Chapter 2
“Stay quiet a bit, mum,” advised the policeman, as he got out; and Constance remained, still supporting the urchin, until two men with a stretcher appeared, upon which they lifted the little sufferer, who screamed with pain that even this gentlest of handling cost him.
Her heart wrung with sympathy for him, Miss Durant followed after them into the reception-ward. At the door she hesitated, in doubt as to whether it was right or proper for her to follow, till the sight of a nurse reassured her, and she entered; but her boldness carried her no farther than to stand quietly while the orderlies set down the litter. Without a moment’s delay the nurse knelt beside the boy, and with her scissors began slitting up the sleeves of the tattered coat.
“Hey! Wotcher up to?” demanded the waif, suspiciously.
“I’m getting you ready for the doctor,” said the nurse, soothingly. “It’s all right.”
“Toin’t nuttin’ of de sort,” moaned the boy. “Youse spoilin’ me cloes, an’ if youse wuzn’t a loidy, you’d get youse face poked in, dat’s wot would happen to youse.”
Constance came forward and laid her hand on the little fellow’s cheek. “Don’t mind,” she said, “and I’ll give you a new suit of clothes.”
“Wen?” came the quick question.
“To-morrow.”
“Does youse mean dat? Honest? Dere oin’t no string to dis?”
“Honest,” echoed the girl, heartily.
Reassured, the boy lay quietly while the nurse completed the dismemberment of the ragged coat, the apology for a shirt, and the bit of twine which served in lieu of suspenders. But the moment she began on the trousers, the wail was renewed.
“Quit, I say, or I’ll soak de two of youse; see if I don’t. Ah, won’t youse—” The words became inarticulate howls which the prayers and assurances of the two women could not lessen.
“Now, then, stop this noise and tell me what is the matter,” ordered a masculine voice; and turning from the boy, Constance found a tall, strong-featured man with tired-looking eyes standing at the other side of the litter.
Hopeful that the diversion might mean assistance, the waif’s howls once more became lingual. “Dey’s tryin’ to swipe me money, boss,” he whined. “Hope I may die if deys oin’t.”
“And where is your money?” asked the doctor.
“Wotcher want to know for?” demanded the urchin, with recurrent suspicion in his face.
“It’s in the pocket of his trousers, Dr. Armstrong,” said the nurse.
Without the slightest attempt to reassure the boy, the doctor forced loose the boy’s hold on the pocket, and inserting his hand, drew out the ten-dollar bill and a medley of small coins.
“Now,” he said, “I’ve taken your money, so they can’t. Understand?”
The urchin began to snivel.
“Ah, you have no right to be so cruel to him,” protested Miss Durant. “It’s perfectly natural. Just think how we would feel if we didn’t understand.”
The doctor fumbled for his eye-glasses, but not finding them quickly enough, squinted his eyelids in an endeavour to see the speaker. “And who are you?” he demanded.
“Why, I am—that is—I am Miss Durant, and—” stuttered the girl.
Not giving her time to finish her speech, Dr. Armstrong asked, “Why are you here?” while searching for his glasses.
“I did not mean to intrude,” explained Constance, flushing, “only it was my fault, and it hurts me to see him suffer more than seems necessary.”
Abandoning the search for his glasses, and apparently unheeding of her explanation, the doctor began a hasty examination of the now naked boy, passing his hand over trunk and limbs with a firm touch that paid no heed to the child’s outcries, though each turned the onlooker faint and cold.
Her anxiety presently overcoming the sense of rebuke, the overwrought girl asked, “He will live, won’t he?”
The man straightened up from his examination. “Except for some contusion,” he replied, “it apparently is only a leg and a couple of ribs broken.” His voice and manner conveyed the idea that legs and ribs were but canes and corsets. “Take him into the accident ward,” he directed to the orderlies, “and I’ll attend to him presently.”
“I will not have this boy neglected,” Constance said, excitedly and warmly. “Furthermore, I insist that he receive instant treatment, and not wait _your_ convenience.”
Once again Dr. Armstrong began feeling for his glasses, as he asked, “Are you connected with this hospital, Miss Durant?”
“No, but it was my carriage ran over him, and—”
“And is it because you ran over the boy, Miss Durant,” he interrupted, “that you think it is your right to come here and issue instructions for our treatment of him?”
“It is every one’s right to see that assistance is given to an injured person as quickly as possible,” retorted the girl, though flushing, “and to protest if human suffering, perhaps life itself, is made to wait the convenience of one who is paid to save both.”
Finally discovering and adjusting his glasses, Dr. Armstrong eyed Miss Durant with a quality of imperturbability at once irritating and embarrassing. “I beg your pardon for the hasty remark I just made,” he apologised. “Not having my second sight at command, I did not realise I was speaking to so young a girl, and therefore I allowed myself to be offended, which was foolish. If you choose to go with the patient, I trust you will satisfy yourself that no one in this hospital is lacking in duty or kindness.”
With a feeling much akin to that she had formerly suffered at the conclusion of her youthful spankings, Constance followed hurriedly after the orderlies, only too thankful that a reason had been given her permitting an escape from those steady eyes and amused accents, which she was still feeling when the litter was set down beside an empty bed.
“Has dat slob tooken me money for keeps?” whimpered the boy the moment the orderlies had departed.
“No, no,” Constance assured him, her hand in his.
“Den w’y’d he pinch it so quick?”
“He’s going to take care of it for you, that’s all.”
“Will he guv me a wroten pape sayin’ dat?”
“See,” said the girl, only eager to relieve his anxiety, “here is my purse, and there is a great deal more money in it than you had, and I’ll leave it with you, and if he doesn’t return you your money, why, you shall have mine.”
“Youse cert’in dere’s more den Ise had?”
“Certain. Look, here are two tens and three fives and a one, besides some change.”
“Dat’s all hunky!” joyfully ejaculated the urchin. “Now, den, wheer kin we sneak it so he don’t git his hooks on it?”
“This is to be your bed, and let’s hide it under the pillow,” suggested Constance, feeling as if she were playing a game. “Then you can feel of it whenever you want.”
“Dat’s de way to steal a base off ’im,” acceded the waif. “We’ll show dese guys wese oin’t no bunch of easy grapes.”
Scarcely was the purse concealed when a nurse appeared with a pail of water and rolls of some cloth, and after her came the doctor.
“Now, my boy,” he said, with a kindness and gentleness in his voice which surprised Constance, “I’ve got to hurt you a little, and let’s see how brave you can be.” He took hold of the left leg the ankle and stretched it, at the same time manipulating the calf with the fingers of his other hand.
The boy gave a cry of pain, and clutched Constance’s arm, squeezing it so as to almost make her scream; but she set her teeth determinedly and took his other hand in hers.
At a word the nurse grasped the limb and held it as it was placed, while the doctor took one of the rolls, and, dipping it in the water, unrolled it round and round the leg, with a rapidity and deftness which had, to Constance, a quality of fascination in it. A second wet bandage was wound over the first, then a dry one, and the leg was gently laid back on the litter. “Take his temperature,” ordered the doctor, as he began to apply strips of adhesive plaster to the injured ribs; and though it required some persuasion by the nurse and Constance, the invalid finally was persuaded to let the little glass lie under his tongue. His task completed, Dr. Armstrong withdrew the tube and glanced at it.
“Dat medicine oin’t got much taste, boss,” announced the urchin, cheerfully, “but it soytenly done me lots of good.”
The doctor looked up at Constance with a pleasant smile. “There’s both the sense and the nonsense of the Christian Science idiocy,” he said; and half in response to his smile and half in nervous relief, Constance laughed merrily.
“I am glad for anything that makes him feel better,” she replied; then, colouring once more, she added, “and will you let me express my regret for my impulsive words a little while ago, and my thanks to you for relieving the suffering for which I am, to a certain extent, responsible?”
“There is no necessity for either, Miss Durant, though I am grateful for both,” he replied.
“Will there be much suffering?”
“Probably no more than ordinarily occurs in such simple fractures,” said the doctor; “and we’ll certainly do our best that there shall not be.”
“And may I see him to-morrow?”
“Certainly, if you come between eleven and one.”
“Thank you,” said Constance. “And one last favour. Will you tell me the way to my carriage?”
“If you will permit me, I’ll see you to it,” offered Dr. Armstrong.
With an acknowledgment of the head, Constance turned and took the boy’s hand and said a good-bye.
“Do you suppose all newsboys are so dreadfully sharp and suspicious?” she asked of her guide, as they began to descend the stairs, more because she was conscious that he was eyeing her with steady scrutiny than for any other reason.
“I suppose the life is closer to that of the wild beast than anything we have in so-called civilisation. Even a criminal has his pals, but, like the forest animal, everyone—even his own kind—is an enemy to the street waif.”
“It must be terrible to suspect and fear even kindness,” sighed the girl, with a slight shudder. “I shall try to teach him what it means.”
“There does not appear to be any carriage here, Miss Durant,” announced her escort.
“Surely there must be. The men can’t have been so stupid as not to wait!”
The doctor tapped on the window of the lodge. “Didn’t this lady’s carriage remain here?” he asked, when the porter had opened it.
“It stayed till the policeman came down, doctor. He ordered it to go to the police-station, and got in it.”
“I forgot that my coachman must answer for the accident. Is there a cab-stand near here?”
Dr. Armstrong looked into her eyes, with an amusement which yet did not entirely obliterate the look of admiration, of which the girl was becoming more and more conscious. “The denizens of Avenue A have several cab-stands, of course,” he replied, “but they prefer to keep them over on Fifth Avenue.”
“It was a foolish question, I suppose” coldly retorted Constance, quite as moved thereto by the scrutiny as by the words, “but I did not even notice where the carriage was driving when we came here. Can you tell me the nearest car line which will take me to Washington Square?”
“As it is five blocks away, and the neighbourhood is not of the nicest, I shall take the liberty of walking with you to it.”
“Really, I would rather not. I haven’t the slightest fear,” protested the girl, eager to escape both the observation and the obligation.
“But I have,” calmly said her companion, as if his wish were the only thing to be considered.
For a moment Miss Durant vacillated, then, with a very slight inclination of her head, conveying the smallest quantity of consent and acknowledgment she could express, she walked out of the porte-cochere.
The doctor put himself beside her, and; they turned down the street, but not one word did she say. “If he will force his society upon me, I will at least show him my dislike of it,” was her thought.
Obviously Dr. Armstrong was not disturbed by Miss Durant’s programme, for the whole distance was walked in silence; and even when they halted on the corner, he said nothing, though the girl was conscious that his eyes still studied her face.
“I will not be the first to speak,” she vowed to herself; but minute after minute passed without the slightest attempt or apparent wish on his part, and finally she asked, “Are you sure this line is running?”
Her attendant pointed up the street. “That yellow light is your car. I don’t know why the intervals are so long this evening. Usually—”
He was interrupted by the girl suddenly clutching at her dress, and then giving an exclamation of real consternation.
“What is it?” he questioned.
“Why, I—nothing—that is, I think—I prefer to walk home, after all,” she stammered.
“You mustn’t do that. It’s over two miles, and through a really rough district.”
“I choose to, none the less,” answered Constance, starting across the street.
“Then you will have to submit to my safeguard for some time longer, Miss Durant,” asserted the doctor, as he overtook her.
Constance stopped. “Dr. Armstrong,” she said, “I trust you will not insist on accompanying me farther, when I tell you I haven’t the slightest fear of anything.”
“You have no fear, Miss Durant,” he answered, “because you are too young and inexperienced to even know the possibilities. This is no part of the city for you to walk alone in after dark. Your wisest course is to take a car, but if you prefer not, you had best let me go with you.”
“I choose not to take a car,” replied the girl, warmly, “and you have no right to accompany me against my wish.”
Dr. Armstrong raised his hat. “I beg your pardon. I did not realize that my presence was not desired,” he said.
Angry at both herself and him, Constance merely bowed, and walked on. “I don’t see why men have to torment me so,” she thought, as she hurried along. “His face was really interesting, and if he only wouldn’t begin like—He never would have behaved so if—if I weren’t—” Miss Durant checked even her thoughts from the word “beautiful,” and allowed the words “well dressed” to explain her magnetism to the other sex. Then, as if to salve her conscience of her own hypocrisy, she added, “It really is an advantage to a girl, if she doesn’t want to be bothered by men, to be born plain.”
The truth of her thought was brought home to her with unexpected suddenness, for as she passed a strip of sidewalk made light by the glare from a saloon brilliant with gas, a man just coming out of its door stared boldly, and then joined her.
“Ahem!” he said.
The girl quickened her pace, but the intruder only lengthened his.
“Cold night, isn’t it, darling?” he remarked, and tried to take her arm.
Constance shrank away from the familiarity with a loathing and fear which, as her persecutor followed, drove her to the curb.
“How dare you?” she burst out, finding he was not to be avoided.
“Now don’t be silly, and—”
There the sentence ended, for the man was jerked backwards by the collar, and then shot forward, with a shove, full length into the gutter.
“I feared you would need assistance, Miss Durant, and so took the liberty of following you at a distance,” explained Dr. Armstrong, as the cur picked himself up and slunk away.
“You are very— Thank you deeply for your kindness, Dr. Armstrong,” gasped the girl, her voice trembling. “I ought to have been guided by your advice and taken the car, but the truth is, I suddenly remembered - that is, I happened to be without any money, and was ashamed to ask you for a loan. Now, if you’ll lend me five cents, I shall be most grateful.”
“It is said to be a feminine trait never to think of contingencies,” remarked the doctor, “and I think, Miss Durant, that your suggested five cents has a tendency in that direction. I will walk with you to Lexington Avenue, which is now your nearest line, and if you still persist then in refusing my escort, I shall insist that you become my debtor for at least a dollar.”
“I really need not take you any further than the car, thank you, Dr. Armstrong, for I can get a cab at Twenty-third Street.”
It was a short walk to the car line,—too short, indeed, for Miss Durant to express her sense of obligation as she wished,—and she tried, even as she was mounting the steps, to say a last word, but the car swept her away with the sentence half spoken; and with a want of dignity that was not customary in her, she staggered to a seat. Then as she tendered a dollar bill to the conductor, she remarked to herself,—
“Now, that’s a man I’d like for a friend, if only he wouldn’t be foolish.”
At eleven on the following morning, Miss Durant’s carriage once more stopped at the hospital door; and, bearing a burden of flowers, and followed by the footman carrying a large basket, Constance entered the ward, and made her way to the waif’s bedside.
“Good-morning,” she said to Dr. Armstrong, who stood beside the next patient. “How is our invalid doing?”
“Good-morning,” responded the doctor, taking the hand she held out. “I think—”
“We’s takin’ life dead easy, dat’s wot wese is,” came the prompt interruption from the pillow, in a voice at once youthful yet worn. “Say, dis oin’t no lead pipe cinch, oh, no!”
It was a very different face the girl found, for soap and water had worked wonders with it, and the scissors and brush had reduced the tangled shag of hair to order. Yet the ferret eyes and the alert, over-sharp expression were unchanged.
“I’ve brought you some flowers and goodies,” said Miss Durant. “I don’t know how much of it will be good for him,” she went on to the doctor, apologetically, “but I hope some will do.” Putting the flowers on the bed, from the basket she produced in succession two bottles of port, a mould of wine jelly, a jar of orange marmalade, a box of wafers, and a dish of grapes, apples, and bananas.
“Gee! Won’t Ise have a hell of a gorge!” joyfully burst out the invalid.
“We’ll see about that,” remarked Dr. Armstrong, smiling. “He can have all the other things you’ve brought, in reason, Miss Durant, except the wine. That must wait till we see how much fever he develops to-day,”
“He is doing well?”
“So far, yes.”
“That is a great relief to me. And, Dr. Armstrong, in returning your loan to me, will you let me say once again how grateful I am to you for all your kindness, for which I thanked you so inadequately last night? I deserved all that came to me, and can only wonder how you ever resisted saying, ‘I told you so.’”
“I have been too often wrong in my own diagnosing to find any satisfaction or triumph in the mistakes of others,” said the doctor, as he took the bill the girl held out to him, and, let it be confessed, the fingers that held it, “nor can I regret anything which gave me an opportunity to serve you.”
The speaker put an emphasis on the last word, and eyed Miss Durant in a way that led her to hastily withdraw her fingers, and turn away from his unconcealed admiration. It was to find the keen eyes of the urchin observing them with the closest attention; and as she realised it, she coloured, half in embarrassment and half in irritation.
“How is your leg?” she asked, in an attempt to divert the boy’s attention and to conceal her own feeling.
“Say. Did youse know dey done it up in plaster, so dat it’s stiff as a bat?” responded the youngster, eagerly. “Wish de udder kids could see it, for dey’ll never believe it w’en Ise tells ’em. I’ll show it to youse if youse want?” he offered, in his joy over the novelty.
“I saw it put on,” said Constance. “Don’t you remember?”
“Why, cert! Ise remembers now dat—” A sudden change came over the boy’s face. “Wheer’s dem cloes youse promised me?” he demanded.
“Oh, I entirely forgot—”
“Ah, forgit youse mudder! Youse a peach, oin’t youse?” contemptuously broke in the child.
Miss Durant and Dr. Armstrong both burst out laughing.
“Youse t’ink youse a smarty, but Ise know’d de hull time it wuz only a big bluff dat youse wuz tryin’ to play on me, an’ it didn’t go wid me, nah!” went on the youngster, in an aggrieved tone.
“Isn’t he perfectly incorrigible?” sighed Constance.
“Ise oin’t,” denied the boy, indignantly. “Deyse only had me up onct.”
With the question the girl had turned to Dr. Armstrong; then, finding his eyes still intently studying her, she once more gave her attention to the waif.
“Really, I did forget them,” she asserted. “You shall have a new suit long before you need it.”
“Cert’in dat oin’t no fake extry youse shoutin’?”
“Truly. How old are you?”
“Wotcher want to know for?” suspiciously asked the boy.
“So I can buy a suit for that age.”
“Dat goes. Ise ate.”
“And what’s your name?”
“Swot.”
“What?” exclaimed the girl.
“Nah. Swot,” he corrected.
“How do you spell it?”
“Dun’no’. Dat’s wot de newsies calls me, ’cause of wot Ise says to de preacher man.”
“And what was that?”
“It wuz one of dem religious mugs wot comes Sunday to de Mulberry Park, see, an’ dat day he wuz gassin’ to us kids ’bout lettin’ a guy as had hit youse onct doin’ it ag’in; an’ w’en he’d pumped hisself empty, he says to me, says he, ‘If a bad boy fetched youse a lick on youse cheek, wot would youse do to ’im?’ An’ Ise says, ‘I’d swot ’im in de gob, or punch ’im in de slats,’ says I; an’ so de swipes calls me by dat noime. Honest, now, oin’t dat kinder talk jus’ sickenin’?”
“But you must have another name,” suggested Miss Durant, declining to commit herself on that question.
“Sure.”
“And what is that?”
“McGarrigle.”
“And have you no father or mother?”
“Nah.”
“Or brothers or sisters?”
“Nah. Ise oin’t got nuttin’.”
“Where do you live?”
“Ah, rubber!” disgustedly remarked Swot. “Say, dis oin’t no police court, see?”
During all these questions, and to a certain extent their cause, Constance had been quite conscious that the doctor was still watching her, and now she once more turned to him, to say, with an inflection of disapproval,—
“When I spoke to you just now, Dr. Armstrong, I did not mean to interrupt you in your duties, and you must not let me detain you from them.”
“I had made my morning rounds long before you came, Miss Durant,” equably answered the doctor, “and had merely come back for a moment to take a look at one of the patients.”
“I feared you were neglecting—were allowing my arrival to interfere with more important matters,” replied Miss Durant, frigidly. “I never knew a denser man,” she added to herself, again seeking to ignore his presence by giving her attention to Swot. “I should have brought a book with me to-day, to read aloud to you, but I had no idea what kind of a story would interest you. If you know of one, I’ll get it and come to-morrow.”
“Gee, Ise in it dis time wid bote feet, oin’t Ise? Say, will youse git one of de Old Sleuts? Deys de peachiest books dat wuz ever wroten.”
“I will, if my bookshop has one, or can get it for me in time.”
“There is little chance of your getting it there, Miss Durant,” interposed Dr. Armstrong; “but there is a place not far from here where stories of that character are kept; and if it will save you any trouble, I’ll gladly get one of them for you.”
“I have already overtaxed your kindness,” replied Constance, “and so will not trouble you in this.”
“It would be no trouble.”
“Thank you, but I shall enjoy the search myself.”
“Say,” broke in the urchin. “Youse ought to let de doc do it. Don’t youse see dat he wants to, ’cause he’s stuck on youse?”
“Then I’ll come to-morrow and read to you, Swot,” hastily remarked Miss Durant, pulling her veil over her face. “Good-bye.” Without heeding the boy’s “Dat’s fine,” or giving Dr. Armstrong a word of farewell, she went hurrying along the ward, and then downstairs, to her carriage. Yet once within its shelter, the girl leaned back and laughed merrily. “It’s perfectly absurd for him to behave so before all the nurses and patients, and he ought to know better. It is to be hoped _that_ was a sufficiently broad hint for his comprehension, and that henceforth he won’t do it.”