TOM GETS A SQUARE MEAL.
About twelve o’clock Tom began to feel the pangs of hunger. The exercise
which she had taken, together with the fresh air, had stimulated her
appetite. It was about the time when she was expected to go home, and
accordingly she thrust her hand into her pocket, and proceeded to count
the money she had received.
“Forty-two cents!” she said, at last, in a tone of satisfaction. “I
don’t generally get more’n twenty. I wish that man would come round and
call me names every day.”
Tom knew that she was expected to go home and carry the result of her
morning’s work to her granny; but the unusual amount suggested to her
another idea. Her mid-day meal was usually of the plainest and
scantiest,—a crust of dry bread, or a cold sausage on days of
plenty,—and Tom sometimes did long for something better. But generally
it would have been dangerous to appropriate a sufficient sum from her
receipts, as the deficit would have been discovered, and quick
retribution would have followed from her incensed granny, who was a
vicious old woman with a pretty vigorous arm. Now, however, she could
appropriate twenty cents without danger of discovery.
“I can get a square meal for twenty cents,” Tom reflected, “and I’ll do
it.”
But she must go home first, as delay would be dangerous, and have
disagreeable consequences.
She prepared for the visit by dividing her morning’s receipts into two
parcels. The two ten-cent scrips she hid away in the lining of her
tattered jacket. The pennies, including one five-cent scrip, she put in
the pocket of her dress. This last was intended for her granny. She then
started homewards, dragging her broom after her.
She walked to Centre Street, turned after a while into Leonard, and went
on, turning once or twice, until she came to one of the most wretched
tenement houses to be found in that not very choice locality. She passed
through an archway leading into an inner court, on which fronted a rear
house more shabby, if possible, than the front dwelling. The court was
redolent of odors far from savory; children pallid, dirty, and
unhealthy-looking, were playing about, filling the air with shrill
cries, mingled with profanity; clothes were hanging from some of the
windows; miserable and besotted faces were seen at others.
Tom looked up to a window in the fourth story. She could descry a woman,
with a pipe in her mouth.
“Granny’s home,” she said to herself.
She went up three flights, and, turning at the top, went to the door and
opened it.
It was a wretched room, containing two chairs and a table, nothing more.
On one of the chairs was seated a large woman, of about sixty, with a
clay pipe in her mouth. The room was redolent of the vilest
tobacco-smoke.
This was granny.
If granny had ever been beautiful, there were no traces of that
dangerous gift in the mottled and wrinkled face, with bleared eyes,
which turned towards the door as Tom entered.
“Why didn’t you come afore, Tom?” she demanded.
“I’m on time,” said Tom. “Clock aint but just struck.”
“How much have you got?”
Tom pulled out her stock of pennies and placed them in the woman’s
outstretched palm.
“There’s twenty-two,” she said.
“Umph!” said granny. “Where’s the rest?”
“That’s all.”
“Come here.”
Tom advanced, not reluctantly, for she felt sure that granny would not
think of searching her jacket, especially as she had brought home as
much as usual.
The old woman thrust her hand into the child’s pocket, and turned it
inside-out with her claw-like fingers, but not another penny was to be
found.
“Umph!” she grunted, apparently satisfied with her scrutiny.
“Didn’t I tell you so?” said Tom.
Granny rose from her chair, and going to a shelf took down a piece of
bread, which had become dry and hard.
“There’s your dinner,” said she.
“Gi’ me a penny to buy an apple,” said Tom,—rather by way of keeping up
appearances than because she wanted one. Visions of a more satisfactory
repast filled her imagination.
“You don’t want no apple. Bread’s enough,” said granny.
Tom was not much disappointed. She knew pretty well beforehand how her
application would fare. Frequently she made sure of success by buying
the apple and eating it before handing the proceeds of her morning’s
work to the old woman. To-day she had other views, which she was in a
hurry to carry out.
She took the bread, and ate a mouthful. Then she slipped it into her
pocket, and said, “I’ll eat it as I go along, granny.”
To this the old woman made no objection, and Tom went out.
In the court-yard below she took out her crust, and handed it to a
hungry-looking boy of ten, the unlucky offspring of drunken parents, who
oftentimes was unable to command even such fare as Tom obtained.
“Here, Tim,” she said, “eat that; I aint hungry.”
It was one of Tim’s frequent fast days, and even the hard crust was
acceptable to him. He took it readily, and began to eat it ravenously.
Tom looked on with benevolent interest, feeling the satisfaction of
having done a charitable act. The satisfaction might have been
heightened by the thought that she was going to get something better
herself.
“So you’re hungry, Tim,” she said.
“I’m always hungry,” said Tim.
“Did you have any breakfast?”
“Only an apple I picked up in the street.”
“He’s worse off than me,” thought Tom; but she had no time to reflect on
the superior privileges of her own position, for she was beginning to
feel hungry herself.
There was a cheap restaurant near by, only a few blocks away.
Tom knew it well, for she had often paused before the door and inhaled
enviously the appetizing odor of the dishes which were there vended to
patrons not over-fastidious, at prices accommodated to scantily lined
pocket-books. Tom had never entered, but had been compelled to remain
outside, wishing that a more propitious fortune had placed it in her
power to dine there every day. Now, however, first thrusting her fingers
into the lining of her jacket to make sure that the money was there, she
boldly entered the restaurant and took a seat at one of the tables.
The room was not large, there being only eight tables, each of which
might accommodate four persons. The floor was sanded, the tables were
some of them bare, others covered with old newspapers, which had become
greasy, and were rather worse than no table-cloth at all. The guests, of
whom perhaps a dozen were seated at the table, were undoubtedly
plebeian. Men in shirt-sleeves, rough-bearded sailors and ’long-shore
men, composed the company, with one ragged boot-black, who had his
blacking-box on the seat beside him.
It was an acquaintance of Tom, and she went and sat beside him.
“Do you get dinner here, Jim?” she asked.
“Yes, Tom; what brings you here?”
“I’m hungry.”
“Don’t you live along of your granny?”
“Yes; but I thought I’d come here to-day. What have you got?”
“Roast beef.”
“Is it good?”
“Bully!”
“I’ll have some, then. How much is it?”
“Ten cents.”
Ten cents was the standard price in this economical restaurant for a
plate of meat of whatever kind. Perhaps, considering the quality and
amount given, it could not be regarded as very cheap; still the sum was
small, and came within Tom’s means.
A plate of beef was brought and placed before Tom. Her eyes dilated with
pleasure as they rested on the delicious morsel. There was a potato
besides; and a triangular slice of bread, with an infinitesimal dab of
butter,—all for ten cents. But Tom’s ambition soared higher.
“Bring me a cup o’ coffee,” she said to the waiter.
It was brought,—a very dark, muddy, suspicious-looking beverage,—a base
libel upon the fragrant berry whose name it took; but such a thought did
not disturb Tom. She never doubted that it was what it purported to be.
She stirred it vigorously with the spoon, and sipped it as if it had
been nectar.
“Aint it prime just?” she exclaimed, smacking her lips.
Then ensued a vigorous onslaught upon the roast beef. It was the first
meat Tom had tasted for weeks, with the exception of occasional cold
sausage; and she was in the seventh heaven of delight as she hurriedly
ate it. When she had finished, the plate was literally and entirely
empty. Tom did not believe in leaving anything behind. She was almost
tempted to “lick the platter clean,” but observed that none of the other
guests did so, and refrained.
“Bring me a piece of apple pie,” said Tom, determined for once to have
what she denominated a “good square meal.” The price of the pie being
five cents, this would just exhaust her funds. Payment was demanded when
the pie was brought, the prudent waiter having some fears that his
customer was eating beyond her means.
Tom paid the money, and, vigorously attacking the pie, had almost
finished it, when, chancing to lift her eyes to the window, she saw a
sight that made her blood curdle.
Looking through the pane with a stony glare that meant mischief was her
granny, whom she had supposed safe at home.