Raymond Evelyn
A Sunny Little Lass
“Don’t you fret, child,” continued Posy Jane. “Ain’t you the ‘Queen of Elbow Lane’? Ain’t all of us, round about, fond of you an’ proud of you, same’s if you was a real queen, indeed? Who’d look after Mis’ McGinty’s seven babies, when she goes a scrubbin’ the station floors, if you wasn’t here? Who’d help the tailor with his job when the fits of coughin’ get so bad? ’Twas only a spell ago he was showin’ me how’t you’d sewed in the linin’ to a coat he was too sick to finish an’ a praisin’ the stitches beautiful. What’d the boys do without you to sew their rags up decent an’ tend to their hurt fingers an’ share your dinner with ’em when–when you have one an’ they don’t?
“An’ you so masterful like,” went on the flower-seller, “a makin’ everybody do as you say, whether or no. If it’s a scrap in a tenement, is my Glory afraid? not a mite. In she walks, walks she, as bold as bold, an’ lays her hand on this one’s shoulder an’ that one’s arm an’ makes ’em quit fightin’. Many’s the job you’ve saved the police, Glory Beck, an’ that very officer yonder was sayin’ only yesterday how’t he’d rather have you on his beat than another cop, no matter how smart he might be. He says, says he, ‘That little girl can do more to keep the peace in the Lane ’an the best man on the force,’ says he. ‘It’s prime wonderful how she manages it.’ An’ I up an’ tells him nothin’ wonderful ’bout it at all.’ It’s ’cause everybody loves you, little Glory, an’ is ashamed not to be just as good as they know you think they be.
“Don’t you fret, child,” Jane went on, “Elbow folks won’t let you go, nor’ll the cap’n leave you, and if bad come to worst them asylums are fine. The Sisters is all good an’ sweet, givin’ their lives to them ’at needs. Don’t you get notions, Glory Beck, an’ judge folks ’fore you know ’em. If them orphans gets scolded now an’ then it does ’em good. They ought to be. So’d you ought, if you don’t get off to your peddlin’. It’s long past your time. Here’s a nickel for the jacket an’ you put it safe by ’fore you start out. May as well let me pin one o’ these carnations on you, too. They ain’t sellin’ so fast an’ ’twould look purty on your blue frock. Blue an’ white an’ yeller–frock an’ flower an’ curly head–they compare right good.”
Ere Jane’s long gossip was ended, her favorite’s fears were wholly banished. With a hug for thanks and farewell, Glory was off and away, and the tired eyes of the toilers in the Lane brightened as she flitted past their dingy windows, waving a hand to this one and that and smiling upon all. To put her earnings away in the canvas bag and catch up her flat, well-mended basket, took but a minute, and, singing as she went, the busy child sped around to that block where Antonio had his stand.
That day the trade in goobers had been slack and other of his small employees had found the peanut-man a trifle cross; but, when Glory’s shining head and merry face came into view, his own face cleared and he gave her a friendly welcome.
“A fifty-bagger this time, dear Toni! I’ve got to get a heap of money after this for grandpa!”
“Alla-right, I fill him,” returned the vender; and, having carefully packed the fifty small packets in the shallow basket, he helped her to poise it on her head, as he had long since taught her his own countrywomen did. This was a fine thing for the growing child and gave her a firm erectness not common to young wage-earners. She was very proud of this accomplishment, as was her teacher, Antonio, and had more than once outstripped Billy Buttons in a race, still supporting her burden.
“Sell every bag, little one, and come back to me. I, Antonio Salvatore have secret, mystery. That will I tell when basket empty. Secret bring us both to riches, indeed!”
Crafty Antonio! Well he knew that the little girl’s curiosity was great, and had led her into more than one scrape, and that his promise to impart a secret would make her more eager to sell her stock than the small money payment she would earn by doing so.
Glory clasped her hands and opened her brown eyes more widely, entreating, “Now, Toni, dear Tonio, tell first and sell afterward. Please, please.”
“No, not so, little one. Sell first, then I tell. If you sell not – ” Antonio shrugged his shoulders in a way that meant no sale, no secret. So, already much belated, Goober Glory–as she had now become–was forced to depart to her task, though she turned about once or twice to wave farewell to her employer and to smile upon him, but she meant to make the greatest haste, for, of all delightful things, a secret was best.
CHAPTER III
In Elbow Lane
“Pea–nuts! Cent-a-b-a-a-g!”
This cry shrilled, almost yelled from the sidewalk upon which she was descending from her carriage so startled Miss Bonnicastle that she tripped and fell. In falling, she landed plump in a basket of the nuts and scattered them broadcast.
“Look out there! What you doin’?” indignantly demanded Glory, while a crowd of street urchins gathered to enjoy a feast.
“Help me up, little girl; never mind the nuts,” begged the lady, extending her gloved hand.
“You don’t mind ’em, ’course. They ain’t yours!” retorted the dismayed child, yet seizing the hand with such vigor that she split the glove and brought its owner to an upright position with more precision than grace. Then, paying no further heed to the stranger, she began a boy-to-boy assault upon the purloiners of her wares; and this, in turn, started such an uproar of shrieks and gibes and laughter that poor Miss Laura’s nerves gave way entirely. Clutching Glory’s shoulder, she commanded, “Stop it, little girl, stop it, right away! You deafen me.”
The effect was instant. In astonished silence, the lads ceased struggling and stared at this unknown lady who had dared lay hands on the little “Queen of Elbow Lane.” Wild and rough though they were, they rarely interfered with the child, and there was more amazement than anger in Glory’s own gaze as it swept Miss Bonnicastle from head to foot. The keen scrutiny made the lady a trifle uncomfortable and, realizing that she had done an unusual thing, she hastened to apologize, saying, “Beg pardon, little girl, I should not have done that, only the noise was so frightful and – ”
“Ho, that?” interrupted the peanut vender, with fine scorn. “Guess you ain’t used to Elbow boys. That was nothin’. They was only funnin’, they was. If they’d been fightin’ reg’lar–my, s’pose you’d a fell down again, s’pose.”
Wasting no further time upon the stranger, Glory picked up the basket and examined it, her expression becoming very downcast; and, seeing this, the boy who had been fiercest in the scramble stepped closer and asked, “Is it clean smashed, Glory?”
“Clean,” she answered, sadly.
“How much’ll he dock yer?” asked another lad, taking the damaged article into his own hands. “Pshaw, hadn’t no handle, nohow. Half the bottom was tore an’ patched with a rag. One side’s all lopped over, too. Say, if he docks yer a cent, he’s a mean old Dago!”
“Well, ain’t he a Dago, Billy Buttons? An’ I put in that patch myself. I sewed it a hour, with strings out the garbage boxes, a hull hour. Hi, there! you leave them goobers be!” cried the girl, swooping down upon the few youngsters who had returned to pilfer the scattered nuts and, at once, the two larger boys came to her aid.
“We’ll help yer, Glory. An’ me an’ Nick’ll give ye a nickel a-piece, fer new bags, won’t we, Nick?” comforted Billy. But, receiving no reply from his partner in the news trade, he looked up to learn the reason. Nick was busily picking up nuts and replacing them in such bags as remained unbroken but he wasn’t eager to part with his money. Nickels were not plentiful after one’s food was paid for, and though lodgings cost nothing, being any odd corner of floor or pavement adjoining the press-rooms whence he obtained his papers, there were other things he craved. It would have been easy to promise but there was a code in Elbow Lane which enforced the keeping of promises. If one broke one’s word one’s head was, also, promptly broken. There was danger of this even now and there, because Billy’s foot came swiftly up to encourage his mate’s generosity.
However, the kick was dexterously intercepted by Glory; Master Buttons was thrown upon his back, and Nick escaped both hurt and promise. With a burst of laughter all three fell to work gathering up the nuts and the small peddler’s face was as gay as ever, as she cried:
“Say, boys, ’tain’t nigh so bad. Ain’t more’n half of ’em busted. I guess the grocer-man’ll trust me to that many–he’s real good-natured to-day. His jumper’s tore, too, so maybe he’ll let me work it out.” Then, perceiving a peculiar action on the part of the too helpful Billy, she sternly demanded, “What you doin’ there, puttin’ in them shells that’s been all chewed?”
“Huh! That’s all right. I jams ’em down in the bottom. They don’t show an’ fills up faster’n th’ others. Gotter make yer losin’s good, hain’t yer?”
“Yes, Billy Buttons, I have, but I ain’t goin’ to make ’em cheatin’ anybody. What’d grandpa think or say to that? Now you can just empty out every single goober shell you’ve put in an’ fill up square. I’ll save them shells by theirselves, so’s to have ’em ready next time you yourself want to buy off me.”
The beautiful justice of this promise so impressed the newsboy that he turned a somersault, whereby more peanuts were crushed and he earned a fresh reproof.
Miss Bonnicastle had remained an amused observer of the whole scene, though the actors in it had apparently forgotten her presence. To remind them of this, she inquired, “Children, will you please tell me how much your peanuts were worth?”
“Cent a bag!” promptly returned Glory, selecting the best looking packet and holding it toward this possible customer.
“All of them, I mean. I wish to pay you for all of them,” explained the lady, opening her purse.
Too surprised to speak for herself, Nick answered for the vender, “They was fifty bags, that’s fifty cents, an’ five fer commish. If it’d been a hunderd, ’twould ha’ been a dime. Glory, she’s the best seller Toni Salvatore’s got, an’ he often chucks her in a bag fer herself, besides. Fifty-five’d be fair, eh, Take-a-Stitch?”
Glancing at Glory’s sunny face, Miss Laura did not wonder at the child’s success. Almost anybody would buy from her for the sake of bringing forth one of those flashing smiles, but the girl had now found her own voice and indignantly cried:
“Oh, parson, if you ain’t the cheat, I never! Chargin’ money for goobers what’s smashed! Think you’ll get a lot for yourself, don’t you? Well, you won’t an’ you needn’t look to, so there.”
Thus having rebuked her too zealous champion Glory explained to Miss Bonnicastle that “they couldn’t be more’n twenty-five good bags left. They belongs to Antonio Salvatore, the peanut man. I was goin’ to buy needles an’ thread with part, needin’ needles most, but no matter. Better luck next time. Do you really want a bag, lady?”
Again the tiny packet was extended persuasively, the small peddler being most anxious to make a sale although her honesty forbade her accepting payment for goods unsold.
But Miss Laura scarcely saw the paper bag, for she was looking with so much interest upon the child’s own face. Such a gay, helpful, hopeful small face it was! Beneath a tangle of yellow curls, the brown eyes looked forth so trustfully, and the wide mouth parted in almost continual laughter over white and well-kept teeth. Then the white carnation pinned to the faded, but clean, blue frock, gave a touch of daintiness. Altogether, this seemed a charming little person to be found in such a locality, where, commonly, the people were poor and ill-fed, and looked sad rather than glad. The lady’s surprise was expressed in her question, “Little girl, where do you live? How came you in this neighborhood?”
“Why–I belong here, ’course. Me an’ grandpa live in the littlest house in Ne’ York. Me an’ him we live together, all by our two selves, an’ we have the nicest times there is. But–but, did you want a bag?” she finished, pleadingly. Time was passing and she was too busy to waste more. She wondered, too, why anybody so rich as to ride in a carriage should tarry thus long in Elbow Lane, though, sometimes, people did get astray and turn into the Lane on their way to cross the big bridge.
“Yes, little Glory, as I heard them call you, I meant just what I said. I wish to buy all your stock as well as pay for a new basket. Will you please invite your friends to share the feast with you? I’m sorry I caused you so much trouble and here, the little boy suggested fifty-five cents, suppose we make it a dollar? Will that be wholly satisfactory?”
The face of Take-a-Stitch was again a study in its perplexity. The temptation to take the proffered money was great, but a sense of justice was even greater. After a pause, she said with complete decision, “It must be this way; you give me the fifty cents for Toni Salvatore–that’ll be hisn. You take the goobers an’ give ’em to who you want. I won’t take no pay for the basket, ’cause I can mend it again; nor for myself, ’cause I hain’t earned it. I hain’t hollered scarce any to sell such a lot. That’s fair. Will I put ’em in your carriage, lady?”
“No, no! Oh, dear! No, indeed. Call your mates and divide among them as you choose. Then–I wonder why my man doesn’t come back. The coachman can’t leave the horses, and the footman seems to have lost himself looking for a number it should be easy to find.”
The children had gathered about Glory who was now beaming with delight at the chance to bestow a treat upon her mates as well as enjoy one herself. Indeed, her hunger made her begin to crack the goobers with her strong white teeth and to swallow the kernels, skins and all. But again Miss Bonnicastle touched her shoulder, though this time most gently, asking:
“If this is Elbow Lane, and you live in or near it, can you show me the way to the house of Captain Simon Beck, an old blind man?”
Glory gasped and dropped her basket. All the rosy color forsook her face and fear usurped its gaiety. For a time, she stared at the handsome old lady in terror, then demanded, brokenly, “Be–you–from–‘Snug Harbor’?”
It was now the stranger’s turn to stare. Wondering why the child had asked such a question and seemed so startled, she answered, “In a way, both yes and no. I am interested in ‘Snug Harbor,’ and have come to find an old, blind sea captain whom my brother employed, in order to take him, myself, to that comfortable home. Why do you ask?”
Then Glory fled, but she turned once to shake a warning fist toward Nick and Billy, who instantly understood her silent message and glared defiantly upon the lady who had just given them an unexpected feast.
CHAPTER IV
Beside Old Trinity
“Why, what is the matter? Why did she run away?” asked the astonished stranger.
Billy giggled and punched Nick who was now apportioning the peanuts among the children he had whistled to his side, but neither lad replied.
This vexed Miss Bonnicastle who had come to the Lane in small hope of influencing the old captain to do as her brother had wished him to do and to remove, at once, to the comfortable “Harbor” across the bay. She had undertaken the task at her brother’s request; and also at his desire, had driven thither in the carriage, in order to carry the blind man away with her, without the difficulty of getting him in and out of street cars and ferry boat. It would greatly simplify matters if he would just step into the vehicle at his own humble door and step out of it again at the entrance to his new home.
But the Lane had proved even narrower and dirtier than she had expected. She was afraid that having once driven into it the coachman would not be able to drive out again, and the odors of river and market, which the blind seaman found so delightful, made her ill. She had deprived herself of her accustomed afternoon nap; she had sprained her ankle in falling; her footman had been gone much longer than she expected, searching for the captain’s house; and though she had been amused by the little scene among the alley children which had been abruptly ended by Glory’s flight, she was now extremely anxious to finish her errand and be gone.
In order to rest her aching ankle, she stepped back into the carriage and from thence called to Billy, at the same time holding up to view a quarter dollar.
Master Buttons did not hesitate. He was glad that Nick happened to be looking another way and did not see the shining coin which he meant to have for himself, if he could get it without disloyalty to Glory. Hurrying forward, he pulled off his ragged cap and inquired, “Did you want me, ma’am?”
“Yes, little boy. What is your name?”
“Billy.”
“What else? Your surname?” continued the questioner.
“Eh? What? Oh–I guess ‘Buttons,’ ’cause onct I was a messenger boy. That’s what gimme these clo’es, but I quit.”
He began to fear there was no money in this job, after all, for the hand which had displayed the silver piece now rested in the lady’s lap; and, watching the peanut feasters, he felt himself defrauded of his own rightful share. He stood first upon one bare foot then upon the other, and, with affectation of great haste, pulled a damaged little watch from his blouse and examined it critically. The watch had been found in a refuse heap, and even in its best days had been incapable of keeping time, yet its possession by Billy Buttons made him the envy of his mates.
He did not see the amused smile with which the lady regarded him, and though disappointed by her next question it was, after all, the very one he had anticipated.
“Billy Buttons, will you earn a quarter by showing me the way to where Captain Beck lives? that is, if you know it.”
“Oh, I knows it all right, but I can’t show it.”
“Can’t? Why not? Is it too far?”
Billy thought he had never heard anybody ask so many questions in so short a time and was on the point of saying so, impertinently, yet found it not worth while. Instead, he remarked, “I ain’t sayin’ if it’s fur er near, but I guess I better be goin’ down to th’ office now an’ see if they’s a extry out. Might be a fire, er murder, er somethin’ doin’.”
With that courtesy which even the gamins of the streets unconsciously acquire from their betters, Billy pulled off his cap again and moved away. But he was not to escape so easily. Miss Laura’s hand clasped his soiled sleeve and forth came another question, “Billy, is that little girl your sister?”
“Hey? No such luck fer Buttons. She ain’t nobody’s sister, she ain’t. She just belongs to the hull Lane, Glory does. Huh! Take-a-Stitch my sister? Wished she was. She’s only cap’n – Shucks!” Having so nearly betrayed himself, Billy broke from the restraining hand and disappeared.
Miss Bonnicastle sighed and leaned back upon her cushions, feeling that something evil must have befallen her faithful footman to keep him so long away, and almost deciding to give up this apparently hopeless quest. Then she discovered that Nick had drawn near. Possibly, he would act as her guide, even if his mate had refused. She again held up the quarter and beckoned the lad.
He responded promptly, his eyes glittering with greed as they fixed upon the coin–not to be removed from it till it was in his own possession, no matter how many questions were asked. These began at once, in a crisp, imperative tone.
“Little boy, tell me your name.”
“Nick, the parson.”
“Indeed? Nick Parsons, I suppose. Is it?”
“No’m. I’m Nicky Dodd. I got a father. He’s Dodd. So be I, ’course. But the fellers stuck it onto me ’cause–’cause onct I went to a Sunday-school.”
“Don’t you go now, Nick Dodd?”
“No, indeedy! Ketch me!” laughed the boy, watching the gleam of the money his questioner held so lightly between her gloved fingers. What if she should drop it! If some other child should see it fall and seize it before he could! “Was–was you a-wantin’ somethin’ of me, lady?”
“Yes, I was. Will you show me the way to Captain Beck’s house?”
Now Nick loved Glory as well as Billy did and he had as fully understood from her warning gesture that he was to give this stranger no information concerning her or her grandfather, but, alas! he also loved money, and he so rarely had it. Just then, too, the “Biggest Show On Earth” was up at Madison Square Garden and, if Nick had not remembered that enticing circus, he might not have betrayed his friend. Yet those wonderful trained animals – Ah!
“Fer that quarter? Ye-es, ma’am, I–I–will,” stammered the lad.
So Miss Laura again left her carriage and walked the narrow, dirty length of the Lane, past the sharp bend which gave it its name of “Elbow,” far down among the warehouses and wharves crowding the approach to the bridge. As she walked, she still asked questions and found that all the dwellers in the Lane were better known by their employments than their real names, how that Glory’s deftness with a needle had made her “Take-a-Stitch,” and anybody might guess why Jane was called “Posy” or Captain Beck had become the “Singer.” Besides, she discovered that this ragged newsboy was as fond and proud of his “Lane” as she was of her avenue, and that if she had any pity to bestow, she needn’t waste it on him or his mates and that —
“There ’tis! The littlest house in Ne’ York,” concluded Nick, proudly pointing forward, seizing the coin she held so carelessly, and vanishing.
“Well! have I become a scarecrow that all these children desert me so suddenly!” exclaimed Miss Laura, looking helplessly about and lifting her skirts the higher to avoid the dirty suds which somebody was emptying into the gutter.
“Ma’am?” asked the woman with the tub, dropping it and with arms akimbo staring amazedly at the stranger. How had such a fine madam come there? “Was you a-lookin’ for somebody, ma’am?”
Miss Laura turned her sweet old face toward the other, Meg-Laundress, and answered, “Yes, for one, Captain Simon Beck. A boy told me this tiny place was where he lives–though it doesn’t seem possible any one could really live in so small a room–and it’s empty now, anyway. Do you know where he is?”
“Off a-singin’ likely. He mostly is, this time o’ day.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I have come – ” Miss Bonnicastle checked herself, unwilling to disclose to this rough stranger affairs in which she had no concern. “I was told he had a grandchild living with him. Is she anywhere about?”
“Glory? She’s off peddlin’ her goobers, I s’pose. I can give ’em any word that’s left,” said Meg, with friendly interest.
“Glory? Is her name Glory? Is it she I saw with a basket of peanuts, a yellow haired, bright-faced little girl, in a blue frock?” cried the lady, eagerly, and recalling the child’s inquiry about “Snug Harbor” felt that she should have guessed as much even then.
“Sure. The purtiest little creatur’ goin’; or, if not so purty, so good-natured an’ lovin’. Why, she’s all the sunlight we gets in the Lane, Glory is, an’, havin’ her, some on us don’t ’pear to need no more. Makes all on us do her say-so but always fer our own betterment. In an’ out, up an’ down, lendin’ a hand or settin’ a stitch or tendin’ a baby, all in the day’s work, an’ queenin’ it over the hull lot, that’s our ‘Goober Glory,’ bless her! And evil to anybody would harm the child, say I! Though who’d do ill to her? Is’t a bit of word you’d be after leavin’, ma’am?” said Meg, with both kindness and curiosity.
“Thank you. If you see either of them, will you say that Miss Bonnicastle, Colonel Bonnicastle’s sister, will be here again in the morning, unless it storms, upon important business? Ask them to wait here for me, please. I should not like to make a second useless trip. Good-afternoon.”
As the gentlewoman turned and made her way back along the alley toward her distant carriage, which could come no nearer to her because the Lane was so narrow, Meg watched and admired her, reflecting with some pride:
“She’s the real stuff, that old lady is. Treated me polite ’s if I was the same sort she is. I wonder what’s doin’ ’twixt her an’ the Becks? Well, I’ll find out afore I sleep, or my name ain’t Meg-Laundress, an’ I say it. Guess Jane’ll open her eyes when I up an’ tells her how one them grand folks she sees crossin’ the bridge so constant has got astray in the Lane an’ come a visitin’, actilly a visitin’, one our own folks. But then, I always knowed, we Elbowers was a touch above some, an’ now she’ll know it, too.
“I do wish the cap’n would come in,” continued Meg. “But ’twill be a long spell yet afore he does. An’, my land! I must sure remind him to put on his other shirt in the mornin’. He don’t never get no sile on him, the cap’n don’t, yet when grand carriage folks comes a callin’, it’s a time for the best or nothin’.”
By a roundabout way, Glory had hurried, breathlessly, to her tiny home, fearing that by some mischance grandpa might have returned to it, and that this fresh advocate of the “Harbor” would find him there. She was such a pretty old lady, she had such a different manner from that of the Lane women, she might persuade the gallant old captain to accompany her to the asylum, whether or no. If he were at home, Glory meant to coax him elsewhere; or, if he would not go, then she would remain and use her own influence against that of this dangerous stranger.
One glance showed her that all was yet safe. The tiny room was empty and neither “Grandpa!” nor “Bo’sn!” answered to her call.
“I hain’t got no goobers to sell now an’ them boys won’t show her a step of the way an’ she couldn’t get here so quick all herself without bein’ showed so I may as well rest a minute,” said Glory to herself, and sat down on the narrow threshold to get cool and to decide upon what she should do.
But she could not sit still. A terrible feeling that these strangers were determined to separate her from her grandfather made her too restless. It was natural, she thought, that they should wish to do him a kindness, such as providing him with a fine home for life. He was a grown-up man and a very clever one, while she was only a little girl, of no account whatever. They didn’t care about her, ’course, but him —
“I must go find him! I must keep him away, clear, clear away from the Lane till it gets as dark as dark. Then we can come home an’ sleep. Such as them don’t come here o’ nights,” cried Glory, springing up. “An’ I’m glad grandpa is blind. If he went right close by them two he couldn’t see ’em, an’ she, she, anyway, don’t know him. I wonder where best to look first. I s’pose Broadway, ’cause that’s where he gets the most money. They’s such a heap of folks on that wide street an’ it’s so nice to look at.”
Having decided her route, Glory was off and away. She dared not think about Toni Salvatore and his anger. She did not see how she would ever be able to repay him for his loss and she could remember nothing at all about the money Miss Bonnicastle had offered her. If Billy or Nick had taken it, they would give it to her, of course; but if not–well, that was a small matter compared to the spiriting away of her grandfather and she must find him and hold him fast.
“Grandpa don’t go above the City Hall, ’cause Bo’sn don’t know the way so well. Up fur’s there an’ down to Trinity; that’s the ‘tack he sails’ an’ there I’ll seek him. I wish one them boys was here to help me look, though if he was a-singin’ I shouldn’t need nobody.”
So thinking and peering anxiously into the midst of every crowd and listening with keen intentness, the little girl threaded her way to the northern limit of the captain’s accustomed “beat.” But there was no sign nor sound of him upon the eastern side of the thoroughfare, and, crossing to the more crowded western side, she crept southward, step by step, scanning every face she passed and looking into every doorway, for in such places the blind singer sometimes took his station, to avoid the jostling of the passers-by.
“Maybe I’ll have to go ’way down to the Battery, ’cause he does, often. Though ’seems he couldn’t hardly got there yet.”
Now Glory was but a little girl, and, in watching the shifting scenes of the busy street, she soon forgot her first anxiety and became absorbed in what was around her. And when she had walked as far southward as old Trinity, there were the lovely chimes ringing and, as always, a mighty crowd had paused to listen to them. Glory loved the chimes, and so did grandpa; and it was their habit on every festival when they were to be rung to come and hear them. Always the child was so moved by these exquisite peals that when they ceased she felt as if she had been in another world, and it was so now. To hear every tone better, she had clasped her hands and closed her eyes and uplifted her rapt face; and so standing upon the very curb, she was rudely roused by a commotion in the crowd about her.
There was the tramping of horses’ feet, the shouts of the police, the “Ahs!” and “Ohs!” of pity which betokened some accident.
“Out the way, child! You’ll be crushed in this jam! Keep back there, people! Keep back!”
Glory made herself as small as she could and shrank aside. Then curiosity sent her forward again to see and listen.
“An old man!”
“Looks as if he were blind!”
“Back those horses! Make way–the ambulance–make way!”
“All over with that poor fellow! A pity, a pity!”
These exclamations of the onlookers and the orders of the policemen mingled in one harsh clamor, yet leaving distinct upon Glory’s hearing the words, “An old blind man.”
“Oh, how sorry grandpa will be to know that!” thought the child, and, with eagerness to learn every detail of the sad affair, stooped and wormed her way beneath elbows and between legs till she had come to the very roadbed down which an ambulance was dashing at highest speed, its clanging bell warning everything from its path. Right before the curb where she stood it paused, uniformed men sprang to the pavement and, with haste that was still reverent and tender, laid the injured man upon the stretcher; then off and away again, and the little girl had caught but the faintest glimpse of a gray head and faded blue garments, yet thought:
