Читать книгу Tattered Tom - Alger Horatio Jr., Thomas Chandler Haliburton - Страница 2

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 up your boots.”

“So you don’t want to be called a philosopher?” said the gentleman.

“No, I don’t,” said Tom, eying him suspiciously.

“Then I must make amends.”

He took a dime from his pocket, and handed it to the astonished Tom.

“Is this for me?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Tom’s eyes glistened; for ten cents was a nugget when compared with her usual penny receipts. She stood in a brown study till her patron was half across the street, then, seized with a sudden idea, she darted after him, and tugged at his coat-tail.

“What’s wanted?” he asked, turning round in some surprise.

“I say,” said Tom, “you may call me that name ag’in for five cents more.”

The ludicrous character of the proposal struck him, and he laughed with amusement.

“Well,” he said, “that’s a good offer. What’s your name?”

“Tom.”

“Which are you,—a boy or a girl?”

“I’m a girl, but I wish I was a boy.”

“What for?”

“’Cause boys are stronger than girls, and can fight better.”

“Do you ever fight?”

“Sometimes.”

“Whom do you fight with?”

“Sometimes I fight with the boys, and sometimes with granny.”

“What makes you fight with your granny?”

“She gets drunk and fires things at my head; then I pitch into her.”

The cool, matter-of-fact manner in which Tom spoke seemed to amuse her questioner.

“I was right,” he said; “you’re a philosopher,—a practical philosopher.”

“That’s more’n you said before,” said Tom; “I want ten cents for that.”

The ten cents were produced. Tom pocketed them in a business-like manner, and went back to her employment. She wondered, slightly, whether a philosopher was something very bad; but, as there was no means of determining, sensibly dismissed the inquiry, and kept on with her work.