sorry for him, too, David. To turn his back upon an old friend, that’s most evil. Could you deny Toothless or me or mad Luther? No! You’re too much of a man to deny your friends. And did you see the young fool Mr. Krusen went away with? How would you like to live with that one?”
“He said I oughtn’t to be in the poorhouse,” David said, shivering from memory of the ugly, self-satisfied man. “He said I ought to be in a decent home.”
“Like his, I guess!” Daniel snorted. “Did you see his wife? How would you like to live with them, David?”
The boy did not even answer but asked, “Did you ever see the rooms in the women’s building? They aren’t like these. Mrs. Krusen’s was really pretty. And that other old woman who walks with a cane. Even her room was pretty and smelled nice.”
“That’s what women are for, David,” the wasted old man explained. “Over here things are clean, but they’re ugly. I remember when I traveled up and down the canal. Nothing can be dirtier than a barge. And the gypsy barge was dirtiest of all. But the girl had one corner of a room on deck, all to herself. And it was beautiful all summer long.”
“Aunt Reba’s room is never like that,” David said.
“No, I imagine it isn’t,” Daniel agreed. “That’s why I wanted you to take the flowers to Mrs. Krusen. You have a lot to learn.”
As he spoke the pain became too great for him to bear, and he fell to the floor in a faint. David was terribly frightened and called for Tom. The poorhouse men crowded into the room and lifted the small man to his bed.
“It’s his cancer,” Luther Detwiler said. The other men gasped and rushed David from the room. In his own quarters he trembled for a moment and then sneaked across the hall to talk with Toothless.
“Is he going to die?” the boy implored.
“Not yet,” Toothless said patiently. Then he added, “We’re all old men, David. Pretty soon we’ll all die.”
Quietly, and with a heavy burden, David returned to his room. It was Sunday, and he had nothing to do. He was confused, and then at his feet he saw the Rembrandt. Gently he pressed it flat and, with his shoe, tacked it to the wallover his bed. The sunlight illuminated the ancient mill and made it seem alive.
David did not want to think of Old Daniel, lying faint in bed, so he thought of Mrs. Krusen instead: “A nice woman like her. You wait. Some day Mr. Krusen will come back for her.”
But he never did.
Late in the afternoon they carried Old Daniel out of his room and into the sick quarters. Four men came for him with a stretcher, but when they lifted it with Daniel, even David could see the surprise on their faces. And no wonder, for the little old man weighed less than ninety pounds, and of those pounds the cancer weighed one in four.
At every door an old man stood to say good-bye to his stricken friend. And when the stretcher reached the end of the long hall, the bearers paused a moment so that the old man could look one last time at the bench and the afternoon sunlight and the faces of his friends. There was no make-believe on anyone’s part that Daniel would ever return. When old men left the long hall on stretchers they never came back.
In the sick room they placed the little old man near a window. David thought: “You can’t really see outdoors from here. But you can see that tree.”
The dying man looked up and saw his familiar friend. There was the boy’s freckled face, the turned-up nose, the smudge of dirt above the left eye. He was, thought Old Daniel, the inheritor of the earth; and suddenly the frail man burned with energy to tell this boy all the things he knew.
“David!” he cried imperatively. “Listen!” And that was the beginning of the long talks he engaged in as he lay dying. He would brook no interruptions, and often he skipped madly from topic to topic, merely gleaning large generalizations from his rich memory. At times he would stop and beat his hand against
“He said I oughtn’t to be in the poorhouse,” David said, shivering from memory of the ugly, self-satisfied man. “He said I ought to be in a decent home.”
“Like his, I guess!” Daniel snorted. “Did you see his wife? How would you like to live with them, David?”
The boy did not even answer but asked, “Did you ever see the rooms in the women’s building? They aren’t like these. Mrs. Krusen’s was really pretty. And that other old woman who walks with a cane. Even her room was pretty and smelled nice.”
“That’s what women are for, David,” the wasted old man explained. “Over here things are clean, but they’re ugly. I remember when I traveled up and down the canal. Nothing can be dirtier than a barge. And the gypsy barge was dirtiest of all. But the girl had one corner of a room on deck, all to herself. And it was beautiful all summer long.”
“Aunt Reba’s room is never like that,” David said.
“No, I imagine it isn’t,” Daniel agreed. “That’s why I wanted you to take the flowers to Mrs. Krusen. You have a lot to learn.”
As he spoke the pain became too great for him to bear, and he fell to the floor in a faint. David was terribly frightened and called for Tom. The poorhouse men crowded into the room and lifted the small man to his bed.
“It’s his cancer,” Luther Detwiler said. The other men gasped and rushed David from the room. In his own quarters he trembled for a moment and then sneaked across the hall to talk with Toothless.
“Is he going to die?” the boy implored.
“Not yet,” Toothless said patiently. Then he added, “We’re all old men, David. Pretty soon we’ll all die.”
Quietly, and with a heavy burden, David returned to his room. It was Sunday, and he had nothing to do. He was confused, and then at his feet he saw the Rembrandt. Gently he pressed it flat and, with his shoe, tacked it to the wallover his bed. The sunlight illuminated the ancient mill and made it seem alive.
David did not want to think of Old Daniel, lying faint in bed, so he thought of Mrs. Krusen instead: “A nice woman like her. You wait. Some day Mr. Krusen will come back for her.”
But he never did.
Late in the afternoon they carried Old Daniel out of his room and into the sick quarters. Four men came for him with a stretcher, but when they lifted it with Daniel, even David could see the surprise on their faces. And no wonder, for the little old man weighed less than ninety pounds, and of those pounds the cancer weighed one in four.
At every door an old man stood to say good-bye to his stricken friend. And when the stretcher reached the end of the long hall, the bearers paused a moment so that the old man could look one last time at the bench and the afternoon sunlight and the faces of his friends. There was no make-believe on anyone’s part that Daniel would ever return. When old men left the long hall on stretchers they never came back.
In the sick room they placed the little old man near a window. David thought: “You can’t really see outdoors from here. But you can see that tree.”
The dying man looked up and saw his familiar friend. There was the boy’s freckled face, the turned-up nose, the smudge of dirt above the left eye. He was, thought Old Daniel, the inheritor of the earth; and suddenly the frail man burned with energy to tell this boy all the things he knew.
“David!” he cried imperatively. “Listen!” And that was the beginning of the long talks he engaged in as he lay dying. He would brook no interruptions, and often he skipped madly from topic to topic, merely gleaning large generalizations from his rich memory. At times he would stop and beat his hand against
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