"Good morning, Mrs.Hibblethwaite," said Miss Alicia in a kind but remote manner."The new Mr.Temple Barholm has been kind enough to come to see you.It's very good of him to come so soon, isn't it?""It is that," Mrs.Hibblethwaite answered respectfully, looking him over."Wilt tha coom in, sir?"Tembarom accepted the invitation, feeling extremely awkward because Miss Alicia's initiatory comment upon his goodness in showing himself had "rattled" him.It had made him feel that he must appear condescending, and he had never condescended to any one in the whole course of his existence.He had, indeed, not even been condescended to.He had met with slanging and bullying, indifference and brutality of manner, but he had not met with condescension.
"I hope you're well, Mrs.Hibblethwaite," he answered."You look it.""I deceive ma looks a good bit, sir," she answered."Mony a day ma legs is nigh as bad as Susan's.""Tha 'rt jealous o' Susan's legs," barked out a sharp voice from a corner by the fire.
The room had a flagged floor, clean with recent scrubbing with sandstone; the whitewashed walls were decorated with pictures cut from illustrated papers; there was a big fireplace, and by it was a hard-looking sofa covered with blue- and-white checked cotton stuff.A boy of about ten was lying on it, propped up with a pillow.He had a big head and a keen, ferret-eyed face, and just now was looking round the end of his sofa at the visitors."Howd tha tongue, Tummas! " said his mother."I wunnot howd it," Tummas answered."Ma tongue's th' on'y thing about me as works right, an' I'm noan goin' to stop it.""He's a young nowt," his mother explained; "but, he's a cripple, an'
we conna do owt wi' him."
"Do not be rude, Thomas," said Miss Alicia, with dignity.
"Dunnot be rude thysen," replied Tummas."I'm noan o' thy lad."Tembarom walked over to the sofa.
"Say," he began with jocular intent, "you've got a grouch on, ain't you?"Tummas turned on him eyes which bored.An analytical observer or a painter might have seen that he had a burning curiousness of look, a sort of investigatory fever of expression.
"I dunnot know what tha means," he said."Happen tha'rt talkin'
'Merican?"
"That's just what it is," admitted Tembarom." What are you talking?""Lancashire," said Tummas."Theer's some sense i' that."Tembarom sat down near him.The boy turned over against his pillow and put his chin in the hollow of his palm and stared.
"I've wanted to see thee," he remarked."I've made mother an' Aunt Susan an' feyther tell me every bit they've heared about thee in the village.Theer was a lot of it.Tha coom fro' 'Meriker?""Yes." Tembarom began vaguely to feel the demand in the burning curiosity.
"Gi' me that theer book," the boy said, pointing to a small table heaped with a miscellaneous jumble of things and standing not far from him."It's a' atlas," he added as Tembarom gave it to him."Yo' con find places in it." He turned the leaves until he found a map of the world."Theer's 'Meriker," he said, pointing to the United States.
"That theer's north and that theer's south.All th' real 'Merikens comes from the North, wheer New York is.""I come from New York," said Tembarom.
"Tha wert born i' th' workhouse, tha run about th' streets i' rags, tha pretty nigh clemmed to death, tha blacked boots, tha sold newspapers, tha feyther was a common workin'-mon-- and now tha's coom into Temple Barholm an' sixty thousand a year.""The last part's true all right," Tembarom owned, "but there's some mistakes in the first part.I wasn't born in the workhouse, and though I've been hungry enough, I never starved to death--if that's what `clemmed' means."Tummas looked at once disappointed and somewhat incredulous.
"That's th' road they tell it i' th' village," he argued.
"Well, let them tell it that way if they like it best.That's not going to worry me," Tembarom replied uncombatively.
Tummas's eyes bored deeper into him.
"Does na tha care?" he demanded.
"What should I care for? Let every fellow enjoy himself his own way.""Tha'rt not a bit like one o' th' gentry," said Tummas."Tha'rt quite a common chap.Tha'rt as common as me, for aw tha foine clothes.""People are common enough, anyhow," said Tembarom."There's nothing much commoner, is there? There's millions of 'em everywhere --billions of 'em.None of us need put on airs.""Tha'rt as common as me," said Tummas, reflectively."An' yet tha owns Temple Barholm an' aw that brass.I conna mak' out how th' loike happens.""Neither can I; but it does all samee."
"It does na happen i' 'Meriker," exulted Tummas."Everybody's equal theer.""Rats!" ejaculated Tembarom."What about multimillionaires?"He forgot that the age of Tummas was ten.It was impossible not to forget it.He was, in fact, ten hundred, if those of his generation had been aware of the truth.But there he sat, having spent only a decade of his most recent incarnation in a whitewashed cottage, deprived of the use of his legs.
Miss Alicia, seeing that Tembarom was interested in the boy, entered into domestic conversation with Mrs.Hibblethwaite at the other side of the room.Mrs.Hibblethwaite was soon explaining the uncertainty of Susan's temper on wash-days, when it was necessary to depend on her legs.
"Can't you walk at all?" Tembarom asked.Tummas shook his head."How long have you been lame?""Ever since I wur born.It's summat like rickets.I've been lyin' here aw my days.I look on at foak an' think 'em over.I've got to do summat.That's why I loike th' atlas.Little Ann Hutchinson gave it to me onct when she come to see her grandmother."Tembarom sat upright.
"Do you know her?" he exclaimed.
"I know her best o' onybody in th' world.An' I loike her best.""So do I," rashly admitted Tembarom.
"Tha does?" Tummas asked suspiciously."Does she loike thee?""She says she does." He tried to say it with proper modesty.
"Well, if she says she does, she does.An' if she does, then yo an'
