longer fit Gran’s rough, work-worn hand.
Gran drew out a few bills and some coins. “Not that I ever meant to be mean about keeping things hidden from your father, you understand,” she said, patting the small glove gently. “But my own mama told me a girl should always try to put a penny or two aside for herself and her babies. ‘A penny that won’t ever get drunk.’ That’s how she put it.”
Gran’s secret stash hadn’t lasted long. She’d bought Nick the cap he still had. And the money had helped tide them over until they found work on Mr. Hank’s farm. On that last day, Gran had given Mrs. Turner one quarter to pass on to Nick. Two bits. The coin was probably all that was left.
Nick reached into the pockets of his new pants. He’d been careful to take his two special coins out of the old pants and put them in his new ones.
He wondered if Annie and her mother were getting enough to eat. Once the baby came, it wouldn’t be easy for Mrs. Sheridan to have time to do enough fine sewing to pay their rent. Nick’s hands closed around the quarters, one coin in each pocket. But then he let go.
“Well, good night, Annie of the North Star. Maybe we’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. “Shakespeare and I have work to do.”
“Come on, boy, time for bed.” Shakespeare padded downstairs ahead of him, tail sweeping the steps like a golden broom.
“I’ve never had a dog before,” Nick told him. Shake pricked up his ears, almost, Nick thought, as if he could understand. “We didn’t have any pets. Not that you’re mine, exactly. But we can be friends.”
Once, when he was about seven, he’d begged to keep a kitten when Mr. Greene’s brown tabby had a litter. But Gran had shaken her head, and Nick had known not to ask again.
Outside Mr. Pat’s locked office door was a small room, furnished with an old sofa, a bedroll on the floor, a bookcase, and a table with a pitcher of water and some bread, cheese, and fruit. A narrow hallway led to a toilet and sink.
“The guest room,” Mr. Pat had announced with a flourish when he’d showed it to Nick the night before. “I hope you’ll find it to your liking, young sir. Of course, it’s not nearly as grand as the Palace Hotel. Not even a curtain on the window, I’m afraid.”
“Mr. Pat, is that you?” Nick had stood before a small photograph of a family on the top of the bookcase. It was a formal, old-fashioned portrait. The parents looked kind but serious. But the boy was slightly out of focus. Even though the mother had her arm around her son’s shoulders to keep him steady, he must have moved at the last second.
Nick had felt in his pockets and touched his two quarters. He wished he still had the photograph of his mother. But Mr. Hank had been harsh. He’d sent for Mr. Kelly to haul Nick off to the orphanage without even giving him a chance to sort through Gran’s belongings. Nick sometimes imagined that maybe little Rebecca and her mother had found it. They might even be keeping it for him, thinking that sooner or later, he’d turn up in the fields once again.
“Is that me in the photograph?” Mr. Pat asked, pulling blankets out of a cupboard and looking over his shoulder. “Yes, indeed. Poor Mother, bless her soul. Try as she might, she couldn’t keep me still.”
He turned back, his voice muffled by the blankets piled in his arms. “They never did get out from Boston to see the store. Now, then, I think these will keep you warm, Nicholas.”
On Monday, Nick’s first night with Mr. Pat, Shakespeare had bounded onto the corner of the tattered green sofa, yawned, stretched, and broken into a wide doggie grin.
“Any room for me?” Nick asked, grinning back. Mr. Pat had warned him that Shakespeare might not be too keen on sharing his favorite spot in the entire world.
“I hope you won’t mind a bedroll,” he’d said. “Later, once he gets to know you, perhaps Shakespeare will consent to your
Gran drew out a few bills and some coins. “Not that I ever meant to be mean about keeping things hidden from your father, you understand,” she said, patting the small glove gently. “But my own mama told me a girl should always try to put a penny or two aside for herself and her babies. ‘A penny that won’t ever get drunk.’ That’s how she put it.”
Gran’s secret stash hadn’t lasted long. She’d bought Nick the cap he still had. And the money had helped tide them over until they found work on Mr. Hank’s farm. On that last day, Gran had given Mrs. Turner one quarter to pass on to Nick. Two bits. The coin was probably all that was left.
Nick reached into the pockets of his new pants. He’d been careful to take his two special coins out of the old pants and put them in his new ones.
He wondered if Annie and her mother were getting enough to eat. Once the baby came, it wouldn’t be easy for Mrs. Sheridan to have time to do enough fine sewing to pay their rent. Nick’s hands closed around the quarters, one coin in each pocket. But then he let go.
“Well, good night, Annie of the North Star. Maybe we’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. “Shakespeare and I have work to do.”
“Come on, boy, time for bed.” Shakespeare padded downstairs ahead of him, tail sweeping the steps like a golden broom.
“I’ve never had a dog before,” Nick told him. Shake pricked up his ears, almost, Nick thought, as if he could understand. “We didn’t have any pets. Not that you’re mine, exactly. But we can be friends.”
Once, when he was about seven, he’d begged to keep a kitten when Mr. Greene’s brown tabby had a litter. But Gran had shaken her head, and Nick had known not to ask again.
Outside Mr. Pat’s locked office door was a small room, furnished with an old sofa, a bedroll on the floor, a bookcase, and a table with a pitcher of water and some bread, cheese, and fruit. A narrow hallway led to a toilet and sink.
“The guest room,” Mr. Pat had announced with a flourish when he’d showed it to Nick the night before. “I hope you’ll find it to your liking, young sir. Of course, it’s not nearly as grand as the Palace Hotel. Not even a curtain on the window, I’m afraid.”
“Mr. Pat, is that you?” Nick had stood before a small photograph of a family on the top of the bookcase. It was a formal, old-fashioned portrait. The parents looked kind but serious. But the boy was slightly out of focus. Even though the mother had her arm around her son’s shoulders to keep him steady, he must have moved at the last second.
Nick had felt in his pockets and touched his two quarters. He wished he still had the photograph of his mother. But Mr. Hank had been harsh. He’d sent for Mr. Kelly to haul Nick off to the orphanage without even giving him a chance to sort through Gran’s belongings. Nick sometimes imagined that maybe little Rebecca and her mother had found it. They might even be keeping it for him, thinking that sooner or later, he’d turn up in the fields once again.
“Is that me in the photograph?” Mr. Pat asked, pulling blankets out of a cupboard and looking over his shoulder. “Yes, indeed. Poor Mother, bless her soul. Try as she might, she couldn’t keep me still.”
He turned back, his voice muffled by the blankets piled in his arms. “They never did get out from Boston to see the store. Now, then, I think these will keep you warm, Nicholas.”
On Monday, Nick’s first night with Mr. Pat, Shakespeare had bounded onto the corner of the tattered green sofa, yawned, stretched, and broken into a wide doggie grin.
“Any room for me?” Nick asked, grinning back. Mr. Pat had warned him that Shakespeare might not be too keen on sharing his favorite spot in the entire world.
“I hope you won’t mind a bedroll,” he’d said. “Later, once he gets to know you, perhaps Shakespeare will consent to your
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