The Little Gold Miners of the Sierras | Page 5

strings from the top of the casing, sweet
alysseum flowed downward like a fountain of soft green waters tipped
with white; scarlet geraniums shot up rank shoots that had to be pruned
into reasonableness, and as to Christmas roses--"But there!" the worthy
soul would assure her acquaintances, "they do beat everything!"
This winter the calla was about to bloom. A kind lady had given the
bulb to Mrs. Briggs's son, and there was no telling the store he set by it.
Topliffe Briggs--alias, Top, Senior--was an engineer on the great North,
East, West and South Railway. He sat at the tea-table with his wife and
son at five-thirty one cloudy February afternoon. His next train went
out at six-forty-five. He had run "Her" into the station at four, and his
house was but two blocks away. Mrs. Briggs could see from those
unparalleled kitchen-windows the bridge by which the track crossed the
river separating the town from the marshes, and could calculate to a
minute when the familiar step would be heard on the stairs.

"You see we live by railroad time," was her modest boast. "And my
husband always comes straight home." She did not emphasize the
"my," knowing in her compassionate heart what other husbands were
prone to lag by the way until they came home late and crookedly.
Top, Senior, was on time to-day. "I ken trust Her with Bartlett, you
see," he remarked to his wife. "He won't leave tel she's all trig an' tidy
for the next trip. I wisht I could be as sure o' Stokes!"
Mrs. Briggs looked up inquiringly.
"Stokes is a clever fellow," pursued Top Senior regretfully, slicing
vigorously into the cold corned beef, for he was hungry. "Smart as a
steel trap, and onderstan's his business. I never see a fireman what hed
a better chance o' risin' to an ingineer. He knows Her pretty nigh's well
ez I do. I've took real comfort in learning him all I could. But I'm afeerd,
sometimes, he's on a down-grade and the brakes don't work."
"You mean that he drinks, don't you, father?" asked the sharp-eyed boy
at his elbow.
"There, father!" interjected the mother. "You might 'a' known he'd
onderstan', no matter how you put it!"
"I ain't afeered o' my boy blabbin'!" The brawny hand stroked the thin
light hair of his only child. "An' I want he should learn to hate the stuff.
It's the devil's best drivin' wheel--liquor is. I'd ruther lay you with my
own han's 'cross the rails this very night, an' drive Her right over you,
than to know that you'd grow up a drunkard. Never do you forget them
words, Junior! I mean every one o' them!"
The boy started at the earnestness of the exhortation, winked hard to
keep his eyes dry, and changed the subject. "Hev you noticed my lily
to-day, mother? I guess it'll be wide open by the time you get in
to-night, father."
They all turned to look at the tall stem, crowned by the unfolding calyx.
"Junior's goin' to be a master-hand with flowers," observed the mother.

"He saves me pretty nigh all the trouble o' takin' keer of 'em. I've been
thinkin' that might be a good business for him when he grows up."
She was always forecasting his future with more anxiety than generally
enters into maternal hopes and fears. When but a year old, he had fallen
from the arms of a neighbor who had caught him up from the floor in a
fit of tipsy fondness. The child's back and hip were severely injured. He
had not walked a step until he was five years of age, and would be lame
always. He was now twelve--a dwarf in statue, hump-backed,
weazen-faced and shrill-voiced, unsightly in all eyes but those of his
parents. To them he was a miracle of precocity and beauty. His mother
took in fine ironing to pay for his private tuition from a public
school-teacher who lived in the neighborhood. He learned fast and
eagerly. His father, at the teacher's suggestion, subscribed to a
circulating library and the same kind friend selected books for the
cripple's reading. There was a hundred dollars in the savings bank,
against the name of "Topliffe Briggs, Junior," deposited, dollar by
dollar, and representing countless acts of self-denial on the part of the
industrious couple, and his possible profession was a favorite theme of
family converse.
"For that matter, there's lot o' things a scholard like him ken do,"
rejoined Top, Senior, with affectionate confidence in his heir's talents
and acquirements. "'Tain't like 'twould be with a feller like me whose
arms an' legs is his hull stock in trade. Why, I min' seein' a leetle rat of
a man come on board one time 'scorted by a