“Here, boy. Here’s something I never gave you, but I see you have it anyway. So here, I do give it to you as a gift, now.” Hobbins’ smile faded. The tone of his voice changed. “As payment for poorly done work, here’s your payment!” Bringing his arm back, he threw Zachariah’s long-coat toward the shivering boy. Falling short—as he had planned—the coat fell in the mud at his feet. “And a good Christmas to you,” Hobbins screamed, “and your drunken sot of a master!” Becoming hysterical once again, “And you tell him not to bother coming back! You tell him I do not want him! You tell him I’ll be finding another sweep!”

“Hubert!” Recognizing her husband’s near uncontrollable hysteria, having felt the back of his hand on many more than one occasion while this hysterical, Mrs. Hobbins went to him.

Catching his breath, grabbing his wife’s arm, pulling her into the foyer, Hobbins slammed the door shut behind them.

 The Climbing Boy: 17; London, England; December 24, 1843

No sooner had the door slammed shut, “Mousy!” Knowing the mouse may have been crushed when the coat had been balled and thrown, picking his coat out of the mud, the boy quickly looked into the pocket but, in apparent good health, Mousy twitched his nose at him.

Sighing, Zachariah put the coat on. Absently rubbing the bump on his forehead, “Lordy!” He suddenly thought of the folded pile of drop cloths, the brush, scraper, and his scarf, all sitting alongside the fireplace in the condolence parlor. Flinging himself up the stairs and across the porch, looking through the door window, the boy was just in time to see a hand pulling the basement door closed.

“Mister ‘obbins!” he yelled, banging on the door. “Mister ‘obbins, Sir! Me cloths! Please! Please give me back the ‘quipment!” The cold wind at his back pushed against his coat pasting the damp shirt and wet trousers against his body, shivering, “I’m cold!” shivering, “I’m so cold,” he cried in near tears, kicking the door, “Me scarf! Please!”

But the basement door did not open, and Zachariah knew that were he to stand here all night banging on the door Hobbins would still ignore him. “You ol’ bastard!” heshouted, kicking the door again, this time hard enough to rattle the window. “You tightwad, bastard, skinflint!”

Dejectedly turning away, the boy walked down the four steps. Taking a few steps, stopping, he looked back to the square of dull light showing through the doorway window, You ol’ bastard! he thought and, afraid to go home, not knowing what to do, Cold! Lordy, so cold! Holding one hand on his head in an unsuccessful attempt to keep his head warm and one hand over his breast pocket, trying, somewhat successfully, to keep his one friend—the small creature inside his pocket—warm, the boy walked to the road.

Mud and snow soaking his clothing, sleet pelting his bare, short cropped head, shivering, suddenly confused, suddenly unsure of the way home, now crying, the not-quite-nine year- old boy sat on a curbstone beneath the dull yellow glow of a gas lit street lamp.

“What’ll I do?” Zachariah said aloud, to himself, to the mouse in his breast pocket and to whatever God there was that looked over as insignificant and wretched a creature as a not-quite nine-year-old climbing boy. “Lordy, what’ll I do?” His body quaking due to the cold, and, in fear of Johnson. “What’ll ‘e do to me when I get ‘ome?” Answering his own question, “I knows ‘im! ‘e’ll be drunk an’ I ain’t got ‘is money, an’ I ain’t got ‘is ‘quipment, an’… ‘obbins—you ol’ bastard…!” he again shouted into the darkness, “told me to tell ‘im to not never come back! I know’s ‘im! ‘e’ll say t’wer cause’a me we ain’t got no payment nor ‘quipment, an’ we lost ol’ ‘obbin’s work!”

So intent was Zachariah on his misery that he was unaware of a group of people that had come upon him.

“What’s this?” Speaking in an inebriated but kindly voice, “What is this?” one of the men asked again.

Startled, standing quickly, Zachariah looked at the four commonly dressed people.

“Looks to me to be a cryin’ lad,” another inebriated, feminine voice answered.

“Aye, a dirty, cryin’ lad,” a second lady said.

“Ya be a Climbing Boy, ain’t ya lad?” the first man asked.

Momentarily startled, but put at ease by the friendly tone of these people, “Aye, Sir.”

“Boy, why ya be sittin’ all by ya’self in the snow ‘ere, talkin’ to ya’self? Ya be lost?” The man wearing a dented, bent top hat asked.

Unsure of the way, but, “No, Sir, I ain’t lost.” Zachariah looked from face to face. “Me master an’ me, we was in that place there,” pointing to the funeral parlor, “doin’ our work, an’ then me master, ‘e went off to… uh, ‘e ‘ad another ‘pointment, an’ ‘e left me to finish the work ‘ere by me-self. An’ now ol’ ‘obbins—‘e’s the man what owns the funeral ‘ome ‘er—‘e won’t pay me, an’ ‘e won’t gi’me me ‘quipment neither, and me master..” the boy looked from face to face, “‘e’ll be beatin’ me good when I get ‘ome.”

Jerking his thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the all but darkened house. “Ya mean to say,” Lewis asked incredulously, “that ya did ya work ‘ere, an’ ‘e won’t pay ya ya due?”

“Aye, Sir.”

“Why?” the second man asked.

“Ol’ ‘obbins said I got a smudge’a dirt onto one’a ‘is settees. But I din’t! I weren’t no place near it—‘ceptin’ to pull off me drop cloth, an’ then I was bein’ extra special careful like an’ I know I didn’t get it smudged. I think ol’ ‘obbins did it ‘isself to keep from givin’ me me payment.”

To a workingman such as Lewis the thought of being cheated of his rightful due was incomprehensible. “An’ the bloody bastard won’t pay ya?” he said angrily.

“Aye, Sir. No, Sir, ‘e won’t.”

“An’ this bein’ the night afore the birth of the baby Jesus an’ all!” The homely, long-faced lady said, “We got to be doin’ somethin’ to be ‘elpin’ the poor lad ‘ere!”

“Aye, Silbie, that we do!” Screwing his courage up for the second time this evening, setting the top hat squarely atop his head, taking long, purposeful strides, Lewis tramped across the grass-bare yard and up the four wooden steps.

“You in there!” the pane of glass vibrating within its frame, “Open up ‘ere!” Banging on the door, “Open up ‘ere!”

Within moments…

“Open up ‘ere!”

The basement door finally opened.

Hobbins, accompanied by his wife, came to the parlor door, but upon seeing the quality of Lewis’ clothing, “We’re closed!” Not opening the door, “Get away!” he yelled from within the door.

“It ain’t your services—thank the Lord—I be wantin’!”

“Then what is you ‘be wantin’' at this hour?”

“The lad,” jerking his thumb over his shoulder, “says ya be cheatin’ ‘im outta ‘is due,” Lewis said. “an’ I’m ‘ere to be ‘elpin’ him to be gettin’ it!”

Opening the door, “ ‘Money’?” Mrs. Hobbins screeched. “No money! The scum filthied my settee!”

Face to face, Lewis’ courage unfaltering, “The lad says ‘e ain’t! The lad says ya ol’ man maybe did it ‘isself, to keep from payin’ ‘im!”

“No, sir! He surely did it and I won’t be paying him!”

Reaching into his trouser pocket, removing a whistle, “Best you be gone,” the undertaker yelled , “‘afore I whistle for a copper!”

Lewis looked from the face of the undertaker to the whistle in his hand and not wanting to spend Christmas Eve—or for that matter any eve—in jail, his resolve finally crumbling, “Sir, it bein’ the night afore the birth of our Lord an’ such,” he asked meekly, “why don’t ya pay the poor lad an’ give ‘im his ‘quipment, an’ let ‘im be on ‘is way ‘ome?”

Knowing he’d won, looking contemptuously at Lewis, without another word , followed by his wife, Hobbins, slammed shut the outer door, went to the basement and slamming the door shut behind them, returned to the work of embalming the body of Garibaldi.

Lewis stood looking through the door a moment, then, turning from the door, he returned to his friends and the boy. “Sorry, lad, but the ol’ geezer there,” cocking his head backward, “‘e said t’were your fault, an’ ‘e ain’t payin’ you, an’ that’s that.”

The five people stood beneath the glow of the street lamp amidst the failing sleet and snow till, shrugging his shoulders and pulling his collar higher about his throat, the other man said, “Best be on our way, then.”

“Yeah, sorry, boy,” the woman called Silbie said. “We best be on our way, then.”

“Yeah, an’ you, too, boy. Ain’t gonna be doin’ ya no good to be standin’ out ‘ere till ya catches ya death,” the other woman added.

Rubbing his hand over the boy’s cold, wet head as a sign of affection—and also, by touching Zachariah

he hoped to bring some good luck to himself. “Did what we could for ya, lad.” The other man said.

Lewis patted Zachariah’s head also, but strictly as a sign of affection. “Sorry ‘t’wern’t more we could do for ya boy.” Turning, he began to follow his friends, whom, anxious to be out of the weather and home, had begun up the street.

“A good Christmas to ya, boy!” Silbie called over her shoulder.

“Yes!” said the other man. "A good Christmas to ya."

“May the Lord, Jesus be with ya, boy!” the other woman said.

Zachariah watched the backs of the four people for a moment, then, dejectedly, with shoulders sagging, began his journey in the opposite direction, to home—to Johnson.

…“ ‘ey, boy!”

Stopping, turning about, Zachariah waited as the man in the top hat ran to him.

“ ‘ere, lad. A gift for ya. Ya be needin’ it more’n me.” Taking the hat from his head, the young man put it onto the head of the boy, but, too big, it dropped over his eyes. Lifting the hat, “‘ere, boy, b-b-bend ya ears.” Stuttering now, Lewis put it back onto Zachariah’s head. “An’a g-g-good C-C-Christmas to ya.”

Watching Lewis as he chased after his friends, two things became evident to Zachariah: the sleety snow had stopped falling, and the dented hat that rested on the three points of the tops of his bent ears and the bump on his forehead somehow seemed to warm him.

Stretching upward, Mousy stuck his head through the slit of the pocket.

Becoming aware of the mouse again, smiling…

Smiling?

Looking down, the boy rubbed the rodent’s head with the tip of his finger. “Yeah, Mousy, if ’n I ‘ad a safe pocket to ‘ide into I would, too.” Giving the pocket a gentle pat, Zachariah began on his way home.

 Sober, Johnson was far from an easy man to live with, but when drunk was irrational and wholly unreasonable. Zachariah knew that he would not be able to think of an excuse that might placate his master, and did know that he was in for a beating—how bad a beating, however, depended on just how drunken Johnson was.

His hands shoved deeply into the pockets of the long-coat, the top hat wobbling on his head, trying to think of  some excuse for the loss of the money, the equipment, and this long standing customer, desperately wanting to think  of any excuse that would take the blame for the behavior of Hobbins from himself, no longer confused about the direction, Zachariah began the long walk home.

Shortly: Is it possible, do you think, to be so cold that one may no longer feel the cold?

Zachariah’s teeth had stopped chattering and he no longer felt the damp coldness that had penetrated his

clothing and chilled his flesh just a few short minutes ago.

Also: Is it possible, do you think, to be so frightened that one may no longer care?

Also: For the first time in remembrance the boy had an overwhelming sense of…? Safety.

To be continued