She jumped to her feet, threateningly. "Now you quit! The next thing
you'll be saying is that your name is Whitelaw, and that I stole you.
Take that, you nasty little brat!"
A smack on the cheek brought the color to his face, and the tears to
his eyes. "No, I won't, mudda. I won't say you stole me, or that my
name is--" oddly enough he had caught it--"or that my name is Whitelaw.
My name is Tom Coburn, and I'm your little boy."
Rushing at her in the big outpouring of his love, he threw his arms
about her and cried against her waist. He cried so seldom that
his grief drove her to one of her paroxysms of repentance. Her
self-reproaches abating, all she could do to comfort him was to promise
him a book, and begin to teach him to read.
The book was procured two days later, and by a method new to him.
Doubtless some other means could have been adopted, but the necessity
for sparing pennies had become imperative. Moreover, she had never
willingly looked at print since the day when she opened a paper to find
that, without knowing who she was, all the forces of the country had
been organized against her.
They went out together. After traversing a series of streets he had
never been in before they stopped in front of a little shop, in the
window of which stationery, ink, wallpaper, rubber bands, and books
were arranged in artistic confusion. The impression on the fancy of a
little boy already groping toward the treasures of the mind was like
that made on the tourist in Dresden by the heaped up riches of the
Grüne Gewölbe.
The geography of the shop was explained to him before entering. The
stationery counter was on the right as soon as you passed the door.
The children's books were opposite, on the left. Books forming a cheap
circulating library were back of that, and opposite these, where the
shop was dark, were the wallpapers, in small, tight rolls on shelves.
She was going to inspect wallpapers. The woman in the shop would
exhibit them. He would remain alone in the front part of the shop, and
close to the counter with the children's books. He was to keep alert
and attentive, waiting for a sign which she would give him. When she
turned round in the dark part of the shop, and called out, "Are you all
right, darling?" he was to understand it as permissible to slip from
the counter any small work on which he could lay his hands, and button
it up inside his overcoat. He was to do it quickly, keeping his booty
out of sight, and above all saying nothing about it. The plan was
exciting, with a savor of adventure and manly incentive to skill.
If in the Grüne Gewölbe you were told you could take anything you
pleased you would have some of Tom Coburn's sense of enchantment as
he stood by the book counter, waiting for the sign. He could see his
mother dimly. More dimly still he could follow the movements of the
shop-woman eager for a sale. Sample after sample, the wallpapers
were unrolled, and hung on an easel where their flowers lighted the
obscurity. Even at a distance he could do justice to their beauty, but
more captivating than their glories were the wonders at his hand. Pages
in which children and animals disported in colors far beyond those of
nature were piled in neat little rows, and so tempting that he ached
for the signal. He couldn't choose; there was too much to choose from.
He would put out his hand without looking, guided by fate.
"Are you all right, darling?"
Curiously to the little boy, the question came just when he himself
could perceive that the shop-woman had dived beneath the counter for
another example of her wares. All the conditions were propitious. No
one was entering the shop; no one was looking through the window.
Without knowing the moralities of his act, he understood the need for
secrecy. He stretched forth his arm. His fingers touched paper. In the
fraction of a fraction of a second the object was within his overcoat,
and pressed to his pounding heart.
A few minutes later his mother came smiling and chatting down toward
the exit, giving her address, which the shop-woman jotted in a
notebook. "I think it will have to be the pale-green background with
the roses. The room is darkish, and it would light it up. But I'll
decide by to-morrow, and let you know. Yes, that's right. Mrs. F.H.
Grover, 321 Blaisdel Avenue. So much obliged to you. Good morning."
Having bowed themselves out they went some yards up the street before
the little boy dared to express his new wonderment.
"Mudda, what did you say you was Mrs. F.H. Grover for? And we don't
live on Blaisdel Avenue. We live on Orange Street."
"You mind your own business. Did you get your book? Well, that's what
we went for, isn't it?"
The expedition having proved successful, it was tried on other planes.
Now it was in the line of groceries; now in that of hardware; now in
that of drygoods; now in that of fruit. Needed things could be used;
useless things could be sold, especially after they had moved to
distant neighborhoods. While the procedure didn't supply an income, it
eked out very helpfully such income as remained.
It furnished, moreover, a motive in life, which was what they had
lacked hitherto. There was something to which to give themselves. It
was like devotion to an art, or even a religion. They could pursue it
for its own sake. For her especially this outside interest appeased
the wild something which wasted her within. She grew calmer, more
reasonable. She slept and ate better. She had fewer fits of frenzy.
With but faint pangs of misgiving the little boy enjoyed himself.
He enjoyed his finesse; he enjoyed the pride his mother took in him.
In proportion as they grew more expert they enlarged their field,
often reversing their rôles. There were times when he created the
distraction, while she secreted any object within reach. They did this
the more frequently after she became recognized as his superior in
selection.
For a superior in selection the great department stores naturally
offered the widest field for operation. They approached them, however,
cautiously, going in and out and out and in for a good many days before
they ventured on anything. When they did this at last it was amid the
crowding and pushing of a bargain day.
The system evolved had the masterly note of simplicity. The little
boy carried a satchel, of the kind in which school-boys sometimes
carry books. He stood near his mudda, or farther away, according to
the dictates of the moment's strategy. On the first occasion he kept
close to her, sincerely admiring a display of colored silk scarves
conspicuously marked down to the price at which it was intended, even
before their importation, that they should be sold. Women thronged
about the counter, the little boy and his mudda having much ado to edge
themselves into the front to where these products of the loom could be
handled.
The picking and choosing done, the mother still showed some indecision.
"I'll just ask my sister to step over here," she confided to the
saleswoman. "Her judgment is so much better than mine. Run over, dear,
to your Aunt Mary," she begged of the boy, "and ask her to come and
speak to me." Holding the scarf noticeably in her hands, she smiled at
the saleswoman affably. "I'll just make room for this lady, who seems
to be in a hurry."
She did not step back; she merely allowed herself to be crowded out.
From the front row she receded to the second, from the second to the
third. Keeping in sight of the saleswoman, she looked this way and
that, plainly for Aunt Mary to appear. At times she made little dashes,
as Aunt Mary seemed to come within sight. From these she did not fail
to return, but on each occasion to a point more distant from that of
her departure. With sufficient time the poor saleswoman, who had fifty
other customers to attend to, would be likely to forget her, for a few
minutes if no more.
The moment seemed to have come. With the scarf thrown jauntily over
her arm where anyone could see it, the mother forced her way amid
the crowds in search of her little boy. If intercepted she had her
explanation. He had gone on an errand, and had not come back. When she
had found him she would return and pay for the scarf, or decide not to
take it. Her story couldn't help being plausible.
"Aunt Mary" was a spot agreed upon near one of the side doors, and far
from the center of interest in silk scarves. Agreed upon was also a
little bit of comedy, for the benefit of possible lookers-on.
"Oh, my dear, I've kept you waiting so long. I'm so sorry. Tell your
mother this is the best I could do for her. I knew you were waiting, so
I didn't let the lady wrap it up. Open your bag, and I'll put it in."
The bag closed, the little boy went out through one door, and his
mother through another. The point where she was to rejoin him was not
so far away but that he could walk to it alone.