Tattered Tom

CHAPTER XVIII
IN SEARCH OF A PLACE

Tom went out into the street angry, and justly so, at the unfounded charge which had been made against her. The change in her circumstances had been so sudden, that she hardly realized, as she walked along, that she must return to her old street life. When she did realize it, it was with a feeling of disappointment, not unmixed with apprehension.

Tom had only been living at Mrs. Merton’s for three months, but this short time had wrought a considerable change in her. She was no longer the wild, untamed girl who once swept the crossing. She had begun to feel the advantages of respectability, and had become ambitious of acquiring a good education. This feeling originated in the desire of surprising Captain Barnes with her improvement; but she soon began to feel an interest in learning for its own sake. She was still spirited and independent, but in a different way. Her old life looked far less attractive, since she had acquired such different tastes. Now to be suddenly thrust back into it seemed rather hard to Tom.

One thing at least could be said, she was no longer “Tattered Tom.” Her old rags had been cast aside, and she was now dressed as well as most school-girls. She no longer looked like a child having no home but the street, but would be supposed by any who noticed her to belong to some family in good circumstances. Now, good clothes exert more influence upon the wearer than we may at first suppose. So it was with Tom. When she wore her old tatters she was quite ready to engage in a fight with any boy who jeered at her, provided he was not too large. Now she would hesitate before doing it, having an undefined idea that her respectable dress would make such a scene unbecoming.

There was one question that presented itself to Tom as she walked along, and demanded her earnest attention. This was, “How was she to live?”

She could no longer sweep the crossing; she was too well-dressed for that. Indeed she was likely to attract attention if she engaged in any of the street occupations to which she had in former times been accustomed. But something must be done. Her whole stock of money consisted of five cents, and this was not likely to last very long. It was far too little to buy such a meal as she got at Mrs. Merton’s. It was doubtful, Tom reflected with a sigh, when she would get another square meal.

Suddenly the thought came to Tom, could she not hire out to do chamber-work? She had learned to do this at Mrs. Merton’s. It would be a great deal better than sweeping the crossing, or selling papers.

Tom did not know how such situations were obtained, but it occurred to her that she could go from one house to another, and apply.

With this plan in her mind, she turned round, and walked up town again. When she reached Twenty-First Street she decided to try her luck. Accordingly she went up to the front door of a handsome house with a brown stone front, and rang the bell.

The door was opened by a servant, who waited respectfully for her to announce her errand, supposing her to be a school-mate of one of the children of the family. Her neat dress favored this mistake.

“Is the lady of the house at home?” inquired Tom.

“Who shall I say wishes to see her?” asked the servant, doubtfully.

“Does she want to hire a girl to do chamber-work?” continued Tom.

“Who wants the place?”

“I do,” said Tom.

“Then, she don’t want any,” said the girl, preparing to shut the door, with an entire change of manner. “Don’t you know better than to come to the front door? There’s the basement door below.”

“One door’s as good as another,” said Tom, independently.

“Both are too good for you,” said the servant, angry that under the influence of a mistake she had at first treated Tom with the respect due to a visitor.

“How much are you paid extra for your politeness?” asked Tom.

“Never you mind! You needn’t call again.”

Such was the result of Tom’s first application. However, she was not discouraged. She reflected that there were a good many streets in the city, and a good many houses in each street. So she walked on, and rang the bell at the next house. She concluded to take the hint which had excited her indignation, and rang the basement bell.

“Do you want a girl to do chamber-work?” she asked.

Now it so happened that a chamber-maid was wanted here, and an order had been sent to an intelligence office for one. It was naturally supposed that Tom had come in answer to the application.

“Come in,” said the servant. “I’ll tell the missis that you are here.”

She went upstairs, and shortly reappeared.

“You’re to come up,” she said.

Tom followed her upstairs, and took a seat in the hall.

Soon a lady came downstairs, with a languid step.

“Are you the girl that has applied to do chamberwork?” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” answered Tom.

“You seem very young. How old are you?”

“Twelve,” answered Tom.

“Only twelve? I am surprised that so young a girl should have been sent to me. Have you any experience?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Where have you lived?”

“At Mrs. Merton’s, No. – Sixteenth Street.”

“How long were you there?”

“Three months.”

“Have you a recommendation from her?”

“No,” answered Tom.

“Why did you leave?” asked the lady, suspiciously.

“Because she said I took some money, when I didn’t,” replied Tom, promptly.

A change came over the lady’s face,—a change that betokened little encouragement to Tom.

“I shall not be able to take you,” she said. “I wonder they should have sent you from the intelligence office.”

“They didn’t send me.”

“You were not sent from the office? How did you know I wanted a chamber-maid?”

“I didn’t know,” said Tom. “I thought you might.”

“If I had known that, I should have refused you at once. You can go downstairs, and the servants will let you out at the basement door,—down those stairs.”

“All right,” said Tom. “I can find the way; you needn’t come with me.”

This last remark led the lady to stare at Tom, uncertain whether she meant to be impudent or not. But Tom looked so unconscious of having said anything out of the way that she passed it over in silence.

Tom made two more applications, which proved equally unsuccessful. She began to think it would be more difficult to obtain a situation than she had supposed. At any rate, she resolved to defer further applications till the morrow. Something might turn up then, she reflected with something of her old philosophy.

CHAPTER XIX
THE OLD APPLE-WOMAN

When Tom had got through her unsuccessful applications for a place, it was already nearly five o’clock. She started on her way down town. Her old street life had been spent in the neighborhood of the City Hall Park. The offices of the leading daily and weekly papers may be found within a radius of a furlong from it. It is within this limit that hundreds of homeless young Arabs swarm, and struggle for a precarious living. In returning to her old life, Tom was drawn, as by a magnet, to this centre.

She walked down Fourth Avenue, and afterwards down the Bowery. It was three months since she had been in this street, which had once been so familiar to her. As she drew near the scene of her old life, she began to see familiar faces. She passed boot-blacks and newsboys whom she had once known and still remembered; but none of them appeared to recognize her. This surprised Tom at first, until she remembered what a change there was in her dress. Neatly dressed, she looked very different from the Tom who had roamed the streets in rags and tatters. She seemed to have cut adrift from her former life and from the sympathies of her old companions. This was not a pleasant thought, since she must now go back to it. Poor Tom began to regret that she had experienced anything better, since it seemed doubtful whether she would ever again be satisfied with a street life.

She did not make herself known to any of her old acquaintances, but walked slowly along till she reached the City Hall Park. She entered the inclosure and sat down on a seat. By this time she felt hungry as well as tired. She therefore purchased, before sitting down, two apples for three cents, thus diminishing her cash capital to two. The apples were large, and satisfied her appetite tolerably well. Still it was not like the dinner she would have got at Mrs. Merton’s.

Supper was provided, but it would soon be night, and she must lodge somewhere. Tom had more than once slept out, like hundreds of other street children, and not minded it; but now, after being accustomed to a good chamber and a comfortable bed, she did not feel like doing this. Besides, her clothes would be spoiled, and Tom wanted to look respectable as long as she could.

She might go back to granny, but had no disposition to do that. Whatever she might be called upon to suffer, she felt that she should be better off alone than in the power of the bad old woman who had so maltreated her.

“I wish I could earn a few pennies,” said Tom to herself. “I might buy some papers if I only had money enough.”

While she was thinking, a boot-black had been surveying her curiously. It was Mike Murphy, an old acquaintance of Tom’s. He thought he recognized her face, but her dress puzzled him. Where could Tattered Tom have procured such a stunning outfit? That was the mystery, and it made him uncertain of her identity. However, the face looked so familiar that he determined to speak.

“Is that you, Tom?” he asked.

Tom looked up, and recognised Mike at once. It seemed good to speak to an old acquaintance.

“Yes, Mike, it’s me,” said Tom, whose grammar was not yet quite faultless.

“Where’d you get them clo’es? You aint going to be married, be you?”

“Not that I know of,” said Tom.

“Where’ve you been this long time? I haven’t seen you round anywhere.”

“I’ve been livin’ up in Sixteenth Street,” said Tom. “A sailor-man took me to his sister’s, and got her to keep me.”

“Did you like it?”

“Yes,” said Tom. “I had three square meals every day. I went to school too.”

“Did he buy you them clo’es?”

“Yes.”

“Are you there now?”

“No, I left to-day.”

“What for?”

“The old woman said I stole some money, and told me I must give it back or leave the house.”

“How much did you steal?” asked Mike.

“Look here, Mike Murphy,” said Tom, indignantly, “don’t you say that again!”

“Didn’t you take anything then?”

“Of course I didn’t.”

“What made her think so?”

“I don’t know. Somebody took it, I s’pose, and she thought it was me.”

“So you had to leave?”

“Yes.”

“What are you goin’ to do now?”

“I don’t know,” said Tom. “I haven’t got but two cents, and I don’t know where to sleep.”

“Where’s the old woman you used to live with?”

“I shan’t go back to her,” said Tom, firmly. “I hate her.”

“You’ve got some good clo’es,” said Mike. “I didn’t know you, at first. I thought you was a young lady.”

“Did you?” asked Tom, rather pleased.

The time had been when she did not want to look like a young lady,—when she would have preferred to be a boy. But her tastes had changed considerably since then. Something of the instinct of her sex had sprung up in her, as she was brought to a closer knowledge of more refined ways of life. She was no longer a young Arab in her feelings, as before. Three months had wrought a great change in Tom.

“If you haven’t any place to sleep, Tom,” said Mike, “you can come along of me.”

“Can I?” asked Tom. “What’ll your mother say?”

“Oh, she won’t mind. Only you’ll maybe have to sleep on the floor.”

“I don’t mind,” said Tom. “It’ll be better than sleeping in the street. Where do you live?”

“In Mulberry Street.”

“I guess I’ll get something to do to-morrow,” said Tom.

“What did you use to do?”

“Sweep the crossings sometimes. I won’t do that again. It’s too dirty.”

“It would sp’ile them nice clo’es of yours.”

“Yes,” said Tom. “Besides, I wouldn’t want Mrs. Merton, or Mary, to see me doin’ that.”

“Who’s Mary?”

“It’s her child.”

“Did you like her?”

“No, I didn’t. She hated me too.”

“Well, I’m goin’ home. Come along, Tom.”

Tom got up from her seat with alacrity, and prepared to accompany Mike. It was a great burden off her mind to think she was likely to have a shelter for the night. Perhaps something would turn up for her the next day. This thought brought back some of her old courage and confidence.

Mike Murphy’s home was neither elegant nor spacious. Mulberry Street is not an aristocratic locality, and its residents do not in general move in fashionable society. Mrs. Murphy was a retail merchant, being the proprietor of an apple-stand on Nassau, near Spruce Street. Several years’ exposure to the weather had made her face nearly as red as the apples she dealt in, and a sedentary life had enlarged her proportions till she weighed close upon two hundred pounds. In nearly all weathers she was to be found at her post, sometimes sheltered by a huge cotton umbrella, whose original color had been changed by the sun to a pale brown. Though she had not yet been able to retire from trade upon a competence, she had earned enough, with Mike’s assistance, to support a family of six children,—in Mulberry Street style, to be sure, but they had never been obliged to go to bed hungry, and the younger children had been kept at the public school.

When Mike entered, his mother was already at home. She usually closed up her business about five o’clock, and went home to get supper.

She looked up as Mike entered, and regarded his companion with some surprise.

“What young leddy have you got with you, Mike?” asked Mrs. Murphy.

“She thinks you are a young lady, Tom,” said Mike, laughing.

“Don’t you know me, Mrs. Murphy?” asked Tom, who had known Mike’s mother for several years.

“By the powers, if it aint Tom. Shure and you’ve had a rise in the world, I’m thinkin’. Why, you’re dressed like a princess!”

“Maybe I am,” said Tom; “but if I was one I’d be richer’n I am now.”

“Tom was took up by a lady,” explained Mike; “but she’s sent her away, and she’s got nothing barrin’ her clo’es. I told her you’d let her sleep here to-night, mother.”

“To be sure I will,” said the kind-hearted woman. “It isn’t much of a bed I can offer you, Tom, but it’s better than sleepin’ out.”

“I can lie on the floor,” said Tom. “I don’t mind that.”

“But why did the leddy turn you out?” inquired the apple-merchant.

Tom told her story, which Mrs. Murphy never thought of doubting.

“She’s a hard, cruel woman. I’ll say that for her, Tom dear,” said Mrs. Murphy. “But never you mind. You’re welcome to stay here, though it’s a poor place. We’re going to have some supper directly, and you must take some with us.”

“I’ve eaten supper,” said Tom.

“What did you have?”

“Two apples.”

“I don’t say nothin’ ag’in’ apples, for it’s them I live by, but tay and toast is better for supper. Biddy, toast the bread, and I’ll set the table. When a body’s tired, a cup of tay goes to the right spot, and you’ll find it so, Tom dear.”

The good-hearted woman bustled about, and set the table, while Biddy, a girl of ten, toasted a large number of slices of bread, for the young Murphys were all blessed with good appetites. The tea soon diffused a fragrant aroma about the little room. Mrs. Murphy, humble as were her means, indulged in one solitary extravagance. She always purchased the best quality of “tay,” as she called it, no matter what might be the price.

“It’s a dale chaper than whiskey,” she used to say, in extenuation of her extravagance. “It’s mate and drink to me both, and warms me up besides, when I’ve got chilled by rason of stayin’ out all day.”

There was a plate of cold meat placed on the table. This, with the tea and toast, constituted Mrs. Murphy’s evening repast.

“You can sit by me, Tom dear,” she said, her face beaming with hospitality. “It isn’t much I’ve got, but you are heartily welcome to what there is. Children, set up to the table, all of you. Mike, see that Tom has enough to ate. There’s one thing I can give you, and that’s a cup of illigant tay, that a quane might not turn up her nose at.”

In spite of the two apples, Tom made room for a fair share of Mrs. Murphy’s supper. Once more she felt that she had a home, humble enough, to be sure, but made attractive by kindness.

“I wish I could stay here,” thought Tom; and it occurred to her that she might be able to make such an arrangement with the old apple-woman, on condition of paying a certain sum towards the family expenses.

CHAPTER XX
TOM SPECULATES IN GOLD

During the evening some of the neighbors came in, and received a hearty greeting from Mrs. Murphy.

“And who is this young leddy?” asked Mrs. O’Brien, looking at Tom.

“It’s a friend of mine,” said Mrs. Murphy.

“Don’t you know me?” asked Tom, who, in the days of her rags and tatters, had known Mrs. O’Brien.

“Shure and it isn’t Tom?” said Mrs. O’Brien, in surprise.

“Did ye iver see such a change?” said Mrs. Murphy. “Shure and I didn’t know her meself when she came in wid my Mike.”

“It’s mighty fine you’re dressed, Tom,” said Mrs. O’Brien. “Your granny aint come into a fortun’, has she?”

“I don’t live with granny now,” answered Tom. “She’s a bad old woman, and she isn’t my granny either.”

“It was only yesterday I saw her, and fine she was dressed too, wid a nice shawl to her back, and quite the leddy, barrin’ a red nose. She says she’s come into some money.”

Tom opened wide her eyes in astonishment. She had speculated more than once on granny’s circumstances, but it had never entered her thoughts that she had taken a step upwards in respectability.

“Where did you see her?” asked Tom.

“She was gettin’ out of a Third Avenue car. She said she had just come from up town.”

“She was lookin’ after me, it’s likely,” said Tom.

“Where did she get her new clothes from?” Tom wondered.

“Maybe she’s been adopted by a rich family in Fifth Avenoo,” remarked Mike,—a sally which nearly convulsed his mother with laughter.

“Shure, Mike, and you’ll be the death of me some time,” she said.

“She’d make an interestin’ young orphan,” continued Mike.

“Hadn’t you better marry her, Mike? and then you’d be my grandfather,” suggested Tom.

“Such a beauty aint for the likes of me,” answered Mike. “Besides, mother wouldn’t want her for a daughter-in-law. She’d likely get jealous of her good looks.”

“O Mike, you’re a case!” said Mrs. Murphy, with a smile on her broad, good-humored face.

So the evening passed, enlivened with remarks, not very intellectual or refined, it is true, but good-natured, and at times droll. Tom enjoyed it. She had a home-feeling, which she had never had at Mrs. Merton’s; and above all she was cheered by the thought that she was welcome, though the home was humble enough.

By and by the callers departed, and the family made preparations for bed.

“I can’t give you a very nice bed, Tom,” said Mrs. Murphy, “but I’ll fix you up a place to slape on the floor wid my Biddy.”

“That’ll be jolly,” said Tom. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d have to sleep out in the street.”

“That would be a pity, entirely, as long as I have a roof over me. There’s room enough for you, Tom, and it won’t be robbin’ any of us.”

Tom slept comfortably. Her bed was not one of the softest; but she had never been used to beds of down, sleeping on a hard straw bed even at Mrs. Merton’s. She woke, feeling refreshed, and in much better spirits than when she set out from Mrs. Merton’s.

When breakfast was over, Mrs. Murphy set out for her place of business, and Mike for his daily occupation. Biddy remained at home to take charge of the younger children. With the rest Tom went too.

“Come back to-night, Tom,” said Mrs. Murphy.

“I should like to,” said Tom, “if you’ll let me pay for my board.”

“Shure we won’t quarrel about that. And what are you goin’ to do, Tom, the day?”

“I don’t know,” said Tom. “If I had any money I’d buy some papers.”

“How much wud you want?”

“Twenty-five cents would give me a start.”

Mrs. Murphy dived into the recesses of a capacious pocket, and drew out a handful of currency.

“I’ll lind it to you,” she said. “Why didn’t you ask me before?”

“Thank you,” said Tom. “I’ll bring it back to-night. You’re very kind to me, Mrs. Murphy,” she added, gratefully.

“It’s the poor that knows how to feel for the poor,” said the apple-woman. “It’s I that’ll trust you, Tom, dear.”

Three months before Tom would have told Mrs. Murphy that she was a trump; but though some of her street phrases clung to her, she was beginning to use less of the slang which she had picked up during her long apprenticeship to a street life. Though her position, even at Mrs. Merton’s, had not been as favorable as it might have been elsewhere, the influences were far better than in the home (if it deserved the name) in which she had been reared, and the association of the school which she attended had, likewise, been of advantage to her. I do not wish it to be understood that Tom had in three months changed from a young Arab into a refined young lady. That would be hardly possible; but she had begun to change, and she could never again be quite the wild, reckless girl whose acquaintance we made at the street-crossing.

Tom went out with Mrs. Murphy, helping her to carry her basket of apples. Leaving her at her accustomed stand, she went to the newspaper offices, and laid in a small supply. With these she went to Fulton Ferry, partly because she fancied that there was no danger of granny’s coming there in pursuit of her. Even if the encounter did take place she was resolved not to go back. Still it was better to avoid it altogether.

Tom was rather late in the field. Most of her competitors had been selling papers for an hour, and some had already sold quite a number. However, not being in the least bashful, she managed to obtain her share of the trade that remained. The boats came in at frequent intervals, loaded down with passengers,—clerks, shop-boys, merchants, bankers, book-keepers, operatives, who made a home in Brooklyn, but spent the day in the busy metropolis.

“Morning papers, sir?” asked Tom, to a rather portly gentleman, who did business in Wall Street.

“Yes; give me the ‘Herald.’”

He drew a coin from his pocket, and handed to Tom.

“Never mind about the change,” he said.

Tom was about to put it in her pocket, supposing from the size that it was a five-cent piece; but, chancing to glance at it more particularly, she saw that it was a five-dollar gold piece.

Her eyes sparkled with joy. To her it was an immense fortune. She had never, in all her life, had so much money before. “But did he mean to give her so much?” was the question that suggested itself to her immediately. He had, to be sure, told her to keep the change, but Tom knew too much of human nature and the ways of the world to think it likely that anybody would pay five dollars in gold for a morning paper, without asking for a return of the change.

Now I am quite aware that in three cases out of four the lucky news-vender would have profited by the mistake, and never thought of offering to correct it. Indeed, I am inclined to think that Tom herself would have done the same three months before. Even now she was strongly tempted to do so. But she remembered the false charge that had been made against her by Mrs. Merton the day before, and the indignation she felt.

“If I keep this, and it’s ever found out, she’ll be sure I took the twenty dollars,” thought Tom. “I won’t do it. I won’t let her call me a thief. I’ll give it back.”

The purchaser of the paper was already half through Fulton Market before Tom made up her mind to return the money. She started on a run, afraid her resolution might give way if she stopped to consider.

She easily recognized the man who had paid her the money.

“Mister,” said Tom, touching him to attract his attention.

“What’s wanted?” he inquired, looking at our heroine.

“Did you mean to give me this?” and Tom displayed the gold piece.

“Did I give it to you?”

“Yes, you bought a ‘Herald,’ you know, and told me to keep the change.”

“Well, why didn’t you?” he asked, in some curiosity.

“I thought you made a mistake.”

“I shouldn’t have found it out. Didn’t you want to keep it?”

“Yes,” said Tom, unhesitatingly.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I thought it would be stealing.”

“You’re a natural phenomenon!”

“Is that a bad name?” demanded Tom.

“No, not in this case. So I told you to keep the change, did I?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you’d better do it.”

“Do you mean it?” asked Tom, astonished.

“To be sure. I never break my word.”

“Then I’ll do it,” said Tom. “Aint I in luck this morning, though?”

“Yes, I think you are. As I probably know more of business than you, my young friend, will you permit me to give you a piece of advice?”

“All right,” said Tom.

“Then, as gold is at a premium, you had better sell that gold piece, and take the value in currency.”

“Where can I sell it?” asked Tom.

“I don’t, in general, solicit business, but, if you have confidence in my integrity, you may call at my office, No. – Wall Street, any time to-day, and I will give you the market value of the gold.”

“I don’t understand all them big words,” said Tom, rather puzzled, “but I’ll go as soon as I have sold my papers.”

“Very good. You may ask for Mr. Dunbar. Can you remember the name?”

Tom said she could, repeating it two or three times, to become familiar with it.

An hour later she entered the broker’s office, looking about her for her acquaintance of the morning.

“Ah, there you are,” said the broker, recognizing her.

“So you want to sell your gold?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Gold sells at 141 to-day. Will that be satisfactory?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Johnson,” said Mr. Dunbar, addressing a clerk, “give that young lady value in currency for five dollars in gold.”

Tom handed in the gold, and received in return seven dollars and five cents. She could hardly credit her good luck, not being familiar with the mysteries of banking.

“Thank you, sir,” said she gratefully, to the broker.

“I hope you will favor us with any future business you may have in our line,” said Mr. Dunbar, with a friendly smile.

“Yes, sir,” answered Tom, rather mystified by his manner, but mentally deciding that he was one of the jolliest gentlemen she had ever met.

When Tom emerged from the office, and was once more in the hurry and bustle of Wall Street, it is very doubtful whether, in that street of millionnaires and men striving to become such, there was a single one who felt so fabulously wealthy as she.