delightfully clear and cold, but everybody knew that a thaw must come before long, in the nature of things, and everybody who skated felt that it really was a sort of duty to make the most of the doomed ice, while it lasted.
johnny was like the irishman’s gun in one respect—he could “shoot round a corner;” but he did not always succeed in hitting anything, as he did to-day. the anything, this time, happened to be jim brady, and as jim was going very nearly as fast as johnny was, neither had breath enough left, after the collision, to say anything for at least a minute. then jim managed to inquire, between his gasps,—
“any lives lost on your side, johnny?”
“no, i b’lieve not,” said johnny, rather feebly, and then they both leaned against the fence, and laughed.
“i was coming after you, johnny,” began jim, and then he stopped to breathe again.
“well, you found me!” said johnny, who, being smaller and lighter than jim, was first to recover from the shock, “but tell me what it is, please, quick, for i’m in a hurry!”
and almost without knowing that he did so, he squared his elbows to run on again. jim saw the motion, and his face clouded over.
“i can’t tell you everything i had to say in half a second, so i’ll not bother you; maybe, i can find somebody else,” and jim began to walk off.
johnny sprang after him, caught his arm, and gave him a little shake, saying as he did so,—
“see here, jim brady, if you don’t stop putting on airs at me like this, i’ll—i’ll—” and he stopped for want of a threat dire enough for the occasion.
“i would,” said jim, dryly, “but if i were you, i’d find out first what airs was—were—and who was putting ’em on. i see you’re in a hurry, and i’m sorry i stopped you. let go of my arm, will you?”
“no, i won’t!” said johnny, “so there now! and if you won’t be decent, and turn ’round, and walk towards home with me, why, i’ll walk along with you till you tell me what you were going to say. i never did see such a—” and again johnny stopped for want of a word that suited him.
jim made no answer, and his face remained sullen, but he turned at once, and the two walked on arm in arm, toward johnny’s home.
“well,” said johnny, presently, “we’re ’most there. are you going to say anything?”
“i wouldn’t, if it was for myself—not if you hung on to me for a week!” and jim’s face worked; johnny even thought his voice trembled a little.
“taffy’s sick,” continued jim, “and i can’t find out what ails him. he says he don’t hurt anywhere, but he won’t eat, and as far as i can make out he don’t sleep much, and he feels as if he was red hot. and all he cares for is when i am with him evenings, and read to him. that old turkess where i have the room sort of looks after him; she knows i’ll look after her if she doesn’t! but it must be lonesome for the little chap all day, and yet i daresn’t lose any more time with him than i do now, or i wouldn’t have the money—i mean—oh, i can’t leave my business for anybody! and i thought, maybe, you’d give him an hour two or three times a week, johnny; so i set a fellow to mind my stand, and if you can come, and your mother doesn’t mind, i’ll show you the way.”
johnny was silent a moment. how the sun shone, and how the pond sparkled and glittered! three or four of the boys, at a distant street corner, beckoned frantically to him with their skates, to hurry him.
perhaps you think johnny must have been very selfish, to hesitate even for a moment, but then, you know, you are looking at him, and not at yourself! before jim’s sensitive pride had time to take fire again, the answer was ready.
“i’ll do it, jim,” said johnny, cordially, “if you’ll wait half a second till i ask mamma—she always likes to know where i am.”
“thank you,” said jim, briefly, and then, with a sudden thought, he asked,—
“have you had your dinner yet?”
“why no! i forgot all about it!” and johnny suddenly realized that he was alarmingly hungry.
“you see,” he added, “i had a big sandwich at recess, and somebody gave me an apple, so i can just ask mamma to save me something, and go right along with you; you can’t be away from your stand all the afternoon, i suppose.”
“you’ll do nothing of the kind!” said jim, firmly, “i’ll wait for you out here, so go in, and eat as much as you can hold. i’m in no hurry whatsomever!”
and jim leaned against the fence with as much composure as if the keen march wind had been a june zephyr.
he felt a little surprise, however, when johnny, without another word, marched into the house and left him there; a surprise which did not last long, for in less than five minutes, mrs. leslie’s hand was on his shoulder, and she was gently pushing him up the steps, and into the dining-room.
“oh please, mrs. leslie!” and jim’s face grew suddenly red, “i’m not fit. i didn’t wait to fix up—i’m not a bit hungry!”
his distress was so evidently real, that mrs. leslie paused, half way to the table.
“i’ll compromise,” she said, laughing, “since you are too proud to come in anything but full dress, you shall hide yourself here, and we’ll pretend you didn’t come in at all!”
she opened the door into the neat, cosey inner kitchen. no one was there, and jim sat down by the fire with a feeling of great relief. for dinner had just been put on table, in the dining-room; tiny, in spotless white apron and shining yellow curls, stood by her chair, and he murmured to himself,—
“i’d ’a’ choked to death, first mouthful!”
the dining-room door was not quite closed, and presently he heard tiny saying,—
“oh, please let me, mamma! i want to—please!”
and then she came softly in with a tempting plate of dinner, which she set upon the table.
“there!” she said, “there’s some of everything there, except the pudding, and i’ll bring you that when we have ours. i’m so glad you came to-day, because there’s a brown betty. i think you’d better sit this way, hadn’t you? then you can look at the fire; it looks nice, such a cold day.”
it was all said and done with such simple sweetness and good-will, that jim’s defences gave way at once.
“thank you, miss tiny,” he said, with the grave politeness which never failed him when he spoke either to her or to her mother, and he sat down at once in the place she had chosen—for worlds he would not have wounded that gentle spirit. and he found it no hardship, after all, to eat the dinner she had brought him; what “growing boy” could have resisted it?
after dinner, when the comforting food had done more than he knew to put him in good-humor, mrs. leslie asked him many questions about taffy, filling a basket as she talked, with jelly and delicate rusks and oranges. a few of the questions were by way of making sure that the place was a safe one for johnny. she meant to go herself, the next day, to see the little boy, but she did not wish to interfere to-day with the arrangement which jim had made. so the two boys went off together, and jim, sure now of johnny’s good-will, and a little ashamed of his own “cantankerousness,” as he called it to himself, talked about taffy all the way, but only as they neared the door of the dreary lodging-house did jim succeed in saying what lay nearest his heart.
“i haven’t told you the worst of it, johnny,” he said, in a troubled voice, from which all the usual mocking good-nature was gone, “the little chap has somehow found out that he’s dying, and—he’s afraid!”
there was no time for more; they were already on the stairs, and johnny gave a sort of groan; who was he to comfort that little trembling soul?
“oh,” he thought, “if mamma were only here!”
