Scruff’s Worst Day Ever

Somewhere along the road running between here and there, a little beggar named Scruff plied his trade.

Contrary to whispers in the town, Scruff was neither a victim of cruel fate nor particularly idle. Begging simply suited him—a life chosen, not stumbled into. The hours were long, the coins scarce, but with aspirations that reached no higher than the next meal, Scruff found little to trouble him.

Trouble, however, had not been informed of his indifference.

On a sweltering, sticky day, trouble arrived in the form of a small beggar boy who planted himself before Scruff and rattled a tin cup with a bold demand for a penny. For the first time, Scruff found himself on the receiving end of a plea.

“What? Me give you a penny?” Scruff asked, his voice thick with disbelief.

The boy nodded, undeterred.

“I haven’t a penny to spare,” Scruff declared, a hint of pride in his empty pockets.

“I’ll wait,” the boy replied calmly.

And wait he did.

Scruff, accustomed to coaxing coppers from passersby, bristled at the boy’s audacity. Here was this urchin, sitting expectantly, as if coins would simply flow into his cup. It wouldn’t do. Scruff sulked for hours until a spark of inspiration—the finest idea of his life—struck him.

“Why beg from me?” he asked. “You’re a natural. Let’s team up and make a fortune.”

The boy squinted, skeptical. “What’s my split?”

“Eighty-twenty,” Scruff said smoothly.

“Who gets the eighty?” the boy pressed.

“You’re the talent,” Scruff replied with a grin. “I couldn’t take more than twenty percent.”

The boy, sharp as a tack, countered, “Five percent. Not a halfpenny more.”

“Done!” Scruff spat on his hand, and the two shook on it.

Scruff was right—they were a formidable pair. When a wealthy merchant passed, the boy clutched his stomach, rolling on the ground with a pitiful wail: “I’m so hungry, Father, feed me!”

“I would if I had a farthing,” Scruff moaned, “but taxes have ruined me!”

Nothing stirred a merchant’s heart—or purse—like the specter of taxes.

When a farmer’s wife approached, the boy cried, “Oh, Father, the baby’s so weak! If only we had milk at the poorhouse!”

“There’d be milk if those merchants paid their taxes,” Scruff lamented.

Coins rained down like blessings.

By dusk, as the last merchants and farmers retreated to their hearths, Scruff and the boy divided their haul. The boy nudged a modest pile of coins toward Scruff with his foot. “There’s your cut.”

Without a word of complaint, Scruff pocketed his share. As a chill wind swept in from the sea and the gray road offered no promise of warmth, he wrapped his tattered rags tighter and settled into his familiar ditch to sleep.

“What are you doing?” the boy asked, incredulous.

“Putting the worst day of my life to bed,” Scruff muttered.

“Worst day? We made a killing!” the boy exclaimed.

“But we worked for it,” Scruff said, his voice heavy with distaste. “I beg because I don’t like work. Now find a soft spot in the ditch and get some rest. Tomorrow’s another day.”

“Forget that,” the boy scoffed. “I’m not sleeping in a ditch. I’m taking my share and making it work for me. I’ll never beg again.”

With that, the boy stormed off toward town, his tin cup jangling.

Scruff smiled faintly. “Never beg again,” he murmured to himself, then drifted into sleep.

Above him, bright blue stars twinkled and danced across the night sky, each content in its place, asking nothing of the others.