University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
A HUNT FOR LODGINGS.

A knight-errant of old going forth for the
first time in quest of adventure—a naval commander
putting out to sea with his fleet—could
hardly have experienced a weightier sense of
anxiety and responsibility than did our little
friend Ruth, as, tightly clasping Frank by the
hand, she proceeded with him up Broadway to
a less crowded part of the city in search of
lodgings. Naturally shy and sensitive, it was
only by a strong effort that she had sufficiently
overcome her timid misgivings to undertake
her present mission.

It was a clear, cheery day, bright and sunny,
though the air was keen. Nothing memorable
befell our young adventurers until, as they were
crossing Canal-street, an urchin, who had been
following them for some distance, gazing with
intense excitement at Frank's prodigy of a hat,
suddenly came up to him and exclaimed,

“I say, Blue Jacket, where did you get so
much hat?”

In an instant Frank's hand was withdrawn
from his sister's, and he was in pursuit of the
impertinent inquirer, who, though considerably
the larger, took refuge from the wrath he had
provoked by jumping on the step of an omnibus,

from which he securely made faces at Frank,
going through some peculiar gyrations with his
hands applied to his nose, and then giving a
specimen of the Ethiopian double-shuffle with
his feet.

Frank returned indignant, and allowed Ruth
to reclaim his hand, when she asked,

“Why will you be so hasty, Frank?”

“By George! if I had caught him, wouldn't I
have pitched into him?” replied Frank, doubling
his fist, and aiming a blow at the air.

As he uttered this bravado, he felt a sudden
knock on the top of his head, and was all at
once enveloped in total darkness, while it was
with difficulty that he could breathe. Another
boy, intent on mischief, had stolen up behind
him, and jammed the unfortunate hat down over
his face.

Before Frank could recover his sight, the annoyer
had fled, and Ruth was exerting herself
to pacify the little victim. With some difficulty
she appeased him. They walked on, and
fortunately met with no farther molestation of
the kind.

Turning off towards the eastern part of the
city, the young pedestrians at length entered a
street beyond the Bowery, where the houses,
though apparently occupied by poor people,
were for the most part neither crowded nor
dirty. Here Ruth stopped for a few minutes
and reconnoitred. Seeing a grocery shop, she
resolved to stop there and make inquiries.
There was nothing extraordinary about the
shop, unless it was its neatness. A bundle of

new brooms hung before the window, under
which was a shelf, on which were arranged
goodly specimens of clean brown sugar, dried
beans, raisins, almonds, figs, oranges, prunes,
coffee, and various articles of a more substantial
nature. At the door stood a fat man with
a red face, with his thumbs resting in the armholes
of his waistcoat. He seemed to be contemplating,
with a meditative sort of interest,
not unmingled with amusement, a contest which
was taking place in the street between a little
black pig and a large dog. The pig, after submitting
to a degree of annoyance, such as few
pigs could have endured with equal resignation
and fortitude, suddenly, with a desperate squeal,
ran at its antagonist, and chased him from the
field. Hereat the fat man began to heave and
shake with laughter, which did not abate until
his eyes fell on Ruth and Frank, whom he saluted
with a jolly wink, which seemed to say,
“Wasn't that fun, young ones?”

Encouraged by these indications, Ruth advanced
with the purpose of addressing him, but
as she came near, a female appeared just in his
rear, whose figure and aspect formed a remarkable
contrast to his own. Her complexion was
sallow, and her cheeks thin and sunken. Her
lips seemed glued together, so tightly were
they habitually compressed. Her figure was
straight and attenuated, and in her movements
she was brisk and rigid. This individual was
Mrs. Bibb. The fat man was Mrs. Bibb's husband,
and, nominally, the keeper of the grocery
shop.

The approach of Mrs. Bibb seemed to produce
a singular effect upon her liege lord. The comical
wink, which had so lit up his face, and encouraged
Ruth to come forward, was changed
into an equally comical frown, as, in deep, guttural
tones, he exclaimed, “Go away from here,
children; what are you hanging about here
for?”

With a longing, lingering look behind at the
raisins and almonds, Frank took his sister's
hand, and turned with her away. Mrs. Bibb
cast an approving glance upon Mr. Bibb, and,
well satisfied with the exhibition of rigour he
had given, went back into an inner room. No
sooner had she disappeared, than the attention
of the children was arrested by a voice calling
to them in a husky whisper, “I say, children,
come back! Bob, you rogue, look here! Come
back, will you?”

Looking round, the young adventurers saw
the fat man, with a couple of oranges in his
hand, beckoning them to return. They obeyed,
whereupon the fat man again winked, and
began:

“I say, Bob—”

“But my name isn't Bob; it is Frank, sir—
Frank Loveday,” said the boy.

“Well, I was sure it was either Frank or
Bob—Bob or Frank—it is all the same, you
know, in Greek,” replied the fat man, with another
wink.

“I don't know it at all,” said Frank, stoutly,
“for I never studied Greek.”

“I am sorry for it,” returned the fat man,

gravely; “for, then, how will you be able to
suck this orange?” And here a perfect volley
of winks was poured in upon poor Frank, succeeding
one another rapidly like flashes of heat-lightning.

Childhood,

is quick to find out its friends, and Frank was
not slow in returning Mr. Bibb's amicable overtures.
He even went so far as to return him
his winks, at which the grocer was wonderfully
delighted, regarding him as a lad of marvellous
promise. The oranges were immediately surrendered
to him, and Mr. Bibb seemed still farther
rejoiced when he saw Frank choose the
bigger one and insist on giving it to Ruth.

“Where do you live, and where are you going,
young ones?” inquired Mr. Bibb.

“I am now in search of lodgings, sir,” replied
Ruth, “and I wished to ask you if you knew of
any to let in this neighbourhood?”

“But why did your mother send you out to
look for lodgings? Why didn't she come herself?”

“My mother, sir, is dead,” answered Ruth,
casting down her eyes.

Mr. Bibb was silent for a moment, and then
said, in a softened tone, “I am very sorry for
that, my dear. And your father is too busy, I
suppose, to go about room-hunting, so he sent
you; is that it, eh?”

“My father died last week, sir,” replied Ruth,
struggling to keep down her tears.

Mr. Bibb caught his breath suddenly, and then,
puffing out his cheeks, looked about fiercely,
with the evident determination that he would
not be caught blubbering by his better half.

“Poor—poor children!” said he, at last, with
a sigh. “And how many of you are there?”

“Four, sir, including myself,” answered Ruth.

“And have you no relative, no friend to take
care of you, and tell you what to do?”

“Oh, yes, sir, we have a very good, generous
friend, Mr. Stanford. He will pay the first
month's rent of our rooms.”

“Well, let me see if I can think of a nice
place for you somewhere in this neighbourhood;
for you know you can give me your custom
if you take lodgings hereabout, and—”

“Yes, and fine, profitable custom it will be,
Mr. Bibb!” exclaimed a shrill, piercing voice,
which seemed to produce the same effect upon
the fat man that might have been occasioned
by an acute twinge of a jumping toothache.
“Nice custom, to be sure! Shame upon you,
sir! Can't a couple of ragged brats pass the
door without your pampering them with oranges?
Away from here, you little, good-for-nothing
vagrants! If you show your faces here
again, I will rub them in the sand-barrel, I will!
Off with you! Tramp! And you, sir, how
dare you, after your promise to me—”

The rest of Mrs. Bibb's objurgation was lost
to Ruth and Frank, who hastily quitted the spot.
They had to walk some distance, however, before
they wholly escaped the noise of her tones.

“By George! if my wife spoke so to me,

wouldn't I give her the strap!” exclaimed Frank,
as soon as a few blocks of houses were placed
between him and the formidable Mrs. Bibb.

“Do not talk so, Frank. You must keep down
that quarrelsome temper of yours, or it will
lead you into trouble.”

“I can't bear to be imposed upon, or to see
anybody else imposed upon.”

“You are too forward, Frank—too rebellious
for such a little boy. You should forgive those
that harm you—be mild to those that are rude.”

“If a boy knocks off my hat, and kicks it,
what shall I do?”

Ruth gave a reluctant glance at the enormous
hat, and shuddered as she admitted the probability
of such buffets occurring to poor Frank.
She was a little puzzled by his straightforward,
practical question, and, at the moment, seeing
a bill, on which was inscribed “Rooms to Let,”
attached to a neighbouring house, she proposed
that they should call, in pursuance of the object
of their errand.

In answer to Frank's knock, the door was
opened by a middle-aged woman, with an infant
crying in her arms, and two riotous children
tugging at her gown.

“I would like to see the rooms you have to
let, and learn the price,” said Ruth, modestly.

“Who wants to hire them?” asked the woman,
putting away the hands of the struggling
infant from the ribands of her cap.

“I myself, ma'am,” replied Ruth.

“You! Why you are but a child!” exclaimed
the woman.

“You shall receive a month's pay in advance
if I like the rooms,” returned Ruth.

“Well, I never!” said the woman, with a
wondering stare. “But come in and warm yourselves,
children. Cease pulling at my gown, Andrew
Jackson! Amos Kendall, if you do that
again, I will give you such a box on the ear as
will make you see stars! Let go, will you?
Rebecca Ann, when will you be done squalling?
Be still, you cross little thing, you! Come in,
my dear, and shut the door. So, you can pay
a month's rent in advance?”

“Yes, ma'am,” answered Ruth, following,
with Frank, the matron and her interesting offspring
into a small room, half kitchen and half
nursery, about which every nameable utensil of
domestic use was cluttered.

“Sit down, dear,” said Mrs. Crane, for such
was the woman's name.

Ruth was about to take a chair, when Andrew
Jackson, who had apparently been absorbed for
some moments in the contrivance of a piece of
mischief, pulled it from under her, and she
would have fallen had she not caught at Frank's
arm. Mrs. Crane immediately put down Rebecca
Ann upon the floor, and darting at the namesake
of the hero of New-Orleans, hit him a blow
which sent him spinning against the wall. Such
a yell as he set up was never heard even from
an Indian ambush. It was immediately echoed
by Amos, and finally swelled by the voice of
Rebecca Ann, until the chorus was perfect. In
despair, Mrs. Crane rushed to the sugar-bowl,
and liberally distributed its contents among the
clamorous trio.

Comparative tranquillity being restored by
this sweetening process, Ruth went with her
conductor to examine the rooms. She decided
at once that they would not do. They were
low, badly ventilated, dirty, and looked out
upon a close yard, into which well-educated pigs
would have disdained to enter. The Cranes
were evidently an uncleanly family, and with
such Ruth hoped to avoid forming an alliance.

As she returned to the sitting-room with
Frank, the sounds of another disturbance struck
their ears.

“Ma! Andrew has got my sugar!” screeched
the younger of the boys.

“Oh dear! Oh—h—h—h—yah—ooh—hullabaloo!”
yelled Andrew Jackson.

Before the perplexed mother could part the
combatants, Amos had seized Andrew by the
hair of his head, at which he was pulling with
all his strength. The tables were soon turned,
however, for Andrew succeeded in getting one
of Amos's fingers between his teeth, and it now
was Amos who yelled. It was some time before
poor Mrs. Crane could make the hero of
New-Orleans relax his bite, and put an end to
the fraternal strife.

“Was ever mother so pestered by her children!”
she exclaimed.

Ruth did not reply, but could not help thinking
that the mother was merely reaping the
consequences of her own faulty mode of bringing
the children up.

Bidding farewell to Mrs. Crane and her progeny,
the brother and sister proceeded on their
errand.

“I tell you what, Ruth,” began Frank, as they
emerged into the fresh air, “I should like to
have the trouncing of those two fellows, Andrew
and Amos. One of them was going to
stick a pin into me; but when he saw my fist
he grew shy. Are they not nice boys?”

“Take warning by their example, Frank, and
avoid quarrels. I wish you were not so ready
on all occasions to double up your fist.”

“You wouldn't have me stand still, and let
a fellow run pins into me, would you?”

“No; but try gentle means before you try
blows.”

“Oh, Ruth, you are a girl, and don't understand
some things,” said Frank, cocking his stupendous
hat upon one side of his head, with the
air of a man who is disposed to drop a tiresome
topic of conversation.

The next house at which they stopped was
one occupied by a Mr. Grimby, who testily sent
them away, saying that he could not be pestered
by children. Not at all disheartened, Ruth
renewed her inquiries at a neighbouring door;
but here the price demanded for rooms was altogether
too high. She now inquired at nearly
a dozen places successively. At times her application
was disregarded or laughed at; and,
on one occasion, a woman charged her with
making her inquiry a pretence for finding an
opportunity to steal something. This accusation
roused all the ire of Frank's nature, and he
told the woman that she spoke falsely.

“Hoity toity!” exclaimed she; “if you crow
again, I will cut your comb.”

“You are a bad woman,” returned Frank.

“Come away,” said Ruth.

“Be off!” continued the woman, attempting
to lay her hand on Ruth's shoulder to push her;
but Frank interposed, and tightly withheld the
extended arm. “Oh, you little tiger! let me
alone, or I will call Mr. Hyde,” said the termagant,
who, like most tyrannical people, was a
great coward.

“Strike me, but don't lay a finger on my sister!”
returned Frank; and, releasing the woman's
arm, he followed Ruth into the street.

It was now waxing late in the afternoon, and
the little orphans began to fear that they would
have to return home unsuccessful. After passing
from street to street, they suddenly found
themselves once more approaching the grocery
store where they had had the adventure with
the fat man. At the distance of a square from
this place, Ruth noticed a high brick house
standing by itself. It was old and poor in its
appearance, but the sidewalk before the door
was well swept, and at the front windows were
a couple of flower-pots, in one of which was a
monthly rosebush, and in the other a geranium-plant.

“I think they must be good people who live
here, Frank,” said Ruth. “We will call.”

Her light tap at the door was answered by a
little blue-eyed girl, hardly tall enough to reach
the latch, who smiled and courtesied as she returned
the glance of the young strangers.

“Who lives here, my dear?” asked Ruth.

“Aunt Sarah, or, I should say, Mrs. Bangs,”
replied the child.

“And what is your name, pretty one?” rejoined
Ruth.

“Lucy Marvell,” answered the little girl,
looking up confidingly in Ruth's face.

“I would like to see your aunt a few moments.”

“She is in the kitchen, ironing. Will you
walk in?”

Ruth and Frank followed their guide until
they found themselves in the presence of a
woman who seemed about thirty years old, and
who was busily engaged in ironing shirts and
fine pieces of linen. She was coarsely but
neatly dressed, with a plain muslin cap on her
head, and a kerchief white as newly-fallen snow
about her neck. Her countenance bore the
marks of labour and anxiety, but whenever she
spoke, it lighted up with a cheerful smile. Two
small children sat looking at a picture-book
upon a little bench which stood on the wide
brick hearth. They had their hands on each
other's shoulder, and the larger seemed to be
teaching the smaller one to read. Opposite to
these sat an old blind woman in an armchair,
who was slowly knitting upon a stocking. A
sleek gray cat lay lazily purring at her feet before
the fire. Everything about the room seemed
cleanly and in its place. Even the wide,
whitely-spread ironing-board bore an air of comfort.

Ruth modestly explained to Mrs. Bangs the
object of her visit; and the good woman's face
betrayed no slight emotion of surprise when

she learned her story, and her plans for the future.

As soon as Ruth had communicated all the
information she thought proper, Mrs. Bangs
briefly explained to her the condition of her
own household. The family consisted of herself
and husband, his blind mother, eight children,
and the little girl, Lucy Marvell, who had
opened the door. Of the children, the eldest
boy, Calvin, who had been apprenticed to a carpenter,
had, a few months before, fallen from
a staging and been crippled. He occupied a
room on the third story, to which he was still
confined by illness. William Bangs, or, as he
was more generally known among his companions,
Bill Bangs, was the next son, and on him
devolved the laborious duty of collecting and
depositing the clothes which his mother washed.
The office was no sinecure. Mary, the
eldest girl, was about Ruth's age, and had quite
enough to keep her employed in taking care of
the smaller children, the youngest of whom
numbered hardly two years. All that Ruth
could learn at the moment about Mr. Bangs was,
that he was a coachman; but the sigh which
escaped the blind old lady as his name was
mentioned, led the little visiter to fear that
there was something wrong about this important
member of the family.

There was yet another inmate of the house,
but he bore the relation of a lodger towards the
rest. This was a French gentleman, who was
known in the neighbourhood as the Mounseer,
but whose genuine name was Mallet. His sole

articles of furniture were a cot bedstead, a
was-basin, a broken chair, a broken mirror, a
violin case, which was not empty, and an excellent
pianoforte. The frugal means on which
he lived were obtained by playing on the violin
in the orchestra of one of the minor theatres.
His time during the day was devoted principally
to musical composition. He was always engaged
upon some new opera or oratorio, or
some incomprehensible fantasias, arias, and
concertos. The music publishers would refuse
even to examine his manuscripts; the theatres
would reject his operas; and the harmonic
societies would laugh at the idea of attempting
one of his oratorios; but, notwithstanding
all these failures and disappointments, where
could you find a lighter or more benignant
heart than that which beat beneath the rough,
uncouth exterior of the “Mounseer?” “Vive
la bagatelle!” he would exclaim, after one of
these rebuffs; “it is the vorld's loss—le pauvre
monde!”

As soon as she had communicated some of
these particulars to Ruth, Mrs. Bangs informed
her that there were two rooms in the garret,
one of which had a fireplace and a closet; and
that she could let them unfurnished for eight
dollars a month. Ruth's heart leaped at this
piece of intelligence, and she was nigh engaging
the apartments without looking at them.
This inadvertent haste Mrs. Bangs prevented
by offering to show them to her; and they consequently
proceeded up four flights of stairs to
the attic.

“Oh! these will do nicely—nicely, Mrs.
Bangs,” exclaimed Ruth, as she glanced out of
a window, and caught a refreshing glimpse of
the East River. “How clean and airy they
will be, and how easily ventilated! We will
take them to-morrow, Mrs. Bangs.”

“With one understanding, I will trust you,
my dear,” said Mrs. Bangs. “We are poor
people here—very poor; and, since my boy's
illness, and the falling-off in Mr. Bangs's business,
I find it very difficult to make both ends
meet. Do you think you will be able to pay
me the rent promptly in advance on the first of
every month?”

Ruth drooped her head a moment, and then,
looking up frankly, replied, “The first month's
rent I can surely pay when I take the rooms,
and I do believe that I shall be able to get along
so as to pay you promptly afterward.”

“You look and speak like a good girl,” said
Mrs. Bangs, “and I am not afraid to trust you.
You can take the rooms.”

“Oh, thank you—thank you, ma'am!” replied
Ruth. “I am sure we shall get along nicely.
But hark! Don't I hear music? And it comes
from the room below. How very sweet! I
love music.”

“That is the Mounseer playing on the piano.”

“The what, ma'am?” inquired Ruth.

“The old Frenchman of whom I told you
just now.”

“Oh, yes, I remember. And will he let us
hear him play?”

“I do not see how he can well help it; but

even if he could he would not, for he loves to
have listeners.”

“Then I am sure he will love me, for I could
listen all day,” said Ruth. “But come, Frank,
it is getting late. We will move into the rooms
to-morrow, Mrs. Bangs.”

“Very well, dear; I shall expect you. This
is the way down stairs, and there is Lucy waiting
for another kiss from you at the door.”

Bidding the good woman a cheerful good-by,
and giving Lucy the expected kiss, Ruth took
her brother's hand and quitted the house.

So, at length, the momentous mission was fulfilled—and
how successfully! How happy Ruth
felt at the issue of her day's wanderings and
inquiries! For some minutes she and Frank
walked on in silence. But soon, in retracing
their steps by one of the squares they had before
traversed, the latter exclaimed, “I say,
Ruth, look there!”

Ruth looked in the direction pointed out, and
saw the fat man, who had given them the oranges
in the morning, standing at the door of his
shop. His face no longer wore the joyous expression
which seemed congenial to it. He
stood with eyes fixed upon the ground, apparently
in a thoughtful and disconsolate mood.
Occasionally he would shake his head, as if he
were saying to himself, “It is too bad! I'll not
submit to it any longer.” Then he would
smooth his chin, as if he were half afraid of
the rebellious thoughts that had arisen in his
mind, and was trying to keep them down.

Frank dropped his sister's hand, and, with an

impulse half of sympathy and half of mischief,
went up and plucked the fat man by the skirt
of the coat, and, catching his glance, commenced
a most animated series of winks.

“What, my little hero! is it you?” exclaimed
Mr. Bibb, at once relaxing from his grave
mood. “And here is sister, too! Well, my
dear, have you succeeded in getting rooms?”

Ruth informed him of the happy termination
of their search, whereat Mr. Bibb seemed greatly
rejoiced, especially when he learned that
they were to live at Mrs. Bangs's, whom he
knew and liked, and whose house was at no
great distance from his own.

Looking cautiously round, Mr. Bibb's hand
moved stealthily towards a box of almonds, and
grasped a goodly quantity, which he was about
to transfer to Frank's hat, when the same shrill,
dissonant voice, which had before saluted him
after one of his benevolent donations, struck
upon his ear, and seemed to paralyze him in the
act. The almonds dropped from his grasp, and
were scattered on the floor; his teeth chattered,
and his rubicund visage lost its jolly hue.

“I thank you as much as if I had them,” said
Frank, shaking him by his hand, which had
dropped powerless by his side.

“Good-by, sir,” added Ruth; but the fat man
was as silent as if suffering under an apoplectic
attack.

Passing into the Bowery, where the lamplighters
were just commencing their nightly
task, the children hurried towards their home,
which they reached without any farther adventure.

They found Arthur and May quite well,
though a little concerned at their prolonged absence.
Arthur had been reading all the old
books he could find, and May had been busying
herself with her needle. Some food and
milk had been sent by Stanford. Ruth placed
them upon the plain pine table at which they
were accustomed to eat, and prepared their
day's meal.

“I am hungry as a bear,” said Frank.

“How good, how thoughtful of Mr. Stanford,
to send all these things!” exclaimed Ruth, with
a tear of gratitude in her eye.

“We shall dine at a fashionable hour,” said
Arthur. “Shall I not light the candle, sister?”

Ruth answered in the affirmative, and with
some kind, encouraging words to every one,
distributed the food and the milk. After a
cheerful repast, she heard the children say their
prayers, one after another, and saw them comfortably
asleep. Then, calling down a benediction
upon the friend who had assisted her, and
commending him, and herself, and those under
her charge to the vigilance of an all-gracious
Father, she sank into a sweet and tranquil repose.