CHAPTER XVALONE IN THE BIG CITY
IT was eight o’clock when the train steamed slowly into the Grand Central, and Gretel, with the heavy suit-case clutched tightly in her arms, made her way out into the crowded station. The bustle and confusion bewildered her a little, although she had been accustomed to the city all her life. The roar of the elevated trains; the shouting of cab drivers, and the pushing, jostling throngs, made her feel all at once very lonely, and rather frightened. Her head was beginning to ache, too, and she was more than ever conscious of the fact that she had not had any breakfast. Still, it never occurred to her to stop and buy something to eat, although there was still nearly two dollars left in her purse. Her one thought was to reach the Lipheims’ flat as soon as possible.
At the corner of Forty-second Street she paused for a moment.
“East One Hundred and Sixth Street,” she said to herself; “I must take the Third Avenue Elevated.” And she turned resolutely eastward.
Early as it still was, the streets were almost unbearably hot. The air which had felt so cool and fresh in the country, was oppressive with heat and smoke, and Gretel’s suit-case was very heavy. By the time the little girl had reached the elevated station, and climbed the long flight of stairs to the platform, she felt as tired as if she had been walking miles. She was fortunate, however, in getting a seat in a train bound for Harlem, and it felt cooler up there on a level with people’s second story windows, than it had done in the street below.
The ride uptown was not unpleasant, but it was soon over, and then Gretel found herself standing on a street corner, in a part of the city that was quite unfamiliar to her. She felt bewildered, and uncertain as to which direction she ought to turn.
“I can’t remember whether it was east or west of Third Avenue,” she said to herself, wondering why her head felt so uncomfortably light. “I’ll try east first and see if the numbers are right.”
She turned down a shabby street, where a greatmany children were playing on the sidewalk, but after walking a short distance, and scanning the numbers of the houses, she decided that she had made a mistake, and should have crossed the avenue and gone west. So, with a sigh, she turned and retraced her steps to the corner. Having safely crossed the avenue, despite the constant procession of trucks and trolley cars, she once more began an anxious scrutiny of the numbers on the houses. Yes, she was right this time; these were the two hundreds, and two hundred and seventeen was the number of which she was in search. Her heart began to beat very fast again as she neared her destination. After all, it was a long time since she had seen or heard of the Lipheims. Suppose they had moved. Suddenly she stopped short, with a little cry of astonishment.
“Why, why,” she gasped, her eyes growing round with dismay, “that is the house, I’m sure, but—but they’re tearing it down. Nobody can be living there now.”
It was too true. A gang of workmen were engaged in demolishing a building, which had evidently once been an apartment-house; already the doors and windows had been taken out, and a part of the walls were down. Gretel stoodquite still, staring stupidly before her. The shock was so sudden and unexpected that for the first few moments she could do nothing but stare in helpless bewilderment. Then, with a great effort, she pulled herself together, and approached one of the workmen.
“Would you please tell me if this house used to be two hundred and seventeen?” she inquired timidly.
“It was that,” the Irishman answered, good-naturedly, “and it’s going to be the same number when it’s made over into a model apartment-house.”
“I—I suppose you don’t know where the people who used to live here have moved to?”
“I do not. Are you looking for somebody who used to live in two seventeen?”
Gretel nodded, and the man regarded the white, tired little face more attentively.
“Maybe you could find out in one of them stores on the corner,” he suggested, and Gretel, having thanked the friendly Irishman, turned, and once more walked back to the noisy corner.
There was a small grocery on the corner, and Gretel, who had not been unfamiliar with such places in the old studio days, went in, and put her question to the young man behind the counter.
“Would you please tell me if this house used to be two hundred and seventeen?”—Page250.
“Would you please tell me if this house used to be two hundred and seventeen?”—Page250.
“Would you please tell me if this house used to be two hundred and seventeen?”—Page250.
“I am looking for some people who used to live in number two seventeen,” she explained; “their name is Lipheim. I thought perhaps you could tell me where they have moved.”
“Lipheim, Lipheim,” the young man repeated; “I sort of remember the name, but—oh, yes, I know, an old German lady, who talked queer English?”
“Yes, that’s Mrs. Lipheim,” said Gretel, eagerly, “she speaks very broken English. Her son plays the violin—do you know where they live now?”
The man shook his head.
“Couldn’t say,” he said. “The old lady was in here one day just before they began tearing down those houses, and she told me they were going somewhere in the Bronx, but she didn’t leave any address. Wouldn’t you like to sit down for a few minutes? It’s a hot morning, and your bag’s pretty heavy.”
“No, thank you,” said Gretel; “you are very kind, but I’ve got to find Mrs. Lipheim.” And she turned resolutely away.
She inquired at every store on the block, but always with the same discouraging result. Some of the shopkeepers did not remember the Lipheims at all; others had known them ascustomers, but nobody appeared to have the slightest idea where they had gone.
“What shall I do—oh, what shall I do now?” thought Gretel, as she came out of the last shop, and stood looking helplessly up and down the avenue. “Nobody knows where they’ve moved to, and how can I possibly find them?”
But if she did not find the Lipheims, to whom should she go? That was the terrible question, and suddenly Gretel began to tremble, and her head felt so queer she was obliged to lean against a lamppost for support.
“I’m all alone,” whispered the poor child, with a sob, “and I don’t know where to go.”
All at once, she realized that she was both very tired and very hungry. Still, it did not occur to her to buy any food. She must find somebody to take care of her, and help her to earn some money, but who was it to be? Rapidly she ran over in her mind the names of the few people she knew. There were the Barlows. Jerry and Geraldine would be glad to see her, and Mr. and Mrs. Barlow were always kind, but if they knew she was a dishonest person, would they want to have anything more to do with her? She remembered Geraldine had said her mother wasvery particular about what children she and Jerry associated with. If Mrs. Barlow knew that she had stolen a ticket to fairy-land, she might refuse to allow her children to associate with her, and, oh, she could not bear that—she would be so terribly ashamed. There were Mrs. Marsh and Ada, but she did not want to go back to them. Besides, it was not at all likely they would take her back, since Mrs. Marsh and Percy had quarreled, and Percy was no longer paying her board. She thought of several friends of her father’s, who had once been kind to her, but she had no idea where they lived. She remembered the long list of maids who had come and gone during her year with Mrs. Marsh, but the only one among them for whom she had cared in the least was Dora Grubb. Dora had always been kind, and then there were Lillie and Peter. Peter must be in a vaudeville company by this time. Surely he and his family were the very people most likely to be able to help her now. If she only knew where they lived! She remembered that Dora had once spoken of her family as “living uptown on the East Side.” It was rather vague, but still she might be able to find them if she tried very hard. This was “uptown,” and it was also “the East Side.” She could keep onwalking until—well, until something happened. So, with a weary sigh, she clutched the heavy suit-case more tightly, and moved on slowly along the crowded, noisy street.
It was nearly two hours later, and Gretel was still plodding wearily on. She had walked a very long way, how far she did not know. The part of the city she was in was quite strange to her, and she had no very clear idea as to just where she was. The scorching June sun was beating down upon her, and it seemed to be growing hotter every minute. She no longer felt any desire for food. A faint, sick feeling was creeping over her, which rendered the thought of breakfast anything but agreeable. Every few minutes she was obliged to stop, and set her suit-case down on the sidewalk. She was tired, oh, so tired; there was no use in trying to keep the tears back any longer, and she let them come thick and fast. She had met plenty of boys and girls, but none among them had at all resembled her old acquaintances Peter and Lillie Grubb.
“There isn’t any use; I can’t carry it any longer,” she said, with a sob, as she set her burden down for at least the tenth time in the past hour. “I’ll have to leave it somewhere.”
She looked about for a suitable hiding-place,but none presented itself. She had turned from a dirty cross street into a wide avenue, noisy with the clang of trolleys, and the roar of an elevated train. There was nothing to be done but leave the suit-case where she was, even at the risk of its being carried off long before she could come back for it. But first she would secure her greatest treasure; the packet of old letters. So, having removed the precious package, and slipped it into her pocket—which was fortunately a large one—she resigned the suit-case to its fate, and prepared to resume her hopeless quest.
There was a dull pain in her head, and queer lights were beginning to dance before her eyes, which at times prevented her seeing very clearly where she was going. Suddenly she realized that she was walking on the sunny side of the street, and that if she crossed the avenue she would be in the shade. How stupid she had been not to think of that before. She would go over to the shade, and sit down somewhere to rest for a little while. Perhaps when she had rested she would feel better. So, with one regretful glance at the suit-case, which must be left behind, she stepped off the curb and started to cross the avenue.
A small boy with his hands in his pockets, was sauntering slowly down the shady side of Second Avenue. It was much too hot to walk fast, and besides, he was in no hurry. It was not yet eleven o’clock, and he dared not present himself before his mother and sisters until noon. For this was a school day, and he had not appeared at the school building at the usual morning hour. In plain English, he was playing truant. He had decided that a swim at one of the free baths would be much more agreeable than spending three hours in a stuffy school-room on that hot morning, but his mother was not a believer in “the law of love,” and consequently, he was not anxious to be seen by his family before the noon lunch hour.
The swim had proved most refreshing, but one was not allowed to remain in the free baths for an indefinite period, and hence it was that he found himself wandering aimlessly down Second Avenue at eleven o’clock in the morning, with nothing particular to do for the next hour.
Suddenly his attention was attracted by a small crowd gathered on a corner and he quickened his steps, in the hope of discovering something of interest.
“I bet it’s an accident,” he remarked aloud,with a brightening face. He was not at all a cruel boy, but an accident meant an excitement, and excitement was what Peter Grubb craved more than anything else in the world.
“It is an accident,” he added, as he drew nearer the scene of action; “the cars are stopped; somebody must have got run over.” And he quickened his pace to a run.
“What’s up?” he demanded breathlessly of another youth of about his own age, as he shouldered his way through the crowd.
“Kid got knocked down by a trolley car,” was the answer; “they’ve carried her into the drug store, and there’s been an ambulance call.”
Peter’s heart began to beat faster. Not that he felt any particular interest in the unfortunate “kid,” but to see some one taken off to the hospital in an ambulance was always an exciting experience, and one that could be related afterwards to a group of interested friends. So he wasted no more time in asking questions, but made his way through the open door of the drug store, round which a sympathizing crowd was hovering.
It did not take Peter long to see what had happened. They had laid the injured child on the counter, and some one was trying to stanch theblood, which flowed from a deep cut on her forehead. Her eyes were closed, and she lay very still.
“Is she killed?” Peter inquired in a rather awed whisper.
“No, we don’t think so,” answered the man to whom he put the question. “I saw it happen, and the motor-man got the brakes on just in time. She’s badly hurt, though, I’m afraid; there’s an ugly cut on her head, and she was unconscious when we picked her up.”
“Does anybody know who the little girl is?” somebody asked.
A policeman, who was among the crowd in the doorway, stepped forward.
“She don’t live anywhere round here,” he said; “I know all the kids in this neighborhood, and I never laid eyes on her before. She’s got good clothes on; looks as if she might have come over from the West Side.”
Peter edged his way nearer to the counter. The little figure lay so very still that he was beginning to feel uncomfortable. He would just take one look, and then run away. Suddenly he uttered an exclamation of astonishment, and turned excitedly to the interested spectators.
“Hello! Oh, I say! I know who she is; I’ve seen her before.”
“Where does she live?” half a dozen voices inquired at once, and all eyes were turned upon the excited Peter.
“Why,” said Peter, looking very much bewildered, “it’s the funniest thing I ever knew. I can’t make out what she was doing around here. My sister used to work for her folks; their name is Marsh, and they live away down Broadway, opposite the opera house.”