the plates with bits of bread,--as she had done ever since she could
remember and had seen her mother do in the short "better days" when they
had a pretty home and her mother had always herself washed the best
china in the inside pantry,--and straightened the furniture and hung up
various articles that littered the floor so that there was room to move
about. By this time Billy was ready for drying, which Bird did so gently
that he did not even wince, for she had ministered to her father, seen
her father care for her mother, and God had given her the best gift that
a girl, be she child or woman, can have,--the gift of loving touch, of
doing the right thing almost unconsciously for the weak or helpless.
Billy, clean, refreshed, with his bright hair brushed into a wreath
around his forehead, sitting in his little chair on the fire-escape,
and being fed with bread and milk by Bird, who talked to him as he ate,
was a different being from the crumpled little figure that had only a
few moments before looked so pathetic sitting in his high-chair, head on
table.
As Bird gave him the last morsel and wiped his mouth, he leaned backward
to where she knelt behind him and, clasping his arms around her neck,
pulled her head down to him, and, nestling there, whispered, "Billy
loves Bird very much, and she must stay close by him forever 'n' ever,
won't she?"
"See, that must be Tessie's window down there," she said, not trusting
herself to answer and catching sight of a white rag hanging from the
blind of a low building that stood in the rear of a shop that fronted on
the next street. It was an old-fashioned, two-story, wooden house, with
dormer windows in a roof that had been once shingled. There were a dozen
such in Laurelville, and as Bird looked at it she wondered how it came
to be there, built in on all sides, and if it didn't miss the garden
that must have once surrounded it.
Then as she looked she saw the outline of a face inside the window.
It was so far down and across that she could not distinguish the
features, but she waved the towel she held, and Billy shook his hand.
Presently something white waved back, and thus a telegraph of love
and sympathy crossed the dreary waste of brick and clothes-lines, and
put the three in touch, and the Bird, who had been taken from the
country wilds and put in a city cage, and the two little cripples were
no longer alone, for even at these back windows there was some one to
wave to and respond.
Mrs. O'More was in a better mood when, an hour later, having finished
the gown, she came back to the kitchen to find the dishes washed and set
away, and Billy sitting contentedly in his chair throwing crumbs to try
to coax some pigeons that lived in the stable next door from the roof to
the fire-escape.
"I'll take him up to the doctor's now," she said to Bird, without
vouchsafing any remarks upon the improved appearance of the kitchen,
though she saw it all. "You can come along with me if you like, or you
can stop here and look about and rest yourself a bit. There's plenty of
passing to be seen from the front room."
Bird said she thought she would rather stay at home.
"Mind, now, and lock the inside hall door as soon as we've gone and
don't let anybody in, for, in spite of the catch on the door below,
there's always pedlers and one thing and another pushing up."
After Mrs. O'More had left, Bird went through into the sitting room.
Seating herself by the window with her arms on the sill, she looked
down into the street. It was an intensely hot day in spite of a breeze
that blew from the East River; down by the pavement the mercury was
climbing up into the nineties--summer had come with a jump. Could it be
only a week ago that she had been picking long-stemmed, purple violets
by the brook beyond the wood lot at Laurelville? Was it only day before
yesterday that Lammy had brought her the red peonies, and they had
walked up the hill road together?
She had stayed by the window for some time, perhaps half an hour,
watching the horses that were led out from the stable to be cooled by
spray from the hose attached to the hydrant in front, when a slight
noise in the kitchen caused her to turn. The light from the window
opening on the fire-escape was darkened, and a man's figure showed for
a second in outline against the sky and then swung noiselessly into the
kitchen.
Bird's first impulse was to scream, but, checking it, she shrank
trembling behind a tall rocking-chair and watched. The man glanced about
the kitchen and came directly through to the room where her uncle and
aunt slept. It did not seem to occur to him that there was anybody at
home, though Bird did not think of this until afterward.
Pausing before the bureau, he opened the upper drawer, and, after
passing his hand rapidly through the clothing it contained, drew out a
long wallet, which Bird recognized as the one from which her aunt had
taken some money before going to the doctor's. Without thinking of the
result or counting the cost, she rushed forward and caught the wallet
tight in both hands, crying, "You mustn't take it, you shan't; for it's
the money to pay for mending poor Billy's leg."
The man, taken utterly by surprise, fell back, but only for a moment,
and, muttering a string of such words as Bird had never before heard,
seized her by the shoulder with one hand while he tried to wrench the
pocket-book from her with the other; but, strong as he was, this took
several minutes, for Bird hung on desperately, clinging to his arm after
he had secured the wallet, until finally he picked her up bodily and
threw her on to the bed, and before she could recover herself, locked
the door into the sitting room, and, taking out the key, did the same to
the door into the boys' room, through which he retreated, leaving her a
prisoner, for the window into the air-shaft was high out of reach.
As Bird sat on the edge of the bed sobbing with fright and the thought
of what the loss of the money might mean to Billy, noise of a scuffle
reached her ears from the kitchen and the locked door burst open
suddenly as it had closed, pushed by a strong shoulder, but it was the
face of a perspiring policeman that peered through the crack.
"Catch him, oh, do catch him!" she implored; "he's got the money from
Aunt Rose's drawer that's to pay for mending Billy's leg!"
"He's caught safe enough, my girl,--me mate has him in the kitchen and
the money, too, though he did try to throw it over the yards when we
grappled him. You see there's been a slew of these daylight thieves
around these parts lately, sneaking over roofs and down escapes when
folks are at work. We spotted this one goin' through the saloon on the
corner and in among the skylights, and we followed but lost track, for
he has another wallet lifted besides this one, and if he'd slid out a
minute sooner, we'd have lost him."
"Then holding on did some good, after all," Bird gasped, still standing
with tightly clasped hands as if she were holding the precious money in
them.
"An' did yer grab him, now? Look at that fer pluck,--it's a wonder he
didn't smash yer entirely. Come out and take a look at him; maybe ye
can tell did ye see him before."
Bird looked, but the young man was a stranger to her. He did not appear
to be more than twenty, and, as they led him away, handcuffed to an
officer, he pulled his hat so low over his face that the crowd that
gathered and followed as soon as the street was reached could not see
his features, or if he was old or young.
Bird gave the officer her uncle's name, and he said: "When he comes in,
tell him to come round to the station-house and he'll get his money
all right. I've got to take it in as evidence." The street was hardly
clear again of the curious crowd when the twelve-o'clock whistle sounded
and workmen appeared from all quarters, either with pails to eat their
dinners in the shade of the house fronts, or on the way to their various
homes.
Mrs. O'More and her husband--for he had been watching for their
car--came up the street together, little Billy between them, and it was
strange that they did not meet the policemen with their prisoner. Bird
was watching eagerly for them, and, after hearing their news,--that the
doctor said it was possible to help the lame leg, only that Billy must
grow stronger before it could be done,--told them hers.
Both listened eagerly. Her uncle said, "Yer pluck does credit to the
O'Mores, but did ye mind the villain's face what it was like?"
"Oh, yes," Bird answered excitedly, "it was smooth and fair, and he had
very blue eyes with a long scar over one, and his hair was quite red."
Glancing at her aunt, she saw that she had turned deadly pale, and a
certain resemblance struck her for the first time.
"God help us,--it's Tom come back to rob his own mother," gasped poor
John O'More.
"But you'll not appear against him, John," cried his wife, throwing her
arms around him as he seized his hat and turned to go out.
"I can't, woman, I can't; but maybe it'll do no good. I must go round to
the station and get the wallet and see to this, anyway."
And Bird, after laying Billy on the lounge for a nap, sat by her
aunt,--who, while waiting to hear the outcome, had collapsed and was
crying noisily,--and tried to take off her tight waist and bathe her
face, and she realized that there were even worse griefs than leaving
one's home and father, for surely dear Terry was safe beyond all harm
now.
VII
SUMMER IN NEW YORK
The arrest of Tom O'More threw the matter of little Billy's leg into
the background for a time. When the father had gone to the court where
his son was arraigned, he found that not only was there another charge
against him, but that all unknown to his family he had committed petty
thefts in other places, and had already what the police call "a record,"
so that he had to go to the penitentiary for a year, and John O'More,
feeling his disgrace keenly, for though he was a rough man and coarse in
many ways he was as honest as the day, turned doubly to little Billy,
and could not bear to have him out of his sight when he was at home.
The doctor's orders concerning Billy had been short and clear, but it
was fully a week after the visit before his mother could pull herself
together or even think of carrying them out, and then when O'More took a
day at home and had leisure to ask for details, she began by saying that
what the doctor had ordered to get the child in condition for treatment
was nonsense, and only to be had by rich folks.
"Well, well, woman, let's hear and get to the core o' the matter," said
John O'More, tired of the continual word warfare.
"He's to have a real bed and no shake-down, so's he can stretch out and
roll about, and it's to be in a room opening to the light where he can
lie quieter by himself an hour or so every day. Then he's to get a full
bath every morning and a light meal, and fresh meat at noon, and a bite
and sup between that at supper, and the between times filled in with air
and a bottle o' tonic, and the saints knows what else.
"'Do yer think I keep a 'ospital to do all them things,' sez I to the
doctor.
"'No,' he answers quick like, 'and for that reason I think it will pay
you best to send him to the 'ospital to get him built up.'
"'His father will not hear to it,' I said.
"'Very well, then,' said he, 'you know what _I_ think; go home and talk
it over.'"
So John O'More sat and thought and blinked at the ground, and thought
some more, but it was Bird who first spoke, though very hesitatingly,
for her aunt resented almost everything she said, and in her ignorance
and prejudice seemed to owe poor Bird a grudge as being partially
responsible for Tom's arrest, rather than showing any gratitude toward
her for trying to prevent the theft of the money.
"Couldn't Billy have a bed in the little room that was--that is shut
up?" she asked finally. "The door is close to the kitchen window, and a
good deal of air would come in."
"It's packed solid full, and besides the room is off from me, so's I
couldn't hear the child to tend him in the night if needs," objected
Mrs. O'More, somewhat hotly.
"Couldn't the things be put in the attic or somewhere?" persisted Bird,
seeing a flash of approval cross her uncle's face, "and then there would
be room for two beds, and I could stay with Billy and give him his bath
every morning."
"Attic! do you hear her?" mocked the aunt, "and a fine slop there'd be
in me kitchen, and a nice place for folks to eat breakfast, with the
bath."
"If the things were taken out of the bath-tub we could use that,"
continued Bird, waxing bold at the prospects, "and I'm sure, Aunt Rose,
it would be much nicer for you to have the parlour to yourself, and not
have to make me a bed there every night."
"That last is true; I've been greatly put out these days when company
called," the company being the slipshod factory girls for whom she did
sewing, but, as often happened, Bird had unconsciously said the one
thing that could have appeased her aunt, for only when something was
suggested that would benefit herself was she willing to have others
considered.
"The tub is full of holes, and the agent he won't mend it, saying that I
made them with the ice-pick, when for convenience I used that same tub
for an ice-box, me own givin' out."
"If that's all, a bit o' solder is cheap," said O'More, springing to his
feet, and preparing to take action.
"I've the day on me hands, and a few extry dollars in me pocket, and if
something can't be worked out o' this, 'twon't be my fault; and while
I recommember it, I think you'd be the better of a new hat, Rosie, and
while yer out buyin' it, jest step in the store, round on Third Avenue
and get two o' them light-lookin', white iron beds; they're cheap, for I
saw yesterday when passin' that they be havin' a bargain sale of them,"
and John, with the quick-witted diplomacy of his race, handed his wife
some money which she took, and, half mollified, at once prepared to go
out, instructing Bird to "do up the rooms" while she was gone.
The door had not fairly closed when O'More gave a shout that almost
frightened Bird, and said: "Now we'll do some hustlin'; there's no
attic, me girl, but there's the coal-closet in the cellar which is
empty, now that we use gas in the range. Half the stuff is but fit for
the ashman, and the rest I'll bundle down there quick as I get a man
from the stable to help. Now watch sharp whilst I put the truck out and
see if there's aught yer can use."
When the room was finally cleared, a mirror, a chair, and a small chest
of drawers were the only useful assets, and these Bird pulled into the
kitchen, while she dusted and wiped away at them until they looked
clean, even if somewhat shabby.
Returning from the cellar O'More (in his youth a handy man in a stable)
attacked the dust in the little room with broom, mop, and finally a
scrubbing-brush to such good purpose that in an hour it was quite
another place, for the walls fortunately had been painted a light cream
and were in fairly good condition.
If John O'More had been asked to go down on his knees and scrub a room,
he would have resented the work as an insult to his manhood, but love
had set the task. Little Billy, sitting there in his chair, his face all
eagerness, needed the room, and so he did the work as nonchalantly as he
would have stepped into the stable and curried a horse in a hurry time.
It was only when Bird clapped her hands in admiration and said, "Why,
uncle, how nice and quick you did that; Dinah Lucky would have taken a
whole day," that he became embarrassed, and, giving her an apologetic
wink, said with lowered voice, "It's a job well done, but whist! 'tis
not for the good of my health to be repeated," and Bird understood and
wondered, as she did a hundred times during that long summer, why she
always understood her uncle and he her, while life with her aunt seemed
one long misunderstanding.
A plumber, living in the flat below, came up in the noon hour and
soldered the holes in the tub, which O'More declared to be too black
even for a pig's trough, so he sped out around one of those many
"corners," of which at first Bird thought the city must be made, for a
quart of boat paint and a brush.
"Yer aunt must be havin' a hard time with her tradin'," he remarked on
his return, seeing that his wife had not come back to prepare dinner.
But just as Bird had spread the table with various articles of cold
food, whose abiding-places she very well knew, and was making Billy some
little sandwiches to coax him to eat meat for which he had a distaste,
Mrs. O'More came in, talkative and almost pleasant as the result of her
morning's bargaining.
Before night two narrow beds were carefully fitted into opposite sides
of the little room, with the chest of drawers set between, in front of
the now-closed door that led to the boys' room, with the looking-glass
hung above it. It was only a bit of a place and still very close and
stuffy, but Billy and Bird had at least beds of their very own, if only
in a niche apart, and Bird's heart took fresh courage.
The next step was to coax her uncle to fill some long boxes with earth
and set them inside the outer railing of the fire-escape. There is a law
against filling up these little balconies with boxes or furniture of any
kind, but Bird knew nothing about it, and her uncle regarded it as a
sort of tyranny that he, a free-born citizen, should disregard. All Bird
thought of was that she might plant morning-glory seeds in the earth
so they would climb up the strings she fastened to the next story, and
later on there was, in truth, a little bower blooming above that arid
waste of bricks and ashes.
[Illustration: _Bird and Billy on the Fire-escape._]
After the new room was arranged, and permission given to Bird to see
that Billy had what the doctor ordered that he should eat, and to
take him out whenever he wanted to go, everything began to move more
regularly and in some respects more comfortably, then Bird, to her
dismay, saw the city summer, like a long roadway without a tree or bit
of shade, stretching out before her.
There was not a book in the house and no one to tell her of the free
library where she might get them, and school, where she hoped to find
a sympathetic teacher for a friend, belonged to September three months
away. No one who has always lived in the city can possibly understand
what this change, with its confinement and lack of refined surroundings,
meant to this young soul. To be poor, in the sense of having little to
spend and plain food, she was accustomed,--in fact, she had much more
to eat now, and through her uncle's careless kindness she was seldom
without dimes for the trolley rides to Battery Park "where the fishes
lived," or Central Park with the swan-boats that were to "make a man" of
Billy. But to be shut away from the woods, the sky, the beauty of the
sunsets, to have no flowers to gather and love, and to be brought face
to face daily with all the ugliness of the life that is merely of the
body, was almost too much for her courage.
How could she keep her head above the street level, how remember what
her father had taught her?--already the memory of the past was becoming
confused. Sometimes she was on the verge of ceasing to try and settling
down into a silent drudge, content to take what came, and falling
into the habits and commonplace pleasures of the girls of her cousins'
acquaintance with whom she was thrown in the parks and on the stoop and
streets. It would have been much easier in some respects,--her aunt
would have been better pleased to see her go off with the others, to
some noisy if harmless excursion, arrayed in a cheap, flower-wreathed
hat and gay waist, shrieking with laughter, and chewing gum, than to
see her always neat amid disorderly surroundings and ever willing
to do the endless little tasks that her own mismanagement piled up,
and Ladybird--Jack's name for her--strangely enough seemed a term of
reproach, not compliment.
At first Bird had hoped that Sunday might bring better things; but no,
Sunday in the quiet, peaceful, Protestant sense that Bird understood
it,--there was none. The family straggled to early mass one by one, for
Mrs. O'More and her sons were Romanists, though O'More was not, being
from the north of Ireland, and the rest of the day was spent by the men
either lying in bed and smoking, or standing in groups about the street.
In these hard days little Billy was Bird's only ray of light. The two,
being of equally sensitive natures, clung together, and the child was
so happy in his new-found friend and ceased his incessant fretting
whenever he was with her, that Mrs. O'More at last gave him completely
to Bird's charge with a sigh of relief, for her youngest child was as
much a puzzle to her as her niece, and she felt that he also was of a
different breed, as it were, and it annoyed her.
All the fierce scorching summer days Bird and Billy wandered about
together, sometimes going over to Madison Square, sometimes riding in
the trolley to Central Park, but more often down to the Battery where
the air tasted salt and good, where the wonderful fishes lived in the
round house and the big ships went past out to that unknown sea of which
Bird was so fond of telling Billy stories.
Bird, too, soon learned to find her way about, for six-year-old Billy
had all the New York gamin's knowledge of his whereabouts coupled with a
cripple's acute senses. He hopped along with his crutch quite well, and
many a lesson in human nature and life did Bird learn these days in the
treeless streets of poorer New York.
After a time she found that her uncle had seemed to forget his hatred
of anything like drawing or painting, so one day she ventured to buy a
good-sized pad and pencil, and then watching Bird "make pictures" became
Billy's great joy, while she to her surprise found that she could draw
other things besides flowers.
Oftentimes the children would go down to sit on the steps and watch
the horses from the great sales stable being exercised up and down the
street. Bird tried to draw these too, and one day succeeded so well that
her uncle, passing in at the door, stopped and looked down, and then
said, "Bully! any one would know it for a horse, sure!" After that she
worked at every odd minute.
She loved horses dearly, but she and Billy were forbidden to go into
the stables, which were almost underneath the flat, and Bird really
had no wish to, for the men there were so rough and there was so much
noise and confusion; but a few doors away was a fire-engine house where
lived three great, gentle, gray horses that ran abreast, and had soft
noses that quivered responsively when they saw their driver even in the
distance. Bird made friends with these, taking them bits of bread or
green stuff, until the firemen came to expect the daily visit and "Bird"
and "Billy" became familiar names in the engine-house; and there was a
little dog there that ran with the engine and reminded her of Twinkle.
Dan was the heaviest of the three horses and Bird's favourite, and
one day, after many attempts, seated on the stoop of the next house,
she succeeded in drawing a small head of him that was really a good
likeness, at least so the firemen thought, for they put it in a frame
and hung it in the engine-house, and the next day big Dave Murray, Dan's
driver, gave her a small box of paints "with the boys' compliments."
Ah, if the big, bluff fellow only knew what the gift meant to poor
little Ladybird struggling not to forget and to still keep the heavenly
vision in sight.
Bird had written a short note to Mrs. Lane telling of her safe arrival
in the city, and giving her address, but more than that she could not
say. If she said that she was happy and gilded the account of her
surroundings, it would have been false. If she told the truth, her
Laurelville friends would be distressed, and it would seem like begging
them to take her back when it evidently was not convenient, for she did
not know that her Uncle John had refused to let her stay with Mrs. Lane
unless she was legally adopted.
Neither was Bird worldly wise enough to act a part and simply write of
her visits to the park and the little excursions with Billy which in
themselves were pleasant enough. She was crystal clear, and knew of but
two ways, either to speak the whole truth or keep silent. She was too
loyal to those whose bread she was eating to do the first, and so she
did not write.