Tattered Tom

It was a wretched room, containing two chairs and a table, nothing more. On one of the chairs was seated a large woman, of about sixty, with a clay pipe in her mouth. The room was redolent of the vilest tobacco-smoke.

This was granny.

If granny had ever been beautiful, there were no traces of that dangerous gift in the mottled and wrinkled face, with bleared eyes, which turned towards the door as Tom entered.

“Why didn’t you come afore, Tom?” she demanded.

“I’m on time,” said Tom. “Clock aint but just struck.”

“How much have you got?”

Tom pulled out her stock of pennies and placed them in the woman’s outstretched palm.

“There’s twenty-two,” she said.

“Umph!” said granny. “Where’s the rest?”

“That’s all.”

“Come here.”

Tom advanced, not reluctantly, for she felt sure that granny would not think of searching her jacket, especially as she had brought home as much as usual.

The old woman thrust her hand into the child’s pocket, and turned it inside-out with her claw-like fingers, but not another penny was to be found.

“Umph!” she grunted, apparently satisfied with her scrutiny.

“Didn’t I tell you so?” said Tom.

Granny rose from her chair, and going to a shelf took down a piece of bread, which had become dry and hard.

“There’s your dinner,” said she.

“Gi’ me a penny to buy an apple,” said Tom,—rather by way of keeping up appearances than because she wanted one. Visions of a more satisfactory repast filled her imagination.

“You don’t want no apple. Bread’s enough,” said granny.

Tom was not much disappointed. She knew pretty well beforehand how her application would fare. Frequently she made sure of success by buying the apple and eating it before handing the proceeds of her morning’s work to the old woman. To-day she had other views, which she was in a hurry to carry out.

She took the bread, and ate a mouthful. Then she slipped it into her pocket, and said, “I’ll eat it as I go along, granny.”

To this the old woman made no objection, and Tom went out.

In the court-yard below she took out her crust, and handed it to a hungry-looking boy of ten, the unlucky offspring of drunken parents, who oftentimes was unable to command even such fare as Tom obtained.

“Here, Tim,” she said, “eat that; I aint hungry.”

It was one of Tim’s frequent fast days, and even the hard crust was acceptable to him. He took it readily, and began to eat it ravenously. Tom looked on with benevolent interest, feeling the satisfaction of having done a charitable act. The satisfaction might have been heightened by the thought that she was going to get something better herself.

“So you’re hungry, Tim,” she said.

“I’m always hungry,” said Tim.

“Did you have any breakfast?”

“Only an apple I picked up in the street.”

“He’s worse off than me,” thought Tom; but she had no time to reflect on the superior privileges of her own position, for she was beginning to feel hungry herself.

There was a cheap restaurant near by, only a few blocks away.

Tom knew it well, for she had often paused before the door and inhaled enviously the appetizing odor of the dishes which were there vended to patrons not over-fastidious, at prices accommodated to scantily lined pocket-books. Tom had never entered, but had been compelled to remain outside, wishing that a more propitious fortune had placed it in her power to dine there every day. Now, however, first thrusting her fingers into the lining of her jacket to make sure that the money was there, she boldly entered the restaurant and took a seat at one of the tables.

The room was not large, there being only eight tables, each of which might accommodate four persons. The floor was sanded, the tables were some of them bare, others covered with old newspapers, which had become greasy, and were rather worse than no table-cloth at all. The guests, of whom perhaps a dozen were seated at the table, were undoubtedly plebeian. Men in shirt-sleeves, rough-bearded sailors and ’long-shore men, composed the company, with one ragged boot-black, who had his blacking-box on the seat beside him.

It was an acquaintance of Tom, and she went and sat beside him.

“Do you get dinner here, Jim?” she asked.

“Yes, Tom; what brings you here?”

“I’m hungry.”

“Don’t you live along of your granny?”

“Yes; but I thought I’d come here to-day. What have you got?”

“Roast beef.”

“Is it good?”

“Bully!”

“I’ll have some, then. How much is it?”

“Ten cents.”

Ten cents was the standard price in this economical restaurant for a plate of meat of whatever kind. Perhaps, considering the quality and amount given, it could not be regarded as very cheap; still the sum was small, and came within Tom’s means.

A plate of beef was brought and placed before Tom. Her eyes dilated with pleasure as they rested on the delicious morsel. There was a potato besides; and a triangular slice of bread, with an infinitesimal dab of butter,—all for ten cents. But Tom’s ambition soared higher.

“Bring me a cup o’ coffee,” she said to the waiter.

It was brought,—a very dark, muddy, suspicious-looking beverage,—a base libel upon the fragrant berry whose name it took; but such a thought did not disturb Tom. She never doubted that it was what it purported to be. She stirred it vigorously with the spoon, and sipped it as if it had been nectar.

“Aint it prime just?” she exclaimed, smacking her lips.

Then ensued a vigorous onslaught upon the roast beef. It was the first meat Tom had tasted for weeks, with the exception of occasional cold sausage; and she was in the seventh heaven of delight as she hurriedly ate it. When she had finished, the plate was literally and entirely empty. Tom did not believe in leaving anything behind. She was almost tempted to “lick the platter clean,” but observed that none of the other guests did so, and refrained.