'Yes, sir. Mr. Stone up to the livery stable told me the same thing. But it's an awful long walk back down to Destiny. And I'm pretty near tuckered out. To tell the truth-What I mean is, I'm not exactly sure what I should do.' He looked at Mr. Kane with an open expression that invited him to make a suggestion.
'Have you got any money?'
'Yes, sir, a little.'
'Well, the Bjorkvists would probably put you up tonight. You could start back down in the morning.'
'Yes, sir, that's a possibility. I'll give it some thought. Thank you.'
'I don't suppose Matthew has eaten in a spell, Pa,' Ruth Lillian said, ignoring her father's frown.
'I didn't make a meal,' Mr. Kane said. 'Just leftovers.'
'That'd suit me just fine, sir,' Matthew said cheerily. 'Left-overs is my favorite dish. My ma used to say that when it comes to vittles, I'd eat anything I could outrun!'
Ruth Lillian forced a little laugh at this, then looked at her father with calmly arched eyebrows until he shrugged, turned on his heel and started up the stairs, saying, 'Well, we might as well eat before it gets any colder.'
During the meal, which Matthew praised frequently and lavishly, he mentioned that he hadn't eaten this well for weeks, because he'd been on the road since the day his ma and pa had died within a couple of hours of each other.
'The fever, was it?' Ruth Lillian asked.
Matthew settled his eyes on her. 'Well, you know how it is, Ruth Lillian. Sometimes the fever comes swooping down and takes a whole town. Other times it takes some folks and leaves others to get on as best they can in this world.'
'You were left all alone?' Mr. Kane asked. 'No brothers or sisters?'
'No, sir. I was their only child.'
Ruth Lillian nodded slowly. She was an only child too. 'How old are you, Matthew?'
'Eighteen going on nineteen. But I suppose everybody that's eighteen is going on nineteen. If they don't die first!' He grinned at his joke.
'Where are you from?' Mr. Kane asked dryly.
'Well, sir, the truth is, we moved around a lot, my folks and me. We ended up in a little town back on the Nebraska border. But my pa never had much luck getting jobs and even less keeping them, so we were fixing to move on when the fever come and…' He lifted his palms and made a little sucking sound with his teeth.
'What did you say your name was?'
'Chumms,' Matthew said quickly. 'Matthew Bradford Chumms. Ma named me after the writer. The Ringo Kid books? I guess that's why most people call me Ringo. Except for Mr. Stone up to the livery stable. Him and Coots, they call me Matthew.'
'Oh, you know B. J. Stone, do you?'
'Well, I wouldn't want to say we're close or anything. But we sat around talking about Cuba and books and Romans and such like. Mr. Stone particularly admires Mr. Anthony Bradford Chumms, so naturally we hit it off. I told Mr. Stone how I didn't think our victory in Cuba was all that glorious, what with how we snatched islands off of the Spaniards just to sell newspapers, and them not even having any ammunition while Teddy Roosevelt was running away from the yellow fever, and all. I think he pretty much agreed with me. Sir? Excuse me, but there's something I've really got to fess up about.'
'Oh? What's that?'
'A while back you asked if I had money, and I said I had a little. Well, actually, sir, that was…' He swallowed. 'That was a lie. Fact is, I ain't got a thin dime. I spent my last cent getting something to eat down to Destiny yesterday afternoon.' He looked down into his plate. 'I know a person shouldn't lie, sir. My ma was at me often enough about lying, but… Well, my folks and me, we've always been poor. And I've always been ashamed of it. When I was little, I used to pretend to have things I didn't have. Spending money. Toys. I even used to pretend I had brothers named after the other three evangelists. I don't know why. Maybe I thought that made me seem interesting.' He looked into Ruth Lillian's eyes with the simple sincerity of a person wanting very much to be understood. 'I guess what I've always wanted more than anything is for people to respect me. Like they respect the Ringo Kid. But people don't respect you if you're dirt poor.' He turned his eyes to Mr. Kane. 'And that's why I lied to you about having money, sir. But it's not right to lie to people who've been good enough to invite you into their home and set you down to their table.'
Mr. Kane cleared his throat and grunted. 'Well, lots of good men have been poor. That's nothing to be ashamed of. A man can hold his head up, so long as he's willing to work for what he gets, and play fair with-'
'Oh, I'm willing to work, sir! Don't you worry about that. You just point me at what needs being done, and I'll do 'er!'
'I told you there's no work here.'
'Yes but, I'm not talking about a permanent job. Just odd chores like chopping wood, or touching up a little paint, or fixing things that's busted, or toting stuff from here to there. Little stuff like that.'
'There's lots of things we never get around to doing, Pa,' Ruth Lillian put in, braving her father's dour glance. 'You know you could use help with the heavy work.'
Matthew had noticed that Mr. Kane had been slow in mounting the stairs and that he had stood at the top, drawing shallow breaths and pressing the flat of his hand against his chest.
But Mr. Kane was not going to be forced into a decision against his better judgment. 'I don't need help. Not even temporary. I'm sorry, son, but that's how it is.'
'I understand what you're saying, sir,' Matthew agreed reasonably. 'Look, I'll tell you what. Why don't I just go off and look around town while you two talk things over?' He pushed his chair back from the table and rose. 'I don't know how to thank you for that fine meal, sir. It was what the Ringo Kid would call 'fair to middlin'. That means it was real good. Mr. Anthony Bradford Chumms always has the Ringo Kid express himself that way-saying things are less than they are. Like calling a wild shoot-out 'a bit of a dustup,' or like saying he's not feeling all that jaunty when he's been shot in the shoulder and lost buckets of blood. So when I say that dinner was fair to middlin', I really mean that it was-gosh, I don't know why I'm blabbering on like this! I guess I'm nervous because your decision means so much to me. So I'll just leave you to talk things over in private. I'll come back in a few hours, and you can tell me what you've decided about the job.' He turned to his hostess and made a gesture like tipping the brim of the hat he'd left downstairs on the counter. 'Much obliged, Ruth Lillian.'
'I'll walk you down and unlock the door for you.'
'That's mighty civil of you.' He stood aside to let Ruth Lillian precede him down the stairs. Before following her, he put his head back into the dining room, where Mr. Kane was resting, his elbow on the table, his head in his hand, his eyes closed. 'Thank you again, sir.'
Without opening his eyes, Mr. Kane waved him away.
'THE THING IS THIS, sir,' Matthew explained as he handed Professor Murphy the long-handled brush he used to scrub out his bath barrels after the miners went back up to the Lode. 'Mr. Kane just doesn't have enough chores and odd jobs to keep me busy full time. Lord knows he wants to help me out, what with my ma and Ruth Lillian being so close and all.'
The barber lifted his splendidly curled head out of the barrel and cocked a dubious eye at the young man. 'You're related to the Kanes?'
'Oh, I wouldn't say we was related. But Ruth Lillian has the same name as my ma. You know how it is, sir. There's small towns back East where just about everybody's related to everybody else. My pa used to say that the dogs was even related to the cats!'
Professor Murphy contributed no more than a snort to the boy's self-appreciative laughter as he grunted his belly over the edge of the bath barrel and continued to scrub it with strong-smelling Fels-Naphtha soap. 'Well, I'm afraid I ain't got any work for you,' his voice echoed woodenly.
'Yes, sir, I understand that. The only reason I asked was because Ruth Lillian's pa and old B. J. Stone both thought maybe you could use some help with the dirty work. Like scrubbing out those barrels and such. But if you can't afford it, I'll just tell them so. I'm sure they'll understand.'
Professor Murphy emerged from the barrel again, his splendid head of salt-and-pepper curls slightly askew. 'It ain't a matter of being able to afford it!' He straightened his hair with a deft jerk. 'It's a matter of needing help or not needing help!'
