Читать книгу Tattered Tom - Alger Horatio Jr., Thomas Chandler Haliburton - Страница 8

Twenty-five cents is not a large sum, but it was Tom’s entire fortune. It was all she had, not only to buy breakfast with, but also to start in business. She had an excellent appetite, but now there was no hope of satisfying it until she could earn some more money.

Tom hurried back to the lodging, and entered, looking excited.

“Well, what’s wanted?” asked Meg, who knew well enough without asking.

“I’ve lost some money.”

“Suppose you did,” said the woman, defiantly, “you don’t mean to say I took it.”

“No,” said Tom, “but I had it when I laid down.”

“Where was it?”

“In my pocket.”

“Might have tumbled out among the straw,” suggested Meg.

This struck Tom as not improbable, and she went back into the bedroom, and, getting down on her hands and knees, commenced poking about for it. But even if it had been there, any of my readers who has ever lost money in this way knows that it is very difficult to find under such circumstances.

Tom persevered in her search until her next-door neighbor growled out that he wished she would clear out. At length she was obliged to give it up.

“Have you found it?” asked Meg.

“No,” said Tom, soberly.

“How much was it?”

“Twenty-five cents.”

“That aint much.”

“It’s enough to bust me. I don’t believe it’s in the straw.”

“What do you believe?” demanded Meg, whose guilty conscience made her scent an accusation.

“I think some of them took it while I was asleep,” said Tom, indicating the other lodgers by a jerk of her finger.

“Likely they did,” said Meg, glad to have suspicion diverted elsewhere.

“I wish I knew,” said Tom.

“What’ud you do?”

“I’d get it back again,” said Tom, her black eyes snapping with resolution.

“No, you wouldn’t. You’re nothin’ but a babby. You couldn’t do nothin’!”

“Couldn’t I?” returned Tom. “I’d let ’em know whether I was a baby.”

“Well, you go along now,” said Meg. “Your money’s gone, and you can’t get it back. Next time give it to me to keep, and it’ll be safe.”

Being penniless, Tom was in considerable uncertainty when she would again be mistress of so large a sum. At present she felt in no particular dread of being robbed. She left the lodgings, realizing that the money was indeed gone beyond hope of recovery.

There is some comfort in beginning the day with a good breakfast. It warms one up, and inspires hope and confidence. As a general rule people are good-natured and cheerful after a hearty breakfast. For ten cents Tom might have got a cup of coffee, or what passed for such, and a plate of tea-biscuit. With the other fifteen she could have bought a few morning papers, and easily earned enough to pay for a square meal in the middle of the day. Now she must go to work without capital, and on an empty stomach, which was rather discouraging. She would have fared better than this at granny’s, though not much, her breakfast there usually consisting of a piece of stale bread, with perhaps a fragment of cold sausage. Coffee, granny never indulged in, believing whiskey to be more healthful. Occasionally, in moments of extreme good nature, she had given Tom a sip of whiskey; but the young Arab had never got to like it, fortunately for herself, though she had accepted it as a variation of her usual beverage, cold water.

In considering what she should do for the day, Tom decided to go to some of the railway stations or steamboat landings, and try to get a chance to carry a carpet-bag. “Baggage-smashing” required no capital, and this was available in her present circumstances.

Tom made her way to the pier where the steamers of the Fall River line arrive. Ordinarily it would have been too late, but it had been a windy night, the sound was rough, and the steamer was late, so that Tom arrived just in the nick of time.

Tom took her place among the hackmen, and the men and boys who, like her, were bent on turning an honest penny by carrying baggage.

“Clear out of the way here, little gal!” said a stout, overgrown boy. “Smash your baggage, sir?”

“Clear out yourself!” said Tom, boldly. “I’ve got as much right here as you.”

Her little, sharp eyes darted this way and that in search of a possible customer. The boy who had been rude to her got a job, and this gave Tom a better chance. She offered her services to a lady, who stared at her with curiosity and returned no answer. Tom began to think she should not get a job. There seemed a popular sentiment in favor of employing boys, and Tom, like others of her sex, found herself shut out from an employment for which she considered herself fitted. But, at length, she saw approaching a big, burly six-footer, with a good-natured face. There was something about him which inspired Tom with confidence, and, pressing forward, she said, “Carry your bag, sir?”

He stopped short and looked down at the queer figure of our heroine. Then, glancing at his carpet-bag, which was of unusual size and weight, the idea of his walking through the streets with Tom bending beneath the weight of his baggage, struck him in so ludicrous a manner that he burst into a hearty laugh.

“What’s up?” demanded Tom, suspiciously. “Who are you laughin’ at?”

“So you want to carry my carpet-bag?” he asked, laughing again.

“Yes,” said Tom.

“Why, I could put you in it,” said the tall man, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“No, you couldn’t,” said Tom.

“Do you think you could carry it?”

“Let me try.”

He set it down, and Tom lifted it from the ground; but it was obviously too much for her strength.

“You see you can’t do it. Have you found anything to do this morning?”

“No,” said Tom.

“Business isn’t good, hey?”

“No,” said Tom, “but I wouldn’t mind so much if I hadn’t had my money stole. I’m bust!”

“How’s that? Did the bank break or have you been speculating?”

“Oh, you’re gasin’! I aint got nothing to do with banks. Somebody stole two shillin’s I had, so I’ve had no breakfast.”

“Come, that’s bad. I guess I must give you a job, after all. You can’t carry my bag, but you can carry this.”

He had under his arm something wrapped in a paper, making a small bundle. He handed it to Tom, and she trudged along with it after him.

“You couldn’t guess what that is, I suppose?” said her companion, sociably.

“No,” said Tom; “it feels soft.”

“It’s a large wax doll, for my little niece,” said her patron. “You haven’t got any dolls, I suppose?”

“I had one once,” said Tom. “It was made of rags. But granny threw it into the fire.”

“I suppose you were sorry.”

“I was then; but I’m too old for dolls now.”

“How old are you?”

“I aint sure. Somewheres about twelve.”

“You live with your granny, then?”

“No, I don’t,—not now.”

“Why not?”

“She wanted to lick me, so I run away.”

“Then where do you live now?”

“Nowhere.”