Raymond Evelyn
Divided Skates
A country child of Towsley’s age would have been puzzled how to escape from the well-locked and bolted mansion; but the keen-witted gamin of the city’s streets had little difficulty. True, the great front door did open rather slowly to his puny grasp, but that was on account of the storm.
The wind swept and howled around the corner where the big house stood, and the white marble steps were heaped with snow. A great mass of the snow was dislodged by the movement of the door and fell in clouds over Towsley’s big hat and fine costume; also the tight shoes upon his feet seemed to make him stumble and stagger sadly; but he was not to be deterred by such trifles as these. The cold breath of the wind was delightful to him, the rush of outer air meant freedom.
All the delightful interests of his vagabond life rose up to beguile him; all its miseries were forgotten. He must get to the office right away. This was a blizzard, sure enough! and that meant “extras” to cry, sidewalks to shovel, a mad haste to get ahead of his mates and gather in more nickels than they, maybe stolen rides behind livery sleighs when the storm was over, and a thousand and one enjoyable things such as poor Miss Armacost could never even dream of!
“Hi! Here’s for it!” shouted the happy boy, and leaped forward into the night and the storm, which silently received him.
CHAPTER III.
THE BLIZZARD
“Whew! I’ve never seen such a storm since I lived in Baltimore city!” cried John Johns, looking out of the window, early on the morning following Molly’s visit to Miss Armacost. “It snows as if it never meant to stop. How still it is, too! Not a car running, not a wagon rattling over the stones, everything as quiet as a country graveyard.”
“Not quite, John. There’s a milk cart trying to force itself through the drifts. My! look into the alley between us and Miss Armacost’s! The snow is heaped as high as the fence, in some spots.”
“Well, I’m glad I’m a plumber! There’ll be plenty of work for me and my kind to-day. We’re not used to anything of this sort down here, and nobody’ll think to look out for his water pipes. Just listen to that wind, will you?”
“I’d rather not. It makes me think of poor folks without coals, and babies without their milk, and lots of suffering.”
“Not so much, wife. Not so much. The coal wagons will be the first astir, and they’ll break the roads nicely with their heavy wheels. The bakers and butchers and milkmen will follow mighty soon. The boys that want a bit of money for Christmas will all be out with any sort of broom, or shovel, or even a stick, they can pick up. It’ll give work for idle men, clearing the streets, and the liverymen will make a lot of money as soon as it settles a little. Oh! a rousing snow-storm is a good thing once in a while.”
“I declare, John, you are the cheerfullest soul. Nothing is ever wrong with you, and Molly is as like you as two peas! But I must say, I wish you wouldn’t go to work to-day. I’ll worry lest you get overcome or frozen, or something.”
“That so? Glad to hear it. Makes a man feel happy inside to know his folks’ll worry about him when he’s in danger. But isn’t it an odd fact that a soft little thing like a snowflake can stop the traffic of a whole city! Hello there, Molly! Got my coat and mittens ready? Well, you don’t look as if the storm had kept you awake much. Give the father a kiss, lass, to sort of sweeten his breakfast. Are the Jays awake? Hunt them up a spade or a shovel and set them digging their neighbors out. And, Mary wife, if I were you I’d keep a pot of coffee on the range all day. There’s maybe a poor teamster or huckster passing who’ll be the better for a warm cup of drink, and the coffee’ll keep him from thinking of beer or whiskey.”
“That might cost a good bit, all day so.”
“Never mind; never mind. What they drink we’ll go without. We’re hale and hearty folks, who’ll thrive well enough on cold water, if need be. Thank the Lord for all His mercies, say I.”
“Well, breakfast is ready. I’ll dish it up while you two have your own morning talk,” said the mother, patting Molly’s sturdy shoulder as she passed tableward. For the girl and her father were the closest of friends, which isn’t always the case between parent and child. But Molly’s day would have seemed imperfect without that few minutes’ chat with the cheery plumber at its beginning; and he managed always to leave a bit of his wisdom or philosophy in the girl’s thoughts.
The three brothers, Jim, Joe, and Jack, known in the household as the “three Jays,” came tumbling down the short flight of stairs from the bedroom above to the little first-floor kitchen, which they immediately seemed to fill with their noisy presence. They were so nearly of one size that strangers often mistook one for another, and they were all as ruddy and round as boys could be. Yet their noise was happy noise and disturbed nobody; and they good-naturedly made room for Sarah Jane, their “sister next youngest but the twins,” as they commonly mentioned her.
Those twins! My! but weren’t they the pride of everybody’s heart, with their fair little faces, like a pair of dolls; and their round blue eyes which were always watching out for mischief to be done. Their names had been selected “right out of a story book” that their mother had once read, and expressed about the only “foolishness” of which the busy woman had ever been guilty.
“Ivanora! Idelia! Truck and dicker! Why, Mary wife, such names will handicap the babies from the start. Who can imagine an Ivanora making bread? or an Idelia scrubbing a floor? But, however, if it pleases you, all right, though I do think a sensible Susan or Hannah would be more useful to girls of our walk in life.”
“Oh! I don’t object to those either. Let’s put them on behind the pretty ones; and maybe they’ll not have to scrub floors or make bread, the sweet darlings,” answered the wife, when soon after the babies’ birth the important matter of naming them arose.
At the moment when the father and Molly were watching the storm from one small window, while the three Jays and Sarah Jane occupied the other, these youngest members of the big family were seated upon a gray blanket behind the stove. They had been placed there by their careful mother, as a safeguard against cold and exposure, and in dangerous proximity to a pan of bread dough which had been set to rise. It was due to the excitement of the storm that, for once, their mother forgot them; and it was not till she called, “All hands round!” and the family filed into place about the big table that she remembered them; or, rather, had her attention called to them by Sarah Jane, the caretaker of the household.
“Oh! mother Johns! the twins! the twins!”
“Bless me! the twins, indeed! the bread-maker’s beginning early, Mary wife!” laughed the plumber.
“Oh! oh! oh! you naughty dears! You naughty, naughty dears! To think that great big girls, almost two years old, should waste mother’s nice dough like that!”
The pair had plunged their fat little arms deep in the soft, yielding mass and plucked handfuls of it, to smear upon each other’s faces and curls; and what remained in the raiser had been plentifully dotted with bits of coal from the near-by hod. They looked so funny, and were themselves so hilarious with glee over their own mischief, that there was nothing left for their elders to do except join in the general merriment.
But Mrs. Johns’ face sobered soon.
“It’s a pity, it’s a pity. All that good bread gone to do nobody any good, when there are so many hungry people will be needing food before this storm’s over. And we almost out of flour, too.”
“Seems to me we’re almost always out of flour – or shoes!” laughed the father. “And it’s a blessing, that, so long as I’ve the money to pay for either. There wouldn’t be empty flour buckets if there weren’t healthy appetites in the house; and shoes wouldn’t wear out if the feet inside them weren’t active and strong.”
“Hm’m. I’d like a chance to save a cent, now and then. What if your own health should fail, or you lose your job? And I’ve been wanting a set of cheap, pretty lace curtains to the front-room windows ever since I could remember. All the neighbors have them, but we never can.”
For the first time a shadow passed across the genial face of the plumber, though it vanished quickly.
“The curtains shall come, Mary wife, some time, if my strong arm can earn them. But we’ll not have any silly imitation laces at our windows. They’re shams, and a sham is a lie. Plain simple muslin, with as many frills and ruffles as you’ve the patience to keep starched and ironed – they’re honest and suitable to our station. Meanwhile, is there a prettier sight at anybody’s windows than the row of healthy, happy faces of our children? Look at that great house, across alley, with not a chick nor child in it. What do you suppose its mistress would give for such a batch of jolly little tackers as ours?” Then, reaching across the table corner to drop another hot cake upon the empty plate of the youngest Jay, he quoted, merrily: “‘This is my boy, I know by the building of him; bread and meat and pancakes right in the middle of him.’”
Of course, all the children laughed at the familiar jest, and each took heart to send up his own plate for another helping.
“They’ve had their allowance, John. There’s no use to make a rule and break it, dear.”
“No, Mary wife. Surely not. That is, in ordinary. But in a blizzard? Everything gets out of gear in a blizzard, even boys’ appetites. As many cakes as a child is years old is a safe rule to follow; but not on blizzard mornings, that come but seldom in a lifetime. Hark! Quiet! I hear a bell ringing somewhere. A dinner bell. It sounds like a summons.”
All fell perfectly silent for the space of a half-minute, maybe; then Molly burst forth with a thought she had been pondering:
“What a good thing it was that Miss Armacost had Sir Christopher buried last night, before this snow came! If she hadn’t I don’t know what she would have done. But – I believe that bell is from her house. It sounds out the back way, the alley side.”
There was a general stampede from the table, that was as promptly checked.
“Come back to your places, every youngster of you! Of course, it’s an exciting time, but manners to a body’s mother must never be forgotten.”
So the flock marched back to the table, and, beginning with Jim, the eldest, each inquired respectfully:
“Mother, will you excuse me?”
“Certainly,” came the prompt response.
Even the babies lisped and gurgled their merry, imitative “’Scuse me’s,” though with no thought of any attention being paid them.
“Folks without much money can’t afford to go without manners,” laughed father John, and, himself asking leave of the little woman behind the coffeepot, followed his children to the rear window.
For the ringing of the bell was so prolonged and so insistent in its demands that he no longer doubted it to be a signal of distress. But it was almost impossible to see even a few feet through the blinding clouds of snow, and raising the sash the plumber hallooed:
“What’s wanted? Anybody in trouble?”
“Help’s wanted! Awful trouble!” came the answering shout.
“Where?”
“Armacost’s. Will you lend a hand? All afloat and frozen up!”
“Lend a pair of them! Which door will I try?”
“Front. The back one’s blocked. Hurry up, please. Have you any tools? Bring everything!”
“Quite a contract!” ejaculated John, closing the window and brushing the snow from his head and shoulders. “But it’s a good thing I always keep a ‘kit’ handy here at home. Now, lads, you all get to work, too. There are some pieces of boards in the cellar. Take them and nail a sort of snow shovel together. Never mind if it’s a bit rough, it’ll be easier than clearing off the whole mass of snow with common spades or brooms. If you don’t know how, ask mother. She’s as handy as a master mechanic, any day. Then pitch in on our own front steps. Make a path for misery to enter, if need be, and for comfort to go out.”
“What do you mean, father?” asked Molly.
“Some poor creature might be floundering along outside, chilled and discouraged, and a ready-made path to a warm house would be tempting. Over the same road out, mother’s coffee and flapjacks can pass!”
“Flapjacks? That’s the first I heard about them,” said Mrs. Johns, smiling.
“Chance of your life to make yourself famous to-day,” answered her husband. “You may believe that any poor wretch who tastes your cakes and coffee, this terrible day, will never forget them. And, lads, after you’ve cut a way to our own door go and help that widow across the street who keeps the boarders. She has a hard time of it, any way, and it’s part of her business to keep things comfortable for those who live with her.”
“She wouldn’t give us a cent, if we shovelled at her sidewalk all day,” grumbled Joseph.
“The other side the bed, lad! Quickly!” ordered the father, pausing on his way to the door to see his command obeyed.
Everybody laughed, even the culprit, who had to ascend to his own sleeping-room, get into the bed at one side – the side from which he had originally climbed – and get out at the other. A simple operation, and one not helpful to mother Mary’s housekeeping labors; but she never minded that, because the novel punishment always sent the grumbler down-stairs again in good humor.
Then they all clustered about that rear window which commanded a view of the Armacost yard, and watched their father floundering through the drifts between the small house and the large. He disappeared around the corner of the mansion, and mother Mary set her young folks all to work: Molly to washing the dishes and tidying the house; while she herself bathed and dressed the twins, stirred up a fresh lot of bread dough, rolled out her sewing-machine, and made flying visits to the small cellar where the three Jays were sawing and nailing and chattering like magpies.
They were all so busy and happy that the morning flew by like magic and dinner time came before anybody realized it. Meanwhile, the three boys had kept their own steps passably free from the gathering snow, and had shovelled a way into the widow’s house, not once but twice. Coal carts and milk wagons had, as father John prophesied, come out and forced their passage through the street, and a gang of workmen, each with a shovel over his shoulder, had made their way to the Avenue for the purpose of clearing the car tracks. But they had not remained. Their task was such a great one that, until the storm was really over, there was no use in their beginning it.
Yet even these few moving figures rendered the outlook more natural, and Molly had almost forgotten to worry over any possible suffering to the poor, much less the rich, when her father came in and she saw, at once, how much graver than usual he was.
“Why, father, dear! Has anything happened? Was there real trouble over at the lady’s?”
“Plenty has happened, and there is real trouble. But let’s have dinner first; and, Mary wife, when I go back I’ll take a pot of coffee and a bit of this hot stew for our neighbor.”
“Which neighbor, John?”
“Miss Armacost.”
“Miss – Armacost! What in the world would she, with all her luxuries, want with stew from our plain table?”
“Well, the boiler in her kitchen burst this morning. Pipes frozen, and no fire till things are fixed; that is, to cook by. Pipes over the handsome parlor frozen, too, and leaking down into all the fancy stuff with which it is filled. Two of the servants sleep at their own homes, as you know, and the two who are left have all they can do helping me. I’ve ’phoned for somebody from the factory to come out and help, too, but there are so many orders ahead the boss says I must do the best I can. Yet the worst of all is – Towsley.”
Molly dropped her fork with a rattle. “Towsley! Has anything happened to him?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. That’s what that poor rich woman, yonder, is grieving herself ill over.”
“Tell us. Tell us, quick, father, please!”
“There’s not so much. She says she found him asleep in her back parlor at nine o’clock. It was snowing fast then, and she kept him all night. That’s what she meant to do, at least. She gave him his supper and had him put to bed on her top floor. She knows he was there till midnight, for she went up to see if he was all right. Then she went to bed herself, and this morning he was gone. The front door was unfastened, and he must have gone out that way. At one moment she blames herself for neglect of him, and the next for having been kind to him.”
Molly sprang up from the table.
“Oh! mother, let me go across and carry the stew and tea. Maybe I could help her to think of something would tell where he was. Anyway, I can tell her just what kind of a boy Towsley is and how well he can take care of himself. He isn’t lost. He mustn’t be. He cannot – shall not be!” cried the girl, excitedly.
“Very well. Put the stew in the china bowl” – the one nice dish that their cupboard possessed – “and take your grandmother’s little stone teapot. If Miss Armacost is a real lady, as I think, she will appreciate the motive of our gift, if not the gift itself. And if she’s not a gentlewoman her opinion would not matter.”
“But she is, mother; she is. I’m so glad I can do something for her! She was nice to me, and ‘giff-gaff makes good friends.’”
