Betty's Happy Year

“Then this is for you. The lady told me how you looked, and said I’d find you right here. No answer.”

The boy turned away, and in a moment was lost in the crowd, leaving Betty in possession of a note addressed in Dorothy’s handwriting.

She tore it open and read:

    Waldorf-Astoria.

Dear Betty: What do you think! Aunt Evelyn has a fearful sick headache, and can’t raise her head from the pillow. So, of course, we can’t go up the Hudson to-day, and she says for you to come right up here, and have luncheon here, and afterward Uncle Roger will take us to a matinée. She said this was the surest way to reach you, and for you not to be afraid, but just take a taxicab and come straight here. I told her I knew you wouldn’t be afraid, but she said for you to telephone us as soon as you get this note, so she’ll know it’s all right. She’s sort of nervous about you. So call us up right away, and I’ll answer you.

In haste,

    Dorothy.

P. S. I told the messenger he’d know you because you were very pretty, except for your turn-up nose.

Betty smiled at Dorothy’s postscript, and then she read the note over again. On the whole, she didn’t much care that the plans were changed, for a luncheon at a fine hotel and a matinée afterward seemed quite as attractive on a hot day as a sail on a crowded excursion-boat.

Also, she was not at all afraid! She laughed at the idea. She would telephone Dorothy, and then she would really enjoy taking a taxicab and driving up to the hotel all alone. It made her feel decidedly grown-up.

So she went to the telephone booth and called up Dorothy.

“Indeed, I don’t mind the change of plans a bit,” she said, in answer to her friend’s query. “I’m awfully sorry for your aunt, but I think we’ll have a better time on land than on the water to-day. It’s getting very warm.”

“Is it?” said Dorothy. “It seems cool here.”

“Well, it’s hot out in the sun all right. I’ll take a taxi, and I’ll be with you in less than half an hour.”

“Yes, come right here, and we’ll be waiting for you. My cousins Fred and Tom want to see you, and Aunt Evelyn says perhaps we can go for a drive in the Park before luncheon.”

“Oh, that reminds me, Dorothy. I’ve a big box of luncheon with me. What shall I do with it? I can’t walk into the Waldorf with that!”

“Gracious, Betty, I should say not! But it’s a shame to throw it away. Just give it to some poor person, can’t you?”

“Yes, that’s a good idea; I will. Well, good-by, till I see you.”

“Good-by. Hurry up here,” said Dorothy, and Betty hung up the receiver.

As she picked up her box to start toward the taxicab rank, the thought occurred to her that it might be well to dispose of the box before she took the cab. Acting on this idea, she stepped out of the ferry-house and looked about her.

It was rapidly growing much warmer, and the glare on the hot paving-stones was unpleasant, but Betty determined to bestow the wholesome food on some grateful poor person before she started up-town.

“I want to find some one really worthy,” she said to herself; “it would be too bad to waste all these good things on an ungrateful wretch.”

She looked at the newsboys who were crying their papers, but it seemed impracticable to expect them to carry a large, heavy box in addition to their burden of papers. She wandered along the street until she saw a poor-looking old woman in a news-booth.

The papers and magazines were piled up tidily and the old news-vender herself sat comfortably knitting, now and then looking out over her spectacles for a possible customer.

She was certainly thrifty, Betty thought, and would be greatly pleased with a present of good food.

“I’d like to give you this,” said Betty, resting the box on a pile of morning papers; “it’s some food – nice bits of cold chicken and eggs.”

The old woman glared at her.

“Bits of food, is it?” she exclaimed. “Broken bits ye’re offerin’ to me! Well, ye may be takin’ ’em back! Nobody need dole out food to Bridget Molloy! I takes nobody’s charity! I earns me honest livin’! More shame to them as doesn’t!”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to offend you,” cried Betty, greatly distressed at having hurt the old woman’s feelings. “It’s a very nice luncheon that I brought for myself and some friends.”

But Mrs. Molloy would not listen.

“Take it away,” she said; “take yer cold victuals to some one as is too lazy to work for a honest livin’! I asks no charity fer me or mine!”

Greatly chagrined and a little angry, Betty picked up her box and walked away.

It had been an unfortunate occurrence, but surely it would be easy enough to find some one more reasonable than the old newswoman. Before she had gone a block Betty saw a ragged urchin who was, she decided, a worthy case. He was not selling papers; indeed, he was doing nothing, but leaning against a high board fence, digging his bare toes into the dust.

“Poor little thing,” thought Betty; “I’ve no doubt he’s hungry.” Then she said:

“Good morning, little boy. Are you one of a large family?”

The boy looked suspiciously at Betty, then, in a whining voice, replied:

“Ten brudders an’ ten sisters ma’am; an’ me fadder is sick, an’ me mudder is out o’ work.”

“Oh, you poor child!” exclaimed Betty, and as he held out a grimy little paw, as if for coin, she offered him the box.

“You’re just the boy I’m looking for. Here is a quantity of nice food for you and your brothers and sisters.”

Quickly the grimy little paw was withdrawn, and with both hands behind him, the boy winked rudely at Betty and said:

“Aw, g’wan! Quit yer kiddin’.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Betty, who couldn’t help laughing at the impudent little fellow. “I’m offering you some good food.”

“Good food nothin’!” said the strange child. “Take yer box away, lady; I wouldn’t swap yer me college pin fer it!”

Betty had to laugh at this, but since the boy was so indifferent, she didn’t care to give him the lunch anyhow; so she went on to find some one else.

“It does seem queer,” she thought, “that there’s nobody about who is just the right one to give this to. There are men working at the road, but I don’t like to offer it to them, they look so – so untidy.”

But at last she spied a little girl. Though somewhat gaudily dressed, the child was evidently poor, for her frock was faded and torn. She wore a string of bright beads round her neck, and a big bow on her black hair, and she walked with a mincing step.

But she was thin and looked ill nourished, so Betty thought that at last she had found just the right beneficiary.

“Where do you live?” she said, by way of opening the conversation, as she paused in front of the little girl.

“You ain’t a settlement teacher,” said the child. “Comes a settlement teacher, and I tell my name. But you ain’t one.”

“No,” said Betty, smiling kindly, “I’m not a settlement teacher, but I want to give you something – something very nice.”