CHAPTER XXIII

PATHOS AND POVERTY

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.

“They _will_ run 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.