Tattered Tom. Alger Horatio Jr.

lger

      Tattered Tom / or The Story of a Street Arab

      PREFACE

      When, three years since, the author published “Ragged Dick,” he was far from anticipating the flattering welcome it would receive, or the degree of interest which would be excited by his pictures of street life in New York. The six volumes which comprised his original design are completed, but the subject is not exhausted. There are yet other phases of street life to be described, and other classes of street Arabs, whose fortunes deserve to be chronicled.

      “Tattered Tom” is therefore presented to the public as the initial volume of a new series of six stories, which may be regarded as a continuation of the “Ragged Dick Series.” Some surprise may be felt at the discovery that Tom is a girl; but I beg to assure my readers that she is not one of the conventional kind. Though not without her good points, she will be found to differ very widely in tastes and manners from the young ladies of twelve usually to be met in society. I venture to hope that she will become a favorite in spite of her numerous faults, and that no less interest will be felt in her fortunes than in those of the heroes of earlier volumes.

      New York, April, 1871.

      CHAPTER I.

      INTRODUCES TATTERED TOM

      Mr. Frederic Pelham, a young gentleman very daintily dressed, with exquisitely fitting kids and highly polished boots, stood at the corner of Broadway and Chambers Streets, surveying with some dismay the dirty crossing, and speculating as to his chances of getting over without marring the polish of his boots.

      He started at length, and had taken two steps, when a dirty hand was thrust out, and he was saluted by the request, “Gi’ me a penny, sir?”

      “Out of my way, you bundle of rags!” he answered.

      “You’re another!” was the prompt reply.

      Frederic Pelham stared at the creature who had dared to imply that he—a leader of fashion—was a bundle of rags.

      The street-sweeper was apparently about twelve years of age. It was not quite easy to determine whether it was a boy or girl. The head was surmounted by a boy’s cap, the hair was cut short, it wore a boy’s jacket, but underneath was a girl’s dress. Jacket and dress were both in a state of extreme raggedness. The child’s face was very dark and, as might be expected, dirty; but it was redeemed by a pair of brilliant black eyes, which were fixed upon the young exquisite in an expression half-humorous, half-defiant, as the owner promptly retorted, “You’re another!”

      “Clear out, you little nuisance!” said the dandy, stopping short from necessity, for the little sweep had planted herself directly in his path; and to step out on either side would have soiled his boots irretrievably.

      “Gi’ me a penny, then?”

      “I’ll hand you to the police, you little wretch!”

      “I aint done nothin’. Gi’ me a penny?”

      Mr. Pelham, provoked, raised his cane threateningly.

      But Tom (for, in spite of her being a girl, this was the name by which she was universally known; indeed she scarcely knew any other) was wary. She dodged the blow, and by an adroit sweep of her broom managed to scatter some mud on Mr. Pelham’s boots.

      “You little brat, you’ve muddied my boots!” he exclaimed, with vexation.

      “Then why did you go for to strike me?” said Tom, defiantly.

      He did not stop to answer, but hurried across the street. His pace was accelerated by an approaching vehicle, and the instinct of self-preservation, more powerful than even the dictates of fashion, compelled him to make a détour through the mud, greatly to the injury of his no longer immaculate boots. But there was a remedy for the disaster on the other side.

      “Shine your boots, sir?” asked a boot-black, who had stationed himself at the other side of the crossing.

      Frederic Pelham looked at his boots. Their glory had departed. Their virgin gloss had been dimmed by plebeian mud. He grudged the boot-black’s fee, for he was thoroughly mean, though he had plenty of money at his command. But it was impossible to walk up Broadway in such boots. Suppose he should meet any of his fashionable friends, especially if ladies, his fashionable reputation would be endangered.

      “Go ahead, boy!” he said. “Do your best.”

      “All right, sir.”

      “It’s the second time I’ve had my boots blacked this morning. If it hadn’t been for that dirty sweep I should have got across safely.”

      The boy laughed—to himself. He knew Tom well enough, and he had been an interested spectator of her encounter with his present customer, having an eye to business. But he didn’t think it prudent to make known his thoughts.

      The boots were at length polished, and Mr. Pelham saw with satisfaction that no signs of the street mire remained.

      “How much do you want, boy?” he asked.

      “Ten cents.”

      “I thought five cents was the price.”

      “Can’t afford to work on no such terms.”

      Mr. Pelham might have disputed the fee, but he saw an acquaintance approaching, and did not care to be caught chaffering with a boot-black. He therefore reluctantly drew out a dime, and handed it to the boy, who at once deposited it in the pocket of a ragged vest.

      He stood on the sidewalk on the lookout for another customer, when Tom marched across the street, broom in hand.

      “I say, Joe, how much did he give you?”

      “Ten cents.”

      “How much yer goin’ to give me?”

      “Nothin’!”

      “You wouldn’t have got him if I hadn’t muddied his boots.”

      “Did you do it a-purpose?”

      Tom nodded.

      “What for?”

      “He called me names. That’s one reason. Besides, I wanted to give you a job.”

      Joe seemed struck by this view, and, being alive to his own interest, did not disregard the application.

      “Here’s a penny,” he said.

      “Gi’ me two.”

      He hesitated a moment, then diving once more into his pocket, brought up another penny, which Tom transferred with satisfaction to the pocket of her dress.

      “Shall I do it ag’in?” she asked.

      “Yes,” said Joe. “I say, Tom, you’re a smart un.”

      “I’d ought to be. Granny makes me smart whenever she gets a chance.”

      Tom returned to the other end of the crossing, and began to sweep diligently. Her labors did not extend far from the curbstone, as the stream of vehicles now rapidly passing would have made it dangerous. However, it was all one to Tom where she swept. The cleanness of the crossing was to her a matter of comparative indifference. Indeed, considering her own disregard of neatness, it could hardly have been expected that she should feel very solicitous on that point. Like some of her elders who were engaged in municipal labors, she regarded street-sweeping as a “job,” out of which she was to make money, and her interest began and ended with the money she earned.

      There were not so many to cross Broadway at this point as lower down, and only a few of these seemed impressed by a sense of the pecuniary value of Tom’s services.

      “Gi’ me a penny, sir,” she said to a stout gentleman.

      He tossed a coin into the mud.

      Tom darted upon it, and fished it up, wiping her fingers afterwards upon her dress.

      “Aint you afraid of soiling your dress?” asked the philanthropist, smiling.

      “What’s the odds?” said Tom, coolly.

      “You’re a philosopher,” said the stout gentleman.

      “Don’t you go to callin’ me names!” said Tom; “’cause if you do I’ll muddy