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!”
“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.