"Therefore, to this dog will I,Tenderly, not scornfully,Render praise and favor:With my hand upon his headIs my benediction said,Therefore, and forever."—E. B. Browning.
"Therefore, to this dog will I,Tenderly, not scornfully,Render praise and favor:With my hand upon his headIs my benediction said,Therefore, and forever."
—E. B. Browning.
A child and a dog sat very close to the fast-expiring embers of a small fire in a shabby London attic.
The dog was very old, with palsied, shaking limbs, eyes half-blind, and an appearance about his whole person of almost disreputable ugliness and decrepitude, He was a large white-and-liver-coloreddog, of no particular breed, and certainly of no particular beauty. Never, even in his best days, could this dog have been at all good-looking. The child who crouched close to him was small and thin. He was a pale child, with big, sorrowful eyes, and that shrunken appearance of the whole little frame which proclaims but too clearly that bread-and-milk have not sufficiently nourished it.
He sat very close to the old dog, half-supporting himself against him; his head was bent forward on his little chest—he was half-asleep.
A little apart from the dog and the sleepy child stood a very bright boy, a boy with rosy cheeks and sparkling eye. He poised himself for a moment on one leg, kicked off the snow from his ragged trousers with the other, then flinging his cap and an old broom into a corner of the attic, he sang out in a clear, ringing tone:
"Hillow! Pepper and Trusty, is that h'all the welcome yer 'ave to give to a feller?"
At the first sound of his voice the dog feeblywagged his tail and the little child started to his feet.
"Hillow!" he answered with a pitiful attempt at the elder boy's cheerfulness; "I 'opes as yer 'ave brought h'in some supper, Tom."
"See yere," said Tom, just turning back a morsel of his ragged jacket to show what really was still a pocket. This pocket bunched out now in a most suggestive manner, and Pepper, thrusting in his tiny hand, pulled from it the following heterogeneous mixture: an old bone—very bare of even the pretense of meat; an orange; some nuts; a piece of moldy bread, and a nice little crisp loaf; also twopence and a halfpenny.
"Ain't it prime, Pepper?" said the elder boy. "Yere's the bone for old Trusty, and the broken bread, and the pretty little loaf, and the nuts, and th' orange, for you and me."
"Oh, Tom! where did you get the nuts?"
"They were throwing 'em to a dancing monkey, and an old 'oman gave me a handful h'all to myself. I say, didn't I clutch 'em!"
"Well, let's crunch 'em up now," said Pepper,whose face had grown quite bright with anticipation.
"And give Trusty his bone," said Tom. "I picked it h'out o' the gutter, and washed it at the pump. 'Tis a real juicy bone—full o' marrow. Yere, old feller! Don't he move his lazy h'old sides quickly now, Pepper?"
"Yes," said Pepper, clapping his tiny hands.
The two little boys and the dog ate their supper in perfect silence, the only noise to be heard during the meal being the crunching of three sets of busy teeth. Then, the fire being quite out, the children lay down on a dirty mattress in a corner of the room, and Trusty curled himself up at their feet.
However lazy Trusty might be in the daytime while the fire was alight, at night he always assumed the character of a protector. Let the slightest sound arise, above, around, or beneath him, and he raised a bay, cracked it is true, but still full of unspeakable consolation to the timid heart of little Pepper.
In the daytime Pepper was often guilty of very wicked and treacherous thoughts about Trusty. When he was so often hungry, andcould seldom enjoy more than half a meal, why must Tom, however little money or food he brought in after his day's sweeping, always insist on Trusty having his full share? Why must Tom—on those rare occasions when he was a little cross and discontented—too cross and discontented to take much notice of him (Pepper), yet still put his arms so lovingly round the old dog's neck? and why, why above all things must Trusty be so very selfish about their tiny fire, sitting so close to it, and taking all its warmth into his own person, while poor little Pepper shivered by his side?
Pepper was younger than Trusty, and he never remembered the day when the dog was not a great person in his home; he never remembered the day when his mother, however poor and pinched, had not managed, with all the good-will in the world, to pay the dog-tax for him.
And when that mother—six months ago—died, she had enjoined on Tom, almost with her last breath, the necessity of continuing this,and whatever straits they were placed in, begged of them never to forsake the old dog in his need.
Of course Pepper knew the reason of all this love and care for old Trusty; and the reason, notwithstanding those treacherous and discontented thoughts in which he now and then found himself indulging, filled him with not a little pride and pleasure. It was because of him—of him, poor little insignificant Pepper—that his mother and Tom loved Trusty so well. For when he was a baby Trusty had saved his life.
How Pepper did love to hear that story! How he used to climb on his mother's knee, and curl in her arms, and get her to tell it to him over and over again; and then, as he listened, his big, dark eyes used to get bright and wondering, while he pictured to himself the country home with the roses growing about the porch; and the pretty room inside, and the cradle where he lay warm and sheltered. Then, how his heart did beat when his mother spoke of that dreadful day when she went outand left him in charge of a neighbor's daughter, paying no heed to his real caretaker, the large strong dog—young then, who lay under the table.
How often his cheek had turned pale, as his mother went on to tell him how the neighbor's daughter first built up the fire, and then, growing tired of her dull occupation, went away and left him alone with no companion but the dog. And then, how his father, returning from his day's work, had rushed in with a cry of horror, to find the cradle burned and some of the other furniture on fire; but the baby himself lying, smiling and uninjured, in a corner of the room; for the brave dog had dragged him from his dangerous resting-place, and had himself put out the flames as they began to catch his little night-shirt. Trusty was severely burned, and for the rest of his days was blind of one eye and walked with a limp; but he earned the undying love and gratitude of the father and mother for his heroic conduct.
After this adventure his name was changed from Jack to Trusty, and any member of thefamily would rather have starved than allow Trusty to want. Pepper never listened to this exciting tale without his chest beginning to heave, and a moisture of love and compunction filling his brown eyes.
To-night, as he lay curled up as close as possible to Tom, with Trusty keeping his feet warm by lying on them, he thought of it all over again. As he thought, he felt even more than his usual sorrow, for he had certainly been very cross to Trusty to-day. These feelings and recollections so occupied him that he forgot to chatter away as usual, until, looking up suddenly, he felt that his brother's eyes were closing—in short, that Tom was going to sleep.
Now, of all the twenty-four hours that comprised Pepper's day and night, there was none that compared with the hour when he lay in his brother's arms, and talked to him, and listened to his adventures. This hour made the remaining twenty-three endurable; in short, it was his golden hour—his hour marked with a red letter.
"Oh, Tom!" he said now, rousing himselfand speaking in a voice almost tearful, so keen was his disappointment, "yer never agoin' to get drowsy?"
"Not I," answered Tom, awakened at once by the sorrowful tones, and half-sitting up. "Wot is it, Pepper? I'm as lively as a lark, I am."
"Yer h'eyes were shut," said Pepper.
"Well, and your mouth wor shut, Pepper, that wor wy I fastened h'up my h'eyes, to save time."
"Tom," said Pepper, creeping very close to his big brother, "does yer really think as yer'll 'ave the money saved h'up for dear old Trusty's tax, wen the man comes fur it?"
"Oh, yes! I 'opes so; there's three months yet."
"'E's a dear old dog," said Pepper, in an emphatic voice, "and I won't mind wot Pat Finnahan says 'bout 'im."
"Wot's that?" asked Tom.
"Oh, Tom! 'e comes h'in, some days, wen 'tis bitter cold, and Trusty 'ave got hisself drawed in front o' the fire (Trusty do take h'uph'all the fire, Tom) and 'e says as Trusty is h'eatin' us h'out o' 'ouse and 'ome, and ef you pays the tax fur 'im, wy, yer'll be the biggest fool h'out."
"Dear me," said Tom, "'e must be a nice 'un, 'e must! Why, Trusty's a sight better'n him, and a sight better worth lookin' arter."
This remark of Tom's, uttered with great vehemence, startled Pepper so much that he lay perfectly silent, staring up at his big brother. The moonlight, which quite filled the attic, enabled him to see Tom's face very distinctly.
A strongly marked face, and full of character at all times; it was now also so full of disgust that Pepper quite trembled.
"Well, he is a mean 'un," continued Tom. "See if I don't lay it on him the next time I catches of him coming spyin' in yere; and, Pepper," he added, "I'm real consarned as yer should 'ave listened to such words."
"'Ow could I 'elp it?" answered Pepper. "'E comed h'in, and 'e kicked at Trusty. I didn't want fur h'old Trusty not to be paid fur, Tom."
"I should 'ope not, indeed," replied Tom; "that 'ud be a nice pass for us two boys to fursake Trusty. But look yere, Pepper. Yer never goin' to be untrue to yer name, be yer?"
"Oh, Tom! 'ow so?"
"Does yer know wy Trusty was called Trusty?"
Now, of course, Pepper knew no story in the world half so well, but at this question of Tom's he nestled close so him, raised beseeching eyes, and said:
"Tell us."
"'E wor called Trusty," continued Tom, "'cause wen yer were a little 'un he wor faithful. Trusty means faithful; it means a kind of a body wot won't fursake another body what-h'ever 'appens. That wor wy father and mother changed 'is name from Jack to Trusty, 'cause 'e wor faithful to you, Pepper."
"Yes," answered Pepper, half-sobbing, and feeling very gently with his toes the motion of Trusty's tail; for Trusty, hearing his name mentioned so often, was beating it softly up and down.
"And does yer know wy you was called Pepper?" continued Tom, by no means intending to abate the point and the object of his lecture by the break in Pepper's voice.
"Tell us," said the little child again.
"You was christened Hen-e-ry [Henry]; but, lor! Pepper, that wor no name fur yer. That name meant some 'un soft and h'easy. But, bless yer, young 'un! there wor nothink soft nor h'easy about yer. What a firebrand yer were—flying h'out at h'everybody—so touchy and sparky-like, that mother wor sure you 'ad got a taste o' the fire as poor Trusty saved yer from, until, at last, there wor no name 'ud suit yer but Pepper. Lor, lad, wot a spirrit yer 'ad then!"
With these words Tom turned himself round on his pillow, and, having spoken his mind, and being in consequence quite comfortable, dropped quickly to sleep. But to poor little Pepper, listening breathlessly for another word, that first snore of Tom's was a very dreadful one. He knew then that there was no hope that night of any further words with Tom. Hemust lie all night under the heavy weight of Tom's displeasure; for, of course, Tom was angry, or he would never have turned away with such despairing and contemptuous words on his lips. As Pepper thought of this he could not quite keep down a rising sob, for the Tom who he felt was angry with him meant father, mother, conscience—everything—to the poor little fellow.
And Tom had cause for his anger; this was what gave it its sting. There was no doubt that Pepper was not at all the spirited little boy he had been during his mother's lifetime—the brave little plucky fellow, who was afraid of no one, and who never would stoop to a mean act. How well he remembered that scene a few months ago, when a rough boy had flung a stone at Trusty—yes! and hit him, and made him howl with the cruel pain he had inflicted; and then how Pepper had fought for him, and given his cowardly assailant a black eye, and afterward how his mother and Tom had praised him. Oh, how different he wasnow from then! His tears flowed copiously as he thought of it all.
But the times were also different. Since his mother's death he had spent his days so much alone, and those long days, spent in the old attic with no companion but Trusty, had depressed his spirit and undermined his nerves. The unselfish, affectionate little boy found new and strange thoughts filling his poor little heart—thoughts to which, during his mother's lifetime, he was altogether a stranger. He wished he was strong and big like Tom, and could go out and sweep a crossing. It was dreadful to stay at home all day doing nothing but thinking, and thinking, as he now knew, bad thoughts. For the idea suggested by that wild, queer Irish boy downstairs would not go away again.
That boy had said with contempt, with even cutting sarcasm, how silly, how absurd it was of two poor little beggars like himself and Tom to have to support a great, large dog like Trusty; how hard it was to have to pay Trusty's tax; how worse than ridiculous tohave to share their morsel of food with Trusty; and Pepper had pondered over these words so often that his heart had grown sour and bitter against the old dog who had once saved his life.
But not to-night. To-night, as he lay in his bed and sobbed, that heart was rising up and saying hard things against itself. Tom, with rough kindness, had torn the veil from his eyes, and he saw that he had gone down several pegs in the moral scale since his mother's death. Could his mother come back to him now, would she recognize her own bright-spirited little Pepper in this poor, weak, selfish boy? He could bear his own thoughts no longer; he must not wake Tom, but he could at least make it up with Trusty. He crept softly down in the bed until he reached the place where the old dog lay, and then he put his arms round him and half-strangled him with hugs and kisses.
"Oh, Trusty!" he said, "I does love yer, and I 'opes as God 'ull always let me be a real sperrited little 'un. I means h'always to standup fur yer, Trusty; and I'll be as fiery as red pepper to any 'un as says a word agen yer, Trusty."
To this fervent speech Trusty replied by raising a sleepy head and licking Pepper's face.
Early the next morning, long before Pepper was awake, Tom got up, washed his face and hands in the old cracked hand-basin in one corner of the room, laid a small fire in the grate, and put some matches near it, ready for Pepper to strike when he chose to rise. These preparations concluded, he thrust his hands into his ragged trousers pocket and pulled from thence twopence and a halfpenny. The pence he laid on the three-legged stool, by the side of the matches, the halfpenny he put for safety into his mouth. Then, with a nod of farewell at the sleeping Pepper, and a pat of Trusty's head, he shouldered his broom and ran downstairs. The month was January, and at this early hour, for it was not yet eight o'clock, the outside world gave to the little sweeper no warm welcome. There was a fogand thaw, and Tom, though he ran and whistled and blew his hot breath against his cold fingers, could not get himself warm. With his halfpenny he bought himself a cup of steaming coffee at the first coffee-stall he came to, then he ran to his crossing, and began to sweep away with all the good-will in the world.
The day, dismal as it was, promised to be a good one for his trade, and Tom hoped to have a fine harvest to carry home to Pepper and Trusty to-night. This thought made his bright face look still brighter. Perhaps, in all London, there was not to be found a braver boy than this little crossing-sweeper. He was only twelve years old, but he had family cares on his young shoulders. For six months now—ever since his mother's death—he had managed, he scarcely himself knew how, to keep a home for his little brother, the old dog, and himself. He had proudly resolved that Pepper—poor little tender Pepper—should never see the inside of a workhouse. As long as he had hands, and wit, and strength, Pepper should live with him. Not for worlds would he allow himselfto be parted from his little brother. In some wonderful way he kept his resolve. Pepper certainly grew very white, and weak, and thin; old Trusty's ribs stuck out more and more, his one remaining eye looked more longingly every day at the morsel of food with which he was provided; and Tom himself knew but too well what hunger was. Still they, none of them, quite died of starvation; and the rent of the attic in which they lived was paid week by week. This state of things had gone on for months, Tom just managing, by the most intense industry, to keep all their heads above water. As he swept away now at his crossing, his thoughts were busy, and his thoughts, poor brave little boy! were anxious ones.
How very ill Pepper was beginning to look, and how strangely he had spoken the night before about Trusty! Was it possible that his poor life of semi-starvation was beginning to tell not only on Pepper's weak body, but on his kind heart? Was Tom, while working almost beyond his strength, in reality only doing harm by keeping Pepper out of the workhouse?Would that dreadful workhouse after all be the best place for Pepper? and would his fine brave spirit revive again if he had enough food and warmth? These questions passed often through Tom's mind as he swept his crossing, but he had another thought which engrossed him even more. He had spoken confidently to Pepper about his ability to pay the tax for Trusty when the time came round, but in reality he had great anxiety on that point. The time when Trusty's tax would be due was still three months away—but three months would not be long going by, and Tom had not a penny—not a farthing toward the large sum which must then be demanded of him. It was beginning to rest like a nightmare on his bright spirit, the fact that he might have to break his word to his dying mother, that in three months' time the dear old dog might have to go. After all, he, not Pepper, might be the one faithless to their dear old Trusty.
As he swept and cleaned the road so thoroughly that the finest lady might pass by without a speck on her dainty boots, he resolved,suffer what hunger he might, to put by one halfpenny a day toward the necessary money which much be paid to save Trusty's life. With this resolve bright in his eyes and firm on his rosy lips, he touched his cap to many a passer-by. But what ailed the men and women, the boys and girls, who walked quickly over Tom's clean crossing? They were all either too busy, or too happy, or too careless, to throw a coin, even the smallest coin, to the hungry, industrious little fellow. His luck was all against him; not a halfpenny did he earn. No one read his story in his eyes, no one saw the invisible arms of Pepper round his neck, nor felt the melting gaze of Trusty fixed on his face. No one knew that he was working for them as well as for himself. By noon the wind again changed and fresh snow began to fall.
Tom knew that now his chance was worse than ever, for surely now no one would stop to pull out a penny or a halfpenny—the cold was much too intense. Tom knew by instinct that nothing makes people so selfish as intense cold.
When he left home that morning he had only a halfpenny in his pocket, consequently he could get himself no better breakfast than a small cup of coffee. The cold, and the exercise he had been going through since early morning, had raised his healthy appetite to a ravenous pitch, and this, joined to his anxiety, induced him at last to depart from his invariable custom of simply touching his cap, and made him raise an imploring voice, to beseech for the coins which he had honestly earned.
"Please, sir, I'm h'awful cold and 'ungry—give us a penny—do, for pity's sake," he said, addressing an elderly gentleman who was hurrying quickly to his home in a square close by.
Would the gentleman stop, pause, look at him? Would he slacken his pace the least morsel in the world, or would he pass quickly on like those cross old ladies whom he had last addressed? His heart, began to beat a trifle more hopefully, for the old gentleman certainly did pause, pushed back his hat, and gave him—not a penny, but a quick, sharp glance from under two shaggy brows.
"I hate giving to beggars," he muttered, preparing to hurry off again. But Tom was not to be so easily repressed.
"Please, sir, I ain't a beggar. I works real 'ard, and I'm h'awful 'ungry, please, sir."
He was now following the old gentleman, who was walking on, but slowly, and as though meditating with himself.
"That's a likely story!" he said, throwing his words contemptuously at poor Tom: "you, hungry! go and feed. You have your pocket full of pennies this moment, which folks threw to you for doing nothing. I hate that idle work."
"Oh! h'indeed, sir, I ain't nothink in 'em—look, please, sir."
A very soiled pocket, attached to a ragged trouser, was turned out for the old gentleman's benefit.
"You have 'em in your mouth," replied the man. "I'm up to some of your dodges."
At this remark Tom grinned from ear to ear. His teeth were white and regular. They gleamed in his pretty mouth like little pearls;thus the heart-whole smile he threw up at the old gentleman did more for him than all the tears in the world.
"Well, little fellow," he said, smiling back, for he could not help himself, "'tis much too cold now to pull out my purse—for I know you have pence about you—but if you like to call at my house to-morrow morning,—Russell Square, you shall have a penny."
"Please, sir, mayn't I call to-day?"
"No, I shan't be home until ten o'clock this evening."
"Give us a penny, please, now, sir, for I'm real, real 'ungry." This time poor Tom very nearly cried.
"Well, well! what a troublesome, pertinacious boy! I suppose I'd better get rid of him—see, here goes——"
He pulled his purse out of his pocket—how Tom hoped he would give him twopence!
"There, boy. Oh, I can't, I say. I have no smaller change than a shilling. I can't help you, boy; I have not got a penny."
"Please, please, sir, let me run and fetch thethe change."
"Well, I like that! How do I know that you won't keep the whole shilling?"
"Indeed, yer may trust me, sir. Indeed, I'll bring the eleven-pence to—Russell Square to-morrer mornin'."
The old gentleman half-smiled, and again Tom showed his white teeth. If there was any honesty left in the world it surely dwelt in that anxious, pleading face. The old gentleman, looking down at it, suddenly felt his heart beginning to thaw and his interest to be aroused.
"Oh, yes; I'm the greatest, biggest fool in the world. Still—No, I won't; I hate being taken in; and yet he's a pleasant little chap. Well, I'll try it, just as an experiment. See here, young 'un; if I trust you with my shilling, when am I to see the change?"
"At eight o'clock to-morrer mornin', sir."
"Well, I'm going to trust you. I never trusted a crossing-sweeper before."
"H'all right, sir," answered Tom, taking off his cap and throwing back his head.
"There, then, you may spend twopence;bring me back tenpence. God bless me, what a fool I am!" as he hurried away.
This was not the only favor Tom got that day; but soon the lamps were lighted, sleet and rain began to fall, and no more business could be expected.
When Tom returned home that night, he had not only the old gentleman's shilling unbroken in his pocket, but three pennies which had been given to him since then, and which jingled and made a very nice sound against the shilling. But though this was a pleasant state of affairs, there was nothing pleasant in poor little Tom's face; its bright look had left it, it was white and drawn, and he limped along in evident pain and difficulty. The fact was, Tom had fallen in the snow, and had sprained his ankle very badly. When he entered the house his pain was so great that he could scarcely hobble upstairs.
On the first landing he was greeted by the rough, rude tones of Pat Finnahan, who stopped him with a loud exclamation, then shouted to his mother that Tom had arrived.
Mrs. Finnahan was Tom's Irish landlady, but as he did not owe her any rent he was not afraid of her.
She called to him now, however, and he stood still to listen to what she had to say.
"Ah, then, wisha, Tom, and when am I to see me own agen?" she demanded, with a very strong Irish brogue.
"Wot does yer mean?" asked Tom, staring at her. "I pays my rent reg'lar. I owes yer nothink."
"Oh, glory!" said Mrs. Finnahan, throwing up her hands, "the boy have the imperence to ax me to my face what I manes. I manes the shilling as I lent to yer mother, young man, and that I wants back agen; that's what I manes."
At these words Tom felt himself turning very pale. He remembered perfectly how, in a moment of generosity, Mrs. Finnahan had once lent his mother a shilling, but he was quite under the impression that it had been paid back some time ago.
"I thought as my mother give it back to yerafore she died," he said, but a great fear took possession of his heart while he spoke.
Mrs. Finnahan pushed him from her, her red face growing purple.
"Listen to the likes of him," she said; "he tells me to me face as 'tis lies I'm afther telling. Oh, musha! but he's a black-hearted schoundrel. I must have me shilling to-morrow, young man, or out you goes."
With these words Mrs. Finnahan retired into her private apartment, slamming the door behind her.
"Tom," whispered Pat, who during this colloquy had stood by his side, "can yer give mother that 'ere shilling to-morrer?"
"Yer knows I can't," answered Tom.
"Well, she'll turn yer h'out, as sure as I'm Pat Finnahan."
"I can't help her," answered Tom, preparing once more, as well as his painful ankle would allow him, to mount the stairs.
"Yes; but I say?" continued Pat, "maybe I can do somethink."
With these words the Irish boy began fumblingviolently in his pocket, and in a moment or two produced from a heterogeneous group a dull, battered shilling. This shilling he exhibited in the palm of his hand, looking up at Tom as he showed it, with an expression of pride and cunning in his small, deep-set eyes.
"Look yere, Tom. I really feels fur yer, fur mother's h'awful when she says a thing. There's no hope of mother letting of yer off, Tom. No, not the ghost of a hope. But see yere—this is my h'own. I got it—no matter 'ow I got it, and I'll give it to yer fur yer h'old dog. The dog ain't nothink but a burden on yer, Tom, and I'd like him. I'd give yer the shilling for h'old Trusty, Tom."
But at these words all the color rushed back to Tom's face.
"Take that instead of Trusty," he said, aiming a blow with all his might and main at Pat, and sending him and his shilling rolling downstairs. The false strength with which his sudden indignation had inspired him enabled him to get up the remaining stairs to his attic; but when once there, the poor little sweeper nearly fainted.
Perhaps on this dark evening there could scarcely be found in all London three more unhappy creatures than those who crouched round the empty grate in Tom's attic. In truth, over this poor attic rested a cloud too heavy for man to lift, and good and bad angels were drawing near to witness the issues of victory or defeat.
"We'll get into bed," said Tom, looking drearily round the supperless, fireless room. "Pepper," he continued as he pressed his arms round his little brother, "should yer mind werry much going to the work'us arter h'all?"
"Oh, yes, yes, Tom! Oh, Tom! ef they took me from yer, I'd die."
"But ef we both went, Pepper?"
"What 'ud come o' Trusty?" asked Pepper.
"I doesn't know the ways of work'uses," said Tom, speaking half to himself. "Maybe they'll take h'in the h'old dog. Ef you and I were to beg of 'em a little 'ard, they might take h'in old Trusty, Pepper."
"But I doesn't want to go to no work'us," whispered Pepper.
"I only says perhaps, Pepper," answered poor Tom. "I'd 'ate to go."
"Well, don't let's think of it," said Pepper, putting up his lips to kiss Tom. "Yer'll be better in the morning, Tom; and, Tom," he added, half-timidly, half-exultantly, "I've been real sperrited h'all day. Pat came in and began to talk 'bout dear Trusty, but I flew at him, I boxed im right up h'in the ear, Tom."
"Did yer really?" answered Tom, laughing, and forgetting the pain in his ankle for the moment.
"Yes, and 'e's nothink but a coward, Tom, fur 'e just runned away. I'll never be a Hen-e-ry to him no more," added the little boy with strong emphasis.
"No; yer a real nice, peppery young 'un," said Tom, "and I'm proud o' yer; but now go to sleep, young 'un, for I 'as a deal to think about."
"'Ow's the pain, Tom?"
"Werry 'ot and fiery like; but maybe 'twill be better in the morning."
"Good-night, Tom," said Pepper, creeping closer into his arms.
Under the sweet influence of Tom's praise, resting in peace in the delicious words that Tom was proud of him, poor hungry little Pepper was soon enjoying dreamless slumber. But not so Tom himself.
Tom had gone through a hard day's work. He was tired, aching in every limb, but no kind sleep would visit that weary little body or troubled mind. His sprained ankle hurt him sadly, but his mental anxiety made him almost forget his bodily suffering. Dark indeed was the cloud that rested on Tom.
His sprained ankle was bad enough—for how, with that swollen and aching foot, could he go out to sweep his crossing to-morrow?And if the little breadwinner was not at his crossing, where would the food come from for Pepper and Trusty? This was a dark cloud, but, dark as it was, it might be got over. Tom knew nothing of the tedious and lingering pain which a sprain may cause; he quite believed that a day's rest in bed would make his foot all right, and for that one day while he was in bed, they three—he, Pepper, and Trusty—might manage not quite to starve, on the pence which were over from that day's earnings. Yes, through this cloud could be seen a possible glimmer of light. But the cloud that rested behind it! Oh, was there any possible loophole of escape out of that difficulty?
Tom had told nothing of this greater anxiety to Pepper. Nay, while Pepper was awake he tried to push it away even from his own mental vision. But now, in the night watches, he pulled it forward and looked at it steadily. In truth, as the poor little boy looked, he felt almost in despair. Since his mother's death he had managed to support his little household, and not only to support them, but to keep themout of debt. No honorable man of the world could keep more faithfully the maxim, "Owe no man anything, but to love one another," than did this little crossing sweeper. But now, suddenly, a debt, a debt the existence of which he had never suspected, stared him in the face.
His mother had borrowed a shilling from Mrs. Finnahan. Mrs. Finnahan required that shilling back again.
If that enormous sum—twelve whole pennies—was not forthcoming by to-morrow, he and Pepper and Trusty would find themselves homeless—homeless in mid-winter in the London streets. Tom knew well that Mrs. Finnahan would keep her word; that nothing, no pleading language, no entreating eyes, would induce Mrs. Finnahan to alter her cruel resolve. No; into the streets they three must go. Tom did not mind the streets so very much for himself, he was accustomed to them, at least all day long. But poor little, tender, delicate Pepper, and old broken-down Trusty! Very, very soon, those friendless, cold, desolate streets would kill Pepper and Trusty.
As Tom thought of it scalding drops filled his brave, bright eyes and rolled down his cheeks. It was a moonlight night, and its full radiance had filled the little attic for an hour or more; but now the moon was hidden behind a bank of cloud, and in the dark came to little Tom the darker temptation. No way out of his difficulty? Yes, there were two ways. He might sell Trusty to Pat Finnahan for a shilling—it was far, far better to part with Trusty than to let Pepper die in the London streets; or he might keep the old gentleman's shilling and never bring him back the tenpence he had promised to return to-morrow morning.
By one or other of these plans he might save Pepper from either dying or going to the workhouse. As he thought over them both, the latter plan presented itself as decidedly the most feasible. Both his pride and his love revolted against the first. Part with Trusty? How he had blamed Pepper when he had even hinted at Trusty being in the way! How very, very much his mother had loved Trusty! how, even when she was dying, she had beggedof them both never to forsake the faithful old dog! Oh, he could not part with the dog! if for no other reason, he loved him too much himself.
At this moment, as though to strengthen him in his resolve, Trusty, who from hunger and cold was by no means sleeping well, left his place at the little boy's feet and came up close to Tom; lying down by Tom's side, he put his paws on his shoulders and licked his face with his rough tongue; and also, just then, as though further to help Trusty in his unconscious pleading for his own safety, the moon came out from behind the cloud, shedding its white light full on the boy and the dog; and oh! how pleading, how melting, how full of tenderness did that one remaining eye of Trusty's look to Tom as he gazed at him. Clasping his arms tightly round the old dog's neck, Tom firmly determined that happen what would, he must never part from Trusty.
He turned his mind now resolutely to the other plan, the one remaining loophole out of his despair. Need he give back that change to the old man?
That was the question.
The money he had pleaded so earnestly for still lay unbroken in his pocket; for immediately after it had been given to him, fortune seemed to turn in his favor, and other people had become not quite so stony-hearted, and a few pence had fallen to his share. With two or three pence he had bought himself some dinner, and he had brought threepence back, for Pepper's use and his own.
Yes, the shilling was still unbroken—and that shilling, just that one shilling, would save them all.
But—the old gentleman had trusted him—the old gentleman had said:
"I never trusted a crossing-sweeper before. I am going to trust you."
And Tom had promised him. Tom had pledged his word to bring him back tenpence to-morrow morning.
Strange as it may seem—incomprehensible to many who judge them by no high standard—here was a little crossing-sweeper who had never told a lie in his life. Here, lying onthis trundle-bed, in this poor room, rested as honorable a little heart as ever beat in human breast; he could not do a mean act; he could not betray his trust and break his word.
What would his mother say could she look down from heaven and find out that her Tom had told a lie? No, not even to save Trusty and Pepper would he do this mean, mean thing. But he was very miserable, and in his misery and despair he longed so much for sympathy that he was fain at last to wake Pepper.
"Pepper," he said, "we never said no prayers to-night; fold yer 'ands, Pepper, and say 'Our Father' right away."
"Our Father chart heaven," began Pepper, folding his hands as he was bidden, and gazing up with his great dark eyes at the moon, "hallowed be thy name ... thy kingdom come ... thy will be done in earth h'as 'tis in heaven ... give us this day h'our daily bread ... and furgive us h'our trespasses h'as we furgive ... h'and lead us not into temptation——"
"Yer may shut up there, Pepper," interrupted Tom; "go to sleep now, young 'un. I doesn't want no more."
"Yes," added Tom, a few moments later, "that was wot I needed. I won't do neither o' them things. Our Father, lead us not inter temptation. Our Father, please take care on me, and Pepper, and Trusty."
It was apparently the merest chance in the world that brought the old gentleman, who lived in—Russell Square, to his hall-door the next morning, to answer, in his own person, a very small and insignificant-sounding ring. When he opened the door he saw standing outside a very tiny boy, and by the boy's side a most disreputable-looking dog.
"Well," said the old gentleman, for he hated beggars, "what do you want? Some mischief, I warrant."
"Please, sir," piped Pepper's small treble, "Tom 'ud come hisself, but 'e 'ave hurt 'is foot h'awful bad, so 'e 'ave sent me and Trusty wid the tenpence, please, sir.'
"What tenpence?" asked the old man, who had really forgotten the circumstance of yesterday.
"Please, sir," continued Pepper, holding out sixpence and four dirty pennies, "'tis the change from the shilling as yer lent to Tom."
At these words the old gentleman got very red in the face, and stared with all his might at Pepper. "Bless me!" he said suddenly; then he took hold of Pepper's ragged coat-sleeve and drew him into the hall. "Wife," he called out, "I say, wife, come here. Bless me! I never heard of anything so strange. I have actually found an honest crossing-sweeper at last."
But that is the story—for the old gentleman was as kind as he was eccentric—and he failed not quickly to inquire into all particulars with regard to Tom, Pepper, and Trusty; and then as promptly to help and raise the three. Yes, that is the story.
But in the lives of two prosperous men—for Tom and Pepper are men now—there is never forgotten that dark night, when the little crossing-sweeper risked everything rather than tell a lie or break a trust. And Trusty was true to his name to the last.
Billy was a small boy of ten; he was thin and wiry, had a freckled face, and a good deal of short, rather stumpy red hair.
He was by no means young-looking for his ten years; and only that his figure was small, his shoulders narrow, and his little legs sadly like spindles, he might have passed for a boy of twelve or thirteen.
Billy had a weight of care upon his shoulders—he had the entire charge of a baby.
The baby was a year old, fairly heavy, fairly well grown; she was cutting her teeth badly, and in consequence was often cross and unmanageable.
Billy had to do with her night and day, andno one who saw the two together could for a moment wonder at the premature lines of care about his small thin face.
A year ago, on a certain January morning, Billy had been called away from a delightful game of hop-scotch. A red-faced woman had come to the door of a tall house, which over-looked the alley where Billy was playing so contentedly, and beckoned him mysteriously to follow her.
"Yer'd better make no noise, and take off those heavy clumps of shoes," she remarked.
Billy looked down at his small feet, on which some very large and much-battered specimens of the shoemaker's craft were hanging loosely.
"I can shuffle of 'em off right there, under the stairs," he remarked, raising his blue eyes in a confident manner to the red-faced woman.
She nodded, but did not trouble to speak further, and barefooted Billy crept up the stairs; up and up, until he came to an attic room, which he knew well, for it represented his home.
He was still fresh from his hop-scotch, andeager to go back to his game; and when a thin, rather rasping woman's voice called him, he ran up eagerly to a bedside.
"Wot is it, mother? I want to go back to punch Tom Jones."
Alas! for poor Billy—his fate was fixed from that moment, and the wild bird was caged.
"Another time, Billy," said his mother; "you 'as got other work to see to now. Pull down the bedclothes, and look wot's under 'em."
Billy eagerly drew aside the dirty counterpane and sheet, and saw a very small and pink morsel of humanity—a morsel of humanity which greeted his rough intrusion on her privacy with several contortions of the tiny features, and some piercing screams.
"Why, sakes alive, ef it ain't a baby," said Billy, falling back a step or two in astonishment.
"Yes, Billy," replied his mother, "and she's to be your baby, for I can't do no charring and mind her as well, so set down by the fire, this minute and mind her right away."
Billy did not dream of objecting; he seated himself patiently and instantly, and thought with a very faint sigh of Tom Jones, whose head he so ached to punch.
Tom Jones would be victorious at hop-scotch, and he would not be present to abate his pride.
Well, well, perhaps he could go to-morrow.
Day after day passed, and month after month, and Tom Jones, the bully of Aylmer's Court, quite ceased to fear any assaults from a certain plucky and wiry little fellow, who used to fly at him when he knocked down the girls, and who made himself generally unpleasant to Tom, when Tom too violently transgressed the principle of right and justice.
Not that Billy Andersen knew anything of right and justice himself; he was mostly guided by an instinct which taught him to dislike everything that Tom did, and perhaps he was also a wee bit influenced by a sentiment which made him dislike to see any thing weaker or smaller than himself bullied. Since that January morning, however, Billy's head and heart and hands were all too full for him to have any time to waste upon Tom Jones.
The girls and the very little ones of the court crowded round Billy the first time he went out with his charge. One of the biggest of them, indeed, carried the little thing right up into her own home, followed by a noisy crowd eager to make friends with the little arrival. Billy was flattered by their attentions, but he preferred to keep his charge entirely to himself.
At first, it was his head and hands alone which were occupied over the baby, but as she progressed under his small brotherly care, and wrinkled up her tiny features with an ugly attempt at a smile, and stretched out her limbs and cooed at him, he began gradually to discover that the baby was getting into his heart. From the moment he became certain on this point, all the irksomeness of his duties faded out of sight, and he did not mind what care or trouble he expended over Sarah Ann.
Mrs. Andersen, true to her word, had given Billy the entire charge of this last addition to her family. Her husband had deserted her some months before the birth of the baby, andthe poor woman had about as much as she could do, in earning bread to put into her own mouth and those of her two children.
Now, it is grievous to relate that notwithstanding all Billy's devotion and good nature, Sarah Ann was by no means a nice baby. In the first place, she was very ugly—not even Billy could see any beauty in her rather old and yellow face; in the next place, she had a temper, which the neighbors were fond of describing as "vicious." Sarah Ann seemed already to have studied human nature for the purpose of annoying it. She cried at the wrong moments, she cut her teeth at the most inopportune times, she slept by day and stayed awake at night, in a manner enough to try the patience of an angel; she tyrannized over any one who had anything to do with her, and in particular she tyrannized over Billy.
Night after night had Billy to pace up and down the attic, with Sarah Ann in his arms, for nothing would induce the infant to spend her waking moments except in a state of perpetual motion.
In vain Billy tried darkness, and his mother tried scolding. Sarah Ann, when placed in her cot, screamed so loud that all the neighbors were aroused.
When once, however, this strange and wayward little child had got into Billy's heart, he was wonderfully patient with all her caprices, and treasured the rare and far-between smiles she gave him, as worth going through a great deal to obtain.
On fine days Billy took Sarah Ann for a walk; and even once or twice he went with her as far as Kensington Gardens, where they both enjoyed themselves vastly, under the shadow of a huge elm tree.
It was on the last of these occasions, just before the second winter of Sarah Ann's existence, that that small adventure occurred which was to land poor Billy in such hot water and such perplexity.
Sarah Ann was quite nice that afternoon; she cooed and smiled, and allowed her brother to stroke her face, and even to play tenderly with the tiny rings of soft flaxen hair which were beginning to show round her forehead.
Billy's heart and head were quite absorbed with her, when a harsh, mocking laugh and a loud "Hulloa, you youngster," caused him to raise his head, and see, to his unutterable aversion, the well-remembered form of Tom Jones.
"Well, I never; and so that's the reason you've bin a-shunnin' of me lately; and so you've been obliged to go and turn nursemaid; well—well—and you call yourself a manly boy."
"So I be manly," retorted Billy, glaring angrily and defiantly at his adversary. "I don't want none of your cheek, Tom Jones, and I'd a sight rayther be taking care of a cute little baby like this than idling and loafing about and getting into trouble all day long—like yourself."
"Oh! we has turned nice and good," said Tom Jones, trying to affect a fine lady's accent; "ain't it edifying—ain't it delicious—to hear us speaking so well of ourselves? Now then, Billy, where's that punched head you promised me a year ago now? I ain't forgot it, and I'dlike to see you at it; you're afeard, that's wot you are; you're a coward, arter all, Billy Andersen."
"No, I ain't," said Billy, "and I'll give it yer this 'ere blessed minute, if you like. Yere, Sarah Ann darling, you set easy with yer back up agin' the tree, and I'll soon settle Tom Jones for him."
Sarah Ann strongly objected to being removed from Billy's lap to the ground; all her sunshiny good temper deserted her on the spot; she screamed, she wriggled, she made such violent contortions, and altogether behaved in such an excited and extraordinary manner, that Tom, who by no means in his heart wished to test Billy's powers, found a ready excuse for postponing the moment when his head must be punched, in her remarkable behavior.
"Well, I never did see such a baby," he began; "now, I likes that sort of a baby; why, she have a sperrit. No, no, Billy, I ain't going to punch you; now, I'd like to catch hold ofthat 'ere little one"—but here Billy frustrated his intention.
"You shan't touch my baby; you shan't lay a hand on her," he exclaimed, snatching Sarah Ann up again in his arms, and covering her with kisses.
"Well, see if I don't some day," said Tom; "you dare me, do you? Well, all right, we'll see."
As Billy walked home that afternoon, he was a little troubled by Tom's words; he knew how vindictive Tom could be, and there was an ugly light in his green eyes when he, Billy, had refused to give him the baby.
Tom was capable of mischief, of playing such a practical joke as might cause sad trouble and even danger to poor little Sarah Ann. Hitherto Billy had kept all knowledge of the baby's existence from Tom Jones. What evil chance had brought him to Kensington Gardens that day? Troubles, however, were not to fall singly on poor Billy Andersen that day. He was greeted on his return to his attic by eager words and excited ejaculations. It wassome time before his poor little dazed head could take in the fact that his mother had broken her leg, and was taken to the hospital. He must then for the time being turn the baby's breadwinner as well as her caretaker.
The neighbors were full of suggestions to Billy at this crisis of his fate.
It was ascertained beyond all doubt that Mrs. Andersen would be six weeks, if not two months, away; and this being the case, the neighbors one and all declared roundly that there was nothing whatever for Sarah Ann but to become a workhouse baby. One of them would carry her to the house the very next morning, and of course she would be admitted without a moment's difficulty, and there would be an end of her.
Billy might manage to earn a precarious living by running messages, by opening cab-doors, and by the thousand-and-one things an active boy could undertake, and so he might eke out a livelihood till his mother came back;but there was no hope whatever for Sarah Ann—there was no loophole for her but the workhouse.
To these admonitions on the part of his friendly neighbors, Billy responded in a manner peculiar to himself. First of all, he raised two blue and very innocent eyes, and let them rest slowly and thoughtfully on each loquacious speaker's face; then he suddenly and without the slightest warning winked one of the said eyes in a manner that was so knowing as to be almost wicked, and then without the slightest word or comment he dashed into his attic and locked the door on himself and Sarah Ann.
"Sarah Ann, darling," he said, placing the baby on the floor and kneeling down a few paces from her, "will yer go to the workhouse, or will yer stay with yer h'own Billy?"
Sarah Ann's response to this was to wriggle as fast as possible up to her affectionate nurse, and rub her little dirty face against his equally dirty trousers.
"That's settled, then," said Billy; "yer has chosen, Sarah Ann, and yer ain't one as could ever abear contradictions, so we 'as got to see how we two can live."
This was a problem not so easily managed, for the neighbors took offense with Billy not following their advice, and it was almost impossible for him to leave Sarah Ann long at home by herself. True to this terrible infant's character, she now refused to sleep by day, as she had hitherto done, thus cutting off poor Billy's last loophole of earning his bread and her own with any comfort.
Billy had two reasons which made it almost impossible for him to leave the baby in the attic; the first was his fear that Tom Jones, who still hovered dangerously about, might find her and carry her off; the second was the undoubted fact that if Sarah Ann was left to enjoy her own solitary company, she would undoubtedly scream herself into fits and the neighbors into distraction.
There was nothing whatever for it but for Billy to carry the baby with him when he went in search of their daily bread.
Poor little brave man, he had certainly a hard time during those next two months, and except for the undoubted fact that he and the baby were two of the sparrows whom our Father feeds, they both must have starved; but perhaps owing to a certain look in Billy's eyes, which were as blue as blue could be, in the midst of his freckled face, and also, perhaps, to a certain pathetic turn which the baby's ugliness had now assumed, the two always managed to secure attention.
With attention, came invariably a few pence—fourpence one day—sixpence and even eightpence another. The greater portion of the food thus obtained was given to Sarah Ann, but neither of the two quite starved. Billy counted and counted and counted the days until his mother would be home again; and as, fortunately for him, Mrs. Andersen had paid the rent of their attic some weeks in advance, the children still had a shelter at night.
All went tolerably well with the little pair until a certain bitter day in the beginning of November. Billy was very hopeful on themorning of that day, for his mother's time of captivity in the hospital had nearly expired, and soon now she would be back to take the burden of responsibility off his young shoulders.
Sarah Ann had hitherto escaped cold; indeed, her life in the open air seemed to agree with her, and she slept better at nights, and was really becoming quite a nice tempered baby.
Billy used to look at her with the most old fatherly admiration, and assured her that she was such a darling duck of a cherub that he could almost eat her up.
No, Sarah Ann had never taken cold, but Billy felt a certain amount of uneasiness on this particular morning, which was as sleety, as gusty, as altogether melancholy a day as ever dawned on the great London world.
There was no help for it, however, the daily bread must be found; and he and the baby must face the elements. He wrapped an old woolen comforter several times round Sarah Ann's throat, and beneath the comforter secureda very thin and worn Paisley shawl of his mother's, and then buttoning up his own ragged jacket, and shuffling along in his large and untidy boots, he set forth. Whether it was the insufficient food he had lately partaken of or that the baby was really growing very heavy, poor Billy almost staggered to-day under Sarah Ann's weight. He found himself obliged to lean for support against a pillar box, and then he discovered to his distress that the baby began to sneeze, that her tiny face was blue, and that her solemn black eyes had quite a weary and tearful look.
"She's a-catchin' cold, the blessed, blessed babby," exclaimed poor Billy; "oh, Sairey Ann, darlin', don't you go and take the brownchitis, and break the heart of your h'own Billy. Oh! lady, lady, give us a 'ap'enny, or a penny. Give us a copper, please, kind lady."
The lady so aprostrophized was good-natured enough to bestow a few pence on the starved-looking children, and after a certain miserable fashion the morning passed away.
This was, however, Billy's only money success,and he was just making up his mind to go home, and to prefer starvation in his attic to running the feeble chance of securing any more charities.
Sarah Ann still continued to sneeze and her eyes still looked watery, and Billy was sorrowfully giving up his hope of receiving any more coppers, when he came face to face with his old adversary and tormentor, Tom Jones.
In the anxiety of these latter few weeks, Billy had lost his old fear of Tom, and he was now so spent and exhausted that he greeted him with almost pleasure.
"Oh! Tom, do hold the babby just for one minute, just for me to get a wee bit of breath. I'm all blown like, and I'm afeard as Sarah Ann 'as taken cold; jest hold her for one minute—will yer?"
Tom, who was looking rather white and shaken himself, just glanced into Billy's face, and some gibing words, which were on the tip of his tongue, were restrained.
"Why, yer does look bad, Billy Andersen," he said, and then, without another word, helifted the baby out of the little lad's trembling arms, and held her in an awkward but not altogether untender fashion.
"Look you here, Billy," he said, "ef yer likes to round quick this 'ere corner, there are two cabs coming up to a house as I passed, and they are sure to want a boy to help in with the boxes, and you maybe earn sixpence or a bob; run round this yere minute—quick, Billy, quick."
"I'd like to, awful well," said Billy, "and the run will warm me, and wouldn't the bob be fine—but, oh! Tom, will yer hold Sairey Ann? and will yer promise not to run away with her? will yer promise sure and faithful, Tom?"
"What in the world should I do that for?" said Tom. "What good would yer Sairey Ann be to me? My h'eyes—I has work enough to get my h'own victuals. There, Billy, I'll not deprive you of the babby; you jest run round the corner, or yer'll lose the chance. There, Billy, be quick; you'll find Sairey Ann safe enough when yer comes back."
The poor thin and cold baby gave a little cry as Billy ran off, but the chance was too good for him to lose; and, after all, what earthly use could Tom have with Sairey Ann?