“Thank you,” said Ben, laughing, “that’s what my friend, the mayor of New York, often writes me. But honestly, I know I can do a good deal better than I am doing now. I don’t know but I shall turn over a new leaf. I suppose I like fun a little too well. Such jolly sport as I had coming to the office this morning.”
Ben related the story of the traveller who inquired the way to Sparta, much to the amusement of the postmaster, who, in his enjoyment of the joke, forgot to tell Ben that his conduct was hardly justifiable.
“Now,” said Ben, “as soon as I have been home, I must go and see my particular friend, Mrs. Mudge. I’m a great favorite of hers,” he added, with a sly wink.
XIX.
MRS. MUDGE’S DISCOMFITURE.
BEN knocked at the door of the Poorhouse. In due time Mrs. Mudge appeared. She was a little alarmed on seeing Ben, not knowing how Squire Newcome might be affected by the reception she had given him on his last visit. Accordingly she received him with unusual politeness.
“How do you do, Master Newcome?” she inquired.
“As well as could be expected,” said Ben, hesitatingly.
“Why, is there anything the matter with you?” inquired Mrs. Mudge, her curiosity excited by his manner of speaking.
“No one can tell what I suffer from rheumatism,” said Ben, sadly.
This was very true, since not even Ben himself could have told.
“You are very young to be troubled in that way,” said Mrs. Mudge, “and how is your respected father, to-day?” she inquired, with some anxiety.
“I was just going to ask you, Mrs. Mudge,” said Ben, “whether anything happened to disturb him when he called here day before yesterday?”
“Why,” said Mrs. Mudge, turning a little pale, “Nothing of any consequence,–that is, not much. What makes you ask?”
“I thought it might be so from his manner,” said Ben, enjoying Mrs. Mudge’s evident alarm.
“There was a little accident,” said Mrs. Mudge, reluctantly. “Some mischievous boy had been knocking and running away; so, when your father knocked, I thought it might be he, and–and I believe I threw some water on him. But I hope he has forgiven it, as it wasn’t intentional. I should like to get hold of that boy,” said Mrs. Mudge, wrathfully, “I should like to shake him up.”
“Have you any idea who it was?” asked Ben, gravely.
“No,” said Mrs. Mudge, “I haven’t, but I shall try to find out. Whoever it is, he’s a scamp.”
“Very complimentary old lady,” thought Ben. He said in a sober tone, which would have imposed upon any one, “There are a good many mischievous boys around here.”
Mrs. Mudge grimly assented.
“Oh, by the way, Mrs. Mudge,” asked Ben, suddenly, “have you ever heard anything of Paul Prescott since he left you?”
“No,” snapped Mrs. Mudge, her countenance growing dark, “I haven’t. But I can tell pretty well where he is.”
“Where?”
“In the penitentiary. At any rate, if he isn’t, he ought to be. But what was you wanting?”
“I want to see Mrs. Lee.”
“Aunt Lucy Lee?”
“Yes. I’ve got a letter for her.”
“If you’ll give me the letter I’ll carry it to her.”
“Thank you,” said Ben, “but I would like to see her.”
“Never mind,” thought Mrs. Mudge, “I’ll get hold of it yet. I shouldn’t wonder at all if it was from that rascal, Paul.”
Poor Paul! It was fortunate that he had some better friends than Mr. and Mrs. Mudge, otherwise he would have been pretty poorly off.
Aunt Lucy came to the door. Ben placed the letter in her hands.
“Is it from Paul?” she asked, hopefully.
“Yes,” said Ben.
She opened it eagerly. “Is he well?” she asked.
“Yes, well and happy,” said Ben, who treated the old lady, for whom he had much respect, very differently from Mrs. Mudge.
“I’m truly thankful for that,” said Aunt Lucy; “I’ve laid awake more than one night thinking of him.”
“So has Mrs. Mudge, I’m thinking,” said Ben, slyly.
Aunt Lucy laughed.
“There isn’t much love lost between them,” said Aunt Lucy, smiling. “He was very badly treated here, poor boy.”