GRANNY IS COMPELLED TO EARN HER OWN LIVING.
Leaving Tom in her new home, we return to Mrs. Walsh, which was the
proper designation of the old woman whom she called granny. Though Tom
had escaped from her clutches, granny had no idea that she intended to
stay away permanently. She did not consider that all the advantages of
the connection between them had been on her side, and that Tom had only
had the privilege of supporting them both. If she had not carried
matters so far our heroine would have been satisfied to remain; but now
she had fairly broken away, and would never come back unless brought by
force.
When six o’clock came granny began to wonder why Tom did not come back.
She usually returned earlier, with whatever money she had managed to
obtain.
“She’s afraid of a lickin’,” thought granny. “She’ll get a wuss one if
she stays away.”
An hour passed, and granny became hungry; but unfortunately she was
penniless, and had nothing in the room except a crust of hard bread
which she intended for Tom’s supper. Hunger compelled her to eat this
herself, though it was not much to her taste. Every moment’s additional
delay irritated her the more with the rebellious Tom.
“I wish I had her here,” soliloquized granny, spitefully.
When it was half-past seven granny resolved to go out and hunt her up.
She might be on the sidewalk outside playing. Perhaps—but this was too
daring for belief—she might be spending her afternoon’s earnings on
another square meal.
Granny went downstairs, and through the archway into the street. There
were plenty of children, living in neighboring tenement houses, gathered
in groups or playing about, but no Tom was visible.
“Have you seen anything of my gal, Micky Murphy?” asked granny of a boy
whom she had often seen with Tom.
“No,” said Micky. “I haven’t seen her.”
“Haven’t any of you seen her?” demanded Mrs. Walsh, making the question
a general one.
“I seen her sellin’ papers,” said one boy.
“When was that?” asked granny, eagerly.
“’Bout four o’clock.”
“Where was she?”
“Greenwich Street.”
This was a clue at least, but a faint one. Tom had been seen at four
o’clock, and now it was nearly eight. Long before this she must have
sold her papers, and the unpleasant conviction dawned upon granny that
she must have spent her earnings upon herself.
“If I could only get hold of her!” muttered granny, vengefully.
She went as far as the City Hall, and followed along down by the Park
fence, looking about her in all directions, in the hope that she might
espy Tom. But the latter was at this time engaging lodgings for the
night, as we know, and in no danger of being caught.
Unwilling to give up the pursuit, Mrs. Walsh wandered about for an hour
or more, occasionally resting on one of the seats in the City Hall Park,
till the unwonted exertion began to weary her, and she realized that she
was not likely to encounter Tom.
There was one chance left. Tom might have got home while she had been in
search of her. Spurred by this hope, Mrs. Walsh hurried home, and
mounted to her lofty room. But it was as desolate as when she left it.
It was quite clear that Tom did not mean to come back that night. This
was provoking; but granny still was confident that she would return in
the course of the next day. So she threw herself on the bed,—not without
some silent imprecations upon her rebellious charge,—and slept till
morning.
Morning brought her a new realization of her loss. She found her
situation by no means an agreeable one. Her appetite was excellent, but
she was without food or money to buy a supply. It was certainly
provoking to think that she must look out for herself. However, granny
was equal to the occasion. She did not propose to work for a living, but
decided that she would throw herself upon charity. To begin with, she
obtained some breakfast of a poor but charitable neighbor, and then
started on a walk up town. It was not till she got as far as Fourteenth
Street that she commenced her round of visits.
The first house at which she stopped was an English basement house.
Granny rang the basement bell.
“Is your mistress at home?” she asked.
“Yes; what’s wanted?”
“I’m a poor widder,” whined granny, in a lugubrious voice, “with five
small children. We haven’t got a bit of food in the house. Can’t you
give me a few pennies?”
“I’ll speak to the missis, but I don’t think she’ll give any money.”
She went upstairs, and soon returned.
“She won’t give you any money, but here’s a loaf of bread.”
Mrs. Walsh would much have preferred a small sum of money, but muttered
her thanks, and dropped the loaf into a bag she had brought with her.
She went on to the next block, and intercepted a gentleman just starting
down town to his business.
“I’m a poor widder,” she said, repeating her whine; “will you give me a
few pennies? and may the Lord bless you!”
“Why don’t you work?” asked the gentleman, brusquely.
“I’m too old and feeble,” she answered, bending over to assume the
appearance of infirmity. This did not escape the attention of the
gentleman, who answered unceremoniously, “You’re a humbug! You won’t get
anything from me! If I had my way, I’d have you arrested and locked up.”
Granny trembled with passion, but did not think it politic to give vent
to her fury.
Her next application was more successful, twenty-five cents being sent
to the door by a compassionate lady, who never doubted the story of the
five little children suffering at home for want of food.
Granny’s eyes sparkled with joy as she hastily clutched the money. With
it she could buy drink and tobacco, while food was not an object of
barter.
“The missis wants to know where you live,” said the servant.
Mrs. Walsh gave a wrong address, not caring to receive charitable
callers, who would inevitably find out that her story was a false one,
and her children mythical.
At the next house she got no money; but on declaring that she had eaten
nothing for twenty-four hours, was invited into the kitchen, where she
was offered a chair, and a plate of meat and bread was placed before
her. This invitation was rather an embarrassing one; for, thanks to her
charitable neighbor, granny had eaten quite a hearty breakfast not long
before. But, having declared that she had not tasted food for
twenty-four hours, she was compelled to keep up appearances, and eat
what was set before her. It was very hard work, and attracted the
attention of the servants, who had supposed her half famished.
“You don’t seem very hungry,” said Annie, the cook.
“It’s because I’m faint-like,” muttered granny. At this moment her bag,
containing the loaf of bread, tumbled on the floor.
“What’s that?” asked the cook, suspiciously.
“It’s some bread I’m goin’ to carry home to the childers,” said Mrs.
Walsh, a little confused. “They was crying for something to ate when I
come away.”
“Then you’d better take it home as soon as you can,” said Annie,
surveying the old woman with some suspicion.
Granny was forced to leave something on her plate, nature refusing the
double burden she sought to impose upon it, and went out with an
uncomfortable sense of fulness. Resuming her rounds, she was repulsed at
some places, at others referred to this or that charitable society, but
in the end succeeded in raising twenty-five cents more in money. Fifty
cents, a loaf of bread, and a little cold meat represented her gains of
the morning, and with these she felt tolerably well satisfied. She had
been compelled to walk up town, but now she had money and could afford
to ride. She entered a Sixth Avenue car, therefore, and in half an hour
or thereabouts reached the Astor House. She walked through the Park,
looking about her carefully, in the hope of seeing Tom, who would
certainly have fared badly if she had fallen into the clutches of the
angry old woman. But Tom was nowhere visible.
So granny plodded home, and, mounting to her room, laid away the bread
and meat, and, throwing herself upon the bed, indulged in a pipe. Tom
was not at home, and granny began to have apprehensions that she meant
to stay away longer than she had at first supposed.
“But I’ll come across her some day,” said granny, vindictively. “When I
do I’ll break every bone in her body.”
The old woman lay on the bed two or three hours, and then went out, with
the double purpose of investing a part of her funds in a glass of
something strong, and in the hope that she might fall in with Tom.
Notwithstanding the desire of vengeance, she missed her. She had not the
slightest affection for the young girl who had been so long her charge,
but she was used to her companionship. It seemed lonely without her.
Besides, granny had one of those uncomfortable dispositions that feel
lost without some one to scold and tyrannize over, and, although Tom had
not been so yielding and submissive as many girls would have been under
the same circumstances, Mrs. Walsh had had the satisfaction of beating
her occasionally, and naturally longed for the presence of her customary
victim.
So, after making the purchase she intended, granny made another visit to
the Park and Printing House Square, and inspected eagerly the crowds of
street children who haunt those localities as paper-venders, peddlers,
and boot-blacks. But Tom, as we know, was by this time an inmate of Mrs.
Merton’s boarding-house,—the home found for her by her friend, the
sea-captain. This was quite out of Mrs. Walsh’s beat. She had not
anticipated any such contingency, but supposed that Tom would be forced
to earn her living by some of those street trades by means of which so
many children are kept from starvation. It did not enter her
calculations that, so soon after parting from her, Tom had also ceased
to be a street Arab, and obtained a respectable home. Of course,
therefore, disappointment was again her portion, and she was forced to
return home and go to bed without the exquisite satisfaction of
“breaking every bone in Tom’s body.”
Granny felt that she was ill-used, and that Tom was a monster of
ingratitude; but on that subject there may, perhaps, be a difference of
opinion.