The Magician's Sons

Chapter 8

"Excuse me, sirs," Jemimah spoke timidly, "but there's a poor fellow at the kitchen door who says he's 'ungry."

If her question had reached Sterling's ears, it would have brought a compassionate smile to the man's face. But Jasper hadn't come to the breakfast table yet. It was only Crumley and Norman sitting there, and the news sent very different emotions into their hearts.

Crumley dabbed a bit of gravy out of his mustache with a napkin and yawned carelessly. "A 'poor fellow', you say?" he began. "How poor?"

The maid's soft brown eyes glistened with pitying tears. "So awfully, awfully poor, sir," she answered. "Why, he's nuffing more than a bag o' bones! An' he says he's dreadfully 'ungry."

"Psh!" Crumley spat contemptuously. He threw a lazy look toward Norman who was sitting just across from him. "Another con," he stated. "When —will— these insufferable beggars stop coming around with their sob stories? It is getting on my nerves."

Norman didn't know what to think. Was the beggar truly a con, or was he earnest? The young man wasn't sure. But the maid was.

"Oh, but Mr. Crumley," Jemimah began hastily, "I'm sure you wouldn't call 'im a con if you was t' see 'im! Oh, sir, he's so thin! And he's ill, I fink! Really, truly ill!"

"So like a woman," Crumley chuckled, "to fall for that spiel! Now go along. Can't you see we are trying to enjoy our meal? And I declare, I am starving this morning! Send the detestable liar away and tell him not to come back. That is my solution."

With hungry delight, Crumley attacked his meal again, plunging his spoon into his potpie. But Norman watched as Jemimah's countenance fell, and his heart throbbed as she turned away in disappointment. He still wasn't sure whether he believed the beggar's tale. He was young and still rather blind to the suffering of others. But he wasn't quite as cruel as Mr. Crumley, and the sweetness of Jemma's voice had been enough to soften his heart.

"Wait a moment," he called after the girl. "Jemimah, I think my father had better make the final decision. And...well, I'm rather certain that I know what his decision would be. You may tell the cook to wrap up a small parcel of food and give it to the man. We have enough, I am sure."

Light brightened Jemma's eyes, such a beautiful, earnest light. It filled Norman with elation. Ah, he might have found it in his heart to give to every beggar in London if it would have always caused that glorious smile to shine on her face.

"Fank you, sir! Fank you very much!" she cried. With excited haste, she spun around to hurry from the room. But right then, her master entered, and she almost ran straight into him. She gave a gasp of surprise as they stopped short of colliding. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "Mr. Sterling, I'm so sorry!"

A little stunned, Mr. Sterling laughed and shook away his surprise. "No harm done, Miss Big—Jemimah, that is!" he stammered, catching his mistake as Jemma's face colored with mortification. "It is quite alright," he affirmed. "But may I ask why you are in such a hurry?"

"Indeed, yes, sir!" the maid answered, recovering herself. "You see, there's a poor fellow at the kitchen door beggin' for food, and Master Norman just gave me permission to send him off with a parcel."

Crumley lifted his fat face and swallowed a big bite of pie before pointing to Norman and laughing, "Beware of this one, Sterling. He's playing master of the house behind your back! And really, you ought to consider that the beggar in question is most likely a con! Most of them are!"

Mr. Sterling shook his head reproachfully. "Really, Crumley, you must not say such things. You know nothing of the man. As for my son taking charge of things," he smiled at Norman with pride, "I couldn't be more pleased. He is, after all, nearly eighteen! And I happen to agree with him wholeheartedly. Go along, Jemimah, and do as Norman has said."