“This boy and I got private business,” Hawker muttered under his breath to his tablemates.
“You comin’ back?” one of the men asked. “Want we should save your seat?”
“Sure I’m comin’ back, you dolt,” Hawker growled. “What do you think? Just goin’ over to the cubby at the back where everyone can’t be stickin’ their noses into what’s none o’ their affair.”
Giving Robin a violent jerk that almost knocked him off his feet, Hawker dragged him away from the table, forcing a way to the back of the room to what was little more than a dent in the wall. It was large enough, however, for him to shove Robin in, and then plant himself in front so nothing but his huge, hulking back could be see by the rest of the room. Then he shot out a beefy hand at Robin.
“All right, boy, turn it over. Let’s see what you did.”
His hands shaking so hard he could hardly unbutton his jacket, Robin dug into an inside pocket and started pulling out the money he had collected. But any lingering hope he had that the darkness of the hole in the wall where he stood would confuse Hawker was soon ended. His thick fingers were nimble as they counted every cent and crumpled dollar bill.
“Is this all?” he snapped. “Look at me, boy. I’m askin’, is this all?”
Eyes glued to Hawker’s accusing face, Robin nodded.
Hawker’s eyebrows raised suspiciously. “You didn’t by any chance lift a mite for yourself, did you? In another way of puttin’ it, you didn’t steal any, did you?” His eyes bored into Robin as he jammed the money inside his jacket.
“No,” he said, answering his own question. “A scrawny little weasel like you wouldn’t have the stomach for nothin’ like that. But then why, I’m askin’ you, are we comin’ up fifty cents short? Who, I’m askin’ you, didn’t pay up? If you don’t got a hole in your pocket, and you didn’t steal it, who, I’m askin’ you again, boy, who didn’t pay up?”
“It … it … it was Mr. Kringle,” Robin stammered. “He … he didn’t have enough money to pay it all.”
Hawker snorted. “Well, if that’s what he told you, I’m tellin’ you he’s lyin’.”
“But … but he said his wife had to see the doctor,” Robin said. “He … he …”
“He nothin’!” Hawker snarled. “If you believe that, you believe Christmas comes twice a year, boy. She sits around earnin’ money makin’ them fancy slippers, don’t she?”
“But he said to tell you he’d have the money next week,” Robin said. “He said to tell you, ‘Mr. Kringle makes a promise.’”
Hawker sneered. “Oh, he said that, did he? So what makes him think that him who owns the building is gonna like it if all I bring him is bloody promises? It’s my neck or Kringle’s is what it is. So you just tell him Hawker Doak makes a promise to him. He pays up now, or else he and his slipper-makin’ missus, the old lady, and all their brats are out. You hear me, boy? Out! Now, I’m goin’ back to my seat what’s bein’ held for me. You march right back to Kringle, and don’t come back without the fifty cents. You understand me, boy?”
Even as Robin was nodding, Hawker grabbed him by the jacket collar once again and yanked him back to the table. “All right, get movin’! I’ll be right here waitin’ for you.”
Oh yes, there was little doubt about that. Where the doubt lay was in whether Robin could come back with the fifty cents. And as he finally left The Whole Hog, one terrible word kept drumming in his head. Out! Out where? Where could the Kringle family go if they were put out? The street? Or perhaps a rat hole worse than the one they were in, if they were lucky enough to find one?
Robin remembered once when work at the docks had been slow for his papa, and he and Mama had gone around with worried looks. They had something “put aside” for such an event, they said, but was it enough? They had even breathed the word “out.” How frightening it would be for someone to be put out. Of course, though they lived in the tenements, it was in a decent building, nothing so murderous as the one where Robin had been sent to collect rents. But out was out, no matter from what kind of building.
As Robin left The Whole Hog, he thought of the twitching hands by Mr. Kringle’s sides, and the fear in his eyes. He thought of the thin, wasted face of the wife bent over the table, the shrunken, shrivelled grandmother, the pasty-faced children—all of them relentlessly slaving away over the beads and the boxes. Out! And they would be put out, too. For Robin believed Mr. Kringle truly did not have the fifty cents. So what was the use of knocking on that door again? Robin could not even bring himself to try.
But what then was he to do? Hawker had warned him not to come back without the fifty cents. Well, he did not have the fifty cents, and he had no way to get it. Or did he? What of his papa’s valuable nickel watch and that pawnshop he had passed? Robin could not bear the thought of parting with his precious watch, but the pawnshop sign had clearly said, “Buy or Sell.” So when Mr. Kringle paid the fifty cents he owed the following week, Robin would simply buy the watch back. He knew he would get at least fifty cents for it, probably a great deal more for a watch as splendid as this one, even if it was nickel and not solid gold or silver.
Robin started to walk quickly back in the direction from which he had just come. As night had now definitely fallen, he could only hope the pawnshop was still open. But it must be, for the streets were still teeming with people conducting business under the gaslights as if it were broad daylight.
When he arrived at the pawnshop, he saw through the window that the shop was still dimly lit inside. A man stood behind the counter reading a newspaper by the light of a small glass oil lamp. This was no doubt Nathaniel Slyke, proprietor, as noted on a small, worn sign attached to the window. For a few moments, Robin remained outside, afraid to go in. But through the dust in the window, Mr. Slyke in his shabby sweater looked dusty himself, bent and old and as harmless as one of the tarnished teaspoons left in trays in his shop to be sold. Robin timidly opened the door and entered.
Mr. Slyke’s head instantly jerked up. No longer softened by the dust on the window, his face appeared sallow, with the sharp, cunning look of a fox. As soon as his eyes fell on Robin, they narrowed.
“What is it you want?” he asked abruptly. “Don’t you touch anything in the trays, boy. If you want to look at something, just point it out, and I’ll show it to you.”
“I … I didn’t come to buy anything,” Robin said in a fading voice. “I have something to sell.”
“Sell?” Mr. Slyke shrugged. “Well then, let’s see what you have. Lay it on the counter.”
Fumbling in his pocket as Mr. Slyke stared at him in silence, Robin pulled out the watch and laid it down before him. Mr. Slyke picked it up and turned it in his hands, examining it closely.
“What did you want for it?” he asked indifferently.
Robin swallowed hard. “F-fifty cents, please.”
“Fifty cents?” Mr. Slyke’s eyebrows went up. “What did you think this watch was made of?”
“My papa said it was nickel … solid nickel,” Robin replied with pride.
“Well, your papa should not have been telling you such lies,” Mr. Slyke said. “This is nickel, all right, nickel plate. But I can give you twenty-five cents for it.”
“T-twenty-five cents?” Robin repeated the words with disbelief. “Is … is that all?”
Mr. Slyke set the watch back down on the counter and pushed it toward Robin. With his other hand he picked up his newspaper, indicating that he intended to give no more of his time to the transaction. “Solid nickel watches don’t go for much,” he said, “but you can get nickel plate in the catalogue for ninety-eight cents. Who’s going to buy a watch like this in a pawnshop for more than fifty? Twenty-five is all I can give you.”
Twenty-five cents! What good would twenty-five cents do when Robin had to return to The Whole Hog with fifty? And for twenty-five cents, why leave his treasured watch in the custody of Mr. Slyke, where someone else might purchase it and Robin would never see it again? Hes
itantly, he picked up the watch from the counter.
“I … I might just keep it for now,” he said.
“You can take it down the street,” Mr. Slyke said. “But I can tell you, they won’t give you more than twenty cents. Still, do as you please.”
“Th-thank you,” said Robin.
Mr. Slyke’s eyes dropped down to the newspaper as if he had no wish to continue the conversation. But as Robin trailed across the shop to the front door, he could feel Mr. Slyke’s sharp eyes fastened on his back the whole way.
Robin started slowly off down the street, dragging his feet as if they had turned to lead. The pawnshop had been his only hope. Now what was he to do? He could still hear Hawker’s warning, “Don’t come back without the fifty cents.” Well, Robin still had no fifty cents. All he could do was go home and await Hawker’s arrival—and with it, no doubt, a new crop of welts and bruises. He would go home and—and—no! He would not sit there in fear and trembling awaiting the sound of Hawker’s heavy boots on the stairs. Not at all!
Once again, his footsteps quickened. Faster and faster all the way to the building where he lived. It was not to await Hawker, however. It was to get something. Something he had stupidly forgotten had been there all along!
Chapter III
A Sad Explanation
“What kept you, boy?” snarled Hawker. “You been gone a longtime.”
Robin had to swallow the lump in his throat, but he was prepared with his story. He had been rehearsing it all the way to The Whole Hog just in case Hawker actually noticed how long the mission had taken.
“It’s … it’s what I told you,” Robin said. “Mr. Kringle didn’t have the money. But … but he went to get it someplace, and I had to wait for him to come back.”
“So he had someplace to get it, did he? Why didn’t he go get it in the first place?” Hawker growled. “They always have a place they can go get it, if they’ve a mind to do it. Well, boy, I hope you’ve learned a big lesson about rent collectin’. So all right, hand it over.”
Fifty cents, it seemed, was not a large enough sum for Hawker to drag Robin to the cubby at the back for privacy. He took the coins Robin handed him, carelessly counted them, and stuffed them inside his jacket. His two friends, meanwhile, appeared to find this whole performance highly entertaining, for they sat glued to it, one of them slack jawed, the other with a half grin on his face.
“All right, show’s over,” Hawker said sourly. “You can go now, boy, and …”
“Hey, not so quick, Hawker! How about you interdooce us to this boy o’ yours,” the slack-jawed individual broke in, leering at Robin with squint eyes that seemed to look in two directions at the same time. These were lodged on either side of a flat red nose as lumpy as a meat pie. It was attached to an equally red face bulging out from a cap so greasy it was no longer any nameable color.
“Looks like now we’ll be seein’ more o’ him, one way or t’ other, and you never know when us bein’ familiar with him might come in handy. Don’t you agree with my line o’ thinkin’, Quill?”
“Maggot’s got a point,” his tablemate replied in a thready voice that sounded as if it were being pulled through a keyhole. This man was as narrow as the other was broad. A narrow face, a narrow nose, crafty narrow eyes, a frame so narrow he could have fitted into a crack in a wall and disappeared so quickly he would leave nothing behind but an evil whisper of air.
“I don’t see how either one o’ you got any point,” grumped Hawker. “But first o’ all, don’t go bleatin’ about him bein’ any boy o’ mine. I inherited him, more s the rotten luck.”
“Seems to me as you’re makin’ good use o’ your rotten luck,” said Quill with a crooked grin.
“And you knowed about him b’fore you married his ma,” Maggot said. “You can’t go cryin’ about it, Hawker. Anyways, maybe it’ll learn you not to be wantin’ so hard what ain’t yours, mostly ‘cause it ain’t yours. This time you ended up getting’ what you wanted. Now you gotta live with it.”
“Maggot’s got another point,” Quill said agreeably.
“Aw, shut your big yaps, both o’ you,” Hawker said, clenching his fists angrily.
“Now, you don’t need to go makin’ fists over us offerin’ some words o’ friendly advice,” said Maggot. “You’re too quick makin’ them fists, Hawker. How many fights you got into over doin’ it, mostly for nothin’? One day it’s gonna be the end o’ you when a knife does more’n just put a beauty mark on your cheeks.”
“Well, I don’t want to hear any more o’ your points,” groused Hawker.
“Here’s one anyway, Hawker,” said Quill. “You can’t look for us to sit around bleedin’ over your hard luck when you got this boy workin’for you. You ain’t allowin’ him back to school just so’s he can go on the streets sellin’ papers. You’re lookin’ to puttin’ him in a factory maybe. You already got him collectin’ rents, and he learns fast. Look how he’s brung you the missin’ fifty cents, pretty as you please. Seems like you ain’t wasted no time startin’ to train him. So what’s to bleed about?”
“What do you mean, ‘wasted no time’?” Hawker snapped. “Didn’t I give him a whole week to do all the snivelin’ he wanted after his ma died?”
“Got to say that was generous o’ you, Hawker,” said Maggot. “And o’ course, there’s that other little matter you got stuck with. Can’t blame you for bein’ sore ’bout that. You knew ’bout it likewise b’fore you got hitched, but got to admit I’m willin’ to bleed a little for you ’bout that one.”
“Well,” said Quill, “you can just farm it out like you’re doin’. If it lives long enough, you’ll have two workin’ for you, protectin’ your old age. Anyways, no use talkin’ ’bout it, right, Hawker?”
“Right!” said Hawker, scowling.
“So what’s this boy’s name?” Quill asked. “Ain’t you gonna tell us?”
Hawker jerked his head at Robin. “Tell ’em your name, boy. Don’t just stand there like a tree stump.”
Robin, who had been listening to the conversation being held on his bleak future as if he were, in truth, a tree stump with no ears and certainly no feelings, could barely get out his name.
“It’s … it’s Robin,” he said weakly.
Upon hearing this, both Quill and Maggot grinned. “Don’t blame you for not wantin’ to use it,” Maggot said. “What kind o’ name is that for a boy?”
Hawker shook his head in disgust. “His ma said when she was havin’ him, this bird came up to the window and was talkin’ to her. That’s the kind o’ bird it was, so she named the baby after it.”
“Sounds like his ma was a pretty face with no brain behind it,” said Maggot. “Wonder his pa never said nothin’ to stop it.”
“Maybe where the family come from, it ain’t so strange,” said Quill. “Seems to me somewheres I heard o’ boys named it.”
“Not around here,” grumbled Hawker.
“Well, when he gets out on the street, maybe he’ll start callin’ hisself somethin’ else, just for protection,” said Maggot.
“And speakin’ o’ street,” said Hawker, “you better go hit the street, boy, and pick up the brat. I ain’t aimin’ to pay Mrs. Jiggs any more than I got to. Now get a move on!”
As Robin hurried down the street, he had to keep dashing away the angry tears from his eyes. Never mind that the street boys might see him. Never mind that some of the streets he had to travel were dark and very nearly deserted, streets that might ordinarily have filled him with fright. All he knew was that his brain was pounding with rage.
How dared those men talk about his mama as they had? A pretty face with no brain behind it! Well, they were hideously ugly faces with not a single brain to share between the two of them! How he would have loved to hurl that insult at them! And he would have if he were ten feet tall, with muscles bulging on his arms—a raging bull instead of a chicken-skinny boy. He would have flattened them on the ground right there at The Whole Hog. Then he would sto
mp on them until they begged for mercy.
As for Hawker, simply throwing him to the ground and kicking him was too good for him. Robin, the raging bull, would ram him and ram him until he was nothing but a bloody pulp. Tearing his eyes out might also be considered. Anything that would make him howl with pain and beg Robin’s forgiveness. For after all, it was because of what Hawker had told them that made the men say the things they had. Hawker wanting what he could not have, and when he got it, having to “live with it.” Where could that have come from but Hawker himself? It was if winning Mama after Papa died was a punishment for having wanted her in the first place.
Hawker seemed to have been captivated by her from the very beginning. From the time he had met Robin’s papa at the docks where they both worked and been invited to visit the family in their home. Papa enjoyed it when anyone was taken with his pretty wife, for he was proud of her sparkling smile and dancing green eyes. He liked having them admired. And how different Hawker was back then when he had come calling. For all his roughness, he was a gentleman, Mama and Papa both felt. But it was all put on, as she was to learn to her sorrow.
Why had Mama ever married Hawker Doak? Why? Actually Robin needed no one to give him the answer, for like it or not, he already knew it. For his mama had told him.
Late one night, after he and Mama had had a taste of Hawker’s violence, and Hawker was snoring in bed, Robin had awakened to hear the sound of someone sobbing softly in the kitchen. Creeping from his cot in the tiny room next to it, he had found Mama at the kitchen table with her head buried in her arms. Robin had quietly sat down beside her and put a hand over hers. Then, at long last, he had asked the question that he always believed was not for him, a young boy, to ask.
“Mama, why did you marry him?”
She looked up at him, the cold moonlight that came through the window glistening on her tear-stained cheeks. “Oh, Robin, I always thought you understood why. You must remember how terrible it was for us when your papa was so suddenly taken from us by that cruel accident at the docks?”
Secret in St. Something Page 2
