Johnny Tremain Read Free Page A

along fine. Isannah was so weakly it didn't seem worth making any plans for her maturity. So it was to be Cilla.
    Johnny had often heard Mrs. Lapham say that Isannah was hardly worth the bother she was to raise. The little girl, her beautiful brown eyes wide with interest, never seemed to mind these remarks of her mother, but they made Cilla cry. Cilla loved Isannah. She was proud when people stopped her on the street and said, 'Is that little angel your sister?' She did not mind that there were so many things Isannah could not 'keep down'—like pork gravy, mince pies, new beer. If Isannah got wet, she had a cold—if a cold, a fever.
    First Johnny, with a customary 'Look sharp,' got the sulky Dove and his buckets headed for North Square. Then he took the key to the shop out of his pocket as though he owned it. Dusty, good and quiet as a mouse, followed him.
    'Look sharp, Dusty,' Johnny said. 'Get the annealing furnace going. Get to the coal house. Fetch in charcoal. You'll have to do it by yourself. I want to get this buckle mended before breakfast.'
    Already the day's bustle had begun up and down the wharf: A man was crying fish. Sailors were heave-hoing at their ropes. A woman was yelling that her son had fallen into the water. A parrot said distinctly, 'King Hancock.'
    Johnny could smell hemp and spices, tar and salt water, the sun drying fish. He liked his wharf. He sat at his own bench, before him the innumerable tools of his trade. The tools fitted into his strong, thin hands: his hands fitted the tools. Mr. Lapham was always telling him to give God thanks who had seen fit to make him so good an artisan—not to take it out in lording it over the other boys. That was one of the things Johnny 'did not let bother him much.'
    Dove came back, his thick lower lip thrust out. The water had slopped over his breeches, down his legs.
    'Mrs. Lapham does not want you in the kitchen?'—Johnny did not even look up from his buckle.
    'Naw.'
    'Well, then, this spoon you finished yesterday afternoon has to be melted down—made over. You beat it to the wrong gauge.'
    'Did Mr. Lapham say 'twas wrong?'
    'No, but it is. It is supposed to match this spoon. Look at it.'
    Dove looked. There was no argument.
    'So get out a crucible. 'Soon as Dusty's got the furnace going, you melt it down and try again.'
    I'd like to get
you
in a crucible, thought Dove, and melt you down. I'd beat you to the proper gauge ... Two years younger than me and look at him!
    It was Isannah who ran in to tell them that Grandpa was in his chair and breakfast was on the table. The soft brown eyes combined oddly with the flying fair hair. She
did
look rather like a little angel, Johnny thought—just as people were always telling Cilla on the street—and so graceful. She seemed to float about rather than run.
    No one, to see her, would ever guess the number of things she couldn't keep down.
2
    Mr. Lapham, as befitted his venerable years and his dignity as master of the house, sat in an armchair at the head of the table. He was a peaceful, kind, remote old man. Although his daughter-in-law was always nagging him to collect bills, finish work when promised, and discipline his apprentices, nothing she said seemed to touch him. He did not even bother to listen.
    His dull, groping eyes lingered kindly over his boys as they trooped in for breakfast.
    'Good morning, Dove, Dusty. Good morning, Johnny.'
    'Good morning, sir.'
    He took his time blessing the meal. He was a deacon at the Cockerel Church and very pious.
    Breakfast was good, although no more than a poor artisan could afford—milk and ale, gruel, sausages, and corn bread. Everything was plentiful and well cooked. The kitchen was as clean or cleaner than many of those in the great houses. Every member of the household had a clean shirt or petticoat. Mrs. Lapham was a great manager, but she cared nothing for genteel manners and was the first to laugh at Dorcas's 'If it please you,