The dismal lodging-house had a charm for little Christie now. Night after night he returned there, that he might hear his mother’s tune. The landlady began to look upon him as one of her regular household. She sometimes gave him a crust of bread, for she noticed his hungry face each night, as he came to the large lodging-room to sleep.
And every night old Treffy played, and Christie crept upstairs to listen.
One night, however, as he was kneeling at the attic door, the music suddenly ceased, and Christie heard a dull, heavy sound, as if something had fallen on the floor. He waited a minute, but all was quite still; so he cautiously lifted the latch and peeped into the room. There was only a dim light in the attic, for the fire was nearly out, and old Treffy had no candle. But the moonlight, streaming in at the window, showed Christie the form of the old man stretched on the ground, and his poor old barrel-organ laid beside him. Christie crept to his side, and took hold of his hand. It was deadly cold, and Christie thought he was dead. He was just going to call the landlady, when the old man moved, and in a trembling voice asked: “What’s the matter? Who’s there?”
“It’s only me, Master Treffy,” said Christie, “it’s only me. I was listening to your organ, I was, and I heard you tumble, so I came in. Are you better, Master Treffy?”
The old man raised his head, and looked around. Christie helped him to get up, and took him to his little straw bed in the corner of the attic.
“Are you better, Master Treffy?” he asked again.
“Yes, yes,” said the old man; “it’s only the cold, boy; it’s very chilly o’ nights now, and I’m a poor lone old man. Good-night.”
And so the old man fell asleep, and Christie lay down by his side and slept also.
That was the beginning of a friendship between old Treffy and Christie. They were both alone in the world, both friendless and desolate, and it drew them to each other. Christie was a great comfort to Treffy. He went errands for him, he cleaned the old attic, and he carried the barrel-organ downstairs each morning when Treffy went on his rounds. And, in return, Treffy gave Christie a corner of the attic to sleep in, and let him sit over his tiny fire whilst he played his dear old organ. And whenever he came to “Home, Sweet Home,” Christie thought of his mother, and of what she had said to him before she died.
“Where is ‘Home sweet Home,’ Master Treffy?” he asked one night.
Treffy looked round the wretched little attic, with its damp, weather-stained roof, and its rickety, rotten floor, and felt that he could not call it “Home, sweet Home.”
“It’s not here, Christie,” he said.
“No,” said Christie, thoughtfully; “I expect it’s a long way from here, Master Treffy.”
“Yes,” said the old man; “there must be something better somewhere.”
“My mother used to talk about heaven,” said Christie, doubtfully. “I wonder if that was the home she meant?”
But old Treffy knew very little of heaven; no one had ever told him of the home above. Yet he thought of Christie’s words many times that day, as he dragged himself about wearily, with his old organ. He was failing very fast, poor old man. His legs were becoming feeble, and he was almost fainting when he reached the attic. The cold wind had chilled him through and through.
Christie was at home before him, and had lit the fire, and boiled the kettle, and put all ready for old Treffy’s comfort. He wondered what was the matter with Treffy that night; he was so quiet and silent, and he never even asked for his old organ after tea, but went to bed as soon as possible.
The next day he was too weak and feeble to go out, and Christie watched beside him, and got him all he wanted, as tenderly as a woman could have done.
The next day it was the same, and the day after that, till the attic cupboard grew empty, and all poor old Treffy’s money was gone.
“What are we to do now, Christie?” he said, pitifully; “I can’t go out today, my lad, can I?”
“No,” said Christie, “you mustn’t think of it, Master Treffy. Let me see, what can we do? Shall I take the organ out?”
Old Treffy did not answer. A great struggle was going on in his mind. Could he let any one but himself touch his dear old organ? It would be hard to see it go out, and have to stay behind—very hard indeed. But Christie was a careful lad; he would rather trust it with him than with any one else; and he had come to his last piece of money. He must not sit still and starve. Yes, the organ must go; but it would be a great trial to him. He would be so lonely in the dark attic when Christie and the organ were both gone. What a long, tedious day it would be to him!
“Yes, Christie, you may take her tomorrow,” he said at length; “but you must be very careful of her, my lad—very careful.”
“All right, Master Treffy,” said Christie, cheerily; “I’ll bring her safely home, you see if I don’t.”
What a day that was in Christie’s life! He was up with the lark, as people say, but there was no lark within many a mile of that dismal street. He was certainly up before the sparrows, and long before the men on the benches in the great lodging-room. He crept out cautiously into the court in the gray morning light, and kneeling by the common pump, he splashed the water upon his face and neck till they lost all feeling with the cold. Then he rubbed his hands till they were as red as cherries, and he was obliged to wrap them up in his ragged coat, that he might feel they still belonged to him. And then he stole upstairs again, and lifting the latch of the attic door very gently, lest old Treffy should awake, he combed his rough hair with a broken comb, and arranged his ragged garments to the best possible advantage.
Then Christie was ready; and he longed for the time when old Treffy would wake, and give him leave to go. The sparrows were chirping on the eaves now, and the sun was beginning to shine. There were noises in the house, too, and one by one the men in the great lodging-room shook themselves, and went out to their work and to their labor until the evening.
Christie watched them crossing the court, and his impatience to be off grew stronger. At length he touched old Treffy’s hand very gently, and the old man said, in a bewildered voice: “What is it, Christie, boy; what is it?”
“It’s morning, Master Treffy,” said Christie; “shall you soon be awake?”
The old man turned over in bed, and finally sat up. “Why, Christie, boy, how nice you look!” said Treffy, admiringly.
Christie drew himself up with considerable importance, and walked up and down the attic, that Treffy might further admire him.
“May I go now, Master Treffy?” he asked.
“Yes, Christie, boy, go if you like,” said the old man; “but you’ll be very careful of her, won’t you, Christie?”
“Yes, Master Treffy,” said the boy, “I’ll be as careful as you are.”
“And you’ll not turn her round too fast, Christie?” he went on.
“No, Master Treffy,” said Christie; “I’ll turn her no faster than you do.”
“And you mustn’t stop and talk to boys in the street, Christie; they’re very rude sometimes, are some boys, and they always want the new tunes, Christie; but never you heed them. Her tunes are getting old-fashioned, poor old thing; she’s something like me. But you mustn’t take no notice of the boys, Christie.”
“No, Master Treffy,” said Christie; “no more than you do.”
“There’s one tune they’re very fond of,” said old Treffy, meditatively; “I don’t rightly know what it is; they call it ‘Marshal Lazy’ (Marseillaise) or something of that sort. I reckon it’s called after some man in the wars, maybe.”
“You don’t know who he was?” asked Christie. “No,” said old Treffy, “I don’t bother my head about it. I expect he was some lazy scoundrel who wouldn’t do his duty, and so they made up a song to mock at him. But that’s as it may be, Christie; I don’t know, I’m sure. I expect he wasn’t born when my organ was made; I expect not, Christie.”
“Well, Master Treffy, I’m ready,” said Christie, putting the organ strap over his neck; “good-bye.”
And, with an air of great importance, Christie carefully descended the rickety stairs, and marched triumphantly across the court. A few children who were there, gathered round him with admiring eyes, and escorted him down the street.
“Give us a tune, Christie; play away, Christie,” they all cried out. But Christie shook his head resolutely, and marched on. He was not sorry when they grew tired of following him and turned back. Now he felt himself a man; and he went on in a most independent manner.
And then he began to play. What a moment that was for him!
He had often turned the handle of the barrel-organ in the lonely old attic, but that was a very different thing from playing it in the street. There had been no one to hear him there but old Treffy, who used to stand by anxiously, saying: “Turn her gently, Christie; turn her gently.” But here there were crowds of people passing by, and sometimes some one stopped for a minute, and then how proud Christie felt! There was no barrel-organ like his, he felt sure. He did not care what the folks said about Marshal Lazy; he was not so good as poor Mary Ann, Christie felt sure; and as for “Home, Sweet Home,” Christie almost broke down every time he played it. He did so love his mother, and he could not help thinking she was singing it still somewhere. He wondered very much where she was, and where “Home, sweet Home” was. He must try to find out somehow.
Thus the day wore away, and Christie’s patience was rewarded by quite a little store of money. How proud he was to spend it on his way home in comforts for old Treffy, and how much he enjoyed giving the old man an account of his day’s adventures!
Treffy gave Christie a warm welcome when he opened the attic door; but it would be hard to say whether he was more pleased to see Christie, or to see his dear old barrel-organ. He examined it most carefully and tenderly, but he could not discover that Christie had done any harm to it, and he praised him accordingly.
Then, whilst Christie was getting tea ready, Treffy played through all his four tunes, dwelling most affectionately and admiringly on “Home, Sweet Home.”