“you little dunce! don’t you know better than do that?”
an indignant shake accompanied these words, with which the big policeman set glory down upon the sidewalk after having rescued her from imminent death.
in the instant of her slipping from the carriage step, the child had realized her own peril and would most certainly have been trampled under the crowding, iron-shod hoofs, had not the officer been on the very spot, trying to prevent accidents, and to keep clear from each other the two lines of vehicles, one moving north, the other south.
glory was so rejoiced to find herself free and unhurt that she minded neither the shaking nor the term “dunce,” but instantly caught the rescuer’s hand and kissed it rapturously, crying, “oh, thank you, thank you! grandpa would have felt so bad if i’d been hurt like that poor blind man. oh, i wish i could do somethin’ for you, you dear, splendid p’liceman!”
“well, you can. you can remember that a young one’s place is at home, not in the middle of the street. there, that will do. be off with you and never cut up such a caper again, long’s you live. it would have been ‘all day’ with you, if i hadn’t been just where i was, and two accidents within five minutes is more’n i bargain for. be off!”
releasing his hand, he returned to his task among the wagons but carried with him a pleasant memory of a smile that was so grateful and so gay; while glory, subdued by what she had gone through, slowly resumed her search for her missing grandfather. away down to the south ferry she paced, looking and listening everywhere. then back again on the other side of the long street till she had reached the point nearest to elbow lane and still no sign of a blue-coated old man or a little dog with a stub of a tail and but one good ear.
“well, it’s nigh night now, an’ he’ll be comin’ home. most the folks what gives him pennies or buys his frames has left broadway so i might as well go myself. come to think, i guess i better not tell grandpa ’bout that poor hurted man. might make him ’fraid to go round himself with nobody ’cept bo’sn to take care of him an’ him a dog. an’ oh, dear! whatever shall i do for sewin’ things, now i didn’t get no goober money? well, anyway, there’s that nickel o’ jane’s will buy a chop for his supper an’ i best hurry get it ready. he’s always so terrible hungry when he comes off his ‘beat.’ an’ me–why, i b’lieve i hain’t eat a thing to-day, save my breakfast porridge an’ jane’s banana, an’ two er three goobers. never mind, likely grandpa’ll bring in somethin’ an’ i can eat to-morrow.”
back to the littlest house she ran, singing to forget her appetite, and whisked out the key of the tiny door from its hiding-place beneath the worn threshold, yet wondering a little that grandpa should not already have arrived.
“never mind, i’ll have everything done ’fore. then when he does get here all he’ll have to do’ll be to eat an’ go to bed,” she said to herself. glory was such a little chatterbox that when she had no other listener she made one of herself.
the corner-grocer was just taking his own supper of bread and herrings on the rear end of his small counter when she entered, demanding, “the very best an’ biggest chop you’ve got for a nickel, mister grocer; or if you could make it a four-center an’ leave me a cent’s worth o’ bread to go along it, ’t would be tastier for grandpa.”
“sure enough, queeny, sure enough. ’pears like i brought myself fortune when i give you that pint o’ milk. i’ve had a reg’lar string o’ customers sence, i have. an’ here, what you lookin’ so sharp at that one chop for? didn’t you know i was goin’ to make it two, an’ loaf accordin’?”
glory swallowed fast. this was almost too tempting for resistance, but she had been trained to a horror of debt and had resolved upon that slight one, earlier in the day, only because she could not see her grandfather distressed. her own distress―huh! that was an indifferent matter.
the corner groceries of the poor are also their meat markets, bakeries, and dairies, and there was so much in the crowded little shop that was alluring that the child forced herself to look diligently out of the door into the alley lest she should be untrue to her training. in a brief time the shopman called, “all ready, take-a-stitch! here’s your parcel.”
glory faced about and gasped. that was such a very big parcel toward which he pointed that she felt he had made a mistake and so reminded him, “guess that ain’t mine, that ain’t. one chop an’ a small roll ’twas. that must be mis’ dodd’s, ’cause she’s got nine mouths to feed, savin’ nick’s ’at he feeds himself.”
“not so, neighbor. it’s yourn. the hull o’ it. they’s only a loaf, a trifle stale–one them three-centers, kind of mouldy on the corners where’t can be cut off–an’ two the finest chops you ever set your little white teeth into. they’re all yourn.”
the grocer enjoyed doing this kindness as heartily as she enjoyed receiving it, although he was so thrifty that he made his own meal from equally stale bread and some unsalable dried fish. but, after a momentary rapture at the prospect of such delicious food, glory’s too active conscience interfered, making her say, with a regret almost beyond expression, “i mustn’t, i mustn’t. grandpa wouldn’t like it, ’cause he says ‘always pay’s you go or else don’t go,’ an’ that nickel’s all i’ve got.”
“no, ’tisn’t. not by a reckonin’. you’ve got the nimblest pair o’ hands i know an’ i’ve got the shabbiest coat. i’m fair ashamed to wear it to market, yet i ain’t a man ’shamed of trifles. if you’ll put them hands of yourn and that coat o’ mine together, i’d be like to credit you a quarter, an’ you find the patches.”
“a quarter! a hull, endurin’ quarter of a dollar! you darlin’ old grocer-man. ’course i will, only i–i’m nigh out o’ thread, but i’ve got a power o’ patches. i’ve picked ’em out the ash-boxes an’ washed ’em beautiful. an’ they’re hung right on our own ceiling in the cutest little bundle ever was–an’–i love you, i love you; give me the coat, quick, right now, so’s i can run an’ patch it, an’ you see if i don’t do the best job ever!”
“out of thread, be you? well, here, take this fine spool o’ black linen an’ a needle to fit. a workman has to have his tools, don’t he? i couldn’t keep store if i didn’t have things to sell, could i? now, be off with you, an’ my good word to the cap’n.”
there wasn’t a happier child in all the great city than little take-a-stitch as she fairly flew homeward to prepare the most delicious supper there had been in the littlest house for many a day. down came the tiny gas stove from its shelf, out popped a small frying pan from some hidden cubby and into it went a dash of salt and the two big chops. oh, how delightful was their odor, and how glory’s mouth did water at thought of tasting! but that was not to be till grandpa came. she hoped that would be at once, before they cooled; for the burning of gas, their only fuel, was managed with strictest economy. it would seem a wasteful sin to light the stove again to reheat the chops, as she would have to do if the captain was not on hand soon.
alas! they were cooked to the utmost limit of that brown crispness which the seaman liked, and poor glory had turned faint at the delayed enjoyment of her own supper, when she felt she must turn out the blaze or ruin all. covering the pan to keep its contents hot as long as might be, she sat down on the threshold to wait; and, presently, was asleep.
it had grown quite dark before the touch of a cold wet nose upon the palm of her hand aroused her, and there was bo’sn, rubbing his side against her knee and uttering a dismal sort of sound that was neither bark nor howl, but a cross between both and full of painful meaning.
“bo’sn! you? then grandpa–oh, grandpa, darlin’, darlin’, why didn’t you wake me? i’ve got the nicest supper―smell?”
with that she sprang up and darted within, over the few feet of space there was, but nobody was in sight; then out again, to call the captain from some spot where he had doubtless paused to exchange a bit of neighborly gossip. to him the night was the same as the day, the child remembered, and though it wasn’t often he overstayed his regular hour, or forgot his meal-time, he might have done so now. oh, yes, he might easily have done so, she assured herself. but why should bo’sn forsake his master and come home alone? he had never done that before, never. and why, oh, why, did he make that strange wailing noise? he frightened her and must stop it.
“quiet, boy, quiet!” she ordered, clasping the animal’s head so that he was forced to look up into her face. “quiet, and tell me–where is grandpa? where did you leave grandpa?”
of course, he could not answer, save by ceasing to whine and by gazing at her with his loving brown eyes as if they must tell for him that which he had seen.
then, seized by an overwhelming anxiety, which she would not permit herself to put into a definite fear, she shook the dog impatiently and started down the lane. it was full of shadows now, which the one gas street lamp deepened rather than dispersed, and she did not see a woman approaching until she had run against her. then she looked up and exclaimed, “oh, posy jane! you just gettin’ home? have you seen my grandpa?”
“the cap’n? bless you, child, how should i, seein’ he don’t sing on the bridge. ain’t he come in yet?”
“no, and oh, jane, dear jane, i’m afraid somethin’ ’s happened to him. he never, never stayed away so late before an’ bo’sn came alone. what s’pose?”
the flower-seller had slipped an arm about the child’s shoulders and felt them trembling, and though an instant alarm had filled her own heart, she made light of the matter to give her favorite comfort.
“what do i s’pose? well, then, i s’pose he’s stayin’ away lest them rich folks what runs the ‘harbor’ comes again an’ catches him unbeknownst. don’t you go fret, honey. had your supper?”
“no, jane, an’ it’s such a splendid one. that lovely grocer man―”
“ugh!” interrupted the woman, with a derisive shrug of her shoulders. “you’re the beatin’est child for seein’ handsomeness where ’tain’t.”
“oh, i ’member you don’t like him much, ’cause onct he give short measure o’ flour, or somethin’, but he is good an’ i didn’t mean purty, an’ just listen!”
jane did listen intently to the story of the grocer’s unusual generosity, and she hearkened, also, for the sound of a familiar, hesitating footstep and the thump of a heavy cane, such as would reveal the captain’s approach long before he might be seen, but the lane was very silent. it was later than glory suspected and almost all the toilers were in their beds. it was late, even for the flower-seller, who had been up-town to visit an ailing friend and had tarried there for supper.
jane had always felt it dangerous for a blind man, like the old seaman, to go about the city, attended only by a dog, but she knew, too, that necessity has no choice. the becks must live and only by their united industry had they been able to keep even their tiny roof over their heads thus far. if harm had come to him–what would become of glory? well, time enough to think of that when the harm had really happened. the present fact was that the little girl was famishing with hunger yet had a fine supper awaiting her. she must be made to eat it without further delay.
“come, deary, we’ll step along an’ you eat your own chop, savin’ hisn till he sees fit to come get it. a man ’at has sailed the ocean hitherty-yender, like cap’n simon beck has, ain’t likely to get lost in the town where he was born an’ raised. reckon some them other old crony cap’ns o’ hisn has met an’ invited him to eat along o’ them. that cap’n gray, maybe, or somebody. first you know, we’ll hear him stumpin’ down the lane, singin’ ‘a life on the ocean wa-a-ave,’ fit to rouse the entire neighborhood. you eat your supper an’ go to bed, where children ought to be long ’fore this time.”
posy jane’s tone was so confident and cheerful that glory forgot her anxiety and remembered only that chop which was awaiting her. the pair hurried back to the littlest house which the flower-seller seemed entirely to fill with her big person, but she managed to get about sufficiently to relight the little stove, place glory in her own farthest corner, and afterward watch the child enjoy her greatly needed food.
when glory had finished, she grew still more happy, for physical comfort was added to that of her friend’s words; nor did jane’s kindness stop there. she herself carefully covered the pan with the captain’s portion in it, and bade glory undress and climb into her little hammock that swung from the side of the room opposite the seaman’s. this she also let down and put into it the pillow and blanket.
“so he can go right straight to sleep himself without botherin’ you, honey. come, bo’sn, you’ve polished that bone till it shines an’ you quit. lie right down on the door-sill, doggie, an’ watch ’at nobody takes a thing out the place, though i don’t know who would, that belongs to the lane, sure enough. but a stranger might happen by an’ see somethin’ temptin’ ’mongst the cap’n’s belongings. an’ so good-night to you, little take-a-stitch, an’ pleasant dreams.”
then posy jane, having done all she could for the child she loved betook herself to her room in meg-laundress’s small tenement, though she would gladly have watched in the littlest house for the return of its master, a return which she continually felt was more and more doubtful. and glory slept peacefully the whole night through. nor did bo’sn’s own uneasy slumbers disturb her once. not till it was broad daylight and much later than her accustomed hour for waking, did she open her eyes and glance across to that other hammock where should have rested a dear gray head.
it was still empty, and the fact banished all her drowsiness. with a bound she was on her feet and at the door, looking out, all up and down the lane. alas! he was nowhere in sight and, turning back into the tiny room, she saw his supper still untasted in the pan where jane had left it. then with a terrible conviction, which turned her faint, she dropped down on the floor beside bo’sn, who was dolefully whining again, and hugged him to her breast, crying bitterly, “they have got him! they have got him! he’ll never come again!”
