PAGE 6
His New Mittens
by
Presently he found himself at the head of Niagara Avenue, staring through the snow into the blazing windows of Stickney’s butcher-shop. Stickney was the family butcher, not so much because of a superiority to other Whilomville butchers as because he lived next door and had been an intimate friend of the father of Horace. Rows of glowing pigs hung head downward back of the tables, which bore huge pieces of red beef. Clumps of attenuated turkeys were suspended here and there. Stickney, hale and smiling, was bantering with a woman in a cloak, who, with a monster basket on her arm, was dickering for eight cents’ worth of some thing. Horace watched them through a crusted pane. When the woman came out and passed him, he went towards the door. He touched the latch with his finger, but withdrew again suddenly to the sidewalk. Inside Stickney was whistling cheerily and assorting his knives.
Finally Horace went desperately forward, opened the door, and entered the shop. His head hung low. Stickney stopped whistling. “Hello, young man,” he cried, “what brings you here?”
Horace halted, but said nothing. He swung one foot to and fro over the saw-dust floor.
Stickney had placed his two fat hands palms downward and wide apart on the table, in the attitude of a butcher facing a customer, but now he straightened.
“Here,” he said, “what’s wrong? What’s wrong, kid?”
“Nothin’,” answered Horace, huskily. He labored for a moment with something in his throat, and afterwards added, “O’ny—-I’ve—-I’ve run away, and–“
“Run away!” shouted Stickney. “Run away from what? Who?”
“From—-home,” answered Horace. “I don’t like it there any more. I—-” He had arranged an oration to win the sympathy of the butcher; he had prepared a table setting forth the merits of his case in the most logical fashion, but it was as if the wind had been knocked out of his mind. “I’ve run away. I—-“
Stickney reached an enormous hand over the array of beef, and firmly grappled the emigrant. Then he swung himself to Horace’s side. His face was stretched with laughter, and he playfully shook his prisoner. “Come—-come—-come. What dashed nonsense is this? Run away, hey? Run away?” Whereupon the child’s long-tried spirit found vent in howls.
“Come, come,” said Stickney, busily. “Never mind now, never mind. You just come along with me. It’ll be all right. I’ll fix it. Never you mind.”
Five minutes later the butcher, with a great ulster over his apron, was leading the boy homeward.
At the very threshold, Horace raised his last flag of pride. “No—-no,” he sobbed. “I don’t want to. I don’t want to go in there.” He braced his foot against the step and made a very respectable resistance.
“Now, Horace,” cried the butcher. He thrust open the door with a bang. “Hello there!” Across the dark kitchen the door to the living-room opened and Aunt Martha appeared. “You’ve found him!” she screamed.
“We’ve come to make a call,” roared the butcher. At the entrance to the living-room a silence fell upon them all. Upon a couch Horace saw his mother lying limp, pale as death, her eyes gleaming with pain. There was an electric pause before she swung a waxen hand towards Horace. “My child,” she murmured, tremulously. Whereupon the sinister person addressed, with a prolonged wail of grief and joy, ran to her with speed. “Mam-ma! Mam-ma! Oh, mam-ma!” She was not able to speak in a known tongue as she folded him in her weak arms.
Aunt Martha turned defiantly upon the butcher because her face betrayed her. She was crying. She made a gesture half military, half feminine. “Won’t you have a glass of our root-beer, Mr. Stickney? We make it ourselves.”