University of Virginia Library

4. IV.
IN THE GREAT CITY.

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 731EAF. Page 037. In-line Illustration. Image of a man talking to a woman seated on a curb, while in a similar scene below a man with a knapsack is drinking from a cup at an outdoor stall.]

UP and down the street went
Martin, in an anxious, hurried,
unavailing search. No
Caleb Thorne, with burden
and with staff, nor beggar
of any sort, was to be found.
The young man was bewildered
and perplexed. He
was also inclined to be very
angry with Cheesy. He looked in vain
for that young gentleman's shirt-sleeves,
tight fustians, and suspenders crossed
behind, amid the scattered throngs.
He could at one time have used Mrs.
Dabney's hickory stick upon him with considerable satisfaction;
but the next moment his feelings softened. “He is more of a
simpleton than a knave,” thought he. “He has n't a dime in the
pockets of those fustian trousers, and I have got his jacket and
bundle! The rascal, to run off so! He won't find his uncle to-night,
and what he will do for supper and lodgings is more than
I know. Poor fellow, I could shake him, if I had him here!”

Meanwhile the evening had darkened, and there was a wildness

in the aspect of the street, with its people hurrying to and fro,
each intent on his own selfish thoughts, regardless of all the world
beside, and with the tall lamps glaring down upon them as they
passed. The strangeness of the scene so wrought upon Martin's
imagination, that he could scarce believe it was not all a dream.
He had glanced in at shop windows, and around dark corners, and
up and down cross streets, for Caleb and Cheesy, keeping watch
at the same time over Alice, whom he had left with his property
in the doorway of a shoe-store, and taking care that he did not
himself get lost, until his head grew dizzy, and he discovered that
he had twice put his face into an empty dust-barrel, in the absurd
hope of finding something or somebody he was in search of. At
the same time, he seemed to be looking for the Beggar of Bagdad,
who had somehow got out of the Romance, while Caleb Thorne,
who had somehow got into it, lay tied up in his bundle at the
blind girl's feet.

At length he gave up the useless search, and returned to the
shoe-store where he had left Alice. He was just in time to see
the noble proprietor of that establishment appear and order the
child off his steps, while he pushed away the property she was
guarding with his foot. Martin remonstrated, and explained the
circumstances of the case.

“You 're a little green, I see,” said the shopkeeper, with a
pitying look at the young romancer “If these are your traps,
you 'd better take 'em, and get out of the way as soon as you
can. You won't make anything by befriending such people. If
you 're shrewd, you 'll cut, and leave the watch to take care of 'em.”

The idea of extricating himself from his difficulty in so simple
and expeditious a manner had not before entered Martin's brain.
He looked at the shopkeeper in astonishment.

“Anyhow,” the latter added, “I can't have my door stopped
in this way. That's all I 've got to offer.” And, having offered
it, he retired, leaving Martin more astonished than before.

The poor blind child's distress recalled him to himself. Wildly
she wrung her little hands, and pressed them to her face amid
her tangled hair, trying to smother her sobs. Martin sheltered
her kindly with his arm, and uttered some incoherent words of
sympathy and consolation. But nothing could quiet her grief.

“You went too far!” she exclaimed, in tones of anguish.
“I'm sure father is near me. Is n't there a place close by —
where he would be apt to go?” she asked, with tremulous eagerness.
“O, look for him — you know where!”

Sobs choked her utterance, but Martin had caught her meaning.
“Bewildered fool that I am,” thought he, “not to have
guessed as much before!” Once more his eye wandered to
the cellar round the corner. He remembered the hand he had had
a glimpse of in passing, half an hour before, — the hand that
raised a half-filled glass in the gas-light, down in that underground
retreat; and he felt a strong conviction that Caleb Thorne was
there. He hastily removed Alice, with the property, which had
been kicked into the street, to a neighboring doorway, and, telling
her to wait for him there, promised to make one more attempt
to find her father.

“O, thank you! — thank you!” she cried, amid her sobs, with
a sudden flaming-up of hope. “You are so good! My dear,
dear father! You will find him, — won't you?”

“My poor child, I think I will, indeed. But you must not
worry so, at any rate. There; sit down on the bundles, and be
quiet. Don't cry, Alice.”

His words of sympathy and kindness dropped like honey upon

the bitter grief of her soul; and, as he went away, she brushed
back her hair, and covered her face with her hands, thanking him
and praying for him in the innermost recesses of her heart.

Martin descended the steps of the low cellar. The door, which
had been open when he saw the hand, was closed now; but he
lifted the latch and entered. A sallow room, clouded with cigar-smoke,
and lighted by a single gas-burner, received him. On one
side was a row of ancient chairs, and on the other a bar, before
which two men were eating raw oysters, while another emptied a
glass of liquor down his throat. The last stood up beneath the
burden of a pack, and, grasping the tumbler fiercely as he drank,
steadied himself with a staff.

“Mr. Thorne,” said Martin, laying his hand upon his arm.

Caleb set down the glass, and turned upon his friend with a
wild and haggard look, which gave him a shock of horror.

“I am coming, — I am coming,” said he, fumbling in his pocket
with a shaking hand. “Poor Alice! — is she waiting? Don't
tell her. I should have died without it. I was on fire, — I was
burning up. One more glass, and I will go.”

He laid a bit of change upon the counter, and called for gin.
The keeper of the place, whose smooth features and oily hair
looked warm and shiny in the gas-light, swept the money into a
drawer, and placed a decanter before him.

“No! no! — no more!” cried Martin, staying his hand.
“Not another drop. You know the effect. Think of your poor
blind child!”

Caleb turned again, with an angry light in his eyes; but, at
mention of that crushed, forsaken, helpless girl, his hand slid
from the counter, and he reeled away, falling heavily upon a
chair. Thereupon Martin, who perceived the danger of taking

him into the street before Alice was provided for, explained the
case to the shining head behind the bar.

“You see it will not do for him to have any more liquor —”

“All right!” growled the bar-tender, replacing the decanter,
without the faintest gleam of compassion in the smooth, warm
face the gas-light shone upon.

“I am going to take care of his blind child,” resumed Martin.
“I will come back for him in half an hour.”

“All right.”

“If you will be sure and keep him here —”

“All right!” muttered the shining head. “I understand.”

Caleb meanwhile swayed to and fro upon his chair, groaning
and grinding his brow with his clinched hand. Martin spoke to
him kindly, promising to come for him soon.

“I 'll go, — I 'll go now,” muttered Caleb, staggering to his
feet. “My child! — my child! She is waiting, then? Poor
Alice! But I shall die without that other glass. I 've paid for
it, and I will have it.”

“All right,” said the bar-tender, in answer to Martin's appealing
look. He rested his elbows on the counter, and confronted
Caleb, still without any gleam or glimmer of pity in his face.
“Go ahead. All right.”

Trusting to the honor and conscience of the man, Martin
renewed his promise to Caleb, took leave of him, and ran out. He
hastened to rejoin Alice, and found her sitting on the bundles
with her hands pressed upon her face, as he had left her; but,
before he had spoken, as if she knew his step among a hundred
others, she started up quickly, and pressed his arm.

“You have found him! — you have found him!” she cried,
eagerly; “I know you have!”

“Yes, dear child, I have,” he answered, drawing her tenderly
to his side.

“Where is he, then? Something has happened to him! O,
father! — my dear father! I know now why I was afraid! O,
lead me where he is!” pleaded the girl. “I can bring him
away.”

“So can I, and so I will,” returned Martin, cheerfully. “But
let me take you to a place of safety first, and prepare a place for
him. You are quite worn out with fatigue and trouble, my poor
Alice. You must not remain here, where ruffian shop-keepers can
kick you from their doors. I will leave you with friends, and
come back for your father.”

The blind girl's intuitions were so fine that she needed only to
hear the sound of Martin's voice to know that he was worthy of
all trust; yet not without sore trouble of heart did she consent
to go with him, and leave her parent behind.

“Do you think the man will certainly keep him?” she
inquired, still holding back, after he had told her all.

“I think he will. I know he will, in fact,” he replied, confidently;
“for he is a man. Now let us be gone.”

He endeavored to convince himself that he was acting wisely,
and for the best; but, somehow, when he shouldered Cheesy's
property with his own, and took the hand of Alice, he experienced
miserable misgivings. It was partly on Cheesy's
account, and partly on Caleb's; he also felt a brother's anxiety
about the child; but no selfish fear concerning his own welfare
found place in his heart for a moment. He therefore quieted the
whisperings of his conscience, and, leading the child away, walked
up the street, with a last faint hope of meeting Cheesy. No
Cheesy was to be seen, however, and Martin was compelled to

postpone the anticipated pleasure of a reünion with that young
gentleman for an indefinite period.

Remembering that his letter of introduction was addressed to
Portland-street, Martin inquired his way thither, closely observing
what turns he made, with a view to retracing his steps. He
found Portland-street without difficulty; but he also found, to his
dismay, that the letter was gone from his pockets. He put down
his bundles near a street-lamp, and fumbled in his clothes with
both hands, without making any discovery which gave a clue to
the missing document.

“This, then, is Boston,” said he, with a sad attempt at humor;
“and this is my first adventure. The beginning is bad enough
to insure a glorious ending, if there is any truth in the old adage.”

“I give you so much trouble!” sighed Alice, waiting patiently
at his side.

“That 's nothing. You did n't lose the letter for me, did you?”
returned the young man, rallying at once. “But the letter is of no
consequence, anyway. There are other boarding-houses in Boston,
besides Mr. Wormlett's; and I think I 've money enough to pay
for one night's lodging, if no more. Then, in the morning, I will
see what my Bagdad friend is going to do for me.”

Martin was in such good spirits that Alice felt quite encouraged,
— as he intended she should feel, without doubt. But
Heaven knows how darkened and perplexed was his own breast at
the time. Fatigued in mind and body, a stranger in a strange
city, helpless himself, yet feeling that upon his exertions depended
so much, he knew not what to do first, or which way to
turn. While he was hesitating, a small boy ran by in the street,
and, putting his foot sharply down in a puddle, bespattered him
from boot to elbow with thin mud.

“Hillo!” cried Martin; “is that the way young gentlemen
in Boston treat strangers?”

With an odd jerk of his head, and a twist of his little wiry
body, the boy stopped, turning up in the lamp-light the oldest face
Martin had ever seen on such young shoulders.

“Where was the fire?” he asked, without the least manifestation
of concern for the damage he had done. “Say, do you
know?”

“I don't know, sir,” replied Martin, glancing at his bespattered
pantaloons. “You 'd better find out. Run past it three times,
through a respectable puddle, with that skilful foot of yours, and
you 'll put it out.”

Curbing his chin and jerking his head again, the boy looked up
with a cunning leer, and remarked that he did n't care, he was
rich enough.

“Rich enough? What has that to do with drenching people
with mud?” asked Martin, vacantly.

“I 've got fifty-six cents in money and pa 's got two dollars
more belongs to me on interest,” returned the boy, in a breath.

Still revolving in his mind whether he should ring at the first
door, or go on until he met some person who could give him the
information he required, Martin asked the boy — vacantly, as
before — what his name was.

“Sim Wormlett, pa 's a rich man, — keeps a boarding-house
and a grocery.”

“Simeon Wormlett? That 's just the man I want to see!
I 've got a letter for your father, boy, if I have n't lost it. Show
me where you live, and I 'll remember it of you.”

“Will ye gi' me fo'pence?” asked Sim, curbing his chin again,
and looking up with the same cunning leer on his old face.

Martin produced the stipulated sum, with a request that he
might be shown to the boarding-house quickly, for he was in great
haste. The boy ran up eagerly for his reward, clasped it in his
hand and examined it in the lamp-light, twisting his under jaw over
his right shoulder, and expanding his lips into a disagreeable grin.
Having satisfied himself that he was not the victim of a swindle,
he shut up the money in his fist, and hopped along on the side-walk
triumphantly.

“Come this way, we live right here,” he chuckled, swinging
his hand which contained the treasure. “That 's grampa sweeping
where we had our coal got in this afternoon, he wanted me
to help but I would n't he can do it alone, I don't care for
him, I 'm going to keep grocery when I 'm ten years old pa
says.”

Rattling on in this way, with a reckless disregard of punctuation,
the little old boy skipped along, with odd motions of his
head, body and limbs; while Martin followed more slowly, leading
Alice. They had not far to go. The old man Sim had
pointed out was at work under the next street-lamp. He was
sweeping some dust and bits of anthracite upon a shovel, with
slow, unsteady hands, and scolding incoherently to drive away a
couple of ill-dressed little girls, who stood near by, with baskets
on their arms, their poverty-stricken faces turned with wistful
glances at the small heap of waste fuel he had swept together.
Once he threatened them with his broom, then with a lump of
coal; but they kept beyond the reach of the first article, and
probably knew him too well to believe he would risk the loss of
the second, by heaving it — as he declared he would do — at their
heads. At the approach of Simeon and his new acquaintances,
however, they ran away, casting timid glances behind them, like

sheep at sight of a dog, as if they had experienced somewhat of
that active youth's canine character before, and expected he would
be set upon them by the angry old man.

The latter was getting down, with great difficulty, to scrape up
with his hands what dust and bits of coal he could not sweep upon
the shovel, scolding and shaking still, when young Sim darted at
him suddenly, stabbed him in the ribs with his fingers, and
described an eccentric half-circle around him, with a backward
shuffle of his feet.

“Here 's a man to see pa grampa.” The boy appeared to jerk
out his sentences with nervous twitches of his head. “He gi' me
fo'pence for showing him where we live, — says he 's got a letter
for him. Say grampa where 's pa, do you know grampa? Has
he come home to supper yit, — say?”

The old man got up slowly, with one hand upon his back, to
assist him in the work of straightening himself, and began sharply
to find fault with the boy for “pitching into him” in that abrupt
and disagreeable manner.

“Now, git up the rest of that coal for me, will you, hey?” he
demanded, still holding his back with his hand.

“What 'll you gi' me?” returned Sim, showing the money
Martin had paid him, with an aggravating flourish. “Say, will
ye gi' me two cents? Or I 'll do it for a cent seeing it 's you.”

The old man seemed highly incensed at this mercenary proposal.
He made an angry sweep at his shrewd grandchild, stretching out
his long, bony fingers for a revengeful clutch. But Sim hopped
into the street and backed off, mocking him with shakes of his
head, in imitation of palsy.

“That 's the way you do, — jes' so; see, grampa! Come,
will ye gi' me a cent? You won't git that coal in, all night, alone.”

The old man made no further attempt to capture him, but got
down on the ground and scraped up the coal-dust which had
occasioned the quarrel.

“I 'll git holt on ye, by'mby, young man,” he kept muttering,
in his harsh treble. “You 'll see. You won't gain nothing, I
tell ye. Would n't pick up a little handful of coal, to save grampa's
poor broken back! I 'll remember that. You 'll git your
pay!”

He pushed the coal-hod before him, and was creeping along on
the ground to get a stray lump which had escaped his eye before,
when he perceived Martin standing before him, with Alice.

“Here, little girl!” he cried, in a querulous, shrill voice,
“why can't ye pick up that lump for a poor broken-backed old
man? Don't ye see it, hey?”

“The child is blind,” said Martin, moving away, with feelings
of pity and disgust.

“Be you the man wants to see Simeon?” returned the broken-backed
grandfather.

Martin did not at the moment feel a very strong desire to see
Simeon, being quite satisfied with what he had seen of Simeon's
family. But it was no time for the indulgence of caprices. He
therefore hastened to state that he was recommended to the house
by Mr. Wormlett's sister, Mrs. Dabney; and that he was desirous
of securing lodgings for himself and companion, and another friend
he was going to bring, as soon as possible. At that the old man,
still on his hands and knees, began to nod, and shake, and grin
over the hod, in a frightful manner.

“So Lyddy sent you, did she, hey?” he chattered, under the
shadow of his dilapidated hat, with only his shrivelled side-face
touched by the slanting rays of the street-lamp. “Lyddy 's my

darter, ye know. And how does Lyddy git along? Pooty fore-handed,
hey? She was allers a prudent gal, Lyddy was, — had a
right-down old-fashioned bringing-up. Children don't often have
such bringing-up, now-a-days; not such as Lyddy had; we took
pains with Lyddy; train up a child in the way he should go,
that 's my way, and that 's what I did by Lyddy, and all my children.
Good manager, an't she, hey?”

Martin answered that, having spent a summer in her household,
he could bear witness to that fact; adding, with a smile, as
he saw her again before him, that she had a decided genius for
saving.

“He, he, he!” tittered the old man, getting up on his knees,
rubbing his blackened skinny hands over the hod, and going
again with the palsy; “that 's Lyddy! that 's my darter! Does
she keep more 'n one cow? Does she sell any butter? Is that
boy of her'n good to work, hey?”

Martin promised to enlighten the old man on all such points in
Mrs. Dabney's domestic economy at some future time. But at
the moment he was in great haste. He wished to see the little
girl in safe quarters, and go for her father without delay.

“We 'll go in, then, and talk it over 'bout Lyddy some other
time, hey?” returned the shaking grandfather. “But you
would n't mind picking up that bit of coal fust, would ye, and saving
me the trouble, with my lame knees, and poor old broken back?”

To advance matters, Martin tossed the bit — which was indeed
a bit, being no larger than a walnut — into the hod, and offered
to help the old man to his feet. But he was not yet quite willing
to leave the side-walk. He could see some fine pieces of coal in
cracks between the bricks, and did not at all like the idea of those
ragged children, with poverty-stricken faces and empty baskets,

coming back and picking them out, after he was gone. He made
an effort to get at them with his thin fingers, which he wedged
down between the bricks with painful perseverance, but with no
success; then tore off splints from the broom to be used for the
purpose, at the same time telling young Sim to find him a pointed
stick, which would be just the thing. At length, after tearing
his fingers and bruising his knuckles a good deal in the operation,
he gathered up the broken splints with what bits of coal he had
obtained, put them carefully in the hod, and, with Martin's
assistance, got upon his feet. Meanwhile Simeon stood by, jerking
his head, screwing his under jaw round, and grinning, with his
tongue out, and teased the old man to give him a cent to take the
job off his hands, and finish up. Irritated by this tantalizing conduct,
his grandfather made another spiteful clutch at him as soon as
he stood firmly on his legs, — if such a palsied, bent and meagre
frame could be said to stand firmly on anything; but Sim was again
too quick for him, and the claw-like fingers grasped empty air.
Thereupon grandfather and grandson began to chatter and gibber
at each other, and skirmish on and off the steps; but finally, the
old man, completely disconcerted and foiled, retreated into the
house with his hod, sadly harassed in his rear by his light and
agile antagonist.

Shrinking from the slightest contact with such uncongenial
spirits, Alice followed, holding fast with trembling hand to the
arm which guided her, and shuddering instinctively as she went up
the steps into the house.