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DIVIDED SKATES
BY
EVELYN RAYMOND
AUTHOR OF "MONICA",
"MIXED PICKLES" ETC.
NEW YORK
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1900
By THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.
[Illustration: The Way it Began.]
SUNSHINE LIBRARY.
=Aunt Hannah and Seth.= By James Otis.
=Blind Brother (The).= By Homer Greene.
=Captain's Dog (The).= By Louis Enault.
=Cat and the Candle (The).= By Mary F. Leonard.
=Christmas at Deacon Hackett's.= By James Otis.
=Christmas-Tree Scholar.= By Frances Bent Dillingham.
=Dear Little Marchioness.=
The Story of a Child's Faith and Love.
=Dick in the Desert.= By James Otis.
=Divided Skates.= By Evelyn Raymond.
=Gold Thread (The).= By Norman MacLeod, D.D.
=Half a Dozen Thinking Caps.= By Mary Leonard.
=How Tommy Saved the Barn.= By James Otis.
=Ingleside.= By Barbara Yechton.
=J. Cole.= By Emma Gellibrand.
=Jessica's First Prayer.= By Hesba Stretton.
=Laddie.= By the author of "Miss Toosey's Mission."
=Little Crusaders.= By Eva Madden.
=Little Sunshine's Holiday.= By Miss Mulock.
=Little Peter.= By Lucas Malet.
=Master Sunshine.= By Mrs. C. F. Fraser.
=Miss Toosey's Mission.= By the author of "Laddie."
=Musical Journey of Dorothy and Delia.=
By Bradley Gilman.
=Our Uncle, the Major. A Story of 1765.= By James Otis.
=Pair of Them (A).= By Evelyn Raymond.
=Playground Toni.= By Anna Chapin Ray.
=Play Lady (The).= By Ella Farman Pratt.
=Prince Prigio.= By Andrew Lang.
=Short Cruise (A).= By James Otis.
=Smoky Days.= By Edward W. Thomson.
=Strawberry Hill.= By Mrs. C. F. Fraser.
=Sunbeams and Moonbeams.= By Louise R. Baker.
=Two and One.= By Charlotte M. Vaile.
=Wreck of the Circus (The).= By James Otis.
=Young Boss (The).= By Edward W. Thomson.
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY, NEW YORK.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE WAY IT BEGAN, 1
II. CONFLICTING IDEAS, 22
III. THE BLIZZARD, 46
IV. THE WANDERING KINDNESS, 61
V. LIONEL TOWSLEY GOES HOME, 76
VI. MYSTERIES, 92
VII. THE END OF IT ALL, 106
DIVIDED SKATES.
CHAPTER I.
THE WAY IT BEGAN.
Nobody except Miss Lucy Armacost would have thought of starting an
orphan asylum with one orphan. Even she might not have done it but
for Molly Johns. As for Molly, she never dreamed of such a thing.
She was just careering down the avenue one windy afternoon in early
December, upon one roller skate, and Miss Lucy was just coming up the
block, walking rather unsteadily upon her two small feet. The dear
little old lady was so tiny and so timid, and the wind so big and
boisterous, that even without the accident she would have had
difficulty in climbing the slope to her big house on the corner.
This was the way of it. Molly was making a reckless speed toward
the bottom of the hill, swinging one arm to keep herself in balance,
and now and then just touching the foot which wore no skate to the
pavement; with the free hand she grasped the thin little fingers of a
ragged boy, who also wore one skate, and forced him along beside her
at her own rapid pace.
She was talking and laughing and singing, apparently all in one
breath, just as she always was, and the thin little boy was doing his
best to imitate her. Between them they made such a jolly racket that
they heard nothing else, not even the trolley cars whizzing by, till
Miss Lucy screamed:
"Oh! my dears! my dears!"
Down they all went in a heap; and it was the first time in her life
that Miss Lucy remembered to have made such an exhibition of herself.
"The idea!--of my falling flat in the public street! Oh! this is
dreadful!"
Molly and the boy were up almost as quick as they were down, and each
had an arm about the lady, while the girl's tones were full of shame
and sympathy.
"Oh! please forgive me! I am so sorry! I didn't see you and he didn't,
and we were having such a good time. Are you hurt? Are you hurt very
much? Shall I call a policeman? Would you like an ambulance? Are you
the lady that lives in the house on the Avenue, the corner house with
sixteen rooms and a garden and side yard, and----"
Miss Armacost was also upon her feet once more and had regained her
self-possession. After one hasty glance around, she had satisfied
herself that her mishap had not been observed by "the neighbors,"
and her dignity had promptly returned.
"Whoever I may be, you are certainly the girl who asks questions!" she
returned, rather crisply.
"Yes'm, I reckon I am. I'm Molly Johns. I live on Side Street. My
house is the one runs right back of your garden. That's the way I
knew you. I often see you out around, pottering."
"Oh! you do, do you? You are a very observing young person--at the
wrong times."
Molly opened her big gray eyes to their widest.
The little old lady was as odd as she looked, after all. Then she
reflected that when people spoke in that tone of voice they were
usually suffering in some manner. It was the very sound Father Johns'
speech had, whenever he came home from an especially hard day's toil
and his rheumatism bothered him. She again slipped her strong arm
about Miss Lucy's waist and remarked, anxiously:
"I do believe I did hurt you badly! Please lean on me and I'll help
you home in a jiffy. Then some of your 'girls' will take care of you."
By "girls" Molly meant servants, of which there were at least three in
the big corner house.
"Very well. The sooner we bring this episode to an end the better
pleased I shall be," answered the other. In reality, she had been more
touched than she herself quite understood by the frank commiseration
in Molly's eyes, and she could not remember when anybody had clasped
her body so affectionately. The sensation it gave her was an odd one;
else a person so eminently correct and punctilious as Miss Armacost
would never have walked the whole length of the finest block on the
Avenue, and in full sight of her aristocratic neighbors' windows,
within the embrace of a girl from Side Street.
"But, my child, you should be more careful. You might have broken my
bones."
"Yes'm, I might; might-be's aren't half so bad as did-do's," returned
Molly airily, and again Miss Lucy flashed a penetrating glance into
the merry, freckled face.
But there was no disrespect manifest upon it, and the lady remarked:
"You seem a very cheerful person."
"Why, of course. Aren't you?"
"Sometimes. But how you hobble along on that one skate! Why in the
world don't you use two, or go without entirely?"
"Well, you see, if I wore both, Towsley couldn't have any. If he wore
both and I none, there'd be nobody to teach him how. That's why."
"What--what did you say his name was?"
Miss Lucy was very thankful that the dirty little urchin was on the
further side of Molly, who was quite clean, and that her own dainty
garments could not be soiled by contact with his.
"He doesn't know, exactly. The folks around call him 'Towsley,' 'cause
his hair's never combed, except once in a while when I take him in
hand. It's such a pretty yellow color, too, isn't it? It seems a pity
it couldn't always be tidy, doesn't it?"
Molly had a disconcerting habit of appealing to anybody near for
confirmation of any opinion she expressed, and this was annoying to
Miss Lucy. She considered it distinctly ill-bred, and whatever was
ill-bred was disagreeable to her. She was very glad that she had
reached the big marble steps which led up to her own front door, and
she disengaged herself from Molly's supporting arm with a brisk little
motion which emphasized her words:
"This thing has gone far enough!"
But the girl from Side Street didn't notice this. She rarely did
notice unpleasant small things. She hadn't time; being always so busy
looking after the larger pleasant ones, of which her world seemed
full.
"Yes, I suppose it has. I'm so glad, more glad than I can say, that I
didn't hurt you. It would have made me so unhappy, and I just hate to
be unhappy."
"Oh! you do, do you?"
"Yes'm. Well, if you think you're all right now, Towsley and I'll just
take another try at it and see if we can't keep our eyes right front
next time. Good-by. I hope you'll not feel shook up, afterward, as
mother did the day she fell down-stairs. Didn't appear to hurt her a
mite, then, but she was all trembling and queer-headed for a week
afterward. Come on, Tows! I didn't have but fifteen minutes for play,
to begin with, and a lot of that's been wasted already. Good-by."
Before the servant had opened the door to admit her mistress the two
children and the one pair of skates had whisked away to the foot of
the block; this time, however, keeping well to the asphalt in the
centre of the Avenue, where they would not be apt to collide with
anything smaller than a horse and wagon, which would be better able to
resist their onslaught than Miss Lucy had been.
"Why, mistress! Whatever has happened? Your cloak is all dusty and
your bonnet----"
Miss Armacost interrupted. She had not thought of any damage to her
attire, and her servant's exclamation revived unpleasant ideas. After
all, the neighbors might have seen and commented; might even, at that
moment, be gazing at her from behind their lace curtains. The thought
was painful, and the lady retreated through her vestibule into the
dimness of the hall beyond. There she paused and bade her maid:
"Wait where you are, Mary, till those two children come back up the
Avenue. Then ask them to step inside."
Much wondering, Mary remained. "Whatever does mistress want with such
truck? Side Street, even Alley, kids they look to be. Pshaw! That's
the girl from the house in the rear. 'Jolly Molly,' the youngsters
call her. She's the smartest one I ever saw. Say, hello! Molly! Oh,
Molly!"
It wasn't so easy skating up hill, and the children approached more
slowly than they had descended; yet as soon as the girl came within
reach of Mary's summons she let go her playmate's hand and ran to the
foot of the steps.
"What is it? Did she really get hurt?"
"Hurt? I don't know what you're talking about. I only know that my
mistress wants to see you, for some reason or another, and that it's
mighty cold standing here. Come in. Yes. I suppose she wants you both.
She said 'children.'"
Molly whisked off Towsley's skate, then her own, and hastily dragged
him after her up into the house.
"That's so. I suppose it is cold standing, though we didn't notice it
skating. We did have such fun. Come, boy; don't be bashful. It's the
same lady, isn't it?"
"Yes. 'Spose it is. 'Tain't the same house, though."
"That's no matter. It's but a house, after all's said and done. A
little bigger and nicer than we're used to, but my father says folks
are the same sort all the world round, and he knows. John Johns knows
a heap. Come on. Just mind your manners, sharp."
Thus beguiled, Towsley shuffled on his worn shoes after his more
confident guide into a distant, sunny back parlor. There Miss Armacost
had laid aside her hat and wrap and sat resting in an easy-chair. In
its depths she looked even smaller and frailer than she had done out
of doors, but also very much more determined and at home.
"Just like she'd been sitting in big chairs and giving orders all her
life," as Molly afterward expressed it.
"Did you want us, ma'am?"
"Yes, I did. You may sit down."
"Thank you. Sit down, Towsley."
Molly promptly availed herself of the permission given, while her
admiring gaze roved over the apartment, but the shyer boy dared not
seat himself upon any of those handsome satin-covered chairs. He slunk
behind Molly, casting his eyes down and nervously twirling his cap.
For, little vagrant though he was, his street life had already taught
him that it was the correct thing for lads and men to bare the head in
the presence of a lady.
Now he did not know that this one simple action on his part did more
to interest Miss Lucy in him than an hour's argument would have done.
For the first time she observed that his hair was of a lovely color,
as Molly had suggested, and that after a good shampooing it would be
even beautiful in texture. From his hair to his eyes was not far; and
the fleeting glimpses she caught of them, as they timidly uplifted,
showed them a clear hazel. Long silky lashes swept the thin cheek
and--but it's better to go no further at present. There was too much
soil of the street upon the rest of the little face to make it
pleasing in Miss Lucy's sight. Besides, her dainty nose already
detected a peculiar odor, one unfamiliar to her home, and that in her
mind she designated as the "poor smell." Which was not surprising,
since not even Molly could have told when Towsley's ragged clothing
had been cleansed by soap and water.
To relieve herself, as well as him, the lady pointed to a carved,
wooden stool in the bay window, and Towsley went to it. The stool
could be washed and thus purified after contact with the child's dusty
garments, as the satin chairs could not be.
Another servant came in and placed a silver tray upon a table. The
tray bore a plate of fruit cake and some saucers of ice-cream; and at
sight of these luxuries Towsley's shyness almost disappeared. He was
such a very hungry little boy. He always had been hungry, for the
scraps which he picked up out of garbage barrels and at the back-doors
of houses were not very satisfying. He began to stare at the food in a
fascinated way that made Miss Lucy also stare, but at him. She had
never seen just such a look on anybody's face, and though it expressed
greediness it did not shock her, as she felt it ought to do. Because
it was so ill-bred!
Just then, while Towsley was watching the ice-cream begin to melt, the
portiere was again lifted and the maid re-entered, leading a fat,
fuzzy dog. She led him by a beautiful blue satin ribbon, and he
blundered along in a haphazard sort of way that was exceedingly
curious.
Molly's gaze left the pictures on the walls to regard him.
"Why, what a funny creature! He is really almost as broad as he is
long, and how he does wobble! What sort of a dog is he? What's the
matter with him? What--why----"
Her questions died upon her lips, and they remained parted in surprise
as she watched what followed. For the maid spread a white towel upon
the carpet before the register and placed an exquisite saucer of
finest china upon the towel. Into the saucer she ladled a generous
helping of the cream, and seizing the poodle's head with one vigorous
hand thrust his black nose into the frozen mass.
Sir Christopher drew back his head and sneezed, then immediately
sought to feel the cream again. His actions were so odd that Molly
again demanded:
"What is the matter with him?"
"He is blind," answered Miss Lucy sadly. "He is very old. Seventeen
years last summer, and he has lost all his teeth. He suffers greatly
with the rheumatism----"
"So does father! He uses a liniment and it helps him. I might run and
get you some. I'm sure mother would be glad to lend it to you. She is
a real good neighbor, mother is. I never heard of a dog with the
rheumatism, and--isn't he funny? The funniest thing I've seen to-day!
Does he always have his table set in that way? Won't he break the
saucer? He's fumbling it all around, and he's as stiff in his joints
as father ever was the very worst day he's had. I'll run and get----"
But Miss Armacost held up a protesting hand.
"Don't trouble, I beg. Sir Christopher is past cure. Besides, I could
not endure the odor of any liniment. He has had the best advice in the
city. My own doctor has treated him, as a great favor, of course, and
out of consideration for my feelings. But the case is hopeless. It is
but a matter of time and--and we must part."
"Why--why--he's only a dog, isn't he?" exclaimed the too frank girl
from Side Street.
"Indeed! If he is, there are some dogs which are higher than some
people. He has been my constant companion for seventeen years
and--and--Mary, help that boy to some of that cream. His eyes will
come out of his head if he stares at it much longer. Give him plenty,
and a big slice of cake."
"Yes, mistress; but he does look as if he'd enjoy his victuals better
if his face was washed first."
Poor Towsley! Only that terrible shyness, which again gripped him so
that he turned all cold and shivery, prevented him making a dash for
the door and liberty. The glances of both mistress and servant seemed
to pierce him like knives; and he wished--oh! how he wished!--that he
had never walked into that trap of a parlor to be scorned and talked
at as if he were a wooden boy.
But Molly was nothing if not loyal, and she came to the rescue in fine
style.
"No doubt he'd like his face clean same as another; but if a body
doesn't happen to have a bowl and towels handy, what is a body going
to do? If we'd known we were coming to pay this visit I'd a had him in
to our kitchen and scrubbed and combed him well. But we didn't. We
just met, out on the Avenue, and tried a skate together. That's all.
But it makes me think my fifteen minutes is more than up. I must go
home right away. Mother'll be displeased if I'm disobedient and
overstay. So if you please, ma'am, I'll be going."
Again Miss Lucy lifted her white hand to stay proceedings.
"Wait, child. How impetuous you are! Mary, just step to this girl's
house and tell her mother where she is; also that I request the favor
of her company for a short time. Assure Mrs.--What did you say your
name was?"
"Johns, ma'am. Father's John Johns, mother's Mary. I'm Molly, then
come the three J's, and Sarah Jane--Never mind, though. You'd not be
apt to remember or care. Shall I sit by Towsley? I think he'd feel
more comfortable if I did."
"Certainly, if you like. Please help yourself, since Mary has gone on
my errand. No, I thank you. I do not care for any."
Miss Armacost caught the astonishment in Towsley's eyes as she thus
indifferently declined ice-cream, and was amused by it. A whimsical
impulse seized her to furnish the waif with all of the dainty which he
could possibly consume, and satisfy his craving for one time, at
least. In all her life she had never seen any person eat the cold
stuff as he did. His mouth opened like a trap, a spoonful went into
it, the mouth closed, reopened, another spoonful--no pause, no effort
of swallowing, no lingering enjoyment of a delicious dish. She
remarked:
"You like ice-cream, Towsley, I perceive."
"Um'm."
"Can't you take time to answer properly?"
"Ye-e-m, but it's--melt--ing," jerked out the boy between dips. Yet
the greediness was dying out of his face and a serene content taking
its place. All unconsciously to their owner the boy's feet began to
swing themselves back and forth, occasionally hitting the base of the
stool upon which he sat.
Miss Armacost did not know that this was a habit of all young
children and a sign of material enjoyment; but she was just beginning
to worry about her stool and the damage he would do it, when her
attention was diverted to Sir Christopher.
He had licked feebly, and half disdainfully, at his own saucer of
cream, then curled himself round upon the towel beside it. But he
could not lie still. Up and down, around and about, he turned and
twisted, and all the time emitting groans that clearly bespoke
distress of some sort, and that his mistress fancied were almost human
in tone.
"Why, my blessed doggie! What ails him, the dear? Is he sick? Does he
ache all over? Tell Miss Lucy, Chrissy, tell what is wrong with her
pet!"
"Why!" cried Molly, aghast. "Why! you talk to him just as mother does
to Ivanora or Idelia! Does he understand you? Can he tell?"
"Yes. He understands. But there's something seriously wrong with him.
He was never so bad as this. Ring for one of the girls, child. Ring at
once."
Molly knew nothing about bells. In her own little home of six rooms
there was no bell at all except one at the front door, and she looked
around in some perplexity, wishing to obey but not knowing how.
"Stupid!" cried Miss Lucy, springing toward the wall and touching the
button which sent an electric signal to the basement of the house;
then, as Mary returned from her errand to Side Street, demanding
anxiously:
"What have you been giving Sir Christopher?"
"Why, nothing, ma'am, but his regular food."
"Did he take his oatmeal this morning as he should?"
"No, ma'am. He never takes it if he can help. He hates it; and when I
tried to force him to-day, he was that sharp and snappish I was
afraid. There's a deal of hydrophobia about, I'm hearing."
"Hydrophobia? Nonsense. What else has he had?"
"I really couldn't say, ma'am."
"Somebody must say. Call the cook."
When Chloe's black face showed in the parting of the door curtains
Miss Lucy hurled her excited inquiries into the placid countenance.
"Chloe, what have you been giving Sir Christopher? against my orders,
for nobody except myself and Mary is ever to feed him. What is it?
Don't be so slow. It is important I should know. I may be able to
save his life if he is in danger. What? Eh?"
"Well, ma'am," drawled the negress, in her leisurely way which nothing
could alter, "I dunno as I've guv him anything to speak of. Nothing
wuth mentioning, leastways. Just a little of that nice lobster salad
was left from luncheon; and a cup of custard; being more 'an would go
in the floating island. Then a mere taste of the ice-cream, out the
freezer was meant for the kitchen, an' he seemed to relish it right
well. He licked a right smart of the custard, and as for the lobster,
you know yourself, Miss Lucy, he's always plumb crazy for shell-fish.
Not like most dogs, Chrissy isn't, won't touch such victuals. He just
dotes on anything comes out the salt water, and I----"
Miss Armacost had drawn her slight figure to its utmost height and
stood regarding her servant with eyes that fairly blazed her
indignation.
"Lobster salad and boiled custard! Not to include the ice-cream, even.
A deadly combination; and you may have the satisfaction, if you enjoy
it, of knowing that your thoughtless indulgence of his appetite will
probably cost him his life. You may go. Send Jefferson for the dog
doctor over on Penn Street. And, Mary, you carry him up to my room.
Lift him gently, poor fellow! I'm afraid we'll lose him this time."
There was unaffected grief in the little lady's tone, but Chloe was
heard to mutter, composedly, as she departed kitchenward:
"A good riddance, I say. Time he died if his living's going to make
fools of human beings."
Miss Armacost led the way, Mary carried the moaning poodle, and
Molly's curiosity, getting the better of all other considerations,
forced her to bring up the rear.
There followed a dreadful half-hour, in which the girl forgot that she
should be at home, because of the hurry and excitement in Miss Lucy's
upper sitting-room. By the end of that time Sir Christopher had ceased
to suffer the ills of age and indiscretion, and lay quite still upon
the silken cushions of his basket where his mistress had placed him.
When she found he was really dead the lady went away by herself, with
her grief that was so real to her, yet might have seemed so foolish to
others. Molly stole softly out of the house to tell the unusual
happenings of her play hour to the sympathetic ears in Side Street.
The short winter day came to a close. Darkness filled the back parlor
where the forgotten Towsley had remained to enjoy his treat; and
where, at length, the heat and quietude overcame him, so that he
slipped from the hard stool to the soft carpet and fell asleep.
It was nine o'clock in the evening when Miss Armacost re-entered the
room and touched another electric button. Instantly the place was
flooded with light, and then she discovered the child.
"My, my! what a start that gave me! That boy here yet! What in the
world shall I do with him? The threatened snow-storm has come and
seems like the beginning of a blizzard. He didn't belong to that
Molly, she said, but of course he can't stay here. I--I--Oh, dear!
Troubles never come singly. I can't keep him all night. I simply
cannot. Yet I wouldn't turn even a dog----"
When Miss Armacost's thoughts reached this point she seemed to see Sir
Christopher looking up into her face suggestively. He had been only a
dog, to be sure, and this was only a street vagabond; yet the
suggestion her mind had received really so staggered the mistress of
the corner house on the Avenue that she suddenly sat down and clasped
her hands in nervous trepidation.
"What--what--if I should--actually do it! What would the neighbors
say!"
"Ma'am?" asked the waif, drowsily, sitting up and regarding his
surroundings with surprise. "I--I--Where am I at?"
"At--home, my child," answered Miss Lucy, with a gasp at her own
daring.