Tattered Tom

CHAPTER XVII

THE GOLD PENCIL

Mrs. Merton was taken by surprise when she found that Tom had actually gone. Her conviction remained unshaken that she had stolen Mr. Holland’s money, and she considered that she had been forbearing in not causing her arrest.

“Your uncle cannot blame me,” she said to Mary, “for sending her away. He cannot expect me to keep a thief in my house.”

“To be sure not,” said Mary, promptly. “I am glad she has gone. You couldn’t expect much from a girl that was brought up in the streets.”

“That is true. I don’t see, for my part, what your uncle saw in her.”

“Nor I. She’s a rude, hateful thing.”

“She denied taking the money.”

“Of course,” said Mary. “She wouldn’t mind lying any more than stealing.”

Mary felt very much relieved at the way things had turned out. After taking the money, she had become frightened lest in some way suspicion might be directed towards herself. As she had hoped, her fault had been laid to Tom, and now she felt comparatively safe. She had not yet dared to use the money, but thought she might venture to do so soon.

She went up to her bedroom, and, after locking the door, opened her trunk. The four five-dollar bills were carefully laid away in one corner, underneath a pile of clothes. Mary counted them over with an air of satisfaction. Her conscience did not trouble her much as long as the fear of detection was removed.

“Mr. Holland won’t miss the money,” she thought, “and everybody’ll think Jane took it.”

The thought of her own meanness in depriving Tom of a good home, and sending her out into the street without shelter or money, never suggested itself to the selfish girl. She felt glad to be rid of her, and did not trouble herself about any discomforts or privations that she might experience.

Three days later Mary felt that she might venture to buy the pencil which she had so long coveted. Tom’s disappearance was accepted by all in the house as a confirmation of the charge of theft, and no one else was likely to be suspected. Not knowing how much the pencil was likely to cost, Mary took the entire twenty dollars with her. She stopped on her way from school at a jewelry store only a few blocks distant from her mother’s house. She was unwise in not going farther away, since this increased the chances of her detection.

“Let me look at your gold pencils,” she asked, with an air of importance.

The salesman produced a variety of pencils, varying in price.

Mary finally made choice of one that cost twelve dollars.

She paid over the money with much satisfaction, for the pencil was larger and handsomer than those belonging to her companions, which had excited her envy. She also bought a silk chain, to which she attached it, and then hung it round her neck.

Though Mary was not aware of it, her entrance into the jewelry store had been remarked by Mrs. Carver, a neighbor and acquaintance of her mother’s. Mrs. Carver, like some others of her sex, was gifted with curiosity, and wondered considerably what errand had carried Mary into the jeweller’s.

Bent upon finding out, she entered the store and approached the counter.

“What did that young girl buy?” she asked.

“You mean that one who just went out?”

“Yes.”

“A gold pencil-case.”

“Indeed,” said Mrs. Carver, looking surprised. “How expensive a pencil did she buy?”

“She paid twelve dollars.”

“Will you show me one like it?”

A pencil, precisely similar, was shown Mrs. Carver, the clerk supposing she wished to purchase. But she had obtained all the information she desired.

“I won’t decide to-day,” she said. “I will come in again.”

“There’s some mystery about this,” said Mrs. Carver to herself. “I wonder where Mary got so much money; surely, her mother could not have given it to her. If she did, all I have to say is, that she is very extravagant for a woman that keeps boarders for a living.”

Mrs. Carver was one of those women who feel a very strong interest in the business of others. The friends with whom she was most intimate were most likely to incur her criticism. In the present instance she was determined to fathom the mystery of the gold pencil.

Mary went home with her treasure. Of course she knew that its possession would excite surprise, and she had a story prepared to account for it. She felt a little nervous, but had little doubt that her account would be believed.

As she anticipated, the pencil at once attracted her mother’s attention.

“Whose pencil is that, Mary?” she asked.

“Mine, mother.”

“Yours? Where did you get it?” inquired her mother, in surprise.

“Sue Cameron gave it to me. She’s my bosom friend, you know.”

“Let me see it. It isn’t gold—is it?”

“Yes, it’s solid gold,” said Mary, complacently.

“But I don’t understand her giving you so expensive a present. It must have cost a good deal.”

“So it did. Sue said it cost twelve dollars.”

“Then how came she to give it to you?”

“Oh, her father’s awful rich! Besides, Sue has had another pencil given to her, and she didn’t want but one; so she gave me this.”

“It looks as if it were new.”

“Yes, she has had it only a short time.”

“When did she give it to you?”

“This morning. She promised it to me a week ago,” said Mary, in a matter-of-fact manner which quite deceived her mother.

“She has certainly been very kind to you. She must like you very much.”

“Yes, she does. She likes me better than any of the other girls.”

“Why don’t you invite her to come and see you? You ought to be polite to her, since she is so kind.”

This suggestion was by no means pleasing to Mary. In the first place Sue Cameron was by no means the intimate friend she represented, and in the next, if she called and Mrs. Merton referred to the gift, it would at once let the cat out of the bag, and Mary would be in trouble. Therefore she said, “I’ll invite her, mother, but I don’t think she’ll come.”

“Why not?”

“She lives away up on Fifth Avenue, and is not allowed to make visits without some one of the family. The Camerons are very rich, you know, and stuck up. Only Sue is not.”

“You’d better invite her, however, Mary, since she is such a friend of yours.”

“Yes, I will, only you must not be surprised if she does not come.”

The next afternoon Mrs. Carver dropped in for a call. While she was talking with Mrs. Merton, Mary came into the room. Her gold pencil was ostentatiously displayed.

“How do you do, Mary?” said the visitor. “What a handsome pencil-case you have!”

“One of her school friends gave it to her,” explained Mrs. Merton.

“Indeed!” returned Mrs. Carver, with an emphasis which bespoke surprise.

“Yes,” continued Mrs. Merton, unconsciously. “It was a Miss Cameron, whose father lives on Fifth Avenue. Her father is very rich, and she is very fond of Mary.”

“I should think she was—uncommonly,” remarked Mrs. Carver.

“There’s some secret here,” she thought. “I must find it out.”

“Mary, my dear,” she said, aloud, “come here, and let me look at your pencil.”

Mary advanced reluctantly. There was something in the visitor’s tone that made her feel uncomfortable. It was evident that Mrs. Carver did not accept the account she had given as readily as her mother.

“It is a very handsome pencil,” said Mrs. Carver, after examination. “You are certainly very lucky, Mary. My Grace is not so fortunate. So this Mrs. Cameron lives on Fifth Avenue?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And her father sends her to a public school. That’s rather singular,—isn’t it?”

“So it is,” said Mrs. Merton. “I didn’t think of that. And the family is very proud too, you say, Mary?”

Mary by this time was quite willing to leave the subject, but Mrs. Carver was not disposed to do so.

“I don’t know why it is,” said Mary. “I suppose they think she will learn more at public schools.”

“Now I think of it,” said Mrs. Carver, meditatively, “this pencil looks very much like one I saw at Bennett’s the other day.”

The color rushed to Mary’s face in alarm. Her mother did not observe it, but Mrs. Carver did. But she quickly recovered herself.

“Perhaps it was bought there,—I don’t know,” she said.

“She carries it off well,” thought Mrs. Carver. “Never mind, I’ll find out some time.”

Mary made some excuse for leaving the room, and the visitor asked:—

“How is that girl getting along whom your brother left with you?”

Mrs. Merton shook her head.

“She’s turned out badly,” she said.

“What has she done?”

“She stole twenty dollars from Mr. Holland’s room. He left his pocket-book on the bureau, and she took out the money.”

“Did she confess it?”

“No, she stoutly denied it. I told her, if she would confess, I would forgive her, and let her stay in the house. But she remained obstinate, and went away.”

“Are you convinced that she took it?” asked Mrs. Carver, who now suspected where the gold pencil came from.

“It could have been no one else. She was in the room, making the beds, and sweeping, in the morning.

“Still, she may have been innocent.”

“Then who could have taken the money?”

“Somebody that wanted a gold pencil,” returned Mrs. Carver, nodding significantly.

“What!” exclaimed Mrs. Merton, aghast. “You don’t mean to hint that Mary took it?”

“I mean this, that she bought the pencil herself at Bennett’s, as I happen to know. Where she got the money from, you can tell better than I can.”

“I can’t believe it,” said Mrs. Merton, very much perturbed.

“Didn’t you see how she flushed up when I said I had seen a pencil like it at Bennett’s? However, you can ask her.”

Mrs. Merton could not rest now till she had ascertained the truth. Mary was called, and, after an attempt at denial, finally made confession in a flood of tears.

“How could you let me send Jane away on account of your fault?” asked her mother, much disturbed.

“I didn’t dare to own it. You won’t tell, mother?”

“I must return the money to Mr. Holland.”

“You can tell him that it was accidentally found.”

This Mrs. Merton finally agreed to do, not wishing to expose her own child. She was really a kind-hearted woman, and was very sorry for her injustice to Tom.

“What will your uncle say?” she inquired, after Mrs. Carver had gone.

“Don’t tell him,” said Mary. “It’s better for Jane to go, or he would be making her his heiress. Now I shall stand some chance. You can tell him that Jane went away of her own accord.”

Mrs. Merton was human. She thought it only fair that one of her daughters should inherit their uncle’s money in preference to a girl taken from the streets, and silently acquiesced. So the money was restored to Mr. Holland, and he was led to think that Tom had left it behind her, while the real perpetrator of the theft retained her gold pencil, and escaped exposure.

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.”