The Abbeville press and banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, 1905-03-22
p I.
How Thomas Dexter Made His Money.

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* s3 hers Little MakeBelieVe.
&&8N8 He was a crooked, ugly,
pock-marked little man; she a crooked,
ugly, pock-marked little girl. He was
a general dealer; * was she.
His, shop was situated in the heart of
Clare Market, which some people with
fastidious notions call Lincoln's Inn
Fields.
The persons thus fastidiously in
clined and who thus, metaphorically,
turn up their nose at Glare Market,
are jewellers therein, and being gen.
teelly inclined to wish to disguise the
TACT, resembling in this respect other
persons higher In the social scale who
reside in. Bayswater and call it Hyde
Park, to the confusion of the simple
minded cabmen Gf any such exist and
nnsuspicious friends from the country.
Thomas Dexter gave himself no such
airs. Clare Market was good enough
Tor him, and his ambition, in a residen-
hal way, did not extend beyond it.
. Thirty-three years had passed over
his head since, with his own hands, he
painted on his shop windows the
words, Dexter, General Dealer" there
not being room for Thomas"
Time and dust had eaten into this
sign and quite obliterated it, as in due
course they would eat into Thomas
Dexter and quite obliterate him.
When the painted letters OF the le-
gend on his shop windows were fresh
and bright Thomas Dexter, also fresh
and bright, commenced business with
exactly f14 in gold, which he found, on
the evening of his fathers funeral, tied
mp in an old ~nightcap, ina hard lump
close to the tassel. =,
He had come home sad Of face and
1T heart from the churchyard in which
his old friend and relative lay buried.
He was not given to sentiment, but
he and his father had been comrades
for many a long year, and it was nat
ural that he should feel melancholy in
his loneliness. q.
There was another reason for sad
h~eartedness; he had spent his last shil-
ling on his fathers funeral.
''Tom," his father had said to him i
his dying moments, there's something
weighing on my mind"
''out with it, father" said Thomas
Dexter, "if it'll ease yer" &C..
"T was born in this here neighbor-
hood" continued the old man, land so
was you, my boy. Lord, don't I re-
member the night you come into the
world! And now I'm a-going out Of it
It was a Saturday night, and 1 was two
mile away, with my barrer in Totem
liam Court road. where 1 had a pitch.
The old woman was with me, looking
arter the tin, and she sed to me about
b, o'clock: Father sed she, I feel a
bit queerish; I think I'd best go home
All right, old girl. sed L,s'trot off; I'll
manage without YER Don't worry
about me- she sed, smiling at me as
she walked away; it's only a spasm.'
That was you, Tom-you was the
bpasm. 1t was past II afore I got
home, and I no sooner put my head in
at the door than I knew I vas a father
In real earnest, for you salooted me
with a squat which you kept up, on
and off, for a matter Of three months,
I should say. You and the old woman
was laying on this very bed, in this
very room. It's run to think on, amt
it? 1t was sharp work, but your
mother was sharp at anythink she set
her mind on. She'd hardly time to
throw herself on the bed afore you
-as born. The room was dark, too
almost as dark as it is now"
why, father" said Thomas Dexter,
sits broad daylight and the suns
a-shining right into the winder!"
you'll allow me to know" muir
INJURED the old man, with a fretful sigh.
az can see when it's dark and when it's
light. 1 amt dead yet, my boy. Tom,
I've a sort Of notion that I'm wander
ing. Where was l, my bey"
I'm this room, where mother was
confined"
"No-afore that! Where was 1 afore
I come home that night?"
I'm Tottenham Court road, with the
barrer."
mo, no, no! Afore that! Give a cove
n leg up. What was 1 saying fust of
all?"
THAT you was born in this here
neighborhood."
That's it-that's what's weighing on
my mind! I was born in Clare Mar
ket, and there amt a man, woman or
child hereabouts as don't know me, and
as won't know presently that I'm a
dead 'un. Tom: 1 shouldn't like to be
taken out of the workshop in a shabby
sort of way. Don't shove me under
the turf as if I was a pauper. Do it
in style, old pal, and bury me with
featherS!w
The thing was done. The old man
was buried with feathers, and Thomas
Dexter experienced q solemn satiSfac-
tion as he gazed at the sable plumes,
emblems of triumphant woe, which
nodded at him in approval of his duti-
full regard to his fathers last wish.
In the evening he looked over the old
mans clothes to decide which to keep
for personal wear and which to dis
pose of for q new start in life. Under
the mattress was his fathers nightcap,
which, as he moved the bed. fell rGh 4
thud upon the floor. Picking it up
quickly and %loosening the knot with his
teeth, fourteen pieces of bright gold
came into view; also a paper, upon
which was written: