Mark Mason's Victory: The Trials and Triumphs of a Telegraph Boy

"Hey? Was that meant for an insult? But never mind! I don't pretend to be one of the goody-goody Sunday-school kids. Now mind you don't loiter on the way."

Oscar sat down on the doorstep and began to whittle.

The door opened and his father came out.

"Why didn't you go to the saloon as I told you?" he asked hastily.

"It's all the same. I sent Philip."

"You sent that boy? He ain't fit to send on such an errand."

"Why ain't he? He can ask to have the bottle filled, can't he?"

"What did he say? Was he willing to go?"

"He said his papa," mimicked Oscar, "didn't want him to go into a liquor saloon."

"He did, hey? All the more reason for making him go. His poverty-stricken father can't help him now. Why, I am keeping the boy from starving."

"Are you going to keep him always, dad?"

"I ought to turn him over to the town, but folks would talk. There's a man in New York that his father said would send for him. I don't know whether he will or not. There's a matter of fifty dollars due to me for burying John Lillis. That's the way I get imposed upon."

Philip kept on his way to the saloon. He was a timid, sensitive boy, and he shrank from going into the place which was generally filled with rough men. Two miners were leaning against the front of the wooden shanty used for the sale of liquor when Philip appeared.

As he passed in one said to the other, "Well, I'll be jiggered if here isn't a kid comin' for his liquor. I say, kid, what do you want?"

"Some whisky," answered Philip timidly.

"How old are you?"

"Ten."

"I say, young 'un, you're beginnin' early."

"I don't want it for myself," returned Philip half indignantly.

"Oh, no, of course not. You won't take a sip yourself, of course not."

"No, I won't. My papa never drank whisky, and he told me not to."

"Where is your papa?"

"Gone to Heaven."

The miner whistled.

"Then who sent you for whisky?"

"Mr. Sprague."

"Old Nahum?"

"His name is Nahum."

"I thought he was too mean to buy whisky. Do you live with him?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is he any kin to you?"

"No," answered Philip quickly.

"Does he treat you well?"

"I don't like to answer such questions," said Philip guardedly.

"I suppose you are afraid to. Did your father leave any money?"

"No," answered Philip sadly.

"Then I understand how it is. Do you expect to keep on living with Mr. Sprague?"

"Papa wrote to a gentleman in New York. I expect he will send for me."

"I hope he will for your sake, poor little chap. Well, go on and get your whisky. I don't want to take up your time."

As Philip entered the first speaker remarked, "Well, Bill, I don't pretend to be an angel, but I wouldn't send a kid like that for whisky. I drink it myself, but I wouldn't want a boy like that to go for it. I'd go myself."

"I agree with you," said Bill. "That Sprague ain't of much account any way. I'd lick him myself for a dollar. He's about as mean as they make 'em."

CHAPTER XXX

A CIRCUS IN MR. SPRAGUE'S YARD

Philip timidly made known his request and the bottle was filled. The saloon-keeper attended to the order in a matter-of-fact manner. As long as he got his pay he cared very little whom he dealt with.

Philip, feeling ashamed of his burden, came out with the bottle and set out on his return home. He had been delayed by the conversation at the door, and he had also had to wait to have the bottle filled, there being several customers to attend to before him. So it happened that when he got back Mr. Sprague and Oscar were awaiting him impatiently.

"There the boy comes at last, father," said Oscar. "He's creeping like a snail."

Whisky was Mr. Sprague's one extravagance, and he had waited longer than usual for his customary drink. This made him irritable.

"Why don't you come along faster, you young beggar?" he called out harshly.

"I'll start him up, dad," said Oscar with alacrity.

"Do so!"