Produced by Dave Maddock and The Online Distributed Proofreading Team
THE BISHOP'S SHADOW
BY
I.T. THURSTON
_Author of "Boys of the Central," "A Genuine Lady" etc._
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY M. ECKERSON
"This learned I from the shadow of a tree
That to and fro did sway upon a wall,
Our shadow selves--our influence--may fall
Where we can never be."
CONTENTS
I. LOST--A POCKETBOOK
II. NAN'S NEW HOME
III. AN ACCIDENT
IV. TODE MEETS THE BISHOP
V. IN THE BISHOP'S HOUSE
VI. TODE'S NEW START
VII. AFTER TODE'S DEPARTURE
VIII. THEO'S SHADOW WORK
IX. THEO IN TROUBLE
X. A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT
XI. THEO'S NEW BUSINESS
XII. NAN FINDS FRIENDS
XIII. NAN'S DEPARTURE
XIV. THEODORE GIVES CARROTS A CHANCE
XV. A STRIKE
XVI. CALLED TO GO UP HIGHER
XVII. FINAL GLIMPSES
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
THEODORE BRYAN, SIGN-POLISHER
"HE'S AWAKIN' UP, I GUESS"
ADRIFT AGAIN
"OH, HOW PRETTY,--HOW PRETTY IT IS!"
"STOP THE CAR!"
THANKSGIVING REUNION
THE BISHOP'S SHADOW
[Illustration: Theodore Bryan, Sign-Polisher]
I. LOST--A POCKETBOOK
It was about ten o'clock in the morning and a northeast storm was
raging in Boston.
The narrow crooked business streets were slippery with mud and
thronged with drays and wagons of every description, which, with the
continual passing of the street cars, made it a difficult and often a
dangerous matter to attempt a crossing.
The rain came in sudden driving sheets, blotting out all but the
nearest cars or vehicles, while the wind seemed to lie in wait at
every corner ready to spring forth and wrest umbrellas out of the
hands of pedestrians at the most critical points in the crossings.
Two ladies coming along Causeway street by the Union Depot, waited
some minutes on the sidewalk watching for an opening in the endless
stream of passing teams.
"There! We shan't have a better chance than this. Come on now," one of
them exclaimed, stepping quickly forward as there came a little break
in the moving line. She stepped in front of two cars that had stopped
on parallel tracks and her companion hastily followed her. Just then
there came a fierce gust that threatened to turn their umbrellas
inside out. The lady in front clutched hers nervously and hurried
forward. As she ran past the second car she found herself almost under
the feet of a pair of horses attached to a heavy wagon. The driver
yelled angrily at her as he hastily pulled up his team; a policeman
shouted warningly and sprang toward her, and her friend stopped short
with a low cry of terror. But though the pole of the wagon grazed her
cheek and the shock threw her almost to the ground, the lady recovered
herself and hurried across to the sidewalk.
It was then that a little ragged fellow of perhaps thirteen, slipped
swiftly under the very feet of the horses, and, unheeding the savage
shouts of the driver, wormed his way rapidly through the crowd and
vanished. As he did so, the lady who had so narrowly escaped injury,
turned to her friend and cried,
"Oh my pocketbook! I must have dropped it on the crossing."
"On the crossing, did you say?" questioned the policeman, and as she
assented, he turned hastily back to the street, but the cars and teams
had passed on and others were surging forward and no trace of the
pocketbook was visible. The policeman came back and questioned the
lady about it, promising to do what he could to recover it.
"But it's not probable you'll ever see a penny of the money again," he
said. "Some rascally thief most likely saw ye drop it an' snatched it
up."
The policeman was not mistaken. If he had turned through Tremont and
Boylston streets he might have seen a ragged, barefooted boy
sauntering along with his hands in his pockets, stopping now and then
to look into a shop window, yet ever keeping a keenly watchful eye on
every policeman he met. The boy looked as if he had not a penny in
those ragged pockets of his, but one of his grimy hands clutched
tightly the lost pocketbook, which his sharp eyes had seen as it fell
beneath the feet of the horses, and which he had deftly appropriated
as he wriggled through the mud.
Heedless of wind and rain the boy lounged along the street. It was not
often that he found himself in this section of the city, and it was
much less familiar to him than some other localities. He seemed to be
wandering aimlessly along, but his restless eyes were on the watch for
some retired spot where he might safely examine his prize and see how
much money he had secured. For a long time he saw no place that seemed
to him a safe one for his purpose, so he went on and on until suddenly
he realised that he was tired. He was passing a large brownstone
church at the moment, and he sat down on the steps to rest.
"My! But this is a gay ol' church!" he thought, as he looked curiously
at the beautiful building. "Wonder where them steps go to."
Springing up he ran across the pillared porch to the foot of the stone
stairs that led to the upper entrance to the chapel. Following a
sudden impulse he started hastily up these stairs, his bare feet
making no sound. At the top of the stairs he found himself shut in on
two sides by a high stone balustrade, the chapel door forming the
third side. This door was closed. He tried it softly and found it
locked. Then he dropped down in the darkest corner of the landing,
and, with eyes and ears still keenly alert, pulled from his pocket the
mud-stained purse and examined it carefully. He found in it thirty-six
dollars in bills and about a dollar more in silver.
The boy gave a gleeful, silent laugh. "Struck it rich this time," he
said to himself.
He hunted up a crooked pin from somewhere about his dilapidated
garments, and fastened the roll of bills as securely as he could
inside the lining of his jacket, keeping the silver in his pocket.
Then he again examined the book to be sure that he had overlooked
nothing. On the inside of the leather was the name,
"R. A. RUSSELL,"
and there was also a card bearing the same name and an address. The
card he tore into tiny bits and chewed into a pellet which he tossed
over the stone balustrade. Then, with the pocketbook in his hand, he
looked about him. There was a pastor's box fastened beside the
door. He crowded the telltale book through the opening in the top of
this box, and then with a satisfied air ran blithely down the stone
steps. But he stopped short as he came face to face with the sexton
who was just crossing the porch.
"Here, you! Where've you been? What you been up to?" cried the man,
clutching at him angrily, but the boy was too quick.
He ducked suddenly, slipped under the sexton's hands and darted across
the porch and down the steps. Then he stopped to call back,
"Be'n makin' 'rangements ter preach fer ye here next Sunday--yah!
yah!" and with a mocking laugh he disappeared leaving the sexton
shaking his fist in impotent wrath.
The boy ran swiftly on until he had gotten quite a distance from the
church; then he slackened his pace and began to plan what he should do
next. The sight of a confectioner's window reminded him that he was
hungry, and he went into the store and bought two tarts which he ate
as he walked on. After that he bought a quart of peanuts, two bananas
and a piece of mince-pie, and having disposed of all these he felt
hungry no longer.
Having in his possession what seemed to him a small fortune, he saw no
necessity for working, so that night he did not go as usual to the
newspaper office for the evening papers, but spent his time loafing
around the busiest corners and watching all that went on about the
streets. This unusual conduct attracted the attention of his cronies,
and a number of newsboys gathered about him trying to find out the
reason of his strange idleness.
"I say, Tode," called one, "why ain't ye gettin' yer papers?"
"Aw, he's come into a fortune, he has," put in another. "His rich
uncle's come home an' 'dopted him."
"Naw, he's married Vanderbilt's daughter," sneered a third.
"Say, now, Tode, tell us w'at's up," whispered one, sidling up to
him. "Hev ye swiped somethin'?"
Tode tried to put on an expression of injured innocence, but his face
flushed as he answered, shortly,
"Come, hush yer noise, will ye! Can't a chap lay off fer one day
'thout all the town pitchin' inter him? I made a dollar extry this
mornin'--that's all the' is about it," and stuffing his hands into his
pockets he marched off to avoid further comment.
For the next week Tode "lived high" as he expressed it. He had from
three to six meals a day and an unlimited amount of pie and peanuts
besides, but after all he was not particularly happy. Time hung heavy
on his hands sometimes--the more so as the boys, resenting his living
in luxurious idleness, held aloof, and would have nothing to do with
him. He had been quite a leader among them, and it galled him to be so
left out and ignored. He began to think that he should not be sorry
when his ill-gotten money was gone. He was thinking after this fashion
one day as he strolled aimlessly down a side street. It was a quiet
street where at that hour there was little passing, and Tode lounged
along with his hands in his pockets until he came to a place where the
sidewalk was littered with building material and where a large house
was in course of construction. Perhaps the workmen were on a strike
that day. At any rate none of them were about, and the boy sprang up
onto a barrel that was standing near the curbstone, and sat there
drumming on the head with two pieces of lath and whistling a lively
air.
After a little his whistle ceased and he looked up and down the street
with a yawn, saying to himself,
"Gay ol' street, this is! Looks like everybody's dead or asleep."
But even as he spoke a girl came hastily around the nearest corner and
hurried toward him. She looked about fourteen. Her clothes were worn
and shabby but they were clean, and in her arms she carried a baby
wrapped in a shawl. She stopped beside Tode and looked at him with
imploring eyes.
"Oh can't you help me to hide somewhere? Do! Do!" she cried, with a
world of entreaty in her voice.
The boy glanced at her coolly.
"What ye want ter hide for? Been swipin' somethin'?" he questioned,
carelessly.
The girl flashed at him an indignant glance, then cast a quick,
frightened one behind her.
"No, no!" she exclaimed, earnestly. "I'm no thief. I'm running away
from old Mary Leary. She's most killed my little brother giving him
whiskey so's to make him look sick when she takes him out
begging. Look here!"
She lifted the shawl that was wrapped about the child. Tode leaned
over and looked at the little face. It was a pitiful little face--so
white and thin, with sunken eyes and blue lips--so pitiful that it
touched even Tode's heart, that was not easily touched.
"The ol' woman after ye?" he asked, springing down from the barrel.
"Yes, yes! Oh, do help me," pleaded the girl, the tears running down
her cheeks as she gazed at the baby face. "I'm afraid he's going to
die."
The boy cast a quick glance about him.
"Here!" he exclaimed, "squat down an' I'll turn this over ye."
He seized a big empty barrel that stood near. Without a word the girl
slipped to the ground and he turned the barrel over her, kicking under
the edge a bit of wood to give air. The next moment he stooped down to
the opening and whispered,
"Hi! The ol' lady's a comin'. Don't ye peep. I'll fix her!"
Then he reseated himself again on the barrelhead and began to drum and
whistle as before, apparently paying no heed to the woman who came
along scolding and swearing, with half a dozen street children
following at her heels. She came nearer and nearer but Tode drummed on
and whistled unconcernedly until she stopped before him and exclaimed
harshly,
"You boy--have you seen a girl go by here, with a baby?"
"Nope," replied Tode, briefly.
"How long you be'n settin' here?"
"'Bout two weeks," answered the boy, gravely.
The woman stormed and blustered, but finding that this made no
impression she changed her tactics and began in a wheedling tone,
"Now, dearie, you'll help an ol' woman find her baby, won't ye? It's
heartbroke I am for my pretty darlin' an' that girl has carried him
off. Tell me, dearie, did they go this way?"
"I d' know nothin' 'bout yer gal," exclaimed Tode. "Why don't ye scoot
'round an' find her 'f she's cleared out?"
"An' ain't I huntin' her this blessed minute?" shrieked the woman,
angrily. "I b'lieve ye _have_ seen her. Like's not ye've hid her
away somewheres."
Tode turned away from her and resumed his drumming while the woman
cast a suspicious glance at the unfinished building.
"She may be there," she muttered and began searching through the piles
of building material on the ground floor.
"Hope she'll break her ol' neck!" thought Tode, vengefully, as he
whistled with fresh vigor.
The woman reappeared presently, and casting a threatening glance and a
torrent of bad language at the boy, went lumbering heavily down the
street with the crowd of noisy, curious children straggling along
behind her.
When they had all disappeared around the corner of the street, Tode
sprang down and putting his mouth to the opening at the bottom of the
barrel whispered hastily,
"Keep still 'til I see if she's gone sure," and he raced up to the
corner where he watched until the woman was out of sight. Then he ran
back and lifted the barrel off, saying,
"It's all right--she's gone, sure 'nough."
The girl cast an anxious glance up and down the street as she sprang
up.
"Oh dear!" she exclaimed. "I don't know where to go!" and Tode saw
that her eyes were full of tears.
He looked at her curiously.
"Might go down t' the wharf. Ol' woman wouldn't be likely ter go
there, would she?" he suggested.
"I don't think so. I've never been there," replied the girl. "Which
way is it?"
"Come on--I'll show ye;" and Tode set off at a rapid pace.
The girl followed as fast as she could, but the child was a limp
weight in her arms and she soon began to lag behind and breathe
heavily. "What's the matter? Why don't ye hurry up?" exclaimed the
boy with an impatient backward glance.
"I--can't. He's so--heavy," panted the girl breathlessly.
Tode did not offer to take the child. He only put his hands in his
pockets and waited for her, and then went on more slowly.
When they reached the wharf, he led the way to a quiet corner where
the girl dropped down with a sigh of relief and weariness, while he
leaned against a post and looked down at her. Presently he remarked,
"What's yer name?"
"Nan Hastings," replied the girl.
"How'd she get hold o' ye?" pursued the boy, with a backward jerk of
his thumb that Nan rightly concluded was meant to indicate the Leary
woman.
She answered slowly, "It was when mother died. We had a nice home. We
were not poor folks. My father was an engineer, and he was killed in
an accident before Little Brother was born, and that almost broke
mother's heart. After the baby came she was sick all the time and she
couldn't work much, and so we used up all the money we had, and mother
got sicker and at last she told me she was going to die." The girl's
voice trembled and she was silent for a moment; then she went on, "She
made me kneel down by the bed and promise her that I would always take
care of Little Brother and bring him up to be a _good_ man as
father was. I promised, and I am going to do it."
The girl spoke earnestly with the light of a solemn purpose in her
dark eyes.
Tode began to be interested. "And she died?" he prompted.
"Yes, she died. She wrote to some of her relatives before she died
asking them to help Little Brother and me, but there was no answer to
the letter, and after she died all our furniture was sold to pay the
doctor and the funeral bills. The doctor wanted to send us to an
orphan asylum, but Mary Leary had worked for us, and she told me that
if we went to an asylum they would take Little Brother away from me
and I'd never see him any more, and she said if I'd go home with her
she'd find me a place to work and I could keep the baby. So I went
home with her. It was a horrid place"--Nan shuddered--"and I found out
pretty soon that she drank whiskey, but I hadn't any other place to
go, so I had to stay there, but lately she's been taking the baby out
every day and he's been growing so pale and sick-looking, and
yesterday I caught her giving him whiskey, and then I knew she did it
to make him look sick so that she would get more money when she went
out begging with him."
"An' so you cut an' run?" put in Tode, as the girl paused.
[Illustration: "He's awakin' up, I guess."]
"Yes--and I'll _never_ go back to her, but--I don't know what I
_can_ do. Do you know any place where I can stay and work for
Little Brother?"
The dark eyes looked up into the boy's face with a wistful, pleading
glance, as the girl spoke.
"I'd know no place," replied Tode, shrugging his shoulders
carelessly. He did not feel called upon to help this girl. Tode
considered girls entirely unnecessary evils.
Nan looked disappointed, but she said no more.
"He's wakin' up, I guess," remarked Tode, glancing at the baby.
The little thing stirred uneasily, and then the heavy, blue-veined
lids were lifted slowly, and a pair of big innocent blue eyes looked
straight into Tode's. A long, steadfast, unchildlike look it was, a
look that somehow held the boy's eyes in spite of himself, and then a
faint, tremulous smile quivered over the pale lips, and the baby hands
were lifted to the boy.
That look and smile had a strange, a wonderful effect on
Tode. Something seemed to spring into life in his heart in that
instant. Up to this hour he had never known what love was, for he had
never loved any human being, but as he gazed into the pure depths of
those blue eyes and saw the baby fingers flutter feebly toward him,
his heart went out in love to the child, and he held out his arms to
take him.
Nan hesitated, with a quick glance at Tode's dirty hands and garments,
but he cried imperiously,
"Give him here. He wants to come to me," and she allowed him to take
the child from her arms. As he felt himself lifted in that strong
grasp, Little Brother smiled again, and nestled with a long breath of
content against Tode's dirty jacket.
"See--he likes me!" cried the boy, his face all aglow with the
strange, sweet delight that possessed him. He sat still holding the
child, afraid to move lest he disturb his charge, but in a few minutes
the baby began to fret.
"What's he want?" questioned Tode, anxiously.
Nan looked distressed. "I'm afraid he's hungry," she replied. "Oh
dear, what _shall_ I do!"
She seemed ready to cry herself, but Tode sprang up.
"You come along," he exclaimed, briefly, and he started off with the
child still in his arms, and Nan followed wonderingly. She shrank back
as he pushed open the door of a restaurant, but Tode went in and after
a moment's hesitation, she followed.
"What'll he take--some beef?" inquired the boy.
"Oh no!" cried Nan, hastily, "some bread and milk will be best for
him."
"All right. Here you--bring us a quart o' milk an' a loaf o' bread,"
called Tode, sharply, to a waiter.
When these were brought he added, "Now fetch on a steak an' a oyster
stew."
Then he turned with a puzzled look to Nan. "How does he take it? D'ye
pour it down his throat?" he asked.
"No, no!" cried Nan, hastily, as he seized the bowl of milk. "You must
feed it to him with a spoon."
"All right!" and utterly regardless of the grinning waiters Tode began
to feed the baby, depositing quite as much in his neck as in his
mouth, while Nan looked on, longing to take the matter into her own
hands, but afraid to interfere. Suddenly Tode glanced at her.
"Why don't ye eat?" he said, with a gesture toward the food on the
table. The girl coloured and drew back.
"Oh I can't," she exclaimed, hastily, "I ain't--I don't want
anything."
"Ain't ye hungry?" demanded Tode in a masterful tone.
"N--not much," stammered Nan, but the boy saw a hungry gleam in her
eyes as she glanced at the food.
"Y'are, too! Now you jest put that out o' sight in a hurry!"
But Nan shook her head. "I'm no beggar," she said, proudly, "and some
time I'm going to pay you for that," and she pointed to the bowl of
bread and milk.
"Shucks!" exclaimed the boy. "See here! I've ordered that stuff an'
I'll have it to pay for anyhow, so you might's well eat it. _I_
don't want it," and he devoted himself again to the child.
Nan turned her head resolutely away, but she was so hungry and the
food did smell so good that she could not resist it. She tasted the
oysters and in three minutes the bowl was empty, and a good bit of the
steak had disappeared before she pushed aside her plate.
"Thank you," she said, gratefully. "It did taste _so_ good!"
"Huh!" grunted Tode. This was the first time in his life that anybody
had said "thank you" to him.
He handed the baby over to Nan and, though he had said he was not
hungry, finished the steak and a big piece of pie in addition and then
the three left the restaurant.
II. NAN'S NEW HOME
As they went out, Nan looked anxiously from side to side, fearing to
see or be seen by the Leary woman. Tode noticed her troubled look and
remarked,
"Ye needn't ter fret. _I_ wouldn't let her touch ye. We might's
well go back to the wharf," he added.
So they returned to the corner they had left, and in a little while
the baby dropped into a refreshing sleep in his sister's lap, while
Tode sometimes roamed about the wharf, and sometimes lounged against a
post and talked with Nan.
"What is _your_ name?" she asked him, suddenly.
"Tode Bryan."
"Tode? That's a queer name."
"'Spect that ain't all of it. There's some more, but I've forgot what
'tis," the boy replied, carelessly.
"And where's your home, Tode?"
"Home? Ain't got none. Never had none--no folks neither."
"But where do you live?"
"Oh, anywheres. When I'm flush, I sleeps at the Newsboys' Home, an'
when I ain't, I takes the softest corner I can find in a alley or on a
doorstep," was the indifferent reply.
Nan looked troubled.
"But I can't do that," she said. "I can't sleep in the street with
Little Brother."
"Why not?" questioned Tode, wonderingly.
"Oh because--girls can't do like that."
"Lots o' girls do."
"But--not nice girls, Tode," said Nan, wistfully.
"Well no, I don't 'spect they're nice girls. I don't know any girls 't
amount to much," replied Tode, disdainfully.
Nan flushed at his tone, as she answered,
"But what _can_ I do? Where can I go? Seems as if there ought to
be some place where girls like me could stay."
"That's so, for a fact," assented Tode, then he added, thoughtfully,
"The's one feller--mebbe you could stay where he lives. He's got a
mother, I know."
"Oh if I only could, Tode! I'd work _ever_ so hard," said Nan,
earnestly.
"You stay here an' I'll see 'f I can find him," said the boy. Then he
turned back to add suspiciously, "Now don't ye clear out while I'm
gone."
Nan looked at him wonderingly.
"Where would I go?" she questioned, and Tode answered with a laugh,
"That a fact--ye ain't got no place to go, have ye?"
Then he disappeared and Nan waited anxiously for his return. He came
back within an hour bringing with him a freckle-faced boy a year or so
older than himself.
"This's the gal!" he remarked, briefly.
The newcomer looked doubtfully at Nan.
"See the little feller," cried Tode, eagerly. "Ain't he a daisy? See
him laugh," and he chucked the baby clumsily under the chin.
The child's heavy eyes brightened and he smiled back into the
friendly, dirty face of the boy.
The other boy looked at Tode wonderingly. "Didn't know 't you liked
_kids,_" he said, scornfully.
"So I don't--but this one's diff'runt," replied Tode, promptly. "You
ain't no common kid, be ye, Little Brother?"
"What's his name?" questioned the boy.
"His name is David, but mother always called him Little Brother, and
so I do," answered the girl, in a low tone. "Have you a mother?" she
added, with an earnest look at the boy.
"Got the best mother in this town," was the prompt reply.
"Oh, won't you take me to her, then? Maybe she can tell me what to
do," Nan pleaded.
"Well, come along, then," responded the boy, rather grudgingly.
"You come too, Tode," said Nan. "'Cause you know we might meet Mary
Leary."
"All right. I'll settle her. Don't you worry," and Tode, with a very
warlike air marched along at Nan's right hand.
"What's your mother's name?" questioned Nan, shyly, of the newcomer as
the three walked on together.
"Hunt. I'm Dick Hunt," was the brief reply. Then Dick turned away
from the girl and talked to Tode.
It was not very far to Dick's home. It was in one of the better class
of tenement houses. The Hunts had three rooms and they were clean and
comfortably furnished. Tode looked around admiringly as Dick threw
open the door and led the way in. Tode had never been in rooms like
these before. Nan--after one quick glance about the place--looked
earnestly and longingly into Mrs. Hunt's kind motherly face. Dick
wasted no words.
"Mother," he said, "this girl wants to stay here."
Mrs. Hunt was making paper bags. Her busy fingers did not stop for a
moment, but she cast a quick, keen glance at Nan and Tode.
"What do you mean, Dick?" she said.
"Oh, Mrs. Hunt, if you only would let us stay here till I can find a
place to work, I'd be so thankful. We'll have to stay in the street
tonight--Little Brother and I--if you don't," urged Nan, eagerly.
Mrs. Hunt's kind heart was touched by the girl's pleading tone. She
had girls of her own and she thought, "What if my Nellie had to spend
the night in the street," but she said only:
"Sit down, my dear, and tell me all about it."
The kind tone and those two words "my dear," were almost too much for
poor anxious Nan. Her eyes filled with tears and her voice was not
quite steady as she told again her sorrowful little story, and when it
was ended the mother's eyes too were dim.
"Give me that baby," she exclaimed, forgetting her work for the
moment, and she took the little fellow tenderly in her arms. "You poor
child," she added, to Nan, "of course you can stay here to-night. It's
a poor enough place an' we're as pinched as we can be, but we'll
manage somehow to squeeze out a bite and a corner for you for a day or
two anyway."
Tode's face expressed his satisfaction as he turned to depart. Dick
too looked pleased.
"Didn't I tell ye I'd got the best mother in this town?" he said,
proudly, as he followed Tode down the stairs.
"Yes you did, an' 'twarn't no lie neither," assented Tode,
emphatically; "but, see here, you can tell your mother that _I'm_
agoin' to pay for that little feller's bread an' milk."
Dick looked at him curiously.
"You goin' to work again?" he questioned.
"'Course I am."
"Somebody's got your beat."
"Who?" Tode stopped short in angry surprise as he asked the question.
"That big red-headed feller that they call Carrots."
"Well--Carrots'll find himself knocked out o' business," declared
Tode, fiercely.
When the newsboys assembled at the newspaper office a little later,
Dick speedily reported Tode's remark, and soon all eyes were on the
alert to see what would happen. Tode was greeted rather coldly and
indifferently, but that did not trouble him. He bought his papers and
set off for his usual beat. Scenting a fight a good many of the boys
followed. As Dick had said, Tode found the big fellow on the ground,
lustily crying his papers. Tode marched straight up to him.
"See here, Carrots, this's my beat. You clear out--d'ye hear?" he
shouted.
The big fellow leered at him scornfully, and without a word in
response, went on calling his papers.
Down on the ground went Tode's stock in trade, and he fell upon
Carrots like a small cyclone fighting with teeth, nails, fists and
heels, striking in recklessly with never a thought of fear.
Forgetful of possible customers, the boys quickly formed a ring, and
yelled and hooted at the antagonists, cheering first one and then the
other. But the contest was an unequal one. The red-headed boy was the
bigger and stronger of the two and plucky as Tode was, he would have
been severely treated had not the affair been ended by the appearance
of a policeman who speedily separated the combatants.
"What's all this row about?" he demanded, sharply, as he looked from
Tode's bleeding face to the big fellow's bruised eye.
"He took my beat. I've sold papers here for three years," cried Tode,
angrily.
"What _you_ got to say?" The policeman turned to the other.
"He give it up. He ain't sold a paper here for a week past," growled
Carrots.
"Whose beat is it?" The man turned to the other boys as he asked the
question.
"Reckon it's Tode's."
"He's o'ny been layin' off fer a spell."
"It's Tode's sure 'nough."
So they answered, and the officer turned again to Carrots.
"You're a bigger feller 'n he is. You let him alone an' go find a new
beat for yourself, an' see 't I don't catch either of ye fightin' in
the streets again, or I'll put ye where ye'll get another kind of a
beat if ye don't walk straight. Now scatter--all of ye!"
The "fun" was over and the boys needed no second bidding. They
scattered in all directions and the next moment, Tode's shrill voice
rang out triumphantly, while his rival stalked gloomily off,
meditating dire vengeance in the near future.
Meantime, after Tode and Dick had departed, Nan had spoken a few
grateful words to Mrs. Hunt, and then laying the baby on the lounge,
she said, earnestly,
"Please show me just how you make those bags. I'm sure I can do it."
It was simple work and it did not take her many minutes to master the
details. Her quick eyes and deft fingers soon enabled her to do the
work fully as well and as rapidly as Mrs. Hunt could do it.
"Well, I never! You certainly are a quick one," exclaimed the good
woman as she gave up her seat to the girl. "Now if you can finish that
job for me, I can get a little sewing done before dark."
"Oh yes, I can finish this easily," exclaimed Nan, delighted that
there was something that she could do in return for the kindness shown
her.
By and by, Jimmy, Nellie, and the younger children came in from
school, staring in amazement at the two strangers who seemed so much
at home there. Nan made friends with them at once, but she dreaded the
arrival of the father.
"What if he shouldn't want us to stay?" she thought, anxiously, as she
heard a heavy step on the stairs, and Nellie called out,
"Here comes father!"
There was a general rush of the children as he opened the door and he
came into the room with boys and girls swarming over him. Nan's fears
departed at the first sight of his honest, kindly face, and his cheery
greeting to her.
"Wal' now, this is nice," he said, heartily, after hearing his wife's
brief explanation. "Never can have too many little gals 'round to
suit me, an' as fer this young man," he lifted Little Brother gently
as he spoke, "he fits into this fam'ly jest like a book. Ted here's
gettin' most too much of a man to be our baby any longer."
Ted's round face had lengthened as his father took up the baby, but it
brightened at these words, and he straightened himself and slipped his
hands into the pockets of the very short trousers he was wearing.
"I'll be a big man pretty soon," he remarked, and his father patted
his head tenderly as he answered,
"So you will, sonny, so you will, an' the more you help other folks
the faster you'll grow."
That was a happy evening for Nan. As she sat at the supper-table at
"father's" right hand the only shadow on her satisfaction was the fear
that she might not be allowed to remain in this friendly
household. But somehow, even that thought could not cast a very dark
shadow on her heart when she looked up into the sunshine of Father
Hunt's plain face, or met the motherly smile of his good wife. She
lent a helping hand whenever she saw an opportunity to do so, and the
table was cleared, and the dishes washed so quickly that Mr. Hunt
remarked to his wife,
"Look here, now, mother, why can't you an' me go somewheres this
evening? You ain't been out with me for more'n a year, an' I feel's if
I'd like a bit of an outin' to-night."
Mrs. Hunt looked up doubtfully, but Nan spoke up quickly,
"Do go, Mrs. Hunt. I'll take care of the children and be glad to."
"That's right! That's right!" exclaimed Mr. Hunt. "'Course ye will,
an' I 'spect you'll make 'em have such a fine time that they'll be
sorry when we get back."
Ted put his finger in his mouth and gloom gathered on his round face
at this suggestion, but it vanished as Nan said,
"Teddy, I can cut fine soldiers out of paper, and animals too. After
your father and mother go I'll cut some for you."
Teddy's face brightened at this promise, and he saw the door close
behind his mother without shedding a single tear.
Nan put Little Brother to bed and then all the children gathered about
the table and Nan drew men and animals on brown paper and cut them
out, to the great delight of the children. Teddy especially was so
interested that once Nellie remarked, "You needn't get quite into
Nan's mouth, Ted."
Nan laughed. "If he only won't get his fingers cut instead of the
paper," she said.
"There! I've got a whole fun'ral of horses," remarked Ted, in a tone
of great satisfaction, as he ranged a long string of the figures two
and two on the table.
"Look out, Ted, you'll knock over the lamp!" cried Jimmy, hastily.
The warning came too late. Even as the words were uttered, the chair
on which Ted was standing slipped from under him, and as he struck out
wildly to save himself from falling he hit the lamp and knocked it
over on the table. The chimney rolled to the floor with a crash, and
the burning oil spread over the table licking up Ted's horses and the
scattered bits of paper as it went. Then a piece of the burning paper
blew against Nellie's apron and the next instant that was blazing, and
Nellie screaming with fright, while the other children ran crying into
the inner room--all but Ted. He--petrified with terror--stood still
with mouth and eyes wide open, gazing at the fiery stream rolling over
the table.
It all happened in two or three seconds, but Nan did not lose her
head. She jerked off Nellie's apron without regard to fastenings, and
crammed it into the coalhod, then snatching up her old shawl which was
lying on the lounge, she threw it over the burning lamp and gathered
it closely over lamp, paper and all, so smothering the flames. In two
minutes the danger was over, Nan had lighted another lamp that Nellie
brought her, and the frightened children came creeping slowly back to
the table.
Teddy did not care for paper men or animals any more that night. He
was ready to go to bed, and Nellie undressed him and put him there,
but the others sat up until the father and mother came home, all eager
to tell the story of their danger and of Nan's bravery. The mother's
eyes filled with tears as she put her arms about as many of the
children as she could gather into them and looked at Nan in silent
gratitude, while the father laid his hand kindly on the girl's brown
hair as he said, gravely,
"Child, you've earned your place in this home. As long as I'm able to
work you're just as welcome here as the rest--you and the baby too."
Nan's eyes were shining happily.
"'Twas nothing much to do," she answered, "and I'll find some way to
pay for Little Brother and me if only we can stay here."
Dick had come in soon after his parents, and had listened in gloomy
silence to the story of the children.
"Humph!" he said to himself. "Twasn't so awful much to put out that
fire. I'd a done it in no time if I'd a been here."
It seemed to Dick that his father and mother were making altogether
too much of this strange girl, and the evil spirit of jealousy reared
its ugly head in his heart. He wished he had not brought those two
home with him, anyhow.
When, the next day, Tode met him on the street and inquired about Nan
and Little Brother, Dick replied, gruffly,
"Oh, they're all right 'nough."
"But are they goin' ter stay't your place?" questioned Tode.
"'Spect so." Dick's voice was gruffer than before.
"I'm agoin' 'round there to see 'em to-day," remarked Tode.
Dick made no reply.
Tode repeated, "Don't ye hear? I say I'm agoin' ter see 'em to-day."
"I heard what ye said. S'pose I'm deaf?" and Dick turned his back and
marched off.
Tode looked after him angrily. "Like ter punch his head fer him," he
said, under his breath. "Would, too, if his folks hadn't let Little
Brother stay on there."
Nothing daunted by Dick's unfriendly manner, Tode presented himself
that afternoon at Mrs. Hunt's door. He found that good woman and Nan
both busy over the paper bags. All the children except Dick were at
school, and Little Brother was lying on the old shawl at his sister's
feet. Tode gave an awkward nod by way of greeting and dropped down on
the floor beside the child.
"Hello, little chap!" he said.
There certainly was a mutual attraction between the two, for the baby
again responded to his greeting with a smile, and held out his scrawny
little hands.
Tode was delighted. He lifted the child in his arms and sat down with
him in an old rocking-chair.
Nan cast a quick, disturbed glance at the two. She had dressed the
baby in some clothes that Mrs. Hunt had found for her--a few that had
survived Ted's rough usage. They were old but clean, and it was trying
to Nan to see Little Brother's pure, sweet face and fresh garments
held by Tode's dirty hands against his dirtier jacket. But the baby
did not mind. He looked as contented as Tode did, and when the boy's
grimy fingers touched his thin cheek, Little Brother laughed a soft,
happy, gurgling laugh that was music in Tode's ears. But suddenly the
boy's glance took in the contrast between his soiled hand and the
little face against which it rested. For a moment he hesitated, then
he arose hastily, placed the child gently on the old shawl again and
said to Mrs. Hunt,
"Ye ain't got a bit o' soap you could lend me, have ye?"
Mrs. Hunt looked at him inquiringly, then she answered a little
unwillingly, for even soap costs money, "You can take that bit on the
shelf there."
Tode seized it and vanished. Few things escaped his quick eyes, and he
had noticed a sink and a faucet in the hall outside the door. There he
rubbed and scrubbed his hands for full five minutes vastly to their
improvement, though even then he looked at them doubtfully.
"Can't do no better," he muttered, as he wiped them--well, he had only
one place to wipe them, and he did the best he could. When he went
back he glanced somewhat sheepishly at Mrs. Hunt as he put the
remains of the soap back on the shelf, and again took up the baby. Nan
smiled at him but she made no remark, and tried not to look at his
jacket.
After he had gone Mrs. Hunt asked, thoughtfully, "How long have you
known that boy, Nan?"
"I never saw him until yesterday," answered the girl. "He was good to
me then."
"Yes, I know, an' of course you don't want to forget that, but, Nan,
I'm afraid he's a bad boy. Dick says he is. He says he lies and
steals and swears. I guess you don't want to have much to do with
him."
Nan looked troubled. She answered, slowly,
"I guess he hasn't had much of a chance, Mrs. Hunt. He can't remember
anything about his father and mother, and he says he's never had any
home except the street. Do you s'pose 'twill hurt for him to come here
sometimes to see Little Brother? 'Seems as if it might help him to be
a better boy. He likes Little Brother."
For a moment Mrs. Hunt was silent. She was thinking how hard she tried
to bring up her children to be good boys and girls, and yet they were
not always good. She wondered what kind of a boy her Dick would have
been if he, like Tode, had had no home and no one to keep him from
evil ways.
"If that's so, there's some excuse for him," she said, in response to
Nan's plea for Tode.
"P'raps 'twill help him somehow if he gets to carin' for that innocent
baby, an' I don't mind his comin' here sometimes, only be careful that
you don't learn any evil from him, my dear," and she leaned over and
kissed the girl's cheek.
"Oh, Mrs. Hunt, I _must_ be good always, you know, for Little
Brother's sake. I can't ever forget or break my promise to mother,"
Nan answered, earnestly. And Mrs. Hunt, as she saw the solemn look in
the dark eyes uplifted to her own, felt that she need not worry about
Nan and Tode.
III. AN ACCIDENT
Tode Bryan was sauntering down the street, his hands in his pockets,
as usual, when he was not selling papers. He was whistling a lively
tune, but he was on the lookout for anything interesting that might
happen. As he passed a fruit stand kept by an old woman, he slyly
snatched a handful of peanuts which he ate as he went on. He had sold
out his papers more quickly than usual, for it was still early in the
evening, and the streets were full of business-men on their way to
their homes.
Suddenly the boy stopped short and listened, and the next moment there
was a general rush into doorways and side streets as a fire-engine
came dashing around the corner, while the police rushed from side to
side clearing the way through the narrow street.
As the engine passed, Tode, like every other boy within sight or
hearing, raced madly after it, shouting and yelling "fire" with all
the power of his healthy lungs. Hearing somebody say where the fire
was, he slipped through a narrow cross street and an alley, so coming
out ahead of the engine which the next moment swung around the nearest
corner.
An old man was just crossing the street, and as he heard the clang of
the gong and the clatter of the engine, he looked about in a dazed,
frightened way, and, instead of hurrying across, hesitated a moment
and then turned uncertainly back. The driver did his best to avoid
him but when the engine had passed the old man lay motionless upon the
ground.
Instantly a crowd gathered about him and Tode pressed forward to the
front rank. One policeman was raising the old man's head and another
was asking if anybody knew who the injured man was.
It was Tode, who, peering curiously at the pale face, remarked,
"I know him. He buys papers o' me."
"What's his name? Where does he live?" questioned the officer.
"Do' know. He keeps a bookstand down on School street."
"Well, we'll have to send him to the hospital. Ring up the ambulance,
Dick," said the officer to his companion.
Tode was just dashing off after the engine when one of the policemen
collared him.
"Here you!" he exclaimed. "None o' your cuttin' off! If you know this
man you've got to go to the hospital an' 'dentify him."
Tode looked uncomfortable and tried to squirm out of the man's
grasp--a fruitless effort, for his strength availed nothing against
that iron grip. The boy had no idea what "'dentify" might mean but he
had his reasons for preferring to keep at a distance from the
guardians of the law. There was no help for it, however, so with many
inward misgivings, he submitted and waited for the ambulance. When it
appeared the still insensible old man was lifted in and Tode was
ordered to the front seat where he rode securely between the driver
and the policeman. The boy had never before been in a hospital and he
felt very ill at ease when he found himself inside the building with
its big rooms and long bare halls. He was left alone with the
policeman for a while, and then both of them were called into another
room and questioned in regard to the accident. Finally Tode was
dismissed with strict orders to return the next day.
"He'll be here. I know him, an' if he don't show up, you jest send me
word an' I'll find him for ye," the officer said to the doctor, with a
threatening glance at the boy.
Tode said nothing, but in his heart he was determined not to return
the next day. The officer, however, kept his eye on him, and the next
afternoon pounced upon him and put him on a street car with strict
orders to the conductor not to let him off until he reached the
hospital. So finding himself thus under watch and ward, Tode concluded
that he might as well obey orders, and he rang the bell at the
hospital door. He was met by the doctor whom he had seen the night
before, and taken at once to the ward where the injured man was lying.
As Tode gazed around the long room with its rows of white beds, a
feeling of awe stole over him. He wanted to get away, for he did not
know what to do or say.
The old man was lying as if asleep, but when the doctor spoke to him
he looked up and his dim eyes brightened at sight of the familiar face
of the boy.
"Oh, bishop, it's you is it? Got a paper for me?" he said with a
feeble smile.
Tode wriggled uneasily as he answered gruffly, "Guess ye don't want
none to-day, do ye?"
"No, I don't believe I do. You can bring me one to-morrow, bishop,"
and as he spoke the old man closed his eyes again, and turned his face
away with a weary sigh.
"Come away now," said the doctor, and once outside the door he added,
"He hasn't said as much as that before. Seeing some one he knew
aroused him as I hoped it would. Why does he call you bishop?"
"I do' know," replied Tode, indifferently.
"Well, you must come again to-morrow. Here's a car ticket and a
quarter. I'll give you the same when you come to-morrow. Be here about
this time, will you?"
"All right--I'll come," answered the boy to whom the quarter was an
inducement.
The old man remained at the hospital for several weeks and Tode
continued to visit him there at first for the sake of the money and
because he dared not disobey the doctor's orders, but after a while he
became rather proud of the old man's evident liking for him, and he
would often sit and talk with him for half an hour at a time.
One day Tode inquired curiously, "What d' ye call me bishop for?
'Tain't my name."
And the old man answered dreamily, "You remind me of a boy I knew when
I was about your age. He used to say that he was going to be a bishop
when he grew up and so we boys always called him 'bishop.'"
"An' did he?" questioned Tode.
"Become a bishop? No, he entered the army and died in his first
battle."
"W'at's a bishop, anyhow?" asked Tode, after a moment's silence.
"You know what a minister is, Tode?"
"A preacher, ye mean?"
"Yes, a minister is a preacher. A bishop is a sort of head
preacher--ranking higher, you know."
Tode nodded. "I'd rather be a soldier like that feller you knew," he
remarked.
A day came when the old man was pronounced well enough to leave the
hospital and the doctor ordered Tode to be on hand to take him home.
The boy did not object. He was rather curious to see the little place
in the rear of the bookstand where the old man lived alone. Since the
accident the stand had been closed and Tode helped to open and air the
room and then made a fire in the stove. When this was done the old man
gave him money to buy materials for supper which of course the boy
shared.
After this he came daily to the place to run errands or do anything
that was wanted, and by degrees the old man came to depend more and
more upon him until the business of the little stand fell almost
wholly into the boy's hands, for the owner's head still troubled him
and he could not think clearly. It was a great relief to him to have
some one to look after everything for him. Tode liked it and the
business prospered in his hands. If he lacked experience, he was
quicker and sharper than the old man. The two took their meals
together, and at night Tode slept on a blanket on the floor, and was
more comfortable and prosperous than he had ever been in his life
before. He had money to spend too, for old Mr. Carey never asked for
any account of the sums that passed through the boy's hands. So he
himself was undisturbed by troublesome questions and figures, the old
man was content now, and each day found him a little weaker and
feebler. Tode noticed this but he gave no thought to the matter. Why
borrow trouble when things were so much to his mind? Tode lived in the
present.
He still sold the evening papers, considering it wise to keep
possession of his route against future need, and never a week passed
that he did not see Little Brother at least twice. He would have liked
to see the child every day, but he knew instinctively that he was not
a favorite with the Hunts, and that knowledge made him ill at ease
with them. But it could not keep him away altogether. He found too
much satisfaction in Little Brother's love for him.
More than once Mrs. Hunt had remarked to Nan that she didn't "see what
in the world made the baby so fond of that rough, dirty boy." Nan
herself wondered at it though she kept always a grateful remembrance
of Tode's kindness when she first met him.
Tode often brought little gifts to the child, and would have given him
much more, but Nan would not allow it. The two had a long argument
over the matter one day. It was a bright, sunny morning and Mrs. Hunt
had said that the baby ought to be out in the fresh air, so Nan had
taken him to the Common, and sat there keeping ever a watchful eye for
their enemy, Mary Leary. Tode going down Beacon street espied the two
and forgetting all about the errand on which he was bound, promptly
joined them.