CHAPTER XXIII
PATHOS AND POVERTY
Dorothy roused the next morning with a sense of great relief after the strenuous hours of the previous day. At last they were beginning to accomplish something in the way of straightening out Aunt Winnie’s complicated money matters. It was a decided rest to turn her thoughts to the poor boy who had spent a little time in their kitchenette – the boy who just ate what was offered him, and grinned good-naturedly at the family.
He had evidently considered them all a part of the day’s routine, and accepted the food, and the warmth, and kindness with a hardened indifference that made Dorothy curious. He had grudgingly given Dorothy his street and house number. He was so flint-like, and skeptical about rich people helping poor people, his young life had had such varied experience with the settlement workers, that he plainly did not wish to see more of his hostess.
It was an easy matter for Dorothy to just smile and declare she was “going out.” Tavia was curled up in numerous pillows, surrounded by magazines and boxes of candy, and the boys were going skating. City ice did not “keep” as did the ice in the country, and the only way to enjoy it while it lasted, as Ned explained, was to spend every moment skating madly.
Dorothy read the address, Rivington Street, and wondered as she started forth what this, her first real glimpse into the life of New York City’s poor, would reveal. She was a bit tremulous, and anxious to reach the place.
“Where is this number, little boy?” she inquired, of a street urchin.
“Over there,” responded a voice buried in the depths of a turned-up collar. “I know you,” it said impudently. One glance into the large, heavily-lashed eyes made Dorothy smiled. Here was the very same thin boy upon whom she was going to call.
“Is your mother at home?” she asked.
“Sure,” he replied, “so’s father.” Then he laughed impishly.
“And have you brothers and sisters, too?” said Dorothy.
“Sure.” He looked Dorothy over carefully, decided she could keep a secret, and coming close to her he whispered: “We got the mostest big family in de street; nobody’s got as many childrens as we got!” Then he stood back proudly.
“I want to see them all,” coaxed Dorothy. She hesitated about entering the tenement to which the thin boy led her. It was tall and dirty and a series of odors, unknown to Dorothy’s well-brought-up nose, rushed to meet them as the hall door was pushed open. The fire escapes covering the front of the house were used for back yards – ash heaps and garbage, bedding and washes, all hung suspended, threatening to topple over on the heads of the passersby, and the long, dark hall they entered was also littered with garbage cans, and an accumulation of dirty rags and papers and children.
Such frowsy-headed, unkempt, ragged little babies! Dorothy’s heart went out to them all – she wanted to take each one and wash the little face, and smooth the suspicious, sullen brows. The advent of a well-dressed visitor into the main hall meant the opening of many doors and a wonderfully frank assortment of remarks as to whom the visitor might be. Little Tommy, the thin boy, glad of the opportunity to “show off” grandly led Dorothy up the stairs, making the most of the trip.
“The other day when I was skatin’ with you in Central Park,” flippantly fell from Tommy’s lips, loud enough for the words to enter bombastically through the open doors, “I come home and said to the family, I sez, – ” but what Tommy had said to the family never was known, because the remainder of Tommy’s family having heard in advance of Tommy’s coming, rushed pell-mell to meet them, and with various smudgy fingers stuck into all sizes of mouths, they stared, some through the railings, some over the railing, more from the top step – the “mostest biggest family” exhibited no tendency to hang back.
“Come in out of that, you little ones,” said a soft, motherly voice, that sounded clear and sweet in the midst of the tumult of the tenement house, and Dorothy looked quickly in the direction from whence it came and beheld Tommy’s mother. She was small and dark, and in garments of fashion would have been dainty. She seemed little older than Tommy, who was nine, and life in the poorest section of the city, trying to bring up a large family in three rooms, had left no tragic marks on her smooth brow, and when she smiled, she dimpled. Dorothy smiled back instantly, the revelation of this mother was so unexpectedly different from anything Dorothy had imagined.
“They will run out in the hall,” the mother explained, apologetically, “and they’re only half-dressed, and it’s so cold that they’ll all be down with sore throats, if they don’t mind me. Now come inside, every one of you!” But not one of the children moved an inch until Dorothy reached the top landing, then they all backed into the room, which at a glance Dorothy was unable at first to name. There was a cot in one corner, a stove, a large table, and sink in another, and one grand easy chair near a window. Regular chairs there were none, but boxes aplenty, and opening from this kitchen-bedroom-living-room was an uncarpeted, evil-looking room, and in the doorway a giant of a man stood, looking in bleary-eyed bewilderment at Dorothy.
“You’ll get your rent when I get my pay,” he said, with an ill-natured leer. “So he’s sending you around now? Afraid to come himself after the scare I gave him the last time? D’ye remember the scare I gave him Nellie?” he turned to the little woman.
With a curious love and pride in this great, helpless giant, his wife straightened his necktie, that hung limply about the neck of his blue flannel shirt, and patting his hand said, caressingly:
“Now stop your foolin’, she’s not from the rent-man, she’s a friend of our Tommy’s, – the lady that went skatin’ with Tommy in the Park; don’t you know, James?”
James straightened himself against the panels of the door, and stared down at Dorothy, but his first idea that she was after his week’s pay was evident in his manner.
“You wouldn’t of got it if you did come for it,” he declared, proudly, “’cause it ain’t so far behind that you could make me pay it.”
“It’s only when he’s gettin’ over a sleepless night,” explained Tommy’s mother, pathetically, “that he worries so. When he’s well,” she whispered to Dorothy, “he don’t worry about nothin’; but when his money’s all gone and he ain’t well, the way he frets about me and the children is somethin’ awful!” She looked at her husband with wonderful pride and pleasure in possessing so complicated a man.
Dorothy wondered, in a dazed way, what happened when the entire family wished to sit down at the same time. She could count just four suitable seating places, and there were nine members of the family. The smallest member, a wan, blue-lipped baby in arms, had a look on its face of a wise old man.
How and where to begin to help, Dorothy could not think. That the baby was almost starved for proper nourishment and should at once be taken care of, Dorothy realized. Yet such an air of cheerfulness pervaded the whole family, it was hard to believe that any of them was starving. The cheerful poor! Dorothy’s heart beat high with hope.
The head of the family made his way to the door opening into the main hall, and taking his hat from a hook, pulled it over his eyes and put his hand on the door knob. The little wife, forgetting all else – that Dorothy was looking on, that her baby was crying, and that something was boiling over on the stove – threw herself into the giant’s arms.
“Don’t go out, James!” she cried, pitifully, “don’t go away in the cold. You won’t, dearie; I know you won’t! Take off your hat, there’s a good man. Don’t go, there’s no work now.” As the man opened the door, “don’t you know how we love you, James? Stay home to-night, dearie, and rest for to-morrow.”
“I’m just goin’ down to the steps,” replied the man, releasing the woman’s arms from about his neck, “I’ll be up in a jiffy. I didn’t say I was goin’ out. Who heard me say a word about goin’ out?” he appealed to the numerous children playing about.
“You don’t have to,” said Tommy, bravely trying to keep his lips from quivering, “you put on a hat; didn’t you? And you opened the door; didn’t you?” and with such proof positive Tommy stood facing his father, but his lips would quiver in spite of biting them hard with his teeth.
“I’m just goin’ down for a breath of air,” he explained, as his wife clung desperately to his arm, “just to get the sleep out o’ me eyes, and I’ll run into the grocer’s, and come back with – cakes!” he ended, triumphantly.
Dorothy felt awkward and intrusive. This was a family scene that had grown wearisome to the children, who took little interest in it, and the mother of the brood at last fell away, and allowed the man to leave the room. Then Dorothy saw the tragedy of the little woman’s life! Glistening tears fell thick and fast, and she hugged her baby tightly to her breast, murmuring softly in its little ears, oblivious to her surroundings.
“I’ll buy you food,” said Dorothy, the weary voice of the woman bringing tears to her eyes. “Tommy will come with me and we’ll buy everything you need.”
Tommy rushed for his hat, and together they started down the stairs. Reaching the steps, Dorothy looked about for some sign of Tommy’s father, but he must have been seated on another porch for the breath of air he was after; the only thing on the front steps was Tommy’s yellow dog.
“Did you see my father?” said the boy to the dog. The dog jumped about madly, licking Tommy’s face and hands and barking short, joyful doggie greetings. “He’s seen him, all right,” said Tommy.
“Did he go to the grocer’s?” he asked of the dog. In answer the dog’s ears and tail drooped sadly, and he licked Tommy’s hand with less joyfulness.
“No,” said little Tommy, “he ain’t gone to the grocer’s, he’s always looking for work now, he says.”
“I’ll see if I can bring him back,” volunteered Dorothy.
The evening crowd on Rivington Street was pouring out of the doorways, bitter cold did not seem to prevent social gatherings on the corners, and the small shops were filled to overflowing with loungers. A mission meeting was in progress on one of the corners, as Dorothy hurried on, and a sweet, girlish voice was exhorting the shivering crowd to repent and mend their ways.
CHAPTER XXIV
A YOUNG REFORMER
Close in the wake of Tommy’s father, now returning, came Dorothy. A large automobile stood before one of the rickety buildings, and Dorothy just caught sight of a great fur coat and gray hair, as the owner of the car came from the building. It was Mr. Akerson! His chauffeur opened the door of the car, touched his cap, and the auto made its way slowly through the street.
“There’s the rent collector,” she heard a small girl say, as she watched the automobile out of sight. “Ain’t he grand!”
Dorothy wondered, with a shudder, how any one could come among these people and take their money from them, for housing them in such quarters!
Tommy’s father turned off Rivington Street into a narrow lane, little more than an alley, but it contained tall buildings nevertheless, with the inevitable fire escape decorating the fronts. He paused in front of a pawnbroker’s shop, which was some feet below the level of the sidewalk. Dorothy, too, paused, leaning on the iron fence. The man was smiling an irresponsible, foolish smile as he descended the steps to the pawnshop. Dorothy peered down into the badly-lighted shop, and saw Tommy’s father lay an ancient watch chain, the last remaining article of the glory of his young manhood, on the counter.
The clerk behind the counter threw it back in disgust. Again Tommy’s father offered it, but the pawnbroker would not take it, for it was evidently not worth space in his cases. The man stumbled up the steps, and Dorothy met him face to face on the top one.
“I need a watch chain,” she heard herself saying in desperation, “I’ll buy it, please.”
“You’re the woman as was collecting the rent; eh?” he said.
“Oh, no,” said Dorothy, smiling brightly, “I came to see Tommy’s mother, and his father. I wanted to know Tommy’s family.”
“You wanted to help the boy, maybe?” he asked, his attention at last arrested.
“Yes,” replied Dorothy, eagerly, “I want to do something. I have money with me now, and I’ll buy the chain.”
The man suddenly turned and went on ahead. He wasn’t a really desperate man, but Dorothy did not know just what state it could be called, he simply seemed unable to think quite clearly, and after walking one block, Dorothy decided he had forgotten her entirely.
“I want to buy the groceries,” she said, stepping close to his elbow, “but there will be so many, you’ll have to help carry them home to your wife and Tommy.”
He stared at her sullenly. “Who told you to buy groceries?” he demanded.
“Your wife said there was nothing to eat in the house,” she answered, “and I would love to buy everything you need, just for this once.”
“I was just goin’ to get ’em, but there was no money. How’s a man goin’ to help his family, when they takes his money right outer his pockets; tell me that, will you?” he demanded of Dorothy. She shrank as the huge form towered over her, but she answered steadily:
“The children are at home, hungry, waiting for something to eat – the cakes you promised them, you know,” she said with a brave smile.
“Well, come along; what are you standin’ here for wastin’ time when the children are hungry?” he said finally.
Dorothy laughed quietly, and went along at his elbow. Such unreasonable sort of humanity! At least, one thing was certain, he would not escape from her now, since she was convinced that he had really been trying to secure money enough to buy food; if she had to call on the rough-looking element on the street to come to her aid she would help him.
In the grocer’s Dorothy found great delight in ordering food for a family, and they left the shop, loaded down with parcels. The grocer’s clock chimed out the hour of seven as they left the store.
“Aunt Winnie,” thought Dorothy suddenly, “she’ll be worried ill! I had almost forgotten I had a family of my own to be anxious about. But they’ll have to wait,” she decided, “they, at least, aren’t hungry. They are only worried, and I know I’m safe,” she ended, philosophically.
The yellow dog was in the hall, so were all the evil odors, even some of the babies still played about, evidently knowing no bedtime, until with utter weariness their small limbs refused to move another step. And the dog being there meant that Tommy had gone ahead and was safe at home.
The upper halls were noisy. The hours after supper were being turned into the festive part of the day. At Tommy’s door there were no loud sounds of mirth, and, opening it quietly, Dorothy entered, the man behind. A dim light burned in the room, the mother sat asleep in the old velvet chair, the smaller children curled up in her lap, and she was holding the baby in her arms. Several of the children were stretched crosswise on the kitchen cot, and Dorothy decided the remainder of the family were in the dark room just off the kitchen, and later she discovered that the surplus room of the three-room home was rented out, to help pay the rent.
The children quickly scrambled from the cot and from the mother’s lap, with wild haste to unwrap the paper parcels. There was little use trying judiciously to serve the eatables to such hungry children. It mattered not to Tommy that jelly and condensed milk and butter and cheese were not all supposed to be eaten on one slice of bread. Tommy never before saw these things all at one time, and, as far as Tommy knew, he might never again have the chance to put so many different things on one slice. Oranges and bananas were unknown luxuries in that family, and the little boys eyed them suspiciously, but brave Tommy sampling them first, they picked up courage, and soon there were neither oranges nor bananas, only messy little heaps of peeling.
Dorothy was busy instructing the mother how to prepare beef broth, and a nourishing food for the baby, when the clock struck eight.
“Tommy,” said Dorothy, as she busily stirred the baby’s food, “do you know where there is a telephone? I must send a message to Aunt Winnie.”
“Sure,” said the confident Tommy, “I know all about them things. I often seen people ‘telphoning,’” thus Tommy called it.
Soon it was agreed that Tommy and his father would go and inform Dorothy’s aunt of her whereabouts, over the wire.
It was an anxious fifteen minutes waiting for their return. The mother let the steak broil to a crisp in her anxiety lest the father slip away from Tommy’s grasp, and Dorothy, listening for the returning footsteps, had visions of again running after Tommy’s father to bring him back to the bosom of his family, and allowed the oatmeal to boil over. But all was serene when the man returned safely with the information that: “some old feller on the wire got excited, and a lot of people all talked at once,” and the only thing he was sure of was that they demanded the address of his home, which he had given them, not being ashamed, as he proudly bragged, for anyone to know where he lived.
“That was father!” said Dorothy. “What else did he say?”
“Nothin’,” replied the man, “but the old feller was maddern a wet hen!”
“Poor father!” thought Dorothy, as she handed an apple to one of the small boys. “No doubt I’m very foolish to have done this thing. Father will never forgive me for running away and staying until this late hour. I really didn’t think about anything, though. It did seem so important to bring home the things. I can’t bear to think that to-morrow night and the next night and the next, Tommy and his mother will be here, worrying and cold and hungry.”
She served each of the children a steaming dish of oatmeal, floating in milk, and was surprised to find how hungry she was herself. She looked critically at the messy table, the cracked bowls, and tin spoons, and democratic as she knew herself to be, she couldn’t – simply couldn’t – eat on that kitchen-bedroom-living-room table.
The creaking of the steps and a heavy footfall pausing before the door, caused a moment’s hush. A knock on the portal and Tommy flew to open it. On the threshold stood Major Dale, very soldierly and dignified, and he stared into the room through the dim light until he discovered Dorothy. She ran to him and threw her arms about his neck before he could utter a word.
“Dear daddy!” she murmured, so glad to see one of her own people, and she realized in that instant a sense of comfort and ease to know she was well cared for, and had a dear, old dignified father.
“I forgot,” she said, repentantly, “I should have been home hours ago, I know, but you must hear the whole story, before you scold me.”
For Major Dale to ever scold Dorothy was among the impossible things, and to have scolded her in this instance, the furthest thing from his mind. The children stood about gazing at Major Dale in awed silence.
“There are so many, father,” said Dorothy, “to have to live in these close quarters. If they could just be transported to a farm, or some place out in the open!”
“Perhaps they could be,” answered Major Dale, “but first, I must take you home. We’ll discuss the future of Tommy and his family, after you are safely back with Aunt Winnie.”
“Couldn’t James be placed somewhere in the country? I want to know now, before I leave them, perhaps never to see them again,” pleaded Dorothy to her father. “Say that you know some place for James to work that will take the family away from this awful city.”
“We’ll see, daughter,” said the major kindly. “I guess there is some place for him and the little ones.”
“He’s so willin’ to work for us,” explained the mother, “and we’d love to be in the country. We both grew up in a country town, and I’ll go back to-morrow morning. It’s nothin’ but struggling here from one year’s end to the other, and we grow poorer each year.”
“Many a hard day’s work I’ve done on the farm,” said the six-feet-four-husband, “and I’m good for many more. I’ll work at anything that’s steady, and that’ll help me keep a roof over the family.”
“I’m so glad to hear you say so!” cried Dorothy, in delight. “I’m sure we will find some work in the country for you, and before many weeks you can leave this place, and find happiness in a busy, country life.”
On the trip uptown, Dorothy asked about the family at home, feeling very much as though she had been away on a long trip and anxious to see them all once again.
“We began to grow worried about an hour before the telephone message came,” her father said, “Aunt Winnie had callers, and the arrangements were to have them all for dinner and we, of course, waited dinner for Dorothy.” He smiled at his daughter fondly. “When you did not appear, the anxiety became intense, and the callers are still at the apartment anxiously awaiting the return of the wanderer.”
“Who are the callers,” queried Dorothy; “do I know them?”
“No, just Aunt Winnie’s friends, but they are waiting to meet you,” said Major Dale.
“Won’t I be glad to get home!” exclaimed Dorothy, clinging to her father’s arm as they left the subway.
“Daughter,” said Major Dale, sternly, “have you really forgotten?”
“Forgotten what, father?” asked Dorothy in surprise.
“Forgotten the dinner and dance that is to be given in your honor this evening?” Major Dale could just suppress a smile as he tried to ask the question with great severity.
“Oh, my dear!” cried Dorothy, “I forgot it completely!”
“Well,” he said, “you’ll be late for the dinner, but they are waiting for you to start the dance.”
“You see, father,” exclaimed Dorothy, desperately, “I am not a girl for society! To think I could have forgotten the most important event of our whole holiday! But tell me now, daddy, don’t you think big James and his family would do nicely for old Mr. Hill’s Summer home – they could care for it in the Winter, and take charge of the farm in the Summer?”
“That is just what I thought, but said nothing, because I did not care to raise false hopes in the breast of such a pathetic little woman as Tommy’s mother.”
“Then, before I join the dancers, I can rest easily in my thoughts, that you will take care of Tommy’s future, daddy?” Dorothy asked.
“My daughter can join the party, and cease thinking of little Tommy and the others, because I’ll take entire charge of them just as soon as we return to North Birchland.”
“I knew it, dear,” said Dorothy, as they entered the apartment, and she hugged her father closely. “You’d rather be down on Rivington Street at this moment, seeing the other side of the world, just as I would; wouldn’t you, father?”
But her father just pinched her pink cheeks and told her to run along and be a giddy, charming debutante.