Dorothy Dale in the City Part 32

"It's only when he's gettin' over a sleepless night," explained Tommy's mother, pathetically, "that he worries so. When he's well," she whispered to Dorothy, "he don't worry about nothin'; but when his money's all gone and he ain't well, the way he frets about me and the children is somethin' awful!" She looked at her husband with wonderful pride and pleasure in possessing so complicated a man.

Dorothy wondered, in a dazed way, what happened when the entire family wished to sit down at the same time. She could count just four suitable seating places, and there were nine members of the family. The smallest member, a wan, blue-lipped baby in arms, had a look on its face of a wise old man.

How and where to begin to help, Dorothy could not think. That the baby was almost starved for proper nourishment and should at once be taken care of, Dorothy realized. Yet such an air of cheerfulness pervaded the whole family, it was hard to believe that any of them was starving. The cheerful poor! Dorothy's heart beat high with hope.

The head of the family made his way to the door opening into the main hall, and taking his hat from a hook, pulled it over his eyes and put his hand on the door k.n.o.b. The little wife, forgetting all else-that Dorothy was looking on, that her baby was crying, and that something was boiling over on the stove-threw herself into the giant's arms.

"Don't go out, James!" she cried, pitifully, "don't go away in the cold.

You won't, dearie; I know you won't! Take off your hat, there's a good man. Don't go, there's no work now." As the man opened the door, "don't you know how we love you, James? Stay home to-night, dearie, and rest for to-morrow."

"I'm just goin' down to the steps," replied the man, releasing the woman's arms from about his neck, "I'll be up in a jiffy. I didn't say I was goin' out. Who heard me say a word about goin' out?" he appealed to the numerous children playing about.

"You don't have to," said Tommy, bravely trying to keep his lips from quivering, "you put on a hat; didn't you? And you opened the door; didn't you?" and with such proof positive Tommy stood facing his father, but his lips would quiver in spite of biting them hard with his teeth.

"I'm just goin' down for a breath of air," he explained, as his wife clung desperately to his arm, "just to get the sleep out o' me eyes, and I'll run into the grocer's, and come back with-cakes!" he ended, triumphantly.

Dorothy felt awkward and intrusive. This was a family scene that had grown wearisome to the children, who took little interest in it, and the mother of the brood at last fell away, and allowed the man to leave the room. Then Dorothy saw the tragedy of the little woman's life! Glistening tears fell thick and fast, and she hugged her baby tightly to her breast, murmuring softly in its little ears, oblivious to her surroundings.

"I'll buy you food," said Dorothy, the weary voice of the woman bringing tears to her eyes. "Tommy will come with me and we'll buy everything you need."

Tommy rushed for his hat, and together they started down the stairs.

Reaching the steps, Dorothy looked about for some sign of Tommy's father, but he must have been seated on another porch for the breath of air he was after; the only thing on the front steps was Tommy's yellow dog.

"Did you see my father?" said the boy to the dog. The dog jumped about madly, licking Tommy's face and hands and barking short, joyful doggie greetings. "He's seen him, all right," said Tommy.

"Did he go to the grocer's?" he asked of the dog. In answer the dog's ears and tail drooped sadly, and he licked Tommy's hand with less joyfulness.

"No," said little Tommy, "he ain't gone to the grocer's, he's always looking for work now, he says."

"I'll see if I can bring him back," volunteered Dorothy.

The evening crowd on Rivington Street was pouring out of the doorways, bitter cold did not seem to prevent social gatherings on the corners, and the small shops were filled to overflowing with loungers. A mission meeting was in progress on one of the corners, as Dorothy hurried on, and a sweet, girlish voice was exhorting the s.h.i.+vering crowd to repent and mend their ways.

CHAPTER XXIV A YOUNG REFORMER

Close in the wake of Tommy's father, now returning, came Dorothy. A large automobile stood before one of the rickety buildings, and Dorothy just caught sight of a great fur coat and gray hair, as the owner of the car came from the building. It was Mr. Akerson! His chauffeur opened the door of the car, touched his cap, and the auto made its way slowly through the street.

"There's the rent collector," she heard a small girl say, as she watched the automobile out of sight. "Ain't he grand!"

Dorothy wondered, with a shudder, how any one could come among these people and take their money from them, for housing them in such quarters!

Tommy's father turned off Rivington Street into a narrow lane, little more than an alley, but it contained tall buildings nevertheless, with the inevitable fire escape decorating the fronts. He paused in front of a p.a.w.nbroker's shop, which was some feet below the level of the sidewalk.

Dorothy, too, paused, leaning on the iron fence. The man was smiling an irresponsible, foolish smile as he descended the steps to the p.a.w.nshop.

Dorothy peered down into the badly-lighted shop, and saw Tommy's father lay an ancient watch chain, the last remaining article of the glory of his young manhood, on the counter.

The clerk behind the counter threw it back in disgust. Again Tommy's father offered it, but the p.a.w.nbroker would not take it, for it was evidently not worth s.p.a.ce in his cases. The man stumbled up the steps, and Dorothy met him face to face on the top one.

"I need a watch chain," she heard herself saying in desperation, "I'll buy it, please."

"You're the woman as was collecting the rent; eh?" he said.

"Oh, no," said Dorothy, smiling brightly, "I came to see Tommy's mother, and his father. I wanted to know Tommy's family."

"You wanted to help the boy, maybe?" he asked, his attention at last arrested.

"Yes," replied Dorothy, eagerly, "I want to do something. I have money with me now, and I'll buy the chain."

The man suddenly turned and went on ahead. He wasn't a really desperate man, but Dorothy did not know just what state it could be called, he simply seemed unable to think quite clearly, and after walking one block, Dorothy decided he had forgotten her entirely.

"I want to buy the groceries," she said, stepping close to his elbow, "but there will be so many, you'll have to help carry them home to your wife and Tommy."

He stared at her sullenly. "Who told you to buy groceries?" he demanded.

"Your wife said there was nothing to eat in the house," she answered, "and I would love to buy everything you need, just for this once."

"I was just goin' to get 'em, but there was no money. How's a man goin'

to help his family, when they takes his money right outer his pockets; tell me that, will you?" he demanded of Dorothy. She shrank as the huge form towered over her, but she answered steadily:

"The children are at home, hungry, waiting for something to eat-the cakes you promised them, you know," she said with a brave smile.

"Well, come along; what are you standin' here for wastin' time when the children are hungry?" he said finally.

Dorothy laughed quietly, and went along at his elbow. Such unreasonable sort of humanity! At least, one thing was certain, he would not escape from her now, since she was convinced that he had really been trying to secure money enough to buy food; if she had to call on the rough-looking element on the street to come to her aid she would help him.

In the grocer's Dorothy found great delight in ordering food for a family, and they left the shop, loaded down with parcels. The grocer's clock chimed out the hour of seven as they left the store.

"Aunt Winnie," thought Dorothy suddenly, "she'll be worried ill! I had almost forgotten I had a family of my own to be anxious about. But they'll have to wait," she decided, "they, at least, aren't hungry. They are only worried, and I know I'm safe," she ended, philosophically.

The yellow dog was in the hall, so were all the evil odors, even some of the babies still played about, evidently knowing no bedtime, until with utter weariness their small limbs refused to move another step. And the dog being there meant that Tommy had gone ahead and was safe at home.

The upper halls were noisy. The hours after supper were being turned into the festive part of the day. At Tommy's door there were no loud sounds of mirth, and, opening it quietly, Dorothy entered, the man behind. A dim light burned in the room, the mother sat asleep in the old velvet chair, the smaller children curled up in her lap, and she was holding the baby in her arms. Several of the children were stretched crosswise on the kitchen cot, and Dorothy decided the remainder of the family were in the dark room just off the kitchen, and later she discovered that the surplus room of the three-room home was rented out, to help pay the rent.

The children quickly scrambled from the cot and from the mother's lap, with wild haste to unwrap the paper parcels. There was little use trying judiciously to serve the eatables to such hungry children. It mattered not to Tommy that jelly and condensed milk and b.u.t.ter and cheese were not all supposed to be eaten on one slice of bread. Tommy never before saw these things all at one time, and, as far as Tommy knew, he might never again have the chance to put so many different things on one slice.

Oranges and bananas were unknown luxuries in that family, and the little boys eyed them suspiciously, but brave Tommy sampling them first, they picked up courage, and soon there were neither oranges nor bananas, only messy little heaps of peeling.

Dorothy was busy instructing the mother how to prepare beef broth, and a nouris.h.i.+ng food for the baby, when the clock struck eight.

"Tommy," said Dorothy, as she busily stirred the baby's food, "do you know where there is a telephone? I must send a message to Aunt Winnie."

"Sure," said the confident Tommy, "I know all about them things. I often seen people 'telphoning,'" thus Tommy called it.

Soon it was agreed that Tommy and his father would go and inform Dorothy's aunt of her whereabouts, over the wire.

It was an anxious fifteen minutes waiting for their return. The mother let the steak broil to a crisp in her anxiety lest the father slip away from Tommy's grasp, and Dorothy, listening for the returning footsteps, had visions of again running after Tommy's father to bring him back to the bosom of his family, and allowed the oatmeal to boil over. But all was serene when the man returned safely with the information that: "some old feller on the wire got excited, and a lot of people all talked at once," and the only thing he was sure of was that they demanded the address of his home, which he had given them, not being ashamed, as he proudly bragged, for anyone to know where he lived.