Fifty cents short! Robin felt that all the air was suddenly squeezed from his chest. Fifty cents short! And he was the one who would have to tell Hawker Doak that a tenant was fifty cents short! Did Mr. Kringle think that this was a simple thing to do? Oh, surely he must have the money someplace.
“But … but …” Robin stammered, “can’t you … don’t you …”
“You tell him Kringle said so,” Mr. Kringle interrupted quickly. “Tell him Kringle makes a promise. All right?” He made an attempt at a smile. But his hands were twitching nervously at his side, and Robin could see that he was frightened, because he truly did not have the money someplace—or anyplace.
“I will. I’ll … I’ll tell him, Mr. Kringle,” Robin said, shoving the money into an inside pocket of his jacket.
Mr. Kringle gave him only a brief nod, and then swiftly shut the door on him.
Fifty cents! Fifty cents! Fifty cents short! And Hawker Doak had warned him he had better not come in one cent short. Not one measly, miserable, murderous cent! One cent short and he would “get it,” Hawker had said. So how many more welts and bruises on his chicken-skinny body would he, Robin, earn for being fifty cents short? Fifty cents already, and he still had seven more doors to knock on.
What if one, or two, or even all of them came up short? And what if, after all, Mr. Kringle had withheld the money because there was actually only a runt of a boy at his door instead of Hawker Doak? And what if the others all felt the same?
But in his head, Robin once again saw the twitching hands, and the fear in the sunken eyes. No, Robin might have been standing there, but it was Hawker Doak Mr. Kringle had been seeing. And it would be that way with the rest.
But how far would Hawker go in paving Robin’s way to kingdom come? How much more than fifty cents short would it take? Robin stood motionless in the hallway, too paralyzed by these thoughts to move. Then, with a shudder, he finally put a hand up against the clammy wall and began once again to feel his tortuous way through the dark building. Soon, all too soon, his questions would be answered.
Less than forty-five minutes later, he had finished making his calls on seven more wretched families, from the pale young couple with the sickly, wailing baby in an attic room barely large enough to turn around in, and with a window so small any light or air entering through it could only be called an accident, to the family of eight plus a boarder, who in their cellar rookery shared with rats and roaches their walls of scaly paint, floors of cold, damp dirt, and their oftimes diet of little more than stale bread and water.
But all of them had somehow managed to scrape together enough to pay their rent. Every last person. Every last cent. It had all been carefully, painstakingly counted out into Robin’s hand. But there was still the missing fifty cents. And he still had to face Hawker and explain it. Face Hawker! Robin could almost feel the heavy hand striking his arm, or his back, or whatever other spot was most convenient. But as he was starting down the crumbling brick steps leading from the stoop outside the building, he stopped suddenly as an idea came to him. There might be a way he could put off the reckoning for the time being, perhaps even until Mr. Kringle could make good his promise to pay the rent!
Although Hawker had never said so outright, Robin knew that he was being trained to do one of Hawker’s jobs for him so Hawker could spend more time at one of the hundreds of establishments that served the refreshments he was partial to. Now, if he had indulged himself in enough of these refreshments, might he not be too befuddled to make a proper accounting of money handed to him? He had ordered Robin to meet him at The Whole Hog, five blocks away. This was not very far, and Robin could get there quickly. Too quickly. He needed to give Hawker as much time as possible to enjoy himself. This, unfortunately, meant staying holed up in the dismal building doing nothing but waiting in the dark as the minutes crawled by. Or he could take to the street as he would have done anyway, killing time by dragging his feet and dawdling about until he thought it was safe to reach his destination. And that is what he decided to do.
First, however, he pulled from his jacket pocket the old nickel pocket watch that had belonged to his papa, which he had so far managed to keep safely hidden from Hawker. After consulting it and determining that he should allow Hawker at least another half hour at The Whole Hog, Robin climbed down the remaining steps.
Streetlamps were already being lit. His mama had never allowed him out alone to roam the street at this hour. Mama! What he would not give now to hear her voice scolding him once again! But he would never hear that voice on this side of the grave, for she was no more. Suddenly, to his horror, he felt his eyes flood with tears.
But he quickly dashed the tears away with the sleeve of his patched, too-large jacket. Patched because it had once belonged to another boy. Too large because he could grow into it, and it would thus last longer. How Robin regretted complaining about both these points after his mama had scraped together enough money to buy him the jacket. It would, after all, probably be a very long time before Hawker would see fit to buy him another. Further, Robin had the faint hope now that a patched, oversized jacket
