“Oh, my goodness!” groaned Lemuel.
“Have—have you been in prison?”
“Why, of course.”
“Oh, what am I going to do?” whispered
the miserable creature to himself.
The other heard him. “Why, you hain’t
got to do anything! I’m on the reform,
and you might leave everything layin’ around
loose, and I shouldn’t touch it. Fact!
You ask the ship’s chaplain.”
He laughed in the midst of his assertions of good
resolutions, but sobered to the full extent, probably,
of his face and nature, and tying Lemuel’s cravat
on at the glass, he said solemnly, “Mate, it’s
all right. I’m on the reform.”
Lemuel’s friend entered upon his duties with
what may also be called artistic zeal. He showed
a masterly touch in managing the elevator from the
first trip. He was ready, cheerful, and obliging;
he lacked nothing but a little more reluctance and
a Seaside Library novel to be a perfect elevator-boy.
The ladies liked him at once; he was so pleasant and
talkative, and so full of pride in Lemuel that they
could not help liking him; and several of them promptly
reached that stage of confidence where they told him,
as an old friend of Lemuel’s, they thought Lemuel
read too much, and was going to kill himself if he
kept on a great deal longer. The mate said he
thought so too, and had noticed how bad Lemuel looked
the minute he set eyes on him. But he asked what
was the use? He had said everything he could
to him about it. He was always just so, up at
home. As he found opportunity he did what he
could to console Lemuel with furtive winks and nods.
Lemuel dragged absently and haggardly through the
day. In the evening he told Mrs. Harmon that
he had to go round and see Mr. Sewell a moment.
It was then nine o’clock, and she readily assented;
she guessed Mr. Williams—he had told her
his name was Williams—could look after
the office while he was gone. Mr. Williams was
generously glad to do so. Behind Mrs. Harmon’s
smooth large form, he playfully threatened her with
his hand levelled at his shoulder; but even this failed
to gladden Lemuel.
It was half-past nine when he reached the minister’s
house, and the maid had a visible reluctance at the
door in owning that Mr. Sewell was at home. Mrs.
Sewell had instructed her not to be too eagerly candid
with people who came so late; but he was admitted,
and Sewell came down from his study to see him in
the reception-room.
“What is the matter?” he asked at once,
when he caught sight of Lemuel’s face; “has
anything gone wrong with you, Mr. Barker?” He
could not help being moved by the boy’s looks;
he had a fleeting wish that Mrs. Sewell were there
to see him, and be moved too; and he prepared himself
as he might to treat the trouble which he now expected
to be poured out.
“Yes,” said Lemuel, “I want to tell
you; I want you to tell me what to do.”
