Read Online The Dover Anthology of American Literature Volume II by Bob Blaisdell - Free Book Online

thimble—and who cares for that, I’d like to know. She talks awful, but talk don’t hurt—anyways it don’t if she don’t cry. Jim, I’ll give you a marvel. I’ll give you a white alley!”
    Jim began to waver.
    â€œWhite alley, Jim! And it’s a bully taw.”
    â€œMy! Dat’s a mighty gay marvel,
I
tell you! But Mars Tom, I’s powerful ’fraid ole missis—”
    â€œAnd besides, if you will I’ll show you my sore toe.”
    Jim was only human—this attraction was too much for him. He put down his pail, took the white alley, and bent over the toe with absorbing interest while the bandage was being unwound. In another moment he was flying down the street with his pail and a tingling rear, Tom was whitewashing with vigor, and Aunt Polly was retiring from the field with a slipper in her hand and triumph in her eye.
    But Tom’s energy did not last. He began to think of the fun he had planned for this day, and his sorrows multiplied. Soon the free boys would come tripping along on all sorts of delicious expeditions, and they would make a world of fun of him for having to work—the very thought of it burnt him like fire. He got out his worldly wealth and examined it—bits of toys, marbles, and trash; enough to buy an exchange of
work
, maybe, but not half enough to buy so much as half an hour of pure freedom. So he returned his straitened means to his pocket, and gave up the idea of trying to buy the boys. At this dark and hopeless moment an inspiration burst upon him! Nothing less than a great, magnificent inspiration.
    He took up his brush and went tranquilly to work. Ben Rogers hove in sight presently—the very boy, of all boys, whose ridicule he had been dreading. Ben’s gait was the hop-skip-and-jump—proof enough that his heart was light and his anticipations high. He was eating an apple, and giving a long, melodious whoop, at intervals, followed by a deep-toned ding-dong-dong, ding-dong-dong, for he was personating a steamboat. As he drew near, he slackened speed, took the middle of the street, leaned far over to starboard and rounded to ponderously and with laborious pomp and circumstance—for he was personating the
Big Missouri
, and considered himself to be drawing nine feet of water. He was boat and captain and engine bells combined, so he had to imagine himself standing on his own hurricane deck giving the orders and executing them:
    â€œStop her, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling!” The headway ran almost out and he drew up slowly toward the sidewalk.
    â€œShip up to back! Ting-a-ling-ling!” His arms straightened and stiffened down his sides.
    â€œSet her back on the stabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow! Ch-chow-wow! Chow!” His right hand, meantime, describing stately circles—for it was representing a forty-foot wheel.
    â€œLet her go back on the labboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow-ch-chow-chow!” The left hand began to describe circles.
    â€œStop the stabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Stop the labbord! Come ahead on the stabboard! Stop her! Let your outside turn over slow! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow-ow-ow! Get out that head-line!
Lively
now! Come—out with your spring line—what’re you about there! Take a turn round that stump with the bight of it! Stand by that stage, now—let her go! Done with the engines, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling!
Sh’t! sh’t! sh’t!
” (trying the gauge cocks).
    Tom went on whitewashing—paid no attention to the steamboat. Ben stared a moment and then said:
    â€œHi
-yi! You’re
up a stump, ain’t you!”
    No answer. Tom surveyed his last touch with the eye of an artist; then he gave his brush another gentle sweep and surveyed the result, as before. Ben ranged up alongside of him. Tom’s mouth watered for the apple, but he stuck to his work. Ben said:
    â€œHello, old chap, you got to work, hey?”
    Tom wheeled suddenly and said:
    â€œWhy