THANK GOD FOR ALL.
On a certain lovely evening in the beginning of September, when the air was
no longer too warm, and the whole world seemed bathed in absolute peace and
rest, little Maggie Ascot and her Cousin Ralph might have been seen
walking, with their arms round each other, in very deep consultation.
Maggie was quite strong again, had got her roses back, and the bright light
of health in her blue eyes. She and Ralph were pacing slowly up and down a
shady path not far from the large entrance gates.
"I can't think what it means," exclaimed Maggie; "it is the fourth time
Aunt Violet has gone up there to-day, and Susan the scullery-maid has gone
with her now, carrying an enormous basket. Susan let me peep into it, and
it was full of all kinds of goodies. She said it was for the new laundress.
I never knew such a fuss to make about a laundress."
Here Ralph thought it well to administer a little reproof.
"That's because you haven't been taught to consider the poor," he said.
"Why shouldn't a laundress have nice things done for her? and if this is a
poor lonely stranger coming from a long way off, it's quite right for
mother to welcome her. Mother always thinks you can't do too much for
lonely people, and she'll wash your dresses all the whiter if she thinks
you're going to be kind and attentive. Why, Maggie, our little Jo's mother
is a laundress, you forget that. Laundresses are most respectable people."
At the mention of Jo's name Maggie sighed.
"There's nothing at all been done about her, Ralph," she said. "Nobody
seems to take any notice when I speak about her. She must be tired of
waiting and watching by this time. She must be dreadfully sorry that she
did not go away to heaven and God; for she must know now that I never
meant anything when I wanted to meet her in the country--and yet I did,
Ralph, I did!"
Here Maggie's blue eyes grew full of tears.
"Never mind, Mag," replied her little cousin soothingly; "it is very odd,
and I don't understand it a bit, but mother says things are sure to come
right, and you know Uncle John wished us to trust him."
"But the time is going on," said Maggie; "the summer days will go, and Jo
won't have seen the lovely country where the grass is green. Oh! Ralph, we
must do something."
"If only Mrs. Aylmer were the new laundress!" began Ralph. "You can't think
what a nice cottage that is, Mag--four lovely rooms, and such a nice, nice
kitchen, with those dear little lattice panes of glass in the window, and
lots of jasmine and Virginia creeper peeping in from outside, and a green
field for the laundress to dry her clothes in, just beyond. Poor laundress!
she will like that field awfully, and it would be very unkind of us to wish
to take it away from her and give it to Mrs. Aylmer, for of course Mrs.
Aylmer knows nothing about it, and the new laundress has probably arrived,
and set her heart on it by this time; and she may be a widow, too, with
lots and lots of little children."
"But none of the children could be like Jo," said Maggie.
"Well, perhaps not," answered Ralph. "Oh, here comes mother; let's run to
meet her. Mother darling, has the new laundress come?"
"Yes, Ralph, she and her family arrived about an hour ago; they are
settling down nicely into the cottage, and seem to be respectable people.
They all think the cottage very comfortable."
"And are you going to see them again to-night, Auntie Violet?" asked Maggie
with rather a sorrowful look on her little face.
"Why, yes, Maggie; they are all strangers here, you know, and I fancy they
rather feel that, so it might be nice to walk up presently and take a cup
of tea with them. There are some children, so you and Ralph might come
too."
"Didn't I tell you how mother considered the poor?" here whispered Ralph,
poking the little princess rather violently in the side. "Oh, yes, mother,
we'd like to go to tea with the little laundresses. Is there anything we
could take them--anything they would like, to show that we sympathize with
them for having come so far, and having left their old home?"
"They don't seem at all melancholy, Ralph," said Mrs. Grenville, smiling,
"and when they have seen you and Maggie, I fancy they will none of them
have anything further to desire to-night. Why, Maggie dear, you look quite
sad; what is the matter?"
"I am thinking of little Jo," whispered Maggie. "Her mother is a laundress,
too, and she's poor. Why couldn't you have considered the poor in the shape
of Jo's mother, Aunt Violet?"
Mrs. Grenville stooped down and kissed Maggie.
"Here come your father and mother," she said, "and I know they too want to
see the new people who have come to the pretty cottage. Now let us all set
off. I told the laundress and her family that you were coming to have tea
with them, Maggie and Ralph. Suppose you two run on in front; you know the
cottage and you know the way."
"Tell the good folks we'll look in on them presently," shouted Sir John
Ascot, and then the children took each other's hands and ran across some
fields to the laundress' cottage. They heard some sounds of mirth as they
drew near, and saw two rather wild little boys tumbling about, turning
somersaults and standing on their heads; they also heard a high-pitched
voice, and caught a glimpse of a remarkably round and red face, and it
seemed to Maggie that the voice and the face were both familiar, although
she could not quite recall where she had seen them before.
"We must introduce ourselves quite politely," said Ralph as they walked up
the narrow garden path. "Now here we are; I'll knock with my knuckles. I
wish I knew the laundress' name. It seems rude to say, 'Is the laundress
in?' for of course she has got a name, and her name is just as valuable to
her as ours are to us. How stupid not to have found out what she is really
called. Perhaps we had better inquire for Mrs. Robbins; that's rather a
common name, and yet not too common. It would never do to call her Mrs.
Smith or Jones, for if she wasn't Smith or Jones, she wouldn't like it.
Now, Maggie, I'll knock rather sharp, and when the new laundress opens the
door you are to say, 'Please is Mrs. Robbins the laundress in?'"
All this time the girl with the red face was making little darts to the
lattice window and looking out, and there were some stifled sounds of mirth
from the boys with the high-pitched voices.
"The laundress' family are in good spirits," remarked Ralph, and then he
gave a sharp little knock, and Maggie prepared her speech.
"Please is the new--is Mrs. Rob--is, is--oh! Ralph, why, it's Mrs. Aylmer
herself!"
Nothing very coherent after this discovery was uttered by any one for
several minutes. Maggie found herself kneeling by Jo, with her arms round
Jo's neck, and two little cheeks, both wet with tears, were pressed
together, and two pair of lips kissed each other. That kiss was a solemn
one, for the two little hearts were full.
In different ranks, belonging almost to two extremes, the child of riches
and the child of poverty knew that they possessed kindred spirits, and that
their friendship was such that circumstances were not likely again to
divide them. Waters was right when she said there was a strong link between
Maggie and Jo.
That is the story, an episode, after all, in the life of the little
princess, but an episode which was to influence all her future days.
THE END.
TOM, PEPPER, AND TRUSTY.
"Therefore, to this dog will I,
Tenderly, not scornfully,
Render praise and favor:
With my hand upon his head
Is my benediction said,
Therefore, and forever."
--E. B. BROWNING.
CHAPTER I.
THE THREE FRIENDS.
A child and a dog sat very close to the fast-expiring embers of a small
fire in a shabby London attic.
The dog was very old, with palsied, shaking limbs, eyes half-blind, and an
appearance about his whole person of almost disreputable ugliness and
decrepitude, He was a large white-and-liver-colored dog, of no particular
breed, and certainly of no particular beauty. Never, even in his best days,
could this dog have been at all good-looking. The child who crouched close
to him was small and thin. He was a pale child, with big, sorrowful eyes,
and that shrunken appearance of the whole little frame which proclaims but
too clearly that bread-and-milk have not sufficiently nourished it.
He sat very close to the old dog, half-supporting himself against him; his
head was bent forward on his little chest--he was half-asleep.
A little apart from the dog and the sleepy child stood a very bright boy, a
boy with rosy cheeks and sparkling eye. He poised himself for a moment on
one leg, kicked off the snow from his ragged trousers with the other, then
flinging his cap and an old broom into a corner of the attic, he sang out
in a clear, ringing tone:
"Hillow! Pepper and Trusty, is that h'all the welcome yer 'ave to give to a
feller?"
At the first sound of his voice the dog feebly wagged his tail and the
little child started to his feet.
"Hillow!" he answered with a pitiful attempt at the elder boy's
cheerfulness; "I 'opes as yer 'ave brought h'in some supper, Tom."
"See yere," said Tom, just turning back a morsel of his ragged jacket to
show what really was still a pocket. This pocket bunched out now in a most
suggestive manner, and Pepper, thrusting in his tiny hand, pulled from it
the following heterogeneous mixture: an old bone--very bare of even the
pretense of meat; an orange; some nuts; a piece of moldy bread, and a nice
little crisp loaf; also twopence and a halfpenny.
"Ain't it prime, Pepper?" said the elder boy. "Yere's the bone for old
Trusty, and the broken bread, and the pretty little loaf, and the nuts, and
th' orange, for you and me."
"Oh, Tom! where did you get the nuts?"
"They were throwing 'em to a dancing monkey, and an old 'oman gave me a
handful h'all to myself. I say, didn't I clutch 'em!"
"Well, let's crunch 'em up now," said Pepper, whose face had grown quite
bright with anticipation.
"And give Trusty his bone," said Tom. "I picked it h'out o' the gutter, and
washed it at the pump. 'Tis a real juicy bone--full o' marrow. Yere, old
feller! Don't he move his lazy h'old sides quickly now, Pepper?"
"Yes," said Pepper, clapping his tiny hands.
CHAPTER II.
WHY HE WAS CALLED TRUSTY.
The two little boys and the dog ate their supper in perfect silence, the
only noise to be heard during the meal being the crunching of three sets of
busy teeth. Then, the fire being quite out, the children lay down on a
dirty mattress in a corner of the room, and Trusty curled himself up at
their feet.
However lazy Trusty might be in the daytime while the fire was alight, at
night he always assumed the character of a protector. Let the slightest
sound arise, above, around, or beneath him, and he raised a bay, cracked it
is true, but still full of unspeakable consolation to the timid heart of
little Pepper.
In the daytime Pepper was often guilty of very wicked and treacherous
thoughts about Trusty. When he was so often hungry, and could seldom enjoy
more than half a meal, why must Tom, however little money or food he
brought in after his day's sweeping, always insist on Trusty having his
full share? Why must Tom--on those rare occasions when he was a little
cross and discontented--too cross and discontented to take much notice of
him (Pepper), yet still put his arms so lovingly round the old dog's neck?
and why, why above all things must Trusty be so very selfish about their
tiny fire, sitting so close to it, and taking all its warmth into his own
person, while poor little Pepper shivered by his side?
Pepper was younger than Trusty, and he never remembered the day when the
dog was not a great person in his home; he never remembered the day when
his mother, however poor and pinched, had not managed, with all the
good-will in the world, to pay the dog-tax for him.
And when that mother--six months ago--died, she had enjoined on Tom, almost
with her last breath, the necessity of continuing this, and whatever
straits they were placed in, begged of them never to forsake the old dog in
his need.
Of course Pepper knew the reason of all this love and care for old Trusty;
and the reason, notwithstanding those treacherous and discontented thoughts
in which he now and then found himself indulging, filled him with not a
little pride and pleasure. It was because of him--of him, poor little
insignificant Pepper--that his mother and Tom loved Trusty so well. For
when he was a baby Trusty had saved his life.
How Pepper did love to hear that story! How he used to climb on his
mother's knee, and curl in her arms, and get her to tell it to him over and
over again; and then, as he listened, his big, dark eyes used to get bright
and wondering, while he pictured to himself the country home with the roses
growing about the porch; and the pretty room inside, and the cradle where
he lay warm and sheltered. Then, how his heart did beat when his mother
spoke of that dreadful day when she went out and left him in charge of a
neighbor's daughter, paying no heed to his real caretaker, the large strong
dog--young then, who lay under the table.
How often his cheek had turned pale, as his mother went on to tell him how
the neighbor's daughter first built up the fire, and then, growing tired of
her dull occupation, went away and left him alone with no companion but the
dog. And then, how his father, returning from his day's work, had rushed in
with a cry of horror, to find the cradle burned and some of the other
furniture on fire; but the baby himself lying, smiling and uninjured, in a
corner of the room; for the brave dog had dragged him from his dangerous
resting-place, and had himself put out the flames as they began to catch
his little night-shirt. Trusty was severely burned, and for the rest of his
days was blind of one eye and walked with a limp; but he earned the undying
love and gratitude of the father and mother for his heroic conduct.
After this adventure his name was changed from Jack to Trusty, and any
member of the family would rather have starved than allow Trusty to want.
Pepper never listened to this exciting tale without his chest beginning to
heave, and a moisture of love and compunction filling his brown eyes.
To-night, as he lay curled up as close as possible to Tom, with Trusty
keeping his feet warm by lying on them, he thought of it all over again. As
he thought, he felt even more than his usual sorrow, for he had certainly
been very cross to Trusty to-day. These feelings and recollections so
occupied him that he forgot to chatter away as usual, until, looking up
suddenly, he felt that his brother's eyes were closing--in short, that Tom
was going to sleep.
Now, of all the twenty-four hours that comprised Pepper's day and night,
there was none that compared with the hour when he lay in his brother's
arms, and talked to him, and listened to his adventures. This hour made the
remaining twenty-three endurable; in short, it was his golden hour--his
hour marked with a red letter.
"Oh, Tom!" he said now, rousing himself and speaking in a voice almost
tearful, so keen was his disappointment, "yer never agoin' to get drowsy?"
"Not I," answered Tom, awakened at once by the sorrowful tones, and
half-sitting up. "Wot is it, Pepper? I'm as lively as a lark, I am."
"Yer h'eyes were shut," said Pepper.
"Well, and your mouth wor shut, Pepper, that wor wy I fastened h'up my
h'eyes, to save time."
"Tom," said Pepper, creeping very close to his big brother, "does yer
really think as yer'll 'ave the money saved h'up for dear old Trusty's tax,
wen the man comes fur it?"
"Oh, yes! I 'opes so; there's three months yet."
"'E's a dear old dog," said Pepper, in an emphatic voice, "and I won't mind
wot Pat Finnahan says 'bout 'im."
"Wot's that?" asked Tom.
"Oh, Tom! 'e comes h'in, some days, wen 'tis bitter cold, and Trusty 'ave
got hisself drawed in front o' the fire (Trusty do take h'up h'all the
fire, Tom) and 'e says as Trusty is h'eatin' us h'out o' 'ouse and 'ome,
and ef you pays the tax fur 'im, wy, yer'll be the biggest fool h'out."
"Dear me," said Tom, "'e must be a nice 'un, 'e must! Why, Trusty's a sight
better'n him, and a sight better worth lookin' arter."
This remark of Tom's, uttered with great vehemence, startled Pepper so much
that he lay perfectly silent, staring up at his big brother. The moonlight,
which quite filled the attic, enabled him to see Tom's face very
distinctly.
A strongly marked face, and full of character at all times; it was now also
so full of disgust that Pepper quite trembled.
"Well, he is a mean 'un," continued Tom. "See if I don't lay it on him the
next time I catches of him coming spyin' in yere; and, Pepper," he added,
"I'm real consarned as yer should 'ave listened to such words."
"'Ow could I 'elp it?" answered Pepper. "'E comed h'in, and 'e kicked at
Trusty. I didn't want fur h'old Trusty not to be paid fur, Tom."
"I should 'ope not, indeed," replied Tom; "that 'ud be a nice pass for us
two boys to fursake Trusty. But look yere, Pepper. Yer never goin' to be
untrue to yer name, be yer?"
"Oh, Tom! 'ow so?"
"Does yer know wy Trusty was called Trusty?"
Now, of course, Pepper knew no story in the world half so well, but at this
question of Tom's he nestled close so him, raised beseeching eyes, and
said:
"Tell us."
"'E wor called Trusty," continued Tom, "'cause wen yer were a little 'un he
wor faithful. Trusty means faithful; it means a kind of a body wot won't
fursake another body what-h'ever 'appens. That wor wy father and mother
changed 'is name from Jack to Trusty, 'cause 'e wor faithful to you,
Pepper."
"Yes," answered Pepper, half-sobbing, and feeling very gently with his toes
the motion of Trusty's tail; for Trusty, hearing his name mentioned so
often, was beating it softly up and down.
"And does yer know wy you was called Pepper?" continued Tom, by no means
intending to abate the point and the object of his lecture by the break in
Pepper's voice.
"Tell us," said the little child again.
"You was christened Hen-e-ry [Henry]; but, lor! Pepper, that wor no name
fur yer. That name meant some 'un soft and h'easy. But, bless yer, young
'un! there wor nothink soft nor h'easy about yer. What a firebrand yer
were--flying h'out at h'everybody--so touchy and sparky-like, that mother
wor sure you 'ad got a taste o' the fire as poor Trusty saved yer from,
until, at last, there wor no name 'ud suit yer but Pepper. Lor, lad, wot a
spirrit yer 'ad then!"
With these words Tom turned himself round on his pillow, and, having spoken
his mind, and being in consequence quite comfortable, dropped quickly to
sleep. But to poor little Pepper, listening breathlessly for another word,
that first snore of Tom's was a very dreadful one. He knew then that there
was no hope that night of any further words with Tom. He must lie all
night under the heavy weight of Tom's displeasure; for, of course, Tom was
angry, or he would never have turned away with such despairing and
contemptuous words on his lips. As Pepper thought of this he could not
quite keep down a rising sob, for the Tom who he felt was angry with him
meant father, mother, conscience--everything--to the poor little fellow.
And Tom had cause for his anger; this was what gave it its sting. There was
no doubt that Pepper was not at all the spirited little boy he had been
during his mother's lifetime--the brave little plucky fellow, who was
afraid of no one, and who never would stoop to a mean act. How well he
remembered that scene a few months ago, when a rough boy had flung a stone
at Trusty--yes! and hit him, and made him howl with the cruel pain he had
inflicted; and then how Pepper had fought for him, and given his cowardly
assailant a black eye, and afterward how his mother and Tom had praised
him. Oh, how different he was now from then! His tears flowed copiously as
he thought of it all.
But the times were also different. Since his mother's death he had spent
his days so much alone, and those long days, spent in the old attic with no
companion but Trusty, had depressed his spirit and undermined his nerves.
The unselfish, affectionate little boy found new and strange thoughts
filling his poor little heart--thoughts to which, during his mother's
lifetime, he was altogether a stranger. He wished he was strong and big
like Tom, and could go out and sweep a crossing. It was dreadful to stay at
home all day doing nothing but thinking, and thinking, as he now knew, bad
thoughts. For the idea suggested by that wild, queer Irish boy downstairs
would not go away again.
That boy had said with contempt, with even cutting sarcasm, how silly, how
absurd it was of two poor little beggars like himself and Tom to have to
support a great, large dog like Trusty; how hard it was to have to pay
Trusty's tax; how worse than ridiculous to have to share their morsel of
food with Trusty; and Pepper had pondered over these words so often that
his heart had grown sour and bitter against the old dog who had once saved
his life.
But not to-night. To-night, as he lay in his bed and sobbed, that heart was
rising up and saying hard things against itself. Tom, with rough kindness,
had torn the veil from his eyes, and he saw that he had gone down several
pegs in the moral scale since his mother's death. Could his mother come
back to him now, would she recognize her own bright-spirited little Pepper
in this poor, weak, selfish boy? He could bear his own thoughts no longer;
he must not wake Tom, but he could at least make it up with Trusty. He
crept softly down in the bed until he reached the place where the old dog
lay, and then he put his arms round him and half-strangled him with hugs
and kisses.
"Oh, Trusty!" he said, "I does love yer, and I 'opes as God 'ull always let
me be a real sperrited little 'un. I means h'always to stand up fur yer,
Trusty; and I'll be as fiery as red pepper to any 'un as says a word agen
yer, Trusty."
To this fervent speech Trusty replied by raising a sleepy head and licking
Pepper's face.
CHAPTER III
TOM AT WORK.
Early the next morning, long before Pepper was awake, Tom got up, washed
his face and hands in the old cracked hand-basin in one corner of the room,
laid a small fire in the grate, and put some matches near it, ready for
Pepper to strike when he chose to rise. These preparations concluded, he
thrust his hands into his ragged trousers pocket and pulled from thence
twopence and a halfpenny. The pence he laid on the three-legged stool, by
the side of the matches, the halfpenny he put for safety into his mouth.
Then, with a nod of farewell at the sleeping Pepper, and a pat of Trusty's
head, he shouldered his broom and ran downstairs. The month was January,
and at this early hour, for it was not yet eight o'clock, the outside world
gave to the little sweeper no warm welcome. There was a fog and thaw, and
Tom, though he ran and whistled and blew his hot breath against his cold
fingers, could not get himself warm. With his halfpenny he bought himself a
cup of steaming coffee at the first coffee-stall he came to, then he ran to
his crossing, and began to sweep away with all the good-will in the world.
The day, dismal as it was, promised to be a good one for his trade, and Tom
hoped to have a fine harvest to carry home to Pepper and Trusty to-night.
This thought made his bright face look still brighter. Perhaps, in all
London, there was not to be found a braver boy than this little
crossing-sweeper. He was only twelve years old, but he had family cares on
his young shoulders. For six months now--ever since his mother's death--he
had managed, he scarcely himself knew how, to keep a home for his little
brother, the old dog, and himself. He had proudly resolved that
Pepper--poor little tender Pepper--should never see the inside of a
workhouse. As long as he had hands, and wit, and strength, Pepper should
live with him. Not for worlds would he allow himself to be parted from his
little brother. In some wonderful way he kept his resolve. Pepper certainly
grew very white, and weak, and thin; old Trusty's ribs stuck out more and
more, his one remaining eye looked more longingly every day at the morsel
of food with which he was provided; and Tom himself knew but too well what
hunger was. Still they, none of them, quite died of starvation; and the
rent of the attic in which they lived was paid week by week. This state of
things had gone on for months, Tom just managing, by the most intense
industry, to keep all their heads above water. As he swept away now at his
crossing, his thoughts were busy, and his thoughts, poor brave little boy!
were anxious ones.
How very ill Pepper was beginning to look, and how strangely he had spoken
the night before about Trusty! Was it possible that his poor life of
semi-starvation was beginning to tell not only on Pepper's weak body, but
on his kind heart? Was Tom, while working almost beyond his strength, in
reality only doing harm by keeping Pepper out of the workhouse? Would that
dreadful workhouse after all be the best place for Pepper? and would his
fine brave spirit revive again if he had enough food and warmth? These
questions passed often through Tom's mind as he swept his crossing, but he
had another thought which engrossed him even more. He had spoken
confidently to Pepper about his ability to pay the tax for Trusty when the
time came round, but in reality he had great anxiety on that point. The
time when Trusty's tax would be due was still three months away--but three
months would not be long going by, and Tom had not a penny--not a farthing
toward the large sum which must then be demanded of him. It was beginning
to rest like a nightmare on his bright spirit, the fact that he might have
to break his word to his dying mother, that in three months' time the dear
old dog might have to go. After all, he, not Pepper, might be the one
faithless to their dear old Trusty.
As he swept and cleaned the road so thoroughly that the finest lady might
pass by without a speck on her dainty boots, he resolved, suffer what
hunger he might, to put by one halfpenny a day toward the necessary money
which much be paid to save Trusty's life. With this resolve bright in his
eyes and firm on his rosy lips, he touched his cap to many a passer-by. But
what ailed the men and women, the boys and girls, who walked quickly over
Tom's clean crossing? They were all either too busy, or too happy, or too
careless, to throw a coin, even the smallest coin, to the hungry,
industrious little fellow. His luck was all against him; not a halfpenny
did he earn. No one read his story in his eyes, no one saw the invisible
arms of Pepper round his neck, nor felt the melting gaze of Trusty fixed on
his face. No one knew that he was working for them as well as for himself.
By noon the wind again changed and fresh snow began to fall.
Tom knew that now his chance was worse than ever, for surely now no one
would stop to pull out a penny or a halfpenny--the cold was much too
intense. Tom knew by instinct that nothing makes people so selfish as
intense cold.
When he left home that morning he had only a halfpenny in his pocket,
consequently he could get himself no better breakfast than a small cup of
coffee. The cold, and the exercise he had been going through since early
morning, had raised his healthy appetite to a ravenous pitch, and this,
joined to his anxiety, induced him at last to depart from his invariable
custom of simply touching his cap, and made him raise an imploring voice,
to beseech for the coins which he had honestly earned.
"Please, sir, I'm h'awful cold and 'ungry--give us a penny--do, for pity's
sake," he said, addressing an elderly gentleman who was hurrying quickly to
his home in a square close by.
Would the gentleman stop, pause, look at him? Would he slacken his pace the
least morsel in the world, or would he pass quickly on like those cross old
ladies whom he had last addressed? His heart, began to beat a trifle more
hopefully, for the old gentleman certainly did pause, pushed back his hat,
and gave him--not a penny, but a quick, sharp glance from under two shaggy
brows.
"I hate giving to beggars," he muttered, preparing to hurry off again. But
Tom was not to be so easily repressed.
"Please, sir, I ain't a beggar. I works real 'ard, and I'm h'awful 'ungry,
please, sir."
He was now following the old gentleman, who was walking on, but slowly, and
as though meditating with himself.
"That's a likely story!" he said, throwing his words contemptuously at poor
Tom: "you, hungry! go and feed. You have your pocket full of pennies this
moment, which folks threw to you for doing nothing. I hate that idle work."
"Oh! h'indeed, sir, I ain't nothink in 'em--look, please, sir."
A very soiled pocket, attached to a ragged trouser, was turned out for the
old gentleman's benefit.
"You have 'em in your mouth," replied the man. "I'm up to some of your
dodges."
At this remark Tom grinned from ear to ear. His teeth were white and
regular. They gleamed in his pretty mouth like little pearls; thus the
heart-whole smile he threw up at the old gentleman did more for him than
all the tears in the world.
"Well, little fellow," he said, smiling back, for he could not help
himself, "'tis much too cold now to pull out my purse--for I know you have
pence about you--but if you like to call at my house to-morrow
morning,--Russell Square, you shall have a penny."
"Please, sir, mayn't I call to-day?"
"No, I shan't be home until ten o'clock this evening."
"Give us a penny, please, now, sir, for I'm real, real 'ungry." This time
poor Tom very nearly cried.
"Well, well! what a troublesome, pertinacious boy! I suppose I'd better get
rid of him--see, here goes----"
He pulled his purse out of his pocket--how Tom hoped he would give him
twopence!
"There, boy. Oh, I can't, I say. I have no smaller change than a shilling.
I can't help you, boy; I have not got a penny."
"Please, please, sir, let me run and fetch the the change."
"Well, I like that! How do I know that you won't keep the whole shilling?"
"Indeed, yer may trust me, sir. Indeed, I'll bring the eleven-pence
to--Russell Square to-morrer mornin'."
The old gentleman half-smiled, and again Tom showed his white teeth. If
there was any honesty left in the world it surely dwelt in that anxious,
pleading face. The old gentleman, looking down at it, suddenly felt his
heart beginning to thaw and his interest to be aroused.
"Oh, yes; I'm the greatest, biggest fool in the world. Still--No, I won't;
I hate being taken in; and yet he's a pleasant little chap. Well, I'll try
it, just as an experiment. See here, young 'un; if I trust you with my
shilling, when am I to see the change?"
"At eight o'clock to-morrer mornin', sir."
"Well, I'm going to trust you. I never trusted a crossing-sweeper before."
"H'all right, sir," answered Tom, taking off his cap and throwing back his
head.
"There, then, you may spend twopence; bring me back tenpence. God bless
me, what a fool I am!" as he hurried away.
This was not the only favor Tom got that day; but soon the lamps were
lighted, sleet and rain began to fall, and no more business could be
expected.
CHAPTER IV.
IN TROUBLE.
When Tom returned home that night, he had not only the old gentleman's
shilling unbroken in his pocket, but three pennies which had been given to
him since then, and which jingled and made a very nice sound against the
shilling. But though this was a pleasant state of affairs, there was
nothing pleasant in poor little Tom's face; its bright look had left it, it
was white and drawn, and he limped along in evident pain and difficulty.
The fact was, Tom had fallen in the snow, and had sprained his ankle very
badly. When he entered the house his pain was so great that he could
scarcely hobble upstairs.
On the first landing he was greeted by the rough, rude tones of Pat
Finnahan, who stopped him with a loud exclamation, then shouted to his
mother that Tom had arrived.
Mrs. Finnahan was Tom's Irish landlady, but as he did not owe her any rent
he was not afraid of her.
She called to him now, however, and he stood still to listen to what she
had to say.
"Ah, then, wisha, Tom, and when am I to see me own agen?" she demanded,
with a very strong Irish brogue.
"Wot does yer mean?" asked Tom, staring at her. "I pays my rent reg'lar. I
owes yer nothink."
"Oh, glory!" said Mrs. Finnahan, throwing up her hands, "the boy have the
imperence to ax me to my face what I manes. I manes the shilling as I lent
to yer mother, young man, and that I wants back agen; that's what I manes."
At these words Tom felt himself turning very pale. He remembered perfectly
how, in a moment of generosity, Mrs. Finnahan had once lent his mother a
shilling, but he was quite under the impression that it had been paid back
some time ago.
"I thought as my mother give it back to yer afore she died," he said, but
a great fear took possession of his heart while he spoke.
Mrs. Finnahan pushed him from her, her red face growing purple.
"Listen to the likes of him," she said; "he tells me to me face as 'tis
lies I'm afther telling. Oh, musha! but he's a black-hearted schoundrel. I
must have me shilling to-morrow, young man, or out you goes."
With these words Mrs. Finnahan retired into her private apartment, slamming
the door behind her.
"Tom," whispered Pat, who during this colloquy had stood by his side, "can
yer give mother that 'ere shilling to-morrer?"
"Yer knows I can't," answered Tom.
"Well, she'll turn yer h'out, as sure as I'm Pat Finnahan."
"I can't help her," answered Tom, preparing once more, as well as his
painful ankle would allow him, to mount the stairs.
"Yes; but I say?" continued Pat, "maybe I can do somethink."
With these words the Irish boy began fumbling violently in his pocket, and
in a moment or two produced from a heterogeneous group a dull, battered
shilling. This shilling he exhibited in the palm of his hand, looking up at
Tom as he showed it, with an expression of pride and cunning in his small,
deep-set eyes.
"Look yere, Tom. I really feels fur yer, fur mother's h'awful when she says
a thing. There's no hope of mother letting of yer off, Tom. No, not the
ghost of a hope. But see yere--this is my h'own. I got it--no matter 'ow I
got it, and I'll give it to yer fur yer h'old dog. The dog ain't nothink
but a burden on yer, Tom, and I'd like him. I'd give yer the shilling for
h'old Trusty, Tom."
But at these words all the color rushed back to Tom's face.
"Take that instead of Trusty," he said, aiming a blow with all his might
and main at Pat, and sending him and his shilling rolling downstairs. The
false strength with which his sudden indignation had inspired him enabled
him to get up the remaining stairs to his attic; but when once there, the
poor little sweeper nearly fainted.
CHAPTER V.
THE TEMPTATION.
Perhaps on this dark evening there could scarcely be found in all London
three more unhappy creatures than those who crouched round the empty grate
in Tom's attic. In truth, over this poor attic rested a cloud too heavy for
man to lift, and good and bad angels were drawing near to witness the
issues of victory or defeat.
"We'll get into bed," said Tom, looking drearily round the supperless,
fireless room. "Pepper," he continued as he pressed his arms round his
little brother, "should yer mind werry much going to the work'us arter
h'all?"
"Oh, yes, yes, Tom! Oh, Tom! ef they took me from yer, I'd die."
"But ef we both went, Pepper?"
"What 'ud come o' Trusty?" asked Pepper.
"I doesn't know the ways of work'uses," said Tom, speaking half to himself.
"Maybe they'll take h'in the h'old dog. Ef you and I were to beg of 'em a
little 'ard, they might take h'in old Trusty, Pepper."
"But I doesn't want to go to no work'us," whispered Pepper.
"I only says perhaps, Pepper," answered poor Tom. "I'd 'ate to go."
"Well, don't let's think of it," said Pepper, putting up his lips to kiss
Tom. "Yer'll be better in the morning, Tom; and, Tom," he added,
half-timidly, half-exultantly, "I've been real sperrited h'all day. Pat
came in and began to talk 'bout dear Trusty, but I flew at him, I boxed im
right up h'in the ear, Tom."
"Did yer really?" answered Tom, laughing, and forgetting the pain in his
ankle for the moment.
"Yes, and 'e's nothink but a coward, Tom, fur 'e just runned away. I'll
never be a Hen-e-ry to him no more," added the little boy with strong
emphasis.
"No; yer a real nice, peppery young 'un," said Tom, "and I'm proud o' yer;
but now go to sleep, young 'un, for I 'as a deal to think about."
"'Ow's the pain, Tom?"
"Werry 'ot and fiery like; but maybe 'twill be better in the morning."
"Good-night, Tom," said Pepper, creeping closer into his arms.
Under the sweet influence of Tom's praise, resting in peace in the
delicious words that Tom was proud of him, poor hungry little Pepper was
soon enjoying dreamless slumber. But not so Tom himself.
Tom had gone through a hard day's work. He was tired, aching in every limb,
but no kind sleep would visit that weary little body or troubled mind. His
sprained ankle hurt him sadly, but his mental anxiety made him almost
forget his bodily suffering. Dark indeed was the cloud that rested on Tom.
His sprained ankle was bad enough--for how, with that swollen and aching
foot, could he go out to sweep his crossing to-morrow? And if the little
breadwinner was not at his crossing, where would the food come from for
Pepper and Trusty? This was a dark cloud, but, dark as it was, it might be
got over. Tom knew nothing of the tedious and lingering pain which a sprain
may cause; he quite believed that a day's rest in bed would make his foot
all right, and for that one day while he was in bed, they three--he,
Pepper, and Trusty--might manage not quite to starve, on the pence which
were over from that day's earnings. Yes, through this cloud could be seen a
possible glimmer of light. But the cloud that rested behind it! Oh, was
there any possible loophole of escape out of that difficulty?
Tom had told nothing of this greater anxiety to Pepper. Nay, while Pepper
was awake he tried to push it away even from his own mental vision. But
now, in the night watches, he pulled it forward and looked at it steadily.
In truth, as the poor little boy looked, he felt almost in despair. Since
his mother's death he had managed to support his little household, and not
only to support them, but to keep them out of debt. No honorable man of
the world could keep more faithfully the maxim, "Owe no man anything, but
to love one another," than did this little crossing sweeper. But now,
suddenly, a debt, a debt the existence of which he had never suspected,
stared him in the face.
His mother had borrowed a shilling from Mrs. Finnahan. Mrs. Finnahan
required that shilling back again.
If that enormous sum--twelve whole pennies--was not forthcoming by
to-morrow, he and Pepper and Trusty would find themselves
homeless--homeless in mid-winter in the London streets. Tom knew well that
Mrs. Finnahan would keep her word; that nothing, no pleading language, no
entreating eyes, would induce Mrs. Finnahan to alter her cruel resolve. No;
into the streets they three must go. Tom did not mind the streets so very
much for himself, he was accustomed to them, at least all day long. But
poor little, tender, delicate Pepper, and old broken-down Trusty! Very,
very soon, those friendless, cold, desolate streets would kill Pepper and
Trusty.
As Tom thought of it scalding drops filled his brave, bright eyes and
rolled down his cheeks. It was a moonlight night, and its full radiance had
filled the little attic for an hour or more; but now the moon was hidden
behind a bank of cloud, and in the dark came to little Tom the darker
temptation. No way out of his difficulty? Yes, there were two ways. He
might sell Trusty to Pat Finnahan for a shilling--it was far, far better to
part with Trusty than to let Pepper die in the London streets; or he might
keep the old gentleman's shilling and never bring him back the tenpence he
had promised to return to-morrow morning.
By one or other of these plans he might save Pepper from either dying or
going to the workhouse. As he thought over them both, the latter plan
presented itself as decidedly the most feasible. Both his pride and his
love revolted against the first. Part with Trusty? How he had blamed Pepper
when he had even hinted at Trusty being in the way! How very, very much his
mother had loved Trusty! how, even when she was dying, she had begged of
them both never to forsake the faithful old dog! Oh, he could not part with
the dog! if for no other reason, he loved him too much himself.
At this moment, as though to strengthen him in his resolve, Trusty, who
from hunger and cold was by no means sleeping well, left his place at the
little boy's feet and came up close to Tom; lying down by Tom's side, he
put his paws on his shoulders and licked his face with his rough tongue;
and also, just then, as though further to help Trusty in his unconscious
pleading for his own safety, the moon came out from behind the cloud,
shedding its white light full on the boy and the dog; and oh! how pleading,
how melting, how full of tenderness did that one remaining eye of Trusty's
look to Tom as he gazed at him. Clasping his arms tightly round the old
dog's neck, Tom firmly determined that happen what would, he must never
part from Trusty.
He turned his mind now resolutely to the other plan, the one remaining
loophole out of his despair. Need he give back that change to the old man?
That was the question.
The money he had pleaded so earnestly for still lay unbroken in his pocket;
for immediately after it had been given to him, fortune seemed to turn in
his favor, and other people had become not quite so stony-hearted, and a
few pence had fallen to his share. With two or three pence he had bought
himself some dinner, and he had brought threepence back, for Pepper's use
and his own.
Yes, the shilling was still unbroken--and that shilling, just that one
shilling, would save them all.
But--the old gentleman had trusted him--the old gentleman had said:
"I never trusted a crossing-sweeper before. I am going to trust you."
And Tom had promised him. Tom had pledged his word to bring him back
tenpence to-morrow morning.
Strange as it may seem--incomprehensible to many who judge them by no high
standard--here was a little crossing-sweeper who had never told a lie in
his life. Here, lying on this trundle-bed, in this poor room, rested as
honorable a little heart as ever beat in human breast; he could not do a
mean act; he could not betray his trust and break his word.
What would his mother say could she look down from heaven and find out that
her Tom had told a lie? No, not even to save Trusty and Pepper would he do
this mean, mean thing. But he was very miserable, and in his misery and
despair he longed so much for sympathy that he was fain at last to wake
Pepper.
"Pepper," he said, "we never said no prayers to-night; fold yer 'ands,
Pepper, and say 'Our Father' right away."
"Our Father chart heaven," began Pepper, folding his hands as he was
bidden, and gazing up with his great dark eyes at the moon, "hallowed be
thy name ... thy kingdom come ... thy will be done in earth h'as 'tis in
heaven ... give us this day h'our daily bread ... and furgive us h'our
trespasses h'as we furgive ... h'and lead us not into temptation----"
"Yer may shut up there, Pepper," interrupted Tom; "go to sleep now, young
'un. I doesn't want no more."
"Yes," added Tom, a few moments later, "that was wot I needed. I won't do
neither o' them things. Our Father, lead us not inter temptation. Our
Father, please take care on me, and Pepper, and Trusty."
CHAPTER VI.
TRUE TO HIS NAME.
It was apparently the merest chance in the world that brought the old
gentleman, who lived in--Russell Square, to his hall-door the next morning,
to answer, in his own person, a very small and insignificant-sounding ring.
When he opened the door he saw standing outside a very tiny boy, and by the
boy's side a most disreputable-looking dog.
"Well," said the old gentleman, for he hated beggars, "what do you want?
Some mischief, I warrant."
"Please, sir," piped Pepper's small treble, "Tom 'ud come hisself, but 'e
'ave hurt 'is foot h'awful bad, so 'e 'ave sent me and Trusty wid the
tenpence, please, sir.'
"What tenpence?" asked the old man, who had really forgotten the
circumstance of yesterday.
"Please, sir," continued Pepper, holding out sixpence and four dirty
pennies, "'tis the change from the shilling as yer lent to Tom."
At these words the old gentleman got very red in the face, and stared with
all his might at Pepper. "Bless me!" he said suddenly; then he took hold of
Pepper's ragged coat-sleeve and drew him into the hall. "Wife," he called
out, "I say, wife, come here. Bless me! I never heard of anything so
strange. I have actually found an honest crossing-sweeper at last."
But that is the story--for the old gentleman was as kind as he was
eccentric--and he failed not quickly to inquire into all particulars with
regard to Tom, Pepper, and Trusty; and then as promptly to help and raise
the three. Yes, that is the story.
But in the lives of two prosperous men--for Tom and Pepper are men
now--there is never forgotten that dark night, when the little
crossing-sweeper risked everything rather than tell a lie or break a trust.
And Trusty was true to his name to the last.
BILLY ANDERSEN AND HIS TROUBLES.
CHAPTER I.
BILLY'S BABY.
Billy was a small boy of ten; he was thin and wiry, had a freckled face,
and a good deal of short, rather stumpy red hair.
He was by no means young-looking for his ten years; and only that his
figure was small, his shoulders narrow, and his little legs sadly like
spindles, he might have passed for a boy of twelve or thirteen.
Billy had a weight of care upon his shoulders--he had the entire charge of
a baby.
The baby was a year old, fairly heavy, fairly well grown; she was cutting
her teeth badly, and in consequence was often cross and unmanageable.
Billy had to do with her night and day, and no one who saw the two
together could for a moment wonder at the premature lines of care about his
small thin face.
A year ago, on a certain January morning, Billy had been called away from a
delightful game of hop-scotch. A red-faced woman had come to the door of a
tall house, which over-looked the alley where Billy was playing so
contentedly, and beckoned him mysteriously to follow her.
"Yer'd better make no noise, and take off those heavy clumps of shoes," she
remarked.
Billy looked down at his small feet, on which some very large and
much-battered specimens of the shoemaker's craft were hanging loosely.
"I can shuffle of 'em off right there, under the stairs," he remarked,
raising his blue eyes in a confident manner to the red-faced woman.
She nodded, but did not trouble to speak further, and barefooted Billy
crept up the stairs; up and up, until he came to an attic room, which he
knew well, for it represented his home.
He was still fresh from his hop-scotch, and eager to go back to his game;
and when a thin, rather rasping woman's voice called him, he ran up eagerly
to a bedside.
"Wot is it, mother? I want to go back to punch Tom Jones."
Alas! for poor Billy--his fate was fixed from that moment, and the wild
bird was caged.
"Another time, Billy," said his mother; "you 'as got other work to see to
now. Pull down the bedclothes, and look wot's under 'em."
Billy eagerly drew aside the dirty counterpane and sheet, and saw a very
small and pink morsel of humanity--a morsel of humanity which greeted his
rough intrusion on her privacy with several contortions of the tiny
features, and some piercing screams.
"Why, sakes alive, ef it ain't a baby," said Billy, falling back a step or
two in astonishment.
"Yes, Billy," replied his mother, "and she's to be your baby, for I can't
do no charring and mind her as well, so set down by the fire, this minute
and mind her right away."
Billy did not dream of objecting; he seated himself patiently and
instantly, and thought with a very faint sigh of Tom Jones, whose head he
so ached to punch.
Tom Jones would be victorious at hop-scotch, and he would not be present to
abate his pride.
Well, well, perhaps he could go to-morrow.
CHAPTER II.
MORE TROUBLE.
Day after day passed, and month after month, and Tom Jones, the bully of
Aylmer's Court, quite ceased to fear any assaults from a certain plucky and
wiry little fellow, who used to fly at him when he knocked down the girls,
and who made himself generally unpleasant to Tom, when Tom too violently
transgressed the principle of right and justice.
Not that Billy Andersen knew anything of right and justice himself; he was
mostly guided by an instinct which taught him to dislike everything that
Tom did, and perhaps he was also a wee bit influenced by a sentiment which
made him dislike to see any thing weaker or smaller than himself bullied.
Since that January morning, however, Billy's head and heart and hands were
all too full for him to have any time to waste upon Tom Jones.
The girls and the very little ones of the court crowded round Billy the
first time he went out with his charge. One of the biggest of them, indeed,
carried the little thing right up into her own home, followed by a noisy
crowd eager to make friends with the little arrival. Billy was flattered by
their attentions, but he preferred to keep his charge entirely to himself.
At first, it was his head and hands alone which were occupied over the
baby, but as she progressed under his small brotherly care, and wrinkled up
her tiny features with an ugly attempt at a smile, and stretched out her
limbs and cooed at him, he began gradually to discover that the baby was
getting into his heart. From the moment he became certain on this point,
all the irksomeness of his duties faded out of sight, and he did not mind
what care or trouble he expended over Sarah Ann.
Mrs. Andersen, true to her word, had given Billy the entire charge of this
last addition to her family. Her husband had deserted her some months
before the birth of the baby, and the poor woman had about as much as she
could do, in earning bread to put into her own mouth and those of her two
children.
Now, it is grievous to relate that notwithstanding all Billy's devotion and
good nature, Sarah Ann was by no means a nice baby. In the first place, she
was very ugly--not even Billy could see any beauty in her rather old and
yellow face; in the next place, she had a temper, which the neighbors were
fond of describing as "vicious." Sarah Ann seemed already to have studied
human nature for the purpose of annoying it. She cried at the wrong
moments, she cut her teeth at the most inopportune times, she slept by day
and stayed awake at night, in a manner enough to try the patience of an
angel; she tyrannized over any one who had anything to do with her, and in
particular she tyrannized over Billy.
Night after night had Billy to pace up and down the attic, with Sarah Ann
in his arms, for nothing would induce the infant to spend her waking
moments except in a state of perpetual motion.
In vain Billy tried darkness, and his mother tried scolding. Sarah Ann,
when placed in her cot, screamed so loud that all the neighbors were
aroused.
When once, however, this strange and wayward little child had got into
Billy's heart, he was wonderfully patient with all her caprices, and
treasured the rare and far-between smiles she gave him, as worth going
through a great deal to obtain.
On fine days Billy took Sarah Ann for a walk; and even once or twice he
went with her as far as Kensington Gardens, where they both enjoyed
themselves vastly, under the shadow of a huge elm tree.
It was on the last of these occasions, just before the second winter of
Sarah Ann's existence, that that small adventure occurred which was to land
poor Billy in such hot water and such perplexity.
Sarah Ann was quite nice that afternoon; she cooed and smiled, and allowed
her brother to stroke her face, and even to play tenderly with the tiny
rings of soft flaxen hair which were beginning to show round her forehead.
Billy's heart and head were quite absorbed with her, when a harsh, mocking
laugh and a loud "Hulloa, you youngster," caused him to raise his head, and
see, to his unutterable aversion, the well-remembered form of Tom Jones.
"Well, I never; and so that's the reason you've bin a-shunnin' of me
lately; and so you've been obliged to go and turn nursemaid;
well--well--and you call yourself a manly boy."
"So I be manly," retorted Billy, glaring angrily and defiantly at his
adversary. "I don't want none of your cheek, Tom Jones, and I'd a sight
rayther be taking care of a cute little baby like this than idling and
loafing about and getting into trouble all day long--like yourself."
"Oh! we has turned nice and good," said Tom Jones, trying to affect a fine
lady's accent; "ain't it edifying--ain't it delicious--to hear us speaking
so well of ourselves? Now then, Billy, where's that punched head you
promised me a year ago now? I ain't forgot it, and I'd like to see you at
it; you're afeard, that's wot you are; you're a coward, arter all, Billy
Andersen."
"No, I ain't," said Billy, "and I'll give it yer this 'ere blessed minute,
if you like. Yere, Sarah Ann darling, you set easy with yer back up agin'
the tree, and I'll soon settle Tom Jones for him."
Sarah Ann strongly objected to being removed from Billy's lap to the
ground; all her sunshiny good temper deserted her on the spot; she
screamed, she wriggled, she made such violent contortions, and altogether
behaved in such an excited and extraordinary manner, that Tom, who by no
means in his heart wished to test Billy's powers, found a ready excuse for
postponing the moment when his head must be punched, in her remarkable
behavior.
"Well, I never did see such a baby," he began; "now, I likes that sort of a
baby; why, she have a sperrit. No, no, Billy, I ain't going to punch you;
now, I'd like to catch hold of that 'ere little one"--but here Billy
frustrated his intention.
"You shan't touch my baby; you shan't lay a hand on her," he exclaimed,
snatching Sarah Ann up again in his arms, and covering her with kisses.
"Well, see if I don't some day," said Tom; "you dare me, do you? Well, all
right, we'll see."
As Billy walked home that afternoon, he was a little troubled by Tom's
words; he knew how vindictive Tom could be, and there was an ugly light in
his green eyes when he, Billy, had refused to give him the baby.
Tom was capable of mischief, of playing such a practical joke as might
cause sad trouble and even danger to poor little Sarah Ann. Hitherto Billy
had kept all knowledge of the baby's existence from Tom Jones. What evil
chance had brought him to Kensington Gardens that day? Troubles, however,
were not to fall singly on poor Billy Andersen that day. He was greeted on
his return to his attic by eager words and excited ejaculations. It was
some time before his poor little dazed head could take in the fact that his
mother had broken her leg, and was taken to the hospital. He must then for
the time being turn the baby's breadwinner as well as her caretaker.
CHAPTER III.
TOM JONES' TRICK.
The neighbors were full of suggestions to Billy at this crisis of his fate.
It was ascertained beyond all doubt that Mrs. Andersen would be six weeks,
if not two months, away; and this being the case, the neighbors one and all
declared roundly that there was nothing whatever for Sarah Ann but to
become a workhouse baby. One of them would carry her to the house the very
next morning, and of course she would be admitted without a moment's
difficulty, and there would be an end of her.
Billy might manage to earn a precarious living by running messages, by
opening cab-doors, and by the thousand-and-one things an active boy could
undertake, and so he might eke out a livelihood till his mother came back;
but there was no hope whatever for Sarah Ann--there was no loophole for her
but the workhouse.
To these admonitions on the part of his friendly neighbors, Billy responded
in a manner peculiar to himself. First of all, he raised two blue and very
innocent eyes, and let them rest slowly and thoughtfully on each loquacious
speaker's face; then he suddenly and without the slightest warning winked
one of the said eyes in a manner that was so knowing as to be almost
wicked, and then without the slightest word or comment he dashed into his
attic and locked the door on himself and Sarah Ann.
"Sarah Ann, darling," he said, placing the baby on the floor and kneeling
down a few paces from her, "will yer go to the workhouse, or will yer stay
with yer h'own Billy?"
Sarah Ann's response to this was to wriggle as fast as possible up to her
affectionate nurse, and rub her little dirty face against his equally dirty
trousers.
"That's settled, then," said Billy; "yer has chosen, Sarah Ann, and yer
ain't one as could ever abear contradictions, so we 'as got to see how we
two can live."
This was a problem not so easily managed, for the neighbors took offense
with Billy not following their advice, and it was almost impossible for him
to leave Sarah Ann long at home by herself. True to this terrible infant's
character, she now refused to sleep by day, as she had hitherto done, thus
cutting off poor Billy's last loophole of earning his bread and her own
with any comfort.
Billy had two reasons which made it almost impossible for him to leave the
baby in the attic; the first was his fear that Tom Jones, who still hovered
dangerously about, might find her and carry her off; the second was the
undoubted fact that if Sarah Ann was left to enjoy her own solitary
company, she would undoubtedly scream herself into fits and the neighbors
into distraction.
There was nothing whatever for it but for Billy to carry the baby with him
when he went in search of their daily bread.
Poor little brave man, he had certainly a hard time during those next two
months, and except for the undoubted fact that he and the baby were two of
the sparrows whom our Father feeds, they both must have starved; but
perhaps owing to a certain look in Billy's eyes, which were as blue as blue
could be, in the midst of his freckled face, and also, perhaps, to a
certain pathetic turn which the baby's ugliness had now assumed, the two
always managed to secure attention.
With attention, came invariably a few pence--fourpence one day--sixpence
and even eightpence another. The greater portion of the food thus obtained
was given to Sarah Ann, but neither of the two quite starved. Billy counted
and counted and counted the days until his mother would be home again; and
as, fortunately for him, Mrs. Andersen had paid the rent of their attic
some weeks in advance, the children still had a shelter at night.
All went tolerably well with the little pair until a certain bitter day in
the beginning of November. Billy was very hopeful on the morning of that
day, for his mother's time of captivity in the hospital had nearly expired,
and soon now she would be back to take the burden of responsibility off his
young shoulders.
Sarah Ann had hitherto escaped cold; indeed, her life in the open air
seemed to agree with her, and she slept better at nights, and was really
becoming quite a nice tempered baby.
Billy used to look at her with the most old fatherly admiration, and
assured her that she was such a darling duck of a cherub that he could
almost eat her up.
No, Sarah Ann had never taken cold, but Billy felt a certain amount of
uneasiness on this particular morning, which was as sleety, as gusty, as
altogether melancholy a day as ever dawned on the great London world.
There was no help for it, however, the daily bread must be found; and he
and the baby must face the elements. He wrapped an old woolen comforter
several times round Sarah Ann's throat, and beneath the comforter secured
a very thin and worn Paisley shawl of his mother's, and then buttoning up
his own ragged jacket, and shuffling along in his large and untidy boots,
he set forth. Whether it was the insufficient food he had lately partaken
of or that the baby was really growing very heavy, poor Billy almost
staggered to-day under Sarah Ann's weight. He found himself obliged to lean
for support against a pillar box, and then he discovered to his distress
that the baby began to sneeze, that her tiny face was blue, and that her
solemn black eyes had quite a weary and tearful look.
"She's a-catchin' cold, the blessed, blessed babby," exclaimed poor Billy;
"oh, Sairey Ann, darlin', don't you go and take the brownchitis, and break
the heart of your h'own Billy. Oh! lady, lady, give us a 'ap'enny, or a
penny. Give us a copper, please, kind lady."
The lady so aprostrophized was good-natured enough to bestow a few pence on
the starved-looking children, and after a certain miserable fashion the
morning passed away.
This was, however, Billy's only money success, and he was just making up
his mind to go home, and to prefer starvation in his attic to running the
feeble chance of securing any more charities.
Sarah Ann still continued to sneeze and her eyes still looked watery, and
Billy was sorrowfully giving up his hope of receiving any more coppers,
when he came face to face with his old adversary and tormentor, Tom Jones.
In the anxiety of these latter few weeks, Billy had lost his old fear of
Tom, and he was now so spent and exhausted that he greeted him with almost
pleasure.
"Oh! Tom, do hold the babby just for one minute, just for me to get a wee
bit of breath. I'm all blown like, and I'm afeard as Sarah Ann 'as taken
cold; jest hold her for one minute--will yer?"
Tom, who was looking rather white and shaken himself, just glanced into
Billy's face, and some gibing words, which were on the tip of his tongue,
were restrained.
"Why, yer does look bad, Billy Andersen," he said, and then, without
another word, he lifted the baby out of the little lad's trembling arms,
and held her in an awkward but not altogether untender fashion.
"Look you here, Billy," he said, "ef yer likes to round quick this 'ere
corner, there are two cabs coming up to a house as I passed, and they are
sure to want a boy to help in with the boxes, and you maybe earn sixpence
or a bob; run round this yere minute--quick, Billy, quick."
"I'd like to, awful well," said Billy, "and the run will warm me, and
wouldn't the bob be fine--but, oh! Tom, will yer hold Sairey Ann? and will
yer promise not to run away with her? will yer promise sure and faithful,
Tom?"
"What in the world should I do that for?" said Tom. "What good would yer
Sairey Ann be to me? My h'eyes--I has work enough to get my h'own victuals.
There, Billy, I'll not deprive you of the babby; you jest run round the
corner, or yer'll lose the chance. There, Billy, be quick; you'll find
Sairey Ann safe enough when yer comes back."
The poor thin and cold baby gave a little cry as Billy ran off, but the
chance was too good for him to lose; and, after all, what earthly use could
Tom have with Sairey Ann?
CHAPTER IV.
WHAT IT MEANT.
Poor Billy! After all, Tom had told him a story, for there was no cab
whatever waiting in the long and dreary street, into which he ran so
eagerly. He ran up and down its entire length, and even stopped at the very
number Tom had indicated. A little girl was coming slowly down the steps,
and Billy could not help saying to her, "Oh, missy, am I too late, and have
all the boxes been stowed away afore I come?"
"There have been no boxes stowed away," said the little girl, stopping and
staring in astonishment at the ragged boy.
"Oh, but, missy, out of the two cabs, yer knows."
"There have been no cabs here for many a day," replied the child in a
sorrowful, dull kind of tone, which seemed to say that she only wished
anything half so nice and interesting would arrive.
Billy saw then that the whole thing had been a hoax, and he flew back down
the long street, with a great terror in his heart. Oh! what did Tom mean,
and was the baby safe?
There was no Tom anywhere in sight when the poor little boy returned to the
more crowded thoroughfare; but a policeman was stooping down and looking
curiously at something on the pavement, and one or two people were
beginning to collect round him.
Billy arrived just in time to see the policeman pick up a little shivering,
crying, half-naked baby. Yes, this baby was his own Sarah Ann, but her
woolen comforter, and mother's old Paisley shawl, and even a little brown
winsey frock had all disappeared.
"Oh! give her to me, give her to me," sobbed poor Billy; "oh, Sairey Ann,
Sairey Ann, yer'll have brownchitis and hinflammation now, sure and
certain; oh, wot a wicked boy Tom Jones is."
The policeman asked a few leading questions, and then finding that the baby
was Billy's undoubted property, he was only too glad to deliver her into
his arms. The poor baby was quiet at once, and laid her little head
caressingly against Billy's cheek. Billy tore off his own ragged jacket and
wrapped it round her, and then flew home, with the energy and terror of
despair. A pitiless sleet shower overtook him, however, and the two were
wet to the skin when they arrived at their attic.
CHAPTER V.
BILLY'S ILLNESS.
All that day Billy anxiously watched the baby; he tore off her wet clothes,
and wrapped the blanket and the sheet tightly round her, and then he coaxed
a neighbor to expend one of his pennies on milk, which he warmed and gave
with some broken bread to the little hungry creature. He forgot all about
himself in his anxiety for Sarah Ann, and as the day passed on, and she did
not sneeze any more, but sat quite warm and bright and chirrupy in his
arms, he became more and more light-hearted, and more and more thankful. In
his thankfulness he would have offered a little prayer to God, had he known
how, for his mother was just sufficiently not a heathen to say to him, now
and then, "Don't go out without saying your prayers, Billy, be sure you say
your prayers," and once or twice she had even tried to teach him a clause
out of Our Father. He only remembered the first two words now, and, looking
at the baby, he repeated them solemnly several times. At last it was time
to go to bed, and as Sarah Ann was quite nice and sleepy, Billy hoped they
would have a comfortable night. So they might have had, as far as the baby
was concerned, for she nestled off so peacefully, and laid her soft head on
Billy's breast.
But what ailed the poor little boy himself? His head ached, his pulse
throbbed as he lay with the scanty blankets covering him; he shivered so
violently that he almost feared he should wake Sarah Ann. Yes, he, not the
baby, had taken cold. He, not the baby, was going to have brownchitis or
that hinflammation which he dreaded.
The mischief had been done when he tore off his jacket and ran home,
through the pitiless sleet, in his ragged shirt-sleeves. Well, he was glad
it was not Sairey Ann, and mother would soon be home now, and find her
baby well, and not starved, and perhaps she would praise him a little bit,
and tell him he was a good boy. He had certainly tried to be a good boy.
All through the night--while his chest ached and ached, and his breath
became more and more difficult, and the baby slumbered on, with her little
downy head against his breast--he kept wondering, in a confused sort of
way, what his mother would say to him, and if the Our Father, in the only
prayer he ever knew, was anything like the father who had been cruel, and
who had run away from him and his mother a year ago.