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Transcriber’s Note:
This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects.
Bold and italic characters, which appear only in the advertisements, are
delimited with the ‘_’ and ‘=’ characters respectively, as ‘_italic_’ and
‘=bold=.’
The few minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected.
Please see the transcriber’s note at the end of this text for details
regarding the handling of these issues.
POPULAR JUVENILE BOOKS,
BY HORATIO ALGER, JR.
----------
_RAGGED DICK SERIES._
_Complete in Six Volumes._
I. RAGGED DICK; or, Street Life in New York.
II. FAME AND FORTUNE; or, The Progress of Richard
Hunter.
III. MARK, THE MATCH BOY.
IV. ROUGH AND READY; or, Life Among New York Newsboys.
V. BEN, THE LUGGAGE BOY; or, Among the Wharves.
VI. RUFUS AND ROSE; or, The Fortunes of Rough and
Ready.
=_Price, $1.25 per volume._=
----------
_CAMPAIGN SERIES._
_Complete in Three Volumes._
I. FRANK’S CAMPAIGN.
II. PAUL PRESCOTT’S CHARGE.
III. CHARLIE CODMAN’S CRUISE.
=_Price, $1.25 per volume._=
----------
_LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES._
_To be completed in Six Volumes._
I. LUCK AND PLUCK; or, John Oakley’s Inheritance.
II. SINK OR SWIM; or, Harry Raymond’s Resolve.
III. STRONG AND STEADY; or, Paddle your own Canoe. (In
October, 1871.)
OTHERS IN PREPARATION.
=_Price, $1.50 per volume._=
----------
_TATTERED TOM SERIES._
_To be completed in Six Volumes._
I. TATTERED TOM; or, The story of a Street Arab.
II. PAUL, THE PEDDLER; or, The Adventures of a Young
Street Merchant. (In November, 1871.)
OTHERS IN PREPARATION.
=_Price, $1.25 per volume._=
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[Illustration]
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TATTERED TOM SERIES.
BY
HORATIO ALGER JR.
[Illustration]
TATTERED TOM.
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TATTERED TOM;
OR,
THE STORY OF A STREET ARAB.
BY
HORATIO ALGER, JR.,
AUTHOR OF “RAGGED DICK SERIES,” “LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES,”
“CAMPAIGN SERIES.”
----------
LORING, Publisher,
COR. BROMFIELD AND WASHINGTON STREETS,
BOSTON.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by
A. K. LORING,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
Rockwell & Churchill, Printers and Stereotypers,
122 Washington Street, Boston.
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=To=
=AMOS AND O. AUGUSTA CHENEY,=
=This Volume=
IS DEDICATED
BY THEIR AFFECTIONATE BROTHER.
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PREFACE.
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When, three years since, the author published “Ragged Dick,” he was far
from anticipating the flattering welcome it would receive, or the degree
of interest which would be excited by his pictures of street life in New
York. The six volumes which comprised his original design are completed,
but the subject is not exhausted. There are yet other phases of street
life to be described, and other classes of street Arabs, whose fortunes
deserve to be chronicled.
“Tattered Tom” is therefore presented to the public as the initial
volume of a new series of six stories, which may be regarded as a
continuation of the “Ragged Dick Series.” Some surprise may be felt at
the discovery that Tom is a girl; but I beg to assure my readers that
she is not one of the conventional kind. Though not without her good
points, she will be found to differ very widely in tastes and manners
from the young ladies of twelve usually to be met in society. I venture
to hope that she will become a favorite in spite of her numerous faults,
and that no less interest will be felt in her fortunes than in those of
the heroes of earlier volumes.
NEW YORK, April, 1871.
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TATTERED TOM;
OR,
THE ADVENTURES OF A STREET ARAB.
-------
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCES TATTERED TOM.
Mr. Frederic Pelham, a young gentleman very daintily dressed, with
exquisitely fitting kids and highly polished boots, stood at the corner
of Broadway and Chambers Streets, surveying with some dismay the dirty
crossing, and speculating as to his chances of getting over without
marring the polish of his boots.
He started at length, and had taken two steps, when a dirty hand was
thrust out, and he was saluted by the request, “Gi’ me a penny, sir?”
“Out of my way, you bundle of rags!” he answered.
“You’re another!” was the prompt reply.
Frederic Pelham stared at the creature who had dared to imply that he—a
leader of fashion—was a bundle of rags.
The street-sweeper was apparently about twelve years of age. It was not
quite easy to determine whether it was a boy or girl. The head was
surmounted by a boy’s cap, the hair was cut short, it wore a boy’s
jacket, but underneath was a girl’s dress. Jacket and dress were both in
a state of extreme raggedness. The child’s face was very dark and, as
might be expected, dirty; but it was redeemed by a pair of brilliant
black eyes, which were fixed upon the young exquisite in an expression
half-humorous, half-defiant, as the owner promptly retorted, “You’re
another!”
“Clear out, you little nuisance!” said the dandy, stopping short from
necessity, for the little sweep had planted herself directly in his
path; and to step out on either side would have soiled his boots
irretrievably.
“Gi’ me a penny, then?”
“I’ll hand you to the police, you little wretch!”
“I aint done nothin’. Gi’ me a penny?”
Mr. Pelham, provoked, raised his cane threateningly.
But Tom (for, in spite of her being a girl, this was the name by which
she was universally known; indeed she scarcely knew any other) was wary.
She dodged the blow, and by an adroit sweep of her broom managed to
scatter some mud on Mr. Pelham’s boots.
“You little brat, you’ve muddied my boots!” he exclaimed, with vexation.
“Then why did you go for to strike me?” said Tom, defiantly.
He did not stop to answer, but hurried across the street. His pace was
accelerated by an approaching vehicle, and the instinct of
self-preservation, more powerful than even the dictates of fashion,
compelled him to make a détour through the mud, greatly to the injury of
his no longer immaculate boots. But there was a remedy for the disaster
on the other side.
“Shine your boots, sir?” asked a boot-black, who had stationed himself
at the other side of the crossing.
Frederic Pelham looked at his boots. Their glory had departed. Their
virgin gloss had been dimmed by plebeian mud. He grudged the
boot-black’s fee, for he was thoroughly mean, though he had plenty of
money at his command. But it was impossible to walk up Broadway in such
boots. Suppose he should meet any of his fashionable friends, especially
if ladies, his fashionable reputation would be endangered.
“Go ahead, boy!” he said. “Do your best.”
“All right, sir.”
“It’s the second time I’ve had my boots blacked this morning. If it
hadn’t been for that dirty sweep I should have got across safely.”
The boy laughed—to himself. He knew Tom well enough, and he had been an
interested spectator of her encounter with his present customer, having
an eye to business. But he didn’t think it prudent to make known his
thoughts.
The boots were at length polished, and Mr. Pelham saw with satisfaction
that no signs of the street mire remained.
“How much do you want, boy?” he asked.
“Ten cents.”
“I thought five cents was the price.”
“Can’t afford to work on no such terms.”
Mr. Pelham might have disputed the fee, but he saw an acquaintance
approaching, and did not care to be caught chaffering with a boot-black.
He therefore reluctantly drew out a dime, and handed it to the boy, who
at once deposited it in the pocket of a ragged vest.
He stood on the sidewalk on the lookout for another customer, when Tom
marched across the street, broom in hand.
“I say, Joe, how much did he give you?”
“Ten cents.”
“How much yer goin’ to give me?”
“Nothin’!”
“You wouldn’t have got him if I hadn’t muddied his boots.”
“Did you do it a-purpose?”
Tom nodded.
“What for?”
“He called me names. That’s one reason. Besides, I wanted to give you a
job.”
Joe seemed struck by this view, and, being alive to his own interest,
did not disregard the application.
“Here’s a penny,” he said.
“Gi’ me two.”
He hesitated a moment, then diving once more into his pocket, brought up
another penny, which Tom transferred with satisfaction to the pocket of
her dress.
“Shall I do it ag’in?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Joe. “I say, Tom, you’re a smart un.”
“I’d ought to be. Granny makes me smart whenever she gets a chance.”
Tom returned to the other end of the crossing, and began to sweep
diligently. Her labors did not extend far from the curbstone, as the
stream of vehicles now rapidly passing would have made it dangerous.
However, it was all one to Tom where she swept. The cleanness of the
crossing was to her a matter of comparative indifference. Indeed,
considering her own disregard of neatness, it could hardly have been
expected that she should feel very solicitous on that point. Like some
of her elders who were engaged in municipal labors, she regarded
street-sweeping as a “job,” out of which she was to make money, and her
interest began and ended with the money she earned.
There were not so many to cross Broadway at this point as lower down,
and only a few of these seemed impressed by a sense of the pecuniary
value of Tom’s services.
“Gi’ me a penny, sir,” she said to a stout gentleman.
He tossed a coin into the mud.
Tom darted upon it, and fished it up, wiping her fingers afterwards upon
her dress.
“Aint you afraid of soiling your dress?” asked the philanthropist,
smiling.
“What’s the odds?” said Tom, coolly.
“You’re a philosopher,” said the stout gentleman.
“Don’t you go to callin’ me names!” said Tom; “’cause if you do I’ll
muddy up your boots.”
“So you don’t want to be called a philosopher?” said the gentleman.
“No, I don’t,” said Tom, eying him suspiciously.
“Then I must make amends.”
He took a dime from his pocket, and handed it to the astonished Tom.
“Is this for me?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Tom’s eyes glistened; for ten cents was a nugget when compared with her
usual penny receipts. She stood in a brown study till her patron was
half across the street, then, seized with a sudden idea, she darted
after him, and tugged at his coat-tail.
“What’s wanted?” he asked, turning round in some surprise.
“I say,” said Tom, “you may call me that name ag’in for five cents
more.”
The ludicrous character of the proposal struck him, and he laughed with
amusement.
“Well,” he said, “that’s a good offer. What’s your name?”
“Tom.”
“Which are you,—a boy or a girl?”
“I’m a girl, but I wish I was a boy.”
“What for?”
“’Cause boys are stronger than girls, and can fight better.”
“Do you ever fight?”
“Sometimes.”
“Whom do you fight with?”
“Sometimes I fight with the boys, and sometimes with granny.”
“What makes you fight with your granny?”
“She gets drunk and fires things at my head; then I pitch into her.”
The cool, matter-of-fact manner in which Tom spoke seemed to amuse her
questioner.
“I was right,” he said; “you’re a philosopher,—a practical philosopher.”
“That’s more’n you said before,” said Tom; “I want ten cents for that.”
The ten cents were produced. Tom pocketed them in a business-like
manner, and went back to her employment. She wondered, slightly, whether
a philosopher was something very bad; but, as there was no means of
determining, sensibly dismissed the inquiry, and kept on with her work.