Tattered Tom. Alger Horatio Jr.

to swing out of the window, high as it was. She managed to fasten one end securely, and let the other drop from the window. As it hung, it fell short of reaching the ground by at least ten feet. But Tom was strong and active, and never hesitated a moment on this account. She was incited to extra speed, for she already heard the old woman ascending the stairs, probably provided with a hatchet.

      Tom got on the window-sill, and, grasping the rope, let herself down rapidly hand over hand, till she reached the end of the rope. Then she dropped. It was rather hard to her feet, and she fell over. But she quickly recovered herself.

      Tim, the recipient of her dinner, was in the court, and surveyed her descent with eyes and mouth wide open.

      “Where’d you come from, Tom?” he asked.

      “Can’t you see?” said Tom.

      “Why didn’t you come downstairs?”

      “’Cause granny’s there waitin’ to lick me. I must be goin’ before she finds out where I am. Don’t you tell of me, Tim.”

      “No, I won’t,” said Tim; and he was sure to keep his promise.

      Tom sped through the arched passage to the street, and did not rest till she had got a mile away from the home which had so few attractions for her.

      Beyond the chance of immediate danger, the young Arab conjured up the vision of granny’s disappointment when she should break open the door, and find her gone; and she sat down on the curbstone and laughed heartily.

      “What are you laughing at?” asked a boy, looking curiously at the strange figure before him.

      “Oh, it’s too rich!” said Tom, pausing a little, and then breaking out anew.

      “What’s too rich?”

      “I’ve run away from granny. She wanted to lick me, and now she can’t.”

      “You’ve been cutting up, I suppose.”

      “No, it’s granny that’s been cuttin’ up. She’s at it all the time.”

      “But you’ll catch it when you do go home, you know.”

      “Maybe I won’t go home.”

      It was not a street-boy that addressed her; but a boy with a comfortable home, who had a place in a store near by. He did not know, practically, what sort of a thing it was to wander about the streets, friendless and homeless; but it struck him vaguely that it must be decidedly uncomfortable. There was something in this strange creature—half boy in appearance—that excited his interest and curiosity, and he continued the conversation.

      “What sort of a woman is your granny, as you call her?” he asked.

      “She’s an awful old woman,” was the answer.

      “I shouldn’t think you would like to speak so of your grandmother.”

      “I don’t believe she is my grandmother. I only call her so.”

      “What’s your name?”

      “Tom.”

      “Tom!” repeated the boy, in surprise. “Aint you a girl?”

      “Yes; I expect so.”

      “It’s hard to tell from your clothes, you know;” and he scanned Tom’s queer figure attentively.

      Tom was sitting on a low step with her knees nearly on a level with her chin, and her hands clasped around them. She had on her cap of the morning, and her jacket, which, by the way, had been given to granny when on a begging expedition, and appropriated to Tom’s use, without special reference to her sex. Tom didn’t care much. It made little difference to her whether she was in the fashion or not; and if the street boys chaffed her, she was abundantly able to give them back as good as they sent.

      “What’s the matter with my clothes?” said Tom.

      “You’ve got on a boy’s cap and jacket.”

      “I like it well enough. As long as it keeps a feller warm I don’t mind.”

      “Do you call yourself a feller?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then you’re a queer feller.”

      “Don’t you call me names, ’cause I won’t stand it;” and Tom raised a pair of sharp, black eyes.

      “I won’t call you names, at least not any bad ones. Have you had any dinner?”

      “Yes,” said Tom, smacking her lips, as she recalled her delicious repast, “I had a square meal.”

      “What do you call a square meal?”

      “Roast beef, cup o’ coffee, and pie.”

      The boy was rather surprised, for such a dinner seemed beyond Tom’s probable resources.

      “Your granny don’t treat you so badly, after all. That’s just the kind of dinner I had.”

      “Granny didn’t give it to me. I bought it. That’s what she wants to lick me for. All she give me was a piece of hard bread.”

      “Where did you get the money? Was it hers?”

      “That’s what she says. But if a feller works all the mornin’ for some money, hasn’t she got a right to keep some of it?”

      “I should think so.”

      “So should I,” said Tom, decidedly.

      “Have you got any money?”

      “No, I spent it all for dinner.”

      “Then here’s some.”

      The boy drew from his vest-pocket twenty-five cents, and offered it to Tom.

      The young Arab felt no delicacy in accepting the pecuniary aid thus tendered.

      “Thank you,” said she. “You can call me names if you want to.”

      “What should I want to call you names for?” asked the boy, puzzled.

      “There was a gent called me names this mornin’, and give me twenty cents for doin’ it.”

      “What did he call you?”

      “I dunno; but it must have been something awful bad, it was so long.”

      “You’re a strange girl, Tom.”

      “Am I? Well, I reckon I am. What’s your name?”

      “John Goodwin.”

      “John Goodwin?” repeated Tom, by way of fixing it in her memory.

      “Yes; haven’t you got any other name than Tom?”

      “I dunno. I think granny called me Jane once. But it’s a good while ago. Everybody calls me Tom, now.”

      “Well, Tom, I must be getting back to the store. Good-by. I hope you’ll get along.”

      “All right!” said Tom. “I’m goin’ into business with that money you give me.”

      CHAPTER V

      TOM GAINS A VICTORY

      Granny mounted the stairs two at a time; so eager was she to force a surrender on the part of the rebellious Tom. She was a little out of breath when she reached the fourth landing, and paused an instant to recover it. Tom was at that moment half-way down the rope; but this she did not suspect.

      Recovering her breath, she strode to the door. Before making an assault with the hatchet, she decided to summon Tom to a surrender.

      “Tom!” she called out.

      Of course there was no answer.

      “Why don’t you answer?” demanded granny, provoked.

      She listened for a reply, but Tom remained obstinately silent, as she interpreted it.

      “If you don’t speak, it’ll be the wuss for ye,” growled granny.

      Again no