Democratic Sentinel, Volume 14, Number 11, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 4 April 1890 — ONLY A BOOTBLACK. [ARTICLE]

ONLY A BOOTBLACK.

“The way I came tojmeet him," wrfa my laundress, * 'was in thia wa> 1 was crossin Broadway with a big basket of clothes for one of my best customers, when I plumped right down into a mud puddle. Well, it wouldn't do for me to wait on a grand lady in in such shoes, so I was standin' on the corner wonderin’ what I should do, when a little bootblack steps up—‘Can I give you a shine, ma’am,' he says as chirpy as a robin.” “ *1 can’t afford such luxuries,' says “ Oh, I don’t ask to be paid. PH do it for nothin’, because my poor mother used to carry just such a basket as that Come, put up your foot. “So he gave me a good shine, and from that time we became the best of friends. That is how he came at last to board with me, and no lohger could have been more punctual with the rent than was little Jimmy More, the bootblack. “His mother was dead. She hn-T been a laundress like me, and we looked alike in the face, too. God knows if it was a fancy, but I haxi no child of my own, and I got fond of him. Bure, it almost broke my heart to lose %him. “It was a winter day. And all the week it had been snowing and raining, and melting and freezing, until it was a glare of ice, and I was afraid of my life when I took my basket home. I’d been hoping Jimmy would come to help me, but if he had work on hand he never left it for his supper. “So I went away and got my clothes home, and the money in my pocket, and climbed the stairs, just wishing I’d lit a light before I went out. But as I opened the door the room wasn’t dark. The stove covers was off and the red light were on the walls, and there, close to the window, stood Jimmy all gathered up together, as you may say, as if he were shivering. “ ‘Why, Jimmy!’ said I, ‘why didn’t you light the lamp, boy, and get your supper? It’s in the oven for you. What alls you, child?’ “ ‘What ails .me, Mammy Ryan?’ says he. That’s what he always called me—Mammy Ryan. ‘What alls me? Pm killed. Sam Coler did it. He gave me a push, and I went under the car wheels.’

• * ‘Oh, God help us, boy, ’ says I, ‘but it’s only badly hurt you are. We’ll get you well. Walt till I light the lamp and look at you.” "‘But he held up his hand, and somehow 1 couldn’t stir a step, and said he: “ ‘l’m dead, but I wanted you to know about the money. I was bringing It to you to pay board and get me a suit of clothes. It was ten dollrrs, Mother Ryan. I picked up a little lady that fell on Broadway, and her mother said I saved her life, and she gave it to me, and Sam Coler saw it, and that’s why he killed me. He robbed me when I was down. It’s tied in a red handkerchief, and it’s up his coat sleeve. I want you to have it, now that I’m dead’ “‘Come to me, boy,’ said I. ‘l’m that ill I can’t stand. Don’t say that agaip? • ‘And then there was a bit of gray smoke as if something was on fire, and I didn’t see Jimmy any more, though tae door didn't open and no one went out. “It was Mrs. Parley below that ran up when she heard the floor shake, for I turned the scales at 170, and didn’t drop quiet, and she brought me to, and we went out together to look for Jimmy. We found him in the hospital. He was all dressed in white, with his little brown hands folded together. But they didn’t let me see his face. ■With help'l got down again, and away to the Colers— he’s a janitor beyond the park—and I went in without knocking. “ ‘God save you, Mrs. Ryan,’ said Mrs. Coler, ‘and is it true of Jimmy P’ “‘He’s dead,’said I, and then! turned and looked at Sam sitting with his thief s eyes turned away. ‘Dead,’ says I, ‘and there’s the one that pushed him under the cars. You did, Sam, for the money you’ve got tied in his own red handkerchief on your arm under your coat sleeve.’ “ ‘Sure you’re in trouble, ma’am,’ says Mrs. Coler, ‘but my son is no thief.’ • “ ‘He has the $lO bill under his coat now, ’ said I. . “ Out with it, Sam.’ said the father and in a minute more there lay the handkerchief I’d marked myself for Jimmy, and there was the money. “‘I leave you to your conscience, Sam,’ said I. ‘lt’s a bad day for you. and, oh, but it’s a sad day for me. Only the dead came back to bid me, I should not have the strength to do this.’ “ ‘I hope, ma’am, you don’t think I was greedy for poor Jimmy’s money! I never used it for myself. I just bought a tiny bit of a stone with it for his grave, and the stonecutter asked me what I’d have on it. ‘Just Jimmy Morey. He was a good boy.’” said I. “ ‘Well, maybe it is better than poetry, after al},’ said the old man. “ ‘lt’s truer,’ said I. “So there it stands, and once in a while Igo and put u flower over it. There’s quite a little bed now ‘Jimmy Morey. He was a good boy,’ I hadn’t his age to put on, nor hta-father’« name but the angeis will know him a.l thSMme.” ... . 1