AT MRS. ATTERSON'S
When you came into "Mother" Atterson's front hall (the young men boarders gave her that appellation in irony) the ghosts of many ancient boiled dinners met you with--if you were sensitive and unused to the odors of cheap boarding houses--a certain shock.
He was starting up the stairs, on which the ragged carpet threatened to send less agile persons than Mrs. Atterson's boarders headlong to the bottom at every downward trip, when the clang of the gong in the dining- room announced the usual cold spread which the landlady thought due to her household on the first day of the week.
Hiram hesitated, decided that he would skip the meal, and started up again. But just then Fred Crackit lounged out of the parlor, with Mr. Peebles following him. Dyspeptic as he was, Mr. Peebles never missed a meal himself, and Crackit said:
"Come on, Hi-Low-Jack! Aren't you coming down to the usual feast of reason and flow of soul?"Crackit thought he was a natural humorist, and he had to keep up his reputation at all times and seasons. He was rather a dissipated-looking man of thirty years or so, given to gay waistcoats and wonderfully knit ties. A brilliant as large as a hazel-nut--and which, in some lights, really sparkled like a diamond--adorned the tie he wore this evening.
"I don't believe I want any supper," responded Hiram, pleasantly. "What's the matter?Got some inside information as to what MotherAtterson has laid out for us?You're pretty thick with the old girl, Hi." "That's not a nice way to speak of her, Mr. Crackit," said Hi, in a lowvoice.
The other boarders--those who were in the house-straggled into the basement dining-room one after the other, and took their places at the long table, each in his customary manner.
That dining-room at Mother Atterson's never could have been a cheerful place. It was long, and low-ceiled, and the paper on the walls was a dingy red, so old that the figure on it had retired into the background--been absorbed by it, so to speak.
The two long, dusty, windows looked upon an area, and were grilled half way up by wrought-iron screens which, too, helped to shut out the light of day.
The long table was covered by a red figured table cloth. The "castors" at both ends and in the middle were the ugliest--Hiram was sure--to be found in all the city of Crawberry. The crockery was of the coarsest kind. The knives and forks were antediluvian. The napkins were as coarse as huck towels.
But Mrs. Atterson's food--considering the cost of provisions and the charge she made for her table--was very good. Only it had become a habit for certain of the boarders, led by the jester, Crackit, to criticise the viands.
Sometimes they succeeded in making Mrs. Atterson angry; and sometimes, Hiram knew, she wept, alone in the dining-room, after the harumscarum, thoughtless crowd had gone.
Old Lem Camp--nobody save Hiram thought to put "Mr." before the old gentleman's name--sidled in and sat down beside the country boy, as usual. He was a queer, colorless sort of person--a man who never looked into the face of another if he could help it. He would look all around Hiram when he spoke to him--at his shoulder, his shirtfront, his hands, even at his feet if they were visible, but never at his face.
And at the table he kept up a continual monologue. It was difficult sometimes for Hiram to know when he was being addressed, and when poor Mr. Camp was merely talking to himself.
