Читать книгу Son of a Hundred Kings - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 7

The conductor of the express train from Montreal walked through a succession of close-smelling Pullman cars until he reached the first of the day coaches. It was a few minutes past seven only, but most of the passengers had aroused themselves already from their uneasy slumbers on the straight-up-and-down seats and were gazing with apathetic eyes at the white landscape. The whining voices of children and the scolding tones of harassed mothers filled the coach. He did not pause until he reached a seat occupied by a small boy and a small satchel of red carpet.

“Well, Ludar,” he said in a cheerful voice. “And how are you this morning?”

“I’m well, sir,” answered the boy in a high, English voice.

He was a thin little fellow, between six and seven years old, and wearing on his white and pinched face an expression of the utmost unhappiness. His clothes consisted of a belted coat and knickerbockers of gray corduroy, badly rumpled and travel-stained, and heavy shoes with brass on the toes to prevent scuffing. Pulling himself together out of deference to authority, he sat up very straight in the seat.

“But you were sick during the night, I hear.”

The boy nodded. It was apparent that he feared this great man in peaked cap and shiny braid would decide on some form of punishment for him. “The food came up again,” he explained. In an attempt at extenuation he added, “I get sick very easy, sir.”

He might have gone on to say that it had been like this ever since he got off the boat at that big city called Halifax and started taking trains. There had always been people around him, asking questions and staring as though he had come right out of a zoo; mostly ladies with faces which were stern though they tried to be friendly, telling him what to do and waiting severely until he obeyed. Generally it had been about food. Everyone assumed that he was on the point of starvation and that it was their duty to take him off the train at the first opportunity and ply him with dishes he did not like. It did not matter how much he protested that he was not hungry. He must be hungry, a boy traveling alone like this without anyone to look after him. So, off the train he would be marched, to sit on a high stool in a station restaurant. The food was always the same: ham, which he disliked; eggs, which made him sick; and greasy fried potatoes, which turned his stomach at the first glance—all of it washed down by a bitter-tasting drink called coffee, which scalded his throat. Eating had never been a pleasure anyway because most foods disagreed with him. However, he would swallow as much as he could, which was never enough to satisfy the persistent benevolence which was paying fifteen or twenty cents to stuff him full. He would be led back to the coach in a disapproving silence which made it clear that he had been ungrateful.

As soon as the train started, of course, he would be sick. Unfortunately his weak stomach was not considerate enough to manifest its symptoms gradually so that things could be taken care of in time. Instead there would be a violent retching and all the unwelcome food would be transferred to the world around him, most particularly to his own clothes. A man in uniform, with a disgusted look on his face and a pail of water and a mop in his hands, would come along and say: “Again, eh! You dirty little devil, you!” While the work of cleaning up proceeded, Ludar would lie back on the hard seat, pale and sick and so ashamed of himself that he would turn away when anyone passed.

The conductor squatted on the opposite seat, holding in the air the small gadget which served as the badge of his trade and clicking it busily as he talked, as though punching a rapid succession of tickets. “You’re going to meet your father in Balfour, eh?” he began. “Well, you’re a lucky boy, I guess. It’s a fine city. It’s jam-full of factories and growing like sixty. There’s plenty of chances there for boys who want to get out early and make a little money. And you’ll be having a good start, Ludar. The money the passengers on the boat collected for you has hardly been touched because so many people wanted to be kind to you and buy your meals themselves. I have a matter of eleven dollars and sixty-five cents right here in my pocket for you which I’ll hand over to the conductor of the train at T’ronto. He’ll take you on to Balfour. It will be on the Grand Trunk—but I’m afraid that can’t be helped. It’s the only way to get to that town. He will hand it over to your father when you arrive. I guess eleven dollars will come in handy, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” said the boy. He had heard the word dollar used a great deal since arriving in this country and knew it had to do with money. He wondered why these people never spoke of shillings and pence.

“You’ll get there around noon,” went on the conductor, nodding his head and continuing to use the tone he would employ with another adult. “Your father will be right there on the platform, waiting for you. One of the high mucky-mucks in Toronto will send him a telegram today, saying you’re due to arrive. I guess you’ll be glad to see him again.”

“I’ve never seen my father, sir.”

The conductor looked startled. “Never seen him? Well, that does beat the Dutch! Coming out all this distance alone to find a father you’ve never as much as laid an eye on! You are a game little rooster!”

Ludar had been thinking over what the man in the peaked cap had told him. “Won’t I be on trains any more after today, sir?”

“That’s exactly what I mean, Ludar. You’ll be home at noon or thereabouts today.”

“Will I be able to sleep in a bed again, sir? And have baths like I used to?”

“Yep. You’ll sleep in a fine warm bed and have as many baths as you want. What do you think of that?”

What the boy thought was apparent from the look of delight in his eyes. They were blue eyes and, because he had lost weight during his long journey, they seemed to overshadow the rest of his face.

“And I think, my lad,” went on the official, “that you really need that last item very much by this time.”

On the seat beside the conductor were a few presents which well-intentioned passengers had given the lonely traveler. There were a tin pail and a wooden shovel which an elderly lady had contributed, saying that they would be useful “on one of his little holidays.” Ludar did not know what holidays were, but he treasured the pail particularly because it had on it a picture of a boy and a dog. The dog was a perky little animal and he called it Dribbler, after one which had visited his neighborhood occasionally. The boy he called Albert Edward, having heard that name mentioned in adult conversation and thinking it a very fine one indeed. In addition there was a paper-covered book about Canada which might interest him conceivably in another ten years, and a small wooden caboose which had once formed part of a toy train.

“Am I to keep these, sir?” he asked.

“They were give to you.” The conductor nodded his head. “They’re your property now, Ludar, to do with as you like. Not that the people who handed ’em to you had any great rush of generosity to the heart, as you might say.” He dropped the ticket punch into a vest pocket which was lined with tape to keep it from fraying. “We’ll be getting in very soon now. To the city of Toronto. Where I live myself, Ludar, and a fine city it is.”

People were beginning to open parcels of food and eat breakfast. Across the aisle a family of five had a large basket, and the mother started to hand out salmon sandwiches to the three children until the father, who had a beard like a broom, said, “Margaret!” in a shocked voice and then proceeded to say a long grace in a resonant tone.

The conductor began, “After you’ve had your breakfast——”

“Oh, please, sir, might I go without breakfast today?” asked the English boy in a pleading voice.

The conductor had risen to his feet and was on the point of leaving. He stopped and frowned uncertainly. “No one goes without breakfast, sonny. It’s the best meal of the day. Starts you off with a good solid foundation. You’ll never amount to a row of beans if you don’t eat big breakfasts. And then there’s this eleven dollars and sixty-five cents. I’m responsible for using it to see that you never miss a meal.” He sniffed and gave the end of his nose a pinch with finger and thumb. “On the other hand, there’s no sense having you sick when you get on the train for Balfour and—and sort of giving the passengers a bad impression of you. I tell you what, Ludar. You drink a glass of milk at the station and we’ll call that a breakfast. Does milk come up on you like solid food?”

“I don’t think so, sir.”

“Well, then, you drink a glass of milk and then you say out good and loud, so everyone will hear you, that you don’t want anything more. That will relieve me of responsibility for letting you go hungry with your own funds in my pocket. Then I’ll hand you over to Pete Handy, who’ll be in charge of your train. He will take you in hand and see you get there safe and sound.”

“Yes, sir.” The boy reached for the toys on the opposite seat. “I better be getting ready, sir.”

“No hurry about that. We won’t be in for another twenty, twenty-five minutes. I’ll come back for you myself.”