CHAPTER IV
OUT of this furnace Edith came with a new and purer spirit. She had been thrust in a shrinking and frightened girl; she came out a woman in mental stature, in feeling and self-consciousness.
The river of her life, which had cut for itself a deeper channel, lay now so far down that it was out of the sight of common observation. Even her mother failed to apprehend its drift and strength. Her father knew her better. To her mother she was reserved and distant; to her father, warm and confiding. With the former she would sit for hours without speaking unless addressed; with the latter she was pleased and social, and grew to be interested in what interested him. As mentioned, Mr. Dinneford was a man of wealth and leisure, and active in many public charities. He had come to be much concerned for the neglected and cast-off children of poor and vicious parents, thousands upon thousands of whom were going to hopeless ruin, unthought of and uncared for by Church or State, and their condition often formed the subject of his conversation as well at home as elsewhere.
Mrs. Dinneford had no sympathy with her husband in this direction. A dirty, vicious child was an offence to her, not an object of pity, and she felt more like, spurning it with her foot than touching it with her hand. But it was not so with Edith; she listened to her father, and became deeply interested in the poor, suffering, neglected little ones whose sad condition he could so vividly portray, for the public duties of charity to which he was giving a large part of his time made him familiar with much that was sad and terrible in human suffering and degradation.
One day Edith said to her father,
“I saw a sight this morning that made me sick. It has haunted me ever since. Oh, it was dreadful!”
“What was it?” asked Mr. Dinneford.
“A sick baby in the arms of a half-drunken woman. It made me shiver to look at its poor little face, wasted by hunger and sickness and purple with cold. The woman sat at the street corner begging, and the people went by, no one seeming to care for the helpless, starving baby in her arms. I saw a police-officer almost touch the woman as he passed. Why did he not arrest her?”
“That was not his business,” replied Mr. Dinneford. “So long as she did not disturb the peace, the officer had nothing to do with her.”
“Who, then, has?”
“Nobody.”
“Why, father!” exclaimed Edith. “Nobody?”
“The woman was engaged in business. She was a beggar, and the sick, half-starved baby was her capital in trade,” replied Mr. Dinneford. “That policeman had no more authority to arrest her than he had to arrest the organ-man or the peanut-vender.”
“But somebody should see after a poor baby like that. Is there no law to meet such cases?”
“The poor baby has no vote,” replied Mr. Dinneford, “and law-makers don’t concern themselves much about that sort of constituency; and even if they did, the executors of law would be found indifferent. They are much more careful to protect those whose business it is to make drunken beggars like the one you saw, who, if men, can vote and give them place and power. The poor baby is far beneath their consideration.”
“But not of Him,” said Edith, with eyes full of tears, “who took little children in his arms and blessed them, and said, Suffer them to come unto me and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.”
“Our law-makers are not, I fear, of his kingdom,” answered Mr. Dinneford, gravely, “but of the kingdom of this world.”
A little while after, Edith, who had remained silent and thoughtful, said, with a tremor in her voice,
“Father, did you see my baby?”
Mr. Dinneford started at so unexpected a question, surprised and disturbed. He did not reply, and Edith put the question again.
“No, my dear,” he answered, with a hesitation of manner that was almost painful.
After looking into his face steadily for some moments, Edith dropped her eyes to the floor, and there was a constrained silence between them for a good while.
“You never saw it?” she queried, again lifting her eyes to her father’s face. Her own was much paler than when she first put the question.
“Never.”
“Why?” asked Edith.
She waited for a little while, and then said,
“Why don’t you answer me, father?”
“It was never brought to me.”
“Oh, father!”
“You were very ill, and a nurse was procured immediately.”
“I was not too sick to see my baby,” said Edith, with white, quivering lips. “If they had laid it in my bosom as soon as it was born, I would never have been so ill, and the baby would not have died. If—if—”
She held back what she was about saying, shutting her lips tightly. Her face remained very pale and strangely agitated. Nothing more was then said.
A day or two afterward, Edith asked her mother, with an abruptness that sent the color to her face, “Where was my baby buried?”
“In our lot at Fairview,” was replied, after a moment’s pause.
Edith said no more, but on that very day, regardless of a heavy rain that was falling, went out to the cemetery alone and searched in the family lot for the little mound that covered her baby—searched, but did not find it. She came back so changed in appearance that when her mother saw her she exclaimed,
“Why, Edith! Are you sick?”
“I have been looking for my baby’s grave and cannot find it,” she answered. “There is something wrong, mother. What was done with my baby? I must know.” And she caught her mother’s wrists with both of her hands in a tight grip, and sent searching glances down through her eyes.
“Your baby is dead,” returned Mrs. Dinneford, speaking slowly and with a hard deliberation. “As for its grave—well, if you will drag up the miserable past, know that in my anger at your wretched mesalliance I rejected even the dead body of your miserable husband’s child, and would not even suffer it to lie in our family ground. You know how bitterly I was disappointed, and I am not one of the kind that forgets or forgives easily. I may have been wrong, but it is too late now, and the past may as well be covered out of sight.”
“Where, then, was my baby buried?” asked Edith, with a calm resolution of manner that was not to be denied.
“I do not know. I did not care at the time, and never asked.”
“Who can tell me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who took my baby to nurse?”
“I have forgotten the woman’s name. All I know is that she is dead. When the child died, I sent her money, and told her to bury it decently.”
“Where did she live?”
“I never knew precisely. Somewhere down town.”
“Who brought her here? who recommended her?” said Edith, pushing her inquiries rapidly.
“I have forgotten that also,” replied Mrs. Dinneford, maintaining her coldness of manner.
“My nurse, I presume,” said Edith. “I have a faint recollection of her—a dark little woman with black eyes whom I had never seen before. What was her name?”
“Bodine,” answered Mrs. Dinneford, without a moment’s hesitation.
“Where does she live?”
“She went to Havana with a Cuban lady several months ago.”
“Do you know the lady’s name?”
“It was Casteline, I think.”
Edith questioned no further. The mother and daughter were still sitting together, both deeply absorbed in thought, when a servant opened the door and said to Mrs. Dinneford,
“A lady wishes to see you.”
“Didn’t she give you her card?”
“No ma’am.”
“Nor send up her name?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Go down and ask her name.”
The servant left the room. On returning, she said,
“Her name is Mrs. Bray.”
Mrs. Dinneford turned her face quickly, but not in time to prevent Edith from seeing by its expression that she knew her visitor, and that her call was felt to be an unwelcome one. She went from the room without speaking. On entering the parlor, Mrs. Dinneford said, in a low, hurried voice,
“I don’t want you to come here, Mrs. Bray. If you wish to see me send me word, and I will call on you, but you must on no account come here.”
“Why? Is anything wrong?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Edith isn’t satisfied about the baby, has been out to Fairview looking for its grave, wants to know who her nurse was.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I said that your name was Mrs. Bodine, and that you had gone to Cuba.”
“Do you think she would know me?”
“Can’t tell; wouldn’t like to run the risk of her seeing you here. Pull down your veil. There! close. She said, a little while ago, that she had a faint recollection of you as a dark little woman with black eyes whom she had never seen before.”
“Indeed!” and Mrs. Bray gathered her veil close about her face.
“The baby isn’t living?” Mrs. Dinneford asked the question in a whisper.
“Yes.”
“Oh, it can’t be! Are you sure?”
“Yes; I saw it day before yesterday.”
“You did! Where?”
“On the street, in the arms of a beggar-woman.”
“You are deceiving me!” Mrs. Dinneford spoke with a throb of anger in her voice.
“As I live, no! Poor little thing! half starved and half frozen. It ‘most made me sick.”
“It’s impossible! You could not know that it was Edith’s baby.”
“I do know,” replied Mrs. Bray, in a voice that left no doubt on Mrs. Dinneford’s mind.
“Was the woman the same to whom we gave the baby?”
“No; she got rid of it in less than a month.”
“What did she do with it?”
“Sold it for five dollars, after she had spent all the money she received from you in drink and lottery-policies.”
“Sold it for five dollars!”
“Yes, to two beggar-women, who use it every day, one in the morning and the other in the afternoon, and get drunk on the money they receive, lying all night in some miserable den.”
Mrs. Dinneford gave a little shiver.
“What becomes of the baby when they are not using it?” she asked.
“They pay a woman a dollar a week to take care of it at night.”
“Do you know where this woman lives?”
“Yes.”
“Were you ever there?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of a place is it?”
“Worse than a dog-kennel.”
“What does all this mean?” demanded Mrs. Dinneford, with repressed excitement. “Why have you so kept on the track of this baby, when you knew I wished it lost sight of?”
“I had my own reasons,” replied Mrs. Bray. “One doesn’t know what may come of an affair like this, and it’s safe to keep well up with it.”
Mrs. Dinneford bit her lips till the blood almost came through. A faint rustle of garments in the hall caused her to start. An expression of alarm crossed her face.
“Go now,” she said, hurriedly, to her visitor; “I will call and see you this afternoon.”
Mrs. Bray quietly arose, saying, as she did so, “I shall expect you,” and went away.
There was a menace in her tone as she said, “I shall expect you,” that did not escape the ears of Mrs. Dinneford.
Edith was in the hall, at some distance from the parlor door. Mrs. Bray had to pass her as she went out. Edith looked at her intently.
“Who is that woman?” she asked, confronting her mother, after the visitor was gone.
“If you ask the question in a proper manner, I shall have no objection to answer,” said Mrs. Dinneford, with a dignified and slightly offended air; “but my daughter is assuming rather, too much.”
“Mrs. Bray, the servant said.”
“No, Mrs. Gray.”
“I understood her to say Mrs. Bray.”
“I can’t help what you understood.” The mother spoke with some asperity of manner. “She calls herself Gray, but you can have it anything you please; it won’t change her identity.”
“What did she want?”
“To see me.”
“I know.” Edith was turning away with an expression on her face that Mrs. Dinneford did not like, so she said,
“She is in trouble, and wants me to help her, if you must know. She used to be a dressmaker, and worked for me before you were born; she got married, and then her troubles began. Now she is a widow with a house full of little children, and not half bread enough to feed them. I’ve helped her a number of times already, but I’m getting tired of it; she must look somewhere else, and I told her so.”
Edith turned from her mother with an unsatisfied manner, and went up stairs. Mrs. Dinneford was surprised, not long afterward, to meet her at her chamber door, dressed to go out. This was something unusual.
“Where are you going?” she asked, not concealing her surprise.
“I have a little errand out,” Edith replied.
This was not satisfactory to her mother. She asked other questions, but Edith gave only evasive answers.
On leaving the house, Edith walked quickly, like one in earnest about something; her veil was closely drawn. Only a few blocks from where she lived was the office of Dr. Radcliffe. Hither she directed her steps.
“Why, Edith, child!” exclaimed the doctor, not concealing the surprise he felt at seeing her. “Nobody sick, I hope?”
“No one,” she answered.
There was a momentary pause; then Edith said, abruptly,
“Doctor, what became of my baby?”
“It died,” answered Doctor Radcliffe, but not without betraying some confusion. The question had fallen upon him too suddenly.
“Did you see it after it was dead?” She spoke in a firm voice, looking him steadily in the face.
“No,” he replied, after a slight hesitation.
“Then how do you know that it died?” Edith asked.
“I had your mother’s word for it,” said the doctor.
“What was done with my baby after it was born?”
“It was given out to nurse.”
“With your consent?”
“I did not advise it. Your mother had her own views in the case. It was something over which I had no control.”
“And you never saw it after it was taken away?”
“Never.”
“And do not really know whether it be dead or living?”
“Oh, it’s dead, of course, my child. There is no doubt of that,” said the doctor, with sudden earnestness of manner.
“Have you any evidence of the fact?”
“My dear, dear child,” answered the doctor, with much feeling, “it is all wrong. Why go back over this unhappy ground? why torture yourself for nothing? Your baby died long ago, and is in heaven.”
“Would God I could believe it!” she exclaimed, in strong agitation. “If it were so, why is not the evidence set before me? I question my mother; I ask for the nurse who was with me when my baby was born, and for the nurse to whom it was given afterward, and am told that they are dead or out of the country. I ask for my baby’s grave, but it cannot be found. I have searched for it where my mother told me it was, but the grave is not there. Why all this hiding and mystery? Doctor, you said that my baby was in heaven, and I answered, ‘Would God it were so!’ for I saw a baby in hell not long ago!”
The doctor was scared. He feared that Edith was losing her mind, she looked and spoke so wildly.
“A puny, half-starved, half-frozen little thing, in the arms of a drunken beggar,” she added. “And, doctor, an awful thought has haunted me ever since.”
“Hush, hush!” said the doctor, who saw what was in her mind. “You must not indulge such morbid fancies.”
“It is that I may not indulge them that I have come to you. I want certainty, Dr. Radcliffe. Somebody knows all about my baby. Who was my nurse?”
“I never saw her before the night of your baby’s birth, and have never seen her since. Your mother procured her.”
“Did you hear her name?”
“No.”
“And so you cannot help me at all?” said Edith, in a disappointed voice.
“I cannot, my poor child,” answered the doctor.
All the flush and excitement died out of Edith’s face. When she arose to go, she was pale and haggard, like one exhausted by pain, and her steps uneven, like the steps of an invalid walking for the first time. Dr. Radcliffe went with her in silence to the door.
“Oh, doctor,” said Edith, in a choking voice, as she lingered a moment on the steps, “can’t you bring out of this frightful mystery something for my heart to rest upon? I want the truth. Oh, doctor, in pity help me to find the truth!”
“I am powerless to help you,” the doctor replied. “Your only hope lies in your mother. She knows all about it; I do not.”
And he turned and left her standing at the door. Slowly she descended the steps, drawing her veil as she did so about her face, and walked away more like one in a dream than conscious of the tide of life setting so strongly all about her.
CHAPTER V
MEANTIME, obeying the unwelcome summons, Mrs. Dinneford had gone to see Mrs. Bray. She found her in a small third-story room in the lower part of the city, over a mile away from her own residence. The meeting between the two women was not over-gracious, but in keeping with their relations to each other. Mrs. Dinneford was half angry and impatient; Mrs. Bray cool and self-possessed.
“And now what is it you have to say?” asked the former, almost as soon as she had entered.
“The woman to whom you gave that baby was here yesterday.”
A frightened expression came into Mrs. Dinneford’s face. Mrs. Bray watched her keenly as, with lips slightly apart, she waited for what more was to come.
“Unfortunately, she met me just as I was at my own door, and so found out my residence,” continued Mrs. Bray. “I was in hopes I should never see her again. We shall have trouble, I’m afraid.”
“In what way?”
“A bad woman who has you in her power can trouble you in many ways,” answered Mrs. Bray.
“She did not know my name—you assured me of that. It was one of the stipulations.”
“She does know, and your daughter’s name also. And she knows where the baby is. She’s deeper than I supposed. It’s never safe to trust such people; they have no honor.”
Fear sent all the color out of Mrs. Dinneford’s face.
“What does she want?”
“Money.”
“She was paid liberally.”
“That has nothing to do with it. These people have no honor, as I said; they will get all they can.”
“How much does she want?”
“A hundred dollars; and it won’t end there, I’m thinking. If she is refused, she will go to your house; she gave me that alternative—would have gone yesterday, if good luck had not thrown her in my way. I promised to call on you and see what could be done.”
Mrs. Dinneford actually groaned in her fear and distress.
“Would you like to see her yourself?” coolly asked Mrs. Bray.
“Oh dear! no, no!” and the lady put up her hands in dismay.
“It might be best,” said her wily companion.
“No, no, no! I will have nothing to do with her! You must keep her away from me,” replied Mrs. Dinneford, with increasing agitation.
“I cannot keep her away without satisfying her demands. If you were to see her yourself, you would know just what her demands were. If you do not see her, you will only have my word for it, and I am left open to misapprehension, if not worse. I don’t like to be placed in such a position.”
And Mrs. Bray put on a dignified, half-injured manner.
“It’s a wretched business in every way,” she added, “and I’m sorry that I ever had anything to do with it. It’s something dreadful, as I told you at the time, to cast a helpless baby adrift in such a way. Poor little soul! I shall never feel right about it.”
“That’s neither here nor there;” and Mrs. Dinneford waved her hand impatiently. “The thing now in hand is to deal with this woman.”
“Yes, that’s it—and as I said just now, I would rather have you deal with her yourself; you may be able to do it better than I can.”
“It’s no use to talk, Mrs. Bray. I will not see the woman.”
“Very well; you must be your own judge in the case.”
“Can’t you bind her up to something, or get her out of the city? I’d pay almost anything to have her a thousand miles away. See if you can’t induce her to go to New Orleans. I’ll pay her passage, and give her a hundred dollars besides, if she’ll go.”
Mrs. Bray smiled a faint, sinister smile:
“If you could get her off there, it would be the end of her. She’d never stand the fever.”
“Then get her off, cost what it may,” said Mrs. Dinneford.
“She will be here in less than half an hour.” Mrs. Bray looked at the face of a small cheap clock that stood on the mantel.
“She will?” Mrs. Dinneford became uneasy, and arose from her chair.
“Yes; what shall I say to her?”
“Manage her the best you can. Here are thirty dollars—all the money I have with me. Give her that, and promise more if necessary. I will see you again.”
“When?” asked Mrs. Bray.
“At any time you desire.”
“Then you had better come to-morrow morning. I shall not go out.”
“I will be here at eleven o’clock. Induce her if possible to leave the city—to go South, so that she may never come back.”
“The best I can shall be done,” replied Mrs. Bray as she folded the bank-bills she had received from Mrs. Dinneford in a fond, tender sort of way and put them into her pocket.
Mrs. Dinneford retired, saying as she did so,
“I will be here in the morning.”
An instant change came over the shallow face of the wiry little woman as the form of Mrs. Dinneford vanished through the door. A veil seemed to fall away from it. All its virtuous sobriety was gone, and a smile of evil satisfaction curved about her lips and danced in her keen black eyes. She stood still, listening to the retiring steps of her visitor, until she heard the street door shut. Then, with a quick, cat-like step, she crossed to the opposite side of the room, and pushed open a door that led to an adjoining chamber. A woman came forward to meet her. This woman was taller and stouter than Mrs. Bray, and had a soft, sensual face, but a resolute mouth, the under jaw slightly protruding. Her eyes were small and close together, and had that peculiar wily and alert expression you sometimes see, making you think of a serpent’s eyes. She was dressed in common finery and adorned by cheap jewelry.
“What do you think of that, Pinky Swett?” exclaimed Mrs. Bray, in a voice of exultation. “Got her all right, haven’t I?”
“Well, you have!” answered the woman, shaking all over with unrestrained laughter. “The fattest pigeon I’ve happened to see for a month of Sundays. Is she very rich?”
“Her husband is, and that’s all the same. And now, Pinky”—Mrs. Bray assumed a mock gravity of tone and manner—“you know your fate—New Orleans and the yellow fever. You must pack right off. Passage free and a hundred dollars for funeral expenses. Nice wet graves down there—keep off the fire;” and she gave a low chuckle.
“Oh yes; all settled. When does the next steamer sail?” and Pinky almost screamed with merriment. She had been drinking.
“H-u-s-h! h-u-s-h! None of that here, Pinky. The people down stairs are good Methodists, and think me a saint.”
“You a saint? Oh dear!” and she shook with repressed enjoyment.
After this the two women grew serious, and put their heads together for business.
“Who is this woman, Fan? What’s her name, and where does she live?” asked Pinky Swett.
“That’s my secret, Pinky,” replied Mrs. Bray, “and I can’t let it go; it wouldn’t be safe. You get a little off the handle sometimes, and don’t know what you say—might let the cat out of the bag. Sally Long took the baby away, and she died two months ago; so I’m the only one now in the secret. All I want of you is to keep track of the baby. Here is a five-dollar bill; I can’t trust you with more at a time. I know your weakness, Pinky;” and she touched her under the chin in a familiar, patronizing way.
Pinky wasn’t satisfied with this, and growled a little, just showing her teeth like an unquiet dog.
“Give me ten,” she said; “the woman gave you thirty. I heard her say so. And she’s going to bring you seventy to-morrow.”
“You’ll only waste it, Pinky,” remonstrated Mrs. Bray. “It will all be gone before morning.”
“Fan,” said the woman, leaning toward Mrs. Bray and speaking in a low, confidential tone, “I dreamed of a cow last night, and that’s good luck, you know. Tom Oaks made a splendid hit last Saturday—drew twenty dollars—and Sue Minty got ten. They’re all buzzing about it down in our street, and going to Sam McFaddon’s office in a stream.”
“Do they have good luck at Sam McFaddon’s?” asked Mrs. Bray, with considerable interest in her manner.
“It’s the luckiest place that I know. Never dreamed of a cow or a hen that I didn’t make a hit, and I dreamed of a cow last night. She was giving such a splendid pail of milk, full to the brim, just as old Spot and Brindle used to give. You remember our Spot and Brindle, Fan?”
“Oh yes.” There was a falling inflection in Mrs. Bray’s voice, as if the reference had sent her thoughts away back to other and more innocent days.
The two women sat silent for some moments after that; and when Pinky spoke, which she did first, it was in lower and softer tones:
“I don’t like to think much about them old times, Fan; do you? I might have done better. But it’s no use grizzling about it now. What’s done’s done, and can’t be helped. Water doesn’t run up hill again after it’s once run down. I’ve got going, and can’t stop, you see. There’s nothing to catch at that won’t break as soon as you touch it. So I mean to be jolly as I move along.”
“Laughing is better than crying at any time,” returned Mrs. Bray; “here are five more;” and she handed Pinky Swett another bank-bill. “I’m going to try my luck. Put half a dollar on ten different rows, and we’ll go shares on what is drawn. I dreamed the other night that I saw a flock of sheep, and that’s good luck, isn’t it?”
Pinky thrust her hand into her pocket and drew out a worn and soiled dream-book.
“A flock of sheep; let me see;” and she commenced turning over the leaves. “Sheep; here it is: ‘To see them is a sign of sorrow—11, 20, 40, 48. To be surrounded by many sheep denotes good luck—2, 11, 55.’ That’s your row; put down 2, 11, 55. We’ll try that. Next put down 41 11, 44—that’s the lucky row when you dream of a cow.”
As Pinky leaned toward her friend she dropped her parasol.
“That’s for luck, maybe,” she said, with a brightening face. “Let’s see what it says about a parasol;” and she turned over her dream-book.
“For a maiden to dream she loses her parasol shows that her sweetheart is false and will never marry her—5, 51, 56.”
“But you didn’t dream about a parasol, Pinky.”
“That’s no matter; it’s just as good as a dream. 5, 51, 56 is the row. Put that down for the second, Fan.”
As Mrs. Bray was writing out these numbers the clock on the mantel struck five.
“8, 12, 60,” said Pinky, turning to the clock; “that’s the clock row.”
And Mrs. Bray put down these figures also.
“That’s three rows,” said Pinky, “and we want ten.” She arose, as she spoke, and going to the front window, looked down upon the street.
“There’s an organ-grinder; it’s the first thing I saw;” and she came back fingering the leaves of her dream-book. “Put down 40, 50, 26.”
Mrs. Bray wrote the numbers on her slip of paper.
“It’s November; let’s find the November row.” Pinky consulted her book again. “Signifies you will have trouble through life—7, 9, 63. That’s true as preaching; I was born in November, and I’ve had it all trouble. How many rows does that make?”
“Five.”
“Then we will cut cards for the rest;” and Pinky drew a soiled pack from her pocket, shuffled the cards and let her friends cut them.
“Ten of diamonds;” she referred to the dream-book. “10, 13, 31; put that down.”
The cards were shuffled and cut again.
“Six of clubs—6, 35, 39.”
Again they were cut and shuffled. This time the knave of clubs was turned up.
“That’s 17, 19, 28,” said Pinky, reading from her book.
The next cut gave the ace of clubs, and the policy numbers were 18, 63, 75.
“Once more, and the ten rows will be full;” and the cards were cut again.
“Five of hearts—5, 12, 60;” and the ten rows were complete.
“There’s luck there, Fan; sure to make a hit,” said Pinky, with almost childish confidence, as she gazed at the ten rows of figures. “One of ‘em can’t help coming out right, and that would be fifty dollars—twenty-five for me and twenty-five for you; two rows would give a hundred dollars, and the whole ten a thousand. Think of that, Fan! five hundred dollars apiece.”
“It would break Sam McFaddon, I’m afraid,” remarked Mrs. Bray.
“Sam’s got nothing to do with it,” returned Pinky.
“He hasn’t?”
“No.”
“Who has, then?”
“His backer.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, I found it all out—I know how it’s done. Sam’s got a backer—a man that puts up the money. Sam only sells for his backer. When there’s a hit, the backer pays.”
“Who’s Sam’s backer, as you call him?”
“Couldn’t get him to tell; tried him hard, but he was close as an oyster. Drives in the Park and wears a two thousand dollar diamond pin; he let that out. So he’s good for the hits. Sam always puts the money down, fair and square.”
“Very well; you get the policy, and do it right off, Pinky, or the money’ll slip through your fingers.”
“All right,” answered Pinky as she folded the slip of paper containing the lucky rows. “Never you fear. I’ll be at Sam McFaddon’s in ten minutes after I leave here.”
“And be sure,” said Mrs. Bray, “to look after the baby to-night, and see that it doesn’t perish with cold; the air’s getting sharp.”
“It ought to have something warmer than cotton rags on its poor little body,” returned Pinky. “Can’t you get it some flannel? It will die if you don’t.”
“I sent it a warm petticoat last week,” said Mrs. Bray.
“You did?”
“Yes; I bought one at a Jew shop, and had it sent to the woman.”
“Was it a nice warm one?”
“Yes.”
Pinky drew a sigh. “I saw the poor baby last night; hadn’t anything on but dirty cotton rags. It was lying asleep in a cold cellar on a little heap of straw. The woman had given it something, I guess, by the way it slept. The petticoat had gone, most likely, to Sam McFaddon’s. She spends everything she can lay her hands on in policies and whisky.”
“She’s paid a dollar a week for taking care of the baby at night and on Sundays,” said Mrs. Bray.
“It wouldn’t help the baby any if she got ten dollars,” returned Pinky. “It ought to be taken away from her.”
“But who’s to do that? Sally Long sold it to the two beggar women, and they board it out. I have no right to interfere; they own the baby, and can do as they please with it.”
“It could be got to the almshouse,” said Pinky; “it would be a thousand times better off.”
“It mustn’t go to the almshouse,” replied Mrs. Bray; “I might lose track of it, and that would never do.”
“You’ll lose track of it for good and all before long, if you don’t get it out of them women’s bands. No baby can hold out being begged with long; it’s too hard on the little things. For you know how it is, Fan; they must keep ‘em half starved and as sick as they will bear without dying right off, so as to make ‘em look pitiful. You can’t do much at begging with a fat, hearty-looking baby.”