but in the autumn i looked in vain for joe. the slate was in its old place, and a messenger came and went on his beat; but a strange face was under the red cap, and this man had two arms and one eye. i asked for collins, but the new-comer had only a vague idea that he was dead; and the same answer was given me at headquarters, though none of the busy people seemed to know when or where he died. so i mourned for joe, and felt that it was very hard he could not have lived to enjoy the promised refuge; for, relying upon the charity that never fails, the home was an actual fact now, just beginning its beneficent career. people were waking up to this duty, money was coming in, meetings were being held, and already a few poor fellows were in the refuge, feeling themselves no longer paupers, but invalid soldiers honorably supported by the state they had served. talking it over one day with a friend, who spent her life working for the associated charities, she said,—
"by the way, there is a man boarding with one of my poor women, who ought to be got into the home, if he will go. i don't know much about him, except that he was in the army, has been very ill with rheumatic fever, and is friendless. i asked mrs. flanagin how she managed to keep him, and she said she had help while he was sick, and now he is able to hobble about, he takes care of the children, so she is able to go out to work. he won't go to his own town, because there is nothing for him there but the almshouse, and he dreads a hospital; so struggles along, trying to earn his bread tending babies with his one arm. a sad case, and in your line; i wish you'd look into it."
"that sounds like my joe, one arm and all. i'll go and see him; i've a weakness for soldiers, sick or well."
i went, and never shall forget the pathetic little tableau i saw as i opened mrs. flanagin's dingy door; for she was out, and no one heard my tap. the room was redolent of suds, and in a grove of damp clothes hung on lines sat a man with a crying baby laid across his lap, while he fed three small children standing at his knee with bread and molasses. how he managed with one arm to keep the baby from squirming on to the floor, the plate from upsetting, and to feed the hungry urchins who stood in a row with open mouths, like young birds, was past my comprehension. but he did, trotting baby gently, dealing out sweet morsels patiently, and whistling to himself, as if to beguile his labors cheerfully.
the broad back, the long legs, the faded coat, the low whistle were all familiar; and, dodging a wet sheet, i faced the man to find it was indeed my joe! a mere shadow of his former self, after months of suffering that had crippled him for life, but brave and patient still; trying to help himself, and not ask aid though brought so low.
for an instant i could not speak to him, and, encumbered with baby, dish, spoon, and children, he could only stare at me with a sudden brightening of the altered face that made it full of welcome before a word was uttered.
"they told me you were dead, and i only heard of you by accident, not knowing i should find my old friend alive, but not well, i'm afraid?"
"there ain't much left of me but bones and pain, ma'am. i'm powerful glad to see you all the same. dust off a chair, patsey, and let the lady set down. you go in the corner, and take turns lickin' the dish, while i see company," said joe, disbanding his small troop, and shouldering the baby as if presenting arms in honor of his guest.
"why didn't you let me know how sick you were? and how came they to think you dead?" i asked, as he festooned the wet linen out of the way, and prepared to enjoy himself as best he could.
"i did send once, when things was at the wust; but you hadn't got back, and then somehow i thought i was goin' to be mustered out for good, and so wouldn't trouble nobody. but my orders ain't come yet, and i am doing the fust thing that come along. it ain't much, but the good soul stood by me, and i ain't ashamed to pay my debts this way, sence i can't do it in no other;" and joe cradled the chubby baby in his one arm as tenderly as if it had been his own, though little biddy was not an inviting infant.
"that is very beautiful and right, joe, and i honor you for it; but you were not meant to tend babies, so sing your last lullabies, and be ready to go to the home as soon as i can get you there."
"really, ma'am? i used to lay and kind of dream about it when i couldn't stir without yellin' out; but i never thought it would ever come to happen. i see a piece in the paper describing it, and it sounded dreadful nice. shouldn't wonder if i found some of my mates there. they were a good lot, and deservin' of all that could be done for 'em," said joe, trotting the baby briskly, as if the prospect excited him, as well it might, for the change from that damp nursery to the comfortable quarters prepared for him would be like going from purgatory to paradise.
"i don't wonder you don't get well living in such a place, joe. you should have gone home to woolwich, and let your friends help you," i said, feeling provoked with him for hiding himself.
"no, ma'am!" he answered, with a look i never shall forget, it was so full of mingled patience, pride, and pain. "i haven't a relation in the world but a couple of poor old aunts, and they couldn't do anything for me. as for asking help of folks i used to know, i couldn't do it; and if you think i'd go to lucindy, though she is wal off, you don't know joe collins. i'd die fust! if she was poor and i rich, i'd do for her like a brother; but i couldn't ask no favors of her, not if i begged my vittles in the street, or starved. i forgive, but i don't forgit in a hurry; and the woman that stood by me when i was down is the woman i believe in, and can take my bread from without shame. hooray for biddy flanagin! god bless her!" and, as if to find a vent for the emotion that filled his eyes with grateful tears, joe led off the cheer, which the children shrilly echoed, and i joined heartily.
"i shall come for you in a few days; so cuddle the baby and make much of the children before you part. it won't take you long to pack up, will it?" i asked, as we subsided with a general laugh.
"i reckon not as i don't own any clothes but what i set in, except a couple of old shirts and them socks. my hat's stoppin' up the winder, and my old coat is my bed-cover. i'm awful shabby, ma'am, and that's one reason i don't go out more. i can hobble some, but i ain't got used to bein' a scarecrow yet," and joe glanced from the hose without heels that hung on the line to the ragged suit he wore, with a resigned expression that made me long to rush out and buy up half the contents of oak hall on the spot.
curbing this wild impulse i presently departed with promises of speedy transportation for joe, and unlimited oranges to assuage the pangs of parting for the young flanagins, who escorted me to the door, while joe waved the baby like a triumphal banner till i got round the corner.
there was such a beautiful absence of red tape about the new institution that it only needed a word in the right ear to set things going; and then, with a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all together, joe collins was taken up and safely landed in the home he so much needed and so well deserved.
a happier man or a more grateful one it would be hard to find, and if a visitor wants an enthusiastic guide about the place, joe is the one to take, for all is comfort, sunshine, and good-will to him; and he unconsciously shows how great the need of this refuge is, as he hobbles about on his lame feet, pointing out its beauties, conveniences, and delights with his one arm, while his face shines, and his voice quavers a little as he says gratefully,—
"the state don't forget us, you see, and this is a home wuth havin'.
long life to it!"
