AllFreeNovel
Share Us
What about marrying Samuel? Would she know the right choice when the time came?
God would provide direction—wouldn’t He?
She could only hope.
Chapter Three
“Well if it isn’t Tommy Watson!” a jolly, fat-sounding voice rang out.
Thomas turned from his work behind the press toward the unfamiliar man who’d addressed him. Grateful to be taken away from his menial task of setting the type, he wiped his hands on his apron.
“You know me, sir, but I’m afraid I can’t say the same for you.” He stepped around the machine and moved toward the gentleman. The man grabbed Thomas’s hand and shook with gusto as he smiled, revealing large yellow teeth.
“Well, of course you wouldn’t remember an old man like myself. Last time I saw you, you were no higher than my breeches.” He stopped to straighten his posture and thrust out his chin. “I’m your father’s brother, God rest his soul.” Swooping off his dilapidated hat, he bowed his head as if trying to show reverent remembrance.
Thomas reserved a bitter laugh and shifted his weight over his feet. Anyone who really knew Father would know he wasn’t a man worth mourning.
“Name’s George Watson,” the stranger continued. “Just came over from England today and I knew I had to stop by first thing to exchange pleasantries with my kin.” He brushed the toe of his boot against the floor. “My brother left you the press then, did he?”
“Aye.” Thomas made a quick assessment of the man who professed to be Father’s brother. Father had never mentioned having any siblings. Then again, he had never been forthcoming about much.
The more Thomas stared at the man, the more it all seemed strangely plausible. George could be related. It looked as though this man and Father shared the same unfortunate nose. Thomas tried not to grin. Thank goodness God had not endowed him with the same protrusion.
George’s very wide frame took up most of the space in the front of the press, and Thomas detected the distinct smell of both urine and alcohol. Perhaps merely a result of the abysmal conditions travelers were often exposed to on the ships coming to and from. One could only hope.
“Very nice to meet you, George,” Thomas said, inviting the man in and closing the door. “I’m sorry to say I never knew my father had a brother. Will you tell me how you knew he had passed? I’m sure we never sent word to anyone.”
George nodded and scratched under his immense arm. “Well, the world may be a big place, Tommy, but still word gets ‘round. I only found out about a year ago, which is when I started making plans to come and see America for myself.”
Tommy. No one had called him that in more than twenty-four years. Thomas remembered very little of getting off the boat from England—he’d only been four years old at the time. Father had heard great things about America and brought the three of them to Boston “to make a new life”. Now, only Thomas remained—the few happy memories of his family, completely overshadowed by the rotten ones.
“What kind of a son are you? You killed your mother. If you’d do that to her, how will you do anyone else any good?”
Thomas took a cleansing breath to erase the doleful thoughts that darkened his mind and focused on the present. “So, George, what made you decide to cross that great ocean and settle in Boston?”
George laughed. “Well, I needed a new start—there was nothing left for me but gaming debts, you see. So I left all that behind. Left the gaming too. Nasty habit, that.” His grin made it seem as though he didn’t think the habit quite as “nasty” as he professed. “Anyway, I’m here for a new start like I said. I’m old, but there’s good work in me. I’m in need of employment, Tommy—hoped you might want some help.”
Rubbing his palm, Thomas peered at the press machine behind him. Could this be God’s way of providing for him? He hated the idea of leaving the press—the trade he loved and had worked so many years to build. But he couldn’t stay. Not anymore. George needed work and Thomas needed someone to take over. But what did the man know about operating a printing press?
Rubbing the cleft in his chin, Thomas exhaled through his nose. He could only hope the bloated fellow before him had the tenacity to deal with the sometimes tedious work. “This is a small shop and I work alone. No newspaper here. Just contracted work for fliers, advertisements, political pamphlets and the like. However, I have needed some help. Do you have any experience with the trade?”
“Aye, Tommy, I have. Not much, mind you, but enough to get me through until I’ve learned the rest. I have a lot of weight on me, as you can see, so I was hired as a pressman at a newspaper in London a few years back. The owner never complained about my work.” George stopped and played with the tricorne he held in his pudgy fingers. “I’m a good laborer, you won’t be disappointed in me I can guarantee you that.” He nodded as if to emphasize his words.
Could this really be God’s will? Thomas stared out the window as a peaceful presence encircled him like white smoke from an invisible fire. Tingles shot down his arms and he smiled. Did he need more of an answer then that? “Excellent, Uncle. I’m pleased to hire you.”
He extended his hand and they shook on the agreement. George pumped his arm up and down, his jowls jiggling from the movement. “Thank you, Tommy. I’m indebted to you.”
“Think nothing of it.”
Thomas grinned and took a deep breath then gagged on the acidic air. As glad as he was to help, the longer this man stayed in his presence the stronger the oppressive odor became and Thomas was forced to breathe from his mouth. No question—this man needed a bath.
George twirled the hat in his fingers. “Uh, there is one more thing, Tommy.”
Ready to finish his work, Thomas walked toward the press. “Yes?”
“I’m in desperate need of a place to stay and I was hoping, being that you’re family—”
“Say no more.” With a wave of his hand Thomas stopped him mid-sentence. “Of course you are welcome to stay here. I’ll show you upstairs. Make yourself at home—feel free to wash up.” Please wash up.
