He and Dora took a train for New York early the next morning. The air
seemed to be growing more crisp. Dora's color was better, her skin
clearer, her eyes brighter. She seemed more and more interested in the
scenery along the way. They had to stop over in Washington for about
three hours, and, leaving their valises in a check-room, they strolled
about the city. John did not realize it, but the care and entertainment
of the child had much to do with keeping his mind from dwelling on his
troubles. Once he caught himself actually laughing over a droll mistake
Dora made. She was so much interested in the sights that she walked
nearly half a block at the side of a stranger, thinking that the man was
John, who had paused to buy a cigar, and when she discovered her mistake
she fairly screamed and hastened to John, whose hand she wanted to hold
thereafter.
"He wouldn't bite you," John said. "In fact, he thought it was a good
joke."
At four o'clock that afternoon they reached Jersey City, and at once
took the ferry for New York, sitting on the upper deck and viewing the
harbor and sky-line.
"It is a big town," John said, "a powerful big town. We'll be lost here
like needles in a haystack. Well, that is what we are after, Sis," he
added, a serious cast to his features.
They went ashore at Twenty-third Street. They were so ignorant of the
life they were entering that they were fairly dazed by the crush and
din of human beings and traffic which met them at the long pier and in
the congested thoroughfare upon which it fronted. They were all but as
helpless as incoming foreigners who could not speak the language of the
country. However, with a bag in each hand, and Dora closely following,
John managed to reach a street that was less crowded, and they walked on
now more calmly. He was looking for a boarding-house, John informed his
companion. "I understand there are plenty of them all about," he added.
They had reached West Fourteenth Street, and there in the windows of
many of the old-fashioned brownstone former residences of the well-to-do
John saw cards advertising rooms and board.
"There are three in a row," he smiled at Dora. "Which one shall we
pick?"
"The one this way," she decided. "It looks cleaner, and there are some
flowers on the window-sills."
"Good! Let's try it--ask the rates, anyway."
They crossed the street and went to the house in question. Here,
however, they were puzzled, for there were two entrances, one on the
brownstone stoop and the other beneath it. They decided on the lower, it
being more accessible. There was a bell-pull and John, who had once put
one into a wall, understood what it was for and used it promptly.
A white woman, who looked like she was Irish, opened the door.
"I see you have rooms and board," John ventured. "We want to see about
them."
The woman smiled agreeably. "The madam is up-stairs. You can go up the
steps and I'll let you in at the upper door, or you can come through
here."
"This way is all right," John said. And the woman led them into a little
hallway adjoining a long dining-room, the white-clothed tables of which
could be seen through the open door. On the same floor, just beyond, was
the kitchen. They knew this, for they caught a glimpse of a big range
above which hung a row of polished pots and pans.
The stairway to the upper floor was quite narrow, and John had some
difficulty in ascending it with his valises and the mute Dora, who was
nervously attempting to hold his arm. However, the ascent was made, and
they were shown into a big parlor with windows looking out on the
street. The floor was covered by a well-worn but clean carpet, the walls
held pictures of various sorts--crayon portraits, steel engravings,
machine-made oil landscapes and a few water-colors in every style of
frame imaginable.
"Oh, Mrs. McGwire!" the servant called up the flight of stairs which
reached the next floor above. "Are you there?"
"Yes, Mrs. Clark. What is it?"
"Rooms and board," was the answer.
"Very well. I'm coming right down."
The landlady proved to be a cheery, bustling little body about
thirty-five years of age. Her eyes were blue, her hair chestnut. She
bestowed a smile on the applicants that at once put them at ease.
"Yes, I happen to have two rooms at the top," she said, eying Dora's
attire with a woman's natural curiosity. "They are three flights up; I
have no others right now. My house is usually full at all seasons. You
see, I have many stand-by's; people who have been here for years call it
home. If you want to see the rooms you can leave your things here for a
while."
Leaving Dora below, John accompanied the landlady to the rooms above. On
seeing them he was satisfied that they would do. They were in the rear.
One was quite large, and, in the crude estimation of the brick-mason,
rather well furnished, for it held a massive walnut bureau with a marble
top and wide mirror lighted on both sides by globed gas-jets, one of
which was pink, the other frosted white. There was a big rosewood sofa
against a wall, also a rocking-chair, a center-table, a wide walnut
bedstead, and an ample alcove containing running water, and a basin and
towels. The other was the typical hall room with a narrow iron bed, a
chair, a wash-stand, a rug, a row of hooks on the wall for clothing over
which hung a calico dust-curtain, and a single window.
"I suppose this might do for the little girl," suggested Mrs. McGwire,
affably. "Children don't need much room. She is a relative, I presume?"
"My sister. We are orphans," John said, casually enough, considering the
unlooked-for demand on his resources. "My sister Dora. But I would want
her to have the other room. I can bunk anywhere. I want to put her into
the public school here, and she ought to have a cheerful place to study
in at night and sit in through the day. I shall be away at work."
"Fine, fine! I like that in you." Mrs. McGwire smiled affably. "I'm a
widow with three children to bring up (that is why I am running this
house) and I certainly appreciate such consideration for a child as you
show. I have a boy of thirteen, a girl of eleven, and another of eight.
If you stay here the older ones, Harold and Betty, might be able to help
start your sister out on her studies."
"That would be nice," John responded. "She is a country girl and never
has been to school at all."
Just here a rather tall, slender boy with the face of a student opened
the door of a room at the far end of the passage and came forward.
"This is my big son," Mrs. McGwire said, smiling. "This is Harold. The
doctor says he studies too hard, but I simply can't make him stop it."
The lad smiled politely, put his arm about his mother's waist, and said:
"Somebody has taken my concordance. I left it with my other books, and
it is gone."
"Oh, I forgot," Mrs. McGwire said, indulgently. "Mr. King (he is our
minister)"--this last to John. "He was looking over your books this
morning and he took it down to the parlor with him. It is there."
"Thank you, mother," the boy said, and went down the stairs.
"I'm very proud of my son," Mrs. McGwire said, looking after the boy
with beaming eyes. "He really has a remarkable mind. Young as he is, he
has already decided to be a preacher. He has read the Bible through
twice, and can quote any passage you mention. He is the leader of Mr.
King's big Bible class. His father was a minister, and it has been my
daily prayer that Harold would go into the same work."
Ten dollars a week for the rooms and board for two was the price agreed
on, and John went down with Mrs McGwire to inform Dora of the
arrangement.
"I needn't ask your name," Mrs. McGwire said, smiling, as he picked up
the valises, "for I see it on your bag. John Trott is short and plain
enough."
John blinked. He had really thought seriously of changing his name, but
it was too late now; besides, what did it matter? He nodded. "Yes," he
said, looking at the letters on the valise. "A friend of mine, a
sign-painter, made me a present of this last Christmas, and he lettered
it himself."
Dora liked the spacious room very much, and it did not occur to her just
then to compare it to John's, as she hastily removed her few belongings
from his bags, and hung or laid them about the room.
After supper John went out to buy some tobacco, and when he returned he
found Dora in her room, most timidly entertaining Betty and Minnie
McGwire. Dora did not introduce her guests, and Betty rather gracefully
did it herself. She was an affable talker, a rather slim, gawky blonde,
while Minnie was a stocky brunette with heavy, dark brows and black hair
that was too coarse and wiry to be easily controlled.
"Betty's going to dress my doll," Dora informed him. "She has got lots
and lots of doll-things packed away, and Minnie has the cutest
doll-house you ever saw. It is full of tables and chairs and dishes and
even closets to hang things in. Could you show it to him, Minnie?"
"Sure," answered the child addressed. "I'll go get it."
"No, not to-night," John interposed. "Some other time."
Leaving the children, he turned into his cheerless room and lighted the
gas. He unpacked the valises and hung up some of his apparel under the
dust-curtain. There were his working-shirts, his overalls, his coarse
cap and stoggy shoes. He had bought an evening paper and he opened it
out to read it, but could not fix his attention even on the boldest of
the head-lines. Ridgeville, the cottage, Tilly, floated through his
mind, and a pain that was both physical and mental clutched his whole
being. He winced, ground his teeth together, and stifled a groan.
"It is my damned yellow streak!" he muttered. "I must get over it--kill
it, pull it out by the roots. Why shouldn't I have my share of bad
luck? Others have plenty of it--even women and children. Poof! Be a man,
John Trott. Don't be a dirty shirker!"
A merry ripple of laughter came from the adjoining room, and he heard
Dora telling of the mistake she had made on the street in Washington,
and somehow he felt relieved. Surely good would come out of the plunge
he had made into those unknown waters, dark and deep as they seemed.
Wasn't Dora already better off? And what more could he desire than to
benefit a child like that materially and lastingly?
But the pain still clung and permeated. He heard the two visitors
bidding good night to Dora, and when they had gone down-stairs he went
into the other room, finding the child with her doll in her arms,
rocking it as a mother might a living babe.
"Now get to bed, Sis," he said, more tenderly than he had ever spoken to
her before. "Do you like it here?"
"Oh, very, very much!" she cried, enthusiastically. "Betty and Minnie
are the sweetest and best children I ever saw, and Harold is nice,
too--nice and polite, and awfully smart. He uses big words that I never
heard before. The girls want me to go with them to their school and
church. May I?"
"Yes," he returned. "Now get to bed. Sleep as late as you want to in the
morning. You don't have to get up before day to cook breakfast for me
now, eh?"
She smiled happily, but said nothing.
He yearned to kiss her, for through her companionship in his loneliness
she had become very dear to him, but that strode him as being a weak
thing for a man to do, and he left her without yielding to the impulse.
The air in his cell-like room was rather close, and he did not go to
sleep readily. There were so many things to think about--the work he had
to find as soon as possible, the clothes that must be bought for Dora,
for he wanted her to dress as well as her new friends. He decided to ask
Mrs. McGwire to help him make those purchases. As for the work, he was
sure he could find a job at good wages, for he had already looked over
the "Help wanted" advertisements in a morning paper and written down the
addresses of several firms of contractors and builders who were in need
of skilled labor.
After a long while he fell asleep, and when he waked in the morning he
heard Dora moving about in her room.
"Kid!" he called out, "come here!"
"All right, brother John," she answered, and he was sure that he heard
her tittering in a suppressed way. Wondering what could be the cause of
her merriment so early in the day, he called out again. This time she
answered with a rippling laugh: "Wait a minute, can't you?"
Ten minutes passed, and then she appeared in the doorway. She had on a
really attractive blue-serge suit that fitted her quite well. Indeed,
with her hair arranged as Betty McGwire wore hers, she looked like some
strange, new little girl who bore but a slight resemblance to the
unkempt Dora he had known from her babyhood.
"I was going to surprise you," she said, laughing freely over his stare
of astonishment. "It is a dress that was too small for Betty and too big
for Minnie. Mrs. McGwire gave it to me last night while you were out.
She has two or three others which she says will be out of style before
Minnie comes on, and will go to the ragman if I don't take them."
"It looks all right," John said, admiringly. "It will do till we can get
some new ones."