Tattered Tom

She was afraid of something more than a lickin’ now. In her rage at having been so long baffled, the old woman might attack her with the hatchet. She knew very well that on previous occasions she had flung at her head anything she could lay hold of. Tom, brave and stout-hearted as she was, shrunk from this new danger, and set herself to devise a way of escape. She looked out of the window; but she was on the fourth floor, and it was a long distance to the court below. If it had been on the second floor she would have swung off.

There was another thing she could do. Granny had gone down below to borrow a hatchet. She might unlock the door, and run out upon the landing; but there was no place for hiding herself, and no way of getting downstairs without running the risk of rushing into granny’s clutches. In her perplexity her eyes fell upon a long coil of rope in one corner. It was a desperate expedient, but she resolved to swing out of the window, high as it was. She managed to fasten one end securely, and let the other drop from the window. As it hung, it fell short of reaching the ground by at least ten feet. But Tom was strong and active, and never hesitated a moment on this account. She was incited to extra speed, for she already heard the old woman ascending the stairs, probably provided with a hatchet.

Tom got on the window-sill, and, grasping the rope, let herself down rapidly hand over hand, till she reached the end of the rope. Then she dropped. It was rather hard to her feet, and she fell over. But she quickly recovered herself.

Tim, the recipient of her dinner, was in the court, and surveyed her descent with eyes and mouth wide open.

“Where’d you come from, Tom?” he asked.

“Can’t you see?” said Tom.

“Why didn’t you come downstairs?”

“’Cause granny’s there waitin’ to lick me. I must be goin’ before she finds out where I am. Don’t you tell of me, Tim.”

“No, I won’t,” said Tim; and he was sure to keep his promise.

Tom sped through the arched passage to the street, and did not rest till she had got a mile away from the home which had so few attractions for her.

Beyond the chance of immediate danger, the young Arab conjured up the vision of granny’s disappointment when she should break open the door, and find her gone; and she sat down on the curbstone and laughed heartily.

“What are you laughing at?” asked a boy, looking curiously at the strange figure before him.

“Oh, it’s too rich!” said Tom, pausing a little, and then breaking out anew.

“What’s too rich?”

“I’ve run away from granny. She wanted to lick me, and now she can’t.”

“You’ve been cutting up, I suppose.”

“No, it’s granny that’s been cuttin’ up. She’s at it all the time.”

“But you’ll catch it when you do go home, you know.”

“Maybe I won’t go home.”

It was not a street-boy that addressed her; but a boy with a comfortable home, who had a place in a store near by. He did not know, practically, what sort of a thing it was to wander about the streets, friendless and homeless; but it struck him vaguely that it must be decidedly uncomfortable. There was something in this strange creature—half boy in appearance—that excited his interest and curiosity, and he continued the conversation.

“What sort of a woman is your granny, as you call her?” he asked.

“She’s an awful old woman,” was the answer.

“I shouldn’t think you would like to speak so of your grandmother.”

“I don’t believe she is my grandmother. I only call her so.”

“What’s your name?”

“Tom.”

“Tom!” repeated the boy, in surprise. “Aint you a girl?”

“Yes; I expect so.”

“It’s hard to tell from your clothes, you know;” and he scanned Tom’s queer figure attentively.

Tom was sitting on a low step with her knees nearly on a level with her chin, and her hands clasped around them. She had on her cap of the morning, and her jacket, which, by the way, had been given to granny when on a begging expedition, and appropriated to Tom’s use, without special reference to her sex. Tom didn’t care much. It made little difference to her whether she was in the fashion or not; and if the street boys chaffed her, she was abundantly able to give them back as good as they sent.

“What’s the matter with my clothes?” said Tom.

“You’ve got on a boy’s cap and jacket.”

“I like it well enough. As long as it keeps a feller warm I don’t mind.”

“Do you call yourself a feller?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re a queer feller.”

“Don’t you call me names, ’cause I won’t stand it;” and Tom raised a pair of sharp, black eyes.

“I won’t call you names, at least not any bad ones. Have you had any dinner?”

“Yes,” said Tom, smacking her lips, as she recalled her delicious repast, “I had a square meal.”

“What do you call a square meal?”

“Roast beef, cup o’ coffee, and pie.”

The boy was rather surprised, for such a dinner seemed beyond Tom’s probable resources.

“Your granny don’t treat you so badly, after all. That’s just the kind of dinner I had.”

“Granny didn’t give it to me. I bought it. That’s what she wants to lick me for. All she give me was a piece of hard bread.”

“Where did you get the money? Was it hers?”

“That’s what she says. But if a feller works all the mornin’ for some money, hasn’t she got a right to keep some of it?”

“I should think so.”

“So should I,” said Tom, decidedly.

“Have you got any money?”

“No, I spent it all for dinner.”