earlier on any account. Mr. Cox comes home from the counting-house at
that time, and I always intend to have my dinner ready, and of the best
quality. We usually have soup. Mr. Cox is exceedingly fond of soup and
dessert;" which Mrs. Cox pronounced "desert," as though she had meant
a sandy waste. "Mr. Cox says he enjoys his dessert more than all the
rest of his dinner. Mrs. Lamb dines at six o'clock, but as Mr. Cox is
obliged at present to return to the counting-house at five, that hour
is not convenient for him."
"There she goes!" said Polly. "I never saw Mrs. Cox in the world that
she did not say something about dinner. I must say, I don't think it is
very genteel to talk so much about eating and drinking."
Mrs. Webster now offered her guests a bit of the smoked halibut which
she had been reserving for this grand occasion. Mrs. Randall accepted
it, and expressed herself fond of it, but Mrs. Cox declined.
"I never eat such things at tea," she said in her emphatic and decided
manner. "Relishes for tea are entirely out of fashion, quite out of
date in fact, and so are warm biscuits. They are considered by many
very unwholesome, and Mr. Cox never eats them at tea. This bread and
butter is all the go," she concluded elegantly. "Mrs. Lamb has this
bread and butter."
"Well, I call that polite!" thought Tabby. "Just after she has been
eating them!"
Poor Mrs. Webster! The want of the goblets and silver forks was nothing
to this. After she had taken such pains to provide nice light biscuits,
and had cut her dried beef so thin, and cooked her halibut to a turn,
to be told upon a Mrs. Lamb's high authority, indorsed by a Mrs. Cox,
that relishes were out of fashion, and that nobody ate hot rolls! She
felt herself reduced to the level of a nobody at once.
"Indeed, I think the biscuits are very nice," said quiet Mrs. Randall,
helping herself to another, "and so is the fish. What signifies whether
things are fashionable or not, so long as they are good and convenient?"
But Mrs. Webster was not to be consoled by one who held such views as
these, and applied herself to Mrs. Cox with the intention of gaining
such further information as should prevent her making such fatal
mistakes in future.
"And for breakfast, Mrs. Cox? What do you think about breakfast?"
"Oh! Hot rolls for breakfast by all means, and toast and eggs."
"I like that woman," said Tabby to herself. "I wish I knew where she
lived, and I would go there to-morrow. As for that other woman, she is
just fit to be the mother of that hateful boy who threw the apple at
me."
"Much she knows about gentility!" was Polly's comment. "Mrs. Bond is
as good as she is, any day, and ten times as much of a lady. I should
like to know why she should not call on Mrs. Cox if she wants to do so,
though why she should I can't imagine. And for mother to talk so about
her, when she is for ever sending there for things, and getting Mrs.
Bond to do things for her, and to help her about her work! I would not
ask favours of people that I was ashamed of associating with, for my
part."
Polly's soliloquy was interrupted by a call to supper, and having at
last succeeded in getting the baby to sleep, she laid him on the bed,
sitting by him a few moments to pat and hush him; for she loved her
little brother dearly, and never grudged the time she spent in tending
him.
Meanwhile Tabby was left alone in the kitchen. The table was still
standing, with its attractive-looking plates of meat and cakes, and
the cellar-door was open. The temptation was too much for Tabby. She
sprang upon the table, and Mrs. Webster, coming in from the other room,
was just in time to see Tabby finish a drink out of the cream-jug, and
seize the piece of fish in her mouth. She sprang forward, but the four
feet were too nimble for her two, and puss and fish vanished through
the cellar-door.
"What a naughty kitten!" some of my young readers will doubtless
exclaim. "I don't care what becomes of such a little thief."
It is doubtless very naughty to steal, but let me ask you one question:
Were you ever in all your life very hungry? I daresay you have been
hungry enough to have your dinner or supper taste very good to you,
but did you ever go without food till your head turned round with
giddiness, and ached as though it would split, and your limbs trembled,
and your eyes seemed full of black and green spots, and there was a
pain in your stomach as though a rat was gnawing through it? Unless you
have experienced a sensation like this, you can hardly form a correct
estimate of the temptation presented to poor Tabby, who had been almost
entirely without food for thirty-six hours. Suppose you had eaten
nothing since yesterday morning at breakfast, and had been more than
half that time out of doors, with the thermometer below zero! And then
suppose that, under such circumstances, you had been left alone in the
room with a piece of cake, what do you suppose would become of the cake?
I am not saying that it was not wrong for Tabby to steal. It was very
wrong, and very short-sighted besides; for Polly had fully intended
to divide her supper with the kitten, in which case not only would
she have fared better, but she would have escaped the consequences
of her theft, which, as we shall see, very nearly cost her her life.
Some misgivings, indeed, passed through Tabby's own mind, as she was
devouring her prize behind the pork-barrel, whither she had fled for
safety.
"I know mother would say I ought not to have taken it," she said to
herself, "but I was so hungry, it seemed as though I could not wait
another minute. Well, they will not do anything to me to-night, because
of the company, and to-morrow I will surely find some way of escape."
But Tabby reckoned without her host. Mrs. Cox and Mrs. Randall took
their leave about half-past seven; and no sooner were they gone, than
Mrs. Webster went down to the cellar, armed with broom and candle,
drove Tabby from her place of refuge, and after more than once chasing
her round the cellar, seized her by the back of the neck, and despite
her struggles and scratches, bore her to the upper air. Tabby mewed
piteously, and Polly cried and expostulated, but all in vain.
Mrs. Webster carried her to the fence, and shouted "David!"
A rough-looking man, with a pipe in his mouth, made his appearance from
the next house, which was not much more than a hut.
"Here, I want you to take this cat, and throw her over the bridge. I
will give you an old bag to tie her in, and be sure you put a good
heavy stone in it. Do it directly, and I will give you sixpence."
The bag was produced and handed to David, who promised to execute
the command, and poor Tabby soon found herself enveloped in a warm,
ill-smelling old bag, and going she knew not whither, or rather,
alas she knew too well. In all her previous adventures, she had
never given up the expectation of reaching home, and seeing all her
dear friends again, but now hope itself seemed to forsake her. Her
head whirled round. All sorts of confused thoughts and images passed
through her mind: the happy home she had deserted so wilfully; the
kind and self-sacrificing mother whom she had rewarded with such base
ingratitude, though she had so carefully tended her, and never thought
she could do too much for her; the dear little brother, who loved her
in spite of her unkindness to him.
She seemed to see herself a little helpless being, unable to move a
limb in her own defence, or even to get her eyes wide open, and her
good mother watching and guarding her with the tenderest solicitude.
Then when she began to creep out of her basket, and play about with
Tody, how careful her mother was to keep her out of danger, and how
many hours she had spent in amusing her, and teaching her the use of
her limbs; how she had always given her the best morsels on their
common plate, and how much pains she had taken to teach her to catch
mice for herself. Remembrances of Ella and Marian and all their
kindness, of Tessy's affection and Agnes Warrington's cruelty, mingled
with these reflections, and all seemed confusedly mixed up with Carlo's
bark and the neighing of horses, with the conversation she had lately
heard, and the sobs and entreaties of Polly, interceding with her
hard-hearted mother for the life of her favourite. In the midst of it
all, she heard a rushing sound—knew that the river was near—felt a
sudden shock, and a swift descent, and lost all consciousness as the
cold waters closed over her head, apparently for ever.
CHAPTER SEVENTH.
THE POLICE OFFICE.
IN a few moments Tabby recovered her senses, astonished to find herself
still alive. Alive she certainly was, though thoroughly wet and cold,
and entirely in the dark. She heard the water rushing around her, and
at first she thought she was floating down the stream, but a minute
or two of observation convinced her that she must be stationary, and,
with her usual energy of character, she began to make some desperate
struggles to get out. After much fruitless scratching and biting, she
at last succeeded in making a hole, through which she thrust first her
paws, then her head, and finally her whole body. As soon as she was
out of her prison, she looked around, and discovered to what she owed
her preservation. David, who as usual was more than half-tipsy, had
forgotten to put a stone in the bag, which had consequently floated
instead of sinking, and being swept down by the rapid current, had
lodged upon a long tongue of ice which projected from the shore.
But Tabby did not spend much time in observation, for she felt that
her situation was a very precarious one; and miserable as she was,
the instinct of self-preservation was strong within her. After two or
three ineffectual attempts, she got upon her feet, and began slowly
and cautiously to make her way toward the land. The ice was wet and
slippery, and perhaps no other animal than a cat could have kept
footing upon it; even Tabby found some difficulty in doing so, and had
several falls, at each of which she gave herself up for lost, till,
finding that she was not in the water, a renewed effort was made again
to struggle on. She had almost reached the shore, when a terrible crack
and a violent concussion caused great alarm, and the piece of ice
slowly separated from the bank, and floated down the stream. Tabby made
one more effort for life. Collecting all her little strength, she made
a desperate spring, and, much to her astonishment, found herself safely
on dry land, while the ice which had been the means of saving her life
went rapidly down with the current.
"Well done, little pussy!" said a not unkind voice near her. "That
wasn't a bad jump. A moment more, and it would have been all over with
you."
Tabby looked up in amazement.
The speaker was a boy of twelve or thirteen years old, very poorly
dressed in ragged and coarse clothes, and with an indescribable forlorn
air about him. He was sitting on a log by the river side, and seemed
to have been employed in watching her efforts, for he added: "I didn't
think, when I first spied you out there, that you would ever get safe
to land. Come here and let me dry you off, or you'll freeze to death.
Poor little toad! It isn't so nice to be out in a winter's night with
nothing to eat, and no place to go to—is it, pussy?"
[Illustration: Jack Webster.]
Rough-looking subject as the boy was, his tone of sympathy attracted
Tabby at once. She crept up to him with some difficulty, for she was
growing very cold and stiff, and made a feeble attempt to jump up on
his knee. He took her up tenderly enough, and after rubbing her as dry
as he could with a very ragged handkerchief, he put her in his breast,
and buttoned his loose jacket over her. His kindness and the genial
warmth revived poor Tabby's fast-failing strength, and as the chill
passed off her benumbed limbs, she began feebly to purr her thanks.
"I daresay you are as hungry as I am," said the boy, patting her head,
which she was rubbing against his chin: "but I have nothing to give
you, pussy. But never mind, I guess we can stand it till morning, and
then if I get anything to eat, you shall go shares. Hallo!"
At this moment a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and looking up, he
saw a policeman standing behind him. He rose rather hastily, and Tabby
shrank into her place of concealment.
"Now, my lad, what are you doing here?" was the policeman's first
question.
"Nothing!" was the short answer.
"You have chosen a cold place to do it in, seems to me. Why don't you
go home?"
"For the best reason in the world: because I have no home to go to."
"That's bad, certainly," said Mr. Bond, not unkindly. "But haven't you
any place where you stay?"
"No," was the answer, in a voice which trembled a little. "I don't know
a living soul in this place."
"How did you come here, then?" was the natural question.
"I came here from Buffalo yesterday. My father and mother are dead, and
I haven't got any one to take care of me, or teach me anything, and I
want—" he paused a little, and then went on more firmly—"I want to go
to the House of Refuge."
"To the House of Refuge," repeated the policeman, rather taken aback.
"Well, I have taken a good many boys to the House of Refuge in my time,
but I don't remember of any one's wanting to go of his own accord. But
you know that's where they take the bad boys—you're not a bad boy, are
you?"
"I suppose I am," said the child, without looking up. "Everybody says
so, and when I come to think about it, I guess they are about right."
"You come along with me," said Mr. Bond, "and we'll see what can be
done for you. You can't stay out all night, that's certain, because
you'll freeze to death, and we can't have people freezing to death in
our streets."
"So you want to get an education, do you?" said he, as they trudged
along together, the boy having some trouble to keep up with the long
strides of his tall companion. "Well, an education is a first-rate
thing, there's no doubt about that; I tell my boys and girls so when
they get a little tired of going to school. If I had had the chance
that you have, says I, I should have been glad enough of it."
"If I had had any one to send me to school, I don't think I should ever
have been tired of it," said the boy rather sadly.
"Oh! Well, cheer up. Maybe there's better days coming. It never rains
always, you know, and I'll tell you what—what did you say your name
was?"
"Jack Fletcher," was the answer.
"Well, Jack, it's half the battle with a boy, or a man either, for that
matter, to make a good resolution. You say you're not a good boy,—eh?"
"No," replied Jack. "I haven't had much chance to be good. My father
and mother both drank," he continued, after a little pause, and
lowering his voice, "and one day my mother drank so much that she got
crazy and killed herself. Then my father was taken up for murdering
her, and put in jail, and there he took sick and died. He was sober
then, of course, and when I went to see him, he—he told me to go off to
some place where I wasn't known, and try to make an honest living. I
knew a boy who had been to the House of Refuge, and he told me how they
learned trades there, and what kind of times they had, and I thought
that would be just the place for me. So I begged a passage on a waggon,
and got here yesterday."
"But suppose you could get a place to learn a trade without going
there, wouldn't you like that better?" asked Mr. Bond.
"I don't know about that," replied Jack thoughtfully. "I am afraid I
should not be steady. You see I have been brought up to run in the
street all day long, and it's not easy to settle down to work, unless
one must. It is likely I should get into some scrape, and do something
bad, and so have to be put there, and I would rather go of my own
accord."
"That's very sensible, too," replied Mr. Bond. "Well, here we are at
the police office, and I daresay you won't be sorry to get warm. It is
a bitter night."
"Hallo, Bond, what have you got there?" was the salutation that greeted
them as they entered the room, where the gas-light and coal fire
gave out an amount of light and warmth which seemed little short of
miraculous to Tabby, who had all the time remained close under Jack's
arm. "He doesn't look like a very dangerous customer."
"It's a boy that says he wants to go to the House of Refuge," said
Mr. Bond, setting a stool by the side of the fire as he spoke. "Here,
Jack, sit down and get warm. You must be about frozen through, I should
think."
Jack was glad to sit down, for his knees trembled, and he felt a
strange sensation creeping over him which was not exactly sleepiness or
fatigue. He had been seated only a moment, when the lights seemed to
grow dim and the voices indistinct—his head dropped on his bosom, and
one of the men sprang forward and caught him just in time to prevent
his falling on the floor. The boy had fainted away. They laid him
on a seat that stood at a distance from the fire, brought water and
sprinkled his face, and one of them unbuttoned his jacket.
"Hallo, here's two of them," said he, as poor Tabby became visible,
vainly trying to shrink out of sight. "He's got his cat here.
Whittington and his cat. Well, I've seen lots of cats out at nights,
but this is the first time I ever heard of one being taken up for a
vagrant."
"Don't hurt her, please," feebly pleaded Jack, who was now recovering
his senses.
"Don't you be frightened! Who wants to hurt her? But I say, Bond,
you'll make a great figure in the report to-morrow. Officer Bond
arrested a tortoise-shell kitten on a charge of vagrancy. The kitten
was accompanied by a small boy—how do you feel now, Jack?"
"Better," said Jack faintly, but he could not raise his head without
turning giddy.
Mr. Bond and his companion exchanged glances.
"Have you had any supper, Jack?"
"No, sir."
"Nor dinner either, perhaps?"
"No, nor breakfast either," said Jack, exerting himself to speak. "I
haven't had anything to eat since yesterday noon, when a lady gave me
some bread and butter."
"You just hand me that pan behind you, Foster. My wife put me up some
soup for my supper, and it will be just the thing for him." He set the
pan on the fire, and proceeded to break some sticks into it. "But why
didn't you go in somewhere, and ask for something to eat? Almost any
one would have given you a dinner."
"I didn't want to beg if I could help it," said Jack rather shortly. "I
have had enough of that way of living."
"That's a good principle, too," said Mr. Bond, taking his cookery from
the fire and tasting it. "Now see if you can sit up and eat something."
"May I feed the kitten?" asked Jack, after he had taken a couple of
mouthfuls of the savoury soup. "I expect she is as hungry as I am."
"You eat your supper and I'll take care of the cat," said Mr. Foster,
taking down his own dish, and apparently greatly amused by the whole
affair—"Here, Puss, Puss!"
Tabby had been sadly frightened at first on finding herself in the
police office, a place which she had learned to connect with all manner
of harm, but she had by this time made up her mind that police officers
were very kind-hearted people, and worthy of confidence. She came forth
from her hiding-place under Jack's arm, and sat up on her hind legs to
beg, greatly to the amusement of the two men, who fed her with bread
and cold meat till she could eat no more. She then set seriously about
the task of washing herself, and having put her fur in as neat order
as she could, proceeded to make herself as agreeable as she knew how,
playing off for the entertainment of her hosts all the antics that her
mother and the children had taught her, till finally, wearied out by
her adventures, she crept up to the side of Jack, who was now snoring
on the sofa, and was soon fast asleep.
"O my dear mother!" was her last waking reflection. "What would you say
if you knew that your daughter was spending the night in the police
office?"
"Well, Jack, have you had your sleep out?" asked Mr. Bond, about
half-past six the next morning. "If you have, I think you had better
come home with me, and get some breakfast, and then we will see what is
to be done with you. Never mind your clothes," he added, seeing Jack
carefully surveying his torn and ragged garments. "We will find a way
to set that to rights before long."
"May I take the cat?" asked Jack, looking wistfully at Tabby, who
sat purring by the stove. "I don't like to leave her. When I saw her
crawling over the ice last night, trying to make her way to land, I
thought she was a good deal like myself, trying to make a living, and
when she made that last jump from the water and got safe to shore, I
felt encouraged, as though things would go right with me yet."
"Oh! Yes, bring her along," said Mr. Bond, who seemed all once to have
got something in the corner of his eye. "My children like nothing
better than a kitten. Children have got to play with something, and I
have a notion that it makes them tender-hearted to have animals about."
"Unless they abuse them," remarked Jack as he once more fastened Tabby
under his jacket. "Some young ones are so awful cruel to cats and dogs."
"Not mine!" said Mr. Bond emphatically. "I never would let any child
abuse an animal if I could help it. But my children are pretty good
children, though I say it."
Jack thought within himself that they had no excuse for being
otherwise, and intimated as much.
"Well, I don't know about that. There is a wonderful deal in bringing
up, no doubt, but there are many children who have good and kind
mothers and fathers, and yet turn out anything but well. We have had
young chaps brought to the office as drunk as beasts, whose parents are
some of the first as well as the best people in this town."
"They must be great fools," said Jack.
"That they are, and worse than fools. Some of them reform and make
pretty decent sort of men, after all, but the chances are very much
against it. A great many go to swift destruction, and even if they seem
to do well for a time, they easily fall into bad courses again. We hear
a good deal about young fellows sowing their wild oats. I have seen too
much of that kind of farming, and I can tell you, that folks that sow
wild oats have got to reap wild oats, and a bitter harvest it is too.
A reformed drunkard is never safe. The first temptation overcomes him,
and there are plenty of rascals who want no better fun."
"I know that," said Jack. "My father broke off drinking several times,
and was as steady as any one for two or three months. Then we did
pretty well, for he was an excellent workman, and could always have
plenty to do. But sooner or later his old cronies would get hold of
him, and coax or force him to drink, and the moment he tasted a drop,
he was gone. I think he might have done better, if things had been
different at home, but there was not much encouragement, when all he
earned was wasted, and worse. Many's the time I've wished there was not
a drop of spirits in the world."
"Many a one has wished that besides you," said Mr. Bond. "But here we
are at home in good time. I smell the coffee and fried pork even here."
Mr. Bond, as he spoke, stopped at the gate of a neat little white
house, with green blinds, and a garden in front, every inch of which
seemed to be under cultivation. Three or four little heads were visible
at the front windows, all of which disappeared on the instant, each one
trying to be first to tell mother that father had come, and a strange
boy with him. Mrs. Bond met them at the door, and the first glance at
her kind motherly face reassured poor Jack, who had had many misgivings
as to the reception he was likely to meet with. Mr. Bond spoke a few
words to her in a low tone, and then turning to Jack invited him to
enter.
"Yes, come in, boy, and get some breakfast," said Mrs. Bond heartily.
"You'd like to wash yourself first, I daresay—well, come in here,"
opening, as she spoke, the door of a small bedroom, already put in neat
order for the day. "I'll give you some hot water and soap directly.
Tom, get that suit of clothes I mended up the other day. I think they
will fit him."
Washed and combed, and dressed in a suit of old but neatly patched
clothes, Jack was a very different-looking boy from the forlorn vagrant
who had been brought to the police office the night before. The
consciousness of having found friends, and being treated with kindness,
had brought a light to his eye and a different expression to his mouth,
and Mr. Bond felt his first impression confirmed, that he was a very
good-looking boy.
"You see," he had just been saying to his wife, "I have had a good deal
of experience with these subjects, and I think I can tell pretty well
when a boy is telling the truth, and when he is not. Now, I took a
liking to this fellow from the first, and I did not think any the worse
of him for his kindness to the kitten. Come, Jack, if you are ready;
put the cat down for the present."
All the children were seated in the neat kitchen, where the breakfast
table was already set, each with a New Testament in his hand, and the
large family Bible was laid open on the table, ready for the father's
use.