The Store Boy

CHAPTER XXI AT THE THEATER

Af­ter din­ner, Ben and Con­rad start­ed to walk to the the­ater. The dis­tance was about a mile, but in the city there is so much al­ways to be seen that one does not think of dis­tance.

Con­rad, who was very cu­ri­ous to as­cer­tain Ben's sta­tus in the house­hold, lost no time in mak­ing in­quiries.

“What does my aunt find for you to do?” he asked.

It may be re­marked, by the way, that no such re­la­tion­ship ev­er ex­ist­ed be­tween them, but Mrs. Hill and her son thought politic to make the re­la­tion­ship seem as close as pos­si­ble, as it would, per­haps, in­crease their ap­par­ent claim up­on their rich rel­ative.

Ben an­swered the ques­tion.

“You'll have a stupid time,” said Con­rad. “All the same, she ought to have giv­en the place to me. How much does she pay you?”

Ben hes­itat­ed, for he knew that his an­swer would make his com­pan­ion dis­con­tent­ed.

“I am not sure whether I am at lib­er­ty to tell,” he an­swered, with hes­ita­tion.

“There isn't any se­cret about it, is there?” said Con­rad sharply.

No, I sup­pose not. I am to re­ceive ten dol­lars a week."

“Ten dol­lars a week!” ejac­ulat­ed Con­rad, stop­ping short in the street.

“Yes.”

“And I get but four! That's a shame!”

“I shall re­al­ly have no more than you, Con­rad. I have a moth­er to pro­vide for, and I shall send home six dol­lars a week reg­ular­ly.”

“That doesn't make any dif­fer­ence!” ex­claimed Con­rad, in ex­cite­ment. “It's aw­ful­ly mean of aunt to treat you so much bet­ter than she does me.”

“You mustn't say that to me,” said Ben. “She has been kind to us both, and I don't like to hear any­thing said against her.”

“You're not go­ing to tell her?” said Con­rad sus­pi­cious­ly.

“Cer­tain­ly not,” said Ben in­dig­nant­ly. “What do you take me for?”

“Some fel­lows would, to set Aunt Hamil­ton against me.”

“I am not so mean as that.”

“I am glad I can de­pend on you. You see, the old la­dy is aw­ful­ly rich--doesn't know what to do with her mon­ey--and as she has no son, or any­body near­er than me and moth­er, it's nat­ural we should in­her­it her mon­ey.”

“I hope she will en­joy it her­self for a good many years.”

“Oh, she's get­ting old,” said Con­rad care­less­ly. “She can't ex­pect to live for­ev­er. It wouldn't be fair for young peo­ple if their par­ents lived to a hun­dred. Now, would it?”

“I should be very glad to have my moth­er live to a hun­dred, if she could en­joy life,” said Ben, dis­gust­ed with his com­panoin's sor­did self­ish­ness.

“Your moth­er hasn't got any mon­ey, and that makes a dif­fer­ence.”

Ben had a re­ply, but he re­flect­ed it would be of lit­tle use to ar­gue with one who took such wide­ly dif­fer­ent views as Con­rad. More­over, they were al­ready with­in a block or two of the the­ater.

The best seats were priced at a dol­lar and a half, and Mrs. Hamil­ton had giv­en Con­rad three dol­lars to pur­chase one for Ben and one for him­self.

“It seems an aw­ful price to pay a dol­lar and a half for a seat,” said Con­rad. “Sup­pose we go in­to the gallery, where the seats are on­ly fifty cents?”

“I think Mrs. Hamil­ton meant us to take high­er-​priced seats.”

“She won't care, or know, un­less we choose to tell her.”

“Then you don't pro­pose to give her back the dif­fer­ence?”

“You don't take me for a fool, do you? I'll tell you what I'll do. If you don't mind a fifty-​cent seat, I'll give you twen­ty-​five cents out of this mon­ey.”

Ben could hard­ly be­lieve Con­rad was in earnest in this ex­hi­bi­tion of mean­ness.

“Then,” said he, “you would clear sev­en­ty-​five cents on my seat and a dol­lar on your own?”

“You can see al­most as well in the gallery,” said Con­rad. “I'll give you fifty cents, if you in­sist up­on it.”

“I in­sist up­on hav­ing my share of the mon­ey spent for a seat,” said Ben, con­temp­tu­ous­ly. “You can sit where you please, of course.”

“You ain't very oblig­ing,” said Con­rad sul­len­ly. “I need the mon­ey, and that's what made me pro­pose it. As you've made so much fuss about it, we'll take or­ches­tra seats.”

This he did, though un­will­ing­ly.

“I don't think I shall ev­er like that boy,” thought Ben. “He's a lit­tle too mean.”

They both en­joyed the play, Ben per­haps with the most zest, for he had nev­er be­fore at­tend­ed a city the­ater. At eleven o'clock the cur­tain fell, and they went out.

“Come, Ben,” said Con­rad, “you might treat a fel­low to so­da wa­ter.”

“I will,” an­swered Ben. “Where shall we go?”

“Just op­po­site. They've got fine so­da wa­ter across the street.”

The boys drank their so­da wa­ter, and start­ed to go home.

“Sup­pose we go in some­where and have a game of bil­liards?” sug­gest­ed Con­rad.

“I don't play,” an­swered Ben.

“I'll teach you; come along,” urged Con­rad.

“It is get­ting late, and I would rather not.”

“I sup­pose you go to roost with the chick­ens in the coun­try?” sneered Con­rad. You'll learn bet­ter in the city--if you stay."

“There is an­oth­er rea­son,” con­tin­ued Ben. “I sup­pose it costs mon­ey to play bil­liards, and I have none to spare.”

“On­ly twen­ty-​five cents a game.”

“It will be cheap­er to go to bed.”

“You won't do any­thing a fel­low wants you to,” grum­bled Con­rad. “You needn't be so mean, when you are get­ting ten dol­lars a week.”

“I have plen­ty to do with my mon­ey, and I want to save up some­thing ev­ery week.”

On the whole the boys did not take to each oth­er. They took very dif­fer­ent views of life and du­ty, and there seemed to be small prospect of their be­com­ing in­ti­mate friends.

Mrs. Hamil­ton had gone to bed when they re­turned, but Mrs. Hill was up watch­ing for her son. She was a cold, dis­agree­able wom­an, but she was de­vot­ed to her boy.

“I am glad you have come home so soon,” she said.

“I want­ed to play a game of bil­liards, but Ben wouldn't,” grum­bled Con­rad.

“If you had done so, I should have had to sit up lat­er for you, Con­rad.”

“There was no use in sit­ting up for me. I ain't a ba­by,” re­spond­ed Con­rad un­grate­ful­ly.

“You know I can't sleep when I know you are out, Con­rad.”

“Then you're very fool­ish. Isn't she, Ben?”

“My moth­er would feel just so,” an­swered Ben.

Mrs. Hill re­gard­ed him al­most kind­ly. He had done her a good turn in bring­ing her son home in good sea­son.

“She may be a dis­agree­able wom­an,” thought Ben, “but she is good to Con­rad,” and this made him re­gard the house­keep­er with more fa­vor.