“To get some coal.”
“No,” said the former, “I guess not. What do you take me for?”
“Well, then, I’ll not,” said George, with an obstinate jerk of his head.
“Why didn’t you get it up this afternoon?” questioned his brother sharply. “You’ve had all day to do it.”
“Aw, I did get it up,” said George. “We couldn’t get any. I can’t get any when there ain’t any, can I?”
“I guess you didn’t try very hard,” said the dandy.
“What’s the matter now?” asked Jennie, who, coming in after having stopped at the grocer’s for her mother, saw George with a solemn pout on his face.
“Oh, Bass won’t go with me to get any coal.”
“Didn’t you get any this afternoon?”
“Yes,” said George, “but Ma says I didn’t get enough.”
“I’ll go with you,” said his sister. “Bass, will you come along?”
“No,” said the young man, indifferently, “I won’t.” He was adjusting his necktie and felt irritated.
“There ain’t any,” said George, “unless we get it off the cars. There wasn’t any cars where I was.”
“There are, too!” exclaimed Bass.
“There ain’t,” said George.
“Didn’t I see ’em just as I came across the tracks, now?”
“Well, they just run ’em in then,” said George.
“Well they’re there, if you want to look.”
“Oh, don’t quarrel,” said Jennie. “Get the baskets, and let’s go right now before it gets too late.”
The other children, who had a fondness for their big sister, got out the implements of supply—Veronica a basket, Martha and William buckets, and George a big clothes-basket, which he and Jennie were to fill and carry between them. Bass, moved by his sister’s willingness and the little respect he maintained for her, now made a suggestion.
“Now, I’ll tell you what you do, Jen. You go over there with the kids to 8th Street and wait around those cars. I’ll be along in a minute. When I come by, don’t any of you pretend to know me. Just you say, ‘Mister, won’t you please throw us some coal down?’ and then I’ll get up on the cars and throw you off enough. D’ye hear?”
“All right,” said Jennie, very much pleased.
“Don’t you let on that you know me, now, any of you, do you hear?”
“Yes,” said George, indifferently. “Come on, Mart.”
Out into the snowy night they went, visible because of the snow and the moonlight seeping through fleecy clouds, and made their way to the railroad tracks. At the intersection of the street and the broad railroad yard were many heavily laden cars of bituminous coal newly backed in. All of the children gathered within the shadow of one. While they were standing there, waiting the arrival of their brother, the Washington Special arrived, a long, fine train with several of the new-style drawing-room cars, the big plate-glass windows shining, and the passengers looking out from the depths of their comfortable chairs. The children instinctively drew back as it thundered past.
“Oh, wasn’t it long?” said George.
“Wouldn’t I like to be a brakeman, though,” said William.
Jennie, alone, kept silent, but the suggestion of travel and comfort was the most appealing to her of all.
Sebastian now appeared in the distance, a mannish spring in his stride, and with every evidence that he took himself seriously. He was of that peculiar stubbornness and determination that, had the children now failed to carry out his suggestion, he would have gone deliberately by, and refused to help them at all.
Martha, however, took the situation as it needed to be taken, and piped childishly, “Mister, won’t you please throw us down some coal?”
Sebastian stopped abruptly, and looking sharply at them as a stranger well might, exclaimed, “Why, certainly!” and proceeded to climb up on the car from whence he cast down with remarkable celerity more than enough chunks to fill their baskets, after which, not caring to linger any longer amid such plebeian company, he hastened across the net work of tracks, and was lost to view.
Upon this trail, however, when they had their baskets well filled and carried to the side-walk, came another gentleman, this time a real one, with high hat and distinguished cape-coat, whom Jennie immediately recognized. This was the honorable senator himself, newly returned from Washington, and anticipating a very unprofitable Christmas. He had arrived upon the express which had enlisted the attention of the children, and was carrying his light grip, for the pleasure of it, to the hotel. When he drew near, he thought he recognized Jennie, and paused to be more certain.
“Is that you, Jennie?” he said.
The latter, who had discovered him even more quickly than he had her, exclaimed, “Oh, there is Mr. Brander!” and, dropping her end of the basket, with a caution to the children to take it right home, hurried away in the opposite direction.
The senator followed, calling three or four times “Jennie! Jennie!” but losing hope of overtaking her, and, suddenly recognizing, and thereupon respecting, her simple, girlish shame, stopped, and turning back, decided to follow the children. Being gentle and tenderly human, the significance of the present situation was not lost upon him. Anew he felt that same sensation which he seemed always to get from this girl—the far cry between her estate and his. It was something to be a senator tonight, here where these children were picking coal. What could the joyous holiday of the morrow hold for them? He tramped along sympathetically, an honest lightness coming into his step, and soon saw them enter the gateway of the low cottage. Crossing the street, he stood in the weak shade of the snow-laden trees. The light was burning with a yellow glow in a rear window. All about was the white snow. In the woodshed he could hear the voices of the children, and once he thought he detected the form of Mrs. Gerhardt. After a time another form came shadow-like through the side gate. He knew who it was. It touched him to the quick, and he bit his lip sharply to avoid any further show of emotion. Then he turned vigorously on his heel and walked away.
The chief grocery of the city was conducted by one Manning, a staunch adherent of Brander, and one who felt honored by his senator’s acquaintance. To him, at his busy desk, came the senator this night.
“Manning,” he said, “could I get you to undertake a little work for me this evening?”
“Why certainly, Senator, certainly,” said the groceryman. “When did you get back? Glad to see you. Certainly.”
“I want you to get everything together that would make a nice Christmas for a family of eight—father and mother and six children—Christmas tree, groceries, toys—you know what I mean.”
“Certainly, certainly, Senator,” said Mr. Manning.
“Never
