I had seen the little fellow but a moment before, standing on the car
platform and peering wistfully into the night, as if seeking some face
in the hurrying crowd at the station. I remembered distinctly the
cloth cap pulled down over his ears, his chubby, rosy cheeks, and the
small baby hand clutching the iron rail of the car, as I pushed by and
sprang into a hack.
"Lively, now, cabby; I haven't a minute," and I handed my driver a
trunk check.
Outside the snow whirled and eddied, the drifts glistening white in
the glare of the electric light.
I drew my fur coat closer around my throat, and beat an impatient
tattoo with my feet. The storm had delayed the train, and I had less
than an hour in which to dine, dress, and reach my audience.
Two minutes later something struck the cab with a force that rattled
every spoke in the wheels. It was my trunk, and cabby's head, white
with snow, was thrust through the window.
"Morgan House, did you say, boss?"
"Yes, and on the double-quick."
Another voice now sifted in--a small, thin, pleading voice, too low
and indistinct for me to catch the words from where I sat.
"Want to go where?" cried cabby. The conversation was like one over
the telephone, in which only one side is heard. "To the orphan asylum?
Why, that's three miles from here.... Walk?... See, here, sonny, you
wouldn't get halfway.... No, I can't take yer--got a load."
My own head had filled the window now.
"Here, cabby, don't stand there all night! What's the matter, anyway?"
"It's a boy, boss, about a foot high, wants to walk to the orphan
'sylum."
"Pass him in."
He did, literally, through the window, without opening the door, his
little wet shoes first, then his sturdy legs in wool stockings, round
body encased in a pea-jacket, and last, his head, covered by the same
cloth cap I had seen on the platform. I caught him, feet first, and
helped land him on the front seat, where he sat looking at me with
staring eyes that shone all the brighter in the glare of the arc
light. Next a collar-box and a small paper bundle were handed in.
These the little fellow clutched eagerly, one in each hand, his eyes
still looking into mine.
"Are you an orphan?" I asked--a wholly thoughtless question, of
course.
"Yes, sir."
"Got no father nor mother?"
Another, equally idiotic; but my interest in the boy had been inspired
by the idea of the saving of valuable minutes. As long as he stood
outside in the snow, he was an obstruction. Once aboard, I could take
my time in solving his difficulties.
"Got a father, sir, but my mother's dead."
We were now whirling up the street, the cab lighting up and growing
pitch dark by turns, depending on the location of the street lamps.
"Where's your father?"
"Went away, sir." He spoke the words without the slightest change in
his voice, neither abashed nor too bold, but with a simple
straightforwardness which convinced me of their truth.
"Do you want to go to the asylum?"
"Yes, sir."
"Why?"
"Because I can learn everything there is to learn, and there isn't any
other place for me to go."
This was said with equal simplicity. No whining; no "me mother's dead,
sir, an' I ain't had nothin' to eat all day," etc. Not that air about
him at all. It was merely the statement of a fact which he felt sure I
knew all about.
"What's your name?"
"Ned."
"Ned what?"
"Ned Rankin, sir."
"How old are you?"
"I'm eight"--then, thoughtfully--"no, I'm nine years old."
"Where do you live?"
I was firing these questions one after the other without the slightest
interest in either the boy or his welfare. My mind was on my lecture,
and the impatient look on the faces of the audience, and the consulted
watch of the chairman of the committee, followed by the inevitable:
"You are not very prompt, sir," etc. "Our people have been in their
seats," etc. If the boy had previously replied to my question as to
where he lived, I had forgotten the name of the town.
"I live"---- Then he stopped. "I live in---- Do you mean now?" he
added simply.
"Yes."
There was another pause. "I don't know, sir; maybe they won't let me
stay."
Another foolish question. Of course, if he had left home for good, and
was now on his way to the asylum for the first time, his present home
was this hack.
But he had won my interest now. His words had come in tones of such
directness, and were so calm, and gave so full a statement of the
exact facts, that I leaned over quickly, and began studying him a
little closer.
I saw that this scrap of a boy wore a gray woolen suit, and I noticed
that the cap was made of the same cloth as the jacket, and that both
were the work of some inexperienced hand, with uneven, unpressed
seams--the seams of a flat-iron, not a tailor's goose. Instinctively
my mind went back to what his earlier life had been.
"Have you got any brothers and sisters, my boy?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where are they?"
"I don't know, sir; I was too little to remember."
The pathos of this answer stirred me all the more.
"Who's been taking care of you ever since your father left you?" I had
lowered my voice now to a more confidential tone.
"A German man."
"What did you leave him for?"
"He had no work, and he took me to the priest."
"When?"
"Last week, sir."
"What did the priest do?"
"He gave me these clothes. Don't you think they're nice? The priest's
sister made them for me--all but the stockings; she bought those."
As he said this he lifted his arms so I could look under them, and
thrust out toward me his two plump legs. I said the clothes were very
nice, and that I thought they fitted him very well, and I felt his
chubby knees and calves as I spoke, and ended by getting hold of his
soft wee hand, which I held on to. His fingers closed tightly over
mine, and a slight smile lighted up his face. It seemed good to him to
have something to hold on to. I began again:--
"Did the priest send you here?"
"Yes, sir. Do you want to see the letter?" The little hand--the free
one--fumbled under the jacket, loosened the two lower buttons, and
disclosed a white envelope pinned to his shirt.
"I'm to give it to 'em at the asylum. But I can't unpin it. He told me
not to."
"That's right, my boy. Leave it where it is."
"You poor little rat," I said to myself. "This is pretty rough on you.
You ought to be tucked up in some warm bed, not out here alone in this
storm."
The boy felt for the pin in the letter, reassured himself that it was
safe, and carefully rebuttoned his jacket. I looked out of the window,
and caught glimpses of houses flying by, with lights in their windows,
and now and then the cheery blaze of a fire. Then I looked into his
eyes again. I still had hold of his hand.
"Surely," I said to myself, "this boy must have some one soul who
cares for him." I determined to go a little deeper.
"How did you get here, my boy?" I had leaned nearer to him.
"The priest put me on the train, and a lady told me where to get off."
"Oh, a lady!" Now I was getting at it! Then he was not so desolate; a
lady had looked after him. "What's her name?" This with increased
eagerness.
"She didn't tell me, sir."
I sank back on my seat. No! I was all wrong. It was a positive,
undeniable, piteous fact. Seventy millions of people about him, and
not one living soul to look to. Not a tie that connected him with
anything. A leaf blown across a field; a bottle adrift in the sea,
sailing from no port and bound for no haven. I got hold of his other
hand, and looked down into his eyes, and an almost irresistible desire
seized me to pick him up in my arms and hug him; he was too big to
kiss, and too little to shake hands with; hugging was all there was
left. But I didn't. There was something in his face that repelled any
such familiarity,--a quiet dignity, pluck, and patience that inspired
more respect than tenderness, that would make one want rather to touch
his hat to him.
Here the cab stopped with so sudden a jerk that I had to catch him by
the arms to steady him. Cabby opened the door.
"Morgan House, boss. Goin's awful, or I'd got ye here sooner."
The boy looked up into my face; not with any show of uneasiness, only
a calm patience. If he was to walk now, he was ready.
"Cabby, how far is it to the asylum?" I asked.
"'Bout a mile and a half."
"Throw that trunk off and drive on. This boy can't walk."
"I'll take him, boss."
"No; I'll take him myself. Lively, now."
I looked at my watch. Twenty minutes of the hour had gone. I would
still have time to jump into a dress suit, but the dinner must be
brief. There came a seesaw rocking, then a rebound, and a heavy thud
told where the trunk had fallen. The cab sped on round a sharp corner,
through a narrow street, and across a wide square.
Suddenly a thought rushed over me that culminated in a creeping chill.
Where was his trunk? In my anxiety over my own, I had forgotten the
boy's.