Into the Storm by Avi

anymore. But he got rich.
    â€œDo you know what he does with that house? He takes in boarders, Irish boarders. People who work in the mills. Do you have a father?” Mr. Jenkins suddenly asked the boy.
    â€œI guess I do.”
    â€œWhere was he born?”
    â€œUp by Concord.”
    â€œDoes he work?”
    â€œNot much.”
    â€œBecause an Irishman or Irishwoman took his job. You can be sure of that. Jeb Grafton, you know my name. Jeremiah Jenkins. I can use a boy from time to time. Where can I find you?”
    â€œI’m on the street where you found me before. In front of the hotel. With my box. Prime spot.”
    â€œDon’t you worry. I’ll find you,” said Mr. Jenkins, and without another word he walked off, his broad back unyielding to the elements.
    Jeb watched him go until the man became lost in the whirling sleet. Then he turned and looked again at the house. He was quite sure he hated Mr. James Hamlyn too.

 
    J ames Hamlyn lay upon his bed, back propped up against two pillows. He was a small man with a small head and but a few strands of white hair dangling down the back of a scrawny neck. A white stubble frosted his chin and a certain sleepiness dimmed his gray eyes. Now and again he blew his nose — which had become quite red from a cold — and reached out to drink from a cup of honey-sweetened hot cider that had been set out for him on a side table. He hated having colds, and he was always getting them.
    On his bald head he wore a nightcap, its strings tied beneath his chin. An old muffler was wrapped around his neck, and though he was in bed with quilted blankets pulled high, he wore a jacket as well. On his lap lay a small book, which he glanced at from time to time, alternating the reading of pages with the reading of the flames that danced in the fireplace. By force of habit he occasionally looked toward his feet. He had but one now, and even the one he had was useless.
    A quiet knock came at the door.
    â€œCome in.”
    A gray-haired woman, rather delicate in appearance, looked in upon him.
    â€œYes, my dear?” Mr. Hamlyn asked his wife.
    â€œIt’s your friend, the police captain, Mr. Tolliver. He’s come to call.”
    Mr. Hamlyn reacted with surprise. “Mr. Tolliver?”
    â€œHe says it’s rather urgent.”
    â€œWhat hour is it?”
    â€œPast nine. And snowing.”
    Mr. Hamlyn sipped some of his hot cider, made a face, and said, “Best stir up the fire then, Mrs. Hamlyn.” His wife obligingly poked at the grate with an iron rod, then withdrew.
    Moments later there was another knock. Instead of waiting for a reply, Mrs. Hamlyn reopened the door and ushered in the man known as Mr. Tolliver. He was a big burly man with broad shoulders and a large expanse of chest and waist. The look on his face was carefully guarded, and his generous mustache — which curled down along his fleshy cheeks until it curled up again to merge with thick sideburns — served him as a mask. He wore a jacket that was somewhat too small for him and a vest likewise, from the pocket of which dangled a chain with a number of seals. The man’s hands were plunged deep in his pockets, and as he stood considering Mr. Hamlyn with shrewd eyes, he rocked slightly back on his heels.
    â€œYou’re looking well, Mr. Hamlyn,” the police captain said in a robust voice.
    â€œThen you’re either blind or a liar,” Mr. Hamlyn replied gruffly with something of a smile about his thin lips. “Is the weather out there bad?”
    â€œNot very pleasant, sir. An icy snow, maybe two or three inches.”
    â€œThen there’s some comfort in being forced to lie abed,” Mr. Hamlyn said. “A man without legs hasn’t much fun on ice, Mr. Tolliver. But the storm keeps the thieves in too, I suppose.”
    â€œThat’s a fact, sir. Your thief is like your ordinary person. Prefers to go about his work in good