Tattered Tom

“Hardly. Why, you look like a young lady!”

“Do I?” said Tom, hardly knowing whether or not to feel pleased at the compliment, for she fancied she should prefer to be a boy.

“Yes, you are much improved. And how have you been getting on this morning?”

“I’ve been cutting up,” said Tom, shaking her head.

“Not badly, I hope.”

“I’ll tell you what I did;” and Tom in her own way gave an account of the events related in the previous chapter.

The captain laughed heartily.

“You aint mad?” questioned Tom.

“Did you think I would be?”

“She said so,” said Tom.

“Who is she?”

“Your sister.”

The captain recovered his gravity. He saw that his merriment might encourage Tom in her pranks, and so increase the difficulties his sister was likely to find with her.

“No, I am not angry,” he said, “but I want you very much to improve. You will have a good home here, and I want you to do as well as you can, so that when I get home from my voyage I may find you very much improved. Do you think I shall?”

Tom listened attentively.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked.

“To learn, as fast as you can, both about work and study. I shall leave directions to have you sent to school. Will you like that?”

“I don’t know,” said Tom. “I’m afraid I’ll be bad, and get licked.”

“Then try not to be bad. But you want to know something when you grow up,—don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then you will have to go to school and study. Can you read?”

“Not enough to hurt me,” said Tom.

“Then, if you find yourself behind the rest, you must work all the harder. Will you promise me to do it?”

Tom nodded.

“And will you try to behave well?”

“Yes,” said Tom. “I’ll do it for you. I wouldn’t do it for granny.”

“Then do it for me.”

Here Mrs. Merton appeared on the scene, and Tom was directed to go downstairs to assist the cook.

“Well, what do you think of her, Martha?”

“She’s a regular trial. I’ll tell you what she did this morning.”

“I know all.”

“Did she tell you?” asked his sister, in surprise.

“Yes, she voluntarily told me that she had been ‘cutting up;’ and, on my questioning her, confessed how. However, it was partly the result of ignorance.”

“I wish I hadn’t undertaken the charge of her.”

“Don’t be discouraged, Martha. There’s some good in her, and she’s as smart as a steel trap. She’s promised me to turn over a new leaf, and do as well as she can.”

“Do you rely upon that?”

“I do. She’s got will and resolution, and I believe she means what she says.”

“I hope it’ll prove so,” said Mrs. Merton, doubtfully.

“I find she knows very little. I should like to have her sent to school as soon as possible. She can assist you when at home, and I will take care that you lose nothing by it.”

To this Mrs. Merton was brought to agree, but could not help expressing her surprise at the interest which her brother took in that child. She was a good woman, but it was not strange if the thought should come to her that she had two daughters of her own, having a better claim upon their uncle’s money than this wild girl whom he had picked up in the streets. But Captain Barnes showed that he had not forgotten his nieces, as two handsome dress-patterns, sent in from Stewart’s during the afternoon, sufficiently evinced.

Tom had not yet met Mrs. Merton’s daughters, both being absent at school. They returned home about three o’clock. Mary, a girl of about Tom’s age, had rather pretty, but insipid, features, and was vain of what she regarded as her beauty. Fanny, who was eight, was more attractive.

“Children, can’t you speak to your uncle?” said Mrs. Merton; for the captain declared himself tired, and did not go out after lunch.

“How do you do, uncle?” said Mary, advancing and offering her hand.

“Why, Mary, you have become quite a young lady,” said her uncle.

Mary simpered and looked pleased.

“And Fanny too. Martha, where is that doll I brought for her?”

The doll was handed to the delighted child.

“I suppose you are too old for dolls, Mary,” said the captain to his eldest niece.

“I should think so, Uncle Albert,” answered Mary, bridling.

“Then it’s lucky I didn’t bring you one. But I’ve brought you a playmate.”

Mary looked surprised.

Tom was passing through the hall at the moment, and her guardian called her.

“Come in, Tom.”

Mary Merton stared at the new-comer, and her quick eyes detected that the dress in which she appeared was one of her own.

“Why, she’s got on my dress,” she said.

“She is about your size, Mary, so I gave her your dress.”

“Didn’t she have any clothes of her own?”

“Were you unwilling to let her have that dress?” asked her uncle.

Mary pouted, and Captain Barnes said, “Martha, I will put money in your hands to supply Jenny with a suitable wardrobe. I had intended to give Mary new articles for all which been appropriated to Tom’s use; but I have changed my mind.”

“She can have them,” said Mary, regretting her selfishness, from an equally selfish motive.

“I won’t trouble you,” said her uncle, rather coldly.

Tom had listened attentively to this conversation, turning her bright eyes from one to the other.

“Come here, Tom, and shake hands with these two little girls.”

“I’ll shake hands with her,” said Tom, indicating Fanny.

“And won’t you shake hands with Mary?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like her.”

“Shake hands with her, for my sake.”

Tom instantly extended her hand, but now it was Mary who held back. Her mother would have forced her to give her hand, but Captain Barnes said, “It don’t matter. Leave them to become friends in their own time.”

Two days afterwards the captain sailed. Tom renewed her promise to be a good girl, and he went away hopeful that she would keep it.

“I shall have somebody to come home to, Jenny,” he said. “Will you be glad to see me back?”

“Yes, I will,” she said; and there was a heartiness in her tone which showed that she meant what she said.

The next day Tom went to school. She was provided with two or three books such as she would need, and accompanied Fanny; for, though several years older, she was not as proficient as the latter.

In the next street there was a boy, whose pleasure it was to bully children smaller than himself. He had more than once annoyed Fanny, and when the latter saw him a little in advance, she said, nervously, “Let us cross the street, Jenny.”

“Why?” asked Tom.

“There’s George Griffiths just ahead.”

“What if he is?”

“He’s an awful bad boy. Sometimes he pulls away my books, and runs away with them. He likes to plague us.”

“He’d better not try it,” said Tom.

“What would you do?” asked Fanny, in surprise.

“You’ll see. I won’t cross the street. I’m goin’ right ahead.”

Fanny caught her companion’s arm, and advanced, trembling, hoping that George Griffiths might not see them. But he had already espied them, and, feeling in a bullying mood, winked to a companion and said, “You’ll see how I’ll frighten these girls.”

He advanced to meet them, and took off his hat with mock politeness.

“How do you do this morning, young ladies?” he said.

“Go away, you bad boy!” said little Fanny, in a flutter.

“I’ll pay you for that,” he said, and tried to snatch one of her books, but was considerably startled at receiving a blow on the side of the head from her companion.

“Just let her alone,” said Tom.

“What have you got to say about it?” he demanded insolently.

“You’ll see.”

Hereupon he turned his attention to Tom, and tried to snatch her books, but was rather astounded when his intended victim struck him a sounding blow in the face with her fist.

“Take my books, Fanny,” she said, and, dropping them on the sidewalk, squared off scientifically.

“Come on, if you want to!” said Tom, her eyes sparkling with excitement at the prospect of a fight.

“I don’t want to fight with a girl,” he said, considerably astonished at vigorous resistance where he had expected timid submission.

“You’re afraid!” said Tom, triumphantly.

“No, I’m not,” said George, backing out all the while; “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You can’t do it,” said Tom; “I can lick you any day.”

“How could you do it?” asked Fanny, as the dreaded bully slunk away. “How brave you are, Jenny! I’m awful afraid of him.”

“You needn’t be,” said Tom, taking her books. “I’ve licked boys bigger’n him. I can lick him, and he knows it.”

She was right. The story got about, and George Griffiths was so laughed at, for being vanquished by a girl, that he was very careful in future whom he attempted to bully.

CHAPTER XIII

GRANNY IS COMPELLED TO EARN HER OWN LIVING

Leaving Tom in her new home, we return to Mrs. Walsh, which was the proper designation of the old woman whom she called granny. Though Tom had escaped from her clutches, granny had no idea that she intended to stay away permanently. She did not consider that all the advantages of the connection between them had been on her side, and that Tom had only had the privilege of supporting them both. If she had not carried matters so far our heroine would have been satisfied to remain; but now she had fairly broken away, and would never come back unless brought by force.

When six o’clock came granny began to wonder why Tom did not come back. She usually returned earlier, with whatever money she had managed to obtain.

“She’s afraid of a lickin’,” thought granny. “She’ll get a wuss one if she stays away.”

An hour passed, and granny became hungry; but unfortunately she was penniless, and had nothing in the room except a crust of hard bread which she intended for Tom’s supper. Hunger compelled her to eat this herself, though it was not much to her taste. Every moment’s additional delay irritated her the more with the rebellious Tom.

“I wish I had her here,” soliloquized granny, spitefully.

When it was half-past seven granny resolved to go out and hunt her up. She might be on the sidewalk outside playing. Perhaps—but this was too daring for belief—she might be spending her afternoon’s earnings on another square meal.

Granny went downstairs, and through the archway into the street. There were plenty of children, living in neighboring tenement houses, gathered in groups or playing about, but no Tom was visible.

“Have you seen anything of my gal, Micky Murphy?” asked granny of a boy whom she had often seen with Tom.

“No,” said Micky. “I haven’t seen her.”

“Haven’t any of you seen her?” demanded Mrs. Walsh, making the question a general one.

“I seen her sellin’ papers,” said one boy.

“When was that?” asked granny, eagerly.

“’Bout four o’clock.”

“Where was she?”

“Greenwich Street.”

This was a clue at least, but a faint one. Tom had been seen at four o’clock, and now it was nearly eight. Long before this she must have sold her papers, and the unpleasant conviction dawned upon granny that she must have spent her earnings upon herself.

“If I could only get hold of her!” muttered granny, vengefully.

She went as far as the City Hall, and followed along down by the Park fence, looking about her in all directions, in the hope that she might espy Tom. But the latter was at this time engaging lodgings for the night, as we know, and in no danger of being caught.

Unwilling to give up the pursuit, Mrs. Walsh wandered about for an hour or more, occasionally resting on one of the seats in the City Hall Park, till the unwonted exertion began to weary her, and she realized that she was not likely to encounter Tom.

There was one chance left. Tom might have got home while she had been in search of her. Spurred by this hope, Mrs. Walsh hurried home, and mounted to her lofty room. But it was as desolate as when she left it. It was quite clear that Tom did not mean to come back that night. This was provoking; but granny still was confident that she would return in the course of the next day. So she threw herself on the bed,—not without some silent imprecations upon her rebellious charge,—and slept till morning.

Morning brought her a new realization of her loss. She found her situation by no means an agreeable one. Her appetite was excellent, but she was without food or money to buy a supply. It was certainly provoking to think that she must look out for herself. However, granny was equal to the occasion. She did not propose to work for a living, but decided that she would throw herself upon charity. To begin with, she obtained some breakfast of a poor but charitable neighbor, and then started on a walk up town. It was not till she got as far as Fourteenth Street that she commenced her round of visits.

The first house at which she stopped was an English basement house. Granny rang the basement bell.

“Is your mistress at home?” she asked.

“Yes; what’s wanted?”

“I’m a poor widder,” whined granny, in a lugubrious voice, “with five small children. We haven’t got a bit of food in the house. Can’t you give me a few pennies?”

“I’ll speak to the missis, but I don’t think she’ll give any money.”

She went upstairs, and soon returned.

“She won’t give you any money, but here’s a loaf of bread.”

Mrs. Walsh would much have preferred a small sum of money, but muttered her thanks, and dropped the loaf into a bag she had brought with her.

She went on to the next block, and intercepted a gentleman just starting down town to his business.

“I’m a poor widder,” she said, repeating her whine; “will you give me a few pennies? and may the Lord bless you!”

“Why don’t you work?” asked the gentleman, brusquely.

“I’m too old and feeble,” she answered, bending over to assume the appearance of infirmity. This did not escape the attention of the gentleman, who answered unceremoniously, “You’re a humbug! You won’t get anything from me! If I had my way, I’d have you arrested and locked up.”

Granny trembled with passion, but did not think it politic to give vent to her fury.

Her next application was more successful, twenty-five cents being sent to the door by a compassionate lady, who never doubted the story of the five little children suffering at home for want of food.

Granny’s eyes sparkled with joy as she hastily clutched the money. With it she could buy drink and tobacco, while food was not an object of barter.

“The missis wants to know where you live,” said the servant.

Mrs. Walsh gave a wrong address, not caring to receive charitable callers, who would inevitably find out that her story was a false one, and her children mythical.

At the next house she got no money; but on declaring that she had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours, was invited into the kitchen, where she was offered a chair, and a plate of meat and bread was placed before her. This invitation was rather an embarrassing one; for, thanks to her charitable neighbor, granny had eaten quite a hearty breakfast not long before. But, having declared that she had not tasted food for twenty-four hours, she was compelled to keep up appearances, and eat what was set before her. It was very hard work, and attracted the attention of the servants, who had supposed her half famished.

“You don’t seem very hungry,” said Annie, the cook.

“It’s because I’m faint-like,” muttered granny. At this moment her bag, containing the loaf of bread, tumbled on the floor.

“What’s that?” asked the cook, suspiciously.

“It’s some bread I’m goin’ to carry home to the childers,” said Mrs. Walsh, a little confused. “They was crying for something to ate when I come away.”

“Then you’d better take it home as soon as you can,” said Annie, surveying the old woman with some suspicion.

Granny was forced to leave something on her plate, nature refusing the double burden she sought to impose upon it, and went out with an uncomfortable sense of fulness. Resuming her rounds, she was repulsed at some places, at others referred to this or that charitable society, but in the end succeeded in raising twenty-five cents more in money. Fifty cents, a loaf of bread, and a little cold meat represented her gains of the morning, and with these she felt tolerably well satisfied. She had been compelled to walk up town, but now she had money and could afford to ride. She entered a Sixth Avenue car, therefore, and in half an hour or thereabouts reached the Astor House. She walked through the Park, looking about her carefully, in the hope of seeing Tom, who would certainly have fared badly if she had fallen into the clutches of the angry old woman. But Tom was nowhere visible.

So granny plodded home, and, mounting to her room, laid away the bread and meat, and, throwing herself upon the bed, indulged in a pipe. Tom was not at home, and granny began to have apprehensions that she meant to stay away longer than she had at first supposed.

“But I’ll come across her some day,” said granny, vindictively. “When I do I’ll break every bone in her body.”

The old woman lay on the bed two or three hours, and then went out, with the double purpose of investing a part of her funds in a glass of something strong, and in the hope that she might fall in with Tom. Notwithstanding the desire of vengeance, she missed her. She had not the slightest affection for the young girl who had been so long her charge, but she was used to her companionship. It seemed lonely without her. Besides, granny had one of those uncomfortable dispositions that feel lost without some one to scold and tyrannize over, and, although Tom had not been so yielding and submissive as many girls would have been under the same circumstances, Mrs. Walsh had had the satisfaction of beating her occasionally, and naturally longed for the presence of her customary victim.

So, after making the purchase she intended, granny made another visit to the Park and Printing House Square, and inspected eagerly the crowds of street children who haunt those localities as paper-venders, peddlers, and boot-blacks. But Tom, as we know, was by this time an inmate of Mrs. Merton’s boarding-house,—the home found for her by her friend, the sea-captain. This was quite out of Mrs. Walsh’s beat. She had not anticipated any such contingency, but supposed that Tom would be forced to earn her living by some of those street trades by means of which so many children are kept from starvation. It did not enter her calculations that, so soon after parting from her, Tom had also ceased to be a street Arab, and obtained a respectable home. Of course, therefore, disappointment was again her portion, and she was forced to return home and go to bed without the exquisite satisfaction of “breaking every bone in Tom’s body.”

Granny felt that she was ill-used, and that Tom was a monster of ingratitude; but on that subject there may, perhaps, be a difference of opinion.

CHAPTER XIV

TOM IS CAPTURED BY THE ENEMY

We pass over two months, in which nothing of striking interest occurred to our heroine, or her affectionate relative, who continued to mourn her loss with more of anger than of sorrow. My readers may be interested to know how far Tom has improved in this interval. I am glad to say that she has considerably changed for the better, and is rather less of an Arab than when she entered the house. Still Mrs. Merton, on more than one occasion, had assured her intimate friend and gossip, Miss Betsy Perkins, that Tom was “a great trial,” and nothing but her promise to her brother induced her to keep her.

Tom was, however, very quick and smart. She learned with great rapidity, when she chose, and was able to be of considerable service in the house before and after school. To be sure she was always getting into hot water, and from time to time indulged in impish freaks, which betrayed her street-training. At school, however, she learned very rapidly, and had already been promoted into a class higher than that which she entered. If there was one thing that Tom was ashamed of, it was to find herself the largest and oldest girl in her class. She was ambitious to stand as well as other girls of her own age, and, with this object in view, studied with characteristic energy, and as a consequence improved rapidly.

She did not get along very well with Mary Merton. Mary was languid and affected, and looked down scornfully upon her mother’s hired girl, as she called her; though, as we know, money was paid for Tom’s board. Tom did not care much for her taunts, being able to give as good as she sent; but there was one subject on which Mary had it in her power to annoy her. This was about her defective education.

“You don’t know any more than a girl of eight,” said Mary, contemptuously.

“I haven’t been to school all my life as you have,” said Tom.

“I know that,” said Mary. “You were nothing but a beggar, or rag-picker, or something of that kind. I don’t see what made my uncle take you out of the street. That was the best place for you.”

“I wish you had to live with granny for a month,” retorted Tom. “It would do you good to get a lickin’ now and then.”

“Your grandmother must have been a very low person,” said Mary, disdainfully.

“That’s where you’re right,” said Tom, whose affection for granny was not very great.

“I’m glad I haven’t such a grandmother. I should be ashamed of it.”

“She wasn’t my grandmother. She only called herself so,” said Tom.

“I’ve no doubt she was,” said Mary, “and that you are just like her.”

“Say that again, and I’ll punch your head,” said Tom, belligerently.

As Mary knew that Tom was quite capable of doing what she threatened, she prudently desisted, but instead taunted her once more with her ignorance.

“Never mind,” said Tom, “wait a while and I’ll catch up with you.”

Mary laughed a spiteful little laugh.

“Hear her talk!” she said. “Why, I’ve been ever so far in English; besides, I am studying French.”

“Can’t I study French too?”

“That would be a great joke for a common street girl to study French! You’ll be playing the piano next.”

“Why not?” asked Tom, undauntedly.

“Maybe your granny, as you call her, had a piano.”

“Perhaps she did,” said Tom; “but it was to the blacksmith’s to be mended, so I never saw it.”

Tom was not in the least sensitive on the subject of granny, and however severe reflections might be indulged in upon granny’s character and position, she bore them with equanimity, not feeling any particular interest in the old woman.

Still she did occasionally feel a degree of curiosity as to how granny was getting along in her absence. She enjoyed the thought that Mrs. Walsh, no longer being able to rely upon her, would be compelled to forage for herself.

“I wonder what she’ll do,” thought Tom. “She’s such a lazy old woman that I think she’ll go round beggin’. Work don’t agree with her constitution.”

It so happened that granny, though in her new vocation she made frequent excursions up town, had never fallen in with Tom. This was partly because Tom spent the hours from nine to two in school, and it was at this time that granny always went on her rounds. But one Saturday forenoon Tom was sent on an errand some half a mile distant. As she was passing through Eighteenth Street her attention was drawn to a tall, ill-dressed figure a few feet in advance of her. Though only her back was visible, Tom remembered something peculiar in granny’s walk.

“That’s granny,” soliloquized Tom, in excitement; “she’s out beggin’, I’ll bet a hat.”

The old woman carried a basket in one hand, for the reception of cold victuals, for, though she preferred money, provisions were also acceptable, and she had learned from experience that there were some who refrained from giving money on principle, but would not refuse food.

Tom was not anxious to fall into the old woman’s clutches. Still she felt like following her up, and hearing what she had to say.

She had not long to wait.

Granny turned into the area of an English basement house, and rang the basement bell.

Tom paused, and leaned her back against the railing, in such a position that she could hear what passed.

A servant answered the bell.

“What do you want?” she asked, not very ceremoniously.

“I’m a poor widder,” whined granny, “with five small children. They haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday. Can’t you give me something? and may the Lord bless you!”