JESSICA’S FIRST GIRL FRIEND.
The screams came from a girl of Jessica’s own age, whom Buster had
ridden down and thrown to the pavement. But they were instantly taken
up and repeated by a score of throats, while a crowd assembled on the
spot, as if it had risen from the ground itself.
“Oh! have I killed her?” cried “Little Captain,” as swiftly realizing
the accident, and almost as swiftly, leaping from her saddle to bend
above the girl who now lay with closed eyes and white face, apparently
unconscious.
“Now, that’s awful!” cried somebody. “It’s against the law for folks to
ride that gait!”
“Arrest her, officer! Don’t let her get away!” advised another
on-looker, as a policeman laid his hand on the broncho’s bridle and
held the creature still, save for an exciting trembling through all its
frame.
“I’m not going to ‘get away’! I want to take care of this poor girl!”
retorted Jessica, lifting her head and discovering the officer. “O sir!
I am so sorry. We didn’t see her, Buster nor I, and what can I do?
Is there a hospital near? Is she--Do you think--she _can’t_ be dead,
all in a little minute like that! Tell me, help me--help her--Please,
please!”
At the mention of hospital the girl still lying on the pavement opened
her eyes and tried to rise, and willing hands helped her to do so.
She did gain her feet, quivering and terrified still, yet managing to
protest with vigor:
“No, no, no! I won’t go! Not to a hospital--I won’t, I won’t! See? I
ain’t hurted. I can walk--I shan’t--I shan’t!”
In truth she was not really injured save by the shock of falling, which
had rendered her senseless for a little; until that word “hospital”--so
dreaded by the very poor--pierced her consciousness. Buster had run
against and knocked her down, but it was the blow upon the stones which
had done the most mischief.
With tears of pity and regret dimming her own blue eyes, Jessica
slipped a sustaining arm around the other’s waist and eagerly assured
her:
“Nor shall you go if you’re not really hurt. You shall go home, right
home, if you’ll tell me where and this policeman will get a carriage
for us.”
The Californian was making prompt use of the knowledge she had already
gained concerning this strange city. Policemen were the proper persons
to direct, in time of trouble, and carriages might be had at any and
all times and everywhere. Street-cars were confusingly abundant but of
these she knew nothing and was afraid.
It was the officer who recalled her to the fact that hiring carriages
costs money, and:
“Can you pay for it, miss? Your name and address, please. Whoa, there,
you brute! Was there nobody with you? Don’t you know better than to
ride like that, right here in the city?”
“No, I didn’t. My name is Jessica Trent. I’m just from California and
I don’t know much about New York. My cousin, Mrs. Dalrymple, lives at
Number ---- Washington Square, and I live with her. She has money, and
will pay the carriage man. I haven’t any--not here. But I wasn’t alone,
only that old hired horse wouldn’t travel and--Ah! here he comes!
Ephraim, Ephraim!”
Though he had failed to keep her in sight, the despised hack-horse
had had intelligence enough to follow the course his late companion,
Buster, had taken, and now brought “Forty-niner” to his “Captain’s”
side.
“Why, Lady Jess! Whatever’s this?” demanded the astonished ranchman,
beholding his beloved child standing in the middle of the street, with
her arm about the waist of a ragged, hunchbacked girl, and a tray full
of flowers lying on the stones before them. The flowers were sadly
trampled and bruised, and Buster had planted one restless hoof plump
through the wicker tray.
“I--We run over, or knocked her down, this dear, poor little
flower-girl, I guess she is. I want to get a carriage and take her
home. Have you got any money? This policeman says I must have it first.”
Ephraim slowly dismounted and slipping his own horse’s bridle over one
arm, coolly relieved the officer of Buster’s, much to the delight of
that person in uniform. Then he demanded:
“What’s the taxes?”
“The--what?” asked the policeman, in turn.
“The taxes, the cost, the price of that there carriage?”
“Probably a dollar or two. Depends on where the girl lives and how
long it takes. Say, Sis, I’ve seen you around here before. You’ve been
careless more’n once and a cripple like you’d better take no chances.”
For reply the flower-seller made a saucy face and stooped to gather
up her scattered posies, critically calculating the damage done to
them and the consequent loss to her. She had recovered from her brief
unconsciousness and as Jessica also began to collect the daffodils
and tulips, exclaiming with delight over their beauty, her business
instinct came to the fore.
“Five cents a bunch, miss. Only five cents!”
Yet it was almost mechanically she spoke, for all her hearing was
strained to learn the outcome of that carriage-discussion; and
regardless of further injury to her blossoms, she clapped her thin
hands in delight, as Ephraim settled it by saying:
“Call it up, officer! I reckon we can stand that much. No, you needn’t
worry about the broncho. I’ll lead him and follow the carriage. But
you’ll have to give the orders--This old New York of yours sets a
plainsman plumb crazy!”
The officer found no cause for delay. He had made a few entries in his
note book. The hunchback was not injured, she didn’t need a carriage,
but if these wild Westerners fancied that she did and were able to pay
for it, that was their business.
When the summoned hack drew up to the curbstone, whither the two girls
had retreated when the crowd dispersed, the flower-seller’s pale face
really glowed almost as pink as Jessica’s own, and her ill-shod feet
danced on the stones, as she cried:
“Oh! it’s true, it’s true! What’ll they say when they see me? Oh! my
soul and body! Oh! my!”
“You’ll have to tell where you live,” said Jessica, following the
other into the vehicle and smiling at her eagerness.
“Course. I know how. This is the way they do it, I’ve seen ’em, lots
of times, waiting outside the theaters and such. The ladies they steps
in, just like I did, and they speaks up at the coachy and they says:
‘Home’! Or maybe, ‘Waldorf ’Storia,’ or ‘Fifth Avenoo,’ or wherever
’tis. ‘Hark. Hear me! Driver, 221 Avenoo A. Back tenement, top floor.’”
It might have been that palatial Waldorf Astoria, to which she had
referred, rather than one of the dingiest abodes on that street which
was named by a letter, and that Madam Dalrymple had said was too humble
for any Waldron to know about. Yet here was Jessica going to it, must
go, or be guilty of a rudeness less “Waldrony” than even that knowledge
of poor Avenue A; and it never entered her mind that she could send
the hunchback home, unattended. Though, indeed, it is doubtful if she
could, for the hackman would not, in that case, have felt at all sure
of his fare.
Fortunately, Ephraim knew little and cared less for any street
distinctions. He was simply and wholly disgusted by this whole outing.
The horse he bestrode was never meant for a saddle; his groom’s livery
was uncomfortable in the matter of fit--as well as pride; the restless
Buster was extremely difficult to lead, where peril of the streets was
constantly menacing, and only love for “Little Captain” prevented his
turning about and making straight for Washington Square, even though he
had to ask directions thither at every block.
“My name’s Sophy Nestor. What’s yours? Ain’t this jolly? I’m the
gladdest ever was ’t that horse of yours knocked me down. My! But
didn’t the cop want to hurry me off to the hospital! No, ’twasn’t him,
though, ’twas your own plaguy self! Do you know what a hospital is?
It’s a place where they take folks to cut off their legs and things. We
poor folks is what keeps the hospitals goin’. Them doctors they catch
us and cut us just to learn how the rich folkses’ insides are made.
’Cause that way, Granny says, we’re just as good as the rich ones, our
insides are. But, maybe, you didn’t know. Else, you’d never ha’ said
it. What’d you say it was? Oh! I’m so happy! I never, never was so
happy in my life! Won’t the children in our court and all along the
block just stare their eyes out when they see me come ridin’ home in a
reg’lar carriage! I never thought I’d be inside one, never in all my
life. What’d you say it was?”
“I hadn’t said, but it’s Jessica Trent. And is it possible that right
here in this city full of all sorts of wagons that you’ve never ridden
before?”
The carriage had now passed eastward through the city and even to
the Westerner’s untrained sight the streets looked more crowded, the
buildings poorer and dingier, and the passing throngs altogether
different from those upon Fifth Avenue. But she observed less of the
surroundings than of this chattering girl beside her. So misshapen,
so wretchedly clothed, and so radiantly happy! She had longed for a
playmate of her own age but she had not dreamed of one like this.
In a few moments they had exchanged the fullest confidences. Sophy had
listened wide-eyed and, at first, unbelieving, to Jessica’s story
of a home where one couldn’t even see another house, because it was
so far away; but she had gradually accepted the fact and was lost in
admiration of a girl who could live such a wonderful life yet be so
friendly and nice to a mere flower-girl from “Avenoo A.”
When they reached that dilapidated block where Sophy lived, and with a
great air that young person had ordered the driver to stop, she turned
to Jessica and said:
“Now we’ll get out. Oh! my soul and body! It’s all clean over and done
with! _It didn’t last._ Seems if it didn’t last a minute. Say, Jessica,
if I should go back to that place some other day would you ride round
and let your horse knock me down again, so’s I could come home in
another carriage? Would you?”
“No, I would not! But--but if you care so much about it and will put
on a whole frock and come to Washington Square I’ll ask my Cousin
Margaret Dalrymple to take you with us in hers. But I guess I won’t
get out. I--I’d rather not. She might not like it;” answered Jessie,
more in answer to a warning nod from Ephraim who had now come up to
them than from any reluctance of her own. It was, truly, a strange and
most unlovely place. Lines of ragged clothing fluttered from every
floor, children rolled in the gutters and fought each other savagely
at the least provocation, street vendors yelled till the air was full
of discord, and the whole surroundings told of that abject poverty
which Jessica now beheld for the first time. Yet it interested her
wonderfully, more because it was new than because she understood
it. So, when Sophy insisted, she disregarded Ephraim’s warning and
sprang to the sidewalk, smiling in spite of herself at the hunchback’s
uptossed head and the remarkable strut she assumed for the benefit of
onlookers.
“Yes, you _must_, Jessica Trent. Else Granny won’t believe it’s true
and’ll nag me ’cause the basket’s broke. I’ll come to Washington Square
all right, but I can’t--I can’t put on a whole frock. I haven’t got
one. This way, right this.”
Seizing Jessica’s hand so forcibly she could not withdraw it, Sophy
hurriedly led the way through a sort of dark, damp alley, running
between two houses, to another tall tenement facing a court in the
rear. Here there were more clothes-lines, more fluttering garments,
more crying babies, and more outrageous odors. Instinctively, the
stranger pinched her nose to protect it against the stench, while Sophy
consolingly remarked:
“The smell ain’t nothing when you get used to it. Granny used to mind
it awful, when we first moved here from over Brooklyn way. That was
’fore I can remember an’ my father was killed. She don’t now. She don’t
mind anything only having to _live_. She’s dreadful tired of that,
Granny is, ’cause she don’t much like the folks in the houses. I like
’em all right. Mind the steps! That third one isn’t there, and there’s
a hole in all of ’em. I’ve got so used I know just where to step, even
in the dark. Now, one more and we’ll be to Granny’s door. How funny you
breathe!”
“I can’t--I can’t hardly breathe at all! It’s so--so awful
high--and--smelly.”
“Pinch it again. ’Tisn’t so bad in Granny’s room. She keeps the winder
open all the time. Say, Granny, Granny Briggs! Here’s Jessica Trent,
away from California, wherever that is, and her horse she was a-ridin’
on Thirty-fourth Street knocked me silly and broke the basket, and she
brung me home in a carriage, _in a carriage_, Granny Briggs! And you
needn’t say she didn’t, ’cause you can go right down into the Aveny and
see it standin’ on the stones a-waitin’ to take her back again to where
she come from. True’s I live. You can see her for yourself!”
Jessica made her best, most “Waldron-y” courtesy, and with a grace
hardly to have been looked for in such a place, the aged mistress of
the one room returned it. She was a comely old body, rather ragged than
untidy, and she wore a broad frilled cap on her head, and a piece of a
frayed shawl pinned about her shoulders. She had a great pile of men’s
overalls before her, to which she was putting the finishing stitches,
“by hand,” the only sort of sewing she could get to do, and for which
she was paid a miserable price. But it, and Sophy’s flower-selling, was
their only source of income, and she could afford to waste no time,
even to talk with this astonishing young visitor who had come.
So she rose once, bobbed a returning courtesy to Jessica’s profound
one, and settled back in her chair, having scarcely paused at all in
her work. Then, still sewing as if her life depended on her speed--as
indeed it did--she listened in silence to the story Sophy told, only
opening her lips once to remark:
“Pity the pony didn’t finish you up while it was about it, my poor
child. Life isn’t worth living for such as you. Or me either,” she
added gloomily, and wondering why the Californian didn’t depart. She
wished she would. Sophy would have to carry home part of these garments
before the shop closed for the night and poor folks had no time for
idling. She expressed her desire rather promptly:
“Well, if you’ve done talking, get the leather piece and wrap this work
up. If you hurry you’ll get there in time and since you’ve wasted all
them flowers you’d better step lively. There’s just one half-loaf in
this cupboard and you’re amazing hungry--for such as you.”
“Yes’m. You help, Jessie, please,” cried Sophy; and then, as if
inspired by some wonderful idea, raised herself from the floor where
she was spreading the piece of carriage-cloth used to enwrap the heavy
overalls on their journeys to and from “the shop,” and exclaimed: “Oh!
let’s do it! Let’s ask that nice driver to carry us ’round by the
factory on our way to Washington Square and carry the bundle with us.
Won’t that be grand?”
Jessica hesitated. She feared she was already doing something her
guardian would disapprove, yet otherwise felt no sense of guilt. But
instantly her hesitation vanished, remembering that she had forewarned
Mrs. Dalrymple that there might be times when she could not be
obedient, when her own sense of what was right--for herself--interfered
with Madam’s judgment. This was one of the times! She was sure of it.
Ephraim had nearly “lost his head” in his anxiety, tied to his waiting
outside with the two horses which he could neither leave nor lose; and
his patience entirely gave way when the two girls reappeared, tugging
a mighty bundle between them, Jessica tripping in her unfamiliar
skirt, but Sophy radiant in her rags and in the prospect of another
ride.
What the driver felt was best expressed by the fierce glance he shot
the sharpshooter, with whom he had had a most enjoyable talk during
their long wait, and by his words:
“I look to you, sir, for payment for all this nonsense!”
The effect of this was to turn Ephraim’s wrath from his “Little
Captain” upon the city jehu, and to make him retort, savagely:
“Plague take your cautious soul! You shall be paid and double paid and
don’t you forget it.”
An hour later there entered the aristocratic but now most anxious
presence of Madam Dalrymple, two brightly smiling girls, chattering in
the friendliest manner, and one of them explaining:
“I’m sorry, Cousin Margaret, that Buster ran away, and yet I’m not
sorry only for fear you didn’t like it. This is Sophy Nestor and she
lives on Avenue A. I’ve been to see where she lives, after Buster
knocked her down, and now she’s come to see us, and I’m going up to
get one of my frocks to give her, ’cause she hasn’t any whole one. And
please, will you give me five dollars to pay the hackman? And for fifty
cents more he’d carry her back again.”
This explanation was received in ominous silence.