Terry's Trials and Triumphs

CHAPTER I

A POOR START

"Give it to him, Terry – that's the style!" "Punch his head!" "Hit him in the face, Mike!" "Good for you, Terry – that was a daisy!" "Stick to him, me hearty; ye'll lick him yet!"

The shouts came from a ring of ragged, dirty youngsters, who were watching with intense excitement a hand-to-hand and foot-to-foot fight between two of their own kind – a rough-and-tumble affair of the most disorderly sort.

They were not well-matched combatants, the one called Terry being much inferior in size and weight to the other; but he evidently had the sympathy of the majority of the spectators, and he displayed an amount of vigour and agility that went far to make up for his deficiencies in other respects.

In point of fact, he was not fighting his own battle, but that of little Patsy Connors, whose paltry, yet to him precious, plaything had been brutally snatched away from him by Mike Hoolihan, and who had appealed to Terry to obtain its return.

The contest had waged but a few minutes, and the issue was still uncertain, when a shrill cry of, "The peelers! the peelers! they're comin' up the street!" caused a dispersion of the crowd, so speedy and so complete that the boys composing it seemed to vanish like spirits; and when the big blue-coated, silver-buttoned policemen reached the spot, there was nothing to arrest but a woebegone puppy, who regarded them with an expression that meant as plainly as possible, —

"Please, sirs, it wasn't me; and I don't know where they've gone to."

So the guardians of the peace were fain, after giving an indignant glance around, to retire in good order, but with empty hands.

A life divided between Blind Alley and the Long Wharf could hardly have had a hopeful outlook. Blind Alley was the most miserable collection of tumble-down tenements in Halifax. It led off from the narrowest portion of Water Street, in between two forbidding rows of filthy, four-storied houses, nearly every window of which represented a family, and brought up suddenly against the grim and grimy walls of a brewery, whence issued from time to time the thick, oppressive vapours of steaming malt.

The open space between the rows of houses was little better than a gutter, through which you had to pick your way with careful steps if you did not wish to carry off upon your boots and clothing unsavoury reminders of the place.

Little wonder, then, that so soon as the children of Blind Alley were big enough to walk they hastened to desert their repulsive playground, in spite of the shrill summons back from their unkempt mothers, who, though they made no attempt to keep them clean, loved them too much to think with composure of their being exposed to the many dangers of busy, bustling Water Street.

It is safe to say that you could not peer into Blind Alley during any of the hours of daylight without hearing stout Mrs. M'Carthy, or red-haired Mrs. Hoolihan, or some other frowsy matron with no less powerful lungs, calling out from her window, —

"Patsy! Norah! where are ye now, ye little villains? Ye're the plague of my life wid yer always gettin' out of me sight. Come back wid ye now, or I'll beat the very life out o' ye."

And if the poor little urchins had not managed to get around the corner so as to be out of sight, they would slink dejectedly back to wait for a more favourable opportunity.

Terry Ahearn's home, if so sweet a name could rightly be given to such wretched quarters, was in the last house on the left-hand side, the two squalid rooms which served all the purposes of kitchen, parlour, and bedrooms being on the second floor, and right against the brewery wall. Here he had been born, and had grown up pretty much as the weeds grow – according to his own devices. Although the only survivor of several children, his father, who bore the unprepossessing nickname of "Black Mike," hardly ever noticed him, unless it was to swear at him or cuff him. When sober, Black Mike was sulky, and when drunk, quarrelsome, so that Terry had many excuses for not loving him. As most of Mike's earnings went over the bar at the Crown and Anchor, his wife was obliged to go out scrubbing in order to provide the bread and molasses which, with a few potatoes and an occasional bit of meat, formed the staple of Terry's diet.

With anything like a fair chance, poor Peggy Ahearn would have made a tolerably good mother. But her married life had been one long martyrdom, which had broken her spirit and soured her temper. She loved Terry with all her heart, and he loved her in return; yet an observer of their mutual relations might well have thought otherwise. He was very apt to be saucy to her if his father was not near, and she rarely addressed him in terms of affection or gentleness.

From such surroundings Terry, naturally enough, was only too glad to escape. Even the public school was more endurable, especially during the long cold winter. In the bright long days of summer there was the Long Wharf, on which his father worked, and where Terry's companions gathered every day, rain or shine, from the beginning of May to the end of October.

In Terry's general appearance there was nothing at first sight to distinguish him from any of the other "wharf rats" who were his constant companions. They all wore battered hats, ragged clothes, and dirty faces. They all had a fine capacity for shirking work, and for making a great deal of noise when they were enjoying themselves.

If you had occasion to talk with Terry, however, you would be a dull observer if you did not notice certain qualities of character indicated in his face and form which suggested the thought that there was good stuff in the lad, and that if he had a chance he might turn out to be of some use despite his unpropitious surroundings.

He had a bright, pleasant countenance of the genuine Irish type, thickly dotted with deep-tinted freckles; a pair of frank, brown eyes; a mop of hair with a decided tendency towards curls and redness; and a well-knit, full-sized frame, whose every muscle was developed to its utmost capacity, and within which there beat a big warm heart, although that might seem to be doubtful sometimes when its owner was in a particularly mischievous mood.

"Sure, an' I don't know what's ever to be the end of ye," said Mrs. Ahearn one day, in a more thoughtful tone than was usual with her, after scolding her son for one of his pranks which she had just found out. "Ye've got wits enough to be a gentleman, if ye only had a mind to it; but never a bit do ye seem to care, so long as there's a bite for ye to eat."

Terry's response was so surprising that it fairly took his mother's breath away; for, drawing himself up to his full height, and putting on a look of the utmost determination, he exclaimed, —

"And it's a gentleman I mean to be some day, and then it's yourself that will ride in a carriage with glass sides, as fine as Miss Drummond's."

Mrs. Ahearn's eyes and mouth opened wide with astonishment. What had come over her boy that made him talk in that style? Ride in a carriage indeed! Faith, the highest expectation she ever permitted herself to entertain was of deliverance from the drudgery of the wash-tub. If that could only be accomplished in some other way than by dying, she would be well content.

"Listen to him!" she cried. "It's crazy the boy is. Me ride in a carriage! Sure the only ride I'll ever get in a carriage with glass sides will be when I'm going to the cimitry."

Then Terry did a still more remarkable thing. Whether it was his mother's reference to the hearse, or something in his own mind that stirred him, can only be conjectured, but running up to Mrs. Ahearn he caught her round the waist and gave her a hearty hug, saying, —

"Ye'll have many a ride in a carriage, and with glass sides too, mother, before that."

Then he darted off down the stairs, whistling "St. Patrick's Day in the Morning" with all his might, while his mother fell into a chair in sheer bewilderment at her boy's utterly novel behaviour.

Certainly there had been nothing in Terry's past record to give ground for hope of his ever attaining the status of a gentleman owning a carriage. To do as little work and to have as much play as possible seemed to be his ideal of life. More than once a situation as errand-boy had been obtained for him; but he soon forfeited them by neglect of duty, and returned rejoicing to his friends on Long Wharf. Unless a decided change of disposition took place, he bid fair to turn out nothing better than one more recruit for the wretched regiment of "street loafers" that is characteristic of every maritime city.

Long Wharf, Terry's "happy hunting ground," so to speak, it must be admitted, possessed a multitude of attractions for boys of his kind. It held an unquestioned pre-eminence among the wharves of Halifax for size and superiority of position, thrusting itself out prominently from their midst into the heart of the harbour, while the rest curved away on either hand in undistinguishable monotony. From the foot of Long Wharf you could comfortably command the whole water-line as from no other vantage-ground. Hence, in addition to being one of the busiest places in the city during the day, it was in the summer evenings the favourite resort of the whole neighbourhood – men, women, and children gathering there to enjoy the cool breezes, and to watch the pleasure-boats gliding past with their merry occupants.

The wharf was the centre of bustling activity all summer long. From it sailed lines of steamers to the bleak rugged coasts of Newfoundland and to the fascinating fairy-land of the West Indies, while others voyaged across the ocean to the metropolis of the world. When they returned laden with costly cargoes, the schooners and other sailing-vessels gathered round with gaping holds that had to be filled, and what they did not carry off went into the huge warehouses which stood in opposing rows clear up to the street.

By virtue of his relationship to Black Mike, Terry had the freedom of the wharf. It was about the only benefit his father conferred upon him, and he made the most of it, scraping acquaintance with the sailors, especially the cooks of the steamers, running occasional errands for the storekeeper, who might order him off the premises at any time he saw fit, fishing for perch and tomcods, bathing in the north dock at the risk of arrest by the first policeman who should happen along, and having grand games of "I spy" among the maze of stores and sheds.

Of course, this kind of life could not go on for ever, and there were times when Terry paused in his eager quest for amusement long enough to ask himself what he would like to be and to do for a living. The answers to the question were as various as Terry's moods. He fain would be a sailor, soldier, fireman, policeman, or coachman, according as he had been most lately impressed with the advantages and attractions of that particular occupation. He even sometimes let his thoughts aspire as high as the position of clerk in the offices of Drummond and Brown, the owners of Long Wharf. But that was only in moments of exceptional exaltation, and they soon fell back again to their wonted level.

This last idea, remote as the possibility of its fulfilment might seem, had especial vigour imparted into it one morning by a few words that Miss Kate Drummond, the only daughter of the senior partner, happened to let fall. She had driven down with her own pony to take her father home to lunch, and the wharf being such a noisy place, had asked Terry, who chanced to be lounging near by, wondering if he would ever be the owner of so fine an equipage, if he would be good enough to hold the pony's head while she sat in the carriage awaiting her father's coming.

Struck by Terry's prepossessing albeit somewhat dirty countenance, she thought she might while away the time by asking him some questions about himself. Terry answered so promptly and politely that she became quite interested in him, and finally began to sound him as to his plans for the future.

"Do you know, Terry," said she, with a winning smile that sent a thrill of pleasure clear down to the tips of the boy's bare toes, "I believe something good might be made out of you. Your face tells me that you've got it in you to make your way in the world. Many a rich and famous man had no better start than you. Wouldn't you like to try as they did?"

Terry turned away his head to hide the blushes that glowed through the tan and freckles on his cheeks, and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

"I don't know, mum," said he at last. "I'd like to be a gentleman, and keep a carriage some day."

Miss Drummond gave a pleasant laugh; the answer was so frankly characteristic. To be a gentleman and to ride in a carriage seemed to be the working people's highest ideal of earthly bliss.

"Well, Terry," she responded, taking care that there should be sympathy, not ridicule, in her tone; "if that is your ambition, the way is open to you to try to accomplish it. My grandfather began as a little office-boy, and he had more than one carriage of his own before he died."

The look that Terry gave Miss Drummond on hearing these words made her blush a little in her turn; it was such a curious blending of bewilderment and joy. That this radiant creature, who seemed almost as far removed from him as an angel of heaven, should have had a grandfather who was a mere office-boy, was a surprising revelation to him. At the same time, what a vista of hope it opened up! If old Mr. Drummond, whom he remembered seeing years before, had worked his way up so well, could not others do it also?

Not knowing just what to say, Terry kept silence, and the situation was presently relieved by the appearance of Mr. Drummond. As Miss Drummond gathered up the reins, she gave the boy another of her lovely smiles.

"Thank you very much, Terry," she said; "and you'll think over what I've been saying to you, won't you?"

Terry pulled off his ragged cap in token of promise to do so, and the light carriage whirled away, leaving him with thoughts such as had never stirred his brain before. Of course he knew that men had made their way up from humble beginnings to high positions, but the fact had hitherto never been so closely brought home to him; and it was while under the excitement of this idea that he so astonished his mother as related above.

CHAPTER II

THE WAY OPENS

The seed thus sown by Miss Drummond began to take root at once. Terry now gave more thought to getting a chance to make a start in life than he did to having a good time. And here, as it happened, fortune favoured him in a most unusual way. On the Saturday morning of the week after the talk which had set him thinking, he was sitting at the end of the Long Wharf watching a big steamer making her way slowly up the harbour. It being the noon hour, the wharf hands were all away at dinner, and the place was almost deserted.

Suddenly he was startled out of his reverie by the sound of hoofs beating with alarming rapidity upon the resounding planks, and turning round he saw what caused him to spring to his feet with every nerve and muscle athrill. Thundering down the wharf in blind and reckless flight came Miss Drummond's pony, while in the carriage behind sat the owner, tugging desperately upon the reins, her face white and set with terror.

Acting upon the first impulse of the moment, Terry ran forward, shouting and waving his cap. Then, seeing that to be of no avail, he sprang at the maddened creature's head, hoping to seize the reins. But by a quick swerve the pony eluded him, and the next moment plunged headlong off the end of the wharf, dragging the carriage and its helpless occupant after her. There was a piercing shriek, a splash, a whirl of seething foam, and then the clear green depths closed over all!

For the first moment, Terry, overcome by the startling suddenness of the accident, knew not how to act. Then the impulse to rescue welled up mightily in his breast, and at once he leaped into the disturbed waters, which closed over his curly head.

Rising almost instantly to the surface, he looked eagerly about him, and caught sight of a hand thrust up in the agony of a struggle for life. A few quick strokes brought him to it, and then, taking in the situation intuitively, he swerved round so as to grasp Miss Drummond at the neck. He had not spent his life about a wharf without learning something of the difficulty of dealing with drowning persons, and that, strong, expert swimmer as he was, he must not suffer those hands to fasten their frantic grip upon him, or it would mean death for both.

So, deftly avoiding the girl's wild clutch, he took good hold of her from the back, and saying beseechingly, "Keep ye still now, ma'am, and I'll save ye all right," shoved her through the water in the direction of the wharf. Happily she was a young woman of rare self-possession. As soon as she felt Terry's firm hand her terror gave way to trust. She ceased her vain strugglings, and committed herself to her rescuer. Otherwise, indeed, the poor boy could hardly have been equal to the task. As it was, his strength just lasted until he reached the first row of barnacle-covered spiles; pressing Miss Drummond up to which he hoarsely directed her – "Take good hold of that now, ma'am, and I'll yell for somebody."

But he did not need to yell twice. Already helpers had gathered above them, and were shouting down words of encouragement; and a moment later a boat darted round the corner of the wharf, propelled by eager oarsmen.

On being lifted carefully in, Miss Drummond, yielding to the reaction, fainted for the moment; whereat Terry, who had never seen a woman faint before, set up a wail of grief, thinking she must be dead.

"Oh, the dear lady's dead!" he cried. "Ye must be getting a doctor quick."

But the others reassured him, and to his vast delight the blue eyes opened again to give him a look of inexpressible gratitude ere the boat touched the landing-steps.

Here Mr. Drummond, pale and trembling, the first thrill of numbing horror having just given place to ecstatic joy, awaited them. The instant the boat was within reach he sprang into it, and, regardless of her dripping garments, clasped his daughter to his breast, kissing her again and again, while his quivering lips murmured, "My darling, my darling! God be thanked for your rescue!"

Releasing herself gently from his arms, Miss Drummond reached out her hand for Terry, who was just scrambling awkwardly ashore.

"Don't forget to thank him too, father," she said, with a meaning smile.

Thus reminded, Mr. Drummond, blushing at the excess of feeling which had caused him to forget everything save that his only daughter, the joy and pride of his life, had been saved from death, laid hold of Terry, and drew him back into the boat, where, taking both the boy's hands in his, he said in tones of deep emotion, —

"My boy, you have done my daughter and me a service we can never adequately repay. But all that grateful hearts can do we will not fail to do. Tell me your name and where you live."

Poor Terry was so abashed at being thus addressed by the great Mr. Drummond that his tongue refused its office. But one of the bystanders came to his relief.

"Sure and he's Black Mike's son, sur, and he lives up Blind Alley," was the information volunteered.

Accepting it as though it came from Terry himself, Mr. Drummond, giving the boy's hands another grateful shake, said, —

"Thank you. You will hear from me before the day ends."

Then taking his daughter by the arm, he continued, —

"Come now, darling; we must make all haste up to my office, and see what can be done for you."

Not until she stepped upon the wharf did Miss Drummond remember her pony. Then the question as to what had become of it flashed into her mind, and she turned to look down the wharf, exclaiming, —

"Oh, but my pony! Poor, dear Dolly! What's become of her?"

"Never mind the pony, dear," said Mr. Drummond; "the men will look after her. Come, come; you'll catch your death of cold staying out here in your dripping clothes."

Somewhat reluctantly Miss Drummond obeyed. Reassuringly though her father had spoken, she had misgivings as to her pony's fate – misgivings which were in fact only too well founded; for, dragged to the bottom by the weight of the carriage, the poor creature had been drowned in spite of its desperate struggles.

When the Drummonds disappeared, Terry found himself the centre of a circle of admirers, each of whom sought in his own way to give expression to his admiration and envy.

"Sure and your fortune's made this day, Terry, me boy," said the storeman, who wished in his heart that he had been lucky enough to rescue his employer's daughter. "Mr. Drummond's not the man to forgit his word; and didn't he say he'd do anything in the world for ye?"

But Terry's triumph was complete when the appearance of his father lounging sullenly back to work, with a short clay pipe between his teeth, was hailed with shouts from the crowd of, —

"Mike! Mike! come here wid ye, till we tell ye what yer boy's been doin'. Oh, but you're the lucky man to have a boy like Terry!"

Without a change in his dark countenance, or a quickening of his step, Black Mike drew near, and silently awaited explanations. When the matter was made clear to him, his face did brighten a little; but whether it was with pride at his son's achievement, or selfish pleasure at the prospect of the benefits that might accrue from it, the keenest observer would have been puzzled to say.

He managed, however, to get out something that more closely approached praise than anything Terry had ever heard from his lips before, and this delighted the boy so that he had to execute a few steps of his favourite clog dance to relieve his feelings. Then, bethinking himself that he had stayed long enough inside his uncomfortably wet clothing, he raced up the wharf, and made for his home in Blind Alley.

Here his mother received him with a shower of questions, in the answering of which he found rare delight.

"Me blessed boy!" the excited woman exclaimed, her feelings strangely divided betwixt horror at the thought of the risk her son had run and joy at its successful issue. "It's proud I am of you this day. No doubt but ye'll be your mother's comfort."

"And make ye ride in a carriage with glass sides, eh, mother?" said Terry with a merry twinkle in his eye.

"Ah! now don't be talking such foolishness, Terry," returned Mrs. Ahearn, in a tone that implied to do so was tempting Providence perchance. "If your old mother has only a bit and sup sure to the end of her days, and a decent gown to put on, she'll be content enough without the carriage."

That afternoon Mr. Drummond picked his way carefully through the perils of Blind Alley to the grimy tenement where the Ahearns abode, and inquired for Terry. The latter, having exchanged his wet garments for the only others his scanty wardrobe contained, had gone down again to Long Wharf; so, after exchanging a few kind words with his mother, Mr. Drummond followed him thither, saying to himself, as he cautiously stepped from stone to stone, for the alley was little better than a mere muddy gutter, "The boy must be detached from these surroundings if anything is to be made of him. And he has a bright face. He ought to have good stuff in him. Certainly he shall have a fair trial at my hands, for I owe him more than money can repay."

On reaching his office, Mr. Drummond sent one of the clerks out to hunt Terry up, and presently he returned with the lad in tow, looking very bashful and ill at ease. He was attired in his "Sunday best," and boasted a face and hands of unwonted cleanliness. The merchant gave him a warm greeting, and made him sit down in a chair in front of him, while he scanned his countenance closely.

"My dear boy," said he after a pause, and seeming well satisfied with the result of his inspection, "as I have already told you, I feel that I am indebted to you for a service the worth of which cannot be put down in money; and it is not by offering you money that I would prove my gratitude. The money would be soon spent, leaving you no better, and possibly worse, than before it was given you. No; you have saved my daughter's life, and in return I want to save yours, though in a somewhat different way. Look me straight in the eyes, please."