Tattered Tom

“Thank you,” said Tom. “You’re a brick.”

“You talk queer for a girl. What’s your name?”

“Tom.”

“Tom? That’s a boy’s name.”

“They call me so. My right name is Jane.”

“Well, Jane, come along, and I’ll show you where we live.”

The two walked together, soon becoming sociable. The boy, James Hooper, was amazed at Tom’s ignorance of the most common things pertaining to country life, but found that in other ways she was sharp enough.

“You talk just like a boy,” he said.

“Do I?” said Tom. “I used to wish I was a boy, but I don’t know now. I think I’d like to grow up a lady,—a tip-top one, you know,—and dress fine.”

“Are all the girls in New York like you?” asked James, curiously.

“No,” said Tom. “There’s Mary Merton, she isn’t a bit like me. This is the way she walks,” and Tom imitated Mary’s languid, mincing gait.

“I like you best,” said John. “But here we are. Do you see that house down the lane?”

“Yes,” said Tom.

“That’s where we live.”

It was a large, square, comfortable farm-house, such as we often see in farming towns. The farmer’s wife, a stout, comely woman, stood at the door.

“Who’ve you got with you, James?” she asked.

“It’s a girl that got left by the train,” said James. “She’s got no money to pay for her lodging. I told her you would let her sleep here.”

“Of course I will. Come right in, child. How did you get left?”

“I just got out a minute,” said Tom, “and the cars went off and left me.”

“What a pity! Who was travelling with you?”

“My granny,” answered Tom.

“What’ll she do? She’ll be very much frightened.”

“I expect she will,” said Tom, who had made up her mind not to tell too much.

“Were you going back to the city?”

Tom answered in the affirmative. I do not mean to defend the lie, for a lie it was, but I have not represented Tom as perfect in any respect. In the future she will improve, I hope, when placed under more favorable circumstances. Her object in saying what she did was to prevent any opposition being made to her return to the city.

“You haven’t had any supper, have you?” asked Mrs. Hooper.

“I ate a few cakes,” answered Tom.

“That isn’t hearty enough for a growing girl,” said the good woman. “You must take some supper with us.”

The family supper had been eaten, but a tempting array of dishes was soon set before Tom, whose appetite was always ready to answer any reasonable demands upon it.

In the evening Tom’s best course was discussed. She expressed a strong desire to return at once to the city, saying she would be all right there.

“If your grandmother would not feel anxious about you,” said Mrs. Hooper, “we should be glad to have you stop with us a day or two.”

“I guess I’d better go back,” said Tom, for, knowing that granny had been left by the cars only five miles away, she was under some apprehensions that she might find her way thither.

“You can take the nine-o’clock train to-morrow morning,” said James, “and get to the city before night.”

“Before night? She’ll get there by one o’clock,” said his mother.

“I haven’t got any money to buy a ticket,” said Tom.

“We will lend you the necessary amount,” said the farmer, “ and your grandmother can pay it back whenever it is convenient.”

Tom felt a little reluctant to accept this money, for she knew that there was no hope of repayment by granny; but she determined to accept it, and work hard till she could herself save up money enough to pay the debt incurred. She felt grateful to the farmer’s family for their kindness, and was resolved that they should not suffer by it.

In the evening they gathered in the plain sitting-room, covered with a rag-carpet. Tom helped James make a kite. She was ignorant, but learned readily. In her interest, she occasionally let slip some street phrases which rather surprised James, who was led to wonder whether Tom was a fair specimen of New York girls. He had always fancied that he should feel bashful in their society; but with Tom he felt perfectly at home.

In the morning he accompanied Tom to the depot, and paid for her ticket, being supplied with money for the purpose by his mother.

“Good-by,” he said, shaking her hand as she entered the cars.

“Good-by, old fellow,” said Tom. “I’ll pay you back that money if granny don’t.”

The train started and was soon whirling along at the rate of twenty miles an hour. Half-way between this and the next station they passed a train bound in an opposite direction. Looking through the window on the side towards the other train, Tom caught a glimpse of granny’s face. The old woman had been compelled to stop till morning, and had taken the first train bound westward. She did not see Tom, who quickly moved her head from the window.

“Sold again!” thought Tom, in high delight. “When granny catches me again, she’ll know it.”

CHAPTER XXV

TOM FINDS HER MOTHER

Tom sat back in her seat and enjoyed the prospect from the windows, as the train sped along. She felt in unusually good spirits, knowing that she had put granny entirely off the track, and that there was no immediate chance of her recapture.

“If I only had that money granny took from me, I’d be all right,” she said to herself. However, her board and lodging were paid at Mrs. Murphy’s for a week in advance, and that was something.

About forty miles from New York a number of passengers got into the cars. The seats were mostly occupied, but the one beside Tom was untaken. A gentleman advanced up the aisle with a lady, looking about him for a seat.

“Is this seat engaged?” he inquired of Tom.

“No,” answered Tom.

“Then you had better sit here, Rebecca,” said the gentleman. “I think you will have no trouble. You won’t forget where you are to go,—Mrs. Thurston’s, West Twenty-Fifth Street. I can’t recall the number, but a glance in the Directory will settle that.”

“I wish you knew the number,” said the lady.

“It was very careless of me to lose it, I confess. Still, I think you will have no trouble. But good-by, I must hurry out, or I shall be left.”

“Good-by. Let me see you soon.”

The gentleman got out, and the lady settled down into her seat, and looked about her. Finally her glance rested on her young companion. She was inclined to be social, and accordingly opened a conversation with Tom.

“Are you going to New York?” she inquired.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I suppose you live there?”

“Yes.”

“I have never been there, and know nothing at all about the city.”

“It’s a big place,” remarked Tom.

“Yes, I suppose so. I have always lived in the country, and I am afraid I shan’t feel at home there. But my sister, who is boarding with a Mrs. Thurston, who keeps a large boarding-house on West Twenty-Fifth Street, has invited me to come up and spend a few weeks, and so I have got started.”

“I guess you’ll like it,” said Tom.

“Do you live anywhere near West Twenty-Fifth Street?”

“Not now,” said Tom. “I did live in West Sixteenth Street, but I don’t now.”

“Are you travelling alone?”

“Yes,” said Tom.

“I suppose you live with your father and mother?”

“I haven’t got any,” answered Tom, laconically.

“I suppose you are well acquainted with the city?”

“Yes,” said Tom. “I know it like a book.”

The fact was, that Tom knew it a great deal better than a book, for her book-knowledge, as we very well know, was by no means extensive.

“Do you board?”

“Yes,” said Tom. “I board with Mrs. Murphy, in Mulberry Street.”

It struck the lady that Murphy was an Irish name, but the name of the street suggested nothing to her. She judged from Tom’s appearance that she belonged to a family in comfortable circumstances.

“I wish I knew the number of Mrs. Thurston’s house,” said the lady rather anxiously. “I’m so afraid I shan’t find it.”

“I’ll tell you what,” said Tom, “I’ll go with you, if you want me to.”

“I wish you would,” said the lady, much relieved. “It would be a great favor.”

“I s’pose you won’t mind givin’ me a quarter,” added Tom, with a sharp eye to the main chance; not unreasonably, since she was penniless.

“I’ll give you double that amount,” said the lady, “and thank you into the bargain. I’m not much used to travelling, and feel as helpless as a child.”

“I’ll take care of you,” said Tom, confidently. “I’ll take you to Mrs. Thurston’s right side up with care.”

“She talks rather singularly,” thought the lady; but Tom’s confident tone inspired her with corresponding confidence, and she enjoyed the rest of her journey much more than she would otherwise have done. Tom’s request for compensation did not surprise her, for she reflected that children have always a use for money.

At length they reached the city, and Tom and her companion got out of the cars.

“Come right along,” said Tom, taking the lady by the hand as if she were a child.

“Carriage, ma’am?” asked several hackmen.

“Perhaps I’d better take a carriage,” said the lady, whose name, by the way, was Mrs. Parmenter.

“Just as you say,” said Tom.

“I’ve got a nice carriage, ma’am. This way, please,” said a burly driver.

“Look here, mister, what are you going to charge?” demanded Tom.

“Where do you want to go?”

“To Mrs. Thurston’s, West Twenty-Fifth street.”

“Whereabouts in the street? What number?”

“The lady don’t know.”

“Then how am I to carry you there?”

“Look into the Directory,” said Tom. “If it’s too much trouble for you, we’ll take another man.”

The hackman made no further objections, but resolved to increase his charge to compensate for the extra trouble. But here again Tom defeated him, compelling him to agree to a price considerably less than he at first demanded.

“Young lady,” said he, paying an involuntary tribute to Tom’s shrewdness, “you’re about as sharp as they make ’em.”

“That’s so,” said Tom. “You’re right the first time.”

Mrs. Parmenter and Tom entered the carriage, and the driver mounted his box.

“I don’t see how you dared to talk to that man so,” said the lady. “I should have paid him whatever he asked.”

“Then you’d have got awfully cheated,” said Tom. “I know their tricks.”

“I’m sure I’m much obliged to you. I don’t know how I should have got along without you.”

“I’ve always lived in the city,” said Tom; “so I’ve got my eye-teeth cut. They can’t cheat me easy.”

“I’m afraid I’m selfish in taking you with me,” said Mrs. Parmenter. “I hope your friends won’t be alarmed at your coming home late.”

“I don’t think they will,” said Tom, laughing.

“You said you had no relatives living in the city?”

“Not now. My granny’s just left New York. She’s travellin’ for her health,” added Tom, with a burst of merriment, at which Mrs. Parmenter was rather surprised.

“Where has she gone?”

“Out West. I went a little way with her, just to oblige. She was awful sorry to part with me, granny was;” and Tom laughed again in a manner that quite puzzled her companion, who mentally decided that Tom was a very odd girl indeed.

“After we get to Mrs. Thurston’s,” said Mrs. Parmenter, “I’ll tell the driver to carry you home. Shall I?”

Tom fancied the sensation she would produce in Mulberry Street, if she should drive up to the door of the humble tenement house in which she boarded, and declined the offer. She might have accepted, for the joke of it, but she saw that the hackman took her for a young lady, and she did not wish to let him discover the unfashionable locality in which she made her home.

“Never mind,” said Tom. “I’d just as lieves ride in the cars.”

They stopped at a drug-store, and the driver, going in, ascertained without difficulty, by an examination of the Directory, the number of Mrs. Thurston’s boarding-house. A few minutes later, he drew up in front of a very good-looking house, and, jumping from the box, opened the door.

“Is this Mrs. Thurston’s?” asked Mrs. Parmenter.

“Yes, ma’am; it’s the number that’s put down in the Directory.”

“I’ll ring the bell and see,” said Tom.

She ran up the steps, and rang a loud peal, which was quickly answered.

“Is this Mrs. Thurston’s?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Then here’s a lady that’s coming in,” said Tom. “It’s the right place,” she added, going back to the carriage where Mrs. Parmenter was engaged in paying the driver.

“Now, my dear,” said Mrs. Parmenter, “I hope you’ll accept this for your kindness in guiding me.”

She drew a dollar from her purse, and handed it to Tom.

“Thank you,” said Tom, quite elated. “I’m glad I come with you.”

Mrs. Parmenter was about to enter the house, when another lady descended the steps. It was Mrs. Lindsay, who had been recommended to this house, as the reader may remember, by the Wall Street lawyer. She no sooner saw Tom than she became excited, and grasped the balustrade for support.

“Child,” she said, eagerly, “what is your name?”

“Tom,” answered our heroine, surprised.

“Tom?”

“That’s what they call me. Jane is my real name.”

“Do you know a woman named Margaret Walsh?” continued Mrs. Lindsay, her emotion increasing.

“Why, that’s my granny,” said Tom, surprised.

There was no more room for doubt. Mrs. Lindsay opened her arms.

“Found at last!” she exclaimed. “My dear, dear child!”

“Are you my mother?” asked Tom, in amazement.

“Yes, Jenny, your own mother, never again, I hope, to be separated from you;” and Mrs. Lindsay clasped the astonished girl to her arms.

“You don’t look a bit like granny,” she said, scanning the refined and beautiful features of her mother.

“You mean Margaret,” said Mrs. Lindsay, with a shudder. “She is a wicked woman. It was she who stole you away from me years ago.”

“I played such a trick on her,” said Tom, laughing. “She wanted to carry me off out West; but I left her, and she’s goin’ on alone.”

“Come in, my darling,” said Mrs. Lindsay. “Your home is with your mother henceforth. You have much to tell me. I want to know how you have passed all these years of cruel separation.”

She took Tom up to her own chamber, and drew from her the whole story. Many parts gave her pain, as Tom recounted her privations and ill-treatment; but deep thankfulness came at the end, because the child so long-lost was at last restored.

“To-morrow I must buy you some new clothes,” said she. “Are these all you have?”

“Yes,” said Tom, “they are a good deal nicer than I used to wear.”

“You shall have better still. I will try to make up to you for your past privations.”

“I want to go out a little while,” said Tom. “I’d like to tell Mrs. Murphy what’s happened to me. You see, I paid her for a week’s board, and she’ll wonder where I am.”

“I can’t trust you out of my sight,” said Mrs. Lindsay; “but I’ll go with you if you wish it.”

“Yes, I should like that.”

Great was the astonishment of worthy Mrs. Murphy, when Tom came up to her stand with a handsomely dressed and stylish lady, whom she introduced as her mother. I will not attempt to repeat the ejaculations in which she indulged, nor her delight when Mrs. Lindsay bought one of her apples for Tom, and paid for it with a ten-dollar bill, refusing change.

“Shure, your mother’s a rale leddy, Tom dear,” she said; “and it’s I that’s glad of it, for your sake.”

Mrs. Lindsay ordered dinner for herself and Tom in her own room, not wishing to introduce her to her fellow-boarders until she had supplied her with a more suitable wardrobe, for Tom’s dress was by this time soiled and dirty. When the lawyer came up in the evening, his surprise was great to find the child, whom he had exhausted his legal skill to discover, already restored to her mother. He offered his sincere congratulations, and, it may here be remarked, was handsomely paid for the trouble he had taken in the matter.

By the next post, at Tom’s request, a letter was sent by Mrs. Lindsay to the farmer’s wife who had sheltered Tom, enclosing the amount of money paid for the railroad ticket, and thanking her earnestly for the kindness shown to her child. Much to Tom’s delight, an extra ten dollars was enclosed as a present to James Hooper from her.

CHAPTER XXVI

CONCLUSION

When Tom was suitably dressed, it was easy to perceive a strong resemblance between her mother and herself. This resemblance was affected, to be sure, by a careless, independent expression produced by the strange life she had led as a street Arab. No doubt her new life would soften and refine her manners, and make her more like girls of her own age.

Having no further occasion to remain in New York, Mrs. Lindsay took the train for Philadelphia the next day, where Tom, whom we must now call Jane Lindsay, found herself in an elegant home, surrounded by all that wealth could supply. Her mother lost no time in supplying her with teachers, that the defects of her education might be remedied. These were great, as we know, but Jane—I had nearly said Tom—was quick, and her ambition was excited, so that the progress which she made was indeed remarkable. At the end of the year she was as far advanced as most girls of her age.

At first our heroine found the change in her life not altogether agreeable. She missed the free life of the streets, which, in spite of all its privations and discomforts, is not without a charm to the homeless young Arabs that swarm about the streets. But in a short time she acquired new tastes, never, however, losing that fresh and buoyant spirit, and sturdy independence, which had enabled her to fight her way when she was compelled to do so. It was evident that Jane, whether from her natural tendencies or her past experiences, was not likely to settle down into one of those average, stereotyped, uninteresting young ladies that abound in our modern society. Nature was sure to assert itself in a certain piquancy and freshness of manner, which, added to her personal attraction, will, I think, eventually make Tom—the name slipped from my pen unintentionally—a great favorite in society. Her faults, at some of which I have hinted, she did not at once get rid of; but the influence of an excellent mother will, I am convinced, in time eradicate most of them.

When James Lindsay learned that his sister-in-law had recovered her child, he went abroad without seeing her, being ashamed no doubt to meet one whom he had so deeply injured, and there was no difficulty in reclaiming the property, the income of which had for some years been wrongly diverted to his use.

Such of my readers as have conceived an admiration for granny may be interested to learn that she kept on in her western journey, hoping to come upon Tom somewhere; but of course she was disappointed. She arrived at length in Chicago, and, having a considerable sum of money in her possession, decided to stay there. She did not venture to open communication with James Lindsay, lest he should take from her the money she had at present, on account of her careless guardianship. Hiring a room, she gave herself up to the delights of drinking and smoking. The last habit proved fatal, when, one afternoon, she lay down with her lighted pipe in her mouth. Falling asleep, the pipe fell upon the bed, setting on fire the bedclothes, and next the clothing of Margaret herself. Whether she was suffocated before awakening, or whether she awoke too late for rescue, was never ascertained. Certain it is, however, that when the smell of smoke called in the neighbors, granny was quite dead, expiating by her tragical end the sins of her miserable career.

I must sketch one more scene, and then this chronicle of Tom’s adventurous life will close.

Fifteen months after Tom made the acquaintance of Captain Barnes, that worthy officer returned to New York. He at once repaired to the house of his sister, Mrs. Merton, expecting to find Tom. He had thought of her very often while at sea, and pictured with pleasure the improvement which she would exhibit after a year’s training and education.

“I have no child. I probably shall never have one,” he said to himself. “If Jenny has become such a girl as I hope, I will formally adopt her, and when I have become too old to go to sea, we will make a pleasant and cosey little home together, and she shall cheer my declining years.”

Such thoughts as these warmed the heart of the sailor, and made him anxious for the voyage to close. He had heard nothing from his sister since he left, and was, therefore, ignorant of the fact that Tom was no longer in her charge.

When he reached his sister’s house, and had kissed her and his nieces, he inquired eagerly:—

“Where’s Jane? Has she improved?”

“Then you haven’t heard, Albert,” said his sister, not without embarrassment, for she was about to deceive him.

“Heard! What is there to hear?” he said impatiently.

“Jane has not been with me for a year.”

“What has become of her?”

“Indeed I don’t know. She remained with me three months after you left, and then suddenly disappeared. She must have got tired of a life so different from that she had been accustomed to lead, and determined to go back to her street life.”

“I am deeply grieved to hear it,” said Captain Barnes. “I have anticipated meeting her with so much pleasure. And have you never seen her since?”

“Never.”

“I thought you might accidentally have met her in the street.”

“No.”

“Had she improved while she did stay?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Merton, with hesitation, “that is, a little. She was not quite so wild and rude as at first; but I don’t think she would ever have made up the deficiencies of her early training.”

Captain Barnes paced the floor, deeply disturbed. His disappointment was a great one.

“I shall try to trace her,” he said at length. “I will apply to the police for help.”

“That’s the best thing to do, uncle,” said Mary, with a sneer. “Very likely you’ll find her at Blackwell’s Island.”

“For shame, niece,” said her uncle, sternly. “You might have a little more charity for a poor girl who has not had your advantages.”

Mary was abashed, and regretted that she had spoken so unguardedly, for she hoped to produce a favorable impression upon her uncle, in the hope of becoming his heiress.

The silence was broken by the stopping of a carriage before the door. Mary flew to the window.

“O mother,” she said, “there’s a beautiful carriage at the door, with a coachman in livery, and there’s a lady and a young girl, elegantly dressed, getting out.”

Quite a sensation was produced by the intelligence.

A moment later, and the servant brought in the cards of Mrs. Lindsay and Miss Lindsay.

“I don’t remember the name,” said Mrs. Merton, “but you may show the ladies in, Hannah.”

Directly afterwards Mrs. Lindsay and our heroine entered the room. They were visiting friends in New York, and Jane had induced her mother to call at the house where she had learned her first lessons in civilization. She was very different now from the young Arab of fifteen months since. She was now a young lady in manners, and her handsome dress set off a face which had always been attractive. Neither Mrs. Merton nor Mary dreamed of associating this brilliant young lady with the girl whom they had driven from the house by a false charge.

“Good-morning, Mrs. Lindsay,” said Mrs. Merton, deferentially. “Won’t you and the young lady take seats?”

“You are no doubt surprised to see me,” said Mrs. Lindsay, “but my daughter wished me to call. She was for three months, she tells me, a member of your family.”

“Indeed,” said Mrs. Merton, in surprise, “I think there must be some mistake. I don’t remember that Miss Lindsay ever boarded with me.”

“Don’t you remember Tom?” asked Jane, looking up, and addressing Mrs. Merton in something of her old tone.

“Good gracious! You don’t mean to say—” ejaculated the landlady, while Mary opened wide her eyes in astonishment and dismay.

“For years,” explained Mrs. Lindsay, “my daughter was lost to me through the cruel schemes of one whom I deemed a faithful friend; but, thank God, she was restored to me within a week after she left your house.”

“Was that the reason of your leaving, Jane?” asked Captain Barnes.

“Mother,” said Jane, cordially grasping the hand of the captain, “this is the kind gentleman who first found me in the street, and provided me with a home.”

“Accept a mother’s gratitude,” said Mrs. Lindsay, simply, but with deep feeling.