Tattered Tom

PREFACE

When, three years since, the author published “Ragged Dick,” he was far from anticipating the flattering welcome it would receive, or the degree of interest which would be excited by his pictures of street life in New York. The six volumes which comprised his original design are completed, but the subject is not exhausted. There are yet other phases of street life to be described, and other classes of street Arabs, whose fortunes deserve to be chronicled.

“Tattered Tom” is therefore presented to the public as the initial volume of a new series of six stories, which may be regarded as a continuation of the “Ragged Dick Series.” Some surprise may be felt at the discovery that Tom is a girl; but I beg to assure my readers that she is not one of the conventional kind. Though not without her good points, she will be found to differ very widely in tastes and manners from the young ladies of twelve usually to be met in society. I venture to hope that she will become a favorite in spite of her numerous faults, and that no less interest will be felt in her fortunes than in those of the heroes of earlier volumes.

New York, April, 1871.

CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCES TATTERED TOM

Mr. Frederic Pelham, a young gentleman very daintily dressed, with exquisitely fitting kids and highly polished boots, stood at the corner of Broadway and Chambers Streets, surveying with some dismay the dirty crossing, and speculating as to his chances of getting over without marring the polish of his boots.

He started at length, and had taken two steps, when a dirty hand was thrust out, and he was saluted by the request, “Gi’ me a penny, sir?”

“Out of my way, you bundle of rags!” he answered.

“You’re another!” was the prompt reply.

Frederic Pelham stared at the creature who had dared to imply that he—a leader of fashion—was a bundle of rags.

The street-sweeper was apparently about twelve years of age. It was not quite easy to determine whether it was a boy or girl. The head was surmounted by a boy’s cap, the hair was cut short, it wore a boy’s jacket, but underneath was a girl’s dress. Jacket and dress were both in a state of extreme raggedness. The child’s face was very dark and, as might be expected, dirty; but it was redeemed by a pair of brilliant black eyes, which were fixed upon the young exquisite in an expression half-humorous, half-defiant, as the owner promptly retorted, “You’re another!”

“Clear out, you little nuisance!” said the dandy, stopping short from necessity, for the little sweep had planted herself directly in his path; and to step out on either side would have soiled his boots irretrievably.

“Gi’ me a penny, then?”

“I’ll hand you to the police, you little wretch!”

“I aint done nothin’. Gi’ me a penny?”

Mr. Pelham, provoked, raised his cane threateningly.

But Tom (for, in spite of her being a girl, this was the name by which she was universally known; indeed she scarcely knew any other) was wary. She dodged the blow, and by an adroit sweep of her broom managed to scatter some mud on Mr. Pelham’s boots.

“You little brat, you’ve muddied my boots!” he exclaimed, with vexation.

“Then why did you go for to strike me?” said Tom, defiantly.

He did not stop to answer, but hurried across the street. His pace was accelerated by an approaching vehicle, and the instinct of self-preservation, more powerful than even the dictates of fashion, compelled him to make a détour through the mud, greatly to the injury of his no longer immaculate boots. But there was a remedy for the disaster on the other side.

“Shine your boots, sir?” asked a boot-black, who had stationed himself at the other side of the crossing.

Frederic Pelham looked at his boots. Their glory had departed. Their virgin gloss had been dimmed by plebeian mud. He grudged the boot-black’s fee, for he was thoroughly mean, though he had plenty of money at his command. But it was impossible to walk up Broadway in such boots. Suppose he should meet any of his fashionable friends, especially if ladies, his fashionable reputation would be endangered.

“Go ahead, boy!” he said. “Do your best.”

“All right, sir.”

“It’s the second time I’ve had my boots blacked this morning. If it hadn’t been for that dirty sweep I should have got across safely.”

The boy laughed—to himself. He knew Tom well enough, and he had been an interested spectator of her encounter with his present customer, having an eye to business. But he didn’t think it prudent to make known his thoughts.

The boots were at length polished, and Mr. Pelham saw with satisfaction that no signs of the street mire remained.

“How much do you want, boy?” he asked.

“Ten cents.”

“I thought five cents was the price.”

“Can’t afford to work on no such terms.”

Mr. Pelham might have disputed the fee, but he saw an acquaintance approaching, and did not care to be caught chaffering with a boot-black. He therefore reluctantly drew out a dime, and handed it to the boy, who at once deposited it in the pocket of a ragged vest.

He stood on the sidewalk on the lookout for another customer, when Tom marched across the street, broom in hand.

“I say, Joe, how much did he give you?”

“Ten cents.”

“How much yer goin’ to give me?”

“Nothin’!”

“You wouldn’t have got him if I hadn’t muddied his boots.”

“Did you do it a-purpose?”

Tom nodded.

“What for?”

“He called me names. That’s one reason. Besides, I wanted to give you a job.”

Joe seemed struck by this view, and, being alive to his own interest, did not disregard the application.

“Here’s a penny,” he said.

“Gi’ me two.”

He hesitated a moment, then diving once more into his pocket, brought up another penny, which Tom transferred with satisfaction to the pocket of her dress.

“Shall I do it ag’in?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Joe. “I say, Tom, you’re a smart un.”

“I’d ought to be. Granny makes me smart whenever she gets a chance.”

Tom returned to the other end of the crossing, and began to sweep diligently. Her labors did not extend far from the curbstone, as the stream of vehicles now rapidly passing would have made it dangerous. However, it was all one to Tom where she swept. The cleanness of the crossing was to her a matter of comparative indifference. Indeed, considering her own disregard of neatness, it could hardly have been expected that she should feel very solicitous on that point. Like some of her elders who were engaged in municipal labors, she regarded street-sweeping as a “job,” out of which she was to make money, and her interest began and ended with the money she earned.

There were not so many to cross Broadway at this point as lower down, and only a few of these seemed impressed by a sense of the pecuniary value of Tom’s services.

“Gi’ me a penny, sir,” she said to a stout gentleman.

He tossed a coin into the mud.

Tom darted upon it, and fished it up, wiping her fingers afterwards upon her dress.

“Aint you afraid of soiling your dress?” asked the philanthropist, smiling.

“What’s the odds?” said Tom, coolly.

“You’re a philosopher,” said the stout gentleman.

“Don’t you go to callin’ me names!” said Tom; “’cause if you do I’ll muddy up your boots.”

“So you don’t want to be called a philosopher?” said the gentleman.

“No, I don’t,” said Tom, eying him suspiciously.

“Then I must make amends.”

He took a dime from his pocket, and handed it to the astonished Tom.

“Is this for me?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Tom’s eyes glistened; for ten cents was a nugget when compared with her usual penny receipts. She stood in a brown study till her patron was half across the street, then, seized with a sudden idea, she darted after him, and tugged at his coat-tail.

“What’s wanted?” he asked, turning round in some surprise.

“I say,” said Tom, “you may call me that name ag’in for five cents more.”

The ludicrous character of the proposal struck him, and he laughed with amusement.

“Well,” he said, “that’s a good offer. What’s your name?”

“Tom.”

“Which are you,—a boy or a girl?”

“I’m a girl, but I wish I was a boy.”

“What for?”

“’Cause boys are stronger than girls, and can fight better.”

“Do you ever fight?”

“Sometimes.”

“Whom do you fight with?”

“Sometimes I fight with the boys, and sometimes with granny.”

“What makes you fight with your granny?”

“She gets drunk and fires things at my head; then I pitch into her.”

The cool, matter-of-fact manner in which Tom spoke seemed to amuse her questioner.

“I was right,” he said; “you’re a philosopher,—a practical philosopher.”

“That’s more’n you said before,” said Tom; “I want ten cents for that.”

The ten cents were produced. Tom pocketed them in a business-like manner, and went back to her employment. She wondered, slightly, whether a philosopher was something very bad; but, as there was no means of determining, sensibly dismissed the inquiry, and kept on with her work.

CHAPTER II

TOM GETS A SQUARE MEAL

About twelve o’clock Tom began to feel the pangs of hunger. The exercise which she had taken, together with the fresh air, had stimulated her appetite. It was about the time when she was expected to go home, and accordingly she thrust her hand into her pocket, and proceeded to count the money she had received.

“Forty-two cents!” she said, at last, in a tone of satisfaction. “I don’t generally get more’n twenty. I wish that man would come round and call me names every day.”

Tom knew that she was expected to go home and carry the result of her morning’s work to her granny; but the unusual amount suggested to her another idea. Her mid-day meal was usually of the plainest and scantiest,—a crust of dry bread, or a cold sausage on days of plenty,—and Tom sometimes did long for something better. But generally it would have been dangerous to appropriate a sufficient sum from her receipts, as the deficit would have been discovered, and quick retribution would have followed from her incensed granny, who was a vicious old woman with a pretty vigorous arm. Now, however, she could appropriate twenty cents without danger of discovery.

“I can get a square meal for twenty cents,” Tom reflected, “and I’ll do it.”

But she must go home first, as delay would be dangerous, and have disagreeable consequences.

She prepared for the visit by dividing her morning’s receipts into two parcels. The two ten-cent scrips she hid away in the lining of her tattered jacket. The pennies, including one five-cent scrip, she put in the pocket of her dress. This last was intended for her granny. She then started homewards, dragging her broom after her.

She walked to Centre Street, turned after a while into Leonard, and went on, turning once or twice, until she came to one of the most wretched tenement houses to be found in that not very choice locality. She passed through an archway leading into an inner court, on which fronted a rear house more shabby, if possible, than the front dwelling. The court was redolent of odors far from savory; children pallid, dirty, and unhealthy-looking, were playing about, filling the air with shrill cries, mingled with profanity; clothes were hanging from some of the windows; miserable and besotted faces were seen at others.

Tom looked up to a window in the fourth story. She could descry a woman, with a pipe in her mouth.

“Granny’s home,” she said to herself.

She went up three flights, and, turning at the top, went to the door and opened it.

It was a wretched room, containing two chairs and a table, nothing more. On one of the chairs was seated a large woman, of about sixty, with a clay pipe in her mouth. The room was redolent of the vilest tobacco-smoke.

This was granny.

If granny had ever been beautiful, there were no traces of that dangerous gift in the mottled and wrinkled face, with bleared eyes, which turned towards the door as Tom entered.

“Why didn’t you come afore, Tom?” she demanded.

“I’m on time,” said Tom. “Clock aint but just struck.”

“How much have you got?”

Tom pulled out her stock of pennies and placed them in the woman’s outstretched palm.

“There’s twenty-two,” she said.

“Umph!” said granny. “Where’s the rest?”

“That’s all.”

“Come here.”

Tom advanced, not reluctantly, for she felt sure that granny would not think of searching her jacket, especially as she had brought home as much as usual.

The old woman thrust her hand into the child’s pocket, and turned it inside-out with her claw-like fingers, but not another penny was to be found.

“Umph!” she grunted, apparently satisfied with her scrutiny.

“Didn’t I tell you so?” said Tom.

Granny rose from her chair, and going to a shelf took down a piece of bread, which had become dry and hard.

“There’s your dinner,” said she.

“Gi’ me a penny to buy an apple,” said Tom,—rather by way of keeping up appearances than because she wanted one. Visions of a more satisfactory repast filled her imagination.

“You don’t want no apple. Bread’s enough,” said granny.

Tom was not much disappointed. She knew pretty well beforehand how her application would fare. Frequently she made sure of success by buying the apple and eating it before handing the proceeds of her morning’s work to the old woman. To-day she had other views, which she was in a hurry to carry out.

She took the bread, and ate a mouthful. Then she slipped it into her pocket, and said, “I’ll eat it as I go along, granny.”

To this the old woman made no objection, and Tom went out.

In the court-yard below she took out her crust, and handed it to a hungry-looking boy of ten, the unlucky offspring of drunken parents, who oftentimes was unable to command even such fare as Tom obtained.

“Here, Tim,” she said, “eat that; I aint hungry.”

It was one of Tim’s frequent fast days, and even the hard crust was acceptable to him. He took it readily, and began to eat it ravenously. Tom looked on with benevolent interest, feeling the satisfaction of having done a charitable act. The satisfaction might have been heightened by the thought that she was going to get something better herself.

“So you’re hungry, Tim,” she said.

“I’m always hungry,” said Tim.

“Did you have any breakfast?”

“Only an apple I picked up in the street.”

“He’s worse off than me,” thought Tom; but she had no time to reflect on the superior privileges of her own position, for she was beginning to feel hungry herself.

There was a cheap restaurant near by, only a few blocks away.

Tom knew it well, for she had often paused before the door and inhaled enviously the appetizing odor of the dishes which were there vended to patrons not over-fastidious, at prices accommodated to scantily lined pocket-books. Tom had never entered, but had been compelled to remain outside, wishing that a more propitious fortune had placed it in her power to dine there every day. Now, however, first thrusting her fingers into the lining of her jacket to make sure that the money was there, she boldly entered the restaurant and took a seat at one of the tables.

The room was not large, there being only eight tables, each of which might accommodate four persons. The floor was sanded, the tables were some of them bare, others covered with old newspapers, which had become greasy, and were rather worse than no table-cloth at all. The guests, of whom perhaps a dozen were seated at the table, were undoubtedly plebeian. Men in shirt-sleeves, rough-bearded sailors and ’long-shore men, composed the company, with one ragged boot-black, who had his blacking-box on the seat beside him.

It was an acquaintance of Tom, and she went and sat beside him.

“Do you get dinner here, Jim?” she asked.

“Yes, Tom; what brings you here?”

“I’m hungry.”

“Don’t you live along of your granny?”

“Yes; but I thought I’d come here to-day. What have you got?”

“Roast beef.”

“Is it good?”

“Bully!”

“I’ll have some, then. How much is it?”

“Ten cents.”

Ten cents was the standard price in this economical restaurant for a plate of meat of whatever kind. Perhaps, considering the quality and amount given, it could not be regarded as very cheap; still the sum was small, and came within Tom’s means.

A plate of beef was brought and placed before Tom. Her eyes dilated with pleasure as they rested on the delicious morsel. There was a potato besides; and a triangular slice of bread, with an infinitesimal dab of butter,—all for ten cents. But Tom’s ambition soared higher.

“Bring me a cup o’ coffee,” she said to the waiter.

It was brought,—a very dark, muddy, suspicious-looking beverage,—a base libel upon the fragrant berry whose name it took; but such a thought did not disturb Tom. She never doubted that it was what it purported to be. She stirred it vigorously with the spoon, and sipped it as if it had been nectar.

“Aint it prime just?” she exclaimed, smacking her lips.

Then ensued a vigorous onslaught upon the roast beef. It was the first meat Tom had tasted for weeks, with the exception of occasional cold sausage; and she was in the seventh heaven of delight as she hurriedly ate it. When she had finished, the plate was literally and entirely empty. Tom did not believe in leaving anything behind. She was almost tempted to “lick the platter clean,” but observed that none of the other guests did so, and refrained.

“Bring me a piece of apple pie,” said Tom, determined for once to have what she denominated a “good square meal.” The price of the pie being five cents, this would just exhaust her funds. Payment was demanded when the pie was brought, the prudent waiter having some fears that his customer was eating beyond her means.

Tom paid the money, and, vigorously attacking the pie, had almost finished it, when, chancing to lift her eyes to the window, she saw a sight that made her blood curdle.

Looking through the pane with a stony glare that meant mischief was her granny, whom she had supposed safe at home.

CHAPTER III

CAUGHT IN THE ACT

It was Tom’s ill luck that brought granny upon the scene, contrary to every reasonable expectation. After smoking out her pipe, she made up her mind to try another smoke, when she found that her stock of tobacco was exhausted. Being constitutionally lazy, it was some minutes before she made up her mind to go out and lay in a fresh supply. Finally she decided, and made her way downstairs to the court, and thence to the street.

Tim saw her, and volunteered the information, “Tom gave me some bread.”

“When?” demanded granny.

“When she come out just now.”

“What did she do that for?”

“She said she wasn’t hungry.”

The old woman was puzzled. Tom’s appetite was usually quite equal to the supply of food which she got. Could Tom have secreted some money to buy apples? This was hardly likely, since she had carefully searched her. Besides, Tom had returned the usual amount. Still, granny’s suspicions were awakened, and she determined to question Tom when she returned at the close of the afternoon.

The tobacco shop where granny obtained her tobacco was two doors beyond the restaurant where Tom was then enjoying her cheap dinner with a zest which the guests at Delmonico’s do not often bring to the discussion of their more aristocratic viands. It was only a chance that led granny, as she passed, to look in; but that glance took in all who were seated at the tables, including Tom.

Had granny received an invitation to preside at a meeting in the Cooper Institute, she would hardly have been more surprised than at the sight of Tom, perfidiously enjoying a meal out of money from which she had doubtless been defrauded.

“The owdacious young reprobate!” muttered the old woman, glaring fiercely at her unconscious victim.

But Tom just then happened to look up, as we have seen. Her heart gave a sudden thump, and she said to herself, “I’m in for a lickin’, that’s so. Granny’s mad as blazes.”

The old woman did not long leave her in doubt as to the state of her feelings.

She strode into the eating-house, and, advancing to the table, seized Tom by the arm.

“What are you here for?” she growled, in a hoarse voice.

“To get some dinner,” said Tom.

By this time she had recovered from her temporary panic. She had courage and pluck, and was toughened by the hard life she had led into a stoical endurance of the evils from which she could not escape.

“What business had you to come?”

“I was hungry.”

“Didn’t I give you a piece of bread?”

“I didn’t like it.”

“What did you buy?”

“A plate of beef, a cup o’ coffee, and some pie. Better buy some, granny. They’re bully.”

“You’re a reg’lar bad un. You’ll fetch up on the gallus,” said granny, provoked at Tom’s coolness.

So saying, she seized Tom by the shoulder roughly. But by this time the keeper of the restaurant thought fit to interfere.

“We can’t have any disturbance here, ma’am,” he said. “You must leave the room.”

“She had no right to get dinner here,” said granny. “I won’t let her pay for it.”

“She has paid for it already.”

“Is that so?” demanded the old woman, disappointed.

Tom nodded, glad to have outwitted her guardian.

“It was my money. You stole it.”

“No it wa’n’t. A gentleman give it to me for callin’ me names.”

“Come out of here!” said granny, jerking Tom from her chair. “Don’t you let her have no more to eat here,” she added, turning to the keeper of the restaurant.

“She can eat here whenever she’s got money to pay for it.”

Rather disgusted at her failure to impress the keeper of the restaurant with her views in the matter, granny emerged into the street with Tom in her clutches.

She gave her a vigorous shaking up on the sidewalk.

“How do you like that?” she demanded.

“I wish I was as big as you!” said Tom, indignantly.

“Well, what if you was?” demanded the old woman, pausing in her punishment, and glaring at Tom.

“I’d make your nose bleed,” said Tom, doubling up her fist.

“You would, would you?” said granny, fiercely. “Then it’s lucky you aint;” and she gave her another shake.

“Where are you going to take me?” asked Tom.

“Home. I’ll lock you up for a week, and give you nothin’ to eat but bread once a day.”

“All right!” said Tom. “If I’m locked up at home, I can’t bring you any money.”

This consideration had not at first suggested itself to the vindictive old woman. It would cut off all her revenue to punish Tom as she proposed; and this would be far from convenient. But anger was more powerful just then than policy; and she determined at all events to convey Tom home, and give her a flogging, before sending her out into the street to resume her labors.

She strode along, dragging Tom by the arm; and not another word was spoken till they reached the rear tenement house.

“What’s the matter with the child?” asked Mrs. Murphy, who had just come down into the court after one of her own children.

“She stole my money,” said granny; “and was eatin’ a mighty fine dinner out of it.”

“It was my money, Mrs. Murphy,” said Tom. “I gave granny twenty-two cents when I came home.”

“I hope you won’t go to hurt the child,” said kind-hearted Mrs. Murphy.

“I’ll be much obliged to you, Mrs. Murphy, if you’ll mind your own business,” said granny, loftily. “When I want your advice, mum, I’ll come and ask it; begging your pardon, mum.”

“She’s a tough craythur,” said Mrs. Murphy to herself. “She beats that poor child too bad entirely.”

Granny drew Tom into the room with no gentle hand.

“Now you’re goin’ to catch it,” said she, grimly.

Tom was of the same opinion, and meant to defend herself as well as she knew how. She had all her wits about her, and had already planned out her campaign.

On the chair was a stout stick which granny was accustomed to use on such occasions as the present. When wielded by a vigorous arm, it was capable of inflicting considerable pain, as Tom very well knew. That stick she determined to have.