CHAPTER V.
THE ANGEL RESCUES MR. TOMLIN.
It was on the afternoon that Mary carried back her week's completed work that Norma, receiving an unexpected summons to the Opera House, was obliged, though with many misgivings, to leave the Angel in the charge of Joey. "But what else could I do," she reasoned afterward, "with Mrs. O'Malligan out and Mrs. Tomlin sick, and nobody else willing, it appeared, to see to her?"
True, she had cautioned Joey, over and over again about keeping the child away from the window, and about staying right in the room until her return; but, notwithstanding, Norma could hardly have gotten to the corner before Joey, promptly forgetting his promise, and finding the room a dull playground, was enticing his charge into the hall and straightway down the stairs.
At the bottom of the second flight, the two children came upon Mr. Tomlin entertaining two gentlemen callers. Only the week before, the Tenement had been called upon to mourn with the Tomlins, whose baby had been carried away in a little coffin after the fashion of tenement babies when the thermometer climbs up the scale near to one hundred. And since then, Mrs. Tomlin, refusing to be comforted, had taken to her bed, thus making it necessary for her husband to receive his company in the hall.
The callers, who, together with their host, were sitting on the steps, moved aside to allow the children to pass. The larger of the gentlemen was unpleasantly dirty, with a ragged beard and a shock of red hair. The other was a little man with quick black eyes and a pleasant smile. Passing these by, the Angel paused on the step above Mr. Tomlin and slipped her arms around his neck.
"Pick a back, my Tomlin," she sweetly commanded in the especially imperious tones she reserved for Mr. Tomlin's sex, "get up, horsey."
The good-natured giant, for such her Tomlin was, shouldered her as one would some precious burden liable to break, grinned, stood up and obediently trotted the length of the hall and back.
Joey, meanwhile, legs apart, stood eyeing the visitors attentively. "Keep up that kind of talk," the dirty gentleman was urging, "and we've got him. He's worth any three of ordinary strength, and he's a favorite with the men, too."
Here the horse and his rider returned. "What a got in a pocket for Angel?" the young autocrat proceeded to demand when lifted down. Of all her masculine subjects in the Tenement, Mr. Tomlin was her veriest slave.
He produced a soiled but gay advertising picture. Her ladyship put out her hand. "But you must give us a dance fer it," coaxed Mr. Tomlin, anxious to display the talent of the Tenement. "She's the young 'un as dances at the Op'ry House, the kid is," he explained to his visitors, "they've had her pictoor in the papers, too. Miss Bonkowski, the chorus-lady upstairs, she's got one of them, came out in a Sunday supplement, though I can't say I see the likeness myself."
At this, the two gentlemen, who had seemed decidedly bored than otherwise at the interruption, deigned to bestow a moment of their attention upon the beautiful child in the faded gingham dress.
"She got skeered to the theyater the other day," put in Joey, "an' most cried when they clapped so, an' they promised her anything she wanted if she wouldn't next time——"
"And her didn't cwy," declared the baby, turning a pair of indignantly reproachful eyes upon Joey, "her danced, her didn't cwy."
"Ain't yer goin' to dance fer us now?" coaxed Mr. Tomlin.
"No," said the Angel naughtily, then relenting at sight of her Tomlin's face, "her'll sing, her won't dance."
The pleasant gentleman, thinking, perhaps to please Mr. Tomlin, or maybe to get rid of them the sooner, produced a red ribbon badge. "Ef ze will sing," he said, showing his white teeth as he smiled, "ze shall hav it."
Turning to view this new party, her ladyship treated him to a brief examination, but evidently approving of him, began to sing with no more ado:
"Je suis si l'enfant gaté
Tra la la la, tra la la,
Car je les aime les petits patés.
Et les confitures,
Si vous voulez me les donner
Je suis très bien obligé,
Tra la la la, tra la la,
Tra la la la, tra la la."
Only a word here and there could have been intelligible, but their effect upon the pleasant gentleman was instantaneous. He broke into a torrent of foreign exclamations and verbosity, showing his teeth and gesticulating with his hands.
A strange light came into the baby's face and she held out her arms to the little man entreatingly. "Oui, oui," she cried, a spot of red burning on each cheek, "you take Angel to her mamma, take Angel to her mamma!"
But here the door of the Tomlin's room opened hastily, and the neighbor who was sitting with the sick woman thrust out her head. "She's talkin' mighty wild an' out her head," she said, "you'd better come to her."
Mr. Tomlin rose hastily, while the dark little man, yielding to the child's entreaties, took her in his arms.
But the red-headed gentleman laid a dirty hand on Mr. Tomlin's arm. "Just as I was saying," he said, as if resuming a broken-off conversation, "no doctor, no medicine. Why? No work, no wages. Why? The heel of the rich man grinding the poor to the earth."
Mr. Tomlin hesitated.
"It's entirely a meeting of Union men. No violence advocated. A mass-meeting to discuss appointing committees to demand work."
"Ze outcry of ze oppressed," put in the pleasant gentleman, looking out from behind the Angel's fair little head, and showing his white teeth in his smile, "in zer union ees zere only strength."
Mr. Tomlin's door opened still more violently. "She's a-beggin' as you'll get her some ice," announced the neighbor, "she says she's burnin' up."
"God A'mighty!" burst forth the giant, "I ain't got a cent on earth to get her nothin'," and he turned toward the two men fiercely, his great brows meeting over his sullen eyes, "yes, I'll come, you can count on me," and he went in the door.
"Liberty Square by the statue, four o'clock," called the dirty gentleman after him, while the pleasant gentleman put the Angel hastily down. "Adieu, mon enfant," he cried, showing his teeth as he smiled back over his shoulder, and followed his companion down the stairs.
In time Joey and his weeping charge also reached the bottom. Not a word of the conversation had escaped the sharp ears of the Major. "It's past two, now," he soliloquized, "an' he said Liberty Square, four o'clock. I know where the statoo is. Yer follows the cars from front of th' arm'ry an' they goes right there, 'cause that's where the Cap'n's office is. Don'tcher cry no more, Angel," with insinuating coaxing in his tones, "I'll take yer there if yer wanter go."
The Angel slipped her hand in his obediently, and the two forthwith proceeded to leave the neighborhood of the Tenement behind them, undeterred by the friendly overtures of Petey O'Malligan and his colleagues to join in with their pastimes.
"We ain't got no time fer foolin'," confided Joey, hurrying her along, "there'll be flags an' hollerin', an' we wanter get there in time."
On reaching the car line the small Major was obliged to slacken his speed, for, while, in a measure, the Angel had caught the spirit of his enthusiasm, yet her legs refused to keep pace with his haste.
"Ef yer was still ter heaven, Angel," the Major pondered, as they stood on the street corner getting breath, "yerz wouldn't need ter use yer legs at all, would yer? Yer'd jus' take out an' fly across this yere street, waggins an' trucks an' all, wouldn't yer?"
The Angel cast her eyes upon him doubtfully.
"That's what my mammy tol' me about Angels," Joey declared stoutly.
"Angel didn't a never fly," nevertheless the baby stated with conviction.
Joey looked disappointed, and even unconvinced. Then his face brightened. "That's 'cause you was too little, like that canary at th' Res't'rant what ain't got its feathers yet. You was too little fer yer wings to have growed afore you come away," and his lively imagination having thus settled the problem, the two continued their way.
"Yer see how it is," he observed presently, evidently having been revolving the subject in his busy brain, "ef Mis' Tomlin had th' doctor an' some ice, she'd get well, she would, an' Mr. Tomlin, he's goin' to this yere meetin' to see about work, so's he can get 'em fer her. But 'tain't no use fer workin' men to beg for work these yere days," he added with a comical air of wisdom. "I heerd Old G. A. R. say, I did, to a man what comes ter talk politics wid him, that beggin' th' rich people to help yer was jus' like buttin' yer head agin a brick wall, so what good's it goin' ter do if he does go?"
The Angel nodded amiably, and slipped her hand in Joey's that she might the better keep up. They had passed the region of small shops and were passing through a better portion of the city. Before a tall stone house, one of a long row, a girl stood singing, while a boy played an accompaniment on a harp. As Joey and his charge reached them, a lady, with a group of children clustered about her, threw some pennies out the window to the young musicians.
"Did yer see that, Angel," demanded Joey, "did yer ketch onter that little game? We c'n do that. I c'n whis'le an' you c'n sing, an' we'll make 'nough to get Mis' Tomlin th' ice ourselves. If yer do," continued the wily Joey, "I tell yer what,—we'll go home on the cable cars, we will." And he hurried his small companion along the sunny sidewalks, still following the line of the cable cars, until they came to a business street again, this time of large and handsome stores. Here, before the most imposing, Joey paused, and cast a calculating eye upon the stream of shoppers passing in and out. "Now, Angel, sing," he commanded.
The footsore, tired Angel, hot and cross, declined to do it. "Her wants to sit down an' west," she declared.
"We'll sit down out there on ther curbstone an' rest soon as yer sing some," promised the Major. So, taking up their stand on the flagging outside the entrance of the big store, the bare-headed Angel, in her worn gingham frock, highbred and beautiful as a little princess, despite it, struck up with as much effect as a bird's twitter might make. Finding that his whistle in no way corresponded to the song, Joey wisely contented himself with holding out his soldier's cap.
Two such babies, one with so innocent, and the other with so comically knowing a smile, could not but attract attention. Some laughed, some sighed, some stopped to question, many dropped pennies and some put nickels, and even a dime or two into Joey's cap, while one stout and good-humored woman opened the paper bag she carried and put a sponge cake in each hand. But at this point, seeing that the policeman in charge of the crossing had more than once cast a questioning eye upon them, Joey decided to move on. "We'll have ter hurry anyhow," he observed, "ter get to ther speakin' in time. If you'll come on, Angel, 'thout restin', I'll tell yer what,—I'll buy yer a banana, I will, first ones we see." And the weary Angel, thus beguiled, dragged her tired feet along in Joey's wake.
*****
The slanting rays from the setting sun were falling across Liberty Square, on the statue of that great American who declared all men to be created equal, on the sullen faces of hundreds of idle men who stood beneath its shadow, listening to speech after speech from various speakers, speeches of a nature best calculated to coax the smouldering resentment in their hearts into a blaze.
On the outskirts of the park-like square a small boy was urging a smaller girl to hurry. "Angel's legs won't go no more," the diminutive female was wailing as her companion dragged her along.
Meanwhile the impassioned words of the last oration were being echoed and emphasized by mutterings and imprecations. The mob, in fact, was beginning to respond, just as its promoters had intended that it should, and as their dangerous eloquence continued to pour forth, the emotions of the crowd accordingly grew fiercer, louder, until from sullen mutterings, the applauding echoes grew to clamor and uproar. And following the impassioned harangue of the last speaker upon the program—a red-haired gentleman, unpleasantly dirty—the cheers gave place to groans, the groans grew to threats, to curses, and the confusion spread like the roar of a coming storm.
Suddenly above the noise, came the measured tramp of feet. In the momentary lull succeeding, "The police, the police," a voice rang out on the silence, and the single cry swelled to a roar from hundreds of throats, and as suddenly died away to an expectant silence. At that a voice, loud with authority, rang out upon the stillness, "In the name of the Commonwealth," the measured words declared, "I command you to immediately and peaceably disperse!"
The answer came in a chorus of jeers, hoots, yells of derision, and the howling mob began to seize whatever promised to be a weapon of defense or attack. Growing in numbers as dusk fell, the crowd now was spreading back into the surrounding streets. Merchants who had not already done so, were hurriedly closing their stores. The cars were blocked, and foot travellers fleeing in all directions. From the thickest of the crowd, a mighty creature of bone and muscle, a giant in height and breadth, grasping an iron support twisted from a bench, had forced his way out to the street, and now was using it to pry up the bricks from the sidewalk, which in turn were seized by his companions.
Above the uproar and confusion the voice of authority, ringing out its words of command, was heard again.
Head and shoulders above the crowd, the giant stood erect, waving his iron bar above his head. "At 'em, men," he cried, "at 'em before they fire!"
But as he paused, another cry arose, a frightened, childish wail, that came from a very diminutive female clinging to his knees. "My Tomlin," it cried.
The giant's arm dropped, and as the crowd swept on and left him standing, Mr. Tomlin looked down to behold the Angel, and holding fast to her, the badly frightened but defiant personage of Joey.
The giant caught the Angel up in his arms. "Hold on to my coat," he cried to Joey, and speedily, such of the crowd as had not swept by in their charge against the police, fell back on either side before Mr. Tomlin's mighty fist. Fighting desperately, he reached the edge, and seizing Joey, dragged him across the car tracks as the crash of stones, the breaking of glass, the sharp crack of firearms, told of the meeting of the forces behind him.
Howls of rage, of pain, of defiance answered, followed by further crashing of stones and splintering of glass in street lights and car windows, and not until they were several squares removed from the scene of action did Mr. Tomlin pause. He then laid a heavy hand on Joey. "By all that's—" he began.
But Joey was ready for him, and hastily began to pour his earnings from his jacket pocket in a pile upon the flagging. "Me an' Angel made it a-singin' on the street fer to get ice fer Mis' Tomlin," the wily one explained. And the tender-hearted giant, gazing from one small figure to the other, forthwith began to sob like a child.
And, oh, the rejoicings of the distracted Tenement when the lost Angel was returned! And how Joey was seized and violently threatened to be as violently forgiven. Mrs. Tomlin, given ice to her heart's content, fell asleep, blessing the Angel for having rescued her husband from the almost certain hands of the law. And when, next day, it was learned that various and sundry of Mr. Tomlin's friends, among them the red-haired gentleman and his dark companion, had been arrested, while Mr. Tomlin was safe at home, the Angel became more than ever the pride and idol of the Tenement.
"There's some'n' mighty wrong," Mr. Tomlin was heard arguing soon after, "for a man with the bone and muscle to 'em as I've got, wantin' work an' willin' to do anything, yet havin' to starve—but whatever it is as is wrong, I'm thinkin' mobs ain't the way to right it."
"An' if he'd only hed th' sinse to make the furrin' gintleman as could talk the gibberish to question th' Angel choild," said Mrs. O'Malligan indignantly, "sure an' we moight have larned all about her by this toime, entoirely, for there's mony a thing she's tried to tell us an' can't for the want of a worrud. But foind me a man of yer as does any thinkin' 'thout his woman there to prompt him," she quoth contemptuously, "an' I'll foind ye a polaceman as isn't a meddler in other folks' affairs, as this yere mob is jist anither provin' of."
CHAPTER VI.
THE MAJOR SUPERINTENDS THE ANGEL'S
EDUCATION.
"It's a nice, cool morning," said the ever sanguine Miss Bonkowski to Joey, one day late in September, "so, if you will give me your solemn promise—" and Miss Norma paused impressively, emphasizing her words with nods of her blonde head, "not to go to any speakings, nor yet to the dock to fish, nor to any fires, or to a procession, even if it's right around the corner," and Miss Norma drew breath as she finished the enumerating of his various exploits, "why, Angel here can play with you until Mary Carew comes down to get her."
The Major—his cap a little more battered, his belt somewhat the worse from constant wear, but clean as to face and hands, having just emerged from the morning inspection of the Armory janitor, better known to the neighborhood as Old G. A. R.—treated Miss Bonkowski to a salute and a confidential wink, and edged up to the smiling Angel's side. "Yer jus' leave her wid me," he responded reassuringly, "an' I ain't goin' to do nothin' as ain't square."
And Miss Norma, whose faith in human nature, phœnix-like, ever sprang up anew from the blighted hopes of former trust, accordingly turned her darling over to Joey and hurried off. "For she's obliged to have some one to play with and to get some fresh air somehow," the chorus-lady argued for her own re-assuring, though it remains a mystery as to how she could deceive herself into considering the garbage-scented atmosphere of the neighborhood as fresh, "and Joey's by far the best of the lot around here."
Meanwhile, the small subject of all this solicitude, in clean frock and smiling good-humor, responded at once to Joey's proposal, and the two sat down on the curbstone. In the constant companionship of their two months' acquaintance, the little Major's growing interest in the Angel had assumed almost fatherly proportions. Hitherto this zeal had taken itself out in various expeditions for her entertainment similar to the one ending in Mr. Tomlin's rescue. To-day it was produced in the shape of a somewhat damaged peach purchased with a stray penny. But the Angel, in her generous fashion, insisting on a division of the dainty, Joey at first stoutly declining, weakened and took half, seeing to it, however, that his was the damaged side.
"When yer was up there," he observed unctiously as he devoured his portion—and he nodded his round little head toward that foggy and smoky expanse about them, popularly believed by the population about the Tenement to be the abode of angels—"when yer was up there, yer had these kinder things every day, didn't yer?"
If her small ladyship's word could be taken for it, in that other life still remembered by her, she had everything, even to hoky-poky ad libitum, to her heart's content, though her testimony framed itself into somewhat more halting and uncertain English.
"What did yer do up there, anyhow?" queried Joey curiously.
"Danced," the Angel declared, daintily devoting herself to her portion of the peach, "her danced and—her danced."
This earthly vocation seemed to fail to appeal to Joey's imagination. "Nothin' else?" he demanded anxiously. "Didn't yer never do nothin' else?"
But the Angel had fallen to poking the green contents of the gutter with a stick, and seemed to find the present more fascinating to contemplate than the past.
"Didn't yer never go nowhere?" persisted Joey.
"Her went to school," the Angel admitted, or so it sounded to Joey.
"What 'ud yer do at school?" he inquired.
"Danced," was the Angel's unmistakable announcement.
Joey looked disgusted, but soon recovered and fell to revolving a new idea in his fertile young brain.
"I know where there is a school," he remarked. "I've never went, but I hung on ter the window-sill an' looked in, an' if yer went ter school up there, yer oughter be goin' down here, see!" And forthwith Joey arose.
Amiable as her small ladyship usually was, on this occasion, seeing determination written on Joey's small countenance, she rebelled. "Angel yants to stay here," the young lady declared, continuing to poke at the contents of the gutter.
"I don't wanter make her cry," argued Joey wisely, then cast about in his mind for an inducement. "They have parties to that school, they do," finally he observed, "fer I seen 'em settin' 'round tables an' eatin' one day."
The guileless infant rose to the bait at once, and dropped her stick and slipped her confiding hand in Joey's. "Angel likes to have parties," she declared, and thus lured on, she forthwith followed Joey down the street.
*****
"Some one to see me," repeated pretty Miss Stannard, of the Darcy College Settlement's Free Kindergarten, and laying down her blocks she went to the door.
On the steps outside the entrance stood a small, chubby-cheeked boy smiling up out of knowing brown eyes from beneath a soldier's cap many sizes too large for him, while behind him stood a slender, graceful child with wonderful shining hair, and eyes equally as smiling.
The small boy treated the tall, pretty young lady to a most confiding nod and a wink. "I've brought her ter school," he remarked.
"Oh, have you?" returned the young lady laughing, "then I'd better invite you in, I suppose," and she led the way toward the entry-room where hung some dozens of shabby hats and bonnets. "And what is your name?" she inquired.
"Her name is Angel, it is," responded the little fellow briskly, with emphasis on the pronoun, as if to let the young lady understand at once that her interest need extend no further than to the prospective pupil.
"Didn't a know I are Angel?" queried the smiling cherub with her accustomed egotistical surprise.
"And what is your other name?" questioned Miss Stannard smiling.
"She ain't got no more," returned the escort succinctly.
"And what is yours?"
"Mine—oh, I'm just the Major, I am," with off-hand loftiness.
"Indeed? And where do you live, Major?"
"Fourth Reg'ment Arm'ry," responded the Major glibly.
"And the little girl,—Angel—you said—"
The Major looked somewhat surprised, "They come from Heaven,—Angels do, yer know," he remarked, staring a little at the tall young lady's want of such knowledge.
"Yes," responded the pretty lady gently, "but where is she living now?"
"Round by me," said the small boy briefly, showing some restlessness.
"With her father and mother?"
The Major, staring again, shook his head, and poor Miss Stannard, despairing, of learning anything definite from this source, asked if he would take her there after Kindergarten, and began to untie the little girl's cap.
Evidently gratified at this attention to his charge, the Major said that he would, and followed the two into the large, sunny room adjoining. "The children are just going on the circle," said the pretty young lady, "won't you take my other hand and go too."
The Major drew back hastily. "She's come ter school," he declared indicating the Angel, "there ain't no school in it fer me. I'm a sojer, I am."
"Then have a chair, sir, and watch us," said the young lady, with amused eyes, as she brought out a little red chair with polite hospitality.
The young gentleman graciously accepting it, the Angel was forthwith borne away to join the circle of children about the ring, and to Miss Stannard's surprise, with no more ado, joined in the game like one familiar with it all, waving her small hands, singing gaily and, when her turn arrived, flitting gaily about the circle until the sash strings of her little faded dress sailed straight out behind her.
And the game at an end, without waiting for direction or guidance, the newcomer marched with the other children about the big room and took her place with them at one of the tables spread with entrancing green and yellow papers. And here, absorbed in directing the work at her own table, and her two assistant teachers equally absorbed at theirs, Miss Stannard was presently aroused by a nudge from 'Tildy Peggins, the freckle-faced young person employed in a capacity of janitress and nursery maid.
"Look a-yonder to that young willain, Miss Ruth," urged 'Tildy, whose sentiments regarding the infant populace refused, despite all the efforts of her employers, to be tempered by Kindergarten views.
Miss Stannard looked up hastily, and so did the twenty pairs of eyes about her table.
From the depths of one pocket the Major had produced a cigarette, and from the mixed contents of another he had extracted a match, and as the twenty pairs of eyes fell on him, a fascinating curl of blue smoke was just issuing from his lips.
'Tildy Peggins folded her arms on her flat chest and gave vent to a groan. Already, with her gloomy views on Kindergarten regeneration versus innate depravity, she foresaw the contamination of every half-subjugated small masculine in the room.
Miss Stannard, with a shake of her head at 'Tildy, coughed slightly. Instantly the eyes of the school left the Major and fixed themselves expectantly on her pretty face.
"I thought you wanted to be a soldier, Major," she observed, addressing the small gentleman.
"I is goin' to be," returned that unabashed gentleman, calmly sticking a thumb in his belt, and in so doing pushing his jacket aside, so as to further expose the military trappings about his round little person, "I's a-goin' to be a sojer in the Fourth Regiment."
"No, indeed," said Miss Ruth, "the members of the Fourth Regiment are gentlemen, and a gentleman would never have smoked in here without asking if he might."
The Major looked somewhat moved out of his usual imperturbability. The curl of offending smoke ceased.
"I know a soldier," Miss Ruth went on calmly, "and what is more, he is a member of the Fourth Regiment, but he never would have done such a thing as you are doing."
The cigarette trembled in the Major's irresolute fingers.
"And even if you had asked first," the steady voice went on, "I would have said no, for such a thing as smoking is never allowed in this room."
The Major's irresolute brown eyes met Miss Stannard's resolute brown ones. Then the cigarette went out the open window behind him and the work at the tables went on.
Presently Miss Ruth looked up again. "Won't you come," she said pleasantly, touching a pile of the gay papers. "Are you not tired?"
The Major shook his head decidedly. "No, he would not," and finding a chip among the apparently inexhaustible stores of his pockets, he next produced a knife boasting an inch of blade and went to whittling upon 'Tildy's immaculate floor.
Miss Ruth saw it all, and presently saw the chip fall to the floor and the round head begin to nod. Then, with 'Tildy Peggins' gloomy and disapproving eye upon her at this act of overture, she crossed the room. "Major," said Miss Ruth, just a little plaintively, perhaps, "do you suppose you could do something for me?"
The Major was wide awake on the instant.
"These papers," explained Miss Ruth, while 'Tildy from her work of washing windows, shook her disapproving head, "put all like this in a pile on the table here, and all like this over here, and this color,—here," and before Miss Stannard had gotten over to her table again, the Major was deep in the seductive fascinations of Kindergarten.
It was when the three teachers, with 'Tildy's help, had at last distributed the sixty hats, hoods, and caps, and started the loitering groups on their homeward ways, that pretty Miss Stannard, putting on her own hat, addressed her new pupils. "Now, Major, I am ready," she said, and the three accordingly turned their steps toward the neighborhood of the Tenement.
Miss Ruth's small escort had quite an idea of the proper thing to do, and pointed out the landmarks as the three went along, the Angel's friendly hand slipped confidingly into that of her new friend.
"I did hear as so many died in this yere house of the fevers this summer," Joey remarked cheerfully, pointing to a wretched-looking tenement building they were passing; "they'll give yer a room there now fer nothin' to git a good name fer the house agin."
Miss Ruth shivered as they passed.
The Major next nodded toward a dingy saloon. "Here's where I take a schooner an' a free lunch sometimes," he remarked confidentially.
The tall young lady's brown eyes danced as she glanced down at the small person of the Major. "And how old are you, Major?" she inquired.
"Ha'f pas' seven, the Cap'n an' Old G. A. R., they say."
"The Captain? Old G. A. R.?"
"Uh, huh! The Cap'n's a good 'un, he is. He gim' me these yere togs, he did, an' he told Old G. A. R. I might sleep to th' Arm'ry, see?"
Miss Ruth saw, and was just about to pursue the subject of Old G. A. R., when the Angel dropped her hand and with a gleeful cry ran ahead, and Miss Stannard looked up to behold two females bearing down upon them. Miss Bonkowski and Mrs. O'Malligan in fact, nor did they pause in their haste, until the Angel was safe in Norma's embrace and the Major anything but safe, in the clutches of the irate Irish lady.
"An' it's yerself, ye limb, an' plaze to tell us whut ye mane by it?" the loud-voiced Mrs. O'Malligan demanded, "a-runnin' off with the childer agin, an' the whole Tiniment out huntin' an' her niver to be found at all, at all?"
But the sweet-faced, tall young lady coming to his rescue, the two women softened, and reaching the Tenement, insisted on Miss Stannard coming in, and hearing the Angel's story.
And on the way up to Miss Bonkowski's apartment, she learned that the Tenement, that morning, had been convulsed from cellar to garret, by the great honor bestowed upon it. For who but the Prima Donna, the Great Personage of Norma's professional world, had just driven away in her carriage after a visit of an hour and the Angel never to be found at all!
"An' ma'am," explained Mary Carew, her bony face swollen with crying, when Miss Stannard had been installed in one of the two chairs of the apartment, "an' ma'am, it was fer th' Angel she come. A offerin' Norma an' me anything we'd name to give her up, such a fancy as she's taken to her, an' wantin' her fer her own."
"And you, what did you say?" asked Miss Ruth, gently, watching Mary with tender eyes as she held the beautiful, chattering little creature so jealously in her arms, and thinking as she watched, of the life and reputation commonly accorded the great singer.
"Say?" came from Miss Bonkowski quickly, her befrizzled blonde tresses fairly a-tremble with her intensity, and sticking the hat-pin recklessly in and out of the lace hat she had taken off, "what did we say, you ask, and knowing, as you and every body must, the kind of life and future it would mean for a child that takes to things like this 'n does! With all her money and her soft, winning ways, it is better, far better, for the child with her disposition, to starve along with Mary an' me, than grow up to that, if it was nothing more to be afraid of than being left to servants and hotel people and dragged around from place to place in such a life as it is. Not that I mean, ma'am," and Miss Bonkowski spoke with quick pride, "that being in the profession need to make any body what they shouldn't be, for I know plenty of 'em of the best, and am one myself, though only a Chorus, but what with what's said about this one, even with her good heart and generous ways, she's not the one to have our Angel, though she meant it for the best."
"An' she said," Mary Carew took it up, "as how Norma's gettin' old, and 'll be dropped afore long from the Chorus, an' she offered her, she did, in this very room, a' here before me, to buy out a Costumer as is leavin' the business, an' start Norma in for herself, along of her knowin' how to run a business such as that."
"And oh girls," declared Miss Stannard as she told this part of the story to her assistant teachers afterward, "it was the bravest thing I've met among the poor people yet. Think of the courage of those two women, with poverty grimmer than they have yet known, ahead of them in all probability, yet determined to resist the temptation because they are assured it is not well for the child. Picture making jean pantaloons, year in, year out, at barely living wages, yet having the courage to put the matter so resolutely aside. After that, I could not bring myself to tell them they had done wrong in the beginning in not notifying the authorities. Of course there is some mystery about it. I cannot for a moment accept their explanation of it. The child, beyond question, is well born and has been carefully trained. And she goes about among all the strange, queer inmates of that Tenement house as fearlessly as a little queen. But, oh, the one that is a chorus-singer! If you could see her! So lean, so sallow, so airy and full of manner. But I will never laugh at another elderly chorus-singer again in my life, she is grand, she's heroic," and the pretty Kindergartner threaded gay worsteds into needles with a vigor which lent emphasis to her words.
"She's powerful stuck up, too," asserted the gloomy tones of 'Tildy Peggins, and she shook her mournful head, as she moved about straightening the disordered room for the next day, "there's a man lives in our Tenement wanted to keep comp'ny with her, but, la, she tossed her yellow head at his waffle cart, she did, an' she said if he'd had a settled h'occupation she might a thought about it in time, but she couldn't bring herself to consider a perambulating business, an' that was all there was to it. La, maybe she is grand an' 'eroic, but she's got a 'aughty 'eart, too, that woman has!"
CHAPTER VII.
MISS RUTH MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF
OLD G. A. R.
The Angel, as the cooler weather came on, being suitably clothed by Miss Stannard and the invisible though still generous Mrs. Tony, and the good ladies of the Tenement seeing that she was properly fed, her little ladyship continued to thrive, and to pursue her way, sweet and innocent, in the midst of squalor, poverty and wickedness such as Mary and Norma could not always hide, even from her baby eyes.
True to the promise these ladies had made, she appeared regularly at Kindergarten in the charge of her faithful squire, the Major, whose own interest in the daily work had never flagged since the day he first agreed to help Miss Stannard.
It was with surprise, therefore, that, late in November, Miss Ruth noted the absence of the two for several successive days.
"Childern's obliged to get wore out fiddlin' with beads an' paper an' such, in time," said the perverse and unconverted 'Tildy Peggins. "That's the reason they's constant droppin' off, an' new ones comin' in. There ain't enough willainy in Kindergarten to keep their minds h'occupied. They's pinin' for the streets long afore you'd h'ever believe it,—their 'earts ain't satisfied with beads and paper, childern's obliged to have a little willainy mixed in."
But despite 'Tildy's pessimistic views, on the fifth morning of their absence, Miss Ruth had just determined to send around to the Tenement, when a knock summoned her to the door.
Outside stood the smiling Angel, in her little winter cloak and hood, her hand in that of a very large, very grizzled, and very military-looking man, who greeted Miss Stannard with a salute reminding her at once of Joey.
"What has become of my friend, the Major?" she inquired, ushering them into the school-room.
"Joey couldn't come," explained the Angel, mournfully.
"It was to tell you about him, ma'am, I stepped around," replied the man, gazing admiringly about the bright room, with its pictures, its growing plants, its tables, and dozens of little red chairs. "It is a pretty place now, I must say, and it's no wonder the little chap likes to come here. He's been that worried, and fretting so about the little one not getting to school, that I promised him I'd march her 'round here every day if he'd call a halt on his fretting."
"He is sick, then?" Miss Ruth inquired.
"Well, it didn't seem as if it was enough to lay him off duty," responded the man, as he regarded Miss Ruth with friendly gaze; "he's a knowin' little shaver, the Major is, and great on tryin' to help me."
"Are you the friend that he calls Old G. A. R.?" inquired Miss Ruth, with sudden intuition, as she smiled back into the weather-beaten face.
The old soldier chuckled. "He's told you about that, has he? 'Old G. A. R.!' Great name, ain't it?"
"Why does he call you by it?"
"Grand Army of the Republic, ma'am. I'm a member, and I reckon I do anecdote about it overmuch at times. The Reg'ment round there, they dubbed me that."
"And the Major?"
"That's right, ma'am, for'ard march! I'm gettin' to it. He was in the Arm'ry with me, the other day, a-pretendin' to help me clean up, and he fell off one of the cannon he was monkeyin' round. He didn't seem so bad hurt, at first, but somehow, after I come to think it over, he hasn't seemed to want to move round since, so I lay it to that."
"Have you had a doctor to see him?" asked Miss Ruth, waving the groups of arriving children on to 'Tildy's care.
"No, ma'am, I haven't. The officer that took the fancy to the little chap and pays for his eatin' along with me at the restaurant, he's been out of town for six weeks, and after leaving the baby here, I am on my way to his office now, to see if he has got back," and he stepped toward the door.
"I will take Angel home and stop by there and see Joey," said Miss Ruth.
"We'll be happy to have you, ma'am," and with a salute, the old soldier marched out the door.
*****
"Indade, Miss Ruthie, an' it's proud I am to go wid ye," said Mrs. O'Malligan some hours later, in response to Miss Ruth's request to go over to the Armory with her, "just ye wait till I starts the Angel choild up the steps," and Mrs. O'Malligan accordingly, was soon accompanying Miss Ruth through the big door of the Armory.
The old soldier met them and led the way into a neat box of a room, very orderly, very spotless. Here, on a cot, lay the Major, his eyes turned to meet them expectantly. It was quite pitiful to see how these few days had changed him into the white little chap looking up from the pillow.
"Well, Major," began Miss Ruth, cheerily, and at sound of her bright, animated voice, a figure in the shadow on the other side of the cot looked up.
"Why, Mr. Dilke," cried Miss Ruth, at sight of the young and very properly attired gentleman who stood up to greet her.
The young gentleman came round and shook hands with evident pleasure. "So you are the wonderful 'Teacher,' Miss Stannard?"
"And you are the 'Cap'n'?" retorted Miss Ruth.
Here the Major, as he would have phrased it, "caught on." "She said yer was a gentleman what wouldn't a-smoked before ladies, she did," volunteered Joey.
Miss Ruth blushed and laughed and blushed again. "Well, he wouldn't, Joey," she reiterated stoutly.
Whereupon the boyishly smooth face of Mr. Dilke colored too, and being very big and blonde and diffident, he blushed very red indeed, while Joey, seeing something up, tried to wink his roguish eyes but failed for very weakness and found them full of tears instead.
"Where does it hurt?" asked Miss Ruth gently, leaning over him.
The Major winked indignantly. "Sojers aint goin' to make no fuss if does hurt, Old G. A. R. he says so!"
Old G. A. R. in the background gave vent to a sudden chuckle. "Obey your superior officers, Major, afore anything," he corrected.
"Faith I'll jist take him in me lap an' say whir he's hurted for meself," said Mrs. O'Malligan briskly and forthwith laid her energetic hand upon the little fellow. At her well meant but rough handling, the child cried out, turning white to the lips.
"Howly Mither, forgive me," cried Mrs. O'Malligan.
Miss Ruth turned away to hide her tears. "Have you had a doctor yet?" she inquired.
"No, I had just gotten here a moment ahead of you," explained Mr. Dilke.
"Well," said Miss Ruth, decidedly, "whether it proves serious or not, he ought to go to St. Luke's and be properly nursed, and if there happens to be a free cot vacant, I will have no trouble getting him in."
Mr. Dilke turned quickly. "Don't stop for that," he said, "use me,—I mean,—don't let the cost of it interfere,—I'll be very glad,—you know——"
Miss Ruth beamed at the young man whom she knew to be very rich indeed. "Just take charge of a Free Kindergarten, Mr. Dilke, if you ever really want to properly appreciate your blessings and privileges," she said, "I am never so sordid in my desire for wealth, as when I stand helpless, with the knowledge of the suffering around me, that money can remedy or at least, alleviate."
"Let me walk with you to St. Luke's," begged Mr. Dilke, "and you can tell me something more about it all if you will." And leaving Joey to Mrs. O'Malligan, until their return, the two started off.
"You've evidently been very good to Joey," Miss Stannard remarked graciously, as they went along.
Mr. Dilke blushed furiously, "Who? I? No more than the other men in the Regiment. Now a fellow could hardly help liking the little chap, could he?" and he regarded his pretty companion as if seeking justification in her answer.
"How did it ever begin?" inquired Miss Stannard.
"Through the old man—the janitor, you know. The boy's mother was a daughter of a dead soldier, comrade to Old G. A. R. Good for nothing husband, and that sort of thing, you know, and always runnin' to Old G. A. R. for protection and help too, I suspect. When she died, the old fellow didn't have the money, and appealed to some of us fellows to help bury her. And then, it turned out, here was the boy. First we agreed to his staying at the Armory a day or so, then a week, then longer, and by that time the knowing little monkey had made his own cause good. Here we are,—and we'll just arrange, while here, to take a doctor back with us."
It was late that afternoon that Miss Ruth, having remained to see the Major safely asleep after his removal to St. Luke's Hospital, came down the steps of that institution with her pretty eyes all dim with crying, the doctor's words ringing in her ears, "Poor little chap," he had said, "it's merely a question of time."
CHAPTER VIII.
THE ANGEL MEETS AN OLD FRIEND.
A few days later Mrs. O'Malligan, in her best attire, and Miss Bonkowski, also gotten up regardlessly even to an added bloom upon her cheeks, sallied forth in the face of the first snowfall, to take the Angel to St. Luke's Hospital, where, by appointment, Miss Ruth was to meet them.
When in time they reached the building and Miss Stannard led the way up to the Children's Ward, a white-capped nurse came forward between the rows of little beds each with its child occupant, her finger on her lips. "He is so much weaker to-day," she explained, "I would say he had better not see any one, except that he will fret, so please stay only a few moments," and she led them to where Joey lay, his white bed shut off from his little neighbors by a screen. His eyes were closed and a young resident physician was standing by the bed.
"We thought he was going for a while this morning," whispered the nurse, but, low as she spoke, the Major heard. A ghost of a twinkle was in his brown eyes as they opened and sought the doctor's. "I fooled 'em that time, didn't I, Doc?" he demanded, and one trembling lid attempted its old-time wink.
"You wanted Angel, Joey dear," said Miss Ruth, "and she has come to see you."
The Angel's face was full of doubt and trouble, her eyes dark with gathering tears. Frightened at this something she half-divined, but could not understand, she drew near doubtfully. "Angel loves her Joey, her does," she asserted, however, as if in refutation of her fears.
"Show her—my—gun," whispered Joey, and from the table where his eyes could feast upon it, the nurse lifted a small rifle.
"The Cap'n give it ter me,—so I could be a—member of th' Reg'ment—now—see? Ain't it a dandy—Angel?"
The child nodded gravely, but all the while her little breast was heaving with the gathering sobs. Seeing Miss Norma also in tears, Miss Ruth motioned her to take the Angel ahead, and leaving Mrs. O'Malligan speaking to the nurse, Miss Ruth followed slowly after, talking with the doctor as she went.
A moment later, the ward was startled by a cry from the hall beyond, "Yosie,—Angel's Yosie!"
Miss Ruth and the doctor hurried out. In the hall in a rolling chair sat a young woman to whose knees the Angel was clinging, amid sobs and little cooing cries of joy. "Yosie, Angel's Yosie."
"Poor girl!" ejaculated the young doctor, "this may lead to her identification. We do not even know her name," he explained to Miss Stannard. "A case of paralysis,—almost helpless. Never has spoken since brought here. Yes," in answer to Miss Ruth's eager inquiries, "she has gotten so that she can make signs for yes and no."
At once Miss Stannard turned to the girl, from whose lap Norma was trying to draw the expostulating Angel. "Do you know Angel?" she asked, her hand on the child as she spoke.
There was a slight affirmative droop to the eyelids, while the gaze beneath was fixed imploringly on Miss Ruth.
"Are you Rosy?" she asked.
"My Yosie, it is my Yosie!" declared the Angel, with one of her little bursts of baby rage, pulling away from Norma and stamping her foot, frantic that any doubt should exist.
At this point, Mrs. O'Malligan, who had been following in her comfortable fashion, unconscious of any excitement, drew near. Suddenly there was an excited cry from that lady. "Howly Mither, an' it's Mrs. Buckley's own sister, Rosy O'Brien, fer sure!"
The wild eyes of the sick girl turned towards Mrs. O'Malligan with signs of recognition. The doctor repeated his story.
"She must have been Angel's nurse," said Miss Stannard.
"An' was it the darlint's nurse ye war, Rosy O'Brien?" inquired Mrs. O'Malligan.
"Yes," signalled the eyelids, whereupon Mrs. O'Malligan, swaying her body to and fro, and clapping her hands, burst forth suddenly, "I say through wid it all, I say through wid it all! Ye brought the Angel choild to the Tiniment wid ye to say your sister, now, didn't ye, Rosy, me jewel?"
The good Irish lady waited for the affirmative droop from the eager eyes.
"An' maybe ye found the door locked, an' not knowin' yer sister had moved away an' Miss Johnson, what goes to the car stables a-cleanin' by the day, livin' in her room now, ye set the choild down in the empty room a-nixt to it, an' run down to ask me as to whir yer sister had gone, now, didn't ye, Rosy O'Brien?" and Mrs. O'Malligan's garlanded bonnet fell over one ear in the good soul's excitement.
Thus far apparently she was right.
"An' I wasn't to home, for sure I niver seen ye," ventured Mrs. O'Malligan, her hands now on her hips as she gazed at the girl and pondered.
She was right again.
"An' what happened thin, I niver can say no further!"
The doctor, referring to a note book, spoke next. "She was brought here," he said, "on the seventh of last July, about six o'clock in the evening, having been knocked down by a horse at the corner of Camden and Lisiden Streets."
"Whist!" cried Mrs. O'Malligan, her shawl fallen to the floor, her bonnet now hanging by the strings down her back, "that's our own corner, an' it's as plain to me now as the nose on yer face! Not findin' me to home, ye were runnin' over to the grocery to find out from yer sister's husband's brother Bill whativer had become of the family!"
The sharp Irish lady had hit it again, and Miss Ruth here interrupted to ask Miss Bonkowski if she could remember the date on which the child had been found in the vacant room. After some thought and debate, Miss Norma declared it to have been on the morning of the eighth of July, because her own birthday came on the fifteenth and she remembered remarking the child had then been with them a week.
But here the whole party came to a standstill, and the wild, imploring look came back in poor Rosy O'Brien's eyes.
The doctor laid his hand on her shoulder reassuringly. "Don't fret, my girl, it will all come right now in time. It is no wonder," turning to Miss Stannard, "she has been so slow getting better. I have said a hundred times the girl had something on her mind."
Miss Ruth turned to Rosy again. "Does the child's mother, or do her people live here in the city?" she inquired.
The eyelids failed to move, which according to the doctor meant no.
"What will we do," sighed Miss Ruth, "for the more the child is asked, the more perplexed we get, and now——"
"Sure an' we'll ask Mrs. Buckley, Rosy's sister, an' she'll tell us all about it," said the practical Mrs. O'Malligan. "I remember well of her tellin' me of the foine wages Rosy was a-gittin; along of her goin' off so fur wid some rich lady as a nurse."
At this hopeful point the doctor interfered, thinking best to prevent any further exciting of his patient, and accordingly wheeled her back to her ward, leaving the others to soothe the terror of the child, at seeing hope vanish with Rosy.
Pausing outside the big hospital in a trembling and excited little group, Miss Stannard detailed her plans. As the snow was coming down steadily, Miss Bonkowski should return to the Tenement at once with the excited, sobbing child, and Mrs. O'Malligan should take Miss Ruth to find Mrs. Buckley, the sister of poor Rosy O'Brien.
*****
"And do you know," explained Miss Ruth that evening, to Mr. Dilke, who had fallen into a way of calling quite frequently indeed, of late, "and do you know, this woman, this Mrs. Buckley would not believe us, but insisted that her sister, Rosy O'Brien, as well as the child her sister had nursed, were drowned in that terrible ferry-boat disaster last July. After what seemed to me hours of catechising, I got the story from her.
"A year ago, as I finally found out, her sister, this same Rosy O'Brien, went South with a Mr. and Mrs. De Leon Breaux, whose child she had been nursing at Narragansett during the summer.
"This spring, Mrs. Buckley, living then in the Tenement where the child was afterward found, received a letter from Rosy, saying she would be in the city with her mistress for a few days in July on their way to the seashore for the summer.
"Meanwhile Mrs. Buckley moved, and being unable to write, left her new address with Mrs. O'Malligan. But the summer passing and no Rosy appearing, in September Mrs. Buckley grew anxious and got a friend to write to the Breaux' address for her, inclosing a letter to Rosy.
"In answer came a reply from Mr. Breaux, which letter Mrs. Buckley showed me. It stated that on the seventh of last July Rosy O'Brien and the child, 'our little Angelique,' the letter called her, had been drowned while crossing the river on the ferry.
"Mrs. Breaux and her young sister, with Rosy O'Brien and the child, had reached the city the day before, having come by steamer from New Orleans, their home.
"According to the statement of a waiter at the hotel. Rosy, tired of waiting for the return of the two ladies from a shopping expedition, and having been promised the afternoon, started off soon after lunch with the child, saying that she was going across the river on the ferry to see her sister. This was the last seen of them.
"Mr. Breaux hurried North in response to his wife's summons, and some days following the ferry disaster, which occurred shortly after the girl left the hotel, a body was found in the river, which from its black cashmere dress, white apron and plain gold ring, was identified as that of poor Rosy.
"The girl had been taken on the recommendation of a former mistress and, as so often is the case, the Breaux' knew neither the name nor the address of this sister, and having,—in addition to the papers being filled with the matter,—advertised in vain, the body was buried and, despairing finally of recovering their child's body, they returned South. Though don't think," said pretty Ruth suddenly regarding Mr. Dilke's attentive face while she laughed, "that I received the story from Mrs. Buckley in any such direct fashion. Such people are not only illogical and irrelevant, they are secretive,—if ever you have to do with them as my work leads me to, you'll understand what I mean. But to continue with Mrs. Buckley. In order to convince her that neither Rosy nor the child, despite her evidence, were dead, I took her straight back to the hospital, and as she then admitted Rosy to be Rosy, any lingering doubts were put at rest. And now you see why I was so relieved when you came this evening. Mother has no better business head than I have, and I want you to help me determine how best to let these Breaux know the child is alive."
But Mr. Dilke, though far from a stupid young man, confessed himself a little dazed by Miss Ruth's rapid and excited story. Whereupon, laughing, she went over it again, adding, "And here is the address and the name is De Leon Breaux, and how shall we word the telegram?"
And after much speculation the following was written and sent:
"Nurse-girl, Rose O'Brien, found in hospital, paralyzed. Child
safe and well.
"Van Alstine Dilke,
"Hotel St. George."