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CHAPTER II.
THE MAN OF LABOR

The accommodating reader will now be kind enough to accompany me to a far different place from that in which the foregoing dialogue was held. With an effort of the will – rapid as a spiritual manifestation – we are there. You see, it is an exceedingly small habitation, built entirely of wood, and, excepting that beautiful geranium-plant on one window, and a fine, sleek, contented-looking puss winking lazily on the other – both, let me tell you, convincing evidence that the household deities are worshipped on the hearth within – for wheresoever you see flowers cultivated outside of an humble house, look for cleanliness, and domestic comfort on the inside – excepting those two things, but little of ornament is visible. Kind people dwell within, you may know; for, see, the placid puss don't condescend to change her position as we near her; her experience hasn't taught her to dread an enemy in our species.

"Lift the latch; 'tis but a primitive fastening – nay! don't hesitate; you know we are invisible. There! you are now in the principal apartment. See how neat and tidy everything is. The floor, to be sure, is uncarpeted; but then it is sedulously clean. Look at those white window-curtains; at that well-patched table-cloth, with every fold as crisp as though it had been just pressed; the dresser over there, each article upon it bright as industry and the genius of happy home can make it. – What an appetizing odor steams in from yonder kitchen! and listen to those dear little birds, one in each window, carrying on a quiet, demure conversation, in their own sweet way! Do they not say, and does not every quiet nook echo:

"Though poor and lowly, there is all of Heaven that Heaven vouchsafes to man, beneath this humble roof; for it is the sphere of her who is God's choicest blessing – that world angel – a good, pure-hearted, loving WIFE."

But hark! who is that singing? You can hear him, although he is yet a street off; and so can she who is busy within there, you can tell by that little scream of joy.

That is Tom Bobalink, the honest truckman, and the owner of this little nest of contentment.

But, if you please, I will resume my narrative my own way, for you are a very uncommunicative companion, friend reader, and it is impossible for me to discover whether you like the scene we have been looking at, or do not.

In a few moments, Tom rushed into the little room, his face all a-glow with healthy exercise, and a joyous song at his lips.

"Hello! pet, where are you?" he cried, putting down his hat and whip.

"Here am I, Tom!" answered as cheerful a voice as ever bubbled up from a heart, full of innocence and love.

"Din in a sec," meaning dinner in a second; for "Tom and Pol," in their confidential chats, abbreviated long words occasionally; and I give this explanation as a sort of guide to their pet peculiarity.

"Hurry up, Polly!" cried Tom, with a good-humored laugh, "for I'm jolly hungry, I tell you. Good gracious! I've heard of people's taking all sorts of thing to get up an appetite; if they'd only have the sense to take nothing, and keep on at it, it's wonderful what an effect it would have on a lazy digestion."

Polly now entered with two or three smoking dishes, which it did not take long to place in order. Now, I should dearly like to give you a description of my heroine – aye! heroine – for it is in her station that such are to be found – noble spirits, who battle with privation and untoward fate – smoothing the rugged pathway of life, and infusing fresh energy into the world-exhausted heart. Oh! what a crown of glory do they deserve, who wear a smile of content upon their lips, while the iron hand of adversity is pressing on their hearts, concealing a life of martyrdom beneath the heroism of courageous love.

I say I should like to give you some slight description of Polly's external appearance, but that I choose rather that my readers should take their own individual ideas of perfect loveliness, and clothe her therein; for, inasmuch as she is the type of universal excellence, in mind and character, I wish her to be so in form and beauty.

"What have you got for me, Polly?" says Tom.

"It ain't much," she replied; "cos you know we can't afford lux'es; but it's such a sweet little neck of mut, and lots of wedges."

"Gollopshus!" says Tom; "out with it! I'm as hungry as an unsuccessful office-seeker."

"Office-seekers! what are they, Tom?"

"Why, Polly, they are – faith, I don't know what to compare them to; you've heard of those downy birds, that when some other has got hisself a comfortable nest, never rests until he pops into it. But them's politics, Polly, and ain't prop for wom to meddle with."

"I agree with you there, Tom, dear; there's enough to occupy a woman's time and attention inside of her house, without bothering her heart with what's going on outside."

"Bless your homey little heart!" cried Tom, heartily. "Oh! Polly, darling, if there were a few more good wives, there would be a great many less bad husbands. This is glorious! If we could only be sure that we had as good a dinner as this all our lives, Pol, how happy I should be; but I often think, my girl, that if any accident should befall me, what would become of you."

"Now, don't talk that way, Thomas; nor don't repine at your condition; it might be much worse."

"I can't help it. I try not; but it's impossible, when I see people dressed up and tittevated out, as I go jogging along with my poor old horse and truck – I envy them in my heart, Pol – I know it's wrong; but it's there, and it would be worse to deny it."

"Could any of those fine folks enjoy their dinner better than you did, Tom?" said Polly, with a cheering smile.

"No, my girl!" shouted he, and the joy spread over his face again – "not if they had forty courses. But eating isn't all, Pol," he continued, growing suddenly serious once more. "This living from hand to mouth – earning with hard labor every crust we put into it – never seeing the blessed face of a dollar, that isn't wanted a hundred ways by our necessities – is rather hard."

"Ah! Tom, and thankful ought we to be that we have health to earn that dollar. Think of the thousands of poor souls that are worse off than ourselves! Never look above your own station with envy, Thomas; but below it with gratitude."

It was at this moment that there appeared at the open door, a poor, wretched-looking individual, evidently an Irishman, and, from the singularity of his dress, only just arrived. He said not a word, but upon his pale cheek was visibly printed a very volume of misery.

"Hello! friend, what the devil do you want?" asked Tom.

"Don't speak so, Thomas. He's sick and in distress," said Polly, laying her finger on his mouth. "There! suppose you were like that?"

"What? a Paddy!" replied the other, with a jolly laugh; "don't mention it!" then calling to the poor stranger, who was resignedly walking away; "Come on Irish!" he cried. "Do you want anything?"

"Av you plaze, sir," answered the Irishman, "I'd like to rest meself."

"Sit down, poor fellow!" said Polly, dusting a chair, and handing it towards him.

"I don't mane that, ma'm; a lean o' the wall, an' an air o' the fire'll do. The blessin's on ye for lettin' me have it!" so saying, he placed himself near the cheerful fire-place, and warmed his chilled frame.

"A big lump of a fellow like you, wouldn't it be better for you to be at work than lounging about in idleness?" said Tom.

"Indeed, an' its thrue for ye, sir, it would so; but where is a poor boy to find it?"

"Oh! anywhere – everywhere."

"Bedad, sir, them's exactly the places I've been lookin' for it, for the last three weeks; but there was nobody at home. I hunted the work while I had the stringth to crawl afther it, an' now, av it was to come, I'm afear'd that I haven't the stringth to lay howld ov it."

"Are you hungry?" inquired Polly.

"I'm a trifle that way inclined, ma'm," he replied, with a semi-comic expression.

"Poor fellow, here, sit down and eat," said Polly, hurriedly diving into the savory stew, and forking up a fine chop, which she handed to the hungry stranger.

"I'd relish it betther standin', if you plaze, ma'm," said he, pulling out a jack-knife and attacking the viands with vigorous appetite, exclaiming, "May the Heavens bless you for this good act; sure it's the poor man that's the poor man's friend, afther all. You've saved me, sowl and body this blessed day. I haven't begged yet, but it was comin' on me strong. I looked into the eyes of the quality folks, but they carried their noses so high they couldn't see the starvation that was in my face, and I wouldn't ax the poor people for fear they were worse off than meself."

"Ain't you sorry, Thomas, for what you said just now?" inquired Polly of her husband.

"No," he replied, striking his fist on the table. "I'm more discontented than ever, to think that a few hundred scoundrel schemers, or fortunate fools, should monopolize the rights of millions; isn't it devilish hard that I can't put my hand in my pocket and make this poor fellow's heart jump for joy."

"Point out to him where he can get some employment, Thomas, and his heart will be continually jumping," replied Polly.

By this time the poor stranger had finished his extempore meal, and shut up his pocket-knife, which he first carefully wiped on the tail of his coat. "May God bless you for this," said he. "I'm stronger now. I'll go an' hunt for a job; may-be luck won't be a stepfather to me all my days."

"Stop," cried Tom, "suppose I were to give you something to do, what would you say?"

"Faix, I wouldn't say much, sir," said the Irishman, "but I'd do it."

"Come along with me, then, and if I get any job, I'll get you to help me."

"Oh, then, may long life attend you for puttin' fresh blood in my veins," responded the excited Milesian, giving his already curiously bad hat a deliberate punch in the crown, to show his gratitude and delight.

"Bless his noble, honest, loving heart," cried Polly, as Tom, having impressed his usual kiss upon her lips, started to his labor again. "If it were not for those little fits of discontent every now and then, what a man he'd be; but we can't be all perfect; don't I catch myself thinking silks and satins sometimes, instead of cottons and calicoes? and I'll be bound, if the truth was known, the great folks that wear nothing else but grand things, don't behave a bit better, but keep longing for something a little grander still, so he mustn't be blamed, nor he shan't, neither, in my hearing."

CHAPTER III.
THE BOARDING-HOUSE

Turn we now to the highly-genteel establishment where Henry Travers and his young wife are now domiciliated, presided over by a little more than middle-aged, severe-looking personage, who rejoiced in the euphonious name of Grimgriskin; her temper, phraseology, and general disposition may be better illustrated by the conversation which is now going on between her and her two unfortunate inmates. The mid-day accumulation of scraps, which was dignified by the name of dinner, but just over, Henry Travers, in his small, uncomfortable bed-room, was ruminating upon the darkness of his present destiny, when a sharp knock at his door admonished him that he was about to receive his usual dunning visit from his amiable landlady.

"Come in," he gasped, with the articulation of a person about to undergo a mild species of torture.

"You'll excuse me, good people," said Grimgriskin, "for the intrusion; but business is business, and if one don't attend to one's business, it's highly probable one's business will make unto itself wings, and, in a manner of speaking, fly away: not that I want to make you feel uncomfortable. I flatter myself, in this establishment, nobody need be under such a disagreeable apprehension; but houses won't keep themselves, at least I never knew any so to do. Lodgings is lodgings, and board is board; moreover, markets – specially at this season of the year – may reasonably be said to be markets; beef and mutton don't jump spontaneously into one's hands; promiscuous-like, neither do the hydrants run tea and coffee – at least as far as my knowledge of hydrants goes."

"The plain sense of all this is" —

"Exactly what I am coming to," interrupted the voluble hostess. "I'm a woman of few words; but those few, such as they are, I'm proud to say, are generally to the purpose. I make it a point to send in my bills regularly every month, and I presume that it's not an unreasonable stretch of imagination to expect them to be paid. Now, for the last three months they have come up to you receipted, and down to me with what one might call the autographical corner torn off. Now, as it is not in my nature to make any one feel uncomfortable, and being a woman of very few words, I would merely intimate to you that rents is rents – and, moreover, must be paid – and mine, I am sorry to observe, is not a singular exception in such respect."

"My dear Mrs. Grim" —

"One moment!" interposed the woman of few words. "Perhaps you may not be aware of the circumstance, but I have my eyes open – and, moreover, my ears – whispers is whispers, and I have heard something that might make you uncomfortable; but as that is not my principle, I won't repeat it; but talkers, you know, will be talkers, and boarders can never be anything else in the world but boarders."

"What have they dared to say of us?" inquired Henry.

"Nothing – oh! nothing to be repeated – dear, no! I'm proud to observe that my boarders pay regularly every month, and are therefore highly respectable; and respectable boarders make a respectable house, and I wouldn't keep anything else. Thank Heaven, I have that much consideration for my own respectability!"

"May I be permitted to ask what all this amounts to?" asked Henry, with commendable resignation.

"Just two hundred dollars," sharply replied Mrs. Grimgriskin; "being eighty for board, and one hundred and twenty for extras. I'm a woman of few words" —

"And I'm a man of less," said Henry, "I can't pay it."

"I had my misgivings," cried the landlady, tartly, "notwithstanding your boast of being connected with the rich Mr. Granite. Allow me to say, sir," she continued, seating herself upon a chair, "I've just sent for a hackman to take your trunks away, and I mean to retain the furniture until some arrangement is made."

"May I come in?" murmured a small, but apparently well-known voice at the door, from the alacrity with which Henry's poor, young wife rushed to open it, admitting old Sterling, the clerk.

"Let me look in your eyes," cried she; "is there any hope?"

Sterling shook his head.

"No – no more!"

"Heaven help us!" she exclaimed, as she tottered back to her seat.

"Heaven has helped you, my bright bird," said Sterling. "I only shook my head to make your joy the greater."

"What say you?" exclaimed Travers; "has that stony heart relented?"

"It is not a stony heart," replied Sterling; "I am ashamed of you for saying so. It's a good, generous heart. It has made mine glow with long-forgotten joy this day."

"Does he give us relief?" inquired Henry.

"He does," said the old man, the enthusiasm of generous happiness lighting up his features; "great, enduring relief. What do you think of five thousand dollars?"

"You dream, I dream!" cried Travers, starting up in astonishment; while Mrs. Grimgriskin, smoothing her unamiable wrinkles, and her apron at the same time, at the mention of so respectable a sum, came forward, saying, in her newest-lodger voice —

"You'll excuse me; but I'm a woman of few words. I hope you won't take anything I've said as at all personal to you, but only an endeavor, as far as in me lies, to keep up the credit of my own establishment; as for that little trifle between us, of course you can take your own time about that." So saying, and with a profusion of unnoticed courtesies, she quitted the room.

She had scarcely done so, when, with a deep groan of agony, Sterling pressed his hand against his head, and staggered to a chair. In an instant, Henry and his wife were by his side.

"What is the matter, my dear Sterling?" cried Henry.

"Don't come near me," replied the old clerk, the very picture of despair and wretchedness; "I am the destroyer of your peace, and of my own, for ever. Oh! why was I allowed to see this dreadful day? Curse me, Travers! Bellow in my blunted ear, that my vile sense may drink it in. I've lost it – lost it!"

"Not the money?" exclaimed Henry and his wife at a breath.

"That's right! kill me – kill me! I deserve it!" continued Sterling, in an agony of grief. "Oh! careless, guilty, unhappy old man, that in your own fall must drag down all you love, to share your ruin! lost – lost – lost, for ever!"

"Forgive even the appearance of injustice, my good, kind old friend," soothingly observed Travers. "It is I who am the doomed one. There is no use in striving against destiny."

"Don't, Henry, don't!" gasped the old clerk, through his fast-falling tears. "This kindness is worse than your reproof. Let me die – let me die! I am not fit to live!" Suddenly starting to his feet, he cried: "I'll run back – perhaps I may find it. Oh! no – no! I cannot; my old limbs, braced up by the thought of bringing you happiness, are weakened by the effect of this terrible reaction!"

"Come – come, old friend, take it not so much to heart!" said Travers, cheering him as well as he could. "There, lean upon me; we'll go and search for it together, and even if it be not found, the loss is not a fatal one, so long as life and health remain."

"You say this but to comfort me, and in your great kindness of heart, dear, dear boy!" cried Sterling, as he rose from the chair, and staggered out to retrace his steps, in the hope of regaining that which had been lost.

CHAPTER IV.
THE PIECE OF LUCK

It so happened that the very truckman who was sent to take Henry's trunks, was our friend Bobolink, who was plying in the vicinity, and as it was his first job, he was anxious enough to get it accomplished; therefore, a few minutes before Sterling came out, he and his protégé, Bryan, the Irishman, trotted up to the door.

"There! away with you up, and get the trunks," said Bobolink; "I'll wait for you here."

Bryan timidly rung at the bell, and entered. In the meantime, Tom stood at his horse's head, pulling his ears, and having a little confidential chat. Taking out his wallet, he investigated its contents.

"Only fifty cents," he exclaimed, shrugging his shoulders, "and this job will make a dollar – that's all the money in the world."

In putting back his greasy, well-worn wallet, his eye happened to fall upon an object, which made the blood rush with a tremendous bound through his frame. Lying close to the curb, just below his feet, was a large pocket-book.

"Good gracious!" he exclaimed, "what's that? It looks very like" – (picking it up hurriedly, and taking a hasty survey of its contents) – "it is – money – heaps of money – real, good money, and such a lot – all fifties and twenties!" And now a crowd of contending thoughts pressed upon his brow. First, he blessed his good luck; then, he cursed the heaviness of the temptation – he thrust it deep into his bosom; again, he thought he would place it where he found it; at one moment he would whistle, and endeavor to look unconcerned; at another, he would tremble with apprehension. What to do with it, he did not know; but the tempter was too strong; he at last determined to retain it. "It's a windfall," said he to himself; "nobody has seen me take it. Such a large sum of money could not have been lost by a poor person, and nobody wants it more than I do myself. I'll be hanged if I don't keep it!"

Just then Bryan emerged from the door, with a most lachrymose expression of countenance, and was very much astonished to find that his stay did not produce an equally woe-begone effect upon Tom.

"There's no thrunks goin'," said Bryan. "The fellow as was leavin', ain't leavin' yet; because somebody's after leavin' him a lot o' money.

"Come, jump up, then," cried Bobolink, "and don't be wasting time there."

At that moment his eye caught that of Sterling, who, with Travers, had commenced a search for the lost pocket-book. Instinct told him in an instant what their occupation was, and yet he determined to keep the money.

"My man," said Travers to Bryan, "did you see anything of a pocket-book near this door?"

"Is it me?" replied Bryan. "Do I look as if I'd seen it? I wish I had!"

"What for? you'd keep it, I suppose?" observed Travers.

"Bad luck to the keep," replied Bryan; "and to you for thinkin' it! but it's the way of the world – a ragged waistcoat's seldom suspected of hidin' an honest heart."

"Come, old friend," said Henry to Sterling, "these men have not seen it, evidently;" and off they went on their fruitless errand, while a feeling of great relief spread itself over Bobolink's heart at their departure.

"How wild that ould fellow looked," said Bryan.

"Humbug!" replied Bobolink; "it was only put on to make us give up the pocket-book."

"Make us give it up?"

"Yes; that is to say, if we had it. There, don't talk. I'm sick. I've got an oppression on my chest, and if I don't get relief, I'll drop in the street."

"Indeed, an' somethin's come over ye since mornin', sure enough," said Bryan; "but you've been kind, an' good, an' generous to me, an' may I never taste glory, but if I could do you any good by takin' half yer complaint, I'd do it."

"I dare say you would," replied Tom; "but my constitution's strong enough to carry it all. There, you run home, and tell Polly I'll be back early. I don't want you any more."

As soon as Bryan was off, Bobolink sat down on his truck, and began to ruminate. His first thought was about his wife. "Shall I tell Polly?" thought he. "I've never kept a secret from her yet. But, suppose she wouldn't let me keep it? I shan't say a word about it. I'll hide it for a short time, and then swear I got a prize in the lottery." It suddenly occurred to him that he was still on the spot where he had found the money. "Good Heaven," said he, "why do I linger about here? I must be away – away anywhere! and yet I feel as though I was leaving my life's happiness here. Pooh! lots of money will make any one happy." So saying, and singing – but with most constrained jollity – one of the songs which deep bitterness had called up spontaneously from his heart, he drove to the nearest groggery, feeling assured that he should require an unusual stimulant of liquor, to enable him to fitly bear this accumulation of good luck, which did not justly belong to him.