Alger Horatio Jr.
Adrift in New York: Tom and Florence Braving the World
The boy approached the secretary, and with some tools he had brought essayed to open it. After a brief delay he succeeded, and lifted the cover. He was about to explore it, according to Tim’s directions, when he heard a cry of fear, and turning swiftly saw Florence, her eyes dilated with terror, gazing at him.
“Who are you?” she asked in alarm, “and what are you doing there?”
CHAPTER V.
DODGER
The boy sprang to the side of Florence, and siezed her wrists in his strong young grasp.
“Don’t you alarm the house,” he said, “or I’ll–”
“What will you do?” gasped Florence, in alarm. The boy was evidently softened by her beauty, and answered in a tone of hesitation:
“I don’t know. I won’t harm you if you keep quiet.”
“What are you here for?” asked Florence, fixing her eyes on the boy’s face; “are you a thief?”
“I don’t know—yes, I suppose I am.”
“How sad, when you are so young.”
“What! miss, do you pity me?”
“Yes, my poor boy, you must be very poor, or you wouldn’t bring yourself to steal.”
“No. I ain’t poor; leastways, I have enough to eat, and I have a place to sleep.”
“Then why don’t you earn your living by honest means?”
“I can’t; I must obey orders.”
“Whose orders?”
“Why, the guv’nor’s, to be sure.”
“Did he tell you to open that secretary?”
“Yes.”
“Who is the guv’nor, as you call him?”
“I can’t tell; it wouldn’t be square.”
“He must be a very wicked man.”
“Well, he ain’t exactly what you call an angel, but I’ve seen wuss men than the guv’nor.”
“Do you mind telling me your own name?”
“No; for I know you won’t peach on me. Tom Dodger.”
“Dodger?”
“Yes.”
“That isn’t a surname.”
“It’s all I’ve got. That’s what I’m always called.”
“It is very singular,” said Florence, fixing a glance of mingled curiosity and perplexity upon the young visitor.
While the two were earnestly conversing in that subdued light, afforded by the lowered gaslight, Tim Bolton crept in through the door unobserved by either, tiptoed across the room to the secretary, snatched the will and a roll of bills, and escaped without attracting attention.
“Oh, I wish I could persuade you to give up this bad life,” resumed Florence, earnestly, “and become honest.”
“Do you really care what becomes of me, miss?” asked Dodger, slowly.
“I do, indeed.”
“That’s very kind of you, miss; but I don’t understand it. You are a rich young lady, and I’m only a poor boy, livin’ in a Bowery dive.”
“What’s that?”
“Never mind, miss, such as you wouldn’t understand. Why, all my life I’ve lived with thieves, and drunkards, and bunco men, and–”
“But I’m sure you don’t like it. You are fit for something better.”
“Do you really think so?” asked Dodger, doubtfullly.
“Yes; you have a good face. You were meant to be good and honest, I am sure.”
“Would you trust me?” asked the boy, earnestly, fixing his large, dark eyes eloquently on the face of Florence.
“Yes, I would if you would only leave your evil companions, and become true to your better nature.”
“No one ever spoke to me like that before, miss,” said Dodger, his expressive features showing that he was strongly moved. “You think I could be good if I tried hard, and grow up respectable?”
“I am sure you could,” said Florence, confidently.
There was something in this boy, young outlaw though he was, that moved her powerfully, and even fascinated her, though she hardly realized it. It was something more than a feeling of compassion for a wayward and misguided youth.
“I could if I was rich like you, and lived in a nice house, and ’sociated with swells. If you had a father like mine–”
“Is he a bad man?”
“Well, he don’t belong to the church. He keeps a gin mill, and has ever since I was a kid.”
“Have you always lived with him?”
“Yes, but not in New York.”
“Where then?”
“In Melbourne.”
“That’s in Australia.”
“Yes, miss.”
“How long since you came to New York?”
“I guess it’s about three years.”
“And you have always had this man as a guardian? Poor boy!”
“You’ve got a different father from me, miss?”
Tears forced themselves to the eyes of Florence, as this remark brought forcibly to her mind the position in which she was placed.
“Alas!” she answered, impulsively, “I am alone in the world!”
“What! ain’t the old gentleman that lives here your father?”
“He is my uncle; but he is very, very angry with me, and has this very day ordered me to leave the house.”
“Why, what a cantankerous old ruffian he is, to be sure!” exclaimed the boy, indignantly.
“Hush! you must not talk against my uncle. He has always been kind to me till now.”
“Why, what’s up? What’s the old gentleman mad about?”
“He wants me to marry my cousin Curtis—a man I do not even like.”
“That’s a shame! Is it the dude I saw come out of the house a little while ago?”
“Oh, no; that’s a different gentleman. It’s Mr. de Brabazon.”
“You don’t want to marry him, do you?”
“No, no!”
“I’m glad of that. He don’t look as if he knew enough to come in when it rained.”
“The poor young man is not very brilliant, but I think I would rather marry him than Curtis Waring.”
“I’ve seen him, too. He’s got dark hair and a dark complexion, and a wicked look in his eye.”
“You, too, have noticed that?”
“I’ve seen such as him before. He’s a bad man.”
“Do you know anything about him?” asked Florence, eagerly.
“Only his looks.”
“I am not deceived,” murmured Florence, “it’s not wholly prejudice. The boy distrusts him, too. So you see, Dodger,” she added, aloud, “I am not a rich young lady, as you suppose. I must leave this house, and work for my living. I have no home any more.”
“If you have no home,” said Dodger, impulsively, “come home with me.”
“To the home you have described, my poor boy? How could I do that?”
“No; I will hire a room for you in a quiet street, and you shall be my sister. I will work for you, and give you my money.”
“You are kind, and I am glad to think I have found a friend when I need one most. But I could not accept stolen money. It would be as bad as if I, too, were a thief.”
“I am not a thief! That is, I won’t be any more.”
“And you will give up your plan of robbing my uncle?”
“Yes, I will; though I don’t know what my guv’nor will say. He’ll half murder me, I expect. He’ll be sure to cut up rough.”
“Do right, Dodger, whatever happens. Promise me that you will never steal again?”
“There’s my hand, miss—I promise. Nobody ever talked to me like you. I never thought much about bein’ respectable, and growin’ up to be somebody, but if you take an interest in me, I’ll try hard to do right.”
At this moment, Mr. Linden, clad in a long morning gown, and holding a candle in his hand, entered the room, and started in astonishment when he saw Florence clasping the hand of one whose appearance led him to stamp as a young rough.
“Shameless girl!” he exclaimed, in stern reproof. “So this is the company you keep when you think I am out of the way!”
CHAPTER VI.
A TEMPEST
The charge was so strange and unexpected that Florence was overwhelmed. She could only murmur:
“Oh, uncle!”
Her young companion was indignant. Already he felt that Florence had consented to accept him as a friend, and he was resolved to stand by her.
“I say, old man,” he bristled up, “don’t you go to insult her! She’s an angel!”
“No doubt you think so,” rejoined Mr. Linden, in a tone of sarcasm. “Upon my word, miss, I congratulate you on your elevated taste. So this is your reason for not being willing to marry your Cousin Curtis?”
“Indeed, uncle, you are mistaken. I never met this boy till to-night.”
“Don’t try to deceive me. Young man, did you open my secretary?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And robbed it into the bargain,” continued Linden, going to the secretary, and examining it. He did not, however, miss the will, but only the roll of bills. “Give me back the money you have taken from me, you young rascal!”
“I took nothing, sir.”
“It’s a lie! The money is gone, and no one else could have taken it.”
“I don’t allow no one to call me a liar. Just take that back, old man, or I–”
“Indeed, uncle, he took nothing, for he had only just opened the secretary when I woke up and spoke to him.”
“You stand by him, of course, shameless girl! I blush to think that you are my niece. I am glad to think that my eyes are opened before it is too late.”
The old merchant rang the bell violently, and aroused the house. Dodger made no attempt to escape, but stood beside Florence in the attitude of a protector. But a short time elapsed before Curtis Waring and the servants entered the room, and gazed with wonder at the tableau presented by the excited old man and the two young people.
“My friends,” said John Linden, in a tone of excitement, “I call you to witness that this girl, whom I blush to acknowledge as my niece, has proved herself unworthy of my kindness. In your presence I cut her off, and bid her never again darken my door.”
“But what has she done, uncle?” asked Curtis. He was prepared for the presence of Dodger, whom he rightly concluded to be the agent of Tim Bolton, but he could not understand why Florence should be in the library at this late hour. Nor was he able to understand the evidently friendly relations between her and the young visitor.
“What has she done?” repeated John Linden. “She has introduced that young ruffian into the house to rob me. Look at that secretary! He has forced it open, and stolen a large sum of money.”
“It is not true, sir,” said Dodger, calmly, “about taking the money, I mean. I haven’t taken a cent.”
“Then why did you open the secretary?”
“I did mean to take money, but she stopped me.”
“Oh, she stopped you?” repeated Linden, with withering sarcasm. “Then, perhaps, you will tell me where the money is gone?”
“He hasn’t discovered about the will,” thought Curtis, congratulating himself; “if the boy has it, I must manage to give him a chance to escape.”
“You can search me if you want to,” continued Dodger, proudly. “You won’t find no money on me.”
“Do you think I am a fool, you young burglar?” exclaimed John Linden, angrily.
“Uncle, let me speak to the boy,” said Curtis, soothingly. “I think he will tell me.”
“As you like, Curtis; but I am convinced that he is a thief.”
Curtis Waring beckoned Dodger into an adjoining room.
“Now, my boy,” he said, smoothly, “give me what you took from the secretary, and I will see that you are not arrested.”
“But, sir, I didn’t take nothing—it’s just as I told the old duffer. The girl waked up just as I’d got the secretary open, and I didn’t have a chance.”
“But the money is gone,” said Curtis, in an incredulous tone.
“I don’t know nothing about that.”
“Come, you’d better examine your pockets. In the hurry of the moment you may have taken it without knowing it.”
“No, I couldn’t.”
“Didn’t you take a paper of any kind?” asked Curtis, eagerly. “Sometimes papers are of more value than money.”
“No, I didn’t take no paper, though Tim told me to.”
Curtis quietly ignored the allusion to Tim, for it did not suit his purpose to get Tim into trouble. His unscrupulous agent knew too much that would compromise his principal.
“Are you willing that I should examine you?”
“Yes, I am. Go ahead.”
Curtis thrust his hand into the pockets of the boy, who, boy as he was, was as tall as himself, but was not repaid by the discovery of anything. He was very much perplexed.
“Didn’t you throw the articles on the floor?” he demanded, suspiciously.
“No, I didn’t.”
“You didn’t give them to the young lady?”
“No; if I had she’d have said so.”
“Humph! this is strange. What is your name?”
“Dodger.”
“That’s a queer name; have you no other?”
“Not as I know of.”
“With whom do you live?”
“With my father. Leastways, he says he’s my father.”
There was a growing suspicion in the mind of Curtis Waring. He scanned the boy’s features with attention. Could this ill-dressed boy—a street boy in appearance—be his long-lost and deeply wronged cousin?
“Who is it that says he is your father?” he demanded, abruptly.
“Do you want to get him into trouble?”
“No, I don’t want to get him into trouble, or you either. Better tell me all, and I will be your friend.”
“You’re a better sort than I thought at first,” said Dodger. “The man I live with is called Tim Bolton.”
“I though so,” quickly ejaculated Curtis. He had scarcely got out the words before he was sensible that he had made a mistake.
“What! do you know Tim?” inquired Dodger, in surprise.
“I mean,” replied Curtis, lamely, “that I have heard of this man Bolton. He keeps a saloon on the Bowery, doesn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you would be living with some such man. Did he come to the house with you tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“He stayed outside.”
“Perhaps he is there now.”
“Don’t you go to having him arrested,” said Dodger, suspiciously.
“I will keep my promise. Are you sure you didn’t pass out the paper and the money to him? Think now.”
“No, I didn’t. I didn’t have a chance. When I came into the room yonder I saw the gal asleep, and I thought she wouldn’t hear me, but when I got the desk open she spoke to me, and asked me what I was doin’.”
“And you took nothing?”
“No.”
“It seems very strange. I cannot understand it. Yet my uncle says the money is gone. Did anyone else enter the room while you were talking with Miss Linden?”
“I didn’t see any one.”
“What were you talking about?”
“She said the old man wanted her to marry you, and she didn’t want to.”
“She told you that?” exclaimed Curtis, in displeasure.
“Yes, she did. She said she’d rather marry the dude that was here early this evenin’.”
“Mr. de Brabazon!”
“Yes, that’s the name.”
“Upon my word, she was very confidential. You are a queer person for her to select as a confidant.”
“Maybe so, sir; but she knows I’m her friend.”
“You like the young lady, then? Perhaps you would like to marry her yourself?”
“As if she’d take any notice of a poor boy like me. I told her if her uncle sent her away, I’d take care of her and be a brother to her.”
“How would Mr. Tim Bolton—that’s his name, isn’t it?—like that?”
“I wouldn’t take her to where he lives.”
“I think, myself, it would hardly be a suitable home for a young lady brought up on Madison Avenue. There is certainly no accounting for tastes. Miss Florence–”
“That’s her name, is it?”
“Yes; didn’t she tell you?”
“No; but it’s a nice name.”
“She declines my hand, and accepts your protection. It will certainly be a proud distinction to become Mrs. Dodger.”
“Don’t laugh at her!” said Dodger, suspiciously.
“I don’t propose to. But I think we may as well return to the library.”
“Well,” said Mr. Linden, as his nephew returned with Dodger.
“I have examined the boy, and found nothing on his person,” said Curtis; “I confess I am puzzled. He appears to have a high admiration for Florence–”
“As I supposed.”
“She has even confided to him her dislike for me, and he has offered her his protection.”
“Is this so, miss?” demanded Mr. Linden, sternly.
“Yes, uncle,” faltered Florence.
“Then you can join the young person you have selected whenever you please. For your sake I will not have him arrested for attempted burglary. He is welcome to what he has taken, since he is likely to marry into the family. You may stay here to-night, and he can call for you in the morning.”
John Linden closed the secretary, and left the room, leaving Florence sobbing. The servants, too, retired, and Curtis was left alone with her.
“Florence,” he said, “accept my hand, and I will reconcile my uncle to you. Say but the word, and–”
“I can never speak it, Curtis! I will take my uncle at his word. Dodger, call for me to-morrow at eight, and I will accept your friendly services in finding me a new home.”
“I’ll be on hand, miss. Good-night!”
“Be it so, obstinate girl!” said Curtis, angrily. “The time will come when you will bitterly repent your mad decision.”
CHAPTER VII.
FLORENCE LEAVES HOME
Florence passed a sleepless night. It had come upon her so suddenly, this expulsion from the home of her childhood, that she could not fully realize it. She could not feel that she was taking her last look at the familiar room, and well-remembered dining-room, where she had sat down for the last time for breakfast. She was alone at the breakfast table, for the usual hour was half-past eight, and she had appointed Dodger to call for her at eight.
“Is it true, Miss Florence, that you’re going away?” asked Jane, the warm-hearted table girl, as she waited upon Florence.
“Yes, Jane,” answered Florence, sadly.
“It’s a shame, so it is! I didn’t think your uncle would be so hard-hearted.”
“He is disappointed because I won’t marry my Cousin Curtis.”
“I don’t blame you for it, miss. I never liked Mr. Waring. He isn’t half good enough for you.”
“I say nothing about that, Jane; but I will not marry a man I do not love.”
“Nor would I, miss. Where are you going, if I may make so bold?”
“I don’t know, Jane,” said Florence, despondently.
“But you can’t walk about the streets.”
“A trusty friend is going to call for me at eight o’clock; when he comes admit him.”
“It is a—a young gentleman?”
“You wouldn’t call him such. He is a boy, a poor boy; but I think he is a true friend. He says he will find me a comfortable room somewhere, where I can settle down and look for work.”
“Are you going to work for a living, Miss Florence?” asked Jane, horrified.
“I must, Jane.”
“It’s a great shame—you, a lady born.”
“No, Jane, I do not look upon it in that light. I shall be happier for having my mind and my hands occupied.”
“What work will you do?”
“I don’t know yet. Dodger will advise me.”
“Who, miss?”
“Dodger.”
“Who is he?”
“It’s the boy I spoke of.”
“Shure, he’s got a quare name.”
“Yes; but names don’t count for much. It’s the heart I think of, and this boy has a kind heart.”
“Have you known him long?”
“I saw him yesterday for the first time.”
“Is it the young fellow who was here last night?”
“Yes.”
“He isn’t fit company for the likes of you, Miss Florence.”
“You forget, Jane, that I am no longer a rich young lady. I am poorer than even you. This Dodger is kind, and I feel that I can trust him.”
“If you are poor, Miss Florence,” said Jane, hesitatingly, “would you mind borrowing some money of me? I’ve got ten dollars upstairs in my trunk, and I don’t need it at all. It’s proud I’ll be to lend it to you.”
“Thank you, Jane,” said Florence, gratefully. “I thought I had but one friend. I find I have two–”
“Then you’ll take the money? I’ll go right up and get it.”
“No, Jane; not at present. I have twenty dollars in my purse, and it will last me till I can earn more.”
“But, miss, twenty dollars will soon go,” said Jane, disappointed.
“If I find that I need the sum you so kindly offer me, I will let you know, I promise that.”
“Thank you, miss.”
At this point a bell rang from above.
“It’s from Mr. Curtis’ room,” said Jane.
“Go and see what he wants.”
Jane returned in a brief time with a note in her hand.
“Mr. Curtis asked me if you were still here,” she explained, “and when I told him you were he asked me to give you this.”
Florence took the note, and, opening it, read these lines:
“Florence: Now that you have had time to think over your plan of leaving your old home, I hope you have come to see how foolish it is. Reflect that, if carried out, a life of poverty and squalid wretchedness amid homely and uncongenial surroundings awaits you; while, as my wife, you will live a life of luxury and high social position. There are many young ladies who would be glad to accept the chance which you so recklessly reject. By accepting my hand you will gratify our excellent uncle, and make me the happiest of mortals. You will acquit me of mercenary motives, since you are now penniless, and your disobedience leaves me sole heir to Uncle John. I love you, and it will be my chief object, if you will permit it, to make you happy.
“Curtis Waring.”
Florence ran her eyes rapidly over this note, but her heart did not respond, and her resolution was not shaken.
“Tell Mr. Waring there is no answer, Jane, if he inquires,” she said.
“Was he tryin’ to wheedle you into marryin’ him?” asked Jane.
“He wished me to change my decision.”
“I’m glad you’ve given him the bounce,” said Jane, whose expressions were not always refined. “I wouldn’t marry him myself.”
Florence smiled. Jane was red haired, and her nose was what is euphemistically called retroussé. Even in her own circles she was not regarded as beautiful, and was hardly likely to lead a rich man to overlook her humble station, and sue for her hand.
“Then, Jane, you at least will not blame me for refusing my cousin’s hand?”
“That I won’t, miss. Do you know, Miss Florence”—and here Jane lowered her voice—“I’ve a suspicion that Mr. Curtis is married already?”
“What do you mean, Jane?” asked Florence, startled.
“There was a poor young woman called here last month and inquired for Mr. Curtis. She was very sorrowful-like, and poorly dressed. He came up when she was at the door, and he spoke harshlike, and told her to walk away with him. What they said I couldn’t hear, but I’ve a suspicion that she was married to him, secretlike for I saw a wedding ring upon her finger.”
“But, Jane, it would be base and infamous for him to ask for my hand when he was already married.”
“I can’t help it, miss. That’s just what he wouldn’t mind doin’. Oh, he’s a sly deceiver, Mr. Curtis. I’d like to see him foolin’ around me.”
Jane nodded her head with emphasis, as if to intimate the kind of reception Curtis Waring would get if he attempted to trifle with her virgin affections.
“I hope what you suspect is not true,” said Florence, gravely. “I do not like or respect Curtis, but I don’t like to think he would be so base as that. If you ever see this young woman again, try to find out where she lives. I would like to make her acquaintance, and be a friend to her if she needs one.”
“Shure, Miss Florence, you will be needin’ a friend yourself.”
“It is true, Jane. I forgot that I am no longer a young lady of fortune, but a penniless girl, obliged to work for a living.”
“What would your uncle say if he knew that Mr. Curtis had a wife?”
“We don’t know that he has one, and till we do, it would not be honorable to intimate such a thing to Uncle John.”
“Shure, he wouldn’t be particular. It’s all his fault that you’re obliged to leave home, and go into the streets. Why couldn’t he take no for an answer, and marry somebody else, if he can find anybody to have him?”
“I wish, indeed, that he had fixed his affections elsewhere,” responded Florence, with a sigh.
“Shure, he’s twice as old as you, Miss Florence, anyway.”
“I shouldn’t mind that so much, if that was the only objection.”
“It’ll be a great deal better marryin’ a young man.”
“I don’t care to marry any one, Jane. I don’t think I shall ever marry.”
“It’s all very well to say that, Miss Florence. Lots of girls say so, but they change their minds. I don’t mean to live out always myself.”
“Is there any young man you are interested in, Jane?”
“Maybe there is, and maybe there isn’t, Miss Florence. If I ever do get married I’ll invite you to the wedding.”
“And I’ll promise to come if I can. But I hear the bell. I think my friend Dodger has come.”
“Shall I ask him in, miss?”
“No. Tell him I will be ready to accompany him at once.”
She went out into the hall, and when the door was opened the visitor proved to be Dodger. He had improved his appearance so far as his limited means would allow. His hands and face were thoroughly clean; he had bought a new collar and necktie; his shoes were polished, and despite his shabby suit, he looked quite respectable. Getting a full view of him, Florence saw that his face was frank and handsome, his eyes bright, and his teeth like pearls.
“Shure, he’s a great deal better lookin’ than Mr. Curtis,” whispered Jane. “Here, Mr. Dodger, take Miss Florence’s valise, and mind you take good care of her.”
“I will,” answered Dodger, heartily. “Come, Miss Florence, if you don’t mind walking over to Fourth Avenue, we’ll take the horse cars.”
So, under strange guidance, Florence Linden left her luxurious home, knowing not what awaited her. What haven of refuge she might find she knew not. She, like Dodger, was adrift in New York.
