TOMMY-BY-THE-DAY
Joan met Tommy in the Juvenile Court. She had hesitated outside the big
double doors that Saturday morning, listening to the low hum of voices.
It was distressing how shy she was at times. She must get over it, if
she were to be a real reporter. Talking to people didn’t bother her, but
walking into that room full of strange, staring people did.
However, Judge Grayson merely turned his head for a second and Mrs.
Hollis, the matron of the Detention Home, flashed her a smile of
recognition as she stole in, tiptoeing over the creaky boards. Tim was
in the back of the room, of course. The sight of reporters up in front
sometimes worried the timid mothers who had come to plead for their
wayward sons. “Oh, all this ain’t going to be in the papers, is it?”
they would wail to the judge.
Joan disregarded her brother’s frown, and slipping into the seat next to
him, whispered her message. She had been sent to tell him to come back
to the _Journal_—a story had broken and he was needed. She had happened
to be over there, and had volunteered to go for him, after the editor
had looked around for the red-headed office boy and found him missing as
usual, when wanted. Joan was glad she happened to have on a fresh middy.
Tim hadn’t been sent to “cover” the Juvenile Court, for the _Journal_
had its own court reporter, but Editor Nixon had wanted to see what Tim
could do in the feature-story line. Miss Betty, who sometimes attended
court, was busy with brides this Saturday morning and couldn’t be
spared.
Now he shoved his note paper into his pocket and slipped out of the
court room, at Joan’s whisper. He seemed a bit provoked at being called
away. The half-dozen young boys who were up before Judge Grayson for
some deviltry or other, eyed him as he went out. Joan herself, now that
she had braved the ordeal of entering the room while the court was in
session, decided to stay awhile, and that’s how she met Tommy! Court was
always interesting. She hoped that none of these cases would be the kind
when every one under sixteen was asked to leave.
She knew all the officials in the Juvenile Court. It was held in a room
in the county courthouse. Juvenile Court was an informal proceeding,
with Judge Grayson talking more like a father than a judge.
It wasn’t the usual playing hooky from school case that the judge was
taking up now. It wasn’t a boy at all, but a young mother, hugging a
chubby little boy. He wore blue overalls and looked about two years old.
The morning sun slanting in through the long windows made his curls as
yellow as the _Journal_ copy paper.
“I didn’t think Tommy would cry so long and hard, Judge! He’s not really
a baby,” the young mother was saying. “Or I never would have left him
alone in the room. But I had to go to work to earn some money.”
Judge Grayson’s tired-looking face was kind but stern. “Don’t you know
there’s a Day Nursery on Grove Street for just such mothers as you?”
The young woman nodded. “I did take him over there when I first came to
Plainfield two weeks ago and got this job at Davis’. But the lady there
said the nursery was full—the babies were taking naps two and three in a
crib, and she couldn’t possibly take Tommy. I couldn’t take him to work
with me, and I didn’t dare ask the landlady to keep him so I left him
alone.”
Joan knew where the Day Nursery was—just the front room in Mrs. Barnes’
own home. She and Amy had visited it when it first opened with two
babies, not long ago—and now it was filled to overflowing.
“If you have no one to care for the boy,” said Judge Grayson in his
slow, even tones, “I’m afraid he will have to go to the Home till there
is room in the Day Nursery.”
Tommy’s mother raised eyes dark with fright. “Oh, don’t take him away,
Judge.” She hugged the little fellow harder than ever.
“I’ll keep him till I find some family to board him by the day,” spoke
up Mrs. Hollis, briskly. “But what Plainfield needs is a bigger Day
Nursery.”
The next case was called. A big boy of sixteen was up for petty
thieving. He was sent to “Boyville,” the truant school, and then the
court adjourned for lunch.
Joan could not get the thought of the too full Day Nursery out of her
mind, and of poor Tommy locked in a furnished room and howling for his
mother while she was out at work. Maybe Mother would keep Tommy till
there was a vacancy at the Day Nursery. That would be better than having
him at the Detention Home with Mrs. Hollis. It would be fun, too. On the
way out, she edged over toward Mrs. Hollis and spoke to her about it.
Tommy gave her a wobbly smile.
At lunch, Joan was too absorbed in the problem of Tommy to take her
usual interest in Tim’s account of the morning. He had been sent to
write up a butcher shop that had been flooded from a broken water main.
That was what the story had been. “Nothing at the Juvenile Court,
either,” he grumbled.
“Oh, yes, there was,” she corrected, as she spread her bread with peanut
butter to make a sandwich. Lunch in summer was always a picnicky meal.
“That part about the Day Nursery ought to make a dandy feature.”
“Who’s interested in babies?” Tim always took her suggestions
doubtfully. Besides he seemed to be getting all the baby assignments
lately.
“Why, everybody! Except _you_, maybe. Everybody’s been a baby, you see,”
she told him.
“Well, I’d like to hand in something from the Court so Nixon will send
me again, for listening to cases isn’t a bad way to spend a morning.”
After Tim had hurried off, Joan approached her mother. “Couldn’t we take
Tommy by the day? I asked Mrs. Hollis and she says it’d be much better
for him to be here with us, and she says the mother’s willing to pay
something for his care.”
Mrs. Martin considered. “Well, if you want to,” she decided. “It’s the
lesser of two evils, I guess. Maybe having Tommy here will keep you from
running over to the _Journal_ so much. But you and Amy will have to take
charge of him. I’ve planned to put up preserves this week.”
“We will,” promised Joan. Amy would adore to help. Amy didn’t know much
about newspapers, but she knew a lot about babies. She had played dolls
till she was a big girl. Joan had seldom played with dolls even when she
was small. Playing about under the desks in the _Journal_ office, using
the discarded bits of lead plate for blocks had been more fun than dolls
to young Joan. But now—a real baby! She’d like that!
Tommy was installed that very afternoon.
Tommy-by-the-Day, Chub named him when Joan explained to the _Journal_
staff through the open windows that Tommy was to be at her house by the
day, and that his mother would bring him early in the morning and call
for him after work.
“Me, Tommy-by-the-Day” the baby echoed, patting his chest with one pudgy
hand.
While he took his nap, Joan stole off to the _Journal_, and found Tim
hard at work over the Day Nursery story. When he was called into one of
the phone booths, she read what he had written. His story covered the
facts, but it was stiff and journalistic, somehow. It did not give half
an idea how cute Tommy really was. As she stared at the yellow page,
Joan was seized with such an amazing inspiration that she trembled, just
thinking of it. Oh, she wouldn’t _dare_ do it!
She would. Tim couldn’t do much but scold. She rolled his story out of
the machine, inserted another sheet and began to type. She was not used
to composing on the typewriter and in her worry and hurry, her fingers
struck the wrong keys, but the result was readable. She used all of
Tim’s facts in the story, but by merely changing a phrase of his now and
then and sticking in a few of her own, she managed to capture all the
adorable neediness of that little scamp of a Tommy.
Tim came and shooed her off when she was writing in the middle of it,
writing in the heat of creation. Would he be mad?
“What’s the big idea?” he sputtered, but not very loudly, for he was
reading her story. “Oh, I see, well—I may use some of your ideas, kid.
They’re not half bad.” But Joan suddenly turned shy and fled. Would he
kill her?
When Tim came home after work, Tommy was sitting up on the big, red
dictionary eating his early supper of rice, milk, and applesauce.
“Cute kid.” Tim pretended to punch him in the stomach by way of welcome.
Then he told her, “Nixon said my Day Nursery story was good.” Not a word
about her suggestions. But, being Tim, he wouldn’t say anything. “He
even said he was going to write his to-morrow’s editorial on the
situation, just to see what’ll happen.”
What happened was that the _Journal’s_ readers immediately wrote in on
the subject. Some even enclosed checks, but it would take a lot of
checks to enlarge the present nursery. New and larger quarters were
needed. Since there was no money with which to build, a place would have
to be found among the present buildings in Plainfield. At the end of a
week one letter suggested that the county offer part of the old
Historical Building for use as a day nursery.
The Historical Building was a landmark and was right across the street
from the _Journal_ office, on the corner. It contained relics from the
time when Plainfield was first settled.
“Why wouldn’t that be a wonderful place?” asked Miss Betty of the rest
of the staff later, when Joan was in the _Journal_ office. Every one on
the _Journal_ was interested in Tommy, now, and in the nursery problem.
“It would. But they can’t get it,” drawled Cookie. “It’s because of old
Mrs. McNulty. She gave a whole room full of junk to the Historical
Building, and she wants the place used for that and nothing else. They
approached her on the subject once before, soon as folks saw the Day
Nursery wasn’t going to be big enough. But she put her foot down. The
county doesn’t want to get in bad with her because she’s Hutton’s
mother-in-law. The county wouldn’t care—hardly any one but country hicks
or school kids go through the building any more, anyway. But the old
lady won’t give in....”
“Maybe if she saw Tommy and realized how much the nursery would mean to
him,” proposed Miss Betty. “A concrete case might make all the
difference to a person like that, and Tommy’s an appealing kid.”
Yes, Tommy was a darling and he was thriving under the girls’ care. That
wasn’t vanity. Every one said so. Tommy’s mother told them so every
evening when she came to “collect” him. She always looked tired, but as
soon as her eyes lighted on her small son, she looked like a different
person. “You girls are giving him wonderful care,” she had told them
more than once in the short time they had had him. He was getting
plumper and healthier every day.
“I believe I will take him round to Mrs. McNulty’s,” Joan determined
now. “And let him plead his own case.” She turned and started home.
Maybe Mrs. McNulty wasn’t really mean. She was glad, however, that the
woman would not know she was a sister to the cub reporter who had left
her name off the list of patronesses that time.
She found that “minding” a baby and holding down a job were difficult
things to combine. Of course, she hadn’t really a job, but she felt as
though Tim’s were her own, somehow—and now she couldn’t keep up with it.
Anyway, Tommy was so interesting that she didn’t miss the _Journal_
excitement so much. The tricks that a two-year-old could think up! He
had a passion for stealing sugar—all the door knobs were smeary and
sticky where his sugary hands had reached to open the doors. You simply
had to watch him every single minute, she had discovered. He was at the
run-about, reaching age. Nothing was safe from him.
She found Amy waiting for her on the steps of the Martins’ porch, her
face tragic. Had something happened to Tommy?
“Joan! Your mother’s got a telegram from your Aunt Effie to come and
keep house for her while she’s at a hospital having her appendix taken
out. She’s going next week, and that means we can’t keep Tommy, for she
says you can’t manage the house and Tim and Tommy both.”
It did look hopeless until Joan remembered about Mrs. McNulty and the
Historical Building. Amy fell right in with the plan of taking Tommy to
see the old lady. She always welcomed any kind of adventure, and her
imagination, fed by the romantic books she read, pounced immediately
upon the idea that Mrs. McNulty would take a great fancy to the little
boy.
“Maybe she’ll give him a fortune,” she mused. “Probably she’ll get him a
nurse with a long veil like you see in the New York papers.”
As soon as Tommy woke up from his nap, they got him ready. They scrubbed
his cheeks till they shone like candy apples and brushed his yellow
hair, matted from his nap, till it looked like taffy. “Good enough to
eat!” thought Joan. No one could resist him.
His diminutive overalls were brushed spic and span and a missing button
replaced—with green thread since that was all they could find in a
hurry. His worn sandals were polished so thoroughly that some of the
shine was brushed on to his pink toes showing through the cut-work.
Mrs. McNulty lived on the North Side, just across the bridge over the
glorified creek that divided the main part of Plainfield from the
residential section. Amy had borrowed a rickety, cast-off baby cart for
Tommy some days ago, and it came in handy now, for it would be too far
for his short legs to trudge.
Down Market Street they went, proudly pushing their charge, past the
Soldiers’ Monument, without which no Ohio town is complete.
Just before they came to the bridge, they passed a big, yellow brick
building with a huge sign across it. “DEPARTMENT of CORRECTION, City of
Plainfield,” it read.
“I always hate to pass the jail.” Amy quickened her step.
“You needn’t worry. There’s no robbers or thugs in there, now,”
comforted Joan. “Don’t you read the _Journal_? Cookie had a peachy story
about its being empty. It seems our fair city is getting so well-behaved
that the few city arrests that are made don’t fill up this jail at all,
so they’re taken to the county one. This place isn’t needed, so it’s
empty.”
They had hardly crossed the bridge when Master Tommy was tired of the
cart and decided to get out. He began to howl his loudest, and since
they did not want to present a roaring boy to Mrs. McNulty, they were
forced to let him out. Then he insisted upon pushing the buggy himself.
The McNulty homestead had been converted into apartments a few years
before. There were a few apartments in Plainfield, and the McNulty one,
because of its central location and history, was considered the best.
Just as they approached the steps leading up, Tommy banged the buggy
into a tree. As he had pushed with all his might he tumbled smack down
on the sidewalk. He shed real tears, which mingled with the dirt his
face had collected from the sidewalk. One fat knee had gone through the
faded overalls, and was stained with blood. The girls picked him up,
soothed him and repaired the damages as best they could.
They parked the cart at the steps, hauled Tommy up and rang the McNulty
bell. The colored maid eyed them curiously, and answered indifferently
that Mrs. McNulty was in. They followed her through a hall that smelled
of incense and into a crowded living room, where on a chaise longue, old
Mrs. McNulty was reclining. She was so ugly that Joan thought she looked
like a witch, in spite of the gray, marceled hair and the trailing
lavender robe she had on. She was holding a green bottle to her nose.
“Yes?” she lifted her eyebrows. “What is it?”
Both girls started to speak at once, then halted, and ended by being
embarrassed. Amy was seized with an uncontrollable desire to giggle.
Finally, Joan, giving Amy a withering glance, managed to explain that
the Day Nursery needed larger quarters and that the Historical Building
had been suggested. She ended her plea by pushing Tommy forward and
saying that there was no room for him in the present Day Nursery.
Perhaps it had been a mistake to bring him along. He was not very
appealing, with the tear in his overalls, and his dusty sandals on the
purple velvet of the rug. He reached for the green bottle, and when it
was lifted out of his grasp, he opened his mouth to yell.
“A nasty boy.” Mrs. McNulty continued to sniff at the bottle. “Doesn’t
look clean.”
Joan swooped him up before he let out the yell entirely, and tickled him
to make him laugh instead. It was too bad, after they had worked so hard
to make him presentable.
“And you’ve come to see whether I’ll change my mind about the relics in
the building?” went on the old lady. “Of course, I can’t keep the county
from giving up part of the building if they decide to, but in that
event, I shall most certainly withdraw the things I have there.”
Joan faced the woman over Tommy’s mop of yellow hair. “But what are old
relics compared to live babies?” she demanded.
“The relics mean a great deal to me and—to the county, too,” she said,
quietly. “Why, the little bed that my father’s father slept in when he
was a baby is in that building. I’ll not change my mind.”
She was dismissing them, and there was nothing to do but take the hint
and depart.
Tommy, perfectly subdued, smiled up at them when they put him in his
cart. Both girls were silent as they started down toward the bridge.
What was going to happen to Tommy now?