Tattered Tom
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“You’ve got some good clo’es,” said Mike. “I didn’t know you, at first. I thought you was a young lady.”
“Did you?” asked Tom, rather pleased.
The time had been when she did not want to look like a young lady,—when she would have preferred to be a boy. But her tastes had changed considerably since then. Something of the instinct of her sex had sprung up in her, as she was brought to a closer knowledge of more refined ways of life. She was no longer a young Arab in her feelings, as before. Three months had wrought a great change in Tom.
“If you haven’t any place to sleep, Tom,” said Mike, “you can come along of me.”
“Can I?” asked Tom. “What’ll your mother say?”
“Oh, she won’t mind. Only you’ll maybe have to sleep on the floor.”
“I don’t mind,” said Tom. “It’ll be better than sleeping in the street. Where do you live?”
“In Mulberry Street.”
“I guess I’ll get something to do to-morrow,” said Tom.
“What did you use to do?”
“Sweep the crossings sometimes. I won’t do that again. It’s too dirty.”
“It would sp’ile them nice clo’es of yours.”
“Yes,” said Tom. “Besides, I wouldn’t want Mrs. Merton, or Mary, to see me doin’ that.”
“Who’s Mary?”
“It’s her child.”
“Did you like her?”
“No, I didn’t. She hated me too.”
“Well, I’m goin’ home. Come along, Tom.”
Tom got up from her seat with alacrity, and prepared to accompany Mike. It was a great burden off her mind to think she was likely to have a shelter for the night. Perhaps something would turn up for her the next day. This thought brought back some of her old courage and confidence.
Mike Murphy’s home was neither elegant nor spacious. Mulberry Street is not an aristocratic locality, and its residents do not in general move in fashionable society. Mrs. Murphy was a retail merchant, being the proprietor of an apple-stand on Nassau, near Spruce Street. Several years’ exposure to the weather had made her face nearly as red as the apples she dealt in, and a sedentary life had enlarged her proportions till she weighed close upon two hundred pounds. In nearly all weathers she was to be found at her post, sometimes sheltered by a huge cotton umbrella, whose original color had been changed by the sun to a pale brown. Though she had not yet been able to retire from trade upon a competence, she had earned enough, with Mike’s assistance, to support a family of six children,—in Mulberry Street style, to be sure, but they had never been obliged to go to bed hungry, and the younger children had been kept at the public school.
When Mike entered, his mother was already at home. She usually closed up her business about five o’clock, and went home to get supper.
She looked up as Mike entered, and regarded his companion with some surprise.
“What young leddy have you got with you, Mike?” asked Mrs. Murphy.
“She thinks you are a young lady, Tom,” said Mike, laughing.
“Don’t you know me, Mrs. Murphy?” asked Tom, who had known Mike’s mother for several years.
“By the powers, if it aint Tom. Shure and you’ve had a rise in the world, I’m thinkin’. Why, you’re dressed like a princess!”
“Maybe I am,” said Tom; “but if I was one I’d be richer’n I am now.”
“Tom was took up by a lady,” explained Mike; “but she’s sent her away, and she’s got nothing barrin’ her clo’es. I told her you’d let her sleep here to-night, mother.”
“To be sure I will,” said the kind-hearted woman. “It isn’t much of a bed I can offer you, Tom, but it’s better than sleepin’ out.”
“I can lie on the floor,” said Tom. “I don’t mind that.”
“But why did the leddy turn you out?” inquired the apple-merchant.
Tom told her story, which Mrs. Murphy never thought of doubting.
“She’s a hard, cruel woman. I’ll say that for her, Tom dear,” said Mrs. Murphy. “But never you mind. You’re welcome to stay here, though it’s a poor place. We’re going to have some supper directly, and you must take some with us.”
“I’ve eaten supper,” said Tom.
“What did you have?”
“Two apples.”
“I don’t say nothin’ ag’in’ apples, for it’s them I live by, but tay and toast is better for supper. Biddy, toast the bread, and I’ll set the table. When a body’s tired, a cup of tay goes to the right spot, and you’ll find it so, Tom dear.”
The good-hearted woman bustled about, and set the table, while Biddy, a girl of ten, toasted a large number of slices of bread, for the young Murphys were all blessed with good appetites. The tea soon diffused a fragrant aroma about the little room. Mrs. Murphy, humble as were her means, indulged in one solitary extravagance. She always purchased the best quality of “tay,” as she called it, no matter what might be the price.
“It’s a dale chaper than whiskey,” she used to say, in extenuation of her extravagance. “It’s mate and drink to me both, and warms me up besides, when I’ve got chilled by rason of stayin’ out all day.”
There was a plate of cold meat placed on the table. This, with the tea and toast, constituted Mrs. Murphy’s evening repast.
“You can sit by me, Tom dear,” she said, her face beaming with hospitality. “It isn’t much I’ve got, but you are heartily welcome to what there is. Children, set up to the table, all of you. Mike, see that Tom has enough to ate. There’s one thing I can give you, and that’s a cup of illigant tay, that a quane might not turn up her nose at.”
In spite of the two apples, Tom made room for a fair share of Mrs. Murphy’s supper. Once more she felt that she had a home, humble enough, to be sure, but made attractive by kindness.
“I wish I could stay here,” thought Tom; and it occurred to her that she might be able to make such an arrangement with the old apple-woman, on condition of paying a certain sum towards the family expenses.
CHAPTER XX
TOM SPECULATES IN GOLD
During the evening some of the neighbors came in, and received a hearty greeting from Mrs. Murphy.
“And who is this young leddy?” asked Mrs. O’Brien, looking at Tom.
“It’s a friend of mine,” said Mrs. Murphy.
“Don’t you know me?” asked Tom, who, in the days of her rags and tatters, had known Mrs. O’Brien.
“Shure and it isn’t Tom?” said Mrs. O’Brien, in surprise.
“Did ye iver see such a change?” said Mrs. Murphy. “Shure and I didn’t know her meself when she came in wid my Mike.”
“It’s mighty fine you’re dressed, Tom,” said Mrs. O’Brien. “Your granny aint come into a fortun’, has she?”
“I don’t live with granny now,” answered Tom. “She’s a bad old woman, and she isn’t my granny either.”
“It was only yesterday I saw her, and fine she was dressed too, wid a nice shawl to her back, and quite the leddy, barrin’ a red nose. She says she’s come into some money.”
Tom opened wide her eyes in astonishment. She had speculated more than once on granny’s circumstances, but it had never entered her thoughts that she had taken a step upwards in respectability.
“Where did you see her?” asked Tom.
“She was gettin’ out of a Third Avenue car. She said she had just come from up town.”
“She was lookin’ after me, it’s likely,” said Tom.
“Where did she get her new clothes from?” Tom wondered.
“Maybe she’s been adopted by a rich family in Fifth Avenoo,” remarked Mike,—a sally which nearly convulsed his mother with laughter.
“Shure, Mike, and you’ll be the death of me some time,” she said.
“She’d make an interestin’ young orphan,” continued Mike.
“Hadn’t you better marry her, Mike? and then you’d be my grandfather,” suggested Tom.
“Such a beauty aint for the likes of me,” answered Mike. “Besides, mother wouldn’t want her for a daughter-in-law. She’d likely get jealous of her good looks.”
“O Mike, you’re a case!” said Mrs. Murphy, with a smile on her broad, good-humored face.
So the evening passed, enlivened with remarks, not very intellectual or refined, it is true, but good-natured, and at times droll. Tom enjoyed it. She had a home-feeling, which she had never had at Mrs. Merton’s; and above all she was cheered by the thought that she was welcome, though the home was humble enough.
By and by the callers departed, and the family made preparations for bed.
“I can’t give you a very nice bed, Tom,” said Mrs. Murphy, “but I’ll fix you up a place to slape on the floor wid my Biddy.”
“That’ll be jolly,” said Tom. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d have to sleep out in the street.”
“That would be a pity, entirely, as long as I have a roof over me. There’s room enough for you, Tom, and it won’t be robbin’ any of us.”
Tom slept comfortably. Her bed was not one of the softest; but she had never been used to beds of down, sleeping on a hard straw bed even at Mrs. Merton’s. She woke, feeling refreshed, and in much better spirits than when she set out from Mrs. Merton’s.
When breakfast was over, Mrs. Murphy set out for her place of business, and Mike for his daily occupation. Biddy remained at home to take charge of the younger children. With the rest Tom went too.
“Come back to-night, Tom,” said Mrs. Murphy.
“I should like to,” said Tom, “if you’ll let me pay for my board.”
“Shure we won’t quarrel about that. And what are you goin’ to do, Tom, the day?”
“I don’t know,” said Tom. “If I had any money I’d buy some papers.”
“How much wud you want?”
“Twenty-five cents would give me a start.”
Mrs. Murphy dived into the recesses of a capacious pocket, and drew out a handful of currency.
“I’ll lind it to you,” she said. “Why didn’t you ask me before?”
“Thank you,” said Tom. “I’ll bring it back to-night. You’re very kind to me, Mrs. Murphy,” she added, gratefully.
“It’s the poor that knows how to feel for the poor,” said the apple-woman. “It’s I that’ll trust you, Tom, dear.”
Three months before Tom would have told Mrs. Murphy that she was a trump; but though some of her street phrases clung to her, she was beginning to use less of the slang which she had picked up during her long apprenticeship to a street life. Though her position, even at Mrs. Merton’s, had not been as favorable as it might have been elsewhere, the influences were far better than in the home (if it deserved the name) in which she had been reared, and the association of the school which she attended had, likewise, been of advantage to her. I do not wish it to be understood that Tom had in three months changed from a young Arab into a refined young lady. That would be hardly possible; but she had begun to change, and she could never again be quite the wild, reckless girl whose acquaintance we made at the street-crossing.
Tom went out with Mrs. Murphy, helping her to carry her basket of apples. Leaving her at her accustomed stand, she went to the newspaper offices, and laid in a small supply. With these she went to Fulton Ferry, partly because she fancied that there was no danger of granny’s coming there in pursuit of her. Even if the encounter did take place she was resolved not to go back. Still it was better to avoid it altogether.
Tom was rather late in the field. Most of her competitors had been selling papers for an hour, and some had already sold quite a number. However, not being in the least bashful, she managed to obtain her share of the trade that remained. The boats came in at frequent intervals, loaded down with passengers,—clerks, shop-boys, merchants, bankers, book-keepers, operatives, who made a home in Brooklyn, but spent the day in the busy metropolis.
“Morning papers, sir?” asked Tom, to a rather portly gentleman, who did business in Wall Street.
“Yes; give me the ‘Herald.’”
He drew a coin from his pocket, and handed to Tom.
“Never mind about the change,” he said.
Tom was about to put it in her pocket, supposing from the size that it was a five-cent piece; but, chancing to glance at it more particularly, she saw that it was a five-dollar gold piece.
Her eyes sparkled with joy. To her it was an immense fortune. She had never, in all her life, had so much money before. “But did he mean to give her so much?” was the question that suggested itself to her immediately. He had, to be sure, told her to keep the change, but Tom knew too much of human nature and the ways of the world to think it likely that anybody would pay five dollars in gold for a morning paper, without asking for a return of the change.
Now I am quite aware that in three cases out of four the lucky news-vender would have profited by the mistake, and never thought of offering to correct it. Indeed, I am inclined to think that Tom herself would have done the same three months before. Even now she was strongly tempted to do so. But she remembered the false charge that had been made against her by Mrs. Merton the day before, and the indignation she felt.
“If I keep this, and it’s ever found out, she’ll be sure I took the twenty dollars,” thought Tom. “I won’t do it. I won’t let her call me a thief. I’ll give it back.”
The purchaser of the paper was already half through Fulton Market before Tom made up her mind to return the money. She started on a run, afraid her resolution might give way if she stopped to consider.
She easily recognized the man who had paid her the money.
“Mister,” said Tom, touching him to attract his attention.
“What’s wanted?” he inquired, looking at our heroine.
“Did you mean to give me this?” and Tom displayed the gold piece.
“Did I give it to you?”
“Yes, you bought a ‘Herald,’ you know, and told me to keep the change.”
“Well, why didn’t you?” he asked, in some curiosity.
“I thought you made a mistake.”
“I shouldn’t have found it out. Didn’t you want to keep it?”
“Yes,” said Tom, unhesitatingly.
“Why didn’t you?”
“I thought it would be stealing.”
“You’re a natural phenomenon!”
“Is that a bad name?” demanded Tom.
“No, not in this case. So I told you to keep the change, did I?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you’d better do it.”
“Do you mean it?” asked Tom, astonished.
“To be sure. I never break my word.”
“Then I’ll do it,” said Tom. “Aint I in luck this morning, though?”
“Yes, I think you are. As I probably know more of business than you, my young friend, will you permit me to give you a piece of advice?”
“All right,” said Tom.
“Then, as gold is at a premium, you had better sell that gold piece, and take the value in currency.”
“Where can I sell it?” asked Tom.
“I don’t, in general, solicit business, but, if you have confidence in my integrity, you may call at my office, No. – Wall Street, any time to-day, and I will give you the market value of the gold.”
“I don’t understand all them big words,” said Tom, rather puzzled, “but I’ll go as soon as I have sold my papers.”
“Very good. You may ask for Mr. Dunbar. Can you remember the name?”
Tom said she could, repeating it two or three times, to become familiar with it.
An hour later she entered the broker’s office, looking about her for her acquaintance of the morning.
“Ah, there you are,” said the broker, recognizing her.
“So you want to sell your gold?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Gold sells at 141 to-day. Will that be satisfactory?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Johnson,” said Mr. Dunbar, addressing a clerk, “give that young lady value in currency for five dollars in gold.”
Tom handed in the gold, and received in return seven dollars and five cents. She could hardly credit her good luck, not being familiar with the mysteries of banking.
“Thank you, sir,” said she gratefully, to the broker.
“I hope you will favor us with any future business you may have in our line,” said Mr. Dunbar, with a friendly smile.
“Yes, sir,” answered Tom, rather mystified by his manner, but mentally deciding that he was one of the jolliest gentlemen she had ever met.
When Tom emerged from the office, and was once more in the hurry and bustle of Wall Street, it is very doubtful whether, in that street of millionnaires and men striving to become such, there was a single one who felt so fabulously wealthy as she.
CHAPTER XXI
TOM FALLS INTO THE ENEMY’S HANDS
Tom found herself the possessor of seven dollars and fifty cents, including the quarter which she owed to Mrs. Murphy for money advanced. It was not yet eleven o’clock. She decided to call on Mrs. Murphy, pay back the loan, and inform her of her good luck.
Mrs. Murphy was seated at her stand, keeping a sharp lookout for customers, when she espied Tom approaching.
“Have you sold your papers, Tom?” she asked.
“Yes, Mrs. Murphy. Here’s the money I borrowed of you.”
“Keep it longer; you’ll maybe nade it. I aint afraid to trust you.”
“I don’t need it. I have been lucky. See there!” and Tom displayed a roll of bills.
“Where’d ye get all them?” asked the apple-woman, in amazement.
“A gentleman paid me a gold piece for a ‘Herald,’ and wouldn’t take any change.”
“Is it truth you’re tellin’, Tom?”
“Of course it is. Do you think I’d tell you a lie?”
“Tell me all about it, Tom.”
Tom did so, to the intense interest of Mrs. Murphy, who, after ejaculations as to Tom’s luck, added, “I wish he’d buy some apples of me, and trate me in the same way. And what are you goin’ to do wid your money, Tom, dear?”
“I’m going to get a square meal pretty soon, Mrs. Murphy. If you’ll come along, I’ll treat you.”
“Thank you, Tom, all the same, but I can’t lave my business. You’d better put it in the savings-bank, where it’ll be safe. Maybe you might lose it.”
“Have you got any money in the savings-bank?”
“No, Tom, dear. It takes all I earn for the rint, and atin’ for the childers.”
“I want to live with you, Mrs. Murphy, if you’ll take me.”
“Shure and I’d be glad to have you, Tom, if you’ll put up wid my poor room.”
“I’d rather be there than at Mrs. Merton’s,” said Tom.
After some negotiation, Mrs. Murphy agreed to take Tom as a boarder, furnishing her with lodging, breakfast and supper, for a dollar and a half a week. It seemed a small sum, but it would be a welcome addition to the apple-woman’s weekly income, while it would take Tom from the streets, and give her a cheerful and social home.
“I’ll pay you now for a week,” said Tom. “Then I’ll be all right even if I lose the money.”
After some persuasion, Mrs. Murphy was induced to accept the payment in advance.
“Now I’ll go and get some dinner,” said Tom.
Tom directed her steps to the Belmont House Restaurant, on Fulton Street. It has two rooms,—one for ladies, the other for gentlemen; and is well-patronized by a very respectable class, chiefly clerks and business men. It was of a higher grade than the restaurants which those in Tom’s line of business were accustomed to frequent. Her dress, however, prevented any surprise being felt at her entrance. She sat down at a table, and looked over a bill of fare. She observed that roast turkey was marked forty cents. This was rather a large price for one in her circumstances to pay. However, she had been in luck, and felt that she could afford an unusual outlay.
“Roast turkey and a cup of coffee!” ordered Tom, as the waiter approached the table.
“All right, miss,” said that functionary.
Soon the turkey was set before her, with a small dish of cranberry sauce, and a plate of bread and butter. Two potatoes and the cup of coffee made up Tom’s dinner. She surveyed it with satisfaction, and set to with an appetite.
“I should like to live this way every day,” thought Tom; “but I can’t afford it.”
The waiter brought a check, and laid it beside her plate. It was marked 45 cents.
Tom walked up to the desk near the door, and paid her bill in an independent manner, as if she were accustomed to dine there every day. In making the payment she had drawn out her whole stock of money, and still held it in her hand as she stood on the sidewalk outside. She little guessed the risk she ran in doing so, or that the enemy she most dreaded was close at hand. For just at the moment Tom stood with her face towards Broadway, granny turned the corner of Nassau and Fulton Streets, and bore down upon her, her eyes sparkling with joy and anticipated triumph. She was not alone. With her was a man of thirty-five, bold and reckless in expression, but otherwise with the dress and appearance of a gentleman.
“There’s the gal now!” said granny, in excitement.
“Where?” said her companion, sharing her excitement.
“There, in front of that eating-house.”
“The one with her back towards us?”
“Yes. Don’t say a word, and I’ll creep up and get hold of her.”
Tom was about to put back her money in her pocket, when she felt her arm seized in a firm grasp. Turning in startled surprise, she met the triumphant glance of her old granny.
“Let me alone!” said Tom, fiercely, trying to snatch away her arm.
“I’ve got you, have I?” said granny. “I knowed I’d get hold of you at last, you young trollop! Come home with me, right off!”
“I won’t go with you,” said Tom, resolutely. “I don’t want to have anything to do with you. You haven’t got anything to do with me.”
“Haven’t I, I should like to know? Aint I your granny?”
“No, you aint.”
“What do you mean by that?” demanded Mrs. Walsh, rather taken aback.
“You aint any relation of mine. I don’t know where you got hold of me; but I won’t own such an old drunkard for a granny.”
“Come along!” said granny, fiercely. “You’ll pay for this, miss.”
“Help!” exclaimed Tom, finding that she was likely to be carried away against her will, at the same time struggling violently.
“What’s the matter?” asked a gentleman, who had just come out of the restaurant.
“It’s my grand-child, sir,” said Mrs. Walsh, obsequiously. “She run away from me, and now she don’t want to go back.”
“She hasn’t got anything to do with me,” said Tom. “Help!”
This last exclamation was intended to attract the attention of a policeman who was approaching.
“What’s the trouble?” he demanded, authoritatively.
Mrs. Walsh repeated her story.
“What is the child’s name?” asked the policeman.
“Jane,” answered the old woman, who was at first on the point of saying “Tom.”
“How long has she lived with you?”
“Ever since she was born, till a few weeks ago.”
“What do you say to this?” asked the officer.
“I did live with her; but she beat me, so I left her. She says she is my granny, but she isn’t.”
“Where do you live now?”
“With Mrs. Murphy, in Mulberry Street.”
This intelligence rather astonished granny, who heard it for the first time.
“Is the child related to you?” asked the officer.
“She’s my grandchild, but she’s always been a wild, troublesome child. Many’s the time I have kept awake all night thinkin’ of her bad ways,” said granny, virtuously. “It was only yesterday,” she added, with a sudden thought suggested by the sight of the money which she had seen Tom counting, “that she came to my room, and stole some money. She’s got it in her pocket now.”
“Have you taken any money from your grandmother?” demanded the policeman.
“No, I haven’t,” said Tom, boldly.
“I saw her put it in her pocket,” said granny.
“Show me what you have in your pocket.”
“I’ve got some money,” said Tom, feeling in rather a tight place; “but it was given me this morning by a gentleman at Fulton Ferry.”
“Show it,” said the officer, authoritatively.
Tom was reluctantly compelled to draw out the money she had left,—a little over five dollars. Granny’s eyes sparkled as she saw it.
“It’s the money I lost,” said she. “Give it to me;” and she clutched Tom’s hand.
“Not for Joe!” said Tom, emphatically. “It’s mine, and I’ll keep it.”
“Will you make her give it up?” asked granny, appealing to the policeman. “It’s some of my hard earnings, which that wicked girl took from me.”
“That’s a lie!” retorted Tom. “You never saw the money. There was a gentleman down to Fulton Ferry that give it to me this morning.”
“That’s a likely story,” said granny, scornfully.
“If you don’t believe it you can ask him. He’s got an office on Wall Street, No. —, and his name is Mr. Dunbar. Take me round there, and see if he don’t say so.”
“Don’t believe her,” said granny. “She can lie as fast as she can talk.”
“Ask Mrs. Murphy then. She keeps an apple-stand corner of Nassau and Spruce Streets.”
“You are sure she took this money from you?” inquired the policeman.