Children of the Tenements | Page 4

Abe
did not understand, but he took a firmer grip on his papa's hand, and
never let go all the way up the three long flights of stairs to the police
nursery where the child at last found peace and a bottle. But when the
matron tried to coax him to stay also, he screamed and carried on so
that they were glad to let him go lest he wake everybody in the building.
Though proverbially Police Headquarters never sleeps, yet it does not
like to be disturbed in its midnight nap, as it were. It is human with the

rest of us, that is how.
Down in the marble-tiled hall little Abe and his father stopped
irresolute. Outside it was dark and windy; the snow, that had ceased
falling in the evening, was swept through the streets on the northern
blast. They had nowhere to go. The doorman was called downstairs just
then to the telegraph office. When he came up again he found father
and son curled up on the big mat by the register, sound asleep. It was
against the regulations entirely, and he was going to wake them up and
put them out, when he happened to glance through the glass doors at
the storm without, and remembered that it was Christmas Eve. With a
growl he let them sleep, trusting to luck that the inspector wouldn't
come out. The doorman, too, was human.
So it came about that the newspaper boys who ran with messages to the
reporters' offices across the street, found them there and held a meeting
over them. Rudie, the smartest of them, declared that his "fingers just
itched for that sheeny's whiskers," but the others paid little attention to
him. Even reporters' messengers are not so bad as they like to have
others believe them, sometimes. The year before, in their rough sport in
the alley, the boys had upset old Mary, so that she fell and broke her
arm. That finished old Mary's scrubbing, for the break never healed.
Ever since this, bloodthirsty Rudie had been stealing down Mulberry
Street to the old woman's attic on pay-day and sharing his meagre
wages with her, paying, beside, the insurance premium that assured her
of a decent burial; though he denied it hotly if charged with it. So when
Rudie announced that he would like to pull the pedler's whiskers, it was
taken as a motion that he be removed to the reporters' quarters and
made comfortable there, and the motion was carried unanimously. Was
it not Christmas Eve?
Little Abe was carried across Mulberry Street, sleeping soundly, and
laid upon Rudie's cot. The dogs, Chief and Trilby, that run things in
Mulberry Street when the boys are away, snuggled down by him to
keep him warm, taking him at once under their protection. The father
took off his shoes, and curling up by the stove, slept, tired out, but not
until he had briefly told the boys the story he had once that evening

gone over with the policeman. They heard it in silence, but one or two
made notes which, could he have seen them, would have spoiled one
Hester Street landlord's Christmas. When the pedler was asleep, they
took them across the street and consulted with the inspector about it.
Father and son slept soundly yet when, the morning papers having gone
to press, the boys came down into the office with the night-gang of
reporters to spend the dog-watch, according to their wont, in a game of
ungodly poker. They were flush, for it had been pay-day in the
afternoon, and under the reckless impulse of the holiday the jack-pot,
ordinarily modest enough for cause, grew to unheard-of proportions. It
contained nearly fifteen dollars when Rudie opened it at last. Amid
breathless silence, he then and there made the only public speech of his
life.
"The pot," he said, "goes to the sheeny and his kid for their Christmas,
or my name is mud."
Wild applause followed the speech. It awakened the pedler and little
Abe. They sat up and rubbed their eyes, while Chief and Trilby barked
their welcome. The morning was struggling through the windows. The
snow had ceased falling and the sky was clear.
"Mornin'," said Rudie, with mock deference, "will yer worships have
yer breakfast now, or will ye wait till ye get it?"
The pedler looked about him in bewilderment. "I hab kein blam' cent,"
he said, feeling hopelessly in his pockets.
A joyous yell greeted him. "Ikey has more nor you," shouted the boys,
showing the quarter which little Abe had held fast to in his sleep. "And
see this."
They swept the jack-pot into his lap, handfuls of shining silver. The
pedler blinked at the sight.
"Good morning and Merry Christmas," they shouted.