Horatio Alger - Tattered Tom

Beyond the chance of immediate danger, the young Arab conjured up the vision of granny’s disappointment when she should break open the door, and find her gone; and she sat down on the curbstone and laughed heartily.

“What are you laughing at?” asked a boy, looking curiously at the strange figure before him.

“Oh, it’s too rich!” said Tom, pausing a little, and then breaking out anew.

“What’s too rich?”

“I’ve run away from granny. She wanted to lick me, and now she can’t.”

“You’ve been cutting up, I suppose.”

“No, it’s granny that’s been cuttin’ up. She’s at it all the time.”

“But you’ll catch it when you do go home, you know.”

“Maybe I won’t go home.”

It was not a street-boy that addressed her; but a boy with a comfortable home, who had a place in a store near by. He did not know, practically, what sort of a thing it was to wander about the streets, friendless and homeless; but it struck him vaguely that it must be decidedly uncomfortable. There was something in this strange creature—half boy in appearance—that excited his interest and curiosity, and he continued the conversation.

“What sort of a woman is your granny, as you call her?” he asked.

“She’s an awful old woman,” was the answer.

“I shouldn’t think you would like to speak so of your grandmother.”

“I don’t believe she is my grandmother. I only call her so.”

“What’s your name?”

“Tom.”

“Tom!” repeated the boy, in surprise. “Aint you a girl?”

“Yes; I expect so.”

“It’s hard to tell from your clothes, you know;” and he scanned Tom’s queer figure attentively.

Tom was sitting on a low step with her knees nearly on a level with her chin, and her hands clasped around them. She had on her cap of the morning, and her jacket, which, by the way, had been given to granny when on a begging expedition, and appropriated to Tom’s use, without special reference to her sex. Tom didn’t care much. It made little difference to her whether she was in the fashion or not; and if the street boys chaffed her, she was abundantly able to give them back as good as they sent.

“What’s the matter with my clothes?” said Tom.

“You’ve got on a boy’s cap and jacket.”

“I like it well enough. As long as it keeps a feller warm I don’t mind.”

“Do you call yourself a feller?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re a queer feller.”

“Don’t you call me names, ’cause I won’t stand it;” and Tom raised a pair of sharp, black eyes.

“I won’t call you names, at least not any bad ones. Have you had any dinner?”

“Yes,” said Tom, smacking her lips, as she recalled her delicious repast, “I had a square meal.”

“What do you call a square meal?”

“Roast beef, cup o’ coffee, and pie.”

The boy was rather surprised, for such a dinner seemed beyond Tom’s probable resources.

“Your granny don’t treat you so badly, after all. That’s just the kind of dinner I had.”

“Granny didn’t give it to me. I bought it. That’s what she wants to lick me for. All she give me was a piece of hard bread.”

“Where did you get the money? Was it hers?”

“That’s what she says. But if a feller works all the mornin’ for some money, hasn’t she got a right to keep some of it?”

“I should think so.”

“So should I,” said Tom, decidedly.

“Have you got any money?”

“No, I spent it all for dinner.”

“Then here’s some.”

The boy drew from his vest-pocket twenty-five cents, and offered it to Tom.

The young Arab felt no delicacy in accepting the pecuniary aid thus tendered.

“Thank you,” said she. “You can call me names if you want to.”

“What should I want to call you names for?” asked the boy, puzzled.

“There was a gent called me names this mornin’, and give me twenty cents for doin’ it.”

“What did he call you?”

“I dunno; but it must have been something awful bad, it was so long.”

“You’re a strange girl, Tom.”

“Am I? Well, I reckon I am. What’s your name?”

“John Goodwin.”

“John Goodwin?” repeated Tom, by way of fixing it in her memory.

“Yes; haven’t you got any other name than Tom?”

“I dunno. I think granny called me Jane once. But it’s a good while ago. Everybody calls me Tom, now.”

“Well, Tom, I must be getting back to the store. Good-by. I hope you’ll get along.”

“All right!” said Tom. “I’m goin’ into business with that money you give me.”

Granny mounted the stairs two at a time; so eager was she to force a surrender on the part of the rebellious Tom. She was a little out of breath when she reached the fourth landing, and paused an instant to recover it. Tom was at that moment half-way down the rope; but this she did not suspect.

Recovering her breath, she strode to the door. Before making an assault with the hatchet, she decided to summon Tom to a surrender.

“Tom!” she called out.

Of course there was no answer.

“Why don’t you answer?” demanded granny, provoked.

She listened for a reply, but Tom remained obstinately silent, as she interpreted it.

“If you don’t speak, it’ll be the wuss for ye,” growled granny.

Again no answer.

“I’ll find a way to make you speak. Come and open the door, or I’ll break it down. I’ve got a hatchet.”

But the old woman had the conversation all to herself.

Quite beside herself now with anger, she no longer hesitated; but with all her force dealt a blow which buried the hatchet deep in the door.

“Jest wait till I get in!” she muttered. “Will ye open it now?”

But there was no response.

While she was still battering at the door one of the neighbors came up from below.

“What are you doin’, Mrs. Walsh?” for such was granny’s name.

“I’m tryin’ to get in.”

“Why don’t you open the door?”

“Tom’s locked it. She won’t let me in,” said granny, finishing the sentence with a string of profane words which had best be omitted.

“You’ll have a good bill to pay to the landlord, Mrs. Walsh.”

“I don’t care,” said granny. “I’m goin’ to get at that trollop, and beat her within an inch of her life.”

Another vigorous blow broke the lock, and the door flew open.

Granny rushed in, after the manner of a devouring lion ready to pounce upon her prey. But she stopped short in dismay. Tom was not visible!

Thinking she might be in the closet, the old woman flung open the door: but again she was balked.

“What has ’come of the child?” she exclaimed, in bewilderment.

“She got out of the window,” said the neighbor, who had caught sight of the rope dangling from the open casement.

Granny hastened to the window, and the truth flashed upon her. Her prey had escaped her!

It was a deep disappointment to the vindictive old woman, whose hand itched to exercise itself in punishing Tom.

“She’s a bold un,” said the neighbor, with some admiration of Tom’s pluck.

Granny answered with a strain of invective, which gave partial vent to the rage and disappointment she felt.

“If I could only get at her!” she muttered between her teeth; “I’d give her half-a-dozen lickin’s in one. She’d wish she hadn’t done it.”

Not a doubt entered granny’s mind that Tom would return. It never occurred to her that her young servant had become tired of her bondage, and had already made up her mind to break her chains. She knew Tom pretty well, but not wholly. She did not realize that the days of her rule were at an end; and that by her tyranny she had driven from her the girl whose earnings she had found so convenient.