VI. CHARLIE AT HOME.

The tenement-house owned by Peter Manson was a three-story wooden building, very much in need of paint. It was scarcely likely to be pointed out by any one as one of the architectural ornaments of the city. Years before it had fallen into Peter's hands at a small price, and he had every year since realized from it in the way of rent a sum equal to one half the purchase-money. No one who has lived in a city can help knowing how much more proportionally the poor are compelled to pay for their scanty and insufficient accommodations than the rich, or those in moderate circumstances. No class of property is made to pay a larger percentage than the wretched tenement-houses which seem adapted to furnish as little accommodation as possible to those who are compelled to occupy them.

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The tenement-house in which Charlie and his mother lived was no better than the average. It was the home of a large number of persons of various occupations. Seamstresses, mechanics, washer-women, and many others found a home under this one roof.

Mrs. Codman occupied a room on the third floor. As we enter the room it is easy to see what a charm can be thrown around even the humblest place by the presence of refinement and good taste. All the appointments of the room, indeed, were of the cheapest description. Probably the furniture did not exceed in cost that of the room opposite. Yet there was a considerable difference in the appearance of Mrs. Codman's room and that of Sally Price, who, if she had ever possessed an organ of neatness, had lost it years ago.

The old-fashioned windows were washed as clean as water could make them, so as to admit all the sunshine which could find its way over the tall roof on the opposite side of the street. They were hung with plain chintz curtains, separated in the middle and looped on either side. The floor was quite clean as[58] far as it could be seen. In the centre was spread a floor-cloth some eight feet square, which relieved its bareness. There was a small round table near the window, and a small square work-table of no very costly material, in another part of the room. On this was placed a rose-bush in a flower-pot. It had been given to Charlie by an old gentleman who had taken a fancy to him. In another quarter was a home-made lounge, the work of Charlie's hands. It had originally been a wooden box, given him by a shopkeeper near by. This box had been covered with calico stuffed with cotton, so that it made quite a comfortable seat. It was used besides as a wood-box, its legitimate province, but when the cover was closed it was nevertheless a very respectable article of furniture. There were besides a few plain wooden chairs, and a small rocking-chair for Mrs. Codman. Opening out of the main room was a small bedroom, occupied by the mother, while Charlie had a bed made up for him at night in the common sitting-room.

A few books—a very few—were piled[59] upon the little table. They were chiefly schoolbooks,—an arithmetic, a geography, and an atlas, over which Charlie would generally spend a portion of every evening, and occasionally a boy's book, lent him by his friend Edwin Bangs, who, together with his brothers, had quite a large juvenile library.

Mrs. Codman is sitting by the window industriously engaged in needle-work, and intent on accomplishing a certain amount before nightfall. She was past thirty-five, yet, in spite of the trials which have left their impress on her brow, she would readily be taken for five years younger. She has drawn her chair to the window to make the most of the rapidly fading daylight. As with swift fingers she plies the glistening needle, and the sun touches her cheek with a beaming glow, we can see that not only has she been beautiful, but is still so.

A hasty step is heard on the stairs, there is a stamping at the door, and in rushes a bright, handsome boy, with rosy cheeks and dark hair.

The mother's face lights up with a bright[60] smile as she turns to her son, the only one she has left to love.

"You're a little later than usual, Charlie, are you not?"

"A little, mother. You see I didn't get a job till late, and then two came together."

"What were they?"

"A gentleman wanted me to take his carpet-bag from the Maine depot, and I had to carry it away up to Rutland Street."

"Did he go with you?"

"No; he had to go to his counting-room in State Street."

"Was he willing to trust you? Some boys might have made off with the carpet-bag, and he would have never seen it again."

"He thought of that, but he said—and I think he's a real gentleman—that he knew I was honest by my appearance, and he was willing to trust me."

"Quite complimentary, Charlie. How much did he pay you for your trouble?"

"Half a dollar."

"Then you have done a good deal better[61] than I have. I have been working all day, and shall not realize more than twenty-five cents for my labor."

"I wish you didn't have to work at all, mother."

"Thank you, Charlie; but I dare say I am happier for having something to do. I wish I could get better pay for my work. But you haven't told me what the other errand was. You said you had two."

"Yes," said Charlie, "I had just got back from Rutland Street, and had bought two or three evening papers which I was going to try to sell, when a man came up to me, and after looking at me for a minute or two, asked me if I would take a little walk with him. He said he was a stranger in Boston, and didn't know his way about much. He asked me if I had lived here long, and what my name was. He told me he would pay me if I would go around with him, and point out some of the public buildings. He told me he would pay me at the rate of twenty-five cents an hour for my time. I told him I had one or two papers to dispose of."

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"'Never mind about them,' said he, 'I will take them off your hands.'

"'But they are alike,' said I.

"'Never mind,' he answered; so he paid me the full price for two Journals and two Transcripts, and off we went."

"What sort of a person was he?"

"He was a stout man, over forty, and looked to me like a sailor. I shouldn't wonder if he was an officer of some ship."

"Did you like his looks?"

"Why," said Charlie, hesitatingly, "not exactly; not so much as I did of the other gentleman. There was something about his eye which I didn't like. Still he acted up to his agreement, and paid me all he promised."

"How long were you together?"

"About an hour and a half. We walked round the Common and the Public Garden, went into the State House and the Public Library. However, he didn't seem to care much about them. He seemed to take more interest in me, somehow, and asked me a good many questions; whether I had any parents living, and how long I had lived in[63] the city. When I told him you were born in Havana, he said he used to live there himself."

"Indeed!" said Mrs. Codman.

"He also told me that he might like to have me go round with him again, and told me to call to-morrow at the Quincy House, where he is stopping. But, mother, isn't it most time for supper? Here, just let me set the table, if you are busy."

"Very well, Charlie; I shall be glad to have you do so, as I am in a hurry to finish my sewing."

In the evening Charlie read to his mother while she sewed. Neither of them suspected that it was the last evening they would spend together for several months.