At sound of Ragged Rob’s ringing words every gaze in the spacious room,
even to that of the grim recorder, was turned upon the fearless young
bootblack, who, despite his grimy features and soiled, ragged clothes,
looked every inch a hero. One countenance lightened at sight of him,
and she at the prisoner’s bar cried, in a joyful voice:
“Oh, Rob!” and then she seemed about to fall, as if the glad appearance
of her friend had overcome her. But she quickly mastered her weakness,
saying, in a supplicating tone:
“Save me from the workshop, Rob! Mother does so need me.”
“I will, Joey; never fear. What is the charge, Mister Recorder?”
“Vagrancy, coupled with trying to pass bad money and being generally a
suspicious character,” replied the recorder, recovering his usual stern
exterior.
“There’s not a word of truth in it!” exclaimed Rob, impetuously.
“Order!” commanded the recorder, and a burly officer moved toward the
excited youth, ready to seize him at the word from his superior. A
murmur of excitement ran over the throng of spectators.
“Has she been sentenced?” asked Rob, recovering his self-possession,
and speaking with a calmness he was far from feeling.
“Blackwell’s--thirty days,” was the stern reply.
“It must not be!” declared Rob, boldly. “She cannot be guilty, Mister
Recorder. Is there no way to save her from the workhouse?”
“As this seems to be her first offense, if there was some one to answer
for her, she might be let off this time,” and though it may have been
his imagination, Rob thought the recorder said this gladly. At any
rate, it gave him hope, and he said, promptly:
“I will answer for her, Mister Recorder.”
“That could hardly be, as you are but a minor, as well as unknown to
us.”
Rob’s countenance fell; but at that moment a loud voice from the rear
of the courtroom exclaimed:
“I’ll answer for her, judge! That gal must never go to the workhouse.
It would be a burning shame, in this Christian age.”
A buzz of surprise ran over the scene, while Deacon Cornhill, who had
made the bold declaration, pushed his way forward to the side of the
young bootblack.
“It’s too bad to send such an innercent to the workhouse, judge. How
much is there to pay?”
“Who are you, sir?” demanded the recorder, looking askance at the
countrified speaker.
“Deacon Elihu Cornhill, of Basinburg, your honor.”
“And you promise that she shall be provided for, Mr. Cornhill?”
“I do, judge.”
“Very well. In that case sentence is suspended during good behavior.
She is too young and apparently too innocent to be sent to the
workhouse. But, remember, miss, if you are brought back here a double
sentence will be imposed.”
“Shameful, judge. Send such a bright girl to the workhouse----”
“Silence!” ordered the recorder, at the same time pushing a ponderous
book toward the discomfited deacon. “Please put your name down there.”
As soon as Deacon Cornhill signed the necessary document, and finding
that she was at liberty to do so, the young prisoner took Rob’s hand.
Then, without further delay, while a generous murmur of applause ran
over the crowd, the three left the courtroom, to be joined at the door
by Chick.
“Where have you been, Joe, since that dreadful night when the old
rookery was torn down over our heads, and we lost each other?”
“Everywhere, Rob. I am so thankful now that you saved me from the
workhouse that I cannot say anything.”
“It was not I, Joey, but this kind gentleman, Deacon Cornhill.”
“I wish to thank you, sir. If you will only come home I am sure mother
will do it much better than I can. Poor mother! how she must have been
worrying about me.”
“How is she, Joe?”
“No better, Rob. And I have been away all day. You will go home with
me?”
“Yes; that is, as soon as I have showed this gentleman to Bradford’s.”
“Don’t stop to do that, my son. Go home with the leetle one first. If
she don’t object, I’ll go along with you.”
“Of course I don’t object, and mother will be glad to see you. How you
have grown since I saw you last.”
“No more than you, Joe. Why, you are almost as tall as mother now. But,
as we walk along, you must tell us how you were brought up before the
recorder. Chick, you will go with us.”
“Well, you see, Rob,” began the girl, “mother has been so poorly for a
week that I have neglected business. But to-day, seeing we had nothing
in the house to eat and no money, I had to start out in earnest. I
seemed pretty lucky at once, for inside of an hour I met a fine, old
gent, who gave me ten cents to carry his portmanteau three squares
and----”
“The lazy bones!” interjected Deacon Cornhill. “Do you mean to say,
miss, the man let you carry his satchel alone?”
“I was glad to have him, sir, for it meant dinner for poor mother, and
medicine, too.”
“Isn’t your father living?”
“No, sir. He died twelve years ago. And mother has been ill for four
years.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“Sell flowers, papers, or do anything that will bring me a few cents.
Sometimes I run errands or carry gentlemen’s bundles.”
The kind-hearted deacon groaned, while she resumed:
“After I had parted with the old gent I found a flashily dressed young
man, who wanted me to run an errand for him, and when I got back he
gave me a silver quarter. It seemed so much for him to pay for so
little work that I wanted him to take a part of it back, and he took my
ten-cent piece. From that time until noon I earned only three cents;
but, with my quarter, I felt quite well pleased. So I thought to buy
something real nice for mother and go home. When I come to pay for the
rolls and cake the man said the money was bad. I could not believe
it, and while I tried to explain to him how I got it, he called in the
police, when I was taken to the recorder’s court and kept there until
you found me.”
“The sinfulness of this sinful city!” exclaimed the deacon. “And to
think they were going to take you to the workshop.”
“I wish to thank you for your kindness, sir. You see, Rob and I used
to be old cronies; but we have not seen each other for over two years.
But here we are at home. How glad mother will be to see me, and you,
too, Rob, and Deacon Cornhill, I am sure. But, dear me! here I have not
brought her a crumb to eat. How could I have forgotten it?”
“Is it possible you live here, Joey? But go right in with Deacon
Cornhill, while I go after something for her and you to eat. I will be
back soon. Chick can shift for himself.”
“Buy something good,” said Mr. Cornhill, pulling out his well-filled
pocketbook and handing Rob a five-dollar bill, which, however, he made
the exchange for one of a smaller denomination.
If Deacon Cornhill had learned to like bluff, hearty Little Hickory, he
was not less pleased with the bravehearted girl, whose only name, as
far as he had found out, had that decided masculine ring of Joe.
“If the leetle one is willing, I’ll step in and see her mother.”
“Of course, sir; come right in. But you must be prepared to find scanty
room. Our house is so small--that is, narrow, our rooms are not more
than three feet wide. Still, now we have got used to them, we get along
quite comfortably.”
Deacon Cornhill, by this time, was prepared to be surprised at nothing
in New York; but this dwelling fairly staggered his senses. The entire
width of this building, which was four stories in height, was scarcely
five feet, outside measure. Was it a wonder the man, fresh from the
country, where space is a matter of small consideration, was amazed at
this peculiar structure, with its long, narrow apartments, where he
could barely turn around? It seemed that at some time the land upon
which it stood had been a matter of contention, until finally the
owner, to spite his neighbor, had erected this tall, narrow building on
his limited grounds.
It was occupied, at this time, by three families, one of whom was the
Willets, mother and daughter, Josephine, Rob’s “Little Joe.”
Deacon Cornhill, as soon as he had somewhat recovered from his
astonishment, was ushered into the presence of the invalid woman, who,
after giving Joey a joyous greeting, received him in a manner which
told that she had been well bred.
“But I am so helpless here,” she said. “I feel very grateful to you
for befriending Joe, who is my mainstay. I must have been taken to the
poorhouse soon after I was obliged to give up work but for her. And she
cannot stand it much longer, poor thing! It has been so hard since my
husband died. Ah! John and I never dreamed of what was in store for us
when we left our old home in Maine to begin a new life in the big city.
It was a new life, but a hard one. He was a good mechanic, but we had
not been here two years before he was taken down with the fever. Of
course, as soon as he stopped work his wages stopped, and when he died
I was without a penny, and Joey a little girl. How many times have I
pined for the old home, but, alas! I shall never see it!”
“You shall!” cried Deacon Cornhill, vehemently, for almost at the
outset of their conversation the subject uppermost in his mind had
received an impetus he had not anticipated. “That is, you may not see
the old home, but you can see another as good.”
If at first she thought him demented, he quickly explained the
proposition he had made to Rob, when Joey clapped her hands with
delight.
“It might bring back your health, mother.”
“I know the sweet scent of the country air would do me good, my
daughter; but do not raise any false hopes. We have not a cent to get
there, if we had any place to flee to.”
“Hurrah!” cried the usually dignified deacon, forgetting his staid ways
in the excitement of the moment; “my case is as good as won. You shall
both of you go, if you will, and never return to this wicked city.”
“Here comes Rob!” cried the happy Joe, beginning to dance along the
length of the narrow room. “We’ll talk it all over with him, and what a
happy day it will be!”