The Storyteller.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXVII, Issue 12, 23 March 1899, Page 23

The Storyteller.

A MODEL BOY.

There were no better parishioners in St. Peter's pariah than the Gavans. They were poor and lived by the sweat of their brows — at least Michael Gavan and his wife worked, and worked very hard. The two children, Thomas and Mary Elizabeth, were not helpers to the family support. Mary Elizabeth was only six, and could not do anything but be a good, obedient little girl. Tommy was ten, and might have sold papers or been a messenger boy or a bootblack, but his parents wanted him to get a little learning into his hard, round head before he t<x»k up the struggle with the world. Then something happened that changed things in the Gavan family a great dral. Michael Gavaa fell from a scaffolding on which he was at work and was killed. When his poor wife was told the awful news, the first consoling thought that came into her mind was that her husband had been to Holy Communion the day before ; then she looked at Tommy and his small sister, with the reflection that the care of the children now fell on her alone. It helped her to dry her eyes and take up life's duties again, despite the ache in her heart. It was a hard thing for the good woman to take Tommy away from the Brothers' school, when the was getting on so well in his studies ; but there was no choice in the matter. Happily, her son realised the situation, and was glad of a chance to help his mother and make life lighter for her and Mary Elizabeth. He felt a fine pride in taking his father's place in the family. He became a newaboy. Tim Morrisson, who was fifteen and a veteran in the business, gave Tommy a lot of points about his new calling. He ' put him on to ' the best places for selling 'extras,' and gave him good ideas as to the way of approaching people so that they would buy a paper. Tommy had a great deal of his father about him. He was wiry, and went straight ahead with a determination to ' get there.' He had natural gifts and a big streak of common-sense. These helped him to pick up the true inwardness ef selling newspapers almost more than all Tim Morrisson's wise advice. He had a good-natured face, which was always clean ; and his clothes looked neat, even if they were worn and patched. So «rhen a man heard his cheery voice and saw his serious but alert countenance, the chance was that he would buy a paper even if he had not specially wished for one. Tommy was one of the first on hand for the papers. He waitel patiently in the basement of the big, towering buildings ; and had the thick pile of moist papers, fresh from the press, over his arm half a minute after the man had shoved them toward him with the words, ' Here are your papers. Twenty-five.' For Tommy had not been in business very long before he took as many papers to sell as Tim Morrisson did ; and he seldom had any to bring back. The boy was more than repaid for his earnest efforts to make a buccess of his calling by the warm gratitude of his mother and the sense that he was lifting some ot the burden from her shoulders. After Tommy had been at his work about a fortnight, he was waiting one evening, with the crowd of newsboys, in the basement for the ' extra ' with the baseball news in it, when he caught Tim Morrison's eye fixed on him in an inquiring way. It almost seemed as if Tim had remarked bomething peculiar about Tommy and was trying to find out what it was. ' What is it .' — what's the matter, Tim V he said, edging toward him, but taking care not to lose his plaoe in the line. ' Yer jest see me after we get through the rush with the " extras," ' said Tim, wisely ; ' and I guess I can put yer on 10 a good thing.' Tommy was eager to get 'on to ' all the good things he could, because it meant so much more help for the family. When the pile of papers on his arm had thinned down to three or four, he ran around to Broadway, where Tim conducted business, and, coming up to him, inquired : ' What's the good thing, Tim ." ' Why, kid,' said the older boy, as he looked at Tommy with some importance, ' how would yer like to make half a dollar or so, now and then, for jest doiu' almost nothin' .<" There was no doubt in Tommy's mind that he wanted to earn a half dollar or a quarter or a dime. But the fact that money ib earned by doing something was so deeply impressed upon him that he replied to Tim. a little doubtingly : 4 There isn't anybody that will give you money unless you work for it. What do you mean, Tim ?' ' I know a man that will give yer money jest to stand around as he wants yer to, and keep still. Wouldn't yer call that gettin 1 money for not doin' anything V said Tim. It did sound uncommonly like it. But, even so, the prospect was not as alluring to Tommy as Tim evidently thought it would be. ' Standing still ' had never been his strong point. That was not the kind of ' standing ' the men of the Gavan tamily strove for. Sitting Btill at school, when he had his studieß to help him to be quiet, had been a strain on Tommy. But he was sincerely anxious to make a success as a business man, and he felt that Tim had not told all there was in this new and mysterious scheme of his. So he sfjld to him, seriously : ' What makes him pay anybody to stand still for ?' ' Why, yer see — Paper, sir ? Baseball extra ? New Yorks and Philadelphias ? — yer see,' Tim went on, as he slipped the cent into his pocket and hitched his pile of papers up under his arm, ' he keeps yer standin' jeat as if yer were goin' to do somethin', only yer never do it — see 1 And then he paints yer on a piece of cloth,' he concluded.

All this only deepened the mystery for Tommy Gavan. What did a man want a picture of a newsboy for, any way — especially a newsboy that he didn't know ? 1 What does he do with the pictures after he gets them V he asked. 4 Oh, I hear that he sells 'em for big money ! I'm givin' it to yer straight,' Tim added ; for Tommy smiled incredulously. Every new explanation of Tim's seemed to require an explanation for itself. • What do yer care what he does with 'em if ye're gettin' good money for an easy job ?' Tim went on, a little impatiently. 1 I'm givin' it to yer all right. If yer go and stand for him, he'll give yer fifty cents an hour. Sometimes he wants yer to stand half a dozen times for one picture. Vrr stood for him. But he wants a smaller boy. I'm tellin' yer 'cause I'm yer friend. I can get plenty of fellers that'll jump at such a snap,' said Morrisson, rather hurt at Tommy's lack of enthusiasm and the distrustful attitude he showed toward him. He was old en ugh to know what he was talking about, and a ' kid ' ought to believe him. 'Of course, Tim, you know I'd like to make the money fast enough,' replied Tommy, seeing that the dignity of the older boy was hurt. ' But what'll I have to do ?' ' I'll take yer to the man next Sunday and yer can see for yerself. I know the kind o' boy he wants, and I think ye're jest the ticket.' 'All right !' said Tommy. He talked it over with his mother that night. Mrs. Gavan was as much in the dark as her son ; but she knew Tim Morrisson, and felt that Tommy's own good common-aense would help him. ' She thought that people who had their pictures painted by artists paid them for doing it, and she did not understand why they should get paid for it. But Sunday morning they all went to the seven o'clock Mass • and after Mrs. Gavan had wet and brushed Tommy's hair very smoothly and put on his best collar and neck-tie, she sent him off to meet Tim Morrisson. Tommy's Sunday trousers had been made from a pair of ihis father's ; and as Mrs. Gavan had left room for Tommy to grow in them, they were not the closest fit in the world. Morrisson took Tommy to a curious brick building on West Tenth street. The two boys went up three flights of stairs and then into a large room, the like of which Tommy had never seen in his life. The greater part of one side seemed to be windows and yet the glass in them was of a kind that let the light in but could not be seen through. There were a number of paintings on the wall and some drawings. One of the pictures represented a group of newsboys and bootblacks crowding around a candle-box, stood on end. On the box was a pretty fox terrier holding out his paw ; while one of the newsboys, who was his master, held his forefinger raised threateningly at him so as to make him keep it up. 1 That's me '' exclaimed Tommy and speaking in a whispei as he indicated this boy. Tommy had already recognised him, as the likeness was a very good one. ' Yes, but you haven't got any dog,' Tommy whispered back. ' "Course I ain't,' answered Morrisson. 'He picked up the dog to paint, just like he did me.' The artist was a medium-sized man, thick-set, and with heavy eyebrows, and a thick, bushy beard of a yellowish grey. He looked at Tommy a moment through his sfceel-bowed spectacles. ' You'll do, my boy, first rate,' he said in a loud but kind voice which Tommy liked. Will you come and stand for me to paint you V • What for V asked Tonimg, seriously. The artist laughed outright at thiy. ' I don't know myself yet,' he replied, looking at the honest little chap with new interest. ' For anybody who will pay me my price ' he went on. ' I guess nobody'll care for my picture,' Tommy added modestly. ' I'll take my chance on that,' the artist answered, still smiling. ' You won't be out anything, anyhow. I'll pay you half a dollar an hour to pose. Will you come some day ?' ' What's posing .'' ' Simply standing still, as I put you, while I paint you.' Tommy expressed his willingness, an i the day and hour were agreed upon. ' When you come,' observed the artist, looking at Tommy's ' best clothes ' rather discouragingly, ■ wear your old things. The older they are, the better. You'll feel more comfortable, and I will be better suited. And don't brush your hair. In fact, you needn't wash your face and hands, Can you remember all that ?' Tommy said he could. There -was no danger that he would forget such funny directions. But he had serious doubts as to whether his mother would let him come in that way. He thought the man was very queer. His mother was quite as surprised as Tommy had expected her to be, and felt that he had made some mistake. What could he mean 1 Want to paint a ragged, dirty-looking boy, instead of a neatly dressed and clean oue I ' If he's going to put your name on it, it doesn't seem right ' she remarked, in a distressed tone. When Tommy returned home after his first experience in the ' stoodier,' as Tim Morrisson called the big room, he had such strange things to tell his mother and Mary Elizabeth that the whole business seemed more ridiculous than ever. 'He asked me if I could stand on my hands, and got me to do it for him to look at. Then he said that was the way lamto be taken, and that I was a very good subject.' 'My gracious, Tommy !' exclaimed his mother. 'It doesn't seem as if he was in his right mind. Wanting you to come in your dirty clothes, and uot wash your face nor comb your hair ; and, then to ask you to walk on your hands I And to say you were a good subject, just as if he was a king ! I hope he didn't keep you standing that way long, with the blood all rushing to your head V she added •with motherly solicitude. '

' Oh, no, mother !' answered Tommy. 'He fixed that all right. He made me get up on a platform and lie down on my stomach, and then stick my feet up in the air.' ' It isn't'a high p atform, is it ?' asked Mrs. Gavan, with a new cause f or alarm. The thought of a scaffolding was a most terrifying one to her ever since Mr. Gavan had made her a widow by a fall from one. Was it possible that her dear little boy was being led into danger under the pretext of having his picture taken I That would explain why the man was willing to give him such good wages. Tommy laughed. 4 Why, mother," he said, 'it is a little bit of a platform, not a foot high. There ain't anything hard about the posing ' — Tommy was a little proud of that professional word — ' except the keeping just so tor so long. But he makes it as easy for me as he can. After he had fixed my legs the way he wanted them to go, he tied them up to something with a piece of clothes-line, so that they would stay easy without my holding them up myself. He kept me that way about an hour, and then he untied me and told me to rest — after Id been resting all the time !' ejaculated Tommy, with some disdain. ' Aren't your legs tired ?' sighed Mrs. Gavan. She knew, poor woman ! how her back ached over the wash-tub ; and the mention of the clothes-line had set her mind at work in that direction. Tommy assured her that it was an ' awful easy job.' — all except keeping still so long. This did not have a bad effect on his mother s imagination, as she did not have so much rest that the thought of being in repose worried her. The bright half dollar was a good, strong argument for the boy's lying on the platform with his legs in the air in that foolish way. There was nothing silly about the half dollar. ' The man says I am a model,' added Tommy, after he had quieted all her doubts and fears. ' That you are, for a small boy like you : taking hold and helping your mother and little sister like a real man. And why shouldn't I say it — I who am your mother, — when Father Doyle said it .' Its to the credit of this queer man that he found that out so soon, exclaimed Mrs. Gavan, fervently. 'Oh it isn't that kind he means ! If you stand while somebody paints you, then you're a model.' Later on, in his professional career in the art world, Tommy had to lie on the platform and put his hands on the floor just as he put them when he walked on them. No boy can stand on his hands for more than a few minutes at a time, and so the artist had to get them in this way. He was certainly very considerate, for he put a cushion under Tommy's stomach for him to lie on. In course of time the painting was done. Tommy's labours for it were over before those of the artist were ; for there were fourteen newsboys and bootblacks in the picture. One of them was walking on his hands, and the rest were looking on and admiring him. The hero of the scene, this urchin walking so gracefully on his hands, was Tommy Gavan, done to the life. The artist kindly permitted him to bring his mother to see it. She was veiy proud to behold such a faithlul portait of her desr boy in so large a painting. She declared openly her regret that Tommy's father hud not lived to see it, too. Mrs Gavan could not understand why the artist should want to paint newsboys and bootblacks — 'Just as you see them everyday in the street,' she said to Tommy ; • and not even as neat as they might be. lie has the patch in your pants showing so that everybody has to see it ; and he could have easily turned them another way, or let you wear those nice ones made out of your father's.' Mrs Gavan is not the only person in the world who does not grasp all there is in a pictuie. Nor could she e\er get it out of her head that Tommy was the artiNt^ ' model ' because he v\as such a model boy in his conduct. Tommy figured in a good many of these street scenes : though after sime time, like Inu Morn-son, he g«t too big to figure as a bey. But the same artist did pictures ot little girls dancing on the sidewalks, or looking at an or»an-gnndor. and the like. When he heard of Mary Elizabeth, he got her to come and pose. She turned out to be just as model a girl -or, 1 should say, a girl model — as htr brother had been a boy modrl. The only way Tommy Ga\nn got over being a model boy was by becoming a model man, Mrs Ga\an gets more rest nowadays than sbe used to, and the home is better stored with comforts than it was in times by. Tommy got over walking on his hands: but he is not through walking on his Itt't, and it is always in the direction of success. — -1 re Maria.