Adrift in New York: Tom and Florence Braving the World

CHAPTER VIII.
A FRIENDLY COMPACT

Florence, as she stepped on the sidewalk, turned, and fixed a last sad look on the house that had been her home for so many years. She had never anticipated such a sundering of home ties, and even now she found it difficult to realize that the moment had come when her life was to be rent in twain, and the sunlight of prosperity was to be darkened and obscured by a gloomy and uncertain future.

She had hastily packed a few indispensable articles in a valise which she carried in her hand.

“Let me take your bag, Miss Florence,” said Dodger, reaching out his hand.

“I don’t want to trouble you, Dodger.”

“It ain’t no trouble, Miss Florence. I’m stronger than you, and it looks better for me to carry it.”

“You are very kind, Dodger. What would I do without you?”

“There’s plenty that would be glad of the chance of helping you,” said Dodger, with a glance of admiration at the fair face of his companion.

“I don’t know where to find them,” said Florence, sadly. “Even my uncle has turned against me.”

“He’s an old chump!” ejaculated Dodger, in a tone of disgust.

“Hush! I cannot hear a word against him. He has always been kind and considerate till now. It is the evil influence of my Cousin Curtis that has turned him against me. When he comes to himself I am sure he will regret his cruelty.”

“He would take you back if you would marry your cousin.”

“Yes; but that I will never do!” exclaimed Florence, with energy.

“Bully for you!” said Dodger. “Excuse me,” he said, apologetically. “I ain’t used to talkin’ to young ladies, and perhaps that ain’t proper for me to say.”

“I don’t mind, Dodger; your heart is in the right place.”

“Thank you, Miss Florence. I’m glad you’ve got confidence in me. I’ll try to deserve it.”

“Where are we going?” asked the young lady, whose only thought up to this moment had been to get away from the presence of Curtis and his persecutions.

They had now reached Fourth Avenue, and a surface car was close at hand.

“We’re going to get aboard that car,” said Dodger, signaling with his free hand. “I’ll tell you more when we’re inside.”

Florence entered the car, and Dodger, following, took a seat at her side.

They presented a noticeable contrast, for Florence was dressed as beseemed her station, while Dodger, in spite of his manly, attractive face, was roughly attired, and looked like a working boy.

When the conductor came along, he drew out a dime, and tendered it in payment of the double fare. The money was in the conductor’s hand before Florence was fully aware.

“You must not pay for me, Dodger,” she said.

“Why not?” asked the boy. “Ain’t we friends?”

“Yes, but you have no money to spare. Here, let me return the money.”

And she offered him a dime from her own purse.

“You can pay next time, Miss Florence. It’s all right. Now, I’ll tell you where we are goin’. A friend of mine, Mrs. O’Keefe, has a lodgin’ house, just off the Bowery. I saw her last night, and she says she’s got a good room that she can give you for two dollars a week—I don’t know how much you’d be willing to pay, but–”

“I can pay that for a time at least. I have a little money, and I must find some work to do soon. Is this Mrs. O’Keefe a nice lady?”

“She ain’t a lady at all,” answered Dodger, bluntly. “She keeps an apple-stand near the corner of Bowery and Grand Street; but she’s a good, respectable woman, and she’s good-hearted. She’ll be kind to you, and try to make things pleasant; but if you ain’t satisfied–”

“It will do for the present. Kindness is what I need, driven as I am from the home of my childhood. But you, Dodger, where do you live?”

“I’m goin’ to take a small room in the same house, Miss Florence.”

“I shall be glad to have you near me.”

“I am proud to hear you say that. I’m a poor boy, and you’re a rich lady, but–”

“Not rich, Dodger. I am as poor as yourself.”

“You’re a reg’lar lady, anyway. You ain’t one of my kind, but I’m going to improve and raise myself. I was readin’ the other day of a rich man that was once a poor boy, and sold papers like me. But there’s one thing in the way—I ain’t got no eddication.”

“You can read and write, can’t you, Dodger?”

“Yes; I can read pretty well, but I can’t write much.”

“I will teach you in the evenings, when we are both at leisure.”

“Will you?” asked the boy, with a glad smile. “You’re very kind—I’d like a teacher like you.”

“Then it’s a bargain, Dodger,” and Florence’s face for the first time lost its sad look, as she saw an opportunity of helping one who had befriended her. “But you must promise to study faithfully.”

“That I will. If I don’t, I’ll give you leave to lick me.”

“I shan’t forget that,” said Florence, amused. “I will buy a ruler of good hard wood, and then you must look out. But, tell me, where have you lived hitherto?”

“I don’t like to tell you, Miss Florence. I’ve lived ever since I was a kid with a man named Tim Bolton. He keeps a saloon on the Bowery, near Houston Street. It’s a tough place, I tell you. I’ve got a bed in one corner—it’s tucked away in a closet in the day.”

“I suppose it is a drinking saloon?”

“Yes, that’s what it is.”

“And kept open very late?”

“Pretty much all night.”

“Is this Tim Bolton any relation of yours?”

“He says he’s my father; but I don’t believe it.”

“Have you always lived with him?”

“Ever since I was a small kid.”

“Have you always lived in New York?”

“No; I was out in Australia. Tim was out in the country part of the time, and part of the time he kept a saloon in Melbourne. There was thieves and burglars used to come into his place. I knew what they were, though they didn’t think I did.”

“How terrible for a boy to be subjected to such influences.”

“But I’ve made up my mind I won’t live with Tim no longer. I can earn my own livin’ sellin’ papers, or smashin’ baggage, and keep away from Tim. I’d have done it before if I’d had a friend like you to care for me.”

“We will stand by each other, Dodger. Heaven knows I need a friend, and if I can be a friend to you, and help you, I will.”

“We’ll get out here, Miss Florence. I told Mrs. O’Keefe I’d call at her stand, and she’ll go over and show you your room.”

They left the car at the corner of Grand Street, and Dodger led the way to an apple-stand, presided over by a lady of ample proportions, whose broad, Celtic face seemed to indicate alike shrewd good sense and a kindly spirit.

“Mrs. O’Keefe,” said Dodger, “this is the young lady I spoke to you about—Miss Florence Linden.”

“It’s welcome you are, my dear, and I’m very glad to make your acquaintance. You look like a rale leddy, and I don’t know how you’ll like the room I’ve got for you.”

“I cannot afford to be particular, Mrs. O’Keefe. I have had a—a reverse of circumstances, and I must be content with an humble home.”

“Then I’ll go over and show it to you. Here, Kitty, come and mind the stand,” she called to a girl about thirteen across the street, “and don’t let anybody steal the apples. Look out for Jimmy Mahone, he stole a couple of apples right under my nose this mornin’, the young spalpeen!”

As they were crossing the street, a boy of fourteen ran up to Dodger.

“Dodger,” said he, “you’d better go right over to Tim Bolton’s. He’s in an awful stew—says he’ll skin you alive if you don’t come to the s’loon right away.”

CHAPTER IX.
THE NEW HOME

“You can tell Tim Bolton,” said Dodger, “that I don’t intend to come back at all.”

“You don’t mean it, Dodger?” said Ben Holt, incredulously.

“Yes, I do. I’m going to set up for myself.”

“Oh, Dodger,” said Florence, “I’m afraid you will get into trouble for my sake!”

“Don’t worry about that, Miss Florence. I’m old enough to take care of myself, and I’ve got tired of livin’ with Tim.”

“But he may beat you!”

“He’ll have to get hold of me first.”

They had reached a four-story tenement of shabby brick, which was evidently well filled up by a miscellaneous crowd of tenants; shop girls, mechanics, laborers and widows, living by their daily toil.

Florence had never visited this part of the city, and her heart sank within her as she followed Mrs. O’Keefe through a dirty hallway, up a rickety staircase, to the second floor.

“One more flight of stairs, my dear,” said Mrs. O’Keefe, encouragingly. “I’ve got four rooms upstairs; one of them is for you, and one for Dodger.”

Florence did not reply. She began to understand at what cost she had secured her freedom from a distasteful marriage.

In her Madison Avenue home all the rooms were light, clean and luxuriously furnished. Here– But words were inadequate to describe the contrast.

Mrs. O’Keefe threw open the door of a back room about twelve feet square, furnished in the plainest manner, uncarpeted, except for a strip that was laid, like a rug, beside the bedstead.

There was a washstand, with a mirror, twelve by fifteen inches, placed above it, a pine bureau, a couple of wooden chairs, and a cane-seated rocking-chair.

“There, my dear, what do you say to that?” asked Mrs. O’Keefe, complacently. “All nice and comfortable as you would wish to see.”

“It is—very nice,” said Florence, faintly, sacrificing truth to politeness.

“And who do you think used to live here?” asked the apple-woman.

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“The bearded woman in the dime museum,” answered Mrs. O’Keefe, nodding her head. “She lived with me three months, and she furnished the room herself. When she went away she was hard up, and I bought the furniture of her cheap. You remember Madam Berger, don’t you, Dodger?”

“Oh, yes, I seen her often.”

“She got twenty-five dollars a week, and she’d ought to have saved money, but she had a good-for-nothin’ husband that drank up all her hard earnin’s.”

“I hope she didn’t drink herself,” said Florence, who shuddered at the idea of succeeding a drunken tenant.

“Not a drop. She was a good, sober lady, if she did work in a dime museum. She only left here two weeks ago. It isn’t every one I’d be willin’ to take in her place, but I see you’re a real leddy, let alone that Dodger recommends you. I hope you’ll like the room, and I’ll do all I can to make things pleasant. You can go into my room any hour, my dear, and do your little cookin’ on my stove. I s’pose you’ll do your own cookin’?”

“Well, not just at present,” faltered Florence. “I am afraid I don’t know much about cooking.”

“You’ll find it a deal cheaper, and it’s more quiet and gentale than goin’ to the eatin’-houses. I’ll help you all I can, and glad to.”

“Thank you, Mrs. O’Keefe, you are very kind,” said Florence, gratefully. “Perhaps just at first you wouldn’t object to taking me as a boarder, and letting me take my meals with you. I don’t think I would like to go to the eating-houses alone.”

“To be sure, my dear, if you wish it, and I’ll be glad of your company. I’ll make the terms satisfactory.”

“I have no doubt of that,” said Florence, feeling very much relieved.

“If I might be so bold, what kind of work are you going to do?”

“I hardly know. It has come upon me so suddenly. I shall have to do something, for I haven’t got much money. What I should like best would be to write–”

“Is it for the papers you mean?”

“Oh, no; I mean for some author or lawyer.”

“I don’t know much about that,” said Mrs. O’Keefe. “In fact, I don’t mind tellin’ you, my dear, that I can’t write myself, but I earn a good livin’ all the same by my apple-stand. I tell you, my dear,” she continued in a confidential tone, “there is a good dale of profit in sellin’ apples. It’s better than sewin’ or writin’. Of course, a young leddy like you wouldn’t like to go into the business.”

Florence shook her head, with a smile.

“No, Mrs. O’Keefe,” she said. “I am afraid I haven’t a business turn, and I should hardly like so public an employment.”

“Lor’, miss, it’s nothin’ if you get used to it. There’s nothin’ dull about my business, unless it rains, and you get used to havin’ people look at you.”

“It isn’t all that are worth looking at like you, Mrs. O’Keefe,” said Dodger, slyly.

“Oh, go away wid your fun, Dodger,” said the apple-woman, good-naturedly. “I ain’t much to look at, I know.”

“I think there’s a good deal of you to look at, Mrs. O’Keefe. You must weigh near three hundred.”

“I’ve a good mind to box your ears, Dodger. I only weigh a hundred and ninety-five. But I can’t be bothered wid your jokes. Can you sew, Miss Florence?”

“Yes; but I would rather earn my living some other way, if possible.”

“Small blame to you for that. I had a girl in Dodger’s room last year who used to sew for a livin’. Early and late she worked, poor thing, and she couldn’t make but two dollars a week.”

“How could she live?” asked Florence, startled, for she knew very little of the starvation wages paid to toiling women.

“She didn’t live. She just faded away, and it’s my belief the poor thing didn’t get enough to eat. Every day or two I’d make an excuse to take her in something from my own table, a plate of meat, or a bit of toast and a cup of tay, makin’ belave she didn’t get a chance to cook for herself, but she got thinner and thinner, and her poor cheeks got hollow, and she died in the hospital at last.”

The warm-hearted apple-woman wiped away a tear with the corner of her apron, as she thought of the poor girl whose sad fate she described.

“You won’t die of consumption, Mrs. O’Keefe,” said Dodger. “It’ll take a good while for you to fade away.”

“Hear him now,” said the apple-woman, laughing. “He will have his joke, Miss Florence, but he’s a good bye for all that, and I’m glad he’s goin’ to lave Tim Bolton, that ould thafe of the worruld.”

“Now, Mrs. O’Keefe, you know you’d marry Tim if he’d only ask you.”

“Marry him, is it? I’d lay my broom over his head if he had the impudence to ask me. When Maggie O’Keefe marries ag’in, she won’t marry a man wid a red nose.”

“Break it gently to him, Mrs. O’Keefe. Tim is just the man to break his heart for love of you.”

Mrs. O’Keefe aimed a blow at Dodger, but he proved true to his name, and skillfully evaded it.

“I must be goin’,” he said. “I’ve got to work, or I can’t pay room rent when the week comes round.”

“What are you going to do, Dodger?” asked Florence.

“It isn’t time for the evenin’ papers yet, so I shall go ’round to the piers and see if I can’t get a job at smashin’ baggage.”

“But I shouldn’t think any one would want to do that,” said Florence, puzzled.

“It’s what we boys call it. It’s just carryin’ valises and bundles. Sometimes I show strangers the way to Broadway. Last week an old man paid me a dollar to show him the way to the Cooper Institute. He was a gentleman, he was. I’d like to meet him ag’in. Good-by, Miss Florence; I’ll be back some time this afternoon.”

“And I must be goin’, too,” said Mrs. O’Keefe. “I can’t depend on that Kitty; she’s a wild slip of a girl, and just as like as not I’ll find a dozen apples stole when I get back. I hope you won’t feel lonely, my dear.”

“I think I will lie down a while,” said Florence. “I have a headache.”

She threw herself on the bed, and a feeling of loneliness and desolation came over her.

Her new friends were kind, but they could not make up to her for her uncle’s love, so strangely lost, and the home she had left behind.

CHAPTER X.
THE ARCH CONSPIRATOR

In the house on Madison Avenue, Curtis Waring was left in possession of the field. Through his machinations Florence had been driven from home and disinherited.

He was left sole heir to his uncle’s large property with the prospect of soon succeeding, for though only fifty-four, John Linden looked at least ten years older, and was as feeble as many men past seventy.

Yet, as Curtis seated himself at the breakfast table an hour after Florence had left the house, he looked far from happy or triumphant.

One thing he had not succeeded in, the conquest of his cousin’s heart. Though he loved himself best, he was really in love with Florence, so far as he was capable of being in love with any one.

She was only half his age—scarcely that—but he persuaded himself that the match was in every way suitable.

He liked to fancy her at the head of his table, after the death of his uncle, which he anticipated in a few months at latest.

The more she appeared to dislike him, the more he determined to marry her, even against her will.

She was the only one likely to inherit John Linden’s wealth, and by marrying her he would make sure of it.

Yet she had been willing to leave the home of her youth, to renounce luxury for a life of poverty, rather than to marry him.

When he thought of this his face became set and its expression stern and determined.

“Florence shall yet be mine,” he declared, resolutely. “I will yet be master of her fate, and bend her to my will. Foolish girl, how dare she match her puny strength against the resolute will of Curtis Waring?”

“Was there any one else whom she loved?” he asked himself, anxiously. No, he could think of none. On account of his uncle’s chronic invalidism, they had neither gone into society, nor entertained visitors, and in the midst of a great city Florence and her uncle had practically led the lives of recluses.

There had been no opportunity to meet young men who might have proved claimants for her hand.

“When did Miss Florence leave the house, Jane?” he inquired, as he seated himself at the table.

“Most an hour since,” the girl answered, coldly, for she disliked Curtis as much as she loved and admired Florence.

“It is sad, very sad that she should be so headstrong,” said Curtis, with hypocritical sorrow.

“It is sad for her to go away from her own uncle’s house,” returned Jane.

“And very—very foolish.”

“I don’t know about that, sir. She had her reasons,” said Jane, significantly.

Curtis coughed.

He had no doubt that Florence had talked over the matter with her hand-maiden.

“Did she say where she was going, Jane?” he asked.

“I don’t think the poor child knew herself, sir.”

“Did she go alone?”

“No, sir; the boy that was here last night called for her.”

“That ragamuffin!” said Curtis, scornfully. “She certainly shows extraordinary taste for a young lady of family.”

“The boy seems a very kind and respectable boy,” said Jane, who had been quite won by Dodger’s kindness to her young mistress.

“He may be respectable, though I am not so sure of that; but his position in life is very humble. He is probably a bootblack; a singular person to select for the friend of a girl like Florence.”

“There’s them that stands higher that isn’t half so good,” retorted Jane, with more zeal than good grammar.

“Did Miss Florence take a cab?”

“No; she just walked.”

“But she took some clothing with her?”

“She took a handbag—that is all. She will send for her trunk.”

“If you find out where she is living, just let me know, Jane.”

“I will if she is willing to have me,” answered Jane, independently.

“Look here, Jane,” said Curtis, angrily, “don’t forget that you are not her servant, but my uncle’s. It is to him you look for wages, not to Miss Florence.”

“I don’t need to be told that, sir. I know that well enough.”

“Then you know that it is to him that your faithful services are due, not to Florence?”

“I’m faithful to both, Mr. Waring.”

“You are aware that my uncle is justly displeased with my cousin?”

“I know he’s displeased, but I am sure he has no good reason to be.”

Curtis Waring bit his lips. The girl, servant as she was, seemed to be openly defying him. His imperious temper could ill brook this.

“Take care!” he said, with a frown. “You seem to be lacking in respect to me. You don’t appear to understand my position in this house.”

“Oh, yes, I do. I know you have schemed to get my poor young mistress out of the house, and have succeeded.”

“I have a great mind to discharge you, girl,” said Curtis, with lowering brow.

“I am not your servant, sir. You have nothing to do with me.”

“You will see whether I have or not. I will let you remain for a time, as it is your attachment to Miss Florence that has made you forget yourself. You will find that it is for your interest to treat me respectfully.”

A feeble step was heard at the door, and John Linden entered the breakfast-room. His face was sad, and he heaved a sigh as he glanced mechanically at the head of the table, where Florence usually sat.

Curtis Waring sprang to his feet, and placing himself at his uncle’s side, led him to his seat.

“How do you feel this morning, uncle?” he asked, with feigned solicitude.

“Ill, Curtis. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“I don’t wonder, sir. You had much to try you.”

“Is—is Florence here?”

“No, sir,” answered Jane, promptly. “She left the house an hour ago.”

A look of pain appeared on John Linden’s pale face.

“Did—did she leave a message for me?” he asked, slowly.

“She asked me to bid you good-by for her,” answered Jane, quickly.

“Uncle, don’t let yourself be disturbed now with painful thoughts. Eat your breakfast first, and then we will speak of Florence.”

John Linden ate a very light breakfast. He seemed to have lost his appetite and merely toyed with his food.

When he arose from the table, Curtis supported him to the library.

“It is very painful to me—this conduct of Florence’s, Curtis,” he said, as he sank into his armchair.

“I understand it fully, uncle,” said Curtis. “When I think of it, it makes me very angry with the misguided girl.”

“Perhaps I have been too harsh—too stern!”

“You, uncle, too harsh! Why, you are the soul of gentleness. Florence has shown herself very ungrateful.”

“Yet, Curtis, I love that girl. Her mother seemed to live again in her. Have I not acted cruelly in requiring her to obey me or leave the house?”

“You have acted only for good. You are seeking her happiness.”

“You really think this, Curtis?”

“I am sure of it.”

“But how will it all end?” asked Linden, bending an anxious look upon his wily nephew.

“By Florence yielding.”

“You are sure of that?”

“Yes. Listen, uncle; Florence is only capricious, like most girls of her age. She foolishly desires to have her own way. It is nothing more serious, I can assure you.”

“But she has left the house. That seems to show that she is in earnest.”

“She thinks, uncle, that by doing so she can bend you to her wishes. She hasn’t the slightest idea of any permanent separation. She is merely experimenting upon your weakness. She expects you will recall her in a week, at the latest. That is all of it.”

Like most weak men, it made Mr. Linden angry to have his strength doubted.

“You think that?” he said.

“I have no doubt of it.”

“She shall find that I am resolute,” he said, irritably. “I will not recall her.”

“Bravo, uncle! Only stick to that, and she will yield unconditionally within a fortnight. A little patience, and you will carry your point. Then all will be smooth sailing.”

“I hope so, Curtis. Your words have cheered me. I will be patient. But I hope I shan’t have to wait long. Where is the morning paper?”

“I shall have to humor and deceive him,” thought Curtis. “I shall have a difficult part to play, but I am sure to succeed at last.”