FullReads

It was a mild evening in the early fall, when the boys got together for the next story, which of course fell to the lot of Tom Miller, the minister’s son, whom the boys familiarly called “The Dominie.” No boy in the cellar-door club was more obliging to his friends, more forgiving to those who injured him, than “The Dominie,” and none was more generally loved. But Tom had some strong opinions of his own. He was a believer in “the dignity of work,” and when he wanted a little spending money, would take a saw and cut wood on the sidewalk, without any regard to some of the fellows, who called him wood-sawyer. He was given to helping his mother, and did not mind having the boys catch him in the kitchen when his mother was without “help.” If anybody laughed at him he only replied, “There is nothing I am more proud of than that I am not afraid to be useful.” This independence, this utter contempt for the sneers of others when he was right, made the boys look for something a little peculiar when Tom should come to his story.

“G-g-gentlemen! this c-c-cellar-door society will come to order. Tom Miller, the dominie—-“

“The wood-sawyer?” said Jackson, good-naturedly.

“Y-yes, the w-wood-sawyer, the f-fearless reformer, the b-b-believer in hard work, the bravest member of the c-cellar-door cl-club, has the slanting floor, the cellar-door itself, and I hope he will st-st-stand by his colors, and give us a story that has the meanest kind of work in it, made honorable by d-d-dig-dignity of character.” I think Sampson stammered a little on “dig-dig” just for the fun. But the boys all agreed to his request and so they heard

TOM MILLER’S STORY.

My story, boys, shall be what you ask. I shall call it “The Young Soap-Boiler,” for I suppose you’ll admit that boiling soap is about as unpleasant work as there is.

“Touched bottom that time,” interposed Harry Wilson.

Well, the boy that I’m going to tell about was Dudley Crawford. With a cheery eye and voice, a quick eye, a quicker hand and a fleet foot, he was a great favorite on the play-ground. If there was a weak boy, whom the others imposed upon, Dudley was always his fast friend, and the mean fellows who make up for their cowardice toward boys of their size by “picking” at little fellows or green boys, had always a wholesome fear of Dudley, though I do not think he ever struck one of them. But his fearless, honest eye cowed them, and I am sure he would have struck hard if it had been necessary to protect the poor little fellows who kept under his wing. The boys called them “Dud’s chickens.”

There was one boy in the school, Walter Whittaker, who had a special desire to be on good terms with Dudley. Walter’s father had gotten rich during the war, and Walter had a special fondness for being genteel. He wore gloves, and kept his boots brighter than there was any occasion for. He was not much of a scholar, though older than Dudley. But he was fond of calling young Crawford his friend, because Dudley’s father was a rich and talented lawyer.

At last, there came a financial crash that sent all of Mr. Crawford’s half-million of dollars to the winds. He was in feeble health when it came, and the loss of his property hastened his death. The very same “panic” left Whittaker poor also. But the two boys took it very differently. Whittaker looked as crestfallen as if he had committed a crime. Dudley mourned the loss of his father, but held up his head bravely under the sudden poverty. Whittaker looked around for a “situation.” But the times were hard, and situations were not to be had. Every clerk that could be dispensed with was sent away, and besides, merchants do not like to employ a fellow who wears gloves and looks afraid of soiling his hands. Dudley had his mother to support, and looked about bravely for work. But no work was to be had. He tried everything, as it seemed, until at last he asked stern old Mr. Bluff, who owned half a dozen factories of different kinds.