TIM TURNS POLICEMAN.
Tim came back to the crossing towards night, his round face rosier
and merrier than ever, and a new little splint basket on his arm,
which Berty would have wondered over at any other time, but did not
notice now. She sat upon the curb-stone with her basket beside her,
and her hands folded in her lap, thinking as intently as on the night
when we found her at the attic window. But there was a flush on her
face, and a strange look of care in her eyes, for which Tim could not
account, and which he thought boded little good to the wished-for
tree. Still, Tim thought he carried the cure for all such trouble in
his breeches’ pocket, if he could but get Berty to take it. So he
began, cautiously, “Well, Berty, so you’re waiting, for me; how goes
it?”
The child turned and looked at him vacantly, but did not answer.
“Bad enough?” said Tim, sitting down beside her. “Well, honey, never
mind. You’ll let yer own Tim help ye, sure ye will. An’ he’s a rich
man the night. Faix, it’s not a rag-picker he is at all any more, but
an apple-boy; hooroo! Whist, Berty,” he added, as the girl started
nervously at this outburst. “Whist, Berty, an’ I’ll tell ye. I had
a bright thought whin I left ye the morn; an’ I just scampered home
an’ tuk the fifty cints from the ould stockin’ fut, where uncle
Teddy bade me keep ’em; an’ I wint to the market an’ bought this
tidy basket, d’ye see? an’ filled it wid apples from a stall; an’
then I wint down to the ferry an’ sold ’em. And whin the apples were
all gone, I filled it wid oranges; an’ whin the oranges were gone, I
filled it wid chestnuts; an’ whin the chestnuts was gone, I filled
it wid pennies, d’ye see?”—and, suiting the action to the word, Tim
poured a jingling stream of pennies from his pocket into the basket.
“There, darlint,” said he, coaxingly, placing the basket upon Berty’s
knee. “There, darlint, ye won’t mourn for yer luck now any more.
Ye’ll just let yer own Tim help ye. Sure, ye know, Berty, I’ve no one
but meself to care for. Uncle Teddy’s not depindent on me; an’ you’ve
all those childer;—so, it’s only fair—”
“Tim,” said Berty, grasping the boy’s arm, and speaking in a
frightened whisper, “Tim, come with me. I want to show you something.”
Tim caught the basket as Berty heedlessly rose, and, without
speaking, followed her—still holding his arm—down a neighboring
alley. He had never seen his little friend look, or act, so
strangely, and he was curious to know what it meant. When they came
to a quiet, out-of-the-way spot, Berty stopped, and putting her hand
in her bosom, drew out the pocket-book, and held it up before him,
saying, still in the same frightened whisper, “There, Tim, see what I
found!”
“A pocket-book! Oh, Berty, let’s see!”
“Hush, Tim!” gasped Berty, “don’t speak so loud; and here, come in
the corner, behind this water-butt. Now, Tim, open it and count it,
and tell me if there’s enough.”
Tim took the book, and, loosening the elastic band, spread it out
before them as they sat upon the sidewalk. The numerous red pockets
were famously lined. There were rolls of bank-notes, drafts, checks,
and in one little flapped pocket a handful of shining gold. “Why,
Berty!” cried Tim, almost breathless with amazement, “_I_ could never
count it. It would take a bank-teller to do that. Sure, there’s money
enough to buy a dozen Christmas trees.”
“Is there?” said Berty, clutching eagerly at it. “Is there? Then
there’s surely enough to buy one. Give it to me, Tim; let me put it
away. Somebody’ll be coming along.”
Tim caught the grasping hand in one of his, and held the pocket-book
firmly in the other. “Where did you get it, Berty?” he asked.
Berty’s head drooped a little, and the color flushed up to her
temples. “I told you, Tim,” she answered: “I found it.”
“Yes; but where?”
“In the street.”
“And you don’t know who it belongs to?”
“How should I?” said Berty, growing redder still, and wrenching
impatiently at the detained little hand. “Give it to me, Tim; it’s
mine.”
Tim looked gravely down at the pocket-book, which he had closed and
fastened, and then back again at Berty’s face. The strange look there
was getting a meaning in it which he did not like at all. “Berty,”
said he, freeing her hand at last, and pointing with his finger to
a row of gilt letters upon one side of the book, “do you see that?
That’s the owner’s name and number. We’ve got to take this to the
station. That’s all the business we’ve got with it.”
“You sha’n’t, Tim! It’s mine, I tell you! You’ve got no business
with it at all. Give it here, I say!” cried Berty, snatching the
pocket-book from his hand, and hiding it again in her bosom.
Tim made no attempt to recover it. He stood looking at Berty for a
moment, with a mixture of grief and astonishment in his face, and
then said, slowly, “Well, Berty Weisser, I never thought that of you,
any way. It’s no better than stealing,—not a bit. Oh, Berty! Oh,
Berty! come wid it to the station. Come now! Sure, you wouldn’t be a
thief, I know. Come, Berty, come.”
“I won’t, Tim,” cried Berty, passionately. “It’s mine, I tell you! I
found it in the street. What we find in the street is ours; you know
it is. You are bad, Tim, you are cruel, to call me such names. I hate
you! I won’t stay to hear you!” and the child put both hands to her
ears and ran away, with all the speed she could muster, towards her
home.
Tim’s first impulse, of course, was to run after her; so he followed,
shouting to her to stop,—the pennies in his basket keeping up a
jingling accompaniment to his cries and his pattering feet. Berty,
however, paid no attention, but ran on and on, without looking round
or slacking her pace, until she found herself safe in her attic, with
the door closed and bolted against her pursuer.
Tim stopped at the foot of the garret-stairs, and sat down upon the
lowest step, quite breathless with his chase. Uncle Teddy’s room
opened upon the same landing, and the merry little Irishman sat at
the door smoking his pipe in the twilight, and laughing heartily at
his nephew’s ill luck. “What’s come to your sweetheart, Tim?” said
he; “she tore up the stairs like mad.”
“She is mad, I think,” answered Tim, wiping his forehead, and looking
ruefully up the stairs towards Berty’s room.
“Well, leave her alone for a little, and she’ll come to; it’s the
way of them all,” counselled Uncle Teddy. “But what’s that you have
there, Tim?”
Tim looked down at his basket, and the ghost of a smile lighted up
his face again. “It’s pennies, Uncle,” said he. “I’ve set up for an
apple-boy the day; and see, I made all these from the fifty cints we
laid by for the shoes. There’s a dollar and ten cints.”
“Is there though? Ye’re a sharp lad, Tim. It’s half as much as I’ve
airned meself. Put it by and take care of it, lad. Well, I’m goin’
out for a bit,” he added, knocking the ashes from his pipe, “and ye
can come wid me, if ye like, Tim,—just for once in a way.”
“No, Uncle,” said Tim; “I’ll bide here, I think; I’m tired.”
Very tired was Tim, and very sad, and sorely puzzled about what he
was to do. There was his little venture, so successful, and yet so
useless; there was Berty, whom he loved better than all the world,
hiding away from him, calling him cruel and declaring she hated him;
and there was the pocket-book, of which he felt himself become in
some mysterious way the especial guardian, taken out of his reach.
But, worse than all, harder than all, for poor, honest, warm-hearted
Tim to bear, was the thought that this little Berty, whom he had
first learned to love because she seemed so much better than other
children, the remembrance of whose goodness and purity had kept him
from many a boyish transgression, was going wrong, was setting her
heart upon keeping what did not belong to her. Oh, if she would but
heed him! Oh, if she would but listen to reason! Perhaps she would
now; perhaps she was cooler, and would talk the matter over. He could
at least try. So he crept softly up the stairs to Berty’s door. It
was quite dark by this time, and all was quiet within. He put his
lips to a crack in the panel and called, “Berty! let me in. I want
to spake wid ye.” Then he laid his ear to the crack and listened, but
heard no sound. She could not be asleep so soon. “Berty, honey!” he
called again, coaxingly. “_Do_ let me in.”
“Go away, Tim,” answered a hoarse whisper close to his ear. “Go away.
You’ll wake the children, and they must not know.”
No, the children must _not_ know. Tim agreed with her there. The
children must never guess upon the brink of what a precipice their
sister stood.
“Come out to me, then, Berty,” he whispered, softly; “they’ll not
hear.”
“No; go away. I’ll not come out. You’ll be trying to get it. Go away,
I tell you.”
“No, I won’t,” said Tim, earnestly. “I promise you I won’t. I only
want to talk a little. Come, now,—there’s a dear girl,—come.”
“I won’t, I tell you,” said Berty, decidedly. “I don’t want to talk
with you, Tim. You call me names. Go away.”
Tim saw he was losing ground, for he knew from Berty’s voice that she
was getting in a passion again; and of all things he dreaded that.
What had come to his gentle Berty to get in a passion so easily? At
any rate, they must part good friends, or he felt he had no chance
left of winning her to a better mind.
“Berty,” said he again, in his most persuasive tone,—“Berty dear,
you’re not vexed wid me? Say you’re not.”
“Go off, I say, Tim; go away.”
“Say good night, then, Berty, and I’ll go.”
“Good night, Tim.”
There was a shadow of relenting in the voice this time; and poor
Tim was fain to carry off this drop of comfort in his heart without
running the risk of losing it by staying longer: so he put his lips
to the crack again, and whispered softly, “Good night, Berty dear;”
then added, with a sudden impulse, “Say your prayers before you go to
sleep,” and ran away down-stairs again, to discuss with himself once
more that momentous question—what to do.
One thing seemed plain, however, through all the puzzle: he must
keep an eye on Berty so long as she had that pocket-book in her
possession,—to save her, if possible, from herself, and to guard this
property which had been so strangely committed to his care. So he got
his blanket from uncle Teddy’s room, and curled himself up in it at
the foot of the stairs. None of the lodgers, except Berty, came down
that staircase; and she should never come down without his knowledge.
So much was settled then. But what next? Should he send uncle Teddy
to the station-house in the morning? The policemen would come then,
perhaps, and drag poor Berty away to the tombs. Oh no, he could never
do that! Berty would have a right to call him cruel,—she would have a
right to hate him, if he did that. What then? Should he find out the
stranger and let him know where his property was? Perhaps that would
be best; perhaps the gentleman was a kind one, who would even give
Berty something for keeping it safe.
But Berty would never let him see the pocket-book again,—never. Could
he remember the number and the name? Ah, yes, “John Grey”; he had
made that out quite distinctly;—that was the name. But about the
number he was not so sure; indeed he was not sure that he had read it
at all;—he had only noticed something printed after the name, which
he had taken for granted was a number. And now all at once it flashed
upon him that it was not a number, but two letters—M. D. Yes, he saw
it quite plainly with his mind’s eye now,—“John Grey, M. D.” But what
did M. D. mean? And how was he to find the gentleman if there was
no number? Poor Tim! he was getting sorely puzzled and very sleepy;
and so at last, lest he should forget them, he got upon his knees
and murmured his _Ave Maria_ and his _Paternoster_,—and one little
Irish-English prayer, which perhaps mounted higher than either, that
the dear JESU would watch over him and Berty, and keep them from
evil, and help them to do right, and bring them safe out of their
trouble at last; and then laid down again and fell asleep.
Yes, children, I am sorry to say Tim was a Papist, and knew no better
than to pray to the Virgin, who, if she heard him, was doubtless more
sorry than you or I can be; but Tim was an honest, faithful boy, who
tried with all his might to do his duty to God and his neighbor
according to the light that was given him; and therefore I have a
great respect for those Latin prayers of his, which, little as he
understood them, were doubtless more acceptable than many an English
one which goes up from a less earnest heart.
[Illustration: Decoration]
[Illustration: Decoration]