After the Colonel's Visit
"Don't you go an' leave me, grandpa. Grandpa, don't you dast to go!"
wailed Glory, her arms clasped so tightly about the captain's neck that
they choked him. When he loosened them, he drew her to his knee and laid
her curly head against his cheek, answering, in a broken voice, "Leave
you, deary? Not while I live. Not while you will stay with the old blind
man, who can't even see to what sort of a home he has brought his pet."
"Why, to the nicest home ever was. Can't be a nicer nowhere, not any
single where. Not even on that big avenue where such shiny people as him
live. Why, we've got a hull house to ourselves, haven't we?"
"Child, stop. Tell me exact, as you never told before. Is Elbow Lane a
'slum'?"
"'Deed I don't know, 'cause I never heard tell of a 'slum' 'fore. It's
the cutest little street ever was. Why, you can 'most reach acrost from
one side to the other. Me an' Billy has often tried. It's got the
loveliest crook in it, right here where we be; an' one side runs out one
way an' t'other toward the river. Why, grandpa, Posy Jane says
onct--onct, 'fore anybody here was livin', the Lane was a cow-path an'
the cows was drove down it to the river to drink. Maybe she's lyin'.
'Seems if she must be, 'cause now there ain't no cows nor nothin' but
milk-carts an' cans in corner stores, an' buildin's where onct she says
was grass--grass, grandpa, do you hear?"
"Yes, I hear, mate. But the folks, the neighbors. A slum, deary, I guess
a slum is only where wicked people live. I don't know, really, for we
had no such places on the broad high sea. Are our folks in the Lane
wicked, daughter?"
"Grandpa!" she cried, indignantly. "When there's such a good, good
woman, Jane's sister Meg-Laundress, what washes for us just 'cause I
mend her things. An' tailor-Jake who showed me to do a buttonhole an'
him all doubled up with coughin'; an' Billy Buttons who gives us a paper
sometimes, only neither of us can read it; an' Nick, the parson, who
helps me sort my goobers; an' Posy Jane, that's a kind o' mother to
everybody goin'. Don't the hull kerboodle of 'em treat you like you was
a prince in a storybook, as I've heard Billy tell about? Huh! Nice
folks? I should think they was. Couldn't be any nicer in the hull city.
Couldn't, for sure, an' I say so, I, Glory Beck."
"And all very poor, mate, terrible, desperate poor; an' ragged an' dirty
an' swearers, an' not fit for my pet to mix with. Never go to church nor
Sunday-school, nor----Eh, little mate?" persisted the old man,
determined to get at the facts of the case at last.
Glory was troubled. In what words could she best defend her friends and
convince her strangely anxious guardian that Elbow folks were wholly
what they should be? Since she could remember she had known no other
people, and if all were not good as she had fancied them, at least all
were good to her. With all her honest loyal heart she loved them, and
saw virtues in them which others, maybe, would not have seen. With a
gesture of perplexity, she tossed her head and clasped her hands,
demanding:
"An' what's poor? Why, I've heard you say that we're poor, too, lots o'
times. But is any of us beggars? No, siree. Is any of us thievers? No,
Grandpa Beck, not a one. An' if some is ragged or dirty, that's 'cause
they don't have clothes an' spigots handy, an' some's afraid o' takin'
cold, like the tailor man. Some of us lives two er three families in a
room, but--but that's them. Me an' you don't. We have a hull house. Why,
me an' you is sort of rich, seems if, and----It's that big shiny-hatted
man makes you talk so queer, grandpa darlin', an' I hate him. I wish
he'd stayed to his house an' not come near the Lane."
"No, no, mate, hate nobody, nobody. He meant it kind. He didn't know how
kindness might hurt us, deary. He is Colonel Bonnicastle, who owned the
ship I mastered, an' many another that sails the sea this day. He's got
a lot to do with the 'Harbor' an' never dreamed how't we'd known about
it long ago. A good ship it was an' many a voyage she made, with me
layin' dollars away out of my wage, till the sudden blindness struck me
an' I crept down here where nobody knew me to get over it. That's a long
while since, deary, and the dollars have gone, I always hopin' to get
sight again and believin' I'd done a fine thing for my orphan
grandchild, keepin' so snug a place over her head. So far, I've paid the
rent reg'lar, and we've had our rations, too. Now, mate, fetch me the
bag and count what's in it."
The little canvas bag which Glory took from the tiny wall-cupboard
seemed very light and empty, and when she had untied the string and held
it upside down not a coin fell from it. The old man listened for the
clink of silver but there was none to hear and he sighed deeply as he
asked, "Empty, Glory?"
"Empty, grandpa. Never mind, we'll soon put somethin' back in it. You
must get your throat cleared and go out early an' sing your loudest.
I'll get Toni to let me have a fifty-bagger, an' I'll sell every single
one. You might make as much as a hull quarter, you might, an' me--I'll
have a nickel. A nickel buys lots o' meal, an' we can do without milk on
our porridge quite a spell. That way we can put by somethin' toward the
rent, an' we'll be all right.
"Maybe," little Glory went on, "that old colonel don't have all to say
'bout the 'Harbor.' Maybe he don't like little girls an' that's why.
I'll get Cap'n Gray to find out an' tell. He likes 'em. He always gives
me a cent to put in the bag--if he has one. He's poor, too, though, but
he's got a daughter growed up 'at keeps him. When I get growed I'll
earn. Why, darlin' grandpa, I'll earn such a lot we can have everything
we want. I will so and I'll give you all I get. If--if so be, we don't
go to the 'Harbor' after all."
The captain stroked his darling's head and felt himself cheered by her
hopefulness. Though they were penniless just now, they would not be for
long if both set their minds to money getting; and, as for going to
"Snug Harbor" without Glory, he would never do that, never.
"Well, well, mate, we're our own masters still; and, when the colonel
sends his man for me, I'll tell him 'no,' so plain he'll understand.
'Less I may be off on my rounds, singin' to beat a premer donner. Hark!
mess-time already. There goes eight bells. What's for us, cook?"
As he spoke, the little bell, which hung from the ceiling, struck eight
tinkling notes and Glory's face clouded. There was nothing in the tiny
cupboard on the wall save a remnant of porridge from breakfast, that had
cooled and stiffened, and the empty money-bag.
"O grandpa! So soon? Why, I ought to have finished Jane's jacket and
took it to her. She'd have paid me an' I'd ha' got the loveliest chop
from the store 'round the corner. But now, you dear, you'll just have to
eat what is an' make the best of it. Next time it'll be better an'
here's your plate."
Humming a tune and making a great flourish of plate and spoon, she
placed the porridge before the captain and watched his face anxiously,
her heart sinking as she saw the distaste apparent at his first
mouthful. He was such a hungry old dear always, and so was she hungry,
though she didn't find it convenient to eat upon all such occasions.
When there happened to be enough food for but one, she was almost glad
of the sailor's blindness. If he smelled one chop cooking on the little
stove, how should he guess there weren't two? And if she made a great
clatter with knife and plate, how could he imagine she was not eating?
Up till now, Glory could always console herself with dreams of the "Snug
Harbor" and the feasts some day to be enjoyed there. Alas! The colonel's
words had changed all that. For her there would be no "Harbor," ever;
but for him, her beloved grandpa, it was still possible. A great fear
suddenly possessed her. What if the captain should get so very, very
hungry, that he would be tempted beyond resistance, and forsake her
after all! She felt the suspicion unworthy, yet it had come, and as the
blind man pushed his plate aside, unable to swallow the unpalatable
porridge, she resolved upon her first debt. Laying her hand on his she
begged, "Wait a minute, grandpa! I forgot--I mean I didn't get the milk.
I'll run round an' be back with it in a jiffy!"
"Got the pay, mate?" he called after her, but, if she heard him, she,
for once, withheld an answer.
"O Mister Grocer!" she cried, darting into the dairy shop, like a stray
blue and golden butterfly, "could you possibly lend me a cent's worth o'
milk for grandpa's dinner? I'll pay you to-night, when I get home from
peddlin', if I can. If I can't then, why the next time----"
"Say no more, Take-a-Stitch, I've a whole can turnin' sour on me an'
you're welcome to a pint on't if you'll take it. My respects to the
captain, and here's good luck to the Queen of Elbow Lane!"
Glory swept him a curtsy, flashed a radiant smile upon him and was
tempted to hug him; but she refrained from this, not knowing how such a
caress might be received. Then she thanked and thanked him till he bade
her stop, and with her tin cup in her hand sped homeward again, crying:
"Here am I, grandpa! More milk 'an you can shake a stick at, with the
store-man's respeckses an' all. A hull pint! Think o' that! An' only
just a teeny, tiny mite sour. Isn't he the nicest one to give it to us
just for nothin'? An' he's another sort of Elbow folks, though he's off
a bit around the block. Oh, this is just the loveliest world there is!
An' who'd want to go to that old 'Snug Harbor' an' leave such dear, dear
people, I sh'd like to know? Not me nor you, Cap'n Simon Beck, an' you
know it!"
Glory sat down and watched her grandsire make the best dinner he could
upon cold porridge and sour milk, her face radiant with pleasure that
she had been able so well to supply him, and almost forgetting that
horrid, all-gone feeling in her own small stomach. Never mind, a peanut
or so might come her way, if Toni Salvatore, the little Italian with the
long name, should happen to be in a good humor and fling them to her,
for well he knew that of the stock he trusted to her, not a single
goober would be extracted for her personal enjoyment; and this was why
he oftener bestowed upon her a tiny bag of the dainties than upon any
other of his small sales people.
The captain finished his meal and did not distress his darling by
admitting that it was still distasteful, then rose, slung his basket of
frames over his shoulder, took Bo'sn's leading-string, and passed out to
his afternoon's peddling and singing. But, though he had kissed her
good-bye, Glory dashed after him, begging still another and another
caress, and feeling the greatest reluctance to letting him go, yet
equally unwilling to have him stay.
"If he stays here that man will come and maybe get him, whether or no;
an' if he goes, the shiny colonel may meet him outside and take him
anyhow. If only he'd sing alongside o' my peddlin' route! But he won't.
He never will. He hates to hear me holler. He says 'little maids
shouldn't do it'; only I have to, to buy my sewin' things with;
an'----My, I clean forgot Posy Jane's jacket! I must hurry an' finish
it, then off to peanuttin'," pondered the child, and watched the blind
man making his way, so surely and safely, around the corner into the
next street, with Bo'sn walking proudly ahead, what tail he had pointing
skyward and his one good ear pricked forward, intent and listening.
The old captain in the faded uniform he still wore, and the faithful
little terrier, who guided his sightless master through the dangers of
the city streets with almost a human intelligence were to Goober Glory
the two dearest objects in the world, and for them she would do anything
and everything.
"Funny how just them few words that shiny man said has changed our hull
feelin's 'bout the 'Harbor.' Only this mornin', 'fore he come, we was
a-plannin' how lovely 'twas; an' now--now I just hate it! I'm glad
they's water 'twixt us an' that old Staten Island, an' I'm glad we
haven't ferry money nor nothin'," cried the little girl, aloud, shaking
a small fist defiantly southward toward the land of her lost dreams.
Then, singing to make herself forget how hungry she was, she hurried
into the littlest house and--shall it be told?--caught up her grandpa's
plate and licked the crumbs from it, then inverted the tin cup and let
the few drops still left in it trickle slowly down her throat; and such
was Glory's dinner.
Afterward she took out needle and thread and heigho! How the neat
stitches fairly flew into place, although to make the small patch fill
the big hole, there had to be a little pucker here and there. Never
mind, a pucker more or less wouldn't trouble happy-go-lucky Jane, who
believed little Glory to be the very cleverest child in the whole world
and a perfect marvel of neatness; for, in that particular, she had been
well trained. The old sea captain would allow no dirt anywhere, being as
well able to discover its presence by his touch as he had once been by
sight; and, oddly enough, he was as deft with his needle as with his
knife.
So, the jacket finished, Glory hurried away up the steep stairs to the
great bridge-end, received from the friendly flower-seller unstinted
praise and a ripe banana and felt her last anxiety vanish.
"A hull banana just for myself an' not for pay, dear, dear Jane? Oh, how
good you are! But you listen to me, 'cause I want to tell you somethin'.
Me an' grandpa ain't never goin' to that old 'Snug Harbor,' never,
nohow. We wouldn't be hired to. So there."
"Why--why, Take-a-Stitch! Why, be I hearin' or dreamin', I should like
to know. Not go there, when I thought you could scarce wait for the time
to come? What's up?"
"A shiny rich man from the avenue where such as him lives and what owns
the ship grandpa used to master, an' a lot more like it has so much to
do with the 'Harbor' 'at he can get anybody in it or out of it just as
he pleases. He's been twice to see grandpa an' made him all solemn an'
poor-feelin', like he ain't used to bein'. Why, he's even been cross,
truly cross, if you'll believe it!"
"Can't, hardly. Old cap'n's the jolliest soul ashore, I believe," said
Jane.
"An' if grandpa maybe goes alone, 'cause they don't take little girls,
nohow, then that colonel'd have me sent off to one o' them Homeses or
'Sylums for childern that hasn't got no real pas nor mas. Huh, needn't
tell me. I've seen 'em, time an' again, walkin' in processions, with
Sisters of Charity in wide white flappin' caps all the time scoldin'
them poor little girls for laughin' too loud or gettin' off the line or
somethin' like that. An' them with long-tailed frocks an' choky kind of
aperns an' big sunbonnets, lookin' right at my basket o' peanuts an'
never tastin' a single one. Oh, jest catch me! I'll be a newspaper boy,
first, but--but, Jane dear, do you s'pose anything--any single thing,
such as bein' terrible hungry, or not gettin' paid for frames or
singin'--could that make my grandpa go and leave me?"
For at her own breathless vivid picture of the orphanage children, as
she had seen them, the doubt concerning the captain's future actions
returned to torment her afresh.
"He might be sick, honey, or somethin' like that, but not o' free will.
Old Simon Beck'll never forsake the 'light o' his eyes,' as I've heard
him call you, time an' again."
"Don't you fret, child," continued Posy Jane. "Ain't you the 'Queen of
Elbow Lane'? Ain't all of us, round about, fond of you an' proud of you,
same's if you was a real queen, indeed? Who'd look after Mis' McGinty's
seven babies, when she goes a scrubbin' the station floors, if you
wasn't here? Who'd help the tailor with his job when the fits of
coughin' get so bad? 'Twas only a spell ago he was showin' me how't
you'd sewed in the linin' to a coat he was too sick to finish an' a
praisin' the stitches beautiful. What'd the boys do without you to sew
their rags up decent an' tend to their hurt fingers an' share your
dinner with 'em when--when you have one an' they don't?
"An' you so masterful like," went on the flower-seller, "a makin'
everybody do as you say, whether or no. If it's a scrap in a tenement,
is my Glory afraid? not a mite. In she walks, walks she, as bold as
bold, an' lays her hand on this one's shoulder an' that one's arm an'
makes 'em quit fightin'. Many's the job you've saved the police, Glory
Beck, an' that very officer yonder was sayin' only yesterday how't he'd
rather have you on his beat than another cop, no matter how smart he
might be. He says, says he, 'That little girl can do more to keep the
peace in the Lane 'an the best man on the force,' says he. 'It's prime
wonderful how she manages it.' An' I up an' tells him nothin' wonderful
'bout it at all.' It's 'cause everybody loves you, little Glory, an' is
ashamed not to be just as good as they know you think they be.
"Don't you fret, child," Jane went on, "Elbow folks won't let you go,
nor'll the cap'n leave you, and if bad come to worst them asylums are
fine. The Sisters is all good an' sweet, givin' their lives to them 'at
needs. Don't you get notions, Glory Beck, an' judge folks 'fore you know
'em. If them orphans gets scolded now an' then it does 'em good. They
ought to be. So'd you ought, if you don't get off to your peddlin'. It's
long past your time. Here's a nickel for the jacket an' you put it safe
by 'fore you start out. May as well let me pin one o' these carnations
on you, too. They ain't sellin' so fast an' 'twould look purty on your
blue frock. Blue an' white an' yeller--frock an' flower an' curly
head--they compare right good."
Ere Jane's long gossip was ended, her favorite's fears were wholly
banished. With a hug for thanks and farewell, Glory was off and away,
and the tired eyes of the toilers in the Lane brightened as she flitted
past their dingy windows, waving a hand to this one and that and smiling
upon all. To put her earnings away in the canvas bag and catch up her
flat, well-mended basket, took but a minute, and, singing as she went,
the busy child sped around to that block where Antonio had his stand.
That day the trade in goobers had been slack and other of his small
employees had found the peanut-man a trifle cross; but, when Glory's
shining head and merry face came into view, his own face cleared and he
gave her a friendly welcome.
"A fifty-bagger this time, dear Toni! I've got to get a heap of money
after this for grandpa!"
"Alla-right, I fill him," returned the vender; and, having carefully
packed the fifty small packets in the shallow basket, he helped her to
poise it on her head, as he had long since taught her his own
countrywomen did. This was a fine thing for the growing child and gave
her a firm erectness not common to young wage-earners. She was very
proud of this accomplishment, as was her teacher, Antonio, and had more
than once outstripped Billy Buttons in a race, still supporting her
burden.
"Sell every bag, little one, and come back to me. I, Antonio Salvatore
have secret, mystery. That will I tell when basket empty. Secret bring
us both to riches, indeed!"
Crafty Antonio! Well he knew that the little girl's curiosity was great,
and had led her into more than one scrape, and that his promise to
impart a secret would make her more eager to sell her stock than the
small money payment she would earn by doing so.
Glory clasped her hands and opened her brown eyes more widely,
entreating, "Now, Toni, dear Tonio, tell first and sell afterward.
Please, please."
"No, not so, little one. Sell first, then I tell. If you sell not----"
Antonio shrugged his shoulders in a way that meant no sale, no secret.
So, already much belated, Goober Glory--as she had now become--was
forced to depart to her task, though she turned about once or twice to
wave farewell to her employer and to smile upon him, but she meant to
make the greatest haste, for, of all delightful things, a secret was
best.