TOM, DICK, HARRY, AND THE BABY.
For the next week Mr. Smith was untiring in his efforts to find the
missing Joseph Smith, his namesake. Telegrams sped back and forth
between Baltimore and San Diego, with the result that the only
information gained was: on the very day, or the next following that,
on which Mrs. John Smith sailed from San Diego for Santiago de Chile,
Doctor Alexander MacDonald, otherwise known as “Doctor Mack,” had
departed for the Philippines. No person at their recent home knew
anything further concerning these two persons, and owing to their long
journeys all communication with them was for the present impossible.
The seventy-five Joseph Smiths residing in or around Baltimore had all
been unearthed, so to speak, without finding one who in any particular
beyond the name resembled the desired one. Not one was anybody’s twin,
not one happened to have had any relative in either San Diego or
Santiago, and not one welcomed the thought of receiving a strange child
into his household.
One Joseph Smith had, indeed, been found to have lately resided at
1000 Bismarck Street and this confusion of street and avenue explained
to Uncle Joe’s mind the whole curious, yet simple blunder. This
Bismarck-Street Joseph Smith was, doubtless, the right one; but, also,
he was the only one of the seventy-five who could not now be located!
He had disappeared as completely as if the earth had swallowed him,
and Josephine’s present guardian rested his efforts; merely causing an
advertisement to be inserted in each of the daily papers to the effect
that the person answering it might hear of something to his advantage
by calling at the newspaper office and leaving his address for the
advertiser, “S.”
Nobody called. Matters dropped into a comfortable routine. Uncle Joe
was disturbed at finding the name of the trained nurse was also Smith,
and to prevent unpleasant complications, requested that he might call
her as the little girl did, “Mrs. Red Kimono,” or, more briefly, “Miss
Kimono,” she having set him right as to her maidenly condition.
She readily and smilingly agreed to this, and, reporting the matter
to Mrs. Merriman, laughed so heartily over it, that that lady
remonstrated, saying:
“Dear Miss Desire, it’s outrageous. Under the circumstances I would
never permit it. The idea! He excludes you from table with himself and
the little girl, does he not? For so Michael tells me.”
“Yes. Not, I fancy, from arrogance, but merely from force of habit.
He dislikes women, utterly and sincerely. Or he thinks he does. But
Josephine has won his whole heart for childhood, and he likes her to
be with him as constantly as possible. From what the servants tell me,
she has wrought a complete transformation in the household. And she
is so lovely, so winning, that eventually she’ll bring everything
right. I don’t mind the table business; the main thing is that I am
in his house, tolerated there, and determined, if the time is not too
short, to prove to him that blood is thicker than water, and that, just
though he thinks himself, he has been wholly unjust in his treatment of
others. Oh, I don’t object to the situation. I get lots of quiet fun
out of it, and haven’t felt so happy in a long time. I’ve even lost
all bitterness against him, poor, solitary, prejudice-bound old man,”
returned the nurse.
“Well, may I be there to see when the revelation is at last made!
Though I prophesy that his behavior in the matter will be as
straightforward as it was about the line-fence. Think! We squabbled
over it like a couple of silly children, for years and years. I can’t
understand now how I could ever have been so absurd. Must you go? Well,
then, since your employer wishes you to take little Josephine down
town to get that Rudanthy a head, suppose you both go with me in my
carriage? I will call for you at three o’clock.”
Miss Kimono thanked her friend and departed; and that same afternoon
the unhappy doll’s ruined countenance was replaced by one so beautiful
that it almost consoled Josephine for the loss of the more familiar
face.
That very day, too, away out in a suburban village, where rents were
cheap and needs few, three little lads sat on a bare floor, surrounding
a baby, who rejoiced in the high-sounding name of Penelope, but
rejoiced in very little else. Even now she was crying for her dinner,
and each of the “triplets,” as they were called by the neighbors,
was doing his utmost to console her. In reality they were not
triplets, though the eldest were twins, and their names were those so
objectionable in Uncle Joe’s ears, Tom, Dick, and Harry.
“Here, Penel! You may play with my pin-wheel!” cried the latter.
“No, Harry, she must not. She’ll swallow it. The pin’ll scratch her
insides. She swallows everything, Penelope does. And you mustn’t say
just ‘Penel.’ Mother doesn’t like that. She says it’s a beautiful name
and mustn’t be spoiled.”
“Oh, Tom, you’re always a c’recting a fellow. Well, if she can’t have
my pin-wheel, what shall I give her to make her shut up?”
“Maybe I can find something in mother’s cupboard, maybe,” answered
Harry.
The tone was doubtful, but the suggestion cheering, and with one accord
the triplets left the baby to its fate and betook themselves to the
rear room where they ransacked a small pantry, only to find their
search rewarded by nothing more palatable than a stale loaf of bread
and a few raw potatoes.
“She can’t eat taters, and she can’t eat this bread, ’ithout it’s
softened. And there isn’t any milk,” said Dick, despondingly. “I don’t
see why we don’t have things like we used to have. I don’t know what
made my folks move ’way out here to nowhere, anyway. I was just going
to get a new ’rithmetic to my school, and now, I--I hate this.”
“No, you don’t hate it, Dicky. Not always. You’re hungry, that’s all,”
said the more thoughtful Tom.
“Well, so are you!” retorted Dick, resenting the statement as if it
were an implication of guilt.
“If you can’t get milk, water must do,” answered Tom, taking the loaf
from his brother’s hand and carefully breaking off a portion of it, to
moisten it under the spigot.
The others watched him with keen interest, and Harry inquired:
“Do you s’pose I could have just a little bit, Tom?”
“No, I don’t s’pose anything like it. You aren’t a baby, are you? Only
babies eat when ’tisn’t dinner time, now.”
“Once I used to eat when ’twasn’t dinner. Once I did,” answered the
little boy, with something like a quiver of the lip.
“Does our father or our mother eat ’tween meals, Harry Smith?” demanded
Tom, indignantly.
“No. Come on. If we can’t have bread let’s play hop-toad.”
“All right. After I’ve set Penelope up against the wall so’s we shan’t
knock her over,” answered the brother.
The little maid was soon propped securely across an angle of the
whitewashed wall, with a chair before her to keep her from creeping
forward into danger, and the small triplets were soon leaping over
one another’s backs, around and around the room. Fortunately, there
was little furniture to obstruct their movements and therefore little
danger of hurting themselves; and though the exercise tended to
increase their always-present hunger, that was nothing new.
“A fellow can have a good time even if he doesn’t have a good dinner,”
was their father’s assertion; and to them father was an oracle.
While the fun was at its height there came a knock on the little street
door. The house was but the tiniest of cottages, and its floor raised
but slightly above the street. Its door hung loosely from its upper
hinge and dragged so heavily in closing that it was commonly left ajar.
No landlord cared to fix it up for such poor tenants as now occupied
the property, and they had not done it for him. So that when his knock
was unanswered, because unheard, the visitor calmly entered, followed
the noise, and presented himself before the gaze of the astonished,
suddenly quieted lads.
“Hello, youngsters, hard at it?” demanded the stranger, playfully.
“Hop-toad, leap-frog; having frolics,” answered Harry, boldly, while
his brothers, the twins, clung together and looked anxiously at the man.
“Nice game. Used to play it myself, when I was a little shaver. Don’t
know but I might be persuaded to try it again, if I was invited,” said
the unknown visitor.
None of the trio responded to this suggestion, nor was the game
resumed. The three children stood utterly silent, regarding the
gentleman with the intensely critical gaze of childhood which pretence
finds so disconcerting. The stranger felt as if six gimlets were boring
their way through his outward amiability to the vexation beneath; a
vexation that he had allowed himself to come so far out of his way
to find a man who could not possibly reside in such a hovel. None
the less, since here he was he would ask a question or two for the
satisfaction of it, and put the first one, thus:
“Say, youngsters, what’s your name?”
“Tom, Dick, and Harry. That’s me,” answered the latter, placing his
arms akimbo, the better to stare at the questioner, it seemed.
“The mischief! Saucy, aren’t you!” rejoined the newcomer.
“And the baby. That’s Penelope,” added Tom, with his usual precise
gravity.
“Tom, Dick, and Harry, and the baby; a hopeful lot of you. All right.
So much for first names, though I don’t believe they’re genuine. Give
us the last name and be quick about it,” ordered this odd man.
“Our name is Smith. That’s our father’s name and our mother’s. Why? _Do
they owe you something?_ ’Cause if they do, I wish, I wish you’d please
go away, quick as a wink, and not let them know you’ve been here. My
father can’t help it. He--something got wrong with the business, and
I’ve heard them talk lots of times. They”--explained Tom.
Just there it occurred to the little fellow that he was discussing
family affairs too freely with a stranger, and instinct made him pause.
“Well, ‘they’ what? Is his name Joseph? Joseph Smith? Has he a brother
who is a twin?” asked the stranger.
Tom considered, there seemed no harm in answering these questions.
“Yes, his name is Joseph. He has a brother who is a twin, same as me
and Dick.”
Then there ensued the following dialogue, begun by the visitor with the
next question:
“Where does this uncle of yours live?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t know? Haven’t you ever seen him?”
“No. Never.”
“Where’s your father?”
“Out looking for work. Maybe he’ll get it to-day, maybe.”
The wistfulness of the childish voice told its own story, and even Mr.
Wakeman’s heart was touched by it. He was compelled to say:
“Likely he will, chappie. Likely enough he will. And your mother? I
suppose you have a mother?”
“Course. The nicest mother there is.”
“Does she happen to be at home?”
Tom’s gaze flew past the questioner toward a little woman who had
entered unperceived, and who was closely followed by a handsome man
with a mien as bright and undaunted as if he were not evidently
half-starved and poor in the extreme. With the gentlest of movements
he placed himself between the lady and the stranger, as if to ward off
from her any fresh misfortune.
“Your errand, Mr.”--
“Wakeman. My name is Wakeman. Since you didn’t answer our advertisement
I looked you up, myself. I represent Joseph Smith, of the Stock
Exchange.”
“Ah!” The ejaculation spoke volumes.