The rest of them--well, mother, I've stood
a good deal these seven days," Donald added, gulping down
something between a "fuff" of wrath and a sob.
"I am sure you have, my boy."
"But I'll hold on; only you'll have to get my boots mended, and
meantime, I should like to try a new dodge. My bicycle, it lies
in the washing-house; you remember I broke it and you didn't wish
it mended, lest I should break something worse than a wheel,
perhaps. It wasn't worth while risking my life for mere
pleasure, but I want my bicycle now for use. If you let me have
it mended, I can go up and down the country for fifty miles in
search of work--to Falkirk, Linlithgow, or even Glasgow, and I'll
cost you nothing for traveling expenses. Isn't that a bright
idea, mother?"
She had not the heart to say no, or to suggest that a boy on a
bicycle applying for work was a thing too novel to be eminently
successful. But to get work was at once so essential and so
hopeless, that she would not throw any cold water on Donald's
eagerness and pluck. She hoped too, that, spite of the
eccentricity of the notion, some shrewd, kind-hearted gentleman
might have sense enough to see the honest purpose of the poor lad
who had only himself to depend upon. For his father had now
fallen into a state of depression which made all application to
him for either advice or help worse than useless. And as both he
and Mrs. Boyd had been solitary orphans when they were married,
there were no near relatives of any kind to come to the rescue.
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