The old sexton was a good deal worried, for he
needed the little salary so much that he couldn't bear to give it up,
and in that village church there was no money to spare.
Sammy's mother sent bowls and pitchers of gruel and other things of the
sort to the sick man, and when Sammy took them he heard the talk of the
sexton and his wife. One night he came home, saying:
"Mother, I've made a bargain with Mr. Anderson, I'm going to be the
sexton of the church for the next three months."
"You, my boy, you're not strong enough. It's hard work shoveling snow
and breaking paths, and ringing the bell, and having the church warm on
Sunday, and the lamps filled and lighted. And you have your chores to do
at home."
"Yes, dear mammy, I'll manage; I'll go round and get the clothes for
you, and carry them home and do every single thing, just the same as
ever, and I'll try to keep Mr. Anderson's place for him too."
"I don't know that I ought to let you," said his mother.
But she did consent.
Then began Sammy's trial. He never had a moment to play. Other boys
could go skating on Saturday, but he had to stay around the church, and
dust and sweep, and put the cushions down in the pews, and see that the
old stoves were all right, as to dampers and draughts, bring coal up
from the cellar, have wood split, lamps filled, wicks cut, chimneys
polished. The big bell was hard to ring, hard for a fourteen-year-old
boy. At first, for the fun of it, some of the other boys helped him pull
the rope, but their enthusiasm soon cooled.
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