CHAPTER XXIV

A YOUNG REFORMER

Close in the wake of Tommy’s father, now returning, came Dorothy. A large automobile stood before one of the rickety buildings, and Dorothy just caught sight of a great fur coat and gray hair, as the owner of the car came from the building. It was Mr. Akerson! His chauffeur opened the door of the car, touched his cap, and the auto made its way slowly through the street.

“There’s the rent collector,” she heard a small girl say, as she watched the automobile out of sight. “Ain’t he grand!”

Dorothy wondered, with a shudder, how any one could come among these people and take their money from them, for housing them in such quarters!

Tommy’s father turned off Rivington Street into a narrow lane, little more than an alley, but it contained tall buildings nevertheless, with the inevitable fire escape decorating the fronts. He paused in front of a pawnbroker’s shop, which was some feet below the level of the sidewalk. Dorothy, too, paused, leaning on the iron fence. The man was smiling an irresponsible, foolish smile as he descended the steps to the pawnshop. Dorothy peered down into the badly-lighted shop, and saw Tommy’s father lay an ancient watch chain, the last remaining article of the glory of his young manhood, on the counter.

The clerk behind the counter threw it back in disgust. Again Tommy’s father offered it, but the pawnbroker would not take it, for it was evidently not worth space in his cases. The man stumbled up the steps, and Dorothy met him face to face on the top one.

“I need a watch chain,” she heard herself saying in desperation, “I’ll buy it, please.”

“You’re the woman as was collecting the rent; eh?” he said.

“Oh, no,” said Dorothy, smiling brightly, “I came to see Tommy’s mother, and his father. I wanted to know Tommy’s family.”

“You wanted to help the boy, maybe?” he asked, his attention at last arrested.

“Yes,” replied Dorothy, eagerly, “I want to do something. I have money with me now, and I’ll buy the chain.”

The man suddenly turned and went on ahead. He wasn’t a really desperate man, but Dorothy did not know just what state it could be called, he simply seemed unable to think quite clearly, and after walking one block, Dorothy decided he had forgotten her entirely.

“I want to buy the groceries,” she said, stepping close to his elbow, “but there will be so many, you’ll have to help carry them home to your wife and Tommy.”

He stared at her sullenly. “Who told you to buy groceries?” he demanded.

“Your wife said there was nothing to eat in the house,” she answered, “and I would love to buy everything you need, just for this once.”

“I was just goin’ to get ’em, but there was no money. How’s a man goin’ to help his family, when they takes his money right outer his pockets; tell me that, will you?” he demanded of Dorothy. She shrank as the huge form towered over her, but she answered steadily:

“The children are at home, hungry, waiting for something to eat—the cakes you promised them, you know,” she said with a brave smile.

“Well, come along; what are you standin’ here for wastin’ time when the children are hungry?” he said finally.

Dorothy laughed quietly, and went along at his elbow. Such unreasonable sort of humanity! At least, one thing was certain, he would not escape from her now, since she was convinced that he had really been trying to secure money enough to buy food; if she had to call on the rough-looking element on the street to come to her aid she would help him.

In the grocer’s Dorothy found great delight in ordering food for a family, and they left the shop, loaded down with parcels. The grocer’s clock chimed out the hour of seven as they left the store.

“Aunt Winnie,” thought Dorothy suddenly, “she’ll be worried ill! I had almost forgotten I had a family of my own to be anxious about. But they’ll have to wait,” she decided, “they, at least, aren’t hungry. They are only worried, and I know I’m safe,” she ended, philosophically.

The yellow dog was in the hall, so were all the evil odors, even some of the babies still played about, evidently knowing no bedtime, until with utter weariness their small limbs refused to move another step. And the dog being there meant that Tommy had gone ahead and was safe at home.

The upper halls were noisy. The hours after supper were being turned into the festive part of the day. At Tommy’s door there were no loud sounds of mirth, and, opening it quietly, Dorothy entered, the man behind. A dim light burned in the room, the mother sat asleep in the old velvet chair, the smaller children curled up in her lap, and she was holding the baby in her arms. Several of the children were stretched crosswise on the kitchen cot, and Dorothy decided the remainder of the family were in the dark room just off the kitchen, and later she discovered that the surplus room of the three-room home was rented out, to help pay the rent.

The children quickly scrambled from the cot and from the mother’s lap, with wild haste to unwrap the paper parcels. There was little use trying judiciously to serve the eatables to such hungry children. It mattered not to Tommy that jelly and condensed milk and butter and cheese were not all supposed to be eaten on one slice of bread. Tommy never before saw these things all at one time, and, as far as Tommy knew, he might never again have the chance to put so many different things on one slice. Oranges and bananas were unknown luxuries in that family, and the little boys eyed them suspiciously, but brave Tommy sampling them first, they picked up courage, and soon there were neither oranges nor bananas, only messy little heaps of peeling.

Dorothy was busy instructing the mother how to prepare beef broth, and a nourishing food for the baby, when the clock struck eight.

“Tommy,” said Dorothy, as she busily stirred the baby’s food, “do you know where there is a telephone? I must send a message to Aunt Winnie.”

“Sure,” said the confident Tommy, “I know all about them things. I often seen people ‘telphoning,’” thus Tommy called it.

Soon it was agreed that Tommy and his father would go and inform Dorothy’s aunt of her whereabouts, over the wire.

It was an anxious fifteen minutes waiting for their return. The mother let the steak broil to a crisp in her anxiety lest the father slip away from Tommy’s grasp, and Dorothy, listening for the returning footsteps, had visions of again running after Tommy’s father to bring him back to the bosom of his family, and allowed the oatmeal to boil over. But all was serene when the man returned safely with the information that: “some old feller on the wire got excited, and a lot of people all talked at once,” and the only thing he was sure of was that they demanded the address of his home, which he had given them, not being ashamed, as he proudly bragged, for anyone to know where he lived.

“That was father!” said Dorothy. “What else did he say?”

“Nothin’,” replied the man, “but the old feller was maddern a wet hen!”

“Poor father!” thought Dorothy, as she handed an apple to one of the small boys. “No doubt I’m very foolish to have done this thing. Father will never forgive me for running away and staying until this late hour. I really didn’t think about anything, though. It did seem so important to bring home the things. I can’t bear to think that to-morrow night and the next night and the next, Tommy and his mother will be here, worrying and cold and hungry.”

She served each of the children a steaming dish of oatmeal, floating in milk, and was surprised to find how hungry she was herself. She looked critically at the messy table, the cracked bowls, and tin spoons, and democratic as she knew herself to be, she couldn’t—simply couldn’t—eat on that kitchen-bedroom-living-room table.

The creaking of the steps and a heavy footfall pausing before the door, caused a moment’s hush. A knock on the portal and Tommy flew to open it. On the threshold stood Major Dale, very soldierly and dignified, and he stared into the room through the dim light until he discovered Dorothy. She ran to him and threw her arms about his neck before he could utter a word.

“Dear daddy!” she murmured, so glad to see one of her own people, and she realized in that instant a sense of comfort and ease to know she was well cared for, and had a dear, old dignified father.

“I forgot,” she said, repentantly, “I should have been home hours ago, I know, but you must hear the whole story, before you scold me.”

For Major Dale to ever scold Dorothy was among the impossible things, and to have scolded her in this instance, the furthest thing from his mind. The children stood about gazing at Major Dale in awed silence.

“There are so many, father,” said Dorothy, “to have to live in these close quarters. If they could just be transported to a farm, or some place out in the open!”

“Perhaps they could be,” answered Major Dale, “but first, I must take you home. We’ll discuss the future of Tommy and his family, after you are safely back with Aunt Winnie.”

“Couldn’t James be placed somewhere in the country? I want to know now, before I leave them, perhaps never to see them again,” pleaded Dorothy to her father. “Say that you know some place for James to work that will take the family away from this awful city.”

“We’ll see, daughter,” said the major kindly. “I guess there is some place for him and the little ones.”

“He’s so willin’ to work for us,” explained the mother, “and we’d love to be in the country. We both grew up in a country town, and I’ll go back to-morrow morning. It’s nothin’ but struggling here from one year’s end to the other, and we grow poorer each year.”

“Many a hard day’s work I’ve done on the farm,” said the six-feet-four-husband, “and I’m good for many more. I’ll work at anything that’s steady, and that’ll help me keep a roof over the family.”

“I’m so glad to hear you say so!” cried Dorothy, in delight. “I’m sure we will find some work in the country for you, and before many weeks you can leave this place, and find happiness in a busy, country life.”

On the trip uptown, Dorothy asked about the family at home, feeling very much as though she had been away on a long trip and anxious to see them all once again.

“We began to grow worried about an hour before the telephone message came,” her father said, “Aunt Winnie had callers, and the arrangements were to have them all for dinner and we, of course, waited dinner for Dorothy.” He smiled at his daughter fondly. “When you did not appear, the anxiety became intense, and the callers are still at the apartment anxiously awaiting the return of the wanderer.”

“Who are the callers,” queried Dorothy; “do I know them?”

“No, just Aunt Winnie’s friends, but they are waiting to meet you,” said Major Dale.

“Won’t I be glad to get home!” exclaimed Dorothy, clinging to her father’s arm as they left the subway.

“Daughter,” said Major Dale, sternly, “have you really forgotten?”

“Forgotten what, father?” asked Dorothy in surprise.

“Forgotten the dinner and dance that is to be given in your honor this evening?” Major Dale could just suppress a smile as he tried to ask the question with great severity.

“Oh, my dear!” cried Dorothy, “I forgot it completely!”

“Well,” he said, “you’ll be late for the dinner, but they are waiting for you to start the dance.”

“You see, father,” exclaimed Dorothy, desperately, “I am not a girl for society! To think I could have forgotten the most important event of our whole holiday! But tell me now, daddy, don’t you think big James and his family would do nicely for old Mr. Hill’s Summer home—they could care for it in the Winter, and take charge of the farm in the Summer?”

“That is just what I thought, but said nothing, because I did not care to raise false hopes in the breast of such a pathetic little woman as Tommy’s mother.”

“Then, before I join the dancers, I can rest easily in my thoughts, that you will take care of Tommy’s future, daddy?” Dorothy asked.

“My daughter can join the party, and cease thinking of little Tommy and the others, because I’ll take entire charge of them just as soon as we return to North Birchland.”

“I knew it, dear,” said Dorothy, as they entered the apartment, and she hugged her father closely. “You’d rather be down on Rivington Street at this moment, seeing the other side of the world, just as I would; wouldn’t you, father?”

But her father just pinched her pink cheeks and told her to run along and be a giddy, charming debutante.