THE HOUSE ON AVENUE A
They were obliged to walk fast, in order to keep pace with “the stolen
child,” who trotted on ahead, her little yellow head bobbing up and
down in her excitement. For the first few blocks, all went well, but
as the neighborhood grew more squalid, the streets dirtier and more
crowded, their hearts began to fail.
“I didn’t know there were such dirty streets in New York,” whispered
Dulcie. “Don’t you really think we’d better turn back?”
But, though anything but comfortable himself, Paul shook his head
resolutely.
“If it’s our duty, we ought to go on,” he said. “I guess it’s always
like this where beggars live. It’s a real adventure, and I never had
one before. I’m going on, even if you don’t. Oh, I say, this is a
pretty awful place. Do you suppose it’s Avenue A?”
Involuntarily they all paused on the corner, and at the same moment
Rosy turned her head and asked a question.
“Can I take Jim along with me?” she demanded, anxiously.
“Along where?” inquired Dulcie.
“To that nice place you said I was goin’ to. I’d like to take him; he’s
me brother.”
“I don’t know; perhaps you can,” Dulcie said, doubtfully. “Isn’t it
sweet of her to want to take her little brother?” she added in a
whisper. “Stolen children always want to do something like that. Their
families are so happy to get them back they generally let them have
anything they want. Perhaps they’ll let Jim come, and adopt him, and
send him to college, and when they grow up, he and Rosy will marry each
other. It often happens that way.”
“It’s terribly interesting,” said Molly, “but I wish Avenue A wasn’t
quite so dirty.”
“Is it much farther, Rosy?” Dulcie questioned, anxiously.
Rosy shook her head, and pointed to a particularly disreputable-looking
building, on the opposite side of the way.
“It’s there,” she announced; “down in the basement.”
The street was piled with snow and refuse, and the children were
obliged to pick their way, but they all had rubber boots, and
the crossing was effected without much difficulty. Before the
objectionable-looking tenement Rosy came to a halt.
“It’s down them steps,” she announced.
“Oh, I don’t want to go down there, I really don’t,” cried Molly,
shrinking back in sudden alarm.
Dulcie had grown pale, but her face was stern and set.
“We’ve got to go now we’re here,” she said, firmly. “I don’t like it,
but Paul thinks it’s our duty. Think of poor little Rosy having to live
here all the time. If we can help her to find her real family, nothing
else will matter.”
But despite her brave words, Dulcie’s heart was beating very fast, as
she followed “the stolen child” down the slippery flight of steps.
Molly was trembling violently, and even Paul had turned a little pale.
At the foot of the steps Rosy opened a door, and stood aside to let her
companions enter.
Dulcie and Molly are middle-aged women now, with boys and girls of
their own, but neither of them has ever forgotten her first impression
of that tenement house basement. It really seemed incredible that
such a quantity of dirt could have accumulated in so small a space.
The floor was dirty, the walls were dirty, and the few articles of
furniture the room contained were covered with dust. In the middle
of the floor an extremely untidy baby was sprawling, playing with a
half-starved kitten. On a tumbled-down bed in one corner a man lay,
apparently asleep. There was a small fire in the stove, on which a pot
was simmering, and a woman in a soiled calico wrapper had just stooped
to add some ingredient to the steaming contents.
At the opening of the door the woman turned her head, and at sight
of the unexpected visitors she started back, with an exclamation of
astonishment, and stood staring at the children, with eyes and mouth
wide open. At the same moment the man on the bed opened his eyes.
“Shut that door,” he commanded in a very hoarse voice, and the words
were followed by a severe fit of coughing.
“Come in,” said Rosy. “Dad’s got an awful cold. He don’t like air.”
The children could not help thinking that a little fresh air would have
improved the atmosphere, but they dared not say so, and in another
moment they found themselves inside, with the door closed behind them.
There was a moment of dead silence; then the woman seemed to find her
voice.
“What do yous want?” she inquired in a tone that was anything but
hospitable.
“We want,” began Dulcie, with a mighty effort to control her shaking
voice, “that is, we came with Rosy. We thought perhaps you wouldn’t
mind telling us some things about her. There seems to be so much she
can’t remember.”
“What’s Rosy been up to?” inquired Mrs. Finnegan, fixing a stern eye
upon her small daughter. “She ain’t took nothin’ from yous, has she?”
“Oh, no indeed,” cried Dulcie, indignantly. “I’m sure she’s a very good
little girl, but you see, we’ve been interested in her for a long time,
on account of her blue eyes and golden hair, and this afternoon we
spoke to her. She told us about being in the hospital, and about your
not knowing just how old she is, and that made us pretty sure she must
have been stolen when she was a baby, and----”
“Shtolen, is it?” screamed Rosy’s mother, her eyes beginning to flash
ominously, “and who shtole her, I’d like to be askin’?”
“I don’t know--oh, please don’t be angry,” pleaded Dulcie,
involuntarily moving a step nearer to the closed door. “We didn’t mean
you did it, only--only we thought you might know something about it,
and be able to give us a clue. We want to find her real mother, you
know.”
“What are ye talkin’ about, anyway?” demanded Mrs. Finnegan, whose
temper was evidently not of the sweetest. “I never heard such crazy
talk in me loife. Nobody shtole my Rosy. I guess it’s shtealin’ you’ve
been yourselves, to get them good clothes you’ve got on. I’ll be
callin’ the cop to yous, that’s what I’ll be doin’, if yous don’t get
out of here moighty quick.”
This was too much for Molly, and with a shriek of terror she made for
the door. Even Dulcie quailed before this awful threat, but not so
Paul. His usually pale face had grown suddenly crimson, and before any
one realized his intention, he had placed himself firmly in front of
the angry Mrs. Finnegan.
“You mustn’t talk in that way,” he said, and his voice was very loud
and clear. “It’s very rude to insult people in your own house. We’re
not the kind of people who steal. We live on Washington Square, and we
only came here because we wanted to find out about Rosy. We don’t know
that she was stolen, but we thought she might have been, and she wanted
us to come, didn’t you, Rosy?”
Thus appealed to, Rosy, who had been watching proceedings with deep
interest, opened her lips for the first time since reaching home.
“They said they’d take me to a nice place, where I’d have lovely
clothes, and ice-cream,” she explained. “They said I was stole when I
was a baby, and you wasn’t my real mother. Say, Ma, can I go wid ’em,
and Jim too?”
“You cannot,” said Mrs. Finnegan, and there was unmistakable finality
in her tone. “You was not shtole when you was a baby, and what’s more,
if you ever bring the likes of them in here again, I’ll wallop you. Now
get out, every one of yous, before I take a shtick to yous. But let me
tell you one thing first. My Rosy ain’t shtole, and never was. We’re
honest people, we are, and me poor husband in his bed since Christmas,
wid a cough on him that’s enough to wake the dead. I’ll tell you----”
Mrs. Finnegan paused abruptly, as the door opened, and a boy of eleven
or twelve appeared on the threshold.
“Hello!” exclaimed the newcomer, staring at the trembling visitors in
astonishment; “what’s the row?”
“Row,” repeated the woman, “I guess it is a row. What do you think,
Jim? Them young ones come in here as bold as brass, tellin’ me to me
face our Rosy was shtole when she was a baby. Did ye ever hear the like
of that?”
“We didn’t say she stole her,” put in Paul. “We only said we thought
she might have been stolen. She said herself perhaps she was.”
“I did not!” shrieked Rosy, in sudden terror, as her mother made a step
in her direction. “It’s lies he’s tellin’, Ma.”
“Of course it’s lies. Now get along wid yous, and if I ever see one of
yous hangin’ round here, you’ll get somethin’ you won’t like. Put ’em
out, Jim.”
Jim advanced threateningly.
“Come on,” he ordered. “Out you goes.”
The two little girls, now thoroughly frightened, made a hasty retreat
towards the door, but Paul did not move.
“Come, Paul,” implored Dulcie, her teeth chattering with fright. “We
don’t want to stay here any longer. She isn’t a stolen child, after
all. Oh, please do come.”
“I won’t come till she apologizes for being so rude,” returned Paul,
obstinately.
At that moment the man on the bed moved and raised his head.
“Chase ’em, Jim,” he commanded in his deep, hoarse voice; “I can’t
stand no more talk. The wind from that door’s enough to give abody a
chill. Chase ’em out, I say, and shut the door.”
“Come along, young one,” said Jim, and seizing Paul by the shoulders,
he gave him a push, which sent that indignant small boy flying out into
the street. As for Dulcie and Molly, they were already flying up the
steps.
“Let’s run, oh, let’s run,” gasped Molly. “Come, Dulcie, come, Paul.
Oh, do be quick.” And away flew the terrified child, closely followed
by her sister.
But at the next corner Dulcie’s sense of duty suddenly asserted itself.
“We’ve got to stop and wait for Paul,” she panted. “Aunt Julia would be
so angry if we left him behind.”
Molly paused reluctantly, and they both looked around. The next
instant they had each uttered a shriek of horror, and were running back
in the direction from whence they had come. It was a truly awful sight
which met their gaze, for, rolling on a pile of snow, were two small
figures, kicking and pummelling each other in a manner which filled
Dulcie and Molly with unspeakable terror, for one of the figures was
Jim Finnegan, and the other was Paul.
“He’s killing Paul, oh, he’s killing him!” wailed Molly, wringing her
hands. “Somebody stop him; oh, please do stop him!”
But nobody did stop him, although quite a crowd of ragged children had
gathered to watch the fight. Possibly street fights were of too common
occurrence in that neighborhood to cause any great excitement. At any
rate, nobody stirred, and an agonized glance up and down the street
convinced Dulcie that there was not a policeman in sight. It was quite
evident that Paul was getting the worst of the battle. Jim was at least
a year older, and fully half a head taller, and, moreover, he was
accustomed to fighting. Paul had never fought with any one before in
his life, and had always been considered a delicate boy. For one moment
only did Dulcie hesitate.
“I’ll help you, Paul,” she shouted, and the terrified Molly beheld her
elder sister suddenly plunge forward into the snow-drift. In another
moment there were three figures struggling together, instead of two.
A shout went up from the bystanders.
“Good for the kid. I say, she’s a plucky one. She’s got the big fellow
down. Oh, my eye! she’s sittin’ on his head.”
“Run, Paul, run,” gasped Dulcie, “quick, before he gets up again.”
But Paul had no intention of running. His blood was up.
“I won’t run,” he protested loudly. “I won’t be pitched out of a house
like that. He’s got to apologize.”
“Oh, come off your high horse,” advised Jim, who was, after all, a
good-natured boy, and having succeeded, not without difficulty, in
removing the weight on his head, and sending Dulcie rolling over in the
snow, he rose to his feet, grinning. “Get along home, where you belong,
and don’t try to fight a feller twice your size.”
“You’ve got to apol----” began Paul, but he got no further, for Dulcie
had already scrambled to her feet, and seized him firmly by the arm.
“That’s all right, Paul,” she panted. “You’ve hurt him dreadfully
already. See how his nose is bleeding.”
“So’s mine,” said Paul, putting his hand up to his face. “Oh, I say,
isn’t it awful?” And suddenly the brave hero began to cry.
[Illustration: “SHE’S GOT THE BIG FELLOW DOWN.”--_Page 128._]
Five minutes later three very subdued, conscience-smitten children had
left Avenue A behind them and were slowly making their way back in the
direction of Washington Square. Two of the three were looking decidedly
the worse for wear. Dulcie’s hair-ribbon was gone, and her hat had lost
all semblance of shape, and Paul’s face was covered with blood, which
still continued to pour from his nose, and one of his eyes was almost
closed.
“Are you suffering very much, Paul?” Molly inquired anxiously.
“My head aches, and I feel sort of queer all over,” answered Paul, “but
I’m not sorry I did it. I’d do it right over again if I had to.”
“Oh, what will your mother do when she sees you?” moaned Dulcie, “and I
promised to look after you, too. My goodness! won’t we be punished?”
“I’ll never, never try to help a stolen child find her family again,
not as long as I live,” declared Molly. “We were only trying to be
kind, and do our duty, and just see what happened.”
“Maybe it would have been different if she’d really been stolen,” said
Dulcie. “I began to be afraid she wasn’t the minute she said that
about not liking to be clean. We oughtn’t to have gone home with her,
and it was mostly my fault, because I’m the oldest, but it was so
exciting, and I really thought we might be able to help her. Take my
handkerchief, Paul, yours is soaking.”
“I say,” observed Paul, accepting the proffered handkerchief, “couldn’t
we go in the basement way? I don’t want Mother to see me looking like
this.”
“We might,” Dulcie admitted. “Bridget’s pretty good-natured, but
there’s your eye. Your mother will have to see that. And there’s my
hat, too. Grandma will make an awful fuss about it. I really think the
best way will be to go right up-stairs and tell the whole truth. Papa
says it’s always best to tell the truth and take the consequences.”
Paul made no further suggestions, although the face behind Dulcie’s
handkerchief was very grave and troubled. He was a tender-hearted boy,
and really loved his mother dearly. The thought of the horror and
distress he was about to cause her was anything but pleasant. As they
neared home, they were uncomfortably aware of the fact that people were
casting surprised or amused glances at them, but fortunately they did
not meet any one they knew. At the foot of Mrs. Winslow’s front steps
they all paused.
“You go in first, Molly,” said Dulcie. “You’re the only one who looks
all right. Tell Mary not to scream when she sees Paul. It might
frighten Aunt Julia, and I think we’d better break it to her gently.”
Accordingly, Molly mounted the steps and rang the bell, while the
other two lingered behind on the sidewalk. There was a moment of
anxious waiting, and then the front door opened, and on the threshold
stood--not Mary but Grandma herself. Molly gave a great gasp, and sank
against the wall.
“Where--where is Mary?” she faltered, with shaking lips.
“Gone to the dentist’s. Where are the others?”
Molly did not answer; words were beyond her at that awful moment, but
Mrs. Winslow did not have to repeat her question, for two forlorn,
bedraggled little figures were already half-way up the steps. At
the sight of them, Grandma started back, with a cry of horrified
astonishment.
“You have all behaved simply outrageously.” That was Mrs. Winslow’s
verdict, when she had heard the story, which Dulcie, as the eldest of
the party, poured forth without concealment, and with a strong desire
to assume the greater part of responsibility for the escapade. “You
shall all be severely punished. Dulcie and Molly, go up to your room,
and stay there till I can come to you. Come with me, Paul, and get your
face washed. Your mother would faint on the spot if she saw you in this
condition. If I had my way, I would give you each a good whipping, but
I believe corporal punishment is not allowed by your much too-indulgent
parents.” And with a look which expressed unutterable things, Grandma
swept Paul away to the pantry, and the two little girls went slowly
up-stairs to the nursery.
“Well, did you have a good time in the Square?” inquired Daisy, looking
up from her book at her sisters’ entrance. “We didn’t go to see Miss
Polly, after all. We listened through the wall, and heard people
talking, so we knew she must have company. Good gracious! Dulcie,
what’s the matter with your hat?”
Dulcie collapsed into a chair, and burst into tears.
“It’s all ‘the stolen child’s’ fault,” explained Molly. “She wasn’t
stolen, after all, and her mother was a dreadful person, who was very
rude to us, and her brother and Paul got into a fight, and----”
“Oh, Molly, how awful!” gasped Daisy. “You don’t mean Paul really
fought?”
“Yes, he did, and Dulcie fought too, and sat on that horrid boy’s
head, and made him stop hurting Paul, and Grandma says we’ve got to be
punished.”