Recovering from the blow administered by Mr.
Leycraft, Ishmael promptly regained his legs, and putting
them into active service, he moved down with good
speed—the night air was sharp and pinching—upon a
neighboring shop window, and knocking up his cap-front
employed a minute or two in gazing through the pane,
at what lay inside.

“There's fine slices of liver in there,” said Ishmael
to himself, “and excellent chops; and all sorts of greens.
A pound or two of chops would be very nice, with carrots;
and so would a slab of liver. But I guess I'll take a small
porter-house steak, without the bone, for this time only!”

He accordingly proceeded to invest a small sum in the

[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]

delicacy in question, skewered it, and concealing it in an
ingenious brown paper hood, bore it exultingly away.

“Something to wet the fibres of course,” he resumed,
as he approached a grocer's, “something to drown the
young critters in: a pint of fresh cider from the Newark
keg; the very choicest squeezin's of a thousand pippins!
That'll do!” This beverage was procured and, in a borrowed
pitcher, was put in company with the steak; and
skipping along faster than ever, bounding nimbly over
any obstacle that crossed him, he was in a very few
minutes in the hall that passed the broker's door. Lightly
as he stepped along, the ear of the old man was too
quick for him, and in answer to a summons from within,
he halted, placed his steak and pitcher privily on a
chair in the corner of the hall, and turning a baker's
measure that stood by over them, for a screen, entered.

The lodgings of Mr. Close, were, as Ishmael now entered
them, if anything, more desolate than ever. There
was the dull bare floor, the naked walls, the great cold
chimney, breathing, instead of warmth and comfort, a
dreary chillness through the room; and the shivering broker
seated by the hearth, as if he would coax himself
into a belief that a cheery fire was crackling upon it.

The only light the apartment was allowed, came in
through the open windows in the rear, and was contributed
by the various candles and lamps of the neighborhood.
In this half-lighted gloom, Mr. Small entered, removed
his cap, and stood by the door. He was hailed at once,
but in a very feeble voice, by Mr. Close.

“Don't stand there, Ishmael—take a chair by the
hearth; it's much pleasanter than by the door.” Ishmael
came forward and did so.

“Don't you perceive a difference?” said Mr. Close,
as soon as Ishmael was seated. “Don't you think of the
many pleasant fires that have blazed on this very hearth,
and does'nt that make you feel cheerful?”

Ishmael confessed that it was a comforting thought.

“Yet pleasant as it is,” pursued Mr. Fyler Close, “as
this is a Thursday, I'd like to be out: out in the open
air, hurrying through the streets at my best pace. What
do you think of that?”

“To class-meeting, of course,” suggested Ishmael, with
the faintest possible smile on his delightful features.

[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]

“To be sure—but my age and infirmities, Ishmael,
won't allow me, you know,” answered Fyler, pleasantly,
“to attend those delightful social and moral gatherings,
as I'd like to.”

“Certainly not,” rejoined Mr. Small, grinning slightly.
“Nor to be at Missionary Lectures, dropping in my little
mite for the heathen,” continued Fyler, “nor at the
Chapel, listening to the Native African giving an account
of the vices and wild beasts that beset the aboriginal
negro in that benighted country. What a loss to an
evangelical mind!”

“Dreadful, sir,” answered Ishmael. “And there's the
privilege of subscribing to a new cloak for the minister,
and helping make up a box of trowsers and clean linen
for the Tuscaroras!”

“Very true, Ishmael—very true! I'm a melancholy
old fellow, doing nothing but sit here all day long—with
people coming in and begging me to take twenty per
cent interest, coaxing me with tears in their eyes, to ruin
'em: and when I have done it, coming back to break my
furnitur' up, like old crockery—just to get me into temper,
and make me mar my christian deportment. That's
what I call ingratitude, Ishmael.”

“The very basest sort, sir,” said Mr. Small, “caught
in the wild state, caged, and marked on the peak of the
den, `This ere's the Monster!”'

“Providence is a wonderful thing, Ishmael,” continued
Fyler Close.

“Very much so!” answered Mr. Small, lifting his
knavish grey eyes to a great spider on the wall, sitting in
the middle of his web, where the light of a bright lamp
shone from without, in waiting for a gold-spotted fly
caught by the legs in a mesh.

“Now I suppose you followed old Hobbleshank providentially,
down to his den—eh! Ishmael?” said Fyler,
leering on Mr. Small. Ishmael replied in the affirmative.

“And no doubt you happened to put your head through
the window and overhear what the old gentleman said.
He was'nt very noisy, I hope.”

“Not more than the Hen and Chickens in a storm!”
answered Ishmael. “Why sir, he made a speech that
'ud have done honor to a United States Senator: and the
two old women whimpered like a couple of water-spouts.

[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]

A delightful speech, sir, and all about that boy again.”

“Ha! ha!—and did'nt he tell 'em how like a father I
had been to him; and how I advised him not to bother
his head about what was past and gone for good—and the
old women, had'nt they something to say too, Ishmael?”

“Not much—the old story,” answered Mr. Small, “about
the old house, and the nurse, and all that sort o' thing.”

“All in the dark as much as ever?” asked Fyler, pulling
his whiskers with all his might, in order to throw an
expression of great suffering into his countenance.

“I guess so; and old lunatic's wits are breaking under
him, and won't carry him through the winter. That's
better yet. Don't you think it is?”

“O no, by no means,” responded Mr. Close. “We
should always hope for the best. It would be a very
painful thing—a very painful thing indeed, Ishmael, to
have the worthy old gentleman go mad, out of mere
ugliness and spite, because he can't find a boy that he
thinks he's the father of. Don't you see that?”

“Very melancholy indeed,” said Ishmael, who began
to think remorsefully of the neglected cheer in the hall,
“so much so that I don't feel equal to conversation on the
subject. Won't you be good enough to excuse me?”

“Certainly—I have too much respect for your feelings.
Go by all means, Ishmael, and the sooner you're abed, reflecting
on the wilfulness of man and the mysterious ways
and goings-on of Providence, the better for you! Good
night; you'll be in bed at once I hope. Keep yourself
nice and warm, Ishmael.”

“I'll try sir,” answered Mr. Small, artlessly, “Altho'
it's a piercer out o' doors,” and partly aside, “What a
precious old man: a perfect martyr to his feelings.”

The door was closed; the old man leaped up and
dancing about the room, running forward every now and
then to the window and staring into the open casements
that furnished the free light to his chamber, rubbed his
hands together with very glee.

Ishmael paused for a moment without, to look through
a private crevice in the wall and enjoy the spectacle;
then uncovered his steaks and pitcher, and taking
them in his hand, bore them up stairs, and entered the
apartment immediately over Mr. Close. This was scarcely
more than a loft at the very top of the house; with

[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]

beams and rafters cutting it crosswise and lengthwise in
every direction; which beams were garnished with a great
number of suspended market-baskets; coils of ancient
iron hoops; great pieces of tarred cable; and here and
there, bunches of rusted keys of all possible sizes;—some
perfect giants, suited for great warehouses, and others
scarcely large enough for ladies' writing-desks. The room,
poor and parti-furnished as it was, had an air of comfort
from the circumstance of the walls being lined on every
side, with coats, trowsers, vests, roundabouts, and cloaks,
hung upon pins about, in great abundance and variety:
and when Ishmael, stepping gently about the room,
gathered together from corners and hiding-places, fragments
of wood and shaving, heaped them in the chimney and
lighted a fire that blazed and crackled up the flue, throwing
out a wavering flame into the gloom of the apartment,
it seemed as if the room swarmed with visiters, who
stood shrouded in their various apparel against the wall,
and only waited an invitation from Ishmael to come forward
and make themselves merry over his fire.

When Ishmael saw how cheerily the fire sparkled
on the hearth, he could not hold from laughing gently,
and thinking of the old gentleman below stairs.
Then he took down from the wall, an old rusted gridiron,
planted it upon the coals, and spreading his steak
upon the bars, watched the process that followed with an
eager eye. In a few minutes it was finished to a turn, and
while a pleasant savor steamed up and filled the garret
with a grateful smell, Ishmael arrayed his cheer on a
blue plate on a little mantel or shelf that overhung the
hearth; placed a small loaf (a perquisite from the baker)
with a knife and fork at its side; and drawing a well
worn counting-house stool from a corner, vaulted upon it
with an easy leap, and first perching his heels upon a
round near the top, and placing the blue plate on his knee,
entered with steady glee upon the business before him.

The meal was dispatched, as all meals are that are
relished hugely; and when it was fairly at an end, Ishmael
jumped up, and standing for a minute on the very top of
the stool, and raising his hand above him, he brought
down from a beam a long clay pipe and a handful of well
dried tobacco; bent down and lighted it with a coal; and
balancing his seat upon its hind legs, fell back against the

[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]

wall, and watched the smoke complacently, as it was lost
among the rafters.

All this process seemed to operate with a kindly influence
upon Mr. Small, and as, from time to time, he
removed the pipe from his lips, he discovered that he was
in a fine narrative humor, and having no one to talk to,
was driven, from the sheer necessity of the case, to talking
to himself.

“That's not so bad,” said Ishmael, glancing about at the
various distenanted garments that filled the room, “four
pence a day for trowsers, and sixpence for the use o' respectable
men's coats with skirts: all for honest voters
that goes to the polls in other people's clothes out o' respect
to their memory. Nick Finch 's a capital 'lectioneerer,
and dresses up his voters as pretty and natural as any man
ever did; but if Nick's friends only knew what dignified
gentlemen had wore their coats and trowsers before 'em,
they 'd carry their heads more like lords and commodores
than franchise citizens. Here's this nice suit of crowblack,”
pursued Mr. Small, turning about and fixing his
eye upon the garments in question. “There was 'nt a
nicer parson in the whole hundred and forty pulpits, than
that gentleman afore he took to private drinks, and began
to borry money of uncle Close on his gilt-edge prayer
books and great Bibles out o' the pulpit. He used to look
quite spruce and fine, I can tell you, when he first come
here; then his beard began to stubble out; then his boots
was foxy; and then he 'd come with his hat knocked in,
and his pockets full of small stones, which he tried to pass
off on the old 'un for change. When he got to that,
uncle Close had him took up by the police for a deranged
wagrant: and that was the last of you, old fellow!”

“Volunteer firemen is queer chaps!” continued Ishmael,
casting his eyes upon a shaggy white overcoat
with enormous pearl buttons. “Bully Simmons was one
of the primest: and 'ud play a whole orchestra on a firetrumpet,
on the way to a one-story conflagration. But
fires was too much for him—they come on too thick and
shiny on wet nights! First, Bully lost his appetite, and
then he sold out all his red shirts; then he lost the use o'
his legs, and could 'nt travel a ladder, with a pipe in his
hand; and that made him part with his best figured hoists,
every one of'em; and, one night, Bully tried his voice agin

[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]

a norwester that was howling among the flames of a big
factory, and when he found himself beaten out, he stood
at the back of old forty and shed tears into an engin' bucket
like rain; stopped at the old gentleman's on his way
home and sold out his fire-hat, his belts, his boots, and that
great rough jacket, for a song; borrowed a coal-heaver's
shirt to go home in, and turned agin' engines for life!
Bully's a very moral man, they say, now, and takes in
the tracts by handfulls every time they come round, for
shavin' paper.

As Ishmael sate perched upon his stool, framing, in this
way, a memoir of each boot, vest, and overcoat, or meditating
the course of the next day's business, a humble tap
was given at the door, the door solwly opened, and a
forlorn-looking personage, in a shabby hat, covered with
dust, as was also his whole person, from crown to boot, and
having under his arm a small parcel, came in. Advancing
timidly, removing his hat and standing before Ishmael—
while he looked piteously in his face, he accosted him.
“Please, sir,” said the stranger, “is there no corner of
a bed a poor traveller might have! with a morsel to keep
down the famine of a long day's march?”

To this appeal Mr. Small made no answer, but reclining
against the wall, assumed to fall into a profound
slumber.

“Do, for heaven's sake, hear me!” continued the
stranger. “Wake, and hear me! I have come from
burying an only child, in the country, and have neither
crust nor couch to keep off the cold and hunger this night.”

“Hallo! What's all this?” cried Ishmael, feigning at
that moment to waken from his sleep. “Who's here?
Thieves! Thieves! Do you mean to murder us in cold
blood?”

The poor stranger stood shivering before him, with his
hat crushed in his hand.

“There are no thieves here,” said the stranger, as soon
as he could be heard. “No man's life to be taken but
mine, from sheer lack of food!”

“Oh, you 're a beggar, are you?” said Ishmael, rubbing
his eyes with his knuckles. “Why did'nt you stop below,
at the old man's? He would have helped you, I'm quite
sure.”

“So he would—so he would, sir,” said the traveller,

p264-115 [figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]

“but he's poor too; poorer than I. His health was
broken, he told me; he 's cut off from all his religious
comforts; and sits watching there, in that cold room, the
pleasure of Providence. He's a nice, a worthy old man;
that I judged by what he said. He referred me to you:
there was a benevolent young gentleman up stairs, he said,
that would do anything I asked.”

“He did, eh? And so you come to me,” said Ishmael,
smiling mildly upon the stranger. “Lodgin' in a garret,
and old clothes cem-e-tery; as if I had a scrap to spare.
You 're a wag: I know you are: but you should 'nt play
off your humor on poor lads that lives in the roof. Oh, no—
it won't do—and just, by way of apology for your
rudeness, be good enough to give my compliments to the
first watchman—you know what watchmans are, I guess—
you meet at the door. Tell him to lend you his overcoat—
he's sure to do it—borry his rattle for a cane; rattles
make first-rate walking-sticks, and waddle home as fast
as you can! Good night, turnip patch!”

The poor stranger dropped his head, and, without murmur
or answer, went away.

Mr. Small now felt that he was wrought to as comfortable
a state, intellectually and physically, as was attainable
by such a gentleman as himself: and turned his eye bedward.
Casting his coat off, and dexterously jerking a
boot from either leg as he stood, into a remote corner, he
pulled down from their pegs, every one of them, all the
coats, vests and other garments in the apartment, into a
heap upon his truckle bed, and creeping under the same,
his knavish grey eyes, alone, peering out from under the
mass, he fell into a tranquil sleep.