Nobody noticed the small boy sitting by the general store, clasping an empty tin can close to his chest. His tiny fingers trembled with the cold, causing the can to jingle. Bystanders would either choose to ignore the scruffy little boy or take pity and spare a few coins. He appeared to have more luck today, as the bad weather seemed to bring out the more charitable side of some folk.
A lady, wearing a lilac day dress and a pretty bonnet, left the store, with a basket under her arm. The boy took the opportunity to approach her, holding out his tin can, with a hopeful expression on his face. The lady was startled at the sight of him at first, but she showed more empathy than anyone else had that day.
"Oh, you poor thing," she cooed, searching in her coin purse. "You shouldn't be outside on a day like this, darlin', you'll catch your death of cold."
She tossed several coins into the tin. The child peered into the can and gasped at the sight of shiny coins. The can had mostly been gathering rain drops rather than money.
"Thank you, ma'am" smiled the child, gazing up at the lady with piecing blue eyes.
Once the lady departed, the shopkeeper suddenly appeared, with a broom in his hand. His bushy moustache twitched with annoyance.
"Damn nuisance!" he barked, brandishing the broom in his hand. "Go away!"
"It's raining, mister" the child declared.
The boy, no older than four-years old, seemed unphased whenever he was chased away from his spot. He flinched when the shopkeeper swiped at him with the broom, as if to brush the dirt of his property. The shopkeeper swung again, this time striking the boy on the backside, causing him to stumble forward onto his hands and knees. In the process, he dropped in can and several coins rolled out, to which the shopkeeper promptly gathered up for himself. The child picked himself up and brushed down his worn overalls.
"Mister, that's my money" asserted the little boy, picking up his now empty can.
The shopkeeper scoffed, as he counted out the coins. It wasn't a lot, but still the man still slipped the coins in his apron pocket. He placed his broom to the side.
"Folks round here don't give your kind money," he sneered, looming over the boy in a threatening manner. "You're nothin' but a thief."
The little boy scowled at the man and marched forward with confidence to retrieve what rightfully belonged to him.
"I ain't a thief!" he responded.
Without compassion, the shopkeeper threw the can out into the street. The little boy quickly hurried out to collect it. Mud squelched in between his toes. At least the rain had stopped. The boy yelped, as the shopkeeper suddenly gripped his arm.
"Now, get lost!" the older man shouted.
The little boy struggled and squirmed, before biting down on the man's hand, drawing blood.
"You little bastard!" cursed the shopkeeper.
He raised his hand to the boy, when he was suddenly interrupted by the shrill voice of a woman.
"Arthur Morgan!"
The little boy's head snapped around on hearing his name. Although kind-hearted, Beatrice Morgan was a firm, and fiercely protective. The shopkeeper released his grip of Arthur, just in time for Beatrice to strike him across the cheek with a sharp slap. The man reeled, holding a hand to his burning cheek.
"Oh, I should've known he was a Morgan," scorned the shopkeeper, pointing a disgruntled finger at the small boy. "He'll end up like his Daddy if he ain't careful."
Beatrice checked her son over. Arthur squirmed against her. Besides being cold and wet, he was unharmed. Nevertheless, that wasn't good enough for Beatrice.
"Don't you ever touch my son!" Beatrice threatened.
The shopkeeper remained unamused, as he threw out his hand in outrage.
"He bit me!" he yelled.
Beatrice stood her ground, as he pushed Arthur behind her.
"Grown man like you picking on a little boy? You should be ashamed of yourself" she argued back.
The shopkeeper grunted, as he turned his back on the pair, leaving them out in the rain.
"They let anyone into the country these days" he remarked, under his breath.
Beatrice turned her attention to her son, as she quickly ushered him to the other side of the street. She placed him on a bench and wrapped her old shawl around him. Arthur huddled under his mother's shawl, trying to keep warm. He had been sitting outside in the rain for most of the day.
"Look at you!" she chided, before noticing his bare feet. "Oh, Arthur, where are your boots?"
Arthur shrugged, and Beatrice sighed heavily. She had just mended them, as they couldn't afford new one. She muttered something in Welsh, that Arthur didn't understand.
"I'm not disappointed," Beatrice reassured, gazing into his eyes. "Only you and your father were supposed to be back this afternoon. Did he take you to see the doctor?"
Arthur rubbed his running nose with the back of his hand, as Beatrice put a hand on his forehead. He was already coming down with something, and this had only made things worse.
"Pa says folks will give me money if I don't have shoes," Arthur replied. "He threw them away"
Beatrice was furious. She knew Lyle was a good for nothing fool of a man, but this was a new low, even for him.
"Where is he?" she asked her son.
The little boy pointed towards the saloon, where at that moment, a drunken man staggered out. Arthur instantly recognised his father, due to the worn hat on his head. Beatrice glared in Lyle's direction, before returning her gaze to her son.
"Wait here" she said, with a kind smile.
She then rose, and immediately advanced towards her husband. On seeing his wife, Lyle rolled his eyes, and just like the shopkeeper, was greeted with a slap across the face. For the next few moments, Arthur watched his parents arguing in the street. He couldn't understand what they were saying, as most of the argument was in Welsh. At the tender age of four, Arthur already knew his father was a terrible drunk. He knew his father had drank and gambled away all the money that had been saved. Money that they needed to survive.
"You're a bloody disgrace, Lyle Morgan!" declared Beatrice. "You had our son out begging again, didn't you?!"
Lyle laughed, his breathe heavy with drink. He lurched forward, only for Beatrice to step aside. Lyle landed face first into the mud.
"He's fine, woman," slurred Lyle, as Beatrice heaved him upright. "Get off my back!"
Beatrice threw her arms up in outrage, the front of her cotton dress covered in mud.
"You had our son begging!" she repeated. "That boy deserves a father! Not a drunk!"
"We needed the money" replied Lyle. "Just go home, Beatrice."
Beatrice was close to tears. Lyle had meant so much to her once. It seemed so long ago now. After Arthur was born, he changed, and not for the better.
"You need to remember who you are talking to" reminded Lyle, his mood darkening. "I'll see you both later."
Arthur turned his attention away from his parents and focused on the sight of the family's faithful Belgian draft horse Meg, who was tethered at the hitching post by the porch steps. He rose from the bench, and carefully approached the mare.
"Hey girl" the little boy smiled, as he reached out to make contact.
The mare snorted, as the small boy gently petted her. Beatrice soon appeared, trying to hide her distress behind a smile. Lyle had slopped off back into the saloon, to drink himself into further oblivion.
"You ok, momma?" Arthur questioned, with curious eyes.
Beatrice quickly wiped her eyes, before giving her son a sad smile. She had managed to get some money from her husband, before he drank the rest away. She looked into her little boy's blue eyes.
"Don't end up like your father, Arthur" she remarked.