“Mrs. White, I regret to say, Mr. Akerson,” responded Dorothy, “seems to be ill-informed about her own property.”
“Mrs. White has access to my books,” he replied coldly, “whenever she chooses to look them over. Everything is there in black and white.”
“Except your verbal statements to me,” said Tavia, standing up and facing Mr. Akerson. “Your statement that rents used to be thirty-five dollars, and are now one hundred dollars.”
Dorothy guessed instantly whither Tavia was leading.
“And the difference between the thirty-five dollars and the one hundred dollars,” she asked, “goes to whom? Some charitable institution perhaps?”
“Ha! Ha!” laughed Mr. Akerson, “that’s rich! So you,” he turned to Tavia, “took all my nonsense so seriously that you’re convinced I’m a scoundrel.” His teeth gleamed wickedly through his stubby mustache, and Dorothy wished that Aunt Winnie would hurry. She did not like this man.
“By your own statements you’ve convicted yourself,” declared Tavia. “The morning I interviewed you, you did not know me, and told me your prices.”
“You’re wrong; I did know you,” declared the man bluntly. “I knew you to be a friend of Mrs. Bergham’s, that you had listened to a rambling tale of that feeble-minded woman, and came to me expecting to have it confirmed—and, as you know, I fully confirmed it. By the way, Mrs. Bergham moves to-day, but I suppose you are thoroughly conversant with her affairs.”
Like a shot the thought came to Dorothy and Tavia, as they exchanged glances, could Mrs. Bergham, who certainly did not seem dependable, misrepresent matters to gain sympathy for herself? But as quickly came the picture of patient Miss Mingle, and all doubt vanished at once.
“That’s true,” confessed Tavia, “the first inkling of absolute wrong-doing came quite unexpectedly through Mrs. Bergham. I’m sorry, though, that she has been ordered to move on account of it.”
“Mrs. Bergham will not move,” said Dorothy, quietly. “We have sufficient evidence, I should say, Mr. Akerson, to convince even you that your wrong-doings have at last been found out.”
Mr. Akerson jumped to his feet, a sudden rage seeming to possess him.
He sprang to the door and locked it and turned on the girls. Tavia slipped instinctively behind a chair, but Dorothy stood her ground, facing the enraged man with courage and aloofness.
“You can’t frighten me, Mr. Akerson,” she said to him. White with rage the man approached nearer and nearer to Dorothy.
“Just what do you mean?” he asked, and there was that in the cool, and incisive quality of his tones that made both girls feel, if they had not before, that they had rather undertaken too much in coming to the office.
There was silence for a moment in the office, a silence that seemed yet to echo to the rasping of the lock in the door, a sound that had a sinister meaning. And yet it seemed to flash to Dorothy that, at the worst, the man could only frighten them—force them, perhaps, to some admission that would make his own case stand out in a better light, if it came to law procedings.
Too late, Dorothy realized, as perhaps did Tavia, that they had been indiscreet, from a legal standpoint, in thus coming into the camp of an enemy, unprotected by a lawyer’s advice.
All sorts of complications might ensue from this hasty proceeding. Yet Dorothy, even in that moment of trouble, realized that she must keep her brain clear for whatever might transpire. Tavia, she felt, might do something reckless—well meant, no doubt, but none the less something that might put a weapon in the hands of the man against whom they hoped to proceed for the sake of Aunt Winnie.
“Just what do you mean?” snapped the man again, and he seemed master of the situation, even though Dorothy thought she detected a gleam of—was it fear? in his eyes. “I am not in the habit of being spoken to in that manner,” he went on.
“I am afraid I shall have to ask you to explain yourself. It is the first time I have ever been accused of wrongdoing.”
“I guess it isn’t the first time it has happened, though,” murmured Tavia.
“What’s that?” demanded the man, quickly turning toward her. Even bold Tavia quailed, so menacing did his action seem.
“There always has to be a first time,” she substituted in louder tones.
“I don’t know whether you are aware of it, or not, young ladies,” the agent proceeded, “but it is rather a dangerous proceeding to make indiscriminate accusations, as you have just done to me.”
“Danger—dangerous?” faltered Dorothy.
“Exactly!” and the sleek fellow smiled in unctuous fashion. “There is such a thing as criminal libel, you know.”
“But we haven’t published anything!” retorted Tavia. “I—I thought a libel had to be published.”
“The publishing of a libel is not necessarily in a newspaper,” retorted Mr. Akerson. “It may be done by word of mouth, as our courts have held in several cases. I warn you to be careful of what you say.”
“He seems to be well up on court matters,” thought Tavia, taking heart. “I guess he isn’t so innocent as he would like to appear.”
“I would like to know what you young ladies want here?” the agent blurted out.
“Information,” said Tavia, sharply.
“What for?”
“What is information generally for?” asked Tavia, verbally fencing with the man. “We want to know where we stand.”
“Do you mean you want to find out what sort of apartments they are—whether they are of high class?”
He was assuming a more and more defiant attitude, as he plainly saw that the girls, as he thought, were weakening.
“Something of that sort—yes,” answered Tavia. “You know we want to start right. But then, of course,” and she actually smiled, “we would like to know all the ins and outs. We are not at all business-like—I admit that—and we certainly did not mean to libel you.” Crafty Tavia! Thus, she thought she might minimize any unintentional indiscretion she had committed.
“Mrs. White doesn’t know much about business, either,” she went on. “She would like to, though, wouldn’t she, Dorothy?”
“Oh, yes—yes,” breathed Dorothy, scarcely knowing what she said. She was trying to think of a way out of the dilemma in which she and Tavia found themselves.
“I will give Mrs. White any information she may need,” said Mr. Akerson, coldly.
“But about the apartments themselves,” said Tavia. “She wants to know what income they bring in—about the new improvements—the class of tenants—Oh, the thousand and one things that a woman ought to know about her own property.”
“Rather indefinite,” sneered the man.
“I don’t mean to be so,” flashed Tavia. “I want to be very definite—as very definite as it is possible for you to be,” and she looked meaningly at the agent. “We want to know all you can tell us,” she went on, and, growing bolder, added: “We want to know why there is not more money coming from those apartments; don’t we, Dorothy?” and she moved over nearer to her chum.
“Yes—yes, of course,” murmured Dorothy, hardly knowing what she was saying, and hoping Tavia was not going too far.
“More money?” the agent cried.
“Yes,” retorted Tavia. “What have you done that you should be entitled to more than the legal rate?”
“I brought those apartments up to their present fitness,” he snarled, “and whatever I get over and above the regular rentals, is mine; do you understand that? What do you know about real estate laws? I’ll keep you both locked in this office, until I grind out of your heads the silliness that led you to try and trap me. I’ll keep you here until——”
“You will not,” said Dorothy.
“Where did she go?” He suddenly missed Tavia, and Dorothy, turning, saw too that Tavia had disappeared.
“This is nothing but a scheme to get us down here,” cried Dorothy, after several moments of anxiety, “Aunt Winnie was never expected, and now Tavia has gone!”
“Oh, no I haven’t,” cried Tavia, as she stepped from a sound-proof private telephone booth. “I’ve just been looking about the office. It’s an interesting place, and the melodrama of Mr. Akerson I found quite wearisome.”
“Also that my private ’phone isn’t connected; didn’t you?” he said. Suddenly dropping the pose of the villain in a cheap melodrama, he smiled again and rubbing his hands together said, as though there never had been a disagreeable word uttered:
“Seriously, girls, that Bergham woman is out of her head, that’s a fact. You must know there is something queer about her.”
On that point he certainly had Dorothy and Tavia puzzled. Mrs. Bergham surely was not the kind of a person either Tavia or Dorothy would have selected as a friend, and they looked at the man with hesitation. He followed up the advantage he had gained quickly.
“Here’s something you young ladies knew nothing about—that woman has hallucinations! It has nearly driven her poor little sister, Miss Mingle, distracted. Why, girls, she tells Miss Mingle such yarns, and the poor little woman believes them and blames me.” He looked terribly hurt and misunderstood.
“To show your good faith,” demanded Dorothy, “unlock the door. Then we will listen to all you have to say. But, first, I must command you to talk to us with the doors wide open!”
“With pleasure, it was stupid to have locked it at all,” he agreed affably. “Now if you’ll just come with me to the bookkeeper’s department I’ll prove everything to your entire satisfaction, and since Mrs. White has not seen fit to keep her appointment, you may convey the intelligence to her, just where you stand in this matter.”
“About the apartment we might wish to rent,” said Tavia, serenely, “have you the floor plan, that we might look over it?”
Tavia was just behind Mr. Akerson, and Dorothy brought up the rear.
“I’m not as much interested in the books as in the floor plan,” explained Tavia.
“The only one I have is hanging on the wall of my private office,” he said slowly, looking Tavia over from head to foot.
“If you’ll show me the books, so that I can explain matters to my aunt, while Miss Travers is looking over the plan of the apartment she may wish to take,” said Dorothy seriously, “we can bring this rather unpleasant call to an end.”
“I’m sure I am sorry for any unpleasantness,” said Mr. Akerson, “but you’ll admit your manner of talking business is just a little crude. No man wants to be almost called a scoundrel and a cheat.”
“The books, I hope,” Dorothy answered bringing out her words slowly and clearly, “will show where the error lies. By the way, do you collect these rents in person, or do you employ a sub-agent?”
“This, you understand, is not a company matter. It’s a little investment of my own, and I take such pride in that house, that I allow no one to interfere with it. Yes, I collect the rents and give my personal attention to all repairing. If I do say it myself, it is the best-cared-for apartments in this city to-day. And I’ll tell you this confidently, Miss Dale, five per cent. for collecting doesn’t pay me for my time. But I’m interested in the up-building of that house, you understand.”
Tavia strolled leisurely back to the private office, while Mr. Akerson went into a smaller office just off the private one, and while he was bending over the combination of the safe, quick as a flash, Dorothy took off the receiver of the desk telephone from the hook, and, in almost a whisper, asked central for their Riverside home number.
“Ned,” she gasped, when she heard his voice, “quick, don’t waste a moment! This is Dorothy. We are in Akerson’s office and are frightened! Come downtown at once! I’m afraid we won’t be able to hold out much longer! Quick, quick, Ned!” Then she softly put the receiver back and turned just in time to see Mr. Akerson rising from before the safe with a bundle of books in his arms. Dorothy to hide her confusion bent over a blue print that had been hanging on the walls, but all she saw was a confused bunch of white lines drawn on a blue background, and from the outer room came the sound of Tavia’s voice, as she and Mr. Akerson went over the pages of the ledger, the alert girl seizing the opportunity to dip into the books as well as look at the floor plans in order to gain more time.
Dorothy pored over the blue print for a long time. She was growing so nervous that all the little white lines on the paper began dancing about and grinning at her, and Mr. Akerson’s voice and Tavia’s in the other room became louder and louder. Every footstep as the clerks returned, one by one, from lunch, set her heart palpitating, and she clenched her hands nervously. She feared that Mr. Akerson would in some way evade them, disappear before Ned and the boys could arrive!
Tavia seemed so calm and self-possessed and examined the books so critically that Dorothy marveled at her! Surely Tavia could not understand so complicated a thing as a ledger! Off in the distance, at the end of the suite, Dorothy suddenly saw a familiar brown head, and behind a shaggy white head, and then a pair of great, braid shoulders, and in back of them a modish bonnet framing the dignified face of Aunt Winnie!
“Dorothy,” she called, running forward. “Here they are!”
Dorothy’s interest in the prints ceased instantly, and she sprang after Tavia.
Mr. Akerson’s face blanched and he withdrew to his private office.
All the clerks returned discreetly to their work, typewriters clicking merrily, as the family filed down through the offices and into Mr. Akerson’s private room. He faced them all until he met the clear eyes of Mrs. White, then he shifted uneasily and requested Bob, who came in last, to close the door.
“What’s it all about, Dorothy?” asked Bob in clear, cool tones, as he looked with rather a contemptuous glance at the agent. “Has someone been annoying you?” and he seemed to swell up his splendid muscles under his coat-sleeves—muscles that had been hardened by a healthy, active out-of-door life in camp.
“If there has,” continued Bob, as he looked for a place in the paper-littered office to place his hat, “if there has, I’d just like to have a little talk with them—outside,” and the lad nodded significantly toward the hall.
“Oh, Bob!” began Dorothy. “You mustn’t—that is—Oh, I’m sure it’s all a mistake,” she said, hastily.
“That’s more like it,” said Mr. Akerson, and he seemed to smile in relief. Somehow he looked rather apprehensively at Bob, Tavia thought. She, herself, was admiring the lad’s manliness.
“But you telephoned,” Bob continued. “We were quite alarmed over it. You said——”
“Young ladies aren’t always responsible for what they say over the ’phone,” put in Mr. Akerson, with what he meant to be a genial smile at Bob. “I fancy—er—we men of the world realize that. If Miss Dale has any complaint to make——” he paused suggestively.
“Oh, I don’t know what to do!” cried Dorothy. “There certainly seems to be some need of a complaint, and yet——”
“Doro, dear, have you been trying to straighten out my business for me?” demanded Mrs. White, with a gracious smile.
“Aunt Winne—I don’t exactly know. Tavia here, she——”
“We’re trying the straightening-out process,” put in Tavia. “We had just started after being locked——”
“Careful!” warned the agent. “I cautioned you about libel, you remember, and that snapping shut of the lock on the door was an error, I tell you.”
“Never mind about that part,” broke in Tavia. “Tell us about the business end of it. About the rents, why they have fallen off, and all the rest.”
“Have you really been going over the books with him, Dorothy?” asked Mrs. White, in wonder.
“Allow me to tell about matters,” interrupted Akerson. “I think I understand it better.”
“You ought to,” murmured Tavia.
“I will listen to you, Mr. Akerson,” said Mrs. White, gravely. “You may proceed.”
“As I have just been saying to Miss Dale,” he went on, pointing to the ledgers on his desks, “this matter can be explained in two minutes, if you will just glance over these entries.”
He pushed the books toward Aunt Winnie.
“Don’t look at them, Aunt Winnie,” cried Dorothy. “The entries are false! We have his own words to prove his wrong-doing! His statements to Tavia and Miss Mingle’s word to us are different.”
“DON’T LOOK AT THEM, AUNT WINNIE,” CRIED DOROTHY. “THE ENTRIES ARE FALSE!”“DON’T LOOK AT THEM, AUNT WINNIE,” CRIED DOROTHY. “THE ENTRIES ARE FALSE!”
“DON’T LOOK AT THEM, AUNT WINNIE,” CRIED DOROTHY. “THE ENTRIES ARE FALSE!”
And by a peculiar net of circumstances, which invariably occur when one thread tightens about a guilty man, Miss Mingle at that moment walked into the room! She had come to demand justice from the man who had served removal notice upon herself and her sister, Mrs. Bergham. She held the notice in her hand. Major Dale took it, and tearing it in small pieces, placed it in a waste paper basket.
“He admitted to me, quite freely,” protested Tavia, “that every tenant in the house paid eighty or one hundred dollars for his or her apartment!”
Miss Mingle at first could not grasp the meaning of it, but as Dorothy quickly explained that her aunt was the owner of the apartment, it dawned on Miss Mingle just how, after all, the guilty are punished, even though the road to justice be a long and crooked one.
“You never spent a penny on that place,” growled Mr. Akerson, “I spent a good pile of my own money, just to fix it up after my own ideas of a studio apartment.”
“I spent more than half of my income of thirty-five dollars per month from each apartment, for constant repairs, and when I discussed with you, as you well know, the advisability of advancing the rents a few dollars to cover the outlay, you discouraged it, said it was impossible in that section of the city to ask more than thirty-five dollars,” said Mrs. White sternly.
“What these books really show,” said Dorothy, “is the enormous amount that is due Aunt Winnie from Mr. Akerson!”
“The tenants are so dissatisfied,” explained Miss Mingle, “the constant increases in the rent were so unreasonable! The porter in the house, so we have found, was in league with Mr. Akerson, and kept him informed of everything that happened.”
“That’s how,” said Tavia, with a hysterical laugh, “he knew whom it was we called on at the Court Apartments!”
“Easy there,” said Bob to Tavia, “don’t start laughing that way, or you’ll break down, and I’ll have to take care of you.”
“It’s been so awful, Bob,” said Tavia, his name slipping naturally from her lips. “We tried to carry it through all alone!”
“Just as soon as you’re left to yourselves,” he said with a smile, “you begin to get into all sorts of trouble!”
“There is only one thing to say,” declared Major Dale, advancing toward Mr. Akerson. “Nat will figure up what you owe to Mrs. White, you will sit down and write out a check for the amount, and that will close further transactions with you!”
Mr. Akerson fingered his check book, and made one last effort to explain:
“Miss Mingle is influenced by her sister, who has hallucinations,” but he could say no more, for Major Dale and Bob came toward him threateningly.
“Miss Mingle teaches my daughter in school, and we will hear nothing from you about her family,” said Major Dale, decidedly.
“I demand justice!” cried Mr. Akerson, jumping from his seat.
“I call this justice,” calmly answered the major.
“I shall not be coerced into signing a check and handing it to Mrs. White. I’ll take this matter to the proper authorities,” the agent fumed, as he walked rapidly to and fro. “It’s an injustice. I tell you I’m innocent.”
“Then prove your innocence!” answered Major Dale.
The ladies were beginning to show signs of the nervous strain. Miss Mingle and Tavia were almost in hysterics, while Dorothy clung to Mrs. White’s arm.
“You do not understand the laws in this State,” declared Mr. Akerson. “There is no charge against me. I defy you to prove one!”
“Very well, we will summon one who understands the laws, and decide the matter at once,” said Major Dale; “meanwhile, you ladies leave these disagreeable surroundings.”
“After all,” said Miss Mingle, as they left the office building, “we won’t have the awful bother of moving; will we, dear Mrs. White?” Her voice was full of pleading.
“No, indeed, and as soon as everything is settled, we must try to find an honest agent to care for the place. I am convinced that Mr. Akerson is not honest, in spite of all he said,” said Mrs. White.
“My poor sister!” sighed Miss Mingle. “She almost collapsed at the mere thought of having to leave that apartment.”
“Never mind,” consoled Mrs. White, “everything will be all right now. And you dear girls, how you ever had the courage to face that situation all alone, I cannot understand!”
“Oh, it was nothing!” said Tavia, really believing, since the worst part of it was over, that it had been nothing at all.
“I almost imagine we enjoyed it!” Dorothy exclaimed.
“Oh, nonsense,” said Mrs. White, “you are both so nervous, you look as though another week’s rest would be needed. You are pale, both of you.”
“Well, I don’t feel one bit pale,” said Tavia, “Still I think I’ll lie down, when we get home.”
“So will I, but I’m not tired,” declared Dorothy.
“They are too young; too high spirited,” said Mrs. White to Miss Mingle, as they parted; “they won’t admit the awful strain they have been under all day.”
An hour later, when the boys and Major Dale returned to the apartment, all was quiet, and they tiptoed about for fear of awakening the girls. Aunt Winnie was waiting for them.
“It’s all settled,” whispered Major Dale. “We have Akerson under bonds to appear in three days to pay back all money due you.”
“And to think that Dorothy and Tavia unraveled the mystery!” sighed Aunt Winnie.
“Hurrah!” said the boys, in a whisper. “Hurrah for the girls!”
Which brought the girls into the room.
Dorothy roused the next morning with a sense of great relief after the strenuous hours of the previous day. At last they were beginning to accomplish something in the way of straightening out Aunt Winnie’s complicated money matters. It was a decided rest to turn her thoughts to the poor boy who had spent a little time in their kitchenette—the boy who just ate what was offered him, and grinned good-naturedly at the family.
He had evidently considered them all a part of the day’s routine, and accepted the food, and the warmth, and kindness with a hardened indifference that made Dorothy curious. He had grudgingly given Dorothy his street and house number. He was so flint-like, and skeptical about rich people helping poor people, his young life had had such varied experience with the settlement workers, that he plainly did not wish to see more of his hostess.
It was an easy matter for Dorothy to just smile and declare she was “going out.” Tavia was curled up in numerous pillows, surrounded by magazines and boxes of candy, and the boys were going skating. City ice did not “keep” as did the ice in the country, and the only way to enjoy it while it lasted, as Ned explained, was to spend every moment skating madly.
Dorothy read the address, Rivington Street, and wondered as she started forth what this, her first real glimpse into the life of New York City’s poor, would reveal. She was a bit tremulous, and anxious to reach the place.
“Where is this number, little boy?” she inquired, of a street urchin.
“Over there,” responded a voice buried in the depths of a turned-up collar. “I know you,” it said impudently. One glance into the large, heavily-lashed eyes made Dorothy smiled. Here was the very same thin boy upon whom she was going to call.
“Is your mother at home?” she asked.
“Sure,” he replied, “so’s father.” Then he laughed impishly.
“And have you brothers and sisters, too?” said Dorothy.
“Sure.” He looked Dorothy over carefully, decided she could keep a secret, and coming close to her he whispered: “We got the mostest big family in de street; nobody’s got as many childrens as we got!” Then he stood back proudly.
“I want to see them all,” coaxed Dorothy. She hesitated about entering the tenement to which the thin boy led her. It was tall and dirty and a series of odors, unknown to Dorothy’s well-brought-up nose, rushed to meet them as the hall door was pushed open. The fire escapes covering the front of the house were used for back yards—ash heaps and garbage, bedding and washes, all hung suspended, threatening to topple over on the heads of the passersby, and the long, dark hall they entered was also littered with garbage cans, and an accumulation of dirty rags and papers and children.
Such frowsy-headed, unkempt, ragged little babies! Dorothy’s heart went out to them all—she wanted to take each one and wash the little face, and smooth the suspicious, sullen brows. The advent of a well-dressed visitor into the main hall meant the opening of many doors and a wonderfully frank assortment of remarks as to whom the visitor might be. Little Tommy, the thin boy, glad of the opportunity to “show off” grandly led Dorothy up the stairs, making the most of the trip.
“The other day when I was skatin’ with you in Central Park,” flippantly fell from Tommy’s lips, loud enough for the words to enter bombastically through the open doors, “I come home and said to the family, I sez,—” but what Tommy had said to the family never was known, because the remainder of Tommy’s family having heard in advance of Tommy’s coming, rushed pell-mell to meet them, and with various smudgy fingers stuck into all sizes of mouths, they stared, some through the railings, some over the railing, more from the top step—the “mostest biggest family” exhibited no tendency to hang back.
“Come in out of that, you little ones,” said a soft, motherly voice, that sounded clear and sweet in the midst of the tumult of the tenement house, and Dorothy looked quickly in the direction from whence it came and beheld Tommy’s mother. She was small and dark, and in garments of fashion would have been dainty. She seemed little older than Tommy, who was nine, and life in the poorest section of the city, trying to bring up a large family in three rooms, had left no tragic marks on her smooth brow, and when she smiled, she dimpled. Dorothy smiled back instantly, the revelation of this mother was so unexpectedly different from anything Dorothy had imagined.
“Theywillrun out in the hall,” the mother explained, apologetically, “and they’re only half-dressed, and it’s so cold that they’ll all be down with sore throats, if they don’t mind me. Now come inside, every one of you!” But not one of the children moved an inch until Dorothy reached the top landing, then they all backed into the room, which at a glance Dorothy was unable at first to name. There was a cot in one corner, a stove, a large table, and sink in another, and one grand easy chair near a window. Regular chairs there were none, but boxes aplenty, and opening from this kitchen-bedroom-living-room was an uncarpeted, evil-looking room, and in the doorway a giant of a man stood, looking in bleary-eyed bewilderment at Dorothy.
“You’ll get your rent when I get my pay,” he said, with an ill-natured leer. “So he’s sending you around now? Afraid to come himself after the scare I gave him the last time? D’ye remember the scare I gave him Nellie?” he turned to the little woman.
With a curious love and pride in this great, helpless giant, his wife straightened his necktie, that hung limply about the neck of his blue flannel shirt, and patting his hand said, caressingly:
“Now stop your foolin’, she’s not from the rent-man, she’s a friend of our Tommy’s,—the lady that went skatin’ with Tommy in the Park; don’t you know, James?”
James straightened himself against the panels of the door, and stared down at Dorothy, but his first idea that she was after his week’s pay was evident in his manner.
“You wouldn’t of got it if you did come for it,” he declared, proudly, “’cause it ain’t so far behind that you could make me pay it.”
“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 knob. 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 shivering crowd to repent and mend their ways.
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 pawnbroker’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 pawnshop. 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 pawnbroker would not take it, for it was evidently not worth space 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 butter 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 nourishing 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.”