That Printer of Udells | Page 2

her hear his whispered words.
"Maw! Maw! Wake up; hit'l be day purty soon an' we can go and git
some greens; an' I'll take the gig an' kill some fish fer you; the's a big
channel cat in the hole jes' above the riffles; I seed 'im ter day when I
crost in the john boat. Say Maw, I done set a dead fall yester'd', d'
reckon I'll ketch anythin'? Wish't it 'ud be a coon, don't you?--Maw! O
Maw, the meal's most gone. I only made a little pone las' night; thar's
some left fer you. Shant I fix ye some 'fore dad wakes up?"
But there was no answer to his pleading, and, ceasing his efforts, the
lad sank on his knees by the rude bed, not daring even to give open
expression to his grief lest he arouse the drunken sleeper by the
fireplace. For a long time he knelt there, clasping the cold hand of his
lifeless mother, until the lean hound crept again to his side, and
thrusting that cold muzzle against his cheek, licked the salt tears, that
fell so hot.

At last, just as the first flush of day stained the eastern sky, and the
light tipped the old pine tree on the hill with glory, the boy rose to his
feet. Placing his hand on the head of his only comforter, he whispered,
"Come on, Smoke, we've gotter go now." And together boy and dog
crept softly across the room and stole out of the cabin door--out of the
cabin door, into the beautiful light of the new day. And the drunken
brute still slept on the floor by the open fire-place, but the fire was dead
upon the hearth.
"He can't hurt maw any more, Smoke," said the lad, when the two were
at a safe distance. "No, he sure can't lick her agin, an' me an' you kin
rustle fer ourselves, I reckon."
* * * * *
Sixteen years later, in the early gray of another morning, a young man
crawled from beneath a stack of straw on the outskirts of Boyd City, a
busy, bustling mining town of some fifteen thousand people, in one of
the middle western states, many miles from the rude cabin that stood
beneath the hill.
The night before, he had approached the town from the east, along the
road that leads past Mount Olive, and hungry, cold and weary, had
sought shelter of the friendly stack, much preferring a bed of straw and
the companionship of cattle to any lodging place he might find in the
city, less clean and among a ruder company.
It was early March and the smoke from a nearby block of smelters was
lost in a chilling mist, while a raw wind made the young man shiver as
he stood picking the bits of straw from his clothing. When he had
brushed his garments as best he could and had stretched his numb and
stiffened limbs, he looked long and thoughtfully at the city lying half
hidden in its shroud of gray.
"I wonder"--he began, talking to himself and thinking grimly of the
fifteen cents in his right-hand pants pocket--"I wonder if--"
"Mornin' pard," said a voice at his elbow. "Ruther late when ye got in

las' night, warn't it?"
The young man jumped, and turning faced a genuine specimen of the
genus hobo. "Did you sleep in this straw-stack last night?" he
ejaculated, after carefully taking the ragged fellow's measure with a
practiced eye.
"Sure; this here's the hotel whar I put up--slept in the room jes' acrost
the hall from your'n.--Whar ye goin' ter eat?"--with a hungry look.
"Don't know. Did you have any supper last night?"
"Nope, supper was done et when I got in."
"Same here."
"I didn't have nothin' fer dinner neither," continued the tramp, "an' I'm
er gettin' powerful weak."
The other thought of his fifteen cents. "Where are you going?" he said
shortly.
The ragged one jerked his thumb toward the city. "Hear'd as how thar's
a right smart o' work yonder and I'm on the hunt fer a job."
"What do you do?"
"Tendin' mason's my strong-holt. I've done most ever'thing though;
used ter work on a farm, and puttered round a saw-mill some in the
Arkansaw pineries. Aim ter strike a job at somethin' and go back thar
where I know folks. Nobody won't give a feller nuthin' in this yer
God-fer-saken country; haint asked me ter set down fer a month. Back
home they're allus glad ter have a man eat with 'em. I'll sure be all right
thar."
The fellow's voice dropped to the pitiful, pleading, insinuating whine of
the professional tramp.
The young man stood looking at him. Good-for-nothing was written in

every line of the shiftless, shambling