Three People

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It chanced one day that two coffee drinkers at his stand lingered and
talked freely about a certain lecture that was to be delivered before
the----. Tode didn't catch what society, and didn't care; but he did
learn the fact that Mr. Birge was to be the speaker. Now there had come
into this boy's heart a strong love for Mr. Birge; he had never spoken
to him in his life, but for all that Tode knew him well, nodded
complacently to himself whenever he chanced to meet Mr. Birge on the
street, and always pointed him out as his minister. Very speedily was
his resolution taken to attend this lecture. He didn't know the subject,
and indeed that was a matter of very slight moment to him. Whatever was
the subject he felt sure of its being a fine one, since Mr. Birge had
chosen it. Well he went, and as the lecture was delivered before one of
the benevolent societies of the city, the subject was the broad and
strong one, "Christian Giving." Tode came home with some new and
startling ideas. He burst into the little kitchen where the mother sat
placidly knitting her stockings, and the daughter sat knitting her brows
over her arithmetic lesson, and pronounced his important query:

"Winny, what's tenths?"

"What's what?"

"Tenths. In counting money, you know, or anything. How much is tenths?"

"Oh, you haven't got to that yet; it is away over in the arithmetic."

"But, I tell you, I've _got_ to get at it right away--it's necessary. I
don't want it in the arithmetic; I want to do it."

Which was and always _would_ be the marked difference between this boy's
and girl's education. She learned a thing because it was in the book; he
learned a thing in order to use it.

"What do you want of tenths, anyhow? Why can't you wait until you get
there?"

"'Cause things that they ought to be helping to do can't wait till I've
got there. I need to use one of them right away. Come, tell me about
them."

"Well," said Winny, "where's your slate? Here are six-tenths, made
so--6/10."

Tode looked with eager yet bewildered eyes. What had that figure six on
top of that figure ten, to do with Mr. Birge's earnest appeal to all who
called themselves by the name of Christian to make one-tenth of their
money holy to the Lord?

"What's one-tenth then?" he said at last, hoping that this was something
which would look less puzzling.

"Why, _this_ is one tenth." And Winny made a very graceful one, and a
neat ten, and drew a prim bewildering little line between them.

"That is the way to write it. Ten-tenths make a whole, and one-tenth is
written just as I've shown you."

"But, Winny," said Tode, in desperation, "never mind writing it. I don't
care _how_ they write it; tell me how they _do_ it."

"How to _do_ it! I don't know what you mean. Ten-tenths make a whole, I
tell you, and one-tenth is just one-tenth of it, and that's all there is
about it."

"The whole of what, Winny?"

"The whole of anything. It takes ten-tenths to make a whole one."

Poor puzzled Tode! What strange language was this that Winny talked?
Suppose he hadn't a whole one after all, since it took ten-tenths to
make it, and he couldn't even find out what _one_ of them was. Suppose
he should never have a whole one in his life, ought he not then to give
anything to help on all those grand doings which Mr. Birge told about?

"I don't understand a bit about it," he said at last, in a despairing
tone.

"Well, I knew you wouldn't," Winny answered, touches of triumph and
complaisance sounding in her voice. "You musn't expect to understand
such hard things until you get to them."

And now the dear old mother, who had never studied fractions out of a
book in her life, came suddenly to the rescue.

"Have you been reading about the tenths in your Bible, deary?" she
asked, with winning sympathy.

"No, I didn't know they were there till to-night, but I've been hearing
about them, how the folks always used to give one-tenth, and Mr. Birge
made it out that we ought to now, but I don't know what it is."

The old lady dived down into her work-basket and produced a little blue
bag full of buttons, of all shapes and sizes.

"Let's you and me see if we can't study it out," she said,
encouragingly. "You just count out ten of the nicest looking of them
white buttons, and lay them along in a row."

Tode swiftly and silently did as directed, and waited for light to dawn
on this dark subject. The old lady bent with thoughtful face over the
table, and looked fixedly at the innocent buttons before she commenced.

"Now suppose," she said, impressively, "that every single one of them
buttons was a five dollar bill."

"My!" said Tode, chuckling, in spite of himself, at the magnitude of the
conception, but growing deeply interested as his teacher proceeded.

"And suppose the money was _all_ yours. Well, now, it's in ten piles,
_ain't_ it? Well, suppose you take one of them piles away, and make up
your mind to give it all to the Lord. Now, deary, I've studied over this
a good deal to see what I ought to give, and it's my opinion that if you
did that you'd be giving your tenth. Now, Winny, haven't we got at
it--ain't that so?"

"Of course," said Winny, leaving her book and coming around to attend to
the buttons. "Isn't that exactly what I said? One, two, three, four. You
have got ten-tenths here to make the whole, and one of them is
one-tenth."

"Humph!" said Tode, "You might have said it, but it didn't sound like it
one mite, and don't yet. I don't see as there's any ten-_tenths_ there
at all; there's ten _buttons_, leastways five dollar bills."

"That's because you are not far enough advanced to understand," answered
Winny, going loftily back to her seat.

"But see here," said Tode. "Suppose I had a lot of money, say--well, a
hundred dollars, all in ones and twos, you know--_then_ how could I
manage?"

"Make ten piles of it, deary, don't you see? Put just as much in one
pile as another, and then you'd have it."

Tode gave the subject a moment's earnest thought; then he gave a quick
clear whistle.

"Yes, I see--all I've got to do is to keep my money in exactly ten
piles; no matter how much I get never make another, but pile it on to
them ten, serve each one alike, and then just understand that one of 'em
ain't mine at all, but belongs to the Lord, and that's all."

"That's all," said the little old lady, with trembling eagerness. "And
don't it look reasonable, like?"

"I should think it did," Tode answered, in a tone which said he had
settled a very puzzling question for all time.

When he went to his room that evening he took out from the mass in his
pocket a crumpled bit of paper, and looked at some writing on it. It
read: "Genesis xxviii. 22." Mr. Birge had spoken of that verse, and Tode
had marked it down. Now he carefully sought out the verse and carefully
read it over several times; then he got down on his knees and prayed it
aloud: "And of _all_ that thou shalt give me, I will surely give the
tenth unto thee."

It was later in the season, quite midsummer, when the Rev. Mr. Birge,
rushing eagerly down town past Tode's place of business, suddenly came
to a halt. The place was unique and inviting enough, graceful awning
floating out over the box, covered with its white cloth, fresh fruits on
tins of ice, fresh cakes covered with snowy napkins, dainty bouquets of
flowers, gleaming here and there, iced lemonade waiting to be poured
into sparkling glasses--everything faultlessly pure and clean; but it
was none of these things that halted Mr. Birge, nor yet the "No Bottles"
which still spoke eloquently of the owner's principles, but the
name--TODE MALL! The Rev. Mr. Birge had heard that singular combination
of names but once in his life, and then under circumstances he had never
forgotten. He stood irresolute a moment, then turned back and came under
the little awning. Tode's face glowed with pleasure as he flung aside
his grammar and came briskly forward to wait on his distinguished
guest.

"I'll take a glass of lemonade, if you please," began Mr. Birge,
preparing to feel his way cautiously into the heart of this bright eyed
boy, and find if he was indeed the one whose mother had prayed for him
but once in her life, and that on her dying bed.

"Yes, sir," answered Tode, promptly, giving the glasses little gleeful
chinks as he singled out the clearest.

"I see you keep a temperance establishment. I'm glad of that. I didn't
expect to find a place in this quarter of the city where a temperance
man could get any refreshment."

"Yes, sir, that's why I came down here to do business, 'cause there was
nothing but rum all around here, and I thought it was time they had the
other side of the story; and things _are_ improving some. The man that
kept the saloon right next to me drank himself to death, and broke down,
and the man that moved in is going to keep Yankee notions instead of
whisky."

By a few skillfully put questions Mr. Birge satisfied himself that the
brisk young person who talked about "doing business" and his small
acquaintance of the Albany cellar were one and the same; and by this
time, drink as slowly as he could, the lemonade was exhausted. So, bound
to be a valuable customer, he tried again.

"What nice things do you keep hidden under that dainty napkin? Cakes,
eh? Suppose I take one. Do they go well with lemonade?"

"First-rate, sir." And Tode's face was radiant with pleasure as he saw
not only one but three of Winny's delicious cream cakes disappear.

Then Mr. Birge took out his pocket-book. It was no part of his intention
just then and there to betray any previous knowledge of the boy's
history; the little scene in that life drama which he had helped enact
was too solemn and sacred, too fraught with what might be made into
tender memories, to be given by a stranger into the hands of a rough and
probably hardened boy; he could keep it to tell gently to this poor
fellow in the quiet of some softly-lighted room, when he should have
gained an influence over him for good, for he was a fisher of boys as
well as men, this good man; and he told himself that the Lord had thrown
this self-same boy into his path again, to give him a chance to do the
work which a few hours' delay had robbed him of years ago; and Mr. Birge
knew very well that opportunities to do the work which had been let
slip, nine years before, came rarely to any man. And he was glad, and he
was going to be very wary and wise, therefore he drew forth his
pocket-book.

"Now what am I to pay you for this excellent lunch?"

"Nothing, sir." And Tode's cheeks fairly blazed with joy.

"Nothing!" answered the astonished customer.

"Yes, sir, _nothing_. I don't charge my minister anything for lunch.
Like to have you come every day, sir."

"Your minister!"

"Yes, sir. Didn't you know you was my minister?" chuckled Tode. "Bless
me, _I_ know it, I tell _you_--known it this long time."

And then ensued a lively conversation, question and answer following
each other in quick succession; and Mr. Birge went through a great many
phases of feeling in a brief space of time. First came a great throb of
joy. The boy is safe the mother's prayer is answered--good measure,
pressed down, running over--not only a temperance boy to the very core,
but a Christian; then a quick little thrill of pain--oh, his work was
done, but his duty had been left undone; the Lord had gathered in this
stray waif, but _he_ was not the servant. Then, first great
astonishment, and afterward humble, _very_ humble thanksgiving. So then
he was the servant after all; the Lord had called him in to help, and
the work was begun on that stormy night, that night over which he had
grumbled, and had doubting, questioning thoughts. Oh, there were a great
many lessons to learn during that long conversation, and the minister
smiled presently to himself over the memory of how he took it for
granted that because the little yellow-haired boy had run away from his
intended care nine years before, he had therefore run away from God;
smiled to remember how carefully he was going to approach this rough,
hardened boy. "Oh well," he said to himself, as he turned from the shade
of the awning, compelled by the press of customers to defer further
conversation, "I shall learn after a time that although the Lord is
gracious and forbearing, and kindly gives me the work to do here and
there for him, he can when he chooses get along entirely without the
help of John Birge."

Nevertheless he did not yet make known the fact of his early
acquaintance with Tode--not so much now that he wanted to keep it to
help in melting the boy's heart, as that he had come to realize that
Tode's mother was already his one tender memory, and that everything
about that death-bed scene, if remembered at all, must be fraught with
pain; so he still kept the story until some quiet time when they should
be in a pleasant room alone. But this meeting was a great thing for
Tode. From that day forth Mr. Birge realized fully that he was the boy's
minister. He began at once to work carefully for him. Thursday evening
Tode learned to close business at an early hour, and betake himself to
the Young People's Meeting. He was toled into the Sabbath-school--more
than that, he coaxed Winny in, a feat which her mother had never
succeeded in performing.

It was some time in September that a new duty and a new privilege dawned
upon him, that of publicly uniting himself with the people of God. Tode
never forgot the solemn joy which thrilled his soul at that time, when
it was made known to him that this privilege was actually his. There
came a wondrously beautiful October Saturday, and Tode stood by the
window in Mr. Birge's study. It was just at the close of a long
conversation. On the morrow the boy was to stand up in the church and
take the solemn vows upon him, and his face was grave yet glad.

"By the way," said Mr. Birge, "yours is a very singular name. Fortunate
that it is, or I never would have found you again; but it must be a
contraction of something."

"Why yes," answered Tode, hesitatingly. He didn't know what contraction
meant. "My name was once, when I was a _very_ little youngster,
_Theodore_; but I never knew myself in that way."

"Theodore! A grand name--it belonged to a brother of mine once before he
was called to receive 'the new name.' I like it; and Theodore the name
goes down on my record. How do you spell the other? Are you sure that's
all right?"

"M-a--" began our friend, then stopped to laugh. "Why no--I'll be bound
that ain't my name, either. It's Mallery, that's what it is; no Mall
about it."

Mr. Birge turned and surveyed his caller leisurely, with a quiet smile
on his face.

"It seems to me, Master Theodore Mallery, that you are sailing under
false colors," he said at last. "What have you to do with Tode Mall?"

Tode laughed.

"Well they nicknamed me so, and I suppose it stuck, and it seems like
me; but my name truly is Theodore S. Mallery."

"Then of course I shall write it so." And after he had written it Mr.
Birge came over and took the boy's hand.

"It is a pleasant idea," he said. "Let us take the new name, a picture
of the new life which begins to-morrow, when you say before the world,
as for me I will serve the Lord. Be very careful of the new name, dear
brother; don't stain it with any shadow of evil."

Tode walked home slowly and thoughtfully in the gathering twilight,
strange new thoughts stirring in his heart. He felt older and graver and
wiser. He went round by his business stand; he took his knife from his
pocket and carefully pried out the tacks which held his pasteboard sign;
then he held it up in the waning light, and looked earnestly at the
letters, his face working with new thoughts. But the only outward
expression which he gave to these thoughts was to say as he rolled up
the pasteboard:

"I must have a new sign. Good-by, Tode Mall, I'm done with you forever.
After this I'm Theodore S. Mallery."

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XVI.

PLEDGES AND PARTNERSHIPS.

There was a little bit of a white house, cunning and cozy, nestled in
among the larger ones, on a quiet, pleasant street of the city. It was a
warm June day, and the side door was open, which gave one a peep into a
dainty little dining-room. There was a bright carpet on the floor, a
green-covered table between the windows, with books and papers scattered
about on it in the way which betokens use and familiarity instead of
show. The round table was set for three, and ever and anon a dear little
old woman bustled in from the bit of a kitchen and added another touch
to the arrangements for dinner. A young miss of perhaps sixteen was
curled in a corner of the lounge, working rapidly and a little nervously
with slate, and pencil, and brain. The side gate clicked, and a young
man came with quick decided tread up the flower-bordered walk. The
student raised her eyes and found her voice:

"Oh, Theodore! for pity's sake see what is the matter with this example?
I've worked it over so many times that the figures all dance together,
and don't seem to mean anything."

"What is it? Algebra?" And the young man laid his cap on the table,
tossed the curls back from his forehead, and sat down beside her.

"Yes, it's algebra, and I'm thoroughly bewildered. Do you believe I ever
_will_ know much about it, Theodore?"

"Why, certainly you will. You're a good scholar now, if you wouldn't get
into such a flurry, and try to add and multiply and divide all at once.
See here, you've used the wrong terms twice, and that is the sum and
substance of your entire trouble."

Winny looked a little perplexed and a little annoyed, and then laughed.

"Have patience with your bundle of stupidity, Theodore," she said, half
deprecatingly. "I may do you credit yet some day, improbable as it
looks."

And then the dear old lady, who had been trotting back and forth at
intervals, now ushered in a teapot and called them to dinner; and they
three sat down, and heads were reverently bowed while the young man
reverently said: "Our Father, we return thee thanks for these, and all
the unnumbered blessings of this day. May we use the strength which thou
dost give us to thine honor and thy praise." And the old lady softly
said, "Amen."

I do not know that you have ever heard the dear old lady's name, but it
was McPherson--Mrs. McPherson. Of course you remember Winny, and the
young man was the person who used to be familiarly known by the name of
Tode Mall, but it was long since it had occurred even to him that he was
ever other than Theodore Mallery, the enterprising young proprietor of
that favorite refreshment-room down by the depot; for the dry-goods box
had disappeared, so also had the cellar rum-hole. There was a neat
building down there, the name, "Temperance House," gleamed in large
letters from the glass of both windows, and "Theodore S. Mallery" shone
over the door. Within all was as neat and complete as care and skill and
grace could make it; and that it was a favorite resort could be seen by
standing for a few moments to watch the comers and goers at almost any
hour in the day.

Theodore came down the street with his peculiar rapid tread, glanced in
to see if his brisk little assistant was in attendance, then went across
the street and around the corner to a grocery near at hand.

"Mr. Parks," he said, speaking as one in the habit of being full of
business and in haste, "can you cash this note for me? Good afternoon,
Mr. Stephens," to that gentleman, who stood in a waiting attitude.

"Yes," said Mr. Parks, promptly, "if you will count this roll of bills
for me. I'm one of those folks that I've read about who 'count for
confusion,' I guess. Anyhow, these come different every time."

"With pleasure, sir," answered Theodore, seizing upon the bills with
alacrity, and fluttering them through his fingers with the rapidity of
thought. "Ninety-eight--seventy-three," he announced after a few seconds
of flutter and rustle.

"Are you sure?"

"Quite." And again he ran over the notes, and announced the same result.

"Thank you," said Mr. Parks, with a relieved air. And as Theodore
gathered up his bills and vanished, the old gentleman looking after him
said:

"That's a smart chap, Mr. Stephens. I don't know his match anywhere
around this city. True as steel every time, and just as sharp as steel
any day."

"Yes," answered Mr. Stephens, quietly. "I have heard of the young man
before, and know something of his character."

Two hours afterward Theodore was reading a letter. It commenced:

"PRIVATE OFFICE, }
"June 16, 18--.}

"_My Dear Young Friend_:

"It is something over four years since you came to
me one night with my ten-dollar bill, since which
time my eyes have been on you. I did not present
you with the bill then and there, as I was tempted
to do. I am not one of the croakers who think it
sinful to reward honesty. God rewards every day
our efforts toward the right; but I think the
reward can come too suddenly when man takes it
into his own hands. I stayed my hand. I determined
instead to keep you in view, and keep the helping
hand stretched out, unseen by you; but ready to
come to your aid in time of need. No such a time
has come to you. The Lord evidently took you for
his own, and gave his angels charge concerning
you. I have watched and waited. I know all about
your character, young man, and more about your
education than you think.

"As I said, your time of need, for which I have
been waiting, has not come, but mine has. I need
just such a young man as you--one who will be
prompt, active and efficient. You know my place of
business, and that I make few changes. I do not
like the business you have chosen. Keeping an
eating saloon is a respectable employment, always
provided that the business is respectably
conducted, which yours has been. I do not doubt
that you have done much good. You have fought the
giant enemy of this present time nobly and well.
But the business is not suited to your capacity,
by which I mean that your capacity overruns the
business. Your pet enemy needs fighting, not only
with strong principles but with money, and a
certain kind of business power, both of which I
can put you in the way to gain more rapidly.

"In short, if you choose to come to me as one of
my confidential clerks, on a salary which I will
name when I see you, and which shall rise as you
rise, I shall be glad to talk with you this
evening at eight o'clock. If you have no idea of
making a change in business; if your present
occupation suits you, I will not trouble you to
make me any reply other than to return this
communication to me through the post-office, and
we will quietly let the matter drop.

"Yours truly,
"JOHN S. S. STEPHENS."

Our young man caught his breath and held it in for a moment after
reading this remarkable epistle. Yes, he knew Mr. Stephens' place of
business very well indeed; it was the largest and finest mercantile
house in the city; and to be fairly launched forth in his employ, with
a reasonable prospect of suiting him, was to be a possible millionaire.
And to think that that fearful ten-dollar bill, which had made his
cheeks burn so many, _many_ times, was the means that had brought him
such a letter as this. "All things work together for good to them--" Oh
yes, he knew that verse, and believed it, too. But what a strange idea
that Mr. Stephens should have been watching him, should have known so
much about his affairs, and instinctively he ran over his life to see
what things he could have done differently had he known that Mr.
Stephens was watching. Then his face flushed as he thought of the
All-seeing Eye that had been fixed on him night and day; then he held
his head erect, and reminded himself that whatever Mr. Stephens might
have seen to condemn, God knew his heart, knew that through many
failures and constant blunders he had been honestly trying to follow his
guide. But how strange that Mr. Stephens should suppose him fitted for a
clerkship in his store. He tried to decide what would be expected of
him, what he ought to know in order to be fitted for the position.
Prices and positions of goods? About these he knew nothing, nor did his
want of knowledge in this respect particularly disturb him; he knew
perfectly well that he had a quick eye and a quick memory, and a
remarkably convenient determination to learn everything that could be
learned in as short a space of time as possible. Book-keeping? How
fortunate it was that he should have happened into Joe Brower's father's
store just as Joe's father was giving his son a lesson in book-keeping,
and that then and there had arisen _his_ determination to study
book-keeping, and that he had commenced it; and at first with a little
of Joe's help, and then with a good deal of his father's, and finally
with no help at all, he conquered it. Then what an extraordinary thing
it was that he should have gone home to tea a little earlier than usual
that evening three years ago, and so surprised Winny in the act of
wiping away two tears, and found that they were shed because the dear
mother couldn't possibly pay for the desire of Winny's heart, namely:
French lessons; and that after much discussion and ex-postulation he
should have been allowed to consecrate one of the ten piles, in which he
always kept his money, to French lessons, and that he had begun at first
for pure fun, and ended by working hard over the lessons, Winny, on her
part, laboring earnestly to repeat in the evening just what she had
learned during the day, until now after the lapse of three years he knew
perfectly well that while he would undoubtedly make a Frenchman wild
with his attempts at pronunciation, yet the French letter would have to
be very queerly written that he could not translate, and the message an
exceedingly crooked one that he could not render into smoothly written
French. But how did Mr. Stephens know all these things? Well, never
mind. Only, he said with energy, there are some more things that I
_will_ know if I have the good fortune to get near that German clerk of
his, and Winny shall have her chance at German yet.

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