The Potato Child and Others | Page 6

under the Picture. Ever since he could remember, her chair at this hour
of the day had been in that corner, and low over it had always hung,
just as it hung now, that Picture so often explained to him, "The Walk
to Emmaus." How calm and quiet his mother was; and the room, how
still and cool after that crowded street! Shutting his aching eyes he
could see it again now; the swearing mob of boys and men shoving him
on, their brutal faces and gestures, the quarrel, the blows - those he had
given and taken - he felt them again, and the burning choke of the final
grip and wrestle.
Oh, how his head throbbed and ached! It seemed as if the blood would
burst through.
He opened his eyes again. The room was growing darker. He almost
forgot his pain for a few moments, noticing how the sunlight was
straightened to a narrow lane which reached from the extreme southern
end of the window to the floor in front of his mother's chair. He
watched the last rays as they slowly left the floor and stole up her dress
to her lap and her breast, leaving all behind and below in shadow. Now
they had reached her face. It was bent over her work. Well he knew that
was some Christmas gift, may be for him, - some Christmas gift, and

to-morrow was Christmas! He looked again to see if he could discover
what she was making, but the light had left her now, and had risen to
the Picture.
Queer picture that it was! What funny clothes those men wore! Those
long gabardines, mother had called them, reaching almost to the ground;
shoes that showed the toes, and hoods for hats. One of them had none.
How closely they looked at him!. They didn't even see which way they
were going, and what a long way it was, stretching out there, dusty and
hot.
The room was quite dark now save for the light on the narrow road
there. What was yonder little village in the distance? What kind of a
place was Emmaus? His mother had told him about it; only one street, a
long and narrow one; and very few trees; and one or two trading shops
only; and the houses low and flat-roofed, with no glass in them; and the
sun shining down hot and straight between them, - and (oh, how his
head ached!) he was out there looking for Bob Sykes. Maybe that was
he lying on this rude bench with the low cedar-bush over it. If it were,
he would settle matters with him quick. He would show him - but it
wasn't Bob, it was only a sheep-dog asleep. So Tommy turned away
and walked slowly along the middle of the street. His face burned with
the heat of the sun on his bruises. He was very thirsty. Climbing a little
hill over which the road lay, he saw on the other side of it another boy
coming toward him. He was rather a peculiar looking boy, with a face
thoughtful but pleasant. He was carrying a heavy sheepskin bag over
his shoulder. Tommy determined to ask him if he knew where there
was some water.
"Hello," he said, as the, boy drew near.
The boy stopped and smiled at Tommy without making reply.
"Where are you going?" said Tommy.
"I am carrying this bag of tools to my father," the boy answered.
"Do you live here?" asked Tommy. "It doesn't seem like much of a
place."
"No," said the boy, "it isn't much of a place, but I live here."
"What sort of tools have you got in your bag? Who is your father?"
"My father is a carpenter," answered the boy.
Tommy gave a long, low whistle. "A carpenter! Why my father owns a
store, and we live in one of the best houses in town. Fairfield is the

name of my town."
The boy seemed neither to notice the whistle nor the brag; but,
allowing the bag to slip from his shoulders to the ground, stood, still
smiling, before Tommy.
Tommy, who somehow had forgotten his pain and thirst, felt
embarrassed for a moment. He never before had made that
announcement without its awakening at least a little sensation, even if it
were no more than a boast in return.
"This is a dull old town," he finally said. "Many jolly boys around?"
"A good many," answered the boy.
"Do you get any time to play? I suppose though, you don't - you have
to work most of the time," added Tommy, encouragingly.
"I work a good deal," said the boy. "I get time to play, however. I like
it."
"Which, the work or the play?"
"Both."