CHAPTER VIII.

BRAVE YOUNG HEARTS.

The orphan brothers sat together under the shadow of a garden wall, talking with earnest energy, as if their young lives were in the subject under discussion. A tender sadness lay on their faces; tears now and then broke through their words; and more than once their small hands clasped lovingly, as if companionship gave sweetness even to grief. A carriage drove by as they talked, scattering drops of mud on the sleeve of Joseph’s jacket. Robert brushed it off with great care, and patted the child on his shoulder in finishing.

“Now you see how it is, Joe, you and I are the men of the family. Grandma is splendid at mending and darning, and making things go a long way; but she can’t earn money. So it all comes on sister Anna. Isn’t she a beautiful darling? Wasn’t she stupendous that night in the turban and red velvet jacket?”

“She’s always good and handsome,” said Joseph, with touching simplicity; “but I like her best in that brown dress and the straw bonnet. She didn’t quite seem like our sister in the other things.”

“But she outshone every one of them, Joseph.”

“Yes, I know; but yet she wasn’t exactly like our sister Anna.”

“I was proud of her. It did me good to walk by her side. I tell you, Joseph, Anna was born for a lady.”

“So was grandma. She _is_ a lady.”

“She’s a dear, old blessed grandma, she is!” cried Robert. “If it hadn’t been for her my heart would have burst. It was wonderful how she quieted us all down. I wonder if the angels are more still and sweet than she is? Oh, Joseph! it isn’t many soldiers’ children that have a woman like that to comfort them when bad news comes; but we came out here all alone to have a sort of private convention about things in general. As I was saying, Anna is too pretty for a working-girl; men turn round and look at her in the street when she goes out. I’ve seen it, and it made me so mad that I’ve longed to knock them down. Once I did stamp on a big fellow’s boots, and it did me good to hear him cry out, ‘Oh!’ He never knew why it was done; but I knew, and his Oh! made me dance with joy on the pavement. What business have strangers to be looking at her?”

“She doesn’t mind ’em—she doesn’t know it herself,” said Joseph, lifting his soft eyes appealingly, as if some one had been blaming him. “She never looks up, nor seems to notice.”

“I know that. Of course, she doesn’t. I’m not saying she does; but she’s very, very pretty, Joseph—too pretty for a poor man’s child; and now that she’s only a poor soldier’s orphan, who will take care of her, if we don’t?”

“But I am so small, I shouldn’t even dare to stamp on a big fellow’s boots. It isn’t her fault if she’s so pretty, you know, Robert. I dare say she’d help it if she could.”

“This isn’t exactly an idea of mine,” answered Robert. “I never should have had the sense to think of it, but I heard father grieve about Anna being so handsome before he went away to that glorious death of his! It troubled him then—and it troubles me now.”

“Still I like to see her so pretty,” said Joseph, smiling, “it makes my heart swell here.”

Joseph put one hand on his breast, and sighed, as sensitive people will, over a remembrance of beauty in any thing.

“Well, brother, it is natural. I love grandma for her beauty, too. Other people, I dare say, think her a little, old woman; but I know there is something more than that, just as I feel when a rose is near by its scent. How lovely she looked that night when we knelt around her! Anna is pretty—but grandma looks so good. Her beauty seems to have turned to light, which shines from her eyes and makes her old mouth so lovely. I can’t just say what I mean, Joseph, but there is something about grandma that is sweeter than beauty.”

Joseph had lifted his young face to that of his more ardent brother, with a look of tender interest in all that he was saying that seemed beyond his years.

“Yes,” he said, with a sigh, “I feel that when grandma looks at me. Besides, she never hurts one. Her hand is so soft and light, it seems like a bird’s wing brushing you. Then she steps so softly. Dear, old grandma!”

The boys looked into each other’s faces, and saw dimly though unbidden tears, of which the elder was instantly ashamed.

“Why, Joseph, this is children’s play. We came here to talk like men, not whimper like babies. Wipe up—wipe up! that’s a brave little fellow, and let us go to business at once.”

“Well, I’m ready,” answered Joseph, wiping his eyes. “What shall we say next?”

“Joseph, these two lovely women—for they are lovely, we both agree on that—have got to live. All hopes from our brave father is dead and gone.”

“I know it! Oh! I know it!”

“Don’t cry, Joseph—that is, if you can possibly help it; but listen. You and I must support the family.”

“You and I? Oh, Robert! think what a little shaver I am!”

“Yet, I’ve thought of that over and over again; but in this world there is something that every one can do. Think how soon little chickens begin to scratch up worms for themselves.”

“Yes, Robert; but then the worms are about, and they know where to find ’em.”

“So is money about, and we must learn how to find it.”

“But what can I do? Studying double lessons won’t bring money, or I’d get them every night of my life.”

“No,” said Robert; “we can have no more school.”

“No more school?”

“Both of us must go to work in earnest.”

“I will be in earnest—but how?”

“Joseph Burns, I’m going to make a newsboy of you.”

“A newsboy of me?”

Joseph was absolutely frightened, his eyes grew large, his lips trembled. “Of me?”

“Yes, little brother. It must be a splendid business. I saw one of those chaps with a whole jacket full of money; besides, it’s a healthy occupation, and leads into a literary way of life.”

“I—I would try it, Robert, if I only knew how to begin,” faltered the gentle child, with tears in his eyes.

“Begin! Why you’d learn in no time.”

“Would I?”

“Of course; why not?—and bring home your fifty cents a day, clear profit, in less than no time.”

“I—I’ll try, of course. I’ll do my best.”

“Why, how you shake! Do keep that poor little mouth still. Nobody’s going to hurt you, Joseph, dear.”

“But—but have I got voice enough?”

“Voice! You little trooper, I should think you had. Can’t you yell, oh! no?”

Joseph laughed through his tears.

“I’d like to do it.”

“Well, that’s settled. As for the schooling, grandma is a lady, and could teach, if they ever let old ladies do that. Why, she’s grand in figures, and writes beautifully. You shall study with her night and morning—so will I. Work shall not cheat us out of our education, you know.”

Joseph began to brighten up considerably after this suggestion. He had his dreams, poor boy, and loved books with a passionate longing. The very idea that boys sold a species of literature, went far to reconcile him with their noisy pursuit.

“Yes,” he said, cheerfully, “that would be almost like school.”

“Besides all that,” persisted Robert, “a boy that has learned to read and write, who can cipher a little, and so on, must be a poor creature if he can’t teach himself. Reading and spelling is the key which unlocks every thing else.”

“Besides, I can read the newspapers at odd times,” said Joseph.

“Certainly you can. But I tell you what, Joe, if there comes news of a battle, and any poor boy looks at you longingly, hand out a paper for nothing. I know what it is—I know what it is.”

“I’d do that—you know I would. But, Robert, I wish you were going along. How we would make the streets ring.”

“I’m thinking of something else, Joseph. If that fails, perhaps I shall take the lead with you.”

“What are you thinking of, brother?”

“You know that old man, Joseph?”

“Yes, I know—how can you and I ever forget him?” answered Joseph, glancing proudly down at his new clothes.

“I mean to offer myself at his place of business as an errand-boy, or something like that. I think he rather liked us, Joseph.”

“Yes, he did; I’m sure of that.”

“Well, I shall only ask for work.”

“So I would, Robert; and I’ll come down every day with the papers, you know.”

“That’ll be jolly. Hark! there comes a fellow along. What a voice he has! Splendid business for the lungs. I’ll make a man of you, Joe.”

The newsboy came up the side-walk, calling out his papers, and looking lazily from window to window. He had nothing very special that day, and was taking the world easy, scorning to lay out all his powers for less than a battle of fifty thousand strong. He came opposite the two boys, who were watching him so earnestly, and, thinking that they might be in want of a paper, crossed over to where they sat.

“Want a paper—morning Ledger?”

“No, no! we were only talking about papers; not in the least wishing to buy them,” said Joseph, blushing crimson.

“Oh! that’s all,” said the boy, settling the bundle of papers under his arm, and resting one shoulder against the wall. “Seen you afore, haven’t I, my jolly rover? Wanted me to sell you a paper for half price one night? I remember them eyes of yourn. Jerusalem, didn’t they look wild!”

“I—I was so anxious, so——”

“Don’t talk about it. I feel the blood biling into my face only with the thought. I never was so mean before, and don’t expect to be agin. Will you take half a dozen Ledgers now, and make up? I went back to give you one. You won’t believe me, but I did—you’d gone, though. Didn’t get a wink of sleep that night, I felt so mean. ‘What if his father was in that battle?’ says I to myself. ‘What if he wanted to look over the list, and hadn’t got another copper? You’re a beast,’ said I to myself; ‘a brute beast of the meanest kind! A generous Newfoundland dog, now, would a given that boy the paper without a cent; but you—oh! get away, a kennel is too good for you!’ That was the way I pitched into myself all night long; but I got over it. Business was good, and it drove sich idees out of my head. But the sight of you here, huddled agin the wall, like two rabbits in a box, riled me up agin myself again. If you don’t want the paper, suppose we go round the corner and pitch into a pile of oysters. Sales are slack, and a feller may as well enjoy himself. Besides, I shall feel amost friendly with myself again if you’ll let me treat once. Precious nice mince-pies to be had if oysters don’t suit that little shaver, and sich peanuts.”

Robert got up and took Joseph by the hand. “Yes, we will go,” he said. “My brother, here, is thinking of the literary business for himself; and I’d like to talk with some one who understands it.”

“The what?” asked the newsboy, opening his mouth in vague astonishment. “What business did you say he was thinking of?”

“Selling newspapers.”

“That delicate little trooper, with eyes like a girl’s, and lips that tremble if you look at him. He’d never do!—never!”

“But he is strong; runs like a deer, and shouts like any thing,” said Robert.

The newsboy faced Joseph squarely, and examined him with keen attention.

“Handsome as a picture,” he muttered; “and looks as if he could run. Just give a holler, my boy; I want to know how far a gentleman could hear you if he was shut up and shaving himself for church on Sunday morning.”

Joseph stood up, half frightened to death, and gave out a dismal cry, while his face turned from crimson to white in the attempt.

“Don’t be afraid, we ain’t a college faculty, we aint. There’s voice enough in the little codger’s chest, if he wasn’t too scared to let it out. Now let’s see your fist clenched—savagely, remember.”

Joseph clenched his right hand into as formidable a fist as he could make of the delicate material, and held it out.

“Whew!” exclaimed the newsboy, with a comical glance at the tiny fist. “Wouldn’t knock down a canary bird; but mine will—so what’s the use talking.”

“It’s small, but I’m strong,” Joseph burst forth. “Ask Robert if I haven’t pummelled him splendidly. If anybody was to hurt him, now, wouldn’t I fight!”

“It ain’t to be expected that you could do a great deal among the boys; but they’re generous, as a common thing, and only pitch into fellers that can pitch back; besides, I’m on hand, and they know me.”

“And you’d be kind to him?” said Robert. “He’s all the brother I’ve got; and you see what a tender, nice little fellow he is. We’ve got a sister and a grandmother to support, and we mean to do it, Joe and I do. Don’t we Joe?”

Joseph lifted his flushed face and sparkling eyes to the tall newsboy.

“Yes, we mean to do it, and we will,” he said, with gentle firmness.

The tall boy threw up his bundle of papers, and caught it again as it whirled downward, in evidence of his warm approval.

“That’s the time o’day! Here’s the right sort of stuff done up in little parcels,” he shouted. “Now look here, you feller,” he added, turning to Robert, “I’ll enter into a sort of partnership with you, and we’ll join hands on it at once. I’ll take this little chap under my wing, and set him a going in the business. How much money can you put in?”

“Three dollars,” answered Robert.

“That isn’t a stunning capital; but then I began and set myself up on fifty cents—but that was in specie times. What I was going to say is this, I’ll stand by this little feller tooth and nail. I’ll take him down to the press-rooms myself, and get his stock put up; and if any of the old stagers attempt to hustle him, or sich like, because he wears bright buttons, and looks like a gentleman’s son, let ’em try it, that’s all. They’ve felt the weight of these mud-grapplers afore this, and know how much there is in ’em. Why, I’ve been in the business three years; but these extra times is a wearing me out, and my run grows longer and broader every day. He shall have a part of it—all the fancy work. Why them eyes, looking up to the windows where ladies sit in their muslin dresses and ribbons in the afternoon, would set ’em to beckoning you up the steps like fifty. They don’t take to tall fellows like me, as women ought to. Yes, yes! I’ll give you the fancy work, and no mistake. My! what purty girls I’ve seen looking out of the parlor doors when some gentleman has beckoned me into the hall. Molly! they’d let you go right in—shouldn’t wonder a bit!”

“I—I should rather not,” said Joseph, shrinking modestly from this magnificent idea. “Excepting grandma and Anna, I don’t know much about ladies.”

“Live and learn! Live and learn! I only wish them eyes and that face belonged to me, wouldn’t I make ’em bring in the coppers and five cent greenbacks. But then you are a little fellow, and don’t know the value of such things.”

“I only want to earn money for them,” said Joseph. “I’m little, and don’t know a great deal; but if you will be kind enough to let me run with you a day or so, then, perhaps, I might learn.”

“And what are you going into?” asked the newsboy, addressing Robert.

“I—I was thinking of going into the mercantile way,” answered Robert, blushing crimson; “an errand-boy, or something of that sort.”

“Know how to read?”

“Oh, yes!”

“Fine print, and all?”

“Yes, all kinds of print.”

“You don’t say so. Next thing you’ll be telling me that you can write.”

“Write? Of course I can! Don’t I look old enough?”

“Old enough? Why I’m twice your size.”

“And can’t write?” inquired Robert.

“Not a pot-hook; tried once, but broke down on the z’s—couldn’t curl ’em up to save my life; but I can count, and read headings—and that’s enough for the business. But you’re bound to be a gentleman, anybody can see that; sich an edecation isn’t to be flung away on the street. What if I know the place what would suit you?”

“No, you don’t say that?” cried Robert, beaming with hope.

“But I do, though. Gould & Co. wants a boy. I’ve got acquainted with the old gentleman within the last few days. He buys lots of papers—every extra. Anxious about somebody, I reckon. The other day he came after me full chisel, with his hat off, and the wind whistling through his gray hair like sixty. The way he snatched at my papers and pitched a dollar bill, into my hand, was exciting. Wouldn’t stop for the change—a thing I never knew of him in my whole life—but hurried back, and shut the door of his great, dark house with a bang.”

“Poor man!” said Robert, mournfully; “perhaps he had a son, or some one, in the army, that he loved.”

“Just as likely as not,” continued the newsboy, “for, as I was going round the block a second time, he came out of his house looking as white as a ghost. I saw his face plain by the street lamp; and he went off almost upon a run, like a crazy man. Something had struck him right on the heart, I’m sure of that. But come along, if you have a mind to try your luck with the old feller. I’ll trust this little shaver with my papers till we come back.”