Tattered Tom

“She knows how to lie,” thought Tom. “So she’s got five small children!”

“You’re pretty old to have five small children,” said the servant, suspiciously.

“I aint so old as I look,” said Mrs. Walsh. “It’s bein’ poor and destitoot that makes me look old before my time.”

“Where’s your husband?”

“He’s dead,” said granny. “He treated me bad; he used to drink, and then bate me and the children.”

“You look as if you drank, yourself.”

“I’d scorn the action,” said granny, virtuously. “I never could bear whiskey.”

“Aint she doin’ it up brown?” thought Tom. “Haven’t I seen her pourin’ it down though?”

“Give me your basket,” said the servant.

“Can’t you give me some money,” whined granny, “to help pay the rint?”

“We never give money,” said the servant.

She went into the kitchen, and Shortly returned with some cold meat and bread. Granny opened it to see what it contained.

“Haven’t you got any cold chicken?” she asked, rather dissatisfied.

“She’s got cheek,” thought Tom.

“If you’re not satisfied with what you’ve got, you needn’t come again.”

“Yes,” said granny, “I’m satisfied; but my little girl is sick, and can’t bear anything but chicken, or maybe turkey.”

“Then you must ask for it somewhere else,” said the servant. “We haven’t got any for you here.”

Having obtained all she was likely to get, granny prepared to go.

Tom felt that she, too, must start, for there might be danger of identification. To be sure she was now well-dressed,—quite as well as the average of girls of her age. The cap and jacket, indeed all that had made her old name of “Tattered Tom” appropriate, had disappeared, and she was very different in appearance from the young Arab whom we became acquainted with in the first chapter. In other respects, as we know, Tom had not altered quite so much. There was considerable of the Arab about her still, though there was a prospect of her eventually becoming entirely tamed.

Granny just glanced at the young girl, whose back only was visible to her, but never thought of identifying her with her lost grand-daughter. Sometimes, however, she had obtained money from compassionate school-girls, and it struck her that there might be a chance in this quarter.

She advanced, and tapped Tom on the shoulder.

“Little gal,” she dolefully said, “I’m a poor widder with five small children. Can’t you give me a few pennies? and may the Lord reward you!”

Tom was a little startled, but quite amused, by this application from granny. She knew there was danger in answering; but there was a fascination about danger, and she thought that, even if identified, she could make her escape.

“Where do you live?” she asked, trying to disguise her voice, and looking down.

“No. 417 Bleecker Street,” said granny, at random, intentionally giving the wrong address.

“I’ll get my aunt to come round to-morrow and see you,” said Tom.

“Give me a few pennies now,” persisted granny, “to buy some bread for my children.”

“How many have you got?”

“Five.”

It was very imprudent, but Tom obeyed an irresistible impulse, and said, “Isn’t one of them named Tom?” and she looked up in her old way.

Granny bent over eagerly, and looked in her face. She had noticed something familiar in the voice, but the dress had prevented her from suspecting anything. Now it flashed upon her that the rebellious Tom was in her clutches.

“So it’s you, is it?” she said, with grim delight, clutching Tom by the arm. “I’ve found you at last, you trollop! Come along with me! I’ll break every bone in your body!”

Tom saw that she had incautiously incurred a great peril; but she had no idea of being dragged away unresisting. She was quick-witted, and saw that, if she chose to deny all knowledge of the old woman, granny would find it hard to substantiate her claims.

“Stop that, old woman!” she said, without the least appearance of fear. “If you don’t let go, I’ll have you arrested!”

“You will, will you?” exclaimed granny, giving her a shake viciously. “We’ll see about that. Where’d you get all them good clothes from? Come along home.”

“Let me alone!” said Tom. “You’ve got nothing to do with me.”

“Got nothing to do with you? Aint I your granny?”

“You must be crazy,” said Tom, coolly. “My grandmother don’t go round the streets, begging for cold victuals.”

“Do you mean to say I’m not your granny?” demanded the old woman, astounded.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Tom, coolly. “You’d better go home to your five small children in Bleecker Street.”

“O you trollop!” muttered granny, giving her a violent shaking; which reminded Tom of old times in not the most agreeable manner.

“Come, old woman, that’s played out!” said Tom. “You’d better stop that.”

“You’re my gal, and I’ve a right to lick you,” said Mrs. Walsh.

“I’ve got nothing to do with you.”

“Come along!” said granny, attempting to drag Tom with her.

But Tom made a vigorous resistance, and granny began to fear that she had undertaken rather a hard task. The distance from Eighteenth Street to the tenement house which she called home was two miles, probably, and it would not be very easy to drag Tom that distance against her will. A ride in the horse-cars was impracticable, since she had no money with her.

The struggle was still going on, when Tom all at once espied a policeman coming around the corner. She did not hesitate to take advantage of his opportune appearance.

“Help! Police!” exclaimed Tom, in a loud voice.

This sudden appeal startled granny, whose associations with the police were not of the most agreeable nature, and she nearly released her hold. She glared at Tom in speechless rage, foreseeing that trouble was coming.

“What’s the matter?” asked the officer, coming up, and regarding the two attentively.

“I think this woman must be crazy,” said Tom. “She came up and asked me for a few pennies, and then grabbed me by the arm, saying she was my granny. She is trying to drag me home with her.”

“What have you to say to this?” demanded the policeman.

“She’s my gal,” said granny, doggedly.

“You hear her,” said Tom. “Do I look as if I belonged to her? She’s a common beggar.”

“O you ungrateful trollop!” shrieked granny, tightening her grip.

“She hurts me,” said Tom. “Won’t you make her let go?”

“Let her go!” said the policeman, authoritatively.

“But she’s my gal.”

“Let go, I tell you!” and granny was forced to obey. “Now where do you live?”

“340 Bleecker Street.”

“You said it was 417 just now,” said Tom, “and that you had five small children. Was I one of them?”

Granny was cornered. She was afraid that Bleecker Street might be visited, and her imposture discovered. It was hard to give up Tom, and so have the girl, whom she now hated intensely, triumph over her. She would make one more attempt.

“She’s my gal. She run away from me two months ago.”

“If you’ve got five small children at home, and have to beg for a living,” said the officer, who did not believe a word of her story, “you have all you can take care of. She’s better off where she is.”

“Can’t I take her home, then?” asked granny, angrily.

“You had better go away quietly,” said the policeman, “or I must take you to the station-house.”

Mrs. Walsh, compelled to abandon her designs upon Tom, moved off slowly. She had got but a few steps, when Tom called out to her, “Give my love to your five small children, granny!”

The old woman, by way of reply, turned and shook her fist menacingly at Tom, but the latter only laughed and went on her way.

“Aint she mad, though!” soliloquized Tom. “She’d lick me awful if she only got a chance. I’m glad I don’t live with her. Now I get square meals every day. I’d like to see granny’s five small children;” and Tom laughed heartily at what she thought a smart imposture. That Tom should be very conscientious on the subject of truth could hardly be expected. A street education, and such guardianship as she had received from granny, were not likely to make her a model; but Tom is more favorably situated now, and we may hope for gradual improvement.

CHAPTER XV

GRANNY READS SOMETHING TO HER ADVANTAGE

After her unsuccessful attempt to gain possession of Tom, granny returned home, not only angry but despondent. She had been deeply incensed at Tom’s triumph over her. Besides, she was tired of earning her own living, if begging from door to door can properly be called earning one’s living. At any rate it required exertion, and to this Mrs. Walsh was naturally indisposed. She sighed as she thought of the years when she could stay quietly at home, and send out Tom to beg or earn money for her. She would like, since Tom was not likely to return, to adopt some boy or girl of suitable age, upon whom she could throw the burden of the common support. But such were not easy to be met with, and Mrs. Walsh was dimly aware that no sane child would voluntarily select her as a guardian.

So granny, in rather low spirits, sought her elevated room, and threw herself upon the bed to sleep off her fatigue.

On awaking, granny seated herself at the window, and picked up mechanically the advertising sheet of the “Herald,” in which a loaf of bread had been wrapped that had been given to her the day previous. It was seldom that Mrs. Walsh indulged in reading, not possessing very marked literary tastes; but to-day she was seized with an idle impulse, which she obeyed, without anticipating that she would see anything that concerned her.

In glancing through the advertisements under the head “Personal,” her attention was drawn to the following:—

/# “If Margaret Walsh, who left Philadelphia in the year 1855, will call at No. – Wall Street, Room 8, she will hear of something to her advantage.” #/

“Why, that’s me!” exclaimed granny, letting the paper fall from her lap in surprise. “It’s my name, and I left Philadelphy that year. I wonder what it’s about. Maybe it’s about Tom.”

There were circumstances which led Mrs. Walsh to think it by no means improbable that the inquiries to be made were about Tom, and this made her regret more keenly that she had lost her.

“If it is,” she soliloquized, “I’ll get hold of her somehow.”

There was one part of the advertisement which particularly interested granny,—that in which it was suggested that she would hear something to her advantage. If there was any money to be made, granny was entirely willing to make it. Considering the unpromising state of her prospects, she felt that it was a piece of extraordinary good luck.

Looking at the date of the paper, she found that it was a fortnight old, and was troubled by the thought that it might be too late. At any rate no time was to be lost. So, in spite of the fatigue of her morning expedition, she put on her old cloak and bonnet, and, descending the stairs, sallied out into the street. She made her way down Nassau Street to Wall, and, carefully looking about her, found without difficulty the number mentioned in the advertisement. It was a large building, containing a considerable number of offices. No. 8 was on the third floor. On the door was a tin sign bearing the name:—

“EUGENE SELDEN,Attorney and Counsellor.”

Mrs. Walsh knocked at the door; but there was no response. She knocked again, after a while, and then tried the door. But it was locked.

“The office closes at three, ma’am,” said a young man, passing by. “You will have to wait till to-morrow.”

Mrs. Walsh was disappointed, being very anxious to ascertain what advantage she was likely to receive. She presented herself the next morning at nine, only to find herself too early. At last she found the lawyer in. He looked up from his desk as she entered.

“Have you business with me?” he asked.

“Are you the man that advertised for Margaret Walsh?” asked granny.

“Yes,” said Mr. Selden, laying down his pen, and regarding her with interest. “Are you she?”

“Yes, your honor,” said granny, thinking her extra politeness might increase the advantage promised.

“Did you ever live in Philadelphia?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“Were you in service?”

Mrs. Walsh answered in the affirmative.

“In what family?”

“In the family of Mrs. Lindsay.”

“What made you leave her?” asked the lawyer, fixing his eyes searchingly upon Margaret.

Granny looked a little uneasy.

“I got tired of staying there,” she said.

“When you left Philadelphia, did you come to New York?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“Did you know that Mrs. Lindsay’s only child disappeared at the time you left the house?” inquired the lawyer.

“If I tell the truth will it harm me?” asked granny, uneasily.

“No; but if you conceal the truth it may.”

“Then I took the child with me.”

“What motive had you for doing this wicked thing? Do you know that Mrs. Lindsay nearly broke her heart at the loss of the child?”

“I was mad with her,” said granny, “that’s one reason.”

“Then there was another reason?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“What was it?”

“Young Mr. Lindsay hired me to do it. He offered me a thousand dollars.”

“Are you ready to swear this?”

“Yes,” said granny. “I hope you’ll pay me handsome for tellin’,” she added. “I’m a poor—woman,” she was on the point of saying “widder with five small children;” but it occurred to her that this would injure her in the present instance.

“You shall receive a suitable reward when the child is restored. It is living, I suppose?”

“Yes,” said granny.

“With you?”

“No, your honor. She ran away two months ago; but I saw her this morning.”

“Why should she run away? Didn’t you treat her well?”

“Like as if she was my own child,” said granny. “I’ve often and often gone without anything to eat, so that Tom might have enough. I took great care of her, your honor, and would have brought her up as a leddy if I hadn’t been so poor.”

“I thought it was a girl.”

“So it was, your honor.”

“Then why do you call her Tom?”

“’Cause she was more like a boy than a gal,—as sassy a child as I ever see.”

“So you have lost her?”

“Yes, your honor. She ran away from me two months since.”

“But you said you saw her yesterday. Why did you not take her back?”

“She wouldn’t come. She told the policeman she didn’t know me,—me that have took care of her since she was a little gal,—the ungrateful hussy!”

Granny’s pathos, it will be perceived, terminated in anger.

The lawyer looked thoughtful.

“The child must be got back,” he said. “It is only recently that her mother ascertained the treachery by which she was taken from her, and now she is most anxious to recover her. If you will bring her to me, you shall have a suitable reward.”

“How much?” asked granny, with a cunning look.

“I cannot promise in advance, but it will certainly be two hundred dollars,—perhaps more. Mrs. Lindsay will be generous.”

The old woman’s eyes sparkled. Such a sum promised an unlimited amount of whiskey for a considerable time. The only disagreeable feature in the case was that Tom would benefit by the restoration, since she would obtain a comfortable home, and a parent whose ideas of the parental relation differed somewhat from those of Mrs. Walsh. Still, two hundred dollars were worth the winning, and granny determined to win them. She suggested, however, that, in order to secure the co-operation of the police, she needed to be more respectably dressed; otherwise her claim would be scouted, provided Tom undertook to deny it.

This appeared reasonable, and as the lawyer had authority to incur any expense that he might consider likely to further the successful prosecution of the search, he sent out some one, in whom he had confidence, to purchase a respectable outfit for Mrs. Walsh. He further agreed to allow her three dollars a week for the present, that she might be able to devote all her time to hunting up Tom. This arrangement was very satisfactory to Mrs. Walsh, who felt like a lady in easy circumstances. Her return to the tenement house, in her greatly improved dress, created quite a sensation. She did not deign to enlighten her neighbors upon the cause of her improved fortunes, but dropped hints that she had come into a legacy.

From this time Mrs. Walsh began to frequent the up-town streets, particularly Eighteenth Street, where she had before encountered Tom. But as she still continued to make her rounds in the morning, it was many days before she caught a glimpse of the object of her search. As her expenses were paid in the mean time, she waited patiently, though she anticipated with no little pleasure the moment which should place Tom in her power. She resolved, before restoring her to her mother, to inflict upon her late ward a suitable punishment for her rebellion and flight, for which granny was not likely ever to forgive her.

“I’ll give her something to remember me by,” muttered granny. “See if I don’t!”

CHAPTER XVI

TOM IN TROUBLE

The reader has already obtained some idea of the character of Mary Merton. She was weak, vain, affected, and fond of dress. There was not likely to be much love lost between her and Tom, who was in all respects her opposite. Whatever might have been the defects of her street education, it had at all events secured Tom from such faults as these.

Mary sought the society of such of her companions as were wealthy or fashionable, and was anxious to emulate them in dress. But unfortunately her mother’s income was limited, and she could not gratify her tastes. She was continually teasing Mrs. Merton for this and that article of finery; but, though her mother spent more for her than she could well afford, she was obliged in many cases to disappoint her. So it happened that Mary was led into temptation.

One morning she was going downstairs on her way to school. The door of Mr. Holland’s room (who occupied the second floor front) chanced to be open. It occurred to Mary that the large mirror in this room would enable her to survey her figure to advantage, and, being fond of looking in the glass, she entered.

After satisfactorily accomplishing the object of her visit, Mary, in glancing about, caught sight of a pocket-book on the bureau. Curiosity led her to approach and open it. It proved to contain four five-dollar bills and a small amount of change.

“I wish the money was mine,” said Mary to herself.

There was a particular object for which she wanted it. Two of her companions had handsome gold pencils, which they wore suspended by a cord around their necks. Mary had teased her mother to buy her one, but Mrs. Merton had turned a deaf ear to her request. Finally she had given up asking, finding that it would be of no avail.

“If I only had this money, or half of it,” thought Mary, “I could buy a pencil for myself, and tell mother it was given me by one of my friends.”

The temptation, to a vain girl like Mary, was a strong one.

“Shall I take it?” she thought.

The dishonesty of the act did not so much deter her as the fear of detection. But the idea unluckily suggested itself that Tom would be far more likely to be suspected than she.

“Mr. Holland is rich,” she said to herself; “he won’t feel the loss.”

She held the pocket-book irresolutely in her hand, uncertain whether to take a part of the contents or the whole. Finally she opened it, drew out the bills, amounting to twenty dollars, hastily thrust them into her pocket, and, replacing the pocket-book on the bureau, went downstairs.

She met her mother in the lower hall.

“I am afraid you will be late to school, Mary,” she said.

“I couldn’t find my shoes for a long time,” said Mary, flushing a little at the thought of the money in her pocket.

Mr. Holland’s room had already been attended to, and was not again entered until half-past five in the afternoon, when Mr. Holland, who was a clerk in a down-town office, returned home.

He had missed the pocket-book shortly after leaving the house in the morning, but, being expected at the office at a certain hour, had not been able to return for it. He had borrowed money of a fellow-clerk to pay for his lunch.

As he entered the room, he saw his pocket-book lying on the bureau.

“There it is, all safe,” he said to himself, quite relieved; for, though in receipt of a handsome salary, no one would care to lose twenty dollars.

He was about to put the pocket-book into his pocket unexamined, when it occurred to him to open it, and make sure that the contents were untouched. He was startled on finding less than a dollar, where he distinctly remembered that there had been nearly twenty-one dollars.

“Some one has taken it,” he said to himself. “I must see Mrs. Merton about this.”

He did not get an opportunity of speaking to the landlady until after dinner, when he called her aside, and told her of his loss.

“Are you quite sure, Mr. Holland,” she asked, considerably disturbed, “there were twenty dollars in the pocket-book?”

“Yes, Mrs. Merton. I remember distinctly having counted the money this morning, before laying it on the bureau. It must have been taken by some one in the house. Now, who was likely to enter the room? Which of your servants makes the bed?”

“It was Jenny,” said Mrs. Merton, with a sudden conviction that Tom was the guilty party.

“What, that bright little girl that I have seen about the house?”

“Yes, Mr. Holland, I am afraid it is she,” said Mrs. Merton, shaking her head. “She is not exactly a servant, but a child whom my brother took out of the streets, and induced me to take charge of while he is away. She has been very ill-trained, and I am not surprised to find her dishonest. More than once I have regretted taking charge of her.”

“I am sorry,” said Mr. Holland. “I have noticed that she is rather different from most girls. I wish I had not exposed her to the temptation.”

“She must give up the money, or I won’t keep her in the house,” said Mrs. Merton, who had become indignant at Tom’s ingratitude, as she considered it. “My brother can’t expect me to harbor a thief in the house, even for his sake. It would ruin the reputation of my house if such a thing happened again.”

“She will probably give it back when she finds herself detected,” said Mr. Holland.

“I will tax her with it at once,” said the landlady. “Stay here, Mr. Holland, and I will call her.”

Tom was called in. She looked from one to the other, and something in the expression of each led her to see that she was to be blamed for something, though what she could not conceive.

“Jane,” said Mrs. Merton, sternly, “my brother will be very much grieved when he learns how badly you have behaved to-day.”

“What have I been doing?” asked Tom, looking up with a fearless glance, not by any means like a girl conscious of theft.

“You have taken twenty dollars belonging to Mr. Holland.”

“Who says I did it?” demanded Tom.

“It is useless to deny it. You cleared up his room this morning. His pocket-book was on the bureau.”

“I know it was,” said Tom. “I saw it there.”

“You opened it, and took out twenty dollars.”

“No, I didn’t,” said Tom. “I didn’t touch it.”

“Do not add falsehood to theft. You must have done it. There was no one else likely to do it.”

“Wasn’t the door unlocked all day?” demanded Tom. “Why couldn’t some one else go in and take it as well as I?”

“I feel sure it was you.”

“Why?” asked Tom, her eyes beginning to flash indignantly.

“I have no doubt you have stolen before. My brother took you from the street. You were brought up by a bad old woman, as you say yourself. I ought not to be surprised at your yielding to temptation. If you will restore the money to Mr. Holland, and promise not to steal again, I will overlook your offence, and allow you to remain in the house, since it was my brother’s wish.”

“Mrs. Merton,” said Tom, proudly, “I didn’t take the money, and I can’t give it back. I might have stolen when I lived with granny, for I didn’t get enough to eat half the time, but I wouldn’t do it now.”

“That sounds well,” said Mrs. Merton; “but somebody must have taken the money.”

“I don’t care who took it,” said Tom, “I didn’t.”

“You are more likely to have taken it than any one else.”

“You may search me if you want to,” said Tom, proudly.

“Perhaps she didn’t take it,” said Mr. Holland, upon whom Tom’s fearless bearing had made an impression.