"Poor boy, so you've lost your mother," she said, turning the clothes
over. "It's a good skirt, Bill."
"Yes, ma'am," said Tommy dolefully.
"What did she die of?" inquired the baker.
"Scarlet fever," said Tommy, tearfully, mentioning the only disease he
knew.
"Scar--Take them things away," yelled the baker, pushing the clothes on
to the floor, and following his wife to the other end of the shop. "Take
'em away directly, you young villain."
His voice was so loud, his manner so imperative, that the startled boy,
without stopping to argue, stuffed the clothes pell-mell into the bag
again and departed. A farewell glance at the clock made him look almost
as horrified as the baker.
"There's no time to be lost," he muttered, as he began to run; "either
the old man'll have to come in these or else stay where he is."
He reached the house breathless, and paused before an unshaven man in
time-worn greasy clothes, who was smoking a short clay pipe with much
enjoyment in front of the door.
"Is Cap'n Bross here?" he panted.
"He's upstairs," said the man, with a leer, "sitting in sackcloth and
ashes, more ashes than sackcloth. Have you got some clothes for him?"
"Look here," said Tommy. He was down on his knees with the mouth of the
bag open again, quite in the style of the practised hawker.
Pages:
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106