Part 18 (1/2)
”Away?” cried the boy, with startled, agonized eyes.
”Yes, lad,” answered the big foreman seriously; and placing his strong hand on Jacky's head, he added, ”Give him away to the bravest little chap in the world--a chap we all call Jack o' Lantern.”
For a moment the boy stood speechless, then held out his arms--for the old grey horse had come slowly up to the shanty, and with downbent head was laying his soft, warm muzzle against Jacky's ear.
The Barnardo Boy
The only thing that young Buckney could say to express his surprise at the wonderful stone buildings was ”Blow me!” He had expected to find that the great Canadian city of Montreal would be just a few slab shacks, with forests on all sides, and painted Indians prowling, tomahawk in hand, in search of scalps. When he left the big Atlantic liner with twenty other raw English lads of his own street-bred sort, he thought he was saying good-bye to civilization forever. And here, all around him, arose the ma.s.sive stone-built city, teeming with life, with gayety, wealth, and poverty, carriages, horses, motor cars--why, it was just like London, after all! And once more ”Buck” said, ”Blow me!”
”What's that he says, father?” asked a slender young lady who had accompanied her father, the great surgeon, to help him select a Barnardo boy to a.s.sist the stableman.
”Oh, it's an English street expression,” smiled the surgeon. ”I expect he'll have dozens of queer sayings.”
”Never mind,” said the young lady; ”he has a nice face, and his eyes lock terribly straight at one. I think we'll take him, father?”
Her voice rose in a question, but it took Buck just two seconds to know she need not have asked it. The great surgeon would have taken an elephant if she had expressed a liking for it.
”Keep on the right side of her and you'll stand in wid de old man,”
whispered the boy next to him.
”Don't yer t'ink I sees dat?” sneered Buck. ”Yer must t'ink I lef' my h'yes in Lunnon.” And the shrewd young street arab arose to his feet, touched his cap with his forefinger, and said:
”H'all right, sir; I 'opes I'll suit.”
That was the beginning of it, yet, notwithstanding Buck had made up his mind that whatever happened he would _make_ himself ”suit,” still he met with a serious discouragement the very next morning, when his unwilling ears overheard a conversation between the surgeon and the stableman. The latter was saying:
”I hope you will excuse me speaking, Doctor, but I think you've made a mistake getting this here green Barnardo boy to help with the horses.
They never do know nothin', those English boys, and you can't teach 'em.”
”Well,” hesitated the doctor, ”we'll have to give him a trial, I suppose. Miss Connie took a fancy to him.”
”Oh, _Miss Connie_, was it?” repeated the stableman, in quite another tone. ”Then that settles it, sir.” And it did.
”So I owes dis 'ere 'ome to 'Miss Connie,' does I?” remarked Buck to himself. ”Den if dis is so, I's good for payin' of her fer it.” Only he p.r.o.nounced ”pay” ”py.”
But it was a long two years before the boy got any chance to ”py” her for her kindness, and when the chance did come, he would have given his st.u.r.dy young life to avert it. By this time, much mixing with Canadians had blunted his London street-bred accent. To be sure he occasionally slipped an ”h,” or inserted one where it should not be, but he was fast swinging into line with the great young country he now called ”home.”
He could eat Indian corn and maple syrup, he could skate, toboggan, and ply a paddle, he could handle a horse as well as Watkins, the stableman, who was heard on several occasions to remark that he could not get along without the boy.
In the holidays, when Miss Connie was home from school, Buck was frequently allowed to drive her, or sit in his cream and brown livery beside her while she drove herself. These were always great occasions, for no refined feminine being had ever come into his life before. If he ever had a mother--which he often doubted--he certainly had no recollection of her or her surroundings. To be sure the women about the ”Home” in far-off England were kind and good, but this slim Canadian girl was so different. She looked like a flower, and he had never heard her speak a harsh, unlovely word in all those two years. Once as he stood at the carriage door, the rug over his arm, waiting for Miss Connie to descend the steps for her afternoon drive, an impudent little ”Canuck” jeered at him in pa.s.sing.
”h.e.l.lo, Hinglis.h.!.+” he yelled. ”We're a Barnardo boy, we h'is, fer all our swell bra.s.s b.u.t.tons.”
Buck winced. How he hated Watkins on the box to hear this everlasting taunt cast at him. But a sweet voice from the steps called:
”You are quite right, my boy. He is a Barnardo boy. I wish we were all as great and good as Dr. Barnardo. I am proud to have one of his boys in my household.”
The young urchin shrank away, abashed, for it was Miss Connie's voice.
Buck pulled himself together, touched his hat, and opened the carriage door. But the girl paused on the steps, and her voice was very sincere as she said: ”I mean it, Buckney” (she always called him ”Buckney”).
”I am very proud to have you here.”
Buck touched his hat. ”Thank you, madam,” was all he said, but his young heart sang with grat.i.tude. Would he _ever_ get the chance to show her how he valued her kindness, he wondered. And then--the chance came.