if you want to," and he flung his door wide open and stepped back into
the room.
Then out of the shadows of the dark landing the dog came slowly and
warily, ready to turn and slink off if he met no welcome, but Tode was
in the mood when even a strange dog was better than his own
company. He fed the half-starved creature with some stale sandwiches,
and then talked to him and tried to teach him some tricks until to his
own surprise he heard the city clocks striking nine, and the long,
lonely evening he had dreaded was gone.
"Well now, you're a heap o' company," he said to the dog. "I've a good
mind ter keep ye. Say, d'ye wan' ter stay, ol' feller?"
The dog wagged his abbreviated tail, licked Tode's fingers, and rubbed
his head against the ragged trousers of his new friend.
"Ye do, hey! Well, I'll keep ye ter-night, anyhow. Le' see, what'll I
call ye? You've got ter have a name. S'posin' I call ye Tag. That
do--hey, Tag?"
The dog gave a quick, short bark and limped gaily about the boy's
feet.
"All right--we'll call ye Tag then. Now then, there's yer bed," and he
threw into a corner an old piece of carpet that he had picked up on a
vacant lot. The dog understood and settled himself with a long,
contented sigh, as if he would have said:
"At last I've found a master and a home."
In a day or two Tag's lameness disappeared, and his devotion to his
new master was unbounded. Tode found him useful, too, for he kept
vigilant watch when the boy was busy at his stand, and suffered no
thievish fingers to snatch anything when Tode's eyes and fingers were
too busy for him to be on the lookout. The dog was such a loving,
intelligent little creature, that he quickly won his way into Nan's
heart, and he evidently considered himself the guardian of Little
Brother from the first day that he saw Tode and the child
together. Some dogs have a way of reading hearts, and Tag knew within
two minutes that Tode loved every lock on Little Brother's sunny head.
A few days after that Sabbath that the boy was never to forget, he
went to see Nan and the baby, and in the course of his visit,
remarked,
"Nan, I seen the bishop last Sunday."
"What bishop?" inquired Nan.
"The one that talked at the big, stone church--St. Mark's, they call
it."
"I wonder 't they let you in, if you wore them ragged duds," remarked
Mrs. Hunt.
"The bishop asked me to go in an' he took me in himself," retorted
Tode, defiantly.
"For the land's sake," exclaimed Mrs. Hunt. "He must be a queer kind
of a bishop!"
"A splendid kind of a bishop, I should think," put in Nan, and the boy
responded quickly,
"He is so! I never see a man like him."
"Never see a man like him? What d'ye mean, Tode?" questioned
Mrs. Hunt.
Tode looked at her as he answered slowly, "He's a great big man--looks
like a king--an' his eyes look right through a feller, but they don't
hurt. They ain't sharp. They're soft, an'--an'--I guess they look like
a mother's eyes would. I d'know much 'bout mothers, 'cause I never had
one, but I should think they'd look like his do. I tell ye," Tode
faced Mrs. Hunt and spoke earnestly, "a feller'd do 'most anything that
that bishop asked him to--couldn't help it."
Mrs. Hunt stared in amazement at the boy. His eyes were glowing and
in his voice there was a ring of deep feeling that she had never
before heard in it. It made her vaguely uncomfortable. Her Dick had
never spoken so about any bishop, nor indeed, about anybody else, and
here was this rough street boy whom she considered quite unfit to
associate with Dick--and the bishop himself had taken him into church.
Mrs. Hunt spoke somewhat sharply. "Well, I must say you were a
queer-lookin' one to set in a pew in a church like St. Mark's."
Nan looked distressed, and Tode glanced uneasily at his garments. They
certainly were about as bad as they could be. Even pins and twine
could not hold them together much longer.
"Tode," Mrs. Hunt went on, "I think it's high time you got yourself
some better clothes. Dear knows, you need 'em if ever a boy did, an'
certainly you must have money 'nough now."
"'Spect I have. I never thought about it," replied Tode.
"Well, you'd better think about it, an' 'tend to it right away. 'F
you're goin' to church with bishops you'd ought to look respectable,
anyhow."
Something in the tone and emphasis with which Mrs. Hunt spoke brought
the colour into Tode's brown cheeks, while Nan looked at the good
woman in surprise and dismay. She did not know how troubled was the
mother's heart over her own boy lately, as she saw him growing rough
and careless, and that it seemed to her hard that this waif of the
streets should be going up while her Dick went down.
Tode thought over what had been said, and the result was that the next
time he appeared he was so changed that the good woman looked twice
before she recognised him. His clothes had been purchased at a
secondhand store, and they might have fitted better than they did, but
they were a vast improvement on what he had worn before. He had
scrubbed his face as well as his hands this time, and had combed his
rough hair as well as he could with the broken bit of comb which was
all he possessed in the way of toilet appliances. It is no easy matter
for a boy to keep himself well washed and brushed with no face cloth
or towel or brush, and no wash basin save the public sink. Tode had
done his best however, and Nan looked at him in pleased surprise.
"You do look nice, Tode," she said, and the boy's face brightened with
satisfaction.
All through that week Tode told himself that he would not go to the
church again, yet day by day the longing grew to see the bishop's face
once more and to hear his voice.
"W'at's the use! O'ny makes a feller feel meaner 'n dirt," he said to
himself again and again, yet the next Sabbath afternoon found him
hanging about St. Mark's hoping that the bishop would ask him in
again. But the minutes passed and the bishop did not appear.
"Maybe he's gone in aready," the boy thought, peering cautiously
through the pillars of the entrance. There was no one in sight, and
Tode crept quietly across the porch through the wide vestibule to the
church door. Only the sexton was there, and his back was toward the
boy as he stood looking out of the opposite door.
"Now's my time," thought Tode, and he ran swiftly and silently up the
aisle to the pew where the bishop had placed him. There he hesitated.
He was not sure which of several pews was the one, but with a quick
glance at the sexton's back, he slipped into the nearest, and hearing
the man's footsteps approaching, dropped to the floor and crawled
under the seat.
The sexton came slowly down the aisle, stopping here and there to
arrange books or brush off a dusty spot. He even entered the pew where
Tode was, and moved the books in the rack in front, but the boy lay
motionless in the shadow, and the man passed on without discovering
him.
Then the people began to come in, and Tode was just about to get up
and sit on the seat, when a lady and a little girl entered the pew.
The boy groaned inwardly. "They'll screech if I get up now," he
thought. "Nothin' for it but to lay here till it's over. Wal', I c'n
hear _him_ anyhow."
"Him," in Tode's thought was the bishop, and he waited patiently
through the early part of the service, longing to hear again that
rich, strong, thrilling voice. But alas for Tode! It was not the
bishop who preached that day. It was a stranger, whose low monotonous
voice reached the boy so indistinctly, that he soon gave up all
attempts to listen, and before the sermon was half over he was sound
asleep. Fortunately he was used to hard resting-places, and he slept
so quietly that the occupants of the pew did not discover his presence
at all.
The music of the choir and of the organ mingled with the boy's dreams,
but did not arouse him, and when the people departed and the sexton
closed the church and went home, Tode still slept on in darkness and
solitude.
Usually there was an evening service, but on this occasion it was
omitted, the rector being ill, so when Tode at last opened his eyes,
it was to find all dark and silent about him. As he started up his
head struck the bottom of the seat with a force that made him cry out
and drop back again. Then as he lay there he put out his hands, and
feeling the cushioned seat over his head, he knew where he was and
guessed what had happened.
"Wal! I was a chump to go to sleep here!" he muttered, slowly, rising
with hands outstretched. "'Spect I'll have ter get out of the
window."
The street lights shining through the stained glass made a faint
twilight in the church, but there was something weird and strange
about being there alone at that hour that set the boy's heart to
beating faster than usual.
He went to one of the windows and felt about for the fastenings, but
he could not reach them. They were too high. He tried them all, but
none were within his reach. Then he sat down in one of the pews and
wondered what he should do next. He was wide awake now. It seemed to
him that he could not close his eyes again that night, and indeed it
was long after midnight before he did. He felt strangely lonely as he
sat there through those endless hours, dimly hearing the voices and
footsteps in the street without grow fewer and fainter, till all was
silent save the clocks that rang out the creeping hours to his weary
ears. At last his tired eyes closed and he slipped down on the
cushioned seat and slept for a few hours, but he awoke again before
daylight.
It was broad daylight outside before it was light enough in the church
for the boy to see clearly, and then he looked hopelessly at the high
window fastenings. He had tried every door but all were securely
locked.
"Nothin' t' do but wait till that ol' cove comes back," he said to
himself.
Then a thought flashed across his mind--a thought that made his heart
stand still with dread. "S'posin' he don't come till next Sunday?"
Tode knew nothing about midweek or daily services. But he put this
terrible thought away from him.
"I'll get out somehow if I have ter smash some o' them pictures," he
said aloud, as he looked up at the beautiful windows.
The minutes seemed endless while the boy walked restlessly up and down
the aisles thinking of his stand, and of the customers who would seek
breakfast there in vain that morning. At last he heard approaching
footsteps, then a key rattled in the lock, and Tode instinctively
rolled under the nearest pew and lay still, listening to the heavy
footsteps of the sexton as he passed slowly about opening doors and
windows. The boy waited with what patience he could until the man
passed on to the further side of the church, then he slid and crawled
along the carpeted aisle until he reached the door, when springing to
his feet he made a dash for the street. He heard the sexton shouting
angrily after him, but he paid no heed. On and on he ran until he
reached his room where Tag gave him a wildly delighted welcome, and in
a very short time thereafter the stand at "Tode's Corner" was doing a
brisk business.
V. IN THE BISHOP'S HOUSE
Tode's patrons were mostly newsboys of his acquaintance, who came
pretty regularly to his stand for breakfast, and generally for a
midday meal, lunch or dinner as it might be. Where they took their
supper he did not know, but he usually closed his place of business
after one o'clock, and spent a couple of hours roaming about the
streets doing any odd job that came in his way, if he happened to feel
like it, or to be in need of money.
After his meeting with the bishop he often wandered up into the
neighbourhood of St. Mark's with a vague hope that he might see again
the man who seemed to his boyish imagination a very king among men. It
had long been Tode's secret ambition to grow into a big, strong man
himself--bigger and stronger than the common run of men. Now, whenever
he thought about it, he said to himself, "Just like the bishop."
But he never met the bishop, and having found out that he did not
preach regularly at St. Mark's, Tode never went there after the second
time.
One afternoon in late September, the boy was lounging along with Tag
at his heels in the neighbourhood of the church, when he heard a great
rattling of wheels and clattering of hoofs, and around the corner came
a pair of horses dragging a carriage that swung wildly from side to
side, as the horses came tearing down the street. There was no one in
the carriage, but the driver was puffing along a little way behind,
yelling frantically, "Stop 'em! Stop 'em! Why don't ye stop the
brutes!"
There were not many people on the street, and the few men within sight
seemed not at all anxious to risk life or limb in an attempt to stop
horses going at such a reckless pace.
Now Tode was only a little fellow not yet fourteen, but he was strong
and lithe as a young Indian, and as to fear--he did not know what it
was. As he saw the horses dashing toward him he leaped into the middle
of the street and stood there, eyes alert and limbs ready, directly in
their pathway. They swerved aside as they approached him, but with a
quick upward spring he grabbed the bit of the one nearest him, and
hung there with all his weight. This frightened and maddened the
horse, and he plunged and reared and flung his head from side to side,
until he succeeded in throwing the boy off. The delay however, slight
as it was, had given the driver time to come up, and he speedily
regained control of his team while a crowd quickly gathered.
Tode had been flung off sidewise, his head striking the curbstone, and
there he lay motionless, while faithful Tag crouched beside him, now
and then licking the boy's fingers, and whining pitifully as he looked
from face to face, as if he would have said,
"_Won't_ some of you help him? I can't."
The crowd pressed about the unconscious boy with a sort of morbid
curiosity, one proposing one thing and one another until a policeman
came along and promptly sent a summons for an ambulance; but before it
appeared, a tall grey-haired man came up the street and stopped to see
what was the matter. He was so tall that he could look over the heads
of most of the men, and as he saw the white face of the boy lying
there in the street, he hastily pushed aside the onlookers as if they
had been men of straw, and stooping, lifted the boy in his strong
arms.
"Stand back," he cried, his voice ringing out like a trumpet, "would
you let the child die in the street?"
They fell back before him, a whisper passing from lip to lip. "It's
the bishop!" they said, and some ran before him to open the gate and
some to ring the bell of the great house before which the accident had
occurred.
Mechanically the bishop thanked them, but he looked at none of
them. His eyes were fixed upon the face that lay against his shoulder,
the blood dripping slowly from a cut on one side of the head.
The servant who opened the door stared for an instant wonderingly, at
his master with the child in his arms, and at the throng pressing
curiously after them, but the next moment he recovered from his
amazement and, admitting the bishop, politely but firmly shut out the
eager throng that would have entered with him. A lank, rough-haired
dog attempted to slink in at the bishop's heels, but the servant gave
him a kick that made him draw back with a yelp of pain, and he took
refuge under the steps where he remained all night, restless and
miserable, his quick ears yet ever on the alert for a voice or a step
that he knew.
As the door closed behind the bishop, he exclaimed,
"Call Mrs. Martin, Brown, and then send for the doctor. This boy was
hurt at our very door."
Brown promptly obeyed both orders, and Mrs. Martin, the housekeeper,
hastily prepared a room for the unexpected guest. The doctor soon
responded to the summons, but all his efforts failed to restore the
boy to consciousness that day. The bishop watched the child as
anxiously as if it had been one of his own flesh and blood. He had
neither wife nor child, but perhaps all the more for that, his great
heart held love enough and to spare for every child that came in his
way.
It was near the close of the following day when Tode's eyes slowly
opened and he came back to consciousness, but his eyes wandered about
the strange room and he still lay silent and motionless. The doctor
and the bishop were both beside him at the moment and he glanced from
one face to the other in a vague, doubtful fashion. He asked no
question, however, and soon his eyes again closed wearily, but this
time in sleep, healthful and refreshing, instead of the stupor that
had preceded it, and the doctor turned away with an expression of
satisfaction.
"He'll pull through now," he said in a low tone. "He's young and full
of vitality--he'll soon be all right."
The bishop rubbed his hands with satisfaction. "That's well! That's
well!" he exclaimed, heartily.
The doctor looked at him curiously. "Did you ever see the lad before
you picked him up yesterday?" he asked.
"No, never," answered the bishop, who naturally had not recognised in
Tode the boy whom he had taken into church that Sunday, weeks before.
The doctor shook his head as he drove off and muttered to himself,
"Whoever saw such a man! Who but our bishop would ever think of taking
a little street urchin like that right into his home and treating him
as if he were his own flesh and blood! Well, well, he himself gets
taken in often no doubt in another fashion, but all the same the world
would be the better if there were more like him!"
And if the doctor's pronouns were a little mixed he himself understood
what he meant, and nobody else had anything to do with the matter.
The next morning Tode awoke again and this time to a full and lively
consciousness of his surroundings. It was still early and the nurse
was dozing in an easy-chair beside the bed. The boy looked at her
curiously, then he raised himself on his elbow and gazed about him,
but as he did so he became conscious of a dull throbbing pain in one
side of his head and a sick faintness swept over him. It was his first
experience of weakness, and it startled him into a faint groan as his
head fell back on the pillow.
The sound awoke the nurse, who held a spoonful of medicine to his
lips, saying,
"Lie still. The doctor says you must not talk at all until he comes."
"So," thought the boy. "I've got a doctor. Wonder where I am an' what
ails me, anyhow."
But that strange weakness made it easy to obey orders and lie still
while the nurse bathed his face and hands and freshened up the bed and
the room. Then she brought him a bowl of chicken broth with which she
fed him. It tasted delicious, and he swallowed it hungrily and wished
there had been more. Then as he lay back on the pillows he remembered
all that had happened--the horses running down the street, his attempt
to stop them, and the awful blow on his head as it struck the
curbstone.
"Wonder where I am? Tain't a hospital, anyhow," he thought. "My! But I
feel nice an' clean an' so--so light, somehow! If only my head wasn't
so sore!"
No wonder he felt "nice and clean and light somehow," when, for the
first time in his life his body and garments as well as his bed, were
as sweet and fresh as hands could make them. Tode never had minded
dirt. Why should he, when he had been born in it and had grown up
knowing nothing better? Yet, none the less, was this new experience
most delightful to him--so delightful that he didn't care to talk. It
was happiness enough for him, just then, to lie still and enjoy these
new conditions, and so presently he floated off again into sleep--a
sleep full of beautiful dreams from which the low murmur of voices
aroused him, and he opened his eyes to see the nurse and the doctor
looking down at him.
"Well, my boy," said the doctor, with his fingers on the wrist near
him, "you look better. Feel better too, don't you?"
Tode gazed at him, wondering who he was and paying no attention to his
question.
"Doctor," exclaimed the nurse, suddenly, "he hasn't spoken a single
word. Do you suppose he can be deaf and dumb?"
The bishop entered the room just in time to catch the last words.
"Deaf and dumb!" he repeated, in a tone of dismay. "Dear me! If the
poor child is deaf and dumb, I shall certainly keep him here until I
can find a better home for him."
As his eyes rested on the bishop Tode started and uttered a little
inarticulate cry of joy; then, as he understood what the bishop was
saying, a singular expression passed over his face. The doctor,
watching him closely could make nothing of it.
"He looks as if he knew you, bishop," the doctor said.
The bishop had taken the boy's rough little hand in his own large,
kindly grasp.
"No, doctor," he answered, "I don't think I've ever seen him before
yesterday, but we're friends all the same, aren't we, my lad?" and he
smiled down into the grey eyes looking up to him so earnestly and
happily.
Tode opened his lips to speak, then suddenly remembering, slightly
shook his head while the colour mounted in his pale cheeks.
"He acts like a deaf mute, certainly," muttered the doctor, and
stepping to the head of the bed he pulled out his watch and held it
first to one and then the other of Tode's ears, but out of his sight.
Tode's ears were as sharp as a ferret's and his brain was as quick as
his ears. He knew well enough what the doctor was doing but he made no
sign. Were not the bishop's words ringing in his ears? "If the poor
child is deaf and dumb I shall certainly keep him here until I can
find a better home for him."
There were few things at which the boy would have hesitated to ensure
his staying there. He understood now that he was in the house of the
bishop--"my bishop" he called him in his thought.
So, naturally enough, it was taken for granted that the boy was deaf
and dumb, for no one imagined the possibility of his pretending to be
so. Tode thought it would be easy to keep up the deception, but at
first he found it very hard. As his strength returned there were so
many questions that he wanted to ask, but he fully believed that if it
were known that he could hear and speak he would be sent away, and
more and more as the days went by he longed to remain where he was.
As he grew stronger and able to sit up, books and games and pictures
were provided for his amusement, yet still the hours sometimes dragged
somewhat heavily, but it was better when he was well enough to walk
about the house.
Mrs. Martin, the housekeeper, had first admired the boy's bravery,
then pitied him for his suffering, and had ended by loving him,
because she, too, had a big, kindly heart that was ready to love
anybody who needed her love and service. So, it was with great
satisfaction that she obeyed the bishop's orders, and bought for the
boy a good, serviceable outfit as soon as he was able to walk about
his room.
She combed out and trimmed his rough, thick hair, and then helped him
dress himself in one of his new suits. As she tied his necktie for him
she looked at him with the greatest satisfaction, saying to herself,
"Whoever would believe that it was the same boy? If only he could hear
and speak now like other boys, I'd have nothing more to ask for him."
Then she stooped and kissed him. Tode wriggled uneasily under the
unwonted caress, not quite certain whether or not he liked it--from a
woman. The housekeeper took his hand and led him down the stairs to
the bishop's study. It was a long room containing many books and
easy-chairs and two large desks. At one of these the bishop sat
writing, and over the other bent a short, dark-faced man who wore
glasses.
"Come in, Mrs. Martin, come in," called the bishop, as he saw her
standing at the open door. "And who is this?" he added, holding out
his hand to the boy.
"You don't recognize him?" Mrs. Martin asked smiling down on Tode's
smooth head.
The bishop looked keenly at the boy, then he smiled contentedly and
drew the little fellow to his side.
"Well, well!" he said, "the clothes we wear do make a great
difference, don't they, Mrs. Martin? He's a fine looking lad. Gibson,
this is the boy I was telling you about."
The little dark man turned and looked at Tode as the bishop spoke. It
was not a friendly look, and Tode felt it.
"Ah," replied Mr. Gibson, slowly. "So this is the boy, is it? He was
fortunate to fall into your hands;" and with a sharp, sidelong glance
over his shoulder, Mr. Gibson turned again to his work.
The bishop drew a great armchair close to his table and gently pushed
Tode into it. Then he brought a big book full of pictures and put it
into the boy's hands.