Read Online Johnny Tremain by Esther Hoskins Forbes - Free Book Online
Authors: Esther Hoskins Forbes
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he went in. He had not even stopped to consider whether or not a printer's work was something that he could do.
He saw the squat, buglike printing press, the trays of type, the strings on which printed sheets were hung to dry like clothes on a line. On a workbench was a smaller press for notifications, proclamations, broadsides, trade cards. Everything smelled of printers' ink.
A boy, larger than himself and probably a few years older, was standing at a counter talking with a stout marketwoman in a frayed red skirt. Her pig had strayed from her yard. She wished to advertise it. The boy wrote down what she said.
'Lostâa spotted sow from Whitebread Alley,' the boy repeated.
'She was the
dearest
pig,' said the womanâ'would come for a whistle like a dog. My children taught her to play "dead pig." We don't ever think to eat herâonly her increase. We called her Myra.'
The boy did not write that down. He lifted his dark face, indolent dark eyes. The lashes flickered. He was interested.
'Was she hard to teach, ma'am?'
'Oh, no! Pigs are clever.'
'I never knew that. How do they compare with dogs?'
Then the old lady began to talk. She talked about pigs in general and her Myra in particular.
The printer's boy, unruffled, unhurried, heard her through. He was tall and powerfully built. There was something a little sluggish in his casual movements, in his voiceâalmost as though he was saving himself for emergencies, not wasting himself on every casual encounter.
The woman was delighted with so good a listener and his few intelligent questions. Johnny, standing at the door, forgot his own errand. He had no idea that either pigs or old market-women could be so interesting. It was the apprentice, standing at the counter in his leather apron and full white shirt, his thoughtful face framed in hair, black and straight as an Indian's, who had cast a spell over the old gossip and her subject.
Although the boy had nodded casually as Johnny came in, he did not speak to him until after the woman was gone and he had set up the few lines of type. There was nothing rude about this seeming neglect. It was almost as if they were friends of long standing. The strange boy had none of the bustling smartness of the usual Boston apprentice. Johnny had seen enough of them in the last month, apprentices who knew what you wanted and that you would not suit, and you were out on the street again in three minutes.
Having set the advertisement, the boy took a covered basket from under the counter, put it on a table, and drew up two stools.
'Why don't you sit down?' he said, 'and eat. My master's wifeâshe's my auntâalways sends over more than I can manage.'
Seemingly he had sized up everything with only half a glance from the lazy, dark eyes. He had known Johnny was hungry without once really looking at him and had also known that he was someone he himself liked. He was both friendly and aloof. Nonchalantly he took out his claspknife, cut hunks of bread from the long loaf. There were also cheese, apples, and ham.
The ham seemed to remind the printer's boy of the gossip and her pig.
'I grew up on a farm,' he said, 'but I never knew you could teach a pig tricks. Help yourself to more bread?'
Johnny hesitated. So far he had not taken his bad hand out of his pocket since entering the shop. Now he must, or go hungry. He took the claspknife in his left hand and stealthily drew forth the maimed hand to steady the loaf. It was hard to saw through the crusty loaf with a left hand, but he managed to do it. It took him a long time. The other boy said nothing. He did not, thank God, offer to help him. Of course he had seen the crippled hand, but at least he did not stare at it. Asked no questions. Seemingly he saw everything and said nothing. Because of this quality in him, Johnny said:
'I'm looking for some sort of work I think I could do well in ... even with a bad hand.'
'That's quite a recent burn.' It was the first intelligent
He saw the squat, buglike printing press, the trays of type, the strings on which printed sheets were hung to dry like clothes on a line. On a workbench was a smaller press for notifications, proclamations, broadsides, trade cards. Everything smelled of printers' ink.
A boy, larger than himself and probably a few years older, was standing at a counter talking with a stout marketwoman in a frayed red skirt. Her pig had strayed from her yard. She wished to advertise it. The boy wrote down what she said.
'Lostâa spotted sow from Whitebread Alley,' the boy repeated.
'She was the
dearest
pig,' said the womanâ'would come for a whistle like a dog. My children taught her to play "dead pig." We don't ever think to eat herâonly her increase. We called her Myra.'
The boy did not write that down. He lifted his dark face, indolent dark eyes. The lashes flickered. He was interested.
'Was she hard to teach, ma'am?'
'Oh, no! Pigs are clever.'
'I never knew that. How do they compare with dogs?'
Then the old lady began to talk. She talked about pigs in general and her Myra in particular.
The printer's boy, unruffled, unhurried, heard her through. He was tall and powerfully built. There was something a little sluggish in his casual movements, in his voiceâalmost as though he was saving himself for emergencies, not wasting himself on every casual encounter.
The woman was delighted with so good a listener and his few intelligent questions. Johnny, standing at the door, forgot his own errand. He had no idea that either pigs or old market-women could be so interesting. It was the apprentice, standing at the counter in his leather apron and full white shirt, his thoughtful face framed in hair, black and straight as an Indian's, who had cast a spell over the old gossip and her subject.
Although the boy had nodded casually as Johnny came in, he did not speak to him until after the woman was gone and he had set up the few lines of type. There was nothing rude about this seeming neglect. It was almost as if they were friends of long standing. The strange boy had none of the bustling smartness of the usual Boston apprentice. Johnny had seen enough of them in the last month, apprentices who knew what you wanted and that you would not suit, and you were out on the street again in three minutes.
Having set the advertisement, the boy took a covered basket from under the counter, put it on a table, and drew up two stools.
'Why don't you sit down?' he said, 'and eat. My master's wifeâshe's my auntâalways sends over more than I can manage.'
Seemingly he had sized up everything with only half a glance from the lazy, dark eyes. He had known Johnny was hungry without once really looking at him and had also known that he was someone he himself liked. He was both friendly and aloof. Nonchalantly he took out his claspknife, cut hunks of bread from the long loaf. There were also cheese, apples, and ham.
The ham seemed to remind the printer's boy of the gossip and her pig.
'I grew up on a farm,' he said, 'but I never knew you could teach a pig tricks. Help yourself to more bread?'
Johnny hesitated. So far he had not taken his bad hand out of his pocket since entering the shop. Now he must, or go hungry. He took the claspknife in his left hand and stealthily drew forth the maimed hand to steady the loaf. It was hard to saw through the crusty loaf with a left hand, but he managed to do it. It took him a long time. The other boy said nothing. He did not, thank God, offer to help him. Of course he had seen the crippled hand, but at least he did not stare at it. Asked no questions. Seemingly he saw everything and said nothing. Because of this quality in him, Johnny said:
'I'm looking for some sort of work I think I could do well in ... even with a bad hand.'
'That's quite a recent burn.' It was the first intelligent
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