This boy was an orphan.His father had been a railway porter who had worked very laboriously for twelve or fourteen hours every day for many years, with the usual result, namely, that he and his family lived in a condition of perpetual poverty.Bert, who was their only child and not very robust, had early shown a talent for drawing, so when his father died a little over a year ago, his mother readily assented when the boy said that he wished to become a decorator.It was a nice light trade, and she thought that a really good painter, such as she was sure he would become, was at least always able to earn a good living.Resolving to give the boy the best possible chance, she decided if possible to place him at Rushton's, that being one of the leading firms in the town.At first Mr Rushton demanded ten pounds as a premium, the boy to be bound for five years, no wages the first year, two shillings a week the second, and a rise of one shilling every year for the remainder of the term.Afterwards, as a special favour - a matter of charity, in fact, as she was a very poor woman - he agreed to accept five pounds.
This sum represented the thrifty savings of years, but the poor woman parted with it willingly in order that the boy should become a skilled workman.So Bert was apprenticed - bound for five years - to Rushton & Co.
For the first few months his life had been spent in the paint-shop at the yard, a place that was something between a cellar and a stable.
There, surrounded by the poisonous pigments and materials of the trade, the youthful artisan worked, generally alone, cleaning the dirty paint-pots brought in by the workmen from finished `jobs'
outside, and occasionally mixing paint according to the instructions of Mr Hunter, or one of the sub-foremen.
Sometimes he was sent out to carry materials to the places where the men were working - heavy loads of paint or white lead - sometimes pails of whitewash that his slender arms had been too feeble to carry more than a few yards at a time.
Often his fragile, childish figure was seen staggering manfully along, bending beneath the weight of a pair of steps or a heavy plank.
He could manage a good many parcels at once: some in each hand and some tied together with string and slung over his shoulders.
Occasionally, however, there were more than he could carry; then they were put into a handcart which he pushed or dragged after him to the distant jobs.
That first winter the boy's days were chiefly spent in the damp, evil-smelling, stone-flagged paint-shop, without even a fire to warm the clammy atmosphere.
But in all this he had seen no hardship.With the unconsciousness of boyhood, he worked hard and cheerfully.As time went on, the goal of his childish ambition was reached - he was sent out to work with the men! And he carried the same spirit with him, always doing his best to oblige those with whom he was working.
He tried hard to learn, and to be a good boy, and he succeeded, fairly well.
He soon became a favourite with Owen, for whom he conceived a great respect and affection, for he observed that whenever there was any special work of any kind to be done it was Owen who did it.On such occasions, Bert, in his artful, boyish way, would scheme to be sent to assist Owen, and the latter whenever possible used to ask that the boy might be allowed to work with him.
Bert's regard for Owen was equalled in intensity by his dislike of Crass, who was in the habit of jeering at the boy's aspirations.
`There'll be plenty of time for you to think about doin' fancy work after you've learnt to do plain painting,' he would say.
This morning, when he had finished washing up the cups and mugs, Bert returned with them to the kitchen.
`Now let's see,' said Crass, thoughtfully, `You've put the tea in the pail, I s'pose.'
`Yes.'
`And now you want a job, don't you?'
`Yes,' replied the boy.
`Well, get a bucket of water and that old brush and a swab, and go and wash off the old whitewash and colouring orf the pantry ceiling and walls.'
`All right,' said Bert.When he got as far as the door leading into the scullery he looked round and said:
`I've got to git them three bloaters cooked by breakfast time.'
`Never mind about that,' said Crass.`I'll do them.'
Bert got the pail and the brush, drew some water from the tap, got a pair of steps and a short plank, one end of which he rested on the bottom shelf of the pantry and the other on the steps, and proceeded to carry out Crass's instructions.
It was very cold and damp and miserable in the pantry, and the candle only made it seem more so.Bert shivered: he would like to have put his jacket on, but that was out of the question at a job like this.
He lifted the bucket of water on to one of the shelves and, climbing up on to the plank, took the brush from the water and soaked about a square yard of the ceiling; then he began to scrub it with the brush.
He was not very skilful yet, and as he scrubbed the water ran down over the stock of the brush, over his hand and down his uplifted arm, wetting the turned-up sleeves of his shirt.When he had scrubbed it sufficiently he rinsed it off as well as he could with the brush, and then, to finish with, he thrust his hand into the pail of water and, taking out the swab, wrung the water out of it and wiped the part of the ceiling that he had washed.Then he dropped it back into the pail, and shook his numbed fingers to restore the circulation.Then he peeped into the kitchen, where Crass was still seated by the fire, smoking and toasting one of the bloaters at the end of a pointed stick.Bert wished he would go upstairs, or anywhere, so that he himself might go and have a warm at the fire.
`'E might just as well 'ave let me do them bloaters,' he muttered to himself, regarding Crass malignantly through the crack of the door.
`This is a fine job to give to anybody - a cold mornin' like this.'
He shifted the pail of water a little further along the shelf and went on with the work.
