TIM. A Sketch.

Te Aroha News, Volume IV, Issue 204, 21 May 1887, Page 2 (Supplement)

TIM. A Sketch.

I. Bagged, starving, his thin face blue and pinched with cold, ho stood, offerIng his matches to the unheeding, hurrying passers-by. It had been bitterly cold all day, and all day he had trudged the streets, trying to make a copper or two to buy a meal and pay for a shelter this bitter night. Homeless and friendless he stood there, claiming no home but tlie workhouse, calling none friend but the terrier trembling at his heels. An earnest little face he had, stamped with that look of patience j which is born only of suffering bravely i endure' l. The clear-cut features were sharpened by cold and hunger, the blue eyes piteous in their glance as he scanned the faces of the moving throng. He shiveied every now and then "as the keen wind swept round the corner, blowing aside his fluttering rags, and making the gaslight flicker In the lamps ; but his voice was cheerful as he bent down to speak to the doc; cowering at his feet. " Cold, Smut V .Smut pressed a little closer to the boy's side, giving a monosyllabic wag of his tail in answer to his master's words. The slow minutes passed, and each moment the boy's hunger and weariness increased. « 'Taint o' no use, Smut," lite said at length, in a tone of dejection ; "we shaVt sell to-night. ; Tis too windy fur the swells to smoke, and when 'tis so cold they won't unbutton their coats fur to take out a penny." The dog's tail drooped dejectedly, and lie heaved a long sigh as he looked up questioningly into his master's face. " Keep up yer pecker, ole man," continued the boy, with forced cheeriness. " TWII do better to-morror, and wo'\ c spent a windy night on Blackfriars Bridge afore now." As he dragged himself wearily along the brightly-lighted Strand, he paused ■for a moment outside a confectioner's window. Flattening his face against the gins'?, he gazed hungrily at the roast" beef and turkey and plum-pud-ding so temptingly displayed within. Through the grating from the kitchen below came savoury odours which filled the boy with longing, and the dog with restless excitement. They had eaten nothing since the morning, and in this fasting condition a mqht on Blackfriars Bridge was not a cheering prospect. Tv, o ladies walking quickly up the street were struck by the pathetic little figuic. The brilliant light from the shop window fcfl full upon the small pinched free and eager blue eyes, upon the untidy shock of reddish hair, and the fluttering rags. The look of hunger wi 3 unmistukeable, and it moved the elder lady to pit}'. "Stop him. for a moment, Edith ; I must get him something to eat," she said, hastily entering the shop. The pretty Loir-haired girl laid her hand on the boy's shoulder as he slowly turned away from the window. " You are hungry 1 " she questioned, closely examining the intense little face upturned to hers. He nodded emphatically, looking up with wondering eyes at this beautiful, low - voiced lady, whose cold, sweet tones seemed so full of tenderness to liim. u You are often hungry 1 " she continued. " "Most always," he answered laconically. " Well, here's a penny for you, and my friend will bring you out something to eat in a minute." The boy was too much surprised to answer, but his sharp eyes were full of gratitude as he awkwardly touched his cap. "Should you like to earn threepence to-morrow morning V she asked, still regarding the boy with greater interest. " Bather !" he answered quickly. *' There ain't many things as I wouldn't dofur thripence." " Do you know where Suffolk Street is?" " Second turning to yer right," he said promptly. * I live at the fifth house on the lefthand side as you go down," she said slowly. " Can you remember that V He nodded again, his face bright w/th intelligence as he followed her directions. "I'll remember." j " Corns at eleven o'clock," she said, ' "and ask for Miss Munro. lam going to make a picture of you — send you to the Grosvenor if you arc a success. If you are a good boy you phall have threepence a day until the picture is finished." At this moment the other lady came out of the shop with a parcel in her hand. "Here is something to eat, my boy," she said, in a comfortable, motherly way. " Take it home, and have a good meal. Now, Edith, if you are ready." He watched them silently till they passed out of sight, his eyes round with astonishment. " Here's ago !" he murmured, as he turned awasr from the brightly-lighted window. " Thripence a day — why, I shall make my fortun' ! Come, Smut, we'll find a doorstep and eat our supper. Oh, here's a go." Uuj »,^

Turning down a by-street, they soon found a sheltered door-step, on which [ they seated themselves. Smut pressed close to his master's side, eagerly sniff- \ ing at the parcel which the boy proceeded to open with fingers trembling with excitement. " Beef, roast beef ! Ain'fc we in luck, Smut ? And hot 'taters and bread ! Oh, Smut, ain't she a stunner, and no mistake V* The food was consumed in rapturous silence, while the icy wind swept by, unregarded by the happy pair in their sheltered corner. "No nastry Bridge for us, Smut; she give me a penny, and we'll sleep in a jolly warm room to-night," said the boy presently, holding out the greasy paper for the dog to lick. My eye 1 j ain't wo in luck 1 ? Thripence a day, Smut, that comes to one-and-six a week. Oh, sha'n't we be rich V Smut thumped his short tail loudly in response, and pushed his cold nose affectionately against his master's cheek. "Thripence a day if I'm a good boy," he went on reflectively. " But, Smut, I ain't a good boy. I swear at the chaps when they call me c Carrots, and I lick 'em when thoy say you're a ugly brute. Good boys don't fight and swear. If she finds out as I ain't good, I s'pose she won't make a pictur' o' mo no more — she'll stop the thripence a day. But she sha'n't find out, ole man. I'll tell her I'm a pious chap as goes to the Sunday-school. Gentlefolks think a deal o' they, Smut, Ain't they green, just ?' } At 11 o'clock next morning, he was admitted into tho house in Suffolkstreet by a neat maid-servant, who eyed him suspiciously as she curtly told him to follow her upstairs. He was shown into a large, barely-fur-nished room at the top of the house, where he found his friond of the previous night sealed before an easel. " Ah, there you are,*' she said carelessly; "and your little dog, too. What is his name 1" " Smut." " Smut 1 But he isn't black." " He's been washed," explained the boy. He was awful black when I seed him first ; that s why I called him Smut. But he don't mind, bless you. He's got the temper of an angel." " How was it he was so black when you bought him 1" she asked, indifferently. "He is white now." "Didn't buy him,hesaid ;" "I fought fur bin. Twas like this. When I wur a little un, I see two chaps with a pup they was agoin' to drown. They'd left him to starve in a coal-hole, but he wouldn't die, and so they wei«e agoin' to drown him." " And you fought them T questioned the gild. "That was very bvave of you." " There was nothing brave 'bout it," he said, hastily. " I dared 'em to fight, one after t'other, and I licked 'em both. That's how I come to have Smut." "He ought to feel grateful to you," she said. " Now, will you stand on that platform, and turn towards the window 1 ? — That's right. Now, lean forward a little, just as you wore when 1 saw you looking in at the shop last night. —That's capital. Stand just like that and keep as still as you can." For some minutes she worked silently, while the boy stood perfectly still, scarcely daring to move an eyelash. "I think wo may talk a little now," he said at length ; " but don't move your head when you speak." " Eight you are," he returned, fixing his eyes steadily on the patch of murky sky visible through the window. " What are you called 1" she asked, standing back from the canvas and regarding her work critically. " Tim," he answered briefly. "And what is your other name V "Ain't got no other," he said. " I'm just Tim." " Well, what is your father called V she suggested, a little impatiently. Ain't got no father ; ain't got nobody but Smut." " Have you lost your parents long 1" she said, with no touch of pity in the clear, low voice. " Didn't lose 'em ! never had none," he returned indifferently " ' 'Spect I grow'd," murmured the girl, suppressing a smile. " But you are such a little boy to be alone in the world. Where do you livo 1" " Streets, most times," he said. " Summer months we sleep out o' doors, Smut and me. But winter time we get a penny lodgin' when we're in luck." " And when you are not in luck 1" " Then we sleep on Blackfriars Bridge or the 'Bankment. The Bridge is warmest. There you ' can ' get a corner out o ; the wind if you go early, before the best seats are took. On-the-'Bankment 'tis fit to freeze yer marrer." " Wouldu'fc you feel happier in the j Workhouse T she asked carelessly, standing back once more t© catch the general effect. " Should be better off most like," he returned quietly. " But there ain't no place fur dogs in the 'Ouse, and Smut and me ain't agoin' to part." "Do you ever go to church V questioned the girl, after a pause, fearing that he would grow restless if he did not talk. %* % * " Constant," said the boy, unblushingly; " and we go to Sunday-school reg'lar, Smut and me." " Smut, too T she asked absently. " Leastways, Smut waits for me outside," he said hastily. "Oh, we're right down pious chaps, we are."

" There, I have done for this morning," she said presently, rising from her stool. " Here is your money. I would give you isaore if I could afford it ; but lam poor, like you. Can you come at the- same time to-morrow 1" " Right you are," he said, pocketing the pence slowly. " Then I shall expect you at eleven. Good-bye — good-bye, Sasmt."

IL Edith Munro had a vivid recollec tion of Tim as she had beheld him in the Strand three weeks ago. The scene had impressed itself on her mind. Tho busy street, the flickering lamplight, the slender figure of the boy as he had stood with his face pressed close against the glass, looking with longing eyes into the brightly-lighted shop. But the picture had appealed to her imagination without in a way touching her heart ; she had regarded the pathetic little figure as a possible " subject/ but no tenderer feeling had moved her. Tim passed as a model in the Suffolkstreet studio for some hours every clay, and the painting was beginning to look life-like under the artist's skilful fingers. Encouraged by her careless questioning, the boy poured forth the whole of his pitiful history, unconscious that tho words fell on inattentive ears. Nothing was hidden from her. His poverty, his loneliness, his passionate love for Smut, all were laid bare before the girl, whose interest in him was purely selfish, whose questions were prompted solely by the desire to keep him quiet, Tim, however, was happily ignorant of her indifference, and her apparent sweetness awakened in him a devotion which filled his hungry little soul with enthusiasm. He thought of her as one far removed from the rest of the world — without a taint of evil. A sense of his own unworthincss took possession of him, and weighed heavily on his loving heart. He had told her that he was a good boy — thai he went regularly to church and Sunday-school, and the remembrance of this had become unbearable to him. As he walked slowly down Suffolkstreet one morning, a mighty resolve formed itself in his mind. He ran upstairs hurriedly, fearing that his courage might forsake him if he gave himself time for thought, and his first feeling on finding the room unoccupied was one of disappointment. Smut curled himself up in his usual corner near the window, and Tim stationed himself before the easel, looking bitterly at the ragged figure which met his gaze. "You a good boy I" he said, regarding the painting contemptuously. "You look like it, don't you? Your little game's 'bout done, ole man ; you'll soon see the last of her." Ho took his place quietly when she came in, his heart beating heavily under his ragged jacket as he gazed out silently upon' the patch of grey sky. Tho unusual silence struck the girl, and she regarded him with something akin to interest as he stood there with the light falling upon his rigid little face. " What makes you so quiet to-day, Tim 1 Has Smut been a bad dog V " No, it ain't Smut," returned the boy drearily. "It's me that's been bad." " Why, what have you done V 1 she asked, her eyes growing warm with amusement. " 'Twas the first day I came here," he said, in the same dreary tones, never removing his gaze from the window. "I told you a crammer; I said as how I went to church and to Sun-day-school." " And it was not true V7V 7 she questioned lightly. "Never been inside a church— 'cept to warm myself," he answered doggedly. "Never been to Sundayschool in all my born days." " What made you tell such a story ?" she inquired, the ludicrous side of the scene alone striking her, " Wanted you to think I was a good chap," ho returned, in a low, shamed voice. " You said you'd give me thripence a day if I was a good boy." " And why do you tell me about it now?" she asked, curiously. "Is it because you know that I cannot finish the picture without you V u No, it ain't!" he answered, roughly, looking round from the window for the first time. "Why, then?" " Don't know 'xacly, but it ain't that," he said more quietly. "Don't you know that it is very naughty to tell stones V she ques- | tioned, with an uncomfortable sense i that some rebuke was required of her. " 'Spose so," he answered, humbly. 11 Well, we'll say no more about it," she said, vaguely. "But don't do it a.gsein." When Tim entered the studio next day he found Miss Munro sitting before her easel, looking pal© and languid. j " I shall not want you this morning," j she said, wearily. "I am not well enough to paint to-day." "You look awful white," said the boy gently. "You can come to-morrow, as usual," she continued in the same subdued tone. " I daresay I shall be fit for work to-morrow." "Hope you'll be better soon, "he said, m he awkwardly moved away. He walked slowly down the street and along the Embankment, his dog trotting close at his heels. A thin,

grey mist hung over the river, veiling the opposite shore from view* As he looked thoughtfully across tfie> stretch of water, his eyes absently followed a boat as irft silently became visible out of the mist, and as silently melted away into it. once more. Smut jumped up upon the wall presently, amd sat there, looking down gravely into the gloomy water. Tim patted the dog with an absent air, and when h© spok© his voice was low and sad. " She said as how she was poor that fi>st night," he whispered brokenly, "• and I've never given it a thought ! , She lays out thripence a day on that pictur' 'cos she's agoin' to sell it. Just like me and my matches, only her money takes longer acoming in.'\ Smut was quick to read the sadness in his master's tone, and he pressed his head close against the ragged jacket with an inarticulate murmur of sympathy, " You're sorry, ain't you, ole chap V continued the boy wistfully. " You love her too, don't you ?" Smut wagged his tail enthusiastically. It was his private belief that his master overrated Miss Munros charms. " She's hard up," said Tim, after a pause. " She's awful hard up, Smut. She ain't got no money to buy any breakfast — that's why she looked so white. And we had bread and hot coffee !" ho ended, with a sob. For some minutes he was silent, his eyes wide and miserable as they rested on the grey stretch of water ; but his face cleared presently, and a smile parted the small lips. " I've got it !" he cried, triumphantly, raising his arms from the wall. " I'll tell her to-morrer. Come, Smut." It was with shy eagerness that Tim entered the studio next day. His littlo face was pale and pinched, for he had tasted no food that morning ; but his expression was one of entire happiness. In his hand he carried a parcel done up in a dingy piece of newspaper, and this he proceeded to lay timidly upon the girl's lap. " Why, what is it ?" she questioned, regarding the boy curiously from her high stool as she sat at the easel. "It feels quite hot." "It's — it's taters," he said, awkwardly. <{ Potatoes ?" she echoed in amazement. "They're— l brought 'em fur you," he explained, rubbing one thin leg against the other nerviously. " Most think roast 'taters prime ! — I never j touch 'em myself," he added hastily ; '[ "no more does Smut. Come here, ' sir 1" as the dog snuffed longingly at | the parcel still lying unopened on the girl's lap. She looked helplessly from the parcel again, and then the room rang with her merry laugh. "Thank you," she said, as soon as she could speak. I—lI — 1 will' look at them presently. Will you put them in the fender for — the present 1 Tim experienced a vague feeling of disappointment as he silently obeyed. He had hoped to have the pleasure of seeing her eat these potatoes for which he and Smut had gone breakfastless this bitter morning, and her laughter had pained, without enlightening, him. He was almost glad when at length she told him that he might go, for ho did not feel at ease in her presence today. " Here is your money," she said. " It is sixpence this morning ; I forgot to pay you yesterday." "Keep, it," he said awkwardly. " Keep it till I ask for it. I don't want thripence a day no longer. I'll ask for it when I want it.'. " You want to save it up till it gets a big sum T she questioned carelessly. " You are going to buy something with it?" " Yes," he said eagerly ; " that's it. I'm agoin' to buy something." " Very well then, I will keep it for ! you safely," she returned, replacing the ; money in her purse. " And I'll ask fur it when I want it," he repeated earnestly. " You'll know as I don't want it if I don't ask fur it." Tim had never found it easy to pick up his scanty living, and the effort had been greater than ever of late. His small face regained its old, half-starved look as the days passed on, but he bore himself bravely in the presence of the girl for whom he was sacrificing so much, and she never noticed the hange in him. She told him one morning that she should not need him after that week, for the finishing touches were now all that the painting required. He re-* ceived the news in silence, and for the few remaining days went about sadly, treasuring up every careless word that she uttered. His affection for Smut, too, seemed to deepen as the week drew to its close, and it was with passionate misery that he talked to the ! dog as he washed him that Saturday morning. "It ain't 'cos I don't love you, Smut," he said with a sob, " You know that ole man, don't you ? And you won't forget me, will you, Smut? — Praps I shall see you in the street some day> ole chap. I shall come and look at the 'ouse constant." His little face was pale and set as he ! entered the studio,- and there was a strained look in the wide blue eyes as he took his place before the window. The light fell softly upon the ragged figure, upon the warm-tinted hair, the rigid features; and the girl sitting' near at hand saw it all, and' felt only an artistic pleasure in her model. His poverty, his wretchedness, were nothing to her \ he had fulfilled the

service she had required of hii% and would pass for ew out of he» life when he left her room to-day. " You said onca-you felt lonesome at times," he said eJb last, his ey«s^ fixed earnestly on the window.. " Yes," she agneodi earnestly;;, alt is rather lonely up- here/ He was sileatr again, looking steadily at the little pa.tch, of. sky visible above the roofs of the houses opposite. " Smut's a. very good dog," he continued presently. "H» ain't pertickler neither — anything as, is, agoin' does for Smut; aiad he's that patent when your'e out of- luck !" ( He seems an inoQensivo little dog," she allowed, glancing at the terrier as he lay under, the window. Why, how white he looks to-day." " Been washed," explained the boy briefly. t{ Ho's a handsome dog, is Smut — when he's clean," '< There, I think 1 have done with you now," &ho said, after a long silence. "You have been a very good boy, j Tim, and the picture is a great success.'' He descended from the platform slowly, and stood twisting his cap in his hands, while his lips twitched nervously. " You can keep him, if you like," ho said awkwardly. " He's very good company, Smut is." !( Keep him I' 1 she echoed carelessly. " But don't you want him ?" " No," he answered slowly. "I — I'm tired o' Smut." I "In that case he can stay," she returned indifferently. "I daresay he will not be much trouble." ! "He ain't a bit o' trouble," said the boy wistfully. " And he's very affeci tionate." 1 "Well, he can stay," she said. "And hero's your money, Tim; quite a large sum now, isn't it V 1 1 — I don't want it,' he returned hastily. c I said as how I'd ask fur it when I wanted it.' ' But you are not corning any more, you know. I have finished with you now.' ' I ain't got a place to put it to/ he said. ' I'm sure to lose it if 1 take it away.' ' Well, call for it when you want it/ she suggested. * Then you. can see Smut.' 'Yes,' ho echoed with a strange smile; 'then I shall see Smut.' He took the do t i; in his arms and smoothed the lough white coat with tender fingers. ' Smut knows as he's got to stay,' he said, placing the little creature on the floor. • I'll call for the money when I want it.' He stood in the doorway for a moment, taking a last, lingering look at the dog trembling in the comer — at the girl as she sat there, impatiently waiting for him to go, and then, with a short, dry sob, he went slowly down the steep staircase, and out into the wintry street. B. A. Key.