"Come in," added Nan, kindly pulling him in and gently pushing him
toward a chair.
Jimmy dropped into it with an appealing glance at Theo.
"I'm--I'm awful sorry, Tode," he began. "But I--I couldn't help it,
truly I couldn't." He rubbed his sleeve hastily across his eyes as he
spoke.
"But what is it, Jimmy? I'm sure you did the best you could whatever
is wrong, but do tell us what it is," exclaimed Theodore, half
laughing and half impatient at the uncertainty.
"'Twas that mean ol' Carrots," began Jimmy, indignantly. "I was
sellin' things off in fine style, Tode, an' Carrots, he came along an'
he said he wanted three san'wiches in a paper. I put 'em up fer him,
an' then he asked fer six doughnuts an' some gingerbread, an' a cup o'
coffee--an' he wanted 'em all in a paper."
"Not the coffee, Jimmy," said Nan, laughingly, as the boy stopped to
take breath.
"No, 'course not the coffee. He swallered that an' put in a extry
spoonful o' sugar too, but he wanted all the rest o' the things in a
paper bag, an' I did 'em up good for him, an' then he asked me to tie
a string 'round 'em, an' I got down under the stand for a piece of
string, an' when I found it, an' looked up--don't you think Tode--that
rascal was streakin' it down the street as fast's he could go, an' I
couldn't leave the stand to run after him, an' 'course the' wasn't any
p'lice 'round, an' so I had to let him go. I'm awful sorry, Theo, but
I couldn't help it."
"'Course you couldn't, Jimmy. And is that all the trouble?"
"Yes, that's 'nough, ain't it?" answered Jimmy, mournfully. "He got
off with more'n forty cents worth o' stuff--the old pig! I'll fix him
yet!"
"Well, don't worry any more over it, Jimmy. Losin' th' forty cents
won't break me, I guess," said Theo, kindly.
Jimmy brightened up a little, but the shadow again darkened his face
as he said, anxiously, "I s'pose you won't never trust me to run the
stand again?"
"Trust you, Jimmy? Well, I guess I will. No danger of _your_
trusting Carrots again, I'm sure."
"Not if I know myself," responded Jimmy, promptly, and Theo went on,
"I s'pose your mother wouldn't want you to stay out of school mornin's
for a week or two?"
Jimmy looked at him with sparkling eyes.
"Do you mean"--he began, breathlessly, and then paused.
"I mean that I may want you to run the stand for me all next week, as
well as to-morrow," Theo answered.
"Oh--ee! That's most too good to b'lieve," cried the little
fellow. "Say! I think you're--you're prime, Tode. I must go an' tell
ma," and he dashed out of the door, his face fairly beaming with
delight.
"It's worth while to make anybody so happy, isn't it, Theo?" Nan said,
then she added, thoughtfully, "Do you think the brass-cleaning will
take all your time, so you can't be at the stand any more?"
"Just at first it will. Maybe I shall fix it differently after a
while," he answered.
On his way to the business district the next morning, he stopped and
bought a blank book and a pencil, and wherever he cleaned a sign or a
railing that day, he tried to make a regular engagement to keep the
brasses in good condition. If he secured a promise of the work by the
month he made a reduction on his price, and every business man--or
janitor who regularly engaged him, was asked to write his own name in
the new blank book. Not on the first page of the book, however. That
the boy kept blank until about the time when Mr. Harris had come to
his office the day before. At that hour, Theodore was waiting near the
office door, and there Mr. Harris found him as he came up the steps.
"Good-morning, sir," said Theo, pulling off his cap with a smile
lighting up his plain face.
"Good-morning," returned the gentleman. "Have you found something
else to polish up here to-day?"
"No, sir, but I wanted to ask you if you would sign your name here in
my book," the boy replied.
Mr. Harris looked amused. "Come into my office," he said, "and tell me
what it is that you want."
Theodore followed him across the outer office to the private room
beyond. The clerks cast curious glances after the two, and Hammond
scowled as he bent over his desk.
"Now let me see your book," said Mr. Harris, as the door of the office
swung silently behind them.
Theo laid his rags and paste box on the carpet, and then put the blank
book on the desk as he said, earnestly,
"You see, sir, I'm trying to work up a reg'lar business, an' so I want
the business men I work for to engage me by the month to take care of
their brass work--an' I guess I did learn a lesson here yesterday, for
to-day I've asked every gentleman who has engaged me to sign his name
in this book--See?"
He turned over the leaves and showed three names on the second page.
"And you want my name there, too? But I haven't engaged you. I only
gave you a job yesterday."
"But your janitor has engaged me," answered Theodore, quickly.
"Well, then, isn't it the janitor's name that you want?"
"Oh, no, sir," cried the boy, earnestly. "Nobody knows the janitor,
but I guess lots o' folks know you, an' your name would make others
sign--don't you see?"
Mr. Harris laughed. "I see that you seem to have a shrewd business
head. You'll make a man one of these days if you keep on. And you want
my name on this first page?" he added, dipping his pen into the
inkstand.
"Yes, because you was my first friend in this business," replied
Theodore.
Mr. Harris glanced at him with that amused twinkle in his eye, but he
signed his name on the first page.
Then he said, "I wish you success in your undertaking, and here's a
trifle for a send-off." He held out a silver dollar as he spoke, but
Theodore did not take it.
"Thank ye, sir," he said, gratefully; "you've been real good to me,
but I can't take any money now, 'cept what I earn. I c'n earn all I
need."
"So?" replied Mr. Harris, "you're independent. Well, I like that, but
I'll keep this dollar for you, and if you ever get in a tight place
you can come to me for it."
"Thank you, Mr. Harris," said the boy again. "I won't forget, but I
hope I won't need it," and then he picked up his belongings and left
the office. As he passed Mr. Hammond's desk, he said, "Good-morning,
sir," but the clerk pretended not to hear.
All through the next week and for weeks after, Theodore spent his time
from nine to five o'clock, cleaning brasses and making contracts for
the regular care of them, until he had secured as much work as he
could attend to himself.
Meantime, Jimmy Hunt had taken entire charge of the stand and was
doing well with it. Theo gave him four-fifths of the profits and he
was perfectly satisfied, and so was his mother, who found his earnings
a welcome addition to the slim family income, and it was so near the
end of the school term that she concluded it did not matter if Jimmy
did stay out the few remaining weeks.
But busy as Theodore was, he still found time to carry out what Nan
cooked for the people in the two houses, as well as to drop in on one
and another of his many neighbours every evening--for by this time the
night school had closed for the season. His Saturday evenings were
still spent at the flower stand, and now that blossoms were more
plentiful, he received more and better ones in payment for his work,
and his Sunday morning visits to the different rooms were looked
forward to all the week by many of those to whom he went, and hardly
less so by himself, for the boy was learning by glad experience the
wonderful joy that comes from giving happiness to others. When he saw
how the flowers he carried to stuffy, dirty, crowded rooms, were kept
and cherished and cared for even until they were withered and dead--he
was sure that his little flower mission was a real blessing.
Before the hot weather came, Tommy O'Brien was carried away out of the
noisy, crowded room to the Hospital for Incurables. Theo had brought
one of the dispensary doctors to see the boy, and through the doctor's
efforts and those of Mr. Scott, Tommy had been received into the
hospital. He had never been so comfortable in his brief life as he was
there, but at first he was lonely, and so Theodore went once or twice
a week to see him, and he never failed to save out some flowers to
carry to Tommy on Sunday.
But, however full Theodore's time might be, and however busy his
hands, he never forgot the search for Jack Finney. His eyes were
always watching for a blue-eyed, sandy-haired boy of sixteen, and he
made inquiries for him everywhere. Three times he heard of a boy
named Finney, and sought him out only to be disappointed, for the
first Jack Finney he found was a little chap of ten or eleven, and the
next was a boy of sixteen, but with hair and eyes as black as a
Jew's--and besides, it turned out that his name wasn't Finney at all,
but Findlay; and the third time, the boy he found was living at home
with his parents, so Theo knew that no one of the three was the boy of
whom he was in search and although he did not in the least give up the
matter, he came to the conclusion at last that his Jack Finney must
have left the city.
Mr. Scott interested himself in the search because of his great
interest in Theodore, and he went to the reform school and the prison,
but the name he sought was on neither record.
Although Theodore said nothing to any one about it, he was also on the
lookout for another boy, and that boy was Carrots. Ever since Carrots
had stolen the food from the stand, Theo had wanted to find him. More
than once he had caught a glimpse in the streets of the lank figure
and the frowzy red head, but Carrots had no desire to meet Theo and he
took good care to keep out of his way.
XII. NAN FINDS FRIENDS
So the spring days slipped away until March and April were gone and
the middle of May had come. Theodore was counting the days now, for it
was in May that the bishop was to return--so Mrs. Martin had told
him--and the boy began to watch eagerly for the word that the
housekeeper had promised to send him. So full of this were his
thoughts and so busy was he with his work for himself and for others,
that he spent much less time than usual with Nan and Little Brother.
About this time there was a week of extremely hot weather. One day
toward the close of this week as Theodore was passing Mrs. Hunt's
door, she called him in.
"You'd better come here for your supper to-night," she said.
Theodore looked at her with a quick, startled glance.
"Why--where's Nan?" he inquired.
"Nan's in her room, but she can't get you any supper to-night. She's
sick. I've seen for weeks past that Nan was overworkin' with all that
cooking she's been doin', and to-day she just gave out--an' she's flat
on her back now."
Theodore was silent in blank dismay. Until that moment he had not
realised how much he had come to depend upon Nan.
"Has she had a doctor, or anything?" he asked, in such a troubled
voice that Mrs. Hunt could not but be sorry for him.
"No, I offered to send Jimmy for a doctor, but she said she only
wanted to rest, but I tell you what, Theo, she ain't goin' to get much
rest in that room, hot's an oven with the constant cooking, an' what's
more that baby can't stand it neither."
"I'll go an' see her," replied the boy, slowly, "an'--I guess I don't
want any supper to-night, Mrs. Hunt."
"Yes, you do want supper, too, Theodore. You come back here in half
an hour an' get it, an' look here--Don't worry Nan, talkin' 'bout her
being sick," Mrs. Hunt called after him in a low voice, as he turned
toward the girl's door.
It seemed strange enough to Theodore to see bright, energetic Nan
lying with pale face and idle hands on the bed. She smiled up at the
boy as he stood silent beside the bed finding no words to say.
"I'm only tired, Theo," she said, gently. "It has been so hot to-day,
and Little Brother fretted so that I couldn't get through my work so
well as usual."
"He's sick too," answered Theodore, gravely.
Nan turned her head to look at the little white face on the pillow
beside her.
"Yes, he's sick. Oh Theo"--and then the girl covered her face with her
hands, and Theodore saw the tears trickling through her fingers.
"Don't Nan, don't!" he cried, in a choked voice, and then he turned
and ran out of the room and out of the house. Straight to his teacher
he went, sure of finding there sympathy, and if possible, help.
He was not disappointed. Mr. Scott listened to what he had to say, and
wrote a note to a friend of his own who was a physician, asking him to
see Nan and the baby at his earliest convenience. Then having
comforted Theodore, and compelled him to take some supper, Mr. Scott
sent him away greatly refreshed, and proceeded to talk the matter over
with his aunt, Mrs. Rawson.
"Those two children ought to be sent away into the country, Aunt
Mary," he began.
"Nan and Theodore, do you mean?"
"No, no! Theodore's all right. He's well and strong. I mean Nan and
her little brother. Aunt Mary, it would make your heart ache to see
such a girl as that working as she has worked, and living among such
people. I wish you would go and see the child."
"I'll try to go to-morrow, Allan. I've been intending to ever since
you told me about her, but the days do slip away so fast!" answered
the lady.
But she found time to go the next day, and the first sight of Nan's
sweet face was enough to make her as deeply interested in the two as
her nephew had long been.
"But what an uncomfortable place for a sick girl!" Mrs. Rawson
thought, as she glanced at the shutterless windows through which the
sun was pouring, making the small room almost unbearably hot, although
there was no fire in the stove. She noticed that the place was
daintily clean and neat, though bare as it well could be, but noisy
children were racing up and down the stairways and shouting through
the halls, making quiet rest impossible. Mrs. Rawson's kind heart
ached as she looked from the room to the pure face of the girl lying
there with the little child beside her.
"She must be a very unusual girl to look like that after living for
months in this place," she thought to herself.
While she was there the doctor came, and when he went away,
Mrs. Rawson went with him that she might tell him what she knew about
the girl's life and learn what he thought of the case.
"It is a plain case of overwork," he said. "From what you tell me the
girl has been doing twice as much as she was able to do, and living in
that little oven of a room with nothing like the fresh air and
exercise she should have had, and very likely not half enough to
eat. The baby seems extremely delicate. Probably it won't live through
the summer, and a good thing too if there's no one but the girl to
provide for them. What they need is--to go straight away into the
country and stay there all summer, or better yet, for a year or two,
but I suppose that is out of the question."
"I must see what can be done, doctor. Such a girl as that surely ought
not to be left to struggle along unfriended."
"No, but there are so many such cases. Well, I hope something can be
done for her. I'll call and see her again to-morrow, but medicine is
of little use in a case like this," the doctor replied.
Mrs. Rawson was not one to "let the grass grow under her feet," when
she had anything to do, and she felt that she had something to do in
this case. She thought it over as she went home, and before night she
had written to a relative in the country--a woman who had a big farm
and a big heart--to ask if she would board Nan and her little brother
for the summer. She described the two, and told how bravely the girl
had battled with poverty and misfortune until her strength had
failed. The letter went straight from the warm heart of the writer to
that of her friend and the response was prompt.
"Send those two children right to me, and if rest and pure air and
plenty of wholesome food are what they need, please God, they shall
soon be strong and well. They are surely His little ones, and you know
I am always ready and glad to do His work."
Such was the message that Mrs. Rawson read to her nephew two days
after her visit to Nan, and his face was full of satisfaction as he
listened to it.
"Nothing could be better," he said. "It will be a splendid place for
those children, and it will be a good thing too for Mrs. Hyde to have
them there."
"Yes, I think so," replied Mrs. Rawson, "but now the question is--will
Nan consent to go? From what little I have seen of her I judge that
she will not be at all willing to accept help from strangers."
"She will shrink from it, perhaps, for herself, but for the sake of
that little brother I think she will consent to go. Theo tells me that
she has been exceedingly anxious about the child for weeks past,"
answered Mr. Scott.
"Well, I'll go to-morrow and see if I can prevail upon her to accept
this offer, but Allan, one thing you must do, if Nan does consent to
go--and that is, you must break it to Theodore. It's going to be a
blow to him, to have those two go away from the city. He'll be left
entirely alone."
"So he will. I hadn't thought of that. I must think it over and see
what can be done for him. He certainly must not stay there, with no
place but that dark little closet in which he sleeps," replied the
gentleman.
Mrs. Rawson's kindly sympathy and gentle manners had quickly won Nan's
confidence and the girl welcomed her warmly when she appeared in the
little room the next morning. She found Nan sitting by the open
window, with her pale little brother in her arms.
"Oh, I'm ever so much better," she said, in reply to Mrs. Rawson's
inquiries. "The doctor's medicine helped me right away, but I don't
feel very strong yet--not quite well enough to begin my cooking
again. I'm going to begin it to-morrow," she added.
"Indeed, you'll not do any cooking to-morrow, Nan," said the lady,
decidedly. "You're not fit to stand over the stove or the mixing
board, and besides, it would make the room too hot for the baby."
Nan glanced anxiously at the little face on her arm.
"I can carry him in to Mrs. Hunt's. He's no trouble, and she's always
willing to keep him," she answered.
"Now, my child, I want you to listen to me," Mrs. Rawson began, and
went on to tell the girl about the plans she had made for her and her
little brother.
Nan listened, with the colour coming and going in her face.
"It is so good--so kind of you to think of this," she exclaimed,
earnestly, "and I'd _love_ to go. Mrs. Rawson, you don't know how
I hate living in a place like this," she shuddered, as she spoke, "and
it would be like heaven to get away into the sweet clean country, with
good people--but I can't go unless there is something I can do
there. I _couldn't_ go and live on charity, you know."
"It wouldn't be charity, Nan; it would be love," answered Mrs. Rawson,
gently. "Mrs. Hyde keeps one room in her house always ready for any
guest whom the Lord may send her and I think He is sending you there
now. Remember, my child, you have this dear sick baby to think of, as
well as yourself. Nan, the doctor thinks Little Brother will not live
through the summer unless he is taken away from the city."
Nan gave a quick, gasping breath, as she drew the baby closer and bent
her face over his. When she looked up again her eyes were wet, and
she said, in a low tone,
"If that is so, I can't refuse this kind offer, and I will try to find
some way to make it right."
"There's nothing to make right, dear; you've only to go and be just as
happy and contented as you can be. I know you will be happy there.
You can't help loving Mrs. Hyde. And now, my child, there's another
matter." She paused and added, in a low tone, "I had a little girl
once, but God took her away from my home. She would have been about
your age now if she had staid with me. For her sake, Nan, I want you
to let me get a few things that you and the baby will need. Will you,
dear?"
Nan was proud. She had never gotten accustomed to poverty and its
painful consequences, and she would have preferred to do without, any
time, rather than accept a gift from those on whom she had no claim;
but she realised that she could not go among strangers with only the
few poor garments that she now had, so, after a moment's silence, she
answered, in a voice that was not quite steady,
"You are very, very good to me, Mrs. Rawson. I'll try to be good too,
only, please don't get a single thing that I can do without."
"Nan, if you had plenty of money and you found a girl who had been
left all alone in the world, with no one to do anything for her--would
you think it was any wonderful kindness in you to spend a few dollars
for her?"
"N--no, of course not. I'd just _love_ to do it," replied Nan,
"but"--
"That's enough, then, and now there's only one more thing I have to
speak about. I know some girls, who have formed themselves into a band
called a 'King's Daughter Circle,' and they meet once a week to sew
for somebody who is not able to do her own sewing. I've told these
girls a little about you and they want very much to do some sewing for
Little Brother and you. Now, would you be willing to let them come
here to-morrow afternoon? Would it trouble you?"
The colour rose in Nan's cheeks and her lips trembled, and for a
moment she seemed to shrink into herself as she thought what a
contrast her poor surroundings would be to these other girls, who
lived such different lives from hers, but she saw that Mrs. Rawson was
really desirous that they should come, and she was not willing to
disappoint one who was doing so much for her; so after a moment's
silence she answered,
"Of course they can come, if you think they won't mind too much." She
glanced about the room as she spoke.
Mrs. Rawson leaned over and kissed her. "Child," she said, "they know
nothing about the trials that come into other lives--like yours. I
want them to know you. Don't worry one bit over their coming. They are
dear girls and I'm sure you will like them--as sure as I am that they
will all love you--and Nan, one thing more, leave Mr. Scott to tell
Theodore about your going."
Then she went away, leaving Nan with many things to think about. She
could not help worrying somewhat over the coming of those girls. As
she recalled her own old home, she realised how terribly bare and poor
her one room would look to these strangers and she shrank nervously
from the thought of meeting them. More than once, she was tempted to
ask Theo to go to Mrs. Rawson and tell her that the girls could not
come there.
Mrs. Rawson went straight from Nan's room to the shopping district,
where she purchased simple but complete outfits for Nan and the
baby. The under garments and the baby's dresses she bought ready-made
and also a neat wool suit for the girl and hats and wraps for both,
but she bought enough pretty lawn and gingham to make as many wash
dresses as Nan would require, and these she carried home and cut out
the next morning. That evening too she sent notes to the members of
the circle telling them to meet at her house before one o'clock the
next day, which was Saturday.
They came promptly, eleven girls between fifteen and seventeen, each
with her sewing implements. Bright, happy girls they were, as Nan
might have been, had her life been peaceful and sheltered like theirs,
Mrs. Rawson thought, as she welcomed them.
"Sit down, girls," she said, "I want to tell you more about my poor
little Nan before you see her."
She told the story in such fashion that the warm, girlish hearts were
filled with a sweet and tender sympathy for this other girl, and they
were eager to do all that they could for her.
Not one of them had ever before been in a tenement house like the one
to which Mrs. Rawson led them, and they shrank from the rude children
and coarse women whom they encountered in the halls and on the stairs,
and pressed closer together, grasping each other's hands.
Nan's face whitened and her thin hands were clasped tightly together
as she heard them coming along the hall. She knew it was they, so
different were their quiet footsteps from most that passed her door.
Nan opened the door in response to Mrs. Rawson's knock and the girls
flocked in, looking so dainty and pretty in their fresh shirt-waists
and dimities, and their gay ribbons. As Nan looked at them she was
painfully conscious of her own faded calico and worn shoes, and her
cheeks flushed, but the girls gave her no time to think of these
things. They crowded about her, introducing each other with merry
laughter and gay little jokes, seeming to take Nan right in among them
as one of themselves, and taking prompt possession of the baby, who
wasn't a bit shy, and appeared to like to be passed from one to
another, and kissed, and called sweet names.